A/N: Just a little Bellarke for those of you in need of something to tide you over during the hiatus. I've missed you all, my darlings.

A/N2: This is SUCH a soft "M" but I just think it's safer to list as such.

She was wearing thin. Everyone who mattered could see it, but they pretended not to notice - because that's what she needed from them.

It had been months, and Bellamy and Clarke had never spoken about it. Not since the negotiations with the Grounders, when she had been forced to discuss Finn's death in front of multitudes, all while pretending killing him had not ripped out a piece of her own heart. Bellamy had been there, had watched silently even though he had wanted to shout at the bastards to stop torturing her, had very nearly attacked the first few warriors for their nonchalant grins and congratulations. They respected Clarke now, saw in her the strength they sought from their own leaders - and in this way Finn had finally helped make peace with the Grounders.

It was just… Would he have been willing to do it at Clarke's expense?

Raven had fought with her. Raven got to wear it all at the surface, every stab of guilt and whisper of regret painted into her skin, her eyes, her angry mouth. And Clarke accepted it, barely buffeted by the gale-force fury of her sister in grief. And eventually the storm died, leaving Raven to drift away. For weeks they had barely spoken, only coming together to battle the Mountain Men and rescue their people before once more coasting toward strained civility. It was driving Murphy mad; he had taken to shadowing Clarke almost as closely as Bellamy did. There had been one tense, hurried conversation between the men about Priorities and Duty and Friendship and at the end of it, Murphy had stood abruptly and told Bellamy to relax, he wasn't into the Princess that way, he just didn't think she should be alone these days.

But none of them would talk to her. So when she brushed past Bellamy on her way to dinner one night, he steeled himself and stepped in her way, and did what he knew was the right thing to do, even though it would hurt.

"Clarke, stop."

"Get out of my way, Bellamy."

"It has to end. What you're doing to yourself, what happened with Finn…"

"Bellamy!" She stepped back, betrayed by that name on his lips.

"It's killing you. We can all see it." He stepped forward, refusing to allow this space between them.

"I'm fine. I just need to get to dinner."

"Don't lie to me Clarke. I know you better than that. Talk to me."

She should have slapped him. Pushed him aside. Shut her mouth, and refused to comply.

Instead she broke open.

Months of tears poured down her face, and her legs buckled beneath her. Bellamy grabbed her just in time, his large hands gathering at her waist and pulling her close, just close enough to let her cry into his shoulder.

She had not touched another human in this way for so long; her hands shifted uncomfortably at first over his shoulders and neck, uncertain of where to rest. She ended up wrapping them around the back of Bellamy's neck, raw fingers curling just slightly into the skin for fear of losing their purchase. He didn't flinch. He waited.

The sobs shook her, an uneven rattling of her weakened, half-starved, sleepless body against his strong, resolute frame, and he waited.

Eventually the tears slowed and she buried her face in his shirt, the dampness bleeding through to his chest. She turned her face to one side, letting her ear fall over his heart. His fast, but rock-steady, heart. Clarke breathed in time with Bellamy for the count of twenty, her arms growing heavier at his neck.

And silently, he waited.

Finally she looked up, half-curious-half-scared to see his face. The soft creases at the corners of his eyes – had they always been there, or had she caused them, weighing on him every day without even noticing? One hand slipped forward, a thumb tracing over them, stopping mid-caress at the sudden explosive stillness of him. Clarke opened her mouth to speak, but Bellamy barely-even shook his head and his voice was rough, so rough a girl could hurt herself on those tones.

"Clarke, I didn't… You're not…"

How could she not kiss him? How had she not kissed that troubled frown, the scar just above the left side of his mouth, how had she not kissed the way he sang her name, every day since they met?

Clarke pushed into him before he could change their mind. The warm softness of his lower lip, the rough stubble at his cheek, the way he tried so hard not to overwhelm her… the discovery of this man was like waking up from a terrible formless kind of nightmare only to find the sun had been shining all along.

She did not mean to say anything, but when his hands moved at her hips and his thumb brushed the bare skin above her waistband, it was a visceral reaction, half word and half primal groan of need: "Bellamy." Clarke felt him jerk slightly at the sound, felt his hands tighten and then relax.

The hallway was too public, their reaction to each other too private.

Hazy with the dream of Clarke, certain this was not real but desperate to cling to the illusion, Bellamy dragged them to the closest doorway, an airlock jammed forever partially-open.

On the other side was a chamber mangled by the collision with Earth; a crippled crooked tree now made up part of its wall, and Clarke sank onto the sloped trunk with her hands wrapped firmly in Bellamy's collar, her lips dipping down his dimpled chin to warm themselves against the rapid pulse at his throat.

Bellamy found his voice again, one last attempt to clarify.

"I won't hurt you, Clarke. I promise."

"I know that." She did. He couldn't.

"But this…"

"…Will be okay." It would. She would.

She peeled him out of his clothes, almost eager to discover just how much his beauty could make her hurt in brand new ways. When he stripped her bare Clarke felt fresh tears well, and Bellamy paused. She knew she loved him then, for the crease of worry between his brows, the way his hands cupped her shoulders and the tightness in his jaw as he watched her carefully.

"Don't stop," she assured him. When still he hesitated, Clarke pressed her naked body against his, her lips over his lips, and let her hands tangle into his dark hair. Bellamy moaned at the feeling of soft curves and sweet breath and the tingle of her fingers along his scalp, and lifted her easily, carrying her to the nearby curved metal wall of the chamber.

Clarke hissed at the cold against her shoulders, and the heat of Bellamy's mouth over her breasts. She whimpered as his hands traveled her flesh, trembled when he straightened and pressed against her. Heat suffused her body and she tried to think of who they were, where they were, when they were, but he entered her and thought became irrelevant. Bellamy watched Clarke's face as he filled her, adoring the shape of her mouth when she bit one corner in an effort at self control but also alarmed that her eyes stayed closed, blocking him out.

"Clarke, it's alright," he murmured against the soft skin just below her ear. She nodded and opened her eyes and it was written everywhere she looked, his love for her, his need to make her whole. The realization sucked the air from her lungs just as a dark ecstasy wracked her body. She curled forward and cried his name into his collarbone, trembling fingers and thighs pulling him close, terrified both to lose and to be lost in this moment. When the waves subsided and air returned she glanced up once more – and Bellamy smiled, a glorious, completely inappropriate smile to see her so happy in a new way, to know he had done that to her, had made her eyes dance with pleasure and joy. It was what she needed from him.

He wanted that for her forever.

** As always, I live for your feedback. I am terribly needy, I know. I love you all, and I just cannot stop writing these two, so look out for a longer Bellarke work to appear in the very near future, if that's something you might find interesting. **