Chapter 2:

They brought out the worst in each other—with Bellamy it was hatred, uncontrollable lust, and jealousy and with Clarke it was recklessness, disgust, and anger. Why did they keep coming back to each other if they were well acquainted with the monsters their thing created? It wasn't logical and occasionally, they both longed for logical.

Take for instance, the second Bellamy was practically forced to sit by her at the weekly camp dinner. It was one of the most wasteful things they'd ever done in their lives but they were required by "law" to do it so, they reluctantly complied—Clarke more willingly than Bellamy. Everyone in the camp squeezed next to each other at the tables, which were fashioned from the cypress trees and scrap metal. They were so close. As in, touching. His arm brushed against her abnormally exposed skin as he tried to eat quickly and flee just as quickly.

Not just because of their shameful sexual escapades but because they didn't do this anymore. They were no longer the type of people to share a meal while discussing political moves and battle plans. They'd grown out of each other—become different people entirely because they had to be different to survive. He couldn't bark orders at their people anymore because the council would register him as a threat to their "way of life" and she couldn't be who she used to be because her clearance was high and if she started falling back into her old routine she'd end up dead or exiled for "treason"

They did everything in the name of survival—broke each other down, slammed each other into walls, scratching and biting until blood was drawn and it seemed like they would be fine.

They'd rather burn down everything around them and watch each other waste away before they admitted they were not fine. They'd rather have constant hate sex—not because they hated one another, necessarily, but because they hated the people they had to be—than face the problem like the leaders they once were.

It was only be design that Bellamy was sitting at a table with her and her council wannabe friends. Abby, Kane, Jaha and the other "important people" didn't let her at the table with the adults even though she was pushing nineteen. It disgusted him to watch her with these people—it actually made him ill to see this side of her. Her diplomatic smile and casual conversation made him want to grab a fistful of her hair and pull until the real blonde spitfire he knew all too well graced his presence. He was being jealous and possessive every time she opened her mouth to speak—letting out small noises that told her to just stop. Clarke wasn't the type to grant favors for him unless it was sexual favors so she continued her charade as an elitist with a superiority complex.

She didn't have to look at him to know how annoyed he was—she felt it. She felt it by the way his skin pressed into hers, how his muscles were tightened and how his jaw was clenched. She wrapped up her conversation, returning to her food. He relaxed slightly, still aggravated by her—the girl she desperately had to be for the sake of image.

If he hadn't stopped to talk to Miller as he finished his shift, he wouldn't have been late and the only seat (besides the seat Miller's dad reserved for his son) wouldn't have been next to her. He cursed Miller's timing—cursed his own distracted mind because he'd been thinking about her like a fool and lost track of time before he ran into his former lieutenant.

He felt her hand move to his knee underneath the table as he started moving his foot rapidly with his resurfacing anger. "Stop." She commanded quietly. Her snob peers didn't notice her hard words at all. Bellamy thought they should pay more attention to her when she sounded the way she did—but they've probably never seen her with a weapon and eyes set to kill.

"Make me." She looked at him with beautifully shocked eyes, clearly affected by his low seductive voice. He put his fork in his mouth, arching his eyebrow to look at her smugly. He enjoyed when he could catch her off guard and trigger a reaction. It was for reasons like this one why it was never the last time... There was too many chemical reactions in their bodies when they got caught up in simple moments to ever stop. It was easy to fake happiness—fake confidence like it hadn't been stolen from them when they fell under the spell of each other. She rolled her eyes, dropping her hand from his knee and placing it on her lap. "You're never fun, Clarke." He knew his statement was a complete lie. If sexual spontaneity was his definition of fun, she was certainly fun.

"I'm lots of fun." Clarke countered, "I'm just not going to get you all excited during a mandatory dinner." The look in her eyes told him that's exactly what she wanted to do. She was going to make him beg for it, she wanted him on his knees but he wasn't going to play her game. He was mad at her—not the other way around. She didn't get to be in charge of him. His hand took hers from under the table, placing her palm against his thigh. It was the things like this that made her lose all sense of control. She leaned into him, compelled by his boldness and appetite for her touch. He took this as consent to continue his little game. He controlled her hand in tantalizingly slow motions as her palm brushed up his leg. He continued slowly until she felt his hard cock under his jeans. "Knowing that I can make you…like this…is like a power high that I've been missing."

They made eye-contact and he saw her dilated pupils and her sincere blush. "You seem pretty powerful to me, princess." He said half-bitterly, half-suggestive towards their current situation. "Come over tonight." He was making demands.

"Depends." She responded as if it were a question. Clarke curved her hand, applying the tinniest amount of pressure to him. "How bad do you want me to come over?"

"As if you don't already know…" She moved her fingers to massage him. "Careful princess." He huffed before she withdrew her hand and left him pining for more. He knew it was a good thing she stopped before he got carried away—or before she got carried away. They both had a tendency of getting carried away.

"I'm never careful with you." She said with an intensity that caused Bellamy's mouth to drop open. She couldn't pin-point the reason why she suddenly felt breathless but she could hear his breathing hitch as her hand crept back to his knee. "I prefer to be rough…" She trailed up and down his leg while speaking into his hear. "What do you want me to do to you tonight?" She purred, her eyes darting around them as she checked to see if they were being watched. Her fingers went to play in his hair but she stopped. "I don't want to wait."

"Shhh…" He silenced her with a hard squeeze of her thigh. "You're winning."

"I know." She moaned, "Please…take me."

"Clarke." He begged, "Thirty minutes and this event is over and I will fuck you so hard that you won't be able to stand. Just stop teasing right now." He didn't know how he always ended up begging in some sort of way—it just happened. He thought about it once, how he constantly told himself that he would never beg and how he always ended up begging and decided it what made it…good. The fact that he lost himself, the fact that she stole his control is what made the experience addicting.

She placed a quick kiss on his shoulder—an unusual move for her. "You promise?"

"Son of a bitch." He groaned before standing up quickly and bolting out of her view. Finally, people looked at her.

She lied easily, "He's sick. I should check on him." Clarke had been demoted from head-medic to a simple nurse because she lacked the proper training. It was absolute bullshit. The path she took was the long way to Bellamy's quarters, more out of habit than anything. Her hands fidgeted while she walked—was she nervous?

Clarke spent a lot of time hiding how nervous Bellamy Blake made her. She would hide the nauseating heat in her stomach that pooled when she was around him—a heat he could only put in her, a heat that was called Bellamy after its imperfect creator. If she didn't have the proper training to be a medic rather than a nurse…she had the proper training to be a master of hate sex. It was treacherous how she could hold onto so much resentment and rejection as if those were the only emotions she was allowed to have.

Truth be told that Clarke not only felt disgust after she fucked Bellamy but she still felt the tattered connection between the two. She hated to sound like a cliché, but it was always electric. He was the sweetest heroin, the hardest cocaine and the best moonshine she'd ever tasted and she was dangerously hooked. He would kiss down her skin, groan her name and make her so hungry—so confused.

His hands would wrap around her waist and her head would hit whatever surface he decided to push her against and she would feel the fear for the concentration in his eyes but feel the safeness that told her he would never take it too far—he would never purposely hurt her unless she was wanting it.

It was the dilemma she faced every second she walked closer to certain death—why did she keep doing this to herself? Their expiration date was upcoming and she knew they would eventually let go of the last pieces of their old life—each other and this manic affair (not that the affair was part of their old life.) She felt like a prisoner to her own selfish wants and she was the one holding the key between her teeth. She could open her mouth and tell him that it was the last time and this time she meant it but she didn't have that type of strength anymore.

There she was claiming she wanted it to end but she didn't. She was a fraud, all this hate for the status of her relationship with him wasn't real. She enjoyed it far too much. She enjoyed how he broke down before her, all the speeches he'd made about forgetting her and forgetting this crashing down like his lips on hers and his inhibitions melting like sugar because the sweat the created soaked every bone like rain.

He enjoyed it just as much as she did. He liked watching her panic when they were in public places, he liked the way her mouth twitched when she wanted to yell at him, he liked how her eyes controlled his every action, and he liked how he could never forget who he used to be when he was on top of her.

She stood before his door, opening it without knocking because she didn't have to knock when she wanted him. He'd pulled his shirt off, a thin droplet sliding down his bare body—she watched it, biting her lip with anticipation for the night. "Come here." He growled and it was all over. Her legs wrapped around his waist and he struggled to keep his balance. He walked backwards, sitting on his bed with her straddling him.

They were caught up in deep kisses and frantic moves.

Could he sense the disaster forming in the distance? Could he hear the way her heart pounded like a war drum and taste the blood of innocence on her tongue as he kissed her? Could he feel her body flex like a warrior against his impatient hands? Could he smell the fire and gunpowder in her hair as his finger knotted in it?

And what about her—could she sense the upcoming battle between right and wrong? Could she hear the screams of those they would lose? Could she feel their hearts stopping beneath her hands or could she only feel his hand unclasping her bra? Could she see the faces of the thousands of people that would be affected by the divide or was her mind only focused on his rock hard member pressed against her thighs?

It was hard to fake oblivion when everything they ever did was a fight. The thunder of the upcoming storm caused them to break their kiss, the lightning pulsing through the veins caused them to make startling eye contact. He pressed their foreheads together as they savored the moment before there was no return to the simplicity of it all. "It can't be like this forever, you know?" He said before he flipped her on to her back. "Fucking and forgetting that we once cared a lot more than we do now."

The answer to the questions above were no—no they didn't see it coming, no they didn't know something was brewing but they should have. There they were thinking the storm was them. It'd been easier if the storm was them but it couldn't be…he had to be the start of a rebellion.

It had to be a rebellion they unintentionally started but fully believed in.