She only needs to wake up to know she isn't in her bed. It doesn't take much, really – just the mattress and the smell of the room, distinctively masculine. Well, scratch that. Distinctively him, and Clarke hates herself a little for knowing his smell by heart because she doesn't want to be that kind of person. Still, she gets the confirmation once she opens her eyes, not that she really needed it to begin with. The walls are full of posters – rock bands, mostly, and movie posters too – and everything is a mess and, yeah, she definitely is in Bellamy fucking Blake's bedroom.
The body pressed to her back and arm wrapped around her waist were a dead giveaway, too. But oh well, she thinks as she closes her eyes again and tries to remember what happened last night. Alcohol, most likely, since she actually has to force herself to remember, the memories not flowing seamlessly – lots of alcohol. She remembers the party, the one Raven had forced her to attend, and… And that's about it, really, because she has no idea how she ended up in the Alpha Rho Kappa house when her last memory is of tequila shots at Grounder's. Great, just great. At least it's Saturday – no classes.
He stirs behind her and… "Stop thinking so loudly." Of course.
His voice is heavy and hoarse with sleep, and it definitely doesn't bring a shiver down her spine. Neither does the way he tightens his hold on her waist (the clingy, possessive bastard) and kisses her shoulder. She's still sore from their activities of the night, muscles aching and mind buzzing, yet she leans into his chest, moves even so slightly – her ass brushes against his cock, and he groans in her ear. A smile settles on her lips. So easy.
"We need to stop doing that," she says – her actions obviously contradicting her words, but she isn't going to be the one to point that out.
"What, the beer pong? Yeah, I agree, you're crushing my boys' ego every time."
She rolls her eyes – not her fault if Miller and Sterling insist on playing with her even if they lose every single time – but the movement get sloppy when Bellamy's hand trail down her stomach and between her legs.
They need to stop doing that, they really do.
Tomorrow, maybe.
Today – well, today she raises one leg and gives him free access, knee going to rest on top of his tight. Her mind is still hazy with sleep (and alcohol) and so is she, but they're at their best that way – not totally able to think this through, to question their actions, their relationship. It's a can of worms Clarke refuses to open, and so she closes her eyes instead, mouth opening in a silent moan when his finger circle her clit. He doesn't rush this, obviously in no hurry, teasing her with his fingers as he keeps kissing her shoulder, her neck, the pulsing point just below her ear. It isn't fast and passionate, unlike all those other times together, yet he leaves her breathless with the slow rhythm of his fingers inside her, thumb pressed to her clit as he finds that spot that has her moan and sigh.
She comes disturbingly fast (always does with him, because Bellamy knows her by heart, knows every inch of her body for having worshipped it so many times) and when she hits her release, she sees white, she sees stars.
She breathes loudly, raggedly, when she comes down from her pick, and doesn't need to look over her shoulder to see that damn smirk of his, the one with the dimples flashing. He irradiates smugness, rightfully so, as he turns her around so she lies on her back and he settles between her legs.
"Good morning, princess," and, yes, the smirk is here.
She doesn't have the strength to roll her eyes, not this time, and so instead grabs him by the neck and pulls him to her in a bruising kiss. "I knew you'd warm up to me, eventually," he had said once, and Clarke refuses to think about it – refuses to acknowledge he might be right, she might not hate him as much as she used to.
(The frat president with a penchant for parties and sex, a girl on each arm and then some. She used to loath him, she really did. Has no idea when it changed, when he became more than the stereotyped fratboy, the obvious asshole.)
Bellamy groans into the kiss, refuses to break it even as he leans to one side and opens the drawer of his bedside table and grabs a condom – what can she say, the boy is skilled. It barely takes him a few seconds to open it and roll it down his cock and then he's breaking the kiss, if only to look at her in the eyes.
She knows what he's asking, even if the question remains silent, and so she nods, nods and grabs his upper arms. A sigh escapes her at the feel of him inside her, pleasure mixing with the pain of her sore muscles as he starts to move, back and forth movements that have her closing her eyes and throw back her head. It leaves him access to her neck, and of course he jumps on the occasion – ever the possessive asshole, leaving hickeys in his path every chance he gets, like he's marking his territory or something.
Not that it matters much right now because – well, because he hits that spot deep within her, the one that makes her see stars, and nothing matters but his name tumbling out of her mouth in a broken whisper, his groans pressed to the sensitive skin of her neck and his skin against hers, hot and soft and everything.
She finds herself close to her second orgasm in so many minutes, moans stuck at the back of her throat and – damn it, he knows, because his fingers find her clit once more, rubbing until she comes with a sigh of his name. He only needs a few more seconds, hips slapping against her, to follow, and then he falls on her, nose still pressed to her neck as their heavy breathings mingle.
"And a good morning to you too," she says after a few minutes, when she's certain her voice is back.
Bellamy chuckles. "That it is."
She relishes in the weight of him above her, and he plants a kiss to her collarbone as she threads her fingers through his dark locks – his hair is longer after an entire summer of not cutting it, and it makes him look boyish in a ridiculous way. She loves it.
(She loves… No, she won't go there.)
They settle into an easy, comfortable silence, and Clarke would think he fell back asleep – he has a habit of doing just that, typically masculine – if it weren't for his fingers drawing patterns on her ribs. Sometimes it is hard to believe they are not a couple – nothing but fuck buddies, casual sex when they're too drunk and too needy – because this, this is the casual intimacy only couples should be allowed to share. But Bellamy likes his women, and his reputation. Clarke knows better than to hope for more than a good fuck after a wild party.
Not that she wants more anyway. Been here, done that, burnt her wings on that exact same topic with Finn. She knows better than to think she is relationship material, with her busy schedule and crazy lifestyle, more focused on library hours than boys. It will kill her one day, or so Raven says. Maybe, but at least she has Bellamy to release the pressure once in a while, and it is more than enough. It ought to be.
"I should go." She isn't sure if she says it for his sake or her own but she adds, for good measure, "I'm meeting your sister for brunch and it's probably eleven already. Or something."
An entire meal not meeting Octavia's eyes for more than a second, least she reads her mind – the brunette's perceptive that way. Clarke can't wait.
Bellamy doesn't say anything, simple moves and falls back on his own pillow with a groan. She has no doubt he will be asleep before she even reaches the front door, but it doesn't stop him from staring at her while she looks for her clothes in every corner of the room. (Her bra ended on the bookshelf, between two history books, of course.) Her skin prickles as his eyes follow her, but that's Bellamy for you – he's never been shy in his staring, and she's never been good at pretending it doesn't affect her.
She throws him one last smile over her shoulder, one he lazily mirrors, before she sneaks out of the bedroom. The house is surprisingly silent, but she knows better. The Alpha Rho Kappa boys are never silent, unless they're planning something. But she's past climbing out the window at that point so she makes sure to hold her head high as she goes downstairs.
Can't be a wall of shame if there's nothing to be ashamed of.
Still, it doesn't stop the morons from clapping and whistling the moment she steps into the main room (animals, those guys are animals) and Clarke refrains herself from rolling her eyes. Instead, she stares them down, each and every one of them. Miller is the whistler, of course he is, and he throws a wink her way when their eyes meet. At least Jasper goes a little pale, that's comfort.
"How was it?" Monty asks, apparently having borrowing some cheek from his boyfriend – as if on cue, Miller claps him on the shoulder with a laugh
"A lady doesn't kiss and tell."
Which is enough for them to make even more catcall noises, and she does roll her eyes this time, even with the ghost of a smile on her lips. She's been around them long enough to know they mean no harm, though, that they're simply teasing. She's warmed up to them after a while, the way she did their president. (Not really the same way but. Oh well.)
Her phone buzzes in the back pocket of her jeans, and she's barely surprised when it's Bellamy's name showing on her screen. Out of reflex, she looks back to the stairs – he stands on the top of them, leaning against the banister in nothing but his boxers.
"Until next time, princess."
She shakes her head at his antics, and his laugh follows her out of the house.
It is only when she reaches her own residence hall that she thinks of checking the text he sent her.
what about coffee some day?
She frowns, types a reply. Is that a date?
Her phone buzzes in her hand as she climbs the stairs, and the one word on her screen manages to both make her blush and create an army of butterflies in her belly.
yes
(She definitely doesn't meet Octavia's eyes at brunch.)