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H ot and heavy, his palms rest on her hips as he pushes her into the metal wall of his room. Clarke hadn’t come here for this. She had come here to yell at him, for him to yell at her, to break this tension pulling taut between them like a twisted string since she had returned. When it finally snapped though, they didn’t break apart. Instead, they crashed together, Bellamy’s mouth coming down on hers greedily and his hands pinning her in place, as if he was scared she’d leave again. She wouldn’t though; she liked his taste too much.
A fter the first time, he was wary that too much had changed too fast. Two nights later, though, he opened his door and there she was, hands reaching for him insistently. Her fingers clenched into his shirt as she sprung up to kiss him. As his mouth opened for her, his thumbs rubbed against her hipbones, then up her stomach as he shucked her shirt off. Clarke was just as eager, though their urgency wore off as they realized they had time to explore each other. No rush needed, hands slowing as they ran against as much skin as possible.
N othing could stop her from tracing the freckles on his face with her fingertip, mapping constellations into his skin as he slept. This thing of theirs was new, struggling to bloom in the face of such a heavy past. Softened by sleep, however, the boy Bellamy could have been appears, and she never could keep her hands away. Every time he would wake under her touch, blinking with confusion at her fascinated stare. She’d just keep her hands where they were, stroking her thumb over his lips until he rolled onto her and she found a better use for them.
D rifting awake one morning, he heard the scrape of charcoal on paper. With sleepy eyes, he watched Clarke sketch him, her fingers covered in black dust that glimmered in the dawn light. Her hands moved furiously, as if trying to capture a fleeting moment. Something warm burst in his chest, and he flipped the blanket off his naked body. The next time she looked up, her cheeks flushed pink at the revealing sight, her hands freezing over her work. Then she laughed, undressed, and came to join him, seeking hands leaving smears of black all over him in the process.
S oftly but surely is how their fingers intertwine for the first time outside the private walls of their bedrooms. More than a few people blink at their interlocked hands as they pass. Bellamy glances down in question as the stares continue, but Clarke just smiles at him, squeezing his palm. He grins back, bringing their hands up to shoulder-height, kissing her knuckles tenderly, pointedly. They don’t let go, and eventually, not a single person bats an eye at Bellamy and Clarke walking through camp with their hands clasped tightly together, as if that’s where they were always meant to be.