Tumblr's Rashaka prompted me with: Bellarke, Clarke as a hereditary werewolf who is gray and particularly aggressive/affectionate with Bellamy.
Bellamy isn't prepared. There is no part of him ready to watch Clarke shove her way out of the drop ship, batting away the fabric that acts as their door with one hand and shedding her jacket with the other. Her shirt comes up over her head and lands somewhere on the ground. She twists all of her hair up in one hand at the base of her skull, holds it off her skin because
"It's hot," she gasps, breathless and a little whiny. It's not something Bellamy would ever have accused her of. She's earned herself an audience as she fans at her face with her other hand.
She is flushed and the light from their bonfire shines on the sweat on her skin. Bellamy does not think about tonguing the dip of her collar bone. She frowns at him where he stands before the door of the drop ship, her mouth open and panting. Bellamy doesn't think about that either.
"Aren't you hot?" Clarke asks, letting her hair fall loose around her shoulders. Strands stick to her skin and she brushes at them in distracted irritation.
"No, that's just you, princess," he adds the last as an afterthought, insurance because the rest is too close to being the truth. The nickname twists her mouth into a tight ugly line.
"You're not as cute as you think you are," she tells him, eyebrows raising. She's been irritable all day but there are exhausted bruises under her eyes and plenty to be stressed about. The combination puts everyone in a bad mood sooner or later.
"Yes, I am," Bellamy smirks and shakes his head "but you're probably sick."
He reaches out for her arm, slinging his gun over his shoulder to free up both hands. He should be preoccupied by her possible illness. Their doctor getting sick is a disaster in the making. Clarke getting sick makes his stomach twist in a way that he doesn't want to think about. But all of that takes a back seat to Clarke in a threadbare tank top that does nothing to cover her cleavage. She has one of the most perfect racks Bellamy has ever seen. She is breathing heavy and there is a fine sheen of sweat on her skin. She's the most irritating person he's ever had the displeasure of meeting and he really wants to put his mouth in the valley between her breasts.
She does not like his motion to touch her though. She snarls at him, bares her teeth and everything while a growl rumbles up from the depths of her chest.
She looks as comically startled as the rest of them at that. Her mouth falls open in an "o" of surprise. And then she slips her skin. There are no better words for it. One moment she's Clarke, washed pale in the moonlight, eyes wide and startled; in the next she trembles, her spine bows her forward and Bellamy is worried that she's going to fall. She does and he would have been able to catch her if her arm had been where it was supposed to be.
Instead of her bare shoulder there is nothing but air and a few inches lower, gray fur. Bellamy's brain fails to fire entirely. He's so unprepared for this reality that for a heart beat his mind refuses to process it. It is the rattle of guns that startles him out of his slack jawed amazement.
"No," he says, voice hard and low carried on the growl from the gray wolf in front of him. Her eyes are exactly the same blue and he's watched her assess a situation with the same quick dart of her gaze before. The fur on her back stands on end and she's gone low on her front paws.
All of which is insane and impossible and happening right in front of him. Which, holy shit.
"That's Clarke," he puts his hand on the barrel of the gun Miller is white knuckling and pushes it towards the ground, pushes it away from the wolf's face, "let's not do anything we're going to regret."
It takes a second but weapons lower. They don't go away because Clarke was there and then she was a wolf. Bellamy gets that. They aren't aimed at her anymore, though, so Bellamy calls it a win and decides she owes him. His brain has a conspicuous blank spot. Like in order to keep functioning he's decided to wall away the part of himself that remembers words like "werewolf" and "lycanthropy". The grey wolf is so close to him that when she shifts her weight he can feel her breath on his outstretched hands. Her ears aren't pinned back to her head though.
She's stopped snarling, her mouth falls open and she slinks forward. She takes the few steps forward required to press her weight against Bellamy's legs. Maybe it's as close to "thanks for not letting me get shot" as she can manage. He drops his hand to touch the fur on the back of her throat like this is some how normal and her tail thumps heavily on his shin just once. Bellamy presses his lips together because doing anything else is likely to result in hysterical laughter and Bellamy has to keep it together.
Across from him Octavia is wide eyed and leaning forward on her toes, like she might take flight at any moment. An almost smile is curving her lips and Bellamy recognizes the wonder in his sister's face. She looks so young for a moment Bellamy forgets, just for a second, that this probably isn't even the most fucked up thing that's happened since they fell out of the sky. His fingers flex in the warm fur under his hand. It's the first time he's ever touched an animal without the intent to kill it. Her tail slaps against his leg again and she whines until he looks down at her.
Her eyes are as blue and as clever as Clarke's ever are and then she's gone. She's a streak of gray and she's out the gate. Once she's gone the dam breaks and Bellamy can't hear one question over the thunder of the rest. Instead of answering them he bends to scoop up her clothes. Something heavy and reflective hits the ground, slipping from the pile of her clothes. Finn's hand brushes Bellamy's as he curls his hand around the watch and for a second they hold each others' gaze.
"I got it," Bellamy says, smug and dismissive. The band is still warm from her skin.
"Bellamy," Raven's voice cuts through the noise and he turns. She's standing just outside the drop ship, head tilted to the side so her ponytail slides over her shoulder. Only she and Octavia don't radiate fear and anxiety. When she walks down the ramp her steps are heavy and unhurried, hands loose at her sides, "we need to talk about what the fuck that was."
"That was Clarke turning into a werewolf," Bellamy says, almost choking on it. The rest of the chatter dies down around them and Raven doesn't quite frown at him. Her eyes tighten though, her lips press together.
"How did she hide that on the Ark?" Finn asks, watching the gate where Clarke disappeared.
"Well," Bellamy says with deliberate slowness "I don't know because I wasn't fucking there."
Finn looks exasperated, sets his jaw stubbornly and the rest of the kids start muttering to each other again. Which, yeah, he gets it. His palms are clammy and there are a few strands of fur stuck to Clarke's clothing. He rubs his thumb across the hard edge of Clarke's watch and meets Raven's eyes over the heads of the others. Her chin tilts up and he remembers just how fast she can pull a knife on him. He saw the same challenge in her eyes then. There's no explaining this shit either.
"Clarke's the one who's going to have answers," he says, gesturing with her pile of clothes "so until she comes back we have to sit on this. And no one shoot anything if you're not sure what it is."
It kills the conversation. Which is good because werewolf is still rattling around is brain with all the stones he had to tear down to find the word again. He's pretty sure he's got an aneurysm coming on. Instead of dropping dead he goes to the gate and carves a trench with the heel of his boot and his anxiety. By the time the moon is starting it's descent Raven joins him and they're both sitting with their backs pressed against the wall. She is methodically destroying his trench, pushing the dirt back in with the toe of her booth. Because she's insufferable probably.
Every now and again he sees a flash of a pale shadow between the trees.
Raven goes tense beside him when a howl breaks the silence. From her impossible stillness she's holding her breath. His hands shift on the gun he's been cradling in his lap, his finger lingers off the trigger though. When nothing happens Raven breathes out shakily and pushes up to her feet. She uses his shoulder for leverage and he scratches the back of his neck instead of commenting.
"I'm going to bed," she tells him, "I don't have the temperament for this shit."
She doesn't need an answer so Bellamy just hums at her as goes back inside the walls. He turns his head slightly and he thinks he can seat her shoulders relax but maybe it's a trick of moonlight. The clearing inside the walls is bathed under the full moon.
Bellamy doesn't sleep.
He hears the guard rotation change and he digs his trench back out because fuck Raven.
The moon is gone behind the trees when he hears dry leaves crunching to his left. He lifts the gun but only part way, never really bothers to aim it. He knows before he looks what he's going to see. She pads towards him on quiet feet and he knows the crack of twigs and crush of leaves was for his benefit. Patronizing even as a wolf, go figure. She comes close enough that her muzzle can drop to huff at the dirt on his boots.
"Some run," he tells her and he's not even sure she can understand him. But then she huffs again and gives him a look that's so unimpressed and so Clarke that it hurts some small part of him. And then she is Clarke.
Her whole body trembles and she shakes like she's shaking off water. But fur goes instead, leaves her standing over him with dirt on her skin. He has to crane his head to look up at her. He doesn't let himself glance over the soft lines of her abdomen, doesn't let himself watch her breathing lift her breasts. He stares at her face for a long time. She looks worse than he feels.
"Here," he says and shrugs out of his jacket as he stands. He drapes it over her shoulders, her arms occupied trying to preserve some modesty. She tucks her arms through the sleeves and he zips it up for her. If his knuckles drag against her skin the whole way up it's probably an unavoidable accident. Maybe.
Clarke ducks her head, just barely and breathes deeply. Something goes wild and bright in her eyes and she leans. She just leans towards him and Bellamy is reminded of how sharp her teeth were.
"Smells like you," she says softly, voice rough and then the moment breaks. Birds start welcoming the rising sun and the night is over. She tries to pull his jacket lower over the curve of her ass, the tops of her thighs, "you couldn't have brought my clothes?"
"You're welcome to give me the jacket back," he says and trails after her back into the camp.
Even delinquents are smart enough to wait until Clarke is dressed before the questions start. No, she didn't do this on the Ark. No, she doesn't want to eat anyone. No, she doesn't know what caused this. No, no, no. She never says the word werewolf and no one else does either. But it rattles around in Bellamy's head all day. He finds something remote to occupy himself with and works until his hands ache and his blisters have blisters.
"I should thank you," Clarke says softly and it startles him. He tells himself it was just him begin distracted and no supernatural ability on her part. He finishes what he's doing and turns to look at her. She holds her arms loosely at her sides, watches him with those clever careful eyes, "for not letting them shoot me."
"Can't have the villagers execute the princess, can we?" Bellamy says and doesn't remember how golden the hair between her thighs is. His heart hammers in his mouth. Clarke's head cocks to the side and she closes her eyes for a second. When she looks up at him again her face is very soft.
"I didn't realize," she says and her voice is low, rough and she takes a step towards him. Her eyes are bright and unreadable.
"I don't know what that means, princess," Bellamy says defensively because insulting her is armor he can slip on. If his voice is husky and wrung out it's only because he's coming down with something. Clarke takes a step towards him, her head drops slightly and there is something in the way she moves that makes him wish he had his gun on him.
"Don't call me that," she says and then her mouth is on his and her hands are in his hair. Her mouth is hot and hungry and she tugs on his lip with her teeth until he kisses her back. His hands find the dip of her waist, squeeze until he can feel her ribs under her skin. She crowds him back against the wall of the drop ship he's been hiding near.
"What should I call you then?" he gasps and she jumps a little, finding leverage on his shoulders to wrap her legs around his waist. His hands drop to the curve of her ass and he lets himself find that dip in her collar bone, lets himself lick the salt of sweat out of the hollow of her throat. Her whole body shudders and his hips jerk against her when she rolls down against him.
"You could try Clarke," she offers, so much later he's almost forgotten what she's talking about.
His tent is stuffy and they're both shiny with sweat when she shoves him down onto the mattress. He braces his hands on her thighs, presses in until there'll be bruises of his finger times so at least there'll be some proof this happened when she thinks better of it. He leans up and closes his mouth over her breast, teases his tongue over the hard peak of her nipple until she gasps over him. He skims his fingers through the golden curls at the apex of her thighs and she whines, rocks up into his hand.
"Is this you?" he asks because he needs to know so badly that his skin hurts with it. Clarke tries to twist her hips to force him where she wants him, "or is this some werewolf thing?"
"Bellamy," she complains, his mouth still pressing wet, open mouthed kisses across her breasts. One hand fists in his hair and she pulls until he looks up at her "I can hear your heart race when you think about me."
"Fuck," he says and his fingers slide against her clit until she keens and moans over him.
Clarke lets him press her into the mattress. She lets him curl her leg around his hips and rut against her until they're both gasping. She digs her nails into his back and the pain is sharp and bright and so good he almost comes right there across her stomach. The rumble of pleasure that rolls off her lips stokes a fire behind his breast bone and he forgets to breathe. When they kiss again she breathes for him.
"Bellamy," she says, and then "please."
How can Bellamy say no to that? He's never been that strong.
Clarke arches of the mattress when he gives her what she wants. Her nails bite marks into his shoulders, leaving marks he know will last for days. He palms her hip, presses his fingers into her skin and she keens. Clarke finds his mouth and she isn't gentle with him. His lips bruise under hers. He follows her lead, snaps his hips forward the way they both want. She cants her hips up towards him, hooks her thigh over the curve of her hip and blows his mind. Bellamy's whole world narrows down to the places their skin slides and the heat of her.
He presses himself up on one arm, lets his head fall forward. It might be a horrible mistake. His field over vision becomes her heaving breasts, the inviting curve of her stomach. He can watch himself fuck her, see every tiny rock of her hips when she rises to meet him. Blunt teeth find his bicep and his elbow almost gives. Clarke laughs when he swears viciously against the curve of her breast, tasting sweat and his own profanity in the salt on her skin. Her voice is so breathless, so wrecked and raw that he doesn't even care if she's laughing at him. So long as she keeps making those sounds. He mouths a wet kiss over her nipple, feels it harden under his tongue.
When she does come, trembling under him, she bites his lip and he can taste blood. Her thighs tighten around him. Clarke pulls him flush against her so he can only thrust shallowly as she shakes apart. She muffles her cry in his mouth and he tastes that too. He doesn't know if this is new to the Clarke who can slip her skin or if Clarke would have always left his mouth bruised and bee stung, carved her mark into his shoulders with claiming hands. It doesn't matter though. Because it's his Clarke. The one who chose him.
He almost sobs with it when he comes, will never admit that outside the heat and singular moment in his tent. Bellamy's elbow does give and he lifts her, curls his arm around her waist to hold her flush against him. She pets his shoulders through it, mouth wet on his jaw. Her fingers trail over the marks she left like maybe she's sorry. She shouldn't be.
He isn't.
Bellamy curses slow biology when she tells him she can hardly breathe for the smell of them, of their fucking, in the stuffy tent. He wants to stay in his bed forever. They can't of course. Because nothing goes as planned on the ground and there are broken limbs to set and winter to plan for. Grounders to be ready for. The way her fingers curl in his hair makes him think maybe she wishes they could stay there too. Somehow that's enough.