Author's Note: Hi there! I'm revising this story and going to have quick updates and actually finish it. Enjoy!
No one other than Bellamy Blake is so goddamn infuriating.
It's getting really obnoxious and aggravating, with the summer heat and the pestering mosquitoes that think it's pretty funny to nibble every inch of her exposed skin. There should not be a freaking bug bite on her ass. But ah well, that's what the change of seasons brings, a blanket of suffocating humidity and blistering heat, buzzing and harassing bugs zipping through the air; deflected by constant swiping hands, and bare chests. Lots and lots and lots of purely and absolutely naked, toned, muscular, bronze, silky smooth, very enticing and really distracting-
"Like what you see, Princess?"
Chests. Like how exactly does he manage to have such flawless skin with all the bugs going around and why is he so muscular-
"Clarke?"
He must be doing pushups or something in his tent every night because is that an eight pack? No, wait, let's count just to make sure-
"Clarke!"
The blonde literally jumps; a squeak that sounds painfully similar like seven, her eyes shooting back up to his murky and increasingly amused chocolate eyes. He's wearing this smug grin, the dimple in his chin almost mocking her as he raises an eyebrow at her prolonged stare.
She clears her throat, feeling the rosy heat rise up her neck, creeping up to her cheeks and flushed against the swell of her breasts, and she subconsciously and halfheartedly blames it on the summer temperature.
"I- I um," She crinkles her own eyebrows, biting her lip as she wracks her brain with what exactly she wanted to stay prior to being lured in by his annoyingly attractive body. Suddenly a smile breaks free and runs across her face, her tulip pink lips curling into a wide grin, her eyes brightening and twinkling against the reflection of the glittering sun, and he finds an abundance of warmth flourish inside his lower stomach.
She's already managed to lighten his previously grumpy mood in less than two minutes, her flustered exchange of expressions humoring him. Her smile is contagious, and the arrogant expression he had transitioned to one of a sincere smile; with crinkling eyes followed by a slight shake of the head.
Bellamy's heart picks up in pace, and he tries his best to ignore the fluttery feeling in his chest he can only refer to as a giddiness. The strangeness of it makes him feel lightheaded, though he inwardly blames it on the humidity.
"I am taking the day off."
What.
He must have said it out loud because the relieved grin she wore slips off and shatters to that of an irritated look. She wastes no time in beginning to list off the numerous reasons why she deserves a day off.
"Look, its summer and we don't have issues with anyone outside the walls anymore since the treaty and no one's been showing up in the medical bay as of late," She emphasizes the last word, creating a 'tsk' sound that sweeps off the look of skepticism he was broadly wearing. He glances at her with a haughty smile, noticing the red hue that still adorned her pretty face.
"And I've been working my ass off to help repair the rest of the cabins that collapsed after the storm in January, and I really need to freaking bathe because I've been wearing the same shirt for the past three days and I'm pretty sure my new natural scent is sweat, and why the hell do I even have to wear a shirt, all of you stupid guys not wearing shirts, I swear one more day in this heat I'm going to go naked, and-…"
"Clarke!" He barks, his eyebrows shooting up at the mention of her going nude, and her annoyance with bare chests in which explained why she was fiercely glaring at his just a moment ago. She purses her lips, cocking an eyebrow at him, not wanting to leave any room for discussion.
He just kind of looks at her, with that look that makes her insides feel all funny and her hands begin to tremble and the urge to blush really unavoidable. Clarke unlatches her eyes from his, growing slightly embarrassed at his amused demeanor. She finds a nice patch of grass to stare at as she mutters, "If I get one more bug bite I'll bite someone's head off…"
His head tilts back and he laughs, a noise that catches her attention instantaneously. The fizzy, childlike vibrancy of his laugh caressing her heart and making it pound erratically.
She exposes a smile she futilely tried to hold back, the will to be frustrated evaporating at the delicate and simply delicious sounds that push past his parted lips. She's only heard him laugh like this around her, and even if it's because he's laughing at her, she doesn't really mind. A giggle bubbles up inside her that intermingles with his continuous laughter. Unaware to the quizzical and honestly disturbed stares their garnering from the whole entire camp, Clarke and Bellamy laugh at the moment as if it was a hundred and something degrees outside and at any moment the world could potentially end.
Clarke feels curious eyes drilling holes into her skin and at the back of her head and the giggles slowly cease. Bellamy must feel it too, since he shares a small smile with her, before clearing his throat, dismissing the lingering eyes to mind their own business. He puts a hand on the back of his neck, rubbing the skin there almost nervously as he catches her gaze again.
"Go have a day off. You deserve it."
The words seem oddly similar to the ones he had said on unity day, and they both experience a case of Déjà vu.
"Yeah, okay. So do you."
She beams at him, her gaze falling to his chest as she subconsciously counts eight to herself, receiving a questioning and entertained look from the great Bellamy himself. Turning on her heel in the direction of her own cabin, she glances back at him briefly with a shy grin, something somewhat unlike anything he's seen from her before. Clarke then hastily rushing off.
She leaves a pleasantly surprised Bellamy, a big goofy smile sprawled out across his handsome face, his eyes dipping to the ground before returning to her departing body. He snickers again when he sees her hastily scratch the pestering bug bite on her left elbow, positive that she was probably cursing under her breath and grumbling about how there were no bugs on the Ark.
There it is, his heart thumping against his ribcage again and that annoying flustered sensation coming on, as he replays their conversation over and over helplessly in his mind. He stalks off, going to help with the continuous work of rebuilding and building homes, that silly, toothy grin not once slipping.
It's all so innocent, everything she does and everything she is, to her subtle touches and her big, blue eyes and that damn freckle above her lip. Her golden locks that he really wants to play with during meetings, and all sorts of girly junk that he had no idea when he became so infatuated with.
It's so innocent.
But maybe that's just what being raised as a princess result in.
Clarke Griffin often finds herself thoroughly exhausted after every day of working long hours, plagued with bloodied fingertips and squirming bodies limping through the medical bay. It only makes sense that when she finally does gets some peace and quiet, she can fall asleep in a snap.
But today, when she plummets face first into her makeshift mattress full of animal furs she's collected, she's almost shocked that sleep doesn't consume her. It's damn hot, there's really no ventilation in the small two-room cabin of hers besides that measly window near the entrance of her abode, and she squanders no valuable time in peeling off her grossly damp shirt and kicking off her pants that had stuck to her like a second skin.
It's still hot as she's lying on her back staring at the ceiling basking in the summer light that's slithering into the room that licks at her exposed skin and leaves it a flushed pink.
She grumbles out, 'fuck it,' and forces her arms back to unclasp her bra and halfheartedly hurls it across the room, the pitiful fabric smacking the wall with enough force to create a, 'wap,' sort of sound.
"Serves you right," she mutters prior to letting out a relieved gasp at the loss of constriction surrounding her chest. She pauses, thinking to herself, 'I really need to stop talking to myself,' while stripping off her last modest undergarment, the panties flung high and slinking down the front of her door.
She sighs a breath of reprieve, her sun-kissed chaos that is her hair damp and stuck to her forehead, tickling the back of her neck and shoulders uncomfortably. She brushes it all up while momentarily pushing her body up, then instantly slamming right back down on her back calmly, feeling the slightly cool air caress her nude hourglass body and busty frame.
Her eyes flutter closed and she wills sleep to overwhelm her, to take her into its comforting and blissful ignorance.
One minute.
Two minutes.
Three minutes.
She squirms trying desperately to get comfortable, smacking her head against a poorly made improvised pillow, throwing the covers over her, then cursing at the searing heat encased in their embrace.
She throws the multitude of suffocating, fluffy blankets off in a frustrated fashion, whipping her upper body up and blatantly glowering at the closed door in front of her.
It's too hot to sleep and too hot to function.
She plops down again on her back miserably, her dark and lengthy eyelashes tickling her cheeks as she blinks, sinking into her bed and reluctantly closing her eyes again.
Just think, and eventually, you'll go to sleep.
Think.
Instantaneously she's filtering through memories like flying through pages of a magazine, scanning them and dismissing them. She reminisces on the near-death experiences, the losses of Wells and Charlotte and her father.
She feels a weight heave down onto her chest, her breath hitching and getting caught in her throat, her hand sliding down her face in anguish.
Breath.
She takes a deep inhale, letting the air linger in her lungs and whistle out through her nose. She steadies the rampaging emotions creating a whirlpool in her heart and raging war in her mind, and lets her pestering mind drift to simpler things.
The bunnies that hopped about in spring, nuzzling their pink noses into the grass, sniffing the crisp scent of dancing flowers and listening to the wind getting intertwined in the branches of dozens of swishing trees.
The sparkle and shimmer of sunshine illuminating the clear, crystal blue of the lake, the feel of refreshing water accepting and nourishing her skin.
Rough, calloused and tan fingertips, the feel of his hands brushing against hers, the tingles of delight and the embellishment of shy reassurance, the tenderness of his voice, the harsh husky tone that entangles in the depths of her thoughts.
She blinks, slightly surprised that the thought of Bellamy's hands was so deeply engraved into her brain, and she sighs a bit. In just the same way he had the ability to rile her up until she saw red, he also always had this way of calming her down, when nothing else could. She can't help but keep thinking about him, if only just to fall asleep.
Clarke inwardly insists this as she slowly unravels- unwilling to feel overly cautious and in denial that there was any other reason as to why her brain went instantly to him.
His smile, the way it mesmerized anyone who caught a glimpse of it, by the way his lips curled in a crooked curve. His bottom lip that seemed faintly bigger than his top, how he had that barely chipped tooth from getting into a fistfight with a grounder that stood out against the other pearly whites. Maybe it was how his dimples only exposed themselves when he genuinely laughed. It was a sporadic sight and enchanting experience to see that smile.
Whether his smile was hesitant and minor, or immediate and immense, whether a frown keeps her from discovering that smile, she can't help but yearn for it.
That smile, mischievous, a mystery in itself, it can bring her anticipation and cause her heart to ache.
Her right hand unconsciously traces her bottom tulip lip, tickling the skin as she barely brushes the tip of her tongue to her fingertip, before continuing her the agonizingly leisure pattern of grazing it against her top lip, then bottom, then top again.
She can't help but wonder curiously, Maybe he's yearning and craving my smile as well. Maybe he has thought of my smile as many times as I have thought of his. Maybe my smile lurks in his dreams, taunting him and causes him grief.
The mere thought is silly and exceptionally ridiculous, but she can only imagine him getting all flustered over it. A giggle fizzles up, and she continues to let her mind wander to the many impossible possibilities and scenarios of a certain infuriatingly and annoyingly beautiful man.
His calloused hands and freckled fingertips, the shape of his palms and his slightly bent pinkies. When he is quick to react when she says his name, when his soft lips form a charming sincere smile when they make small talk privately. Those rare times when she looks up, and catches his face brightening in the most wondrous way. That mischievous twinkle in his murky eyes, enraptured with so much feeling.
His confident stature and assertive attitude, the vein that pulses on the underside of his jaw when he yells, the strain of tension in his muscles when he argues.
The almost distraught and desperate touches when they debate, the grasp of his hands on her wrists or shoulders, his abrupt impulsiveness that usually propels him stomping out of her cabin, muttering about needing air.
His scent of firewood, musky dawn, and apples; it's all him.
Bellamy, Bellamy, Bellamy.
She doesn't notice her once limp arm moving up to trace scribbles of swirls above her navel, the nail skimming the delicate blushing skin of her stomach, her lips trembling as her heart begins to pick up the pace.
His expressive russet colored eyes, holding depths of emotions that simply take her breath away.
What they would look like observing her, all exposed and breathless. If they would shy away or simply stare.
One hand drifts to the soft milky mounds of her breasts, scarcely pinching the susceptive pink tips, a slight gasp echoing throughout the fiercely quiet and increasingly heated room. Another hand slips from the dip of her navel to her untouched curls, ghosting her fingernail against the flesh of her inner thighs, skating around the aching and yearning want that demands attention, nested in-between her legs.
Would he touch her like this? Would he whisper teasing things in her ear?
Naughty Princess.
A gasping whimper trembles through her, and despite the rising temperature, she gets goosebumps.
She finally allows the mischievous finger to slip against her already damp slit, brushing against the bundle of nerves at the top, easing the wetness to coat her entire little finger.
"Oh-."
She murmurs as she plunges it inside her throbbing warmth, tantalizingly slowly, her other hand pinching her harden nipples punitively before motioning to rub against her pearl.
His thick fingers and calloused hands would be rough against her smooth skin.
He'd scrape his teeth against her nipples, flinging teasing taunts at the way she won't be able to keep her noises down.
"Oh, Oh fuck…"
She's increasing her frantic pace, her finger slightly bent to get a deeper angle as she shoves another one along with it.
Two of her fingers are probably the same size as one of his.
She's feverishly rubbing her clit; only pausing for a split moment to press her fingers into her mouth, swirling her tongue around them to muffle the spewing moans resounding in the room around her.
There's a plethora of warmth flourishing in her core, the heat intolerable, almost like a coil being bent to the point of snapping. She's beginning to see stars, her vision flickering in and out with specks of black, her lips parted as she mews and gasps at the continuous pleasurable torture.
Bellamy… Bellamy…
She's so close it aches, a bead of sweat dripping from her forehead, cascading down her rosy cheek; her tongue tasting the flavor; salty.
Her walls are pulsating against the thickness of her two fingers working restlessly inside her, the delving rhythm becoming shaky and sloppy.
She can almost hear his raspy, hoarse voice. Her breathless panting and high pitched cry ricocheting off the walls of her room as she teeters over the edge.
So close, almost there.
Bellamy.
Bell-
BAM.
An unforeseen and abrupt slam of a door halts her movements in an instant. Clarke springs up in the bed with disoriented panic, her fingers scrambling away and her body aching at the sudden loss. She's almost lightheaded at the whiplash, vision a sway of colors before her sight fixates on the figure standing there with the door with open.
To her absolute horror, it's no one other than Bellamy Blake.
A/N: Please Review!