AUTHOR'S NOTE:
okay so a few things:
one, i accidentally deleted my old account a month or so ago;; this is lou, aka octaviablakes, aka the writer of so that you may look closely. i didn't steal this lmao.
two, one of the reasons i waited so long to repost this was because of the reaction i got to the piece. i mean, it was all good, and for that i thank everyone who read it; all good feedback made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. but the thing is, a lot of people saw this as a love story. people commented on this, saying i should write a companion piece to it, maybe showing clarke's point of view and give everyone a happy ending. which, i'll admit, would be nice and give everyone a sense of closure, but does not fit into the story i ended up writing. so i'll just say it straight out:
this is by no means a love story.
bellamy is in love with clarke; that much is obvious. but that love- if it's even right to call it that; it could easily be seen as infatuation or even, if you want to go to an extreme, obsession- is neither healthy nor reciprocated. (also, a lot of his internal monologue can be a little sexist if you read closely. just sayin)
so yeah this isn't a love story. i'm going to stop myself now before i go on a three page rant, but like if you want that you can find me on tumblr lmao.
three, the title of this is from a poem written by my friend
It's the way she's looking at him from across camp. Like she can't decide if she wants to fuck him or figure him out.
(he'd take both options if it meant he could have her.)
He can feel her eyes burning holes into his back and he knows that he'll be seeing her in his tent tonight.
It's her expression when she walks into his tent after everyone's gone to sleep in their own tents. There's a combination of shame, timidity and lust in those cerulean eyes of hers, and it shouldn't make him want her more, but the ache of longing in his chest persists.
(he thinks about how he wants her more whenever she looks at him.)
((it's so pathetic.))
(((he's so pathetic.)))
((((he pushes the thought to a dark, abandoned corner in his mind.))))
He's lying down on the bed one of the delinquents had made for him out of the leftover wood from building the wall. (It's ugly and all but falling apart— he loves it.) He's staring at the ceiling, not thinking about blonde hair or blue eyes or birthmarks above lips, because he's Bellamy fucking Blake and he doesn't think like that.
When she comes in he props himself up on his elbows, glancing up at her. They lock eyes, and he says nothing.
It's the way he doesn't have to say anything before she's straddling his hips on the bed and pulling him into a bruising kiss. She brings her hands up to cup his cheeks and his are moving to her hips, thumbs brushing against the warm skin under her shirt. And then she's licking into his mouth and humming against his lips when he does the same and it's kind of ridiculous because he's half hard and they haven't even done anything yet.
It's the way he's getting lost in it, in the feeling of her so close to him and all he can seethinkfeelbreathe is Clarke. He makes a small noise of protest that he'd never admit to because she's fucking pulling away, why would she do that, but he sees her flushed face and bruised lips and immediately forgets that he had any qualms about it because goddamn.
And then she's taking off her shirt, she's straddling his hips and pulling her shirt off he just can't stop watching, can't take his eyes off her. She lifts the shirt at the hem, exposing the delicate white skin he's always longed to touch little by little. She throws the shirt over her shoulder. His eyes drag along her body, taking a few moments to take her in as she is right now.
(beautiful, he thinks.)
((stop fucking thinking like that, he thinks again.))
(((in all honesty, he's only about 50% sure he's awake because he's had too many wet dreams that have started out exactly like this.)))
She's not wearing a bra and he would usually wonder where it went, but her breasts are rising and falling with every breath she's taking, and she's looking at him like she wants to devour him, and he just can't deny her anything anymore. Her blush has spread from her cheeks to her chest and it's mesmerizing as he watches the color spread like the wildfire she is. Every mark, every curve, and every thing that makes up who Clarke is and who she wants to be is flushed red and it's fucking beautiful.
(she's so fucking beautiful.)
It's the way her breath catches in her throat when he finally sits up, bringing one of his hands to the valley between her breasts, feeling the pounding of her heart. It's nearly as fast as his own.
(he briefly wonders if she feels the same way he does, if she looks at him like he's the moon and the stars, and doesn't know he looks at her like she's the sun, a galaxy, a supernova.)
((and then he remembers who he is and stops because it's nothing but wishful thinking.))
(((good things don't happen to monsters, do they?)))
Her skin is devastatingly soft- a stark contrast to the rough, calloused flesh of his hands. He takes a few moments to stare at her, to drag his eyes along every curve and every edge of her body, cataloguing every freckle, every birthmark, every scar.
Her gaze holds an intensity that Bellamy has only known Clarke to have, and it baffles him constantly that eyes so blue can carry so much heat, so much fire.
He doesn't return it, though, because before he can form a coherent thought, his mouth is pressing open-mouthed kisses to her sternum, fingertips dancing across her skin as he moves his hand from between her breasts to the side of her ribcage, tracing little figure-eights the soft flesh there. He hears her sigh, and she brings her hands up to his head, tangling her fingers in his dark curls.
It's the noises she's making when he starts sucking and biting at the skin, marring the pale white expanse with dark reds and purples. The little sounds she can't help, the ones that she tries to stifle but manage to make their way out anyways. The sounds that could bring him to his knees, sounds that could leave him begging for mercy.
As his lips migrate south and her moans come more frequently, it becomes clear to him that this position isn't going to work out for either of them. He brings his both of his hands down to her hips and pulls away from her chest, forcing himself to ignore the sound she makes in protest. He takes a second to admire his work before rolling them over on the straw mattress he'd made himself so she's lying on her back and he's kneeling between her legs.
He looks down at her, getting a better view of her, and he licks his lips. She's looking back up at him, her intense turquoise boring into his warm brown.
(he wonders what she would do if she could stare into his soul, if she could see how stupid he is for her.)
((and then he realizes that she wouldn't do anything at all, because she'll never see Bellamy the way she saw Finn or the way she sees Lexa.))
(((he will never be her first choice.)))
((((he will never be good for Clarke the way Finn was good for Clarke, the way Lexa is good for Clarke, and he should probably stop her now because he knows that it isn't Bellamy that she wants, but he's not that guy, nor has he ever been that guy, because Finn was that guy and Lexa is that girl and Bellamy is not Finn and certainly not Lexa.))))
He wastes no time going back to work. He leans down again, and he's sucking and biting and kissing her skin again and she's moaning again, struggling to stay coherent. Not where everyone can see, she tells him breathlessly, and he pulls away for a moment, looking down at the purpling bruises he's left on her and can't help but smirk at her and whisper, too late now, in her ear. Before she can reply, his hands move up from her hips to her ribcage, and his fingers are stroking the soft skin there.
He's kissing his way down from her neck to her chest, stopping only to press his lips against the darker bruises he'd left on her. He doesn't stop there, though, and when he reaches the last mark above her left breast, he starts to kiss his way further down. The hand on her ribs drags upwards, though, until he's cupping her breast, rough, calloused fingers stroking the soft, warm skin. He's hovering just above her left nipple, and with every exhale she shivers, the dusky pink flesh of it puckering. She lets out a sigh and tugs at his hair, and because he's so pathetically in love with her, he complies and he lowers his mouth to one nipple and brings his thumb and his forefinger together around the other and the noise she makes is better than any music he's ever heard.
It's the way she's lifting her hips against him in search of some kind of friction as he sucks and bites and licks at one nipple and rolls the other between two of his thumb and forefinger, the way she's biting her lip and whispering more, more, more, I need more.
She pulls him away from her chest by his hair, bringing him up so he's closer to her, pulling him into a bruising kiss. Her hands stray from his head, moving down to the waistband of his jeans. For a few moments, she fiddles with the button at the front, but she manages to pop it open, pushing the denim down his legs and off of him so he's left in just his underwear. He pulls away before she can take his boxers off as well.
He starts kissing his way down from her lips to her neck to her chest, going down, down, down, past her breasts, past her ribcage, down her stomach, pressing wet kisses to every inch of skin he can reach until he gets to the waistband of her jeans.
He takes his time with it. Kissing the warm skin of her abdomen as he unbuttons the jeans. Nuzzling into the warmth of her thighs as he pulls the fabric down. When the jeans are off, and he's thrown them carelessly over his shoulder, he noses his way up her calf, not minding the wispy hairs that she hasn't shaved since before Confinement. Working his way up her body, he nudges her knees open when he gets there, lifting one of her legs so it's over his shoulder, kissing his way down her inner thigh until he reaches the waistband of her panties.
It's the way she shivers when he breathes against her, the way her panties are soaked through, the way she whines when he moves his hands up to her hips and slips his hands under the waistband and pulls the fabric down, down, down until they're off and on the floor somewhere. He pulls one of her legs over his shoulder and her hands are in his hair again, and he wants to kiss her and taste her until she's shaking.
He exhales against her bare flesh. Clarke lets out a strangled moan.
And then he's darting forward, licking into her and he swears to all that is holy that she is the sweetest thing he has ever tasted. Her fingers tangle in his hair as he eats her out, sighing when he hooks his arms under her thighs and pulls her closer to his mouth.
Bellamy is not by any means a religious man- he doesn't want to believe in any higher powers or divine creators that sit back and allow people to live miserable, lonely lives- but when he's got his head between Clarke's thighs and her fingers knotting and pulling at his dark hair and she's crying out, moving her hips against him, a litany of Bellamy, Bellamy, Bellamy tumbling past her lips, he's tempted to reconsider because he has read the Bible and he's gone to church and he's pretty sure this is what heaven is supposed to be like.
(a voice in the back of his mind laughs, a cruel and mocking sound.)
((Like you'd get into heaven, it says, you're a good for nothing monster.))
(((he ignores the fact that the voice echoing in his head is his mother's.)))
It's the sounds she's making at every movement he makes against her heated flesh. A breathy moan when he licks a line up her slit with the flat of his tongue, a choked holy fuck when he licks into her and presses his thumb against her clit, a stifled scream and a tug of his hair when he wraps his lips around her clit and just sucks. She grinds against his tongue, and his nose presses against her skin, making it hard for him to breathe properly, so he hums against her and she gasps and bucks her hips and pulls at his hair and she's completely incoherent, whispering please, fuck, I need, there, and Bellamy over and over and it's almost euphoric.
She's so responsive above him, and he's so focused on her, it takes his leg cramping for him to realize that he's been grinding down on the mattress. It's funny, he thinks, because if he were with anyone else, his pleasure would probably be his main concern, but he's been so fixated on getting her off that he hasn't noticed that he's just about ready to blow his load right then and there. She's writhing above him, pulling at his hair, and a quiet more leaves her lips.
He doesn't hesitate, pulling his arm out from under her thigh and bringing his hand up to her cunt, sliding a finger into her, his tongue still swirling around her clit. Her hips thrust against his finger's movements, and he uses his other hand to keep her pinned to the bed as he pushes in a second digit alongside the first. A string of curses and incoherent sentence fragments tumbles out of her mouth, grinding down on his mouth and hand. And then he starts sucking her clit. Hard. He crooks his fingers upwards, pressing them up against the rough patch inside her, and then she's coming, crying out, eyelids fluttering shut as her muscles contract around his fingers, her thighs twitching. He backs off on her clit a little bit, fucking her slowly through it with his fingers until she's panting and pushing his head away, managing to tell him between gasps that it's too much, Bellamy, fuck, too sensitive. With one last lick to her clit (eliciting a short yelp and a twitch of her thighs), he forces himself to pull away, sliding his fingers out of her. He sits back on his heels as she tries to catch her breath, gazing at her form.
It's the way her breaths come in pants, the flush that's spread all over her body, the way her mouth is half open and her eyes are fluttering closed. His gaze makes its way down her body, and he's reveling in the beauty of her entire being, from the light smattering of freckles on her nose to the long, silvering scar on the inside of her forearm.
(distantly, he feels the ache in his chest intensify, because she's so beautiful, so good, and he isn't and he's so stupidly in love with her but she will never feel the same way.)
((she is water, she heals and cleans and sustains. he is fire, he destroys everything in his path.))
(((eventually, she will be the one to extinguish him.)))
It's the way she opens her eyes after a moment, the way they're dark with need, pupils blown, the thin sheen of sweat on her skin, the pink that tinges her cheeks. They say nothing. And then she's sitting up, putting her hands on his cheeks and pulling him into a searing kiss. She moans into it when her tongue finds his and his lizard brain absently registers that she's tasting herself on his tongue, and he gets impossibly harder.
She pulls him down with her so he's on top of her like he's been before and her hands migrate from his cheeks to his shoulders to his abdominals, dragging her nails lightly down them, sighing appreciatively against his lips.
(she's kissing him hungrily, all tongue and teeth and he loves it because he can pretend that she's reserved kisses like this for him, that it's something only they share in the dark of his tent.)
((the ache, as far away as it is, persists.))
She wastes no time teasing him, unlike the other girls he'd slept with since coming to Earth, who'd touch him sparingly, giving him coy looks as they did. Clarke's fingers do not play with the waistband of his boxers, do not give feather light touches to where he is hot and hard. She does not hesitate, slipping one down underneath the fabric of his underwear to grip his dick, the other resting on his hip. He has to pull away from her lips to breathe properly, resting his forehead against hers. He groans when she starts slowly moving her hand up and down his length, the overwhelming warmth of it almost too much to handle.
Clarke, he whispers, fuck, you gotta stop or this'll end before it begins.
She doesn't reply, just pulls him into another kiss and lets go of his dick, using both hands to shove the underwear down and off his legs. When he is naked, and his boxers are on the floor somewhere, she wraps her legs around his waist, pulling him close so his dick is pressing against the wet heat of her cunt. He lets out a shaky breath and she moves her hips against him, his dick sliding through her folds. She lets out a moan and does it again, but he stops her before she gets him too worked up. If he's going to come at all, he decides, he's going to come inside her. He tells her that, and she laughs.
It's the way she rolls them over suddenly, so she's straddling him, the smile still lingering on her lips.
It's the way she lifts herself up, the way her right hand trails down to his cock, holding it in place so she can position herself over it.
It's the way she's still smiling as she sinks down on him, the way she moans and digs her nails into the skin of his chest, the wet heat of Clarke enveloping him like a glove, consuming him almost entirely. He clenches his jaw to keep from coming on the spot.
She starts moving, using her legs to lift herself up and slam back down. He groans in response, and she repeats the action again and again and again, until she's built up a rhythm, using the hand on his chest for leverage. He sits up suddenly, bringing one of his hands up to cup a breast, rolling a nipple between his fingers, and she whines, a high sound. She moves faster on him and he groans, his hips jerking up into her. The rhythm falters and she gasps, there, fuck, Bellamy, her muscles fluttering around his dick. He does it again and again, his free hand trailing down to her clit, presses two fingers against it and rubs it vigorously.
Bellamy, fuck! she chokes out, and then she's coming again, clenching down on him tightly, and it's like fire. Her eyes are squeezed shut and her mouth has formed a perfect O-shape and she is just perfect.
He doesn't wait for her to come down, just flips them over, fucks into her until the heat of his orgasm consumes him entirely and he's coming inside of her until he's spent, groaning her name into the crook of her neck.
It's the way she falls asleep after he's pulled out and cleaned her up, the way she pulls the blanket up to her shoulders and closes her eyes, the way her breath slowly becomes even.
It's the way she curls up into a ball in her sleep, as if she's trying to protect herself from harm.
It's the way he finally manages to fall asleep when she rolls over and snuggles into his side.
It's the way he wakes up in the morning and she's gone, the way her scent still lingers on the bed.
It's the way he wonders how far he will go to keep her safe, to protect her. And that's the thing, he realizes.
He doesn't know, and he's fucking terrified.
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
homework: do close readings of this and comment ur analyses bc i am an attention seeking lil boy and i love it when people read into things i write. also u can comment if u like this lmao.