Chapter Text
Nothing changes. Everything changes.
-
"I love you, Clarke."
Clarke doesn't really know if she means to return the newly-loaded declaration that now holds an entirely different weight, as unfamiliar and raw as the invisible strings of her insides that had been torn apart and put neatly on display as though they were never truly hers to begin with. Doesn't particularly know if she loves anyone in truth; the magnanimous map of her exceedingly limited close relationships tangled, different parts standing in all the wrong places. Lines fuzzy, indistinguishable, crossed. Her closest friend, the only one who was around when Abby never was, her person.
But the words are automatic and unthinking, as easy and instinctual as breathing. Hesitation nonexistent in the quiet exchange, that primal and little part of Clarke immediately willing to fall into step at the idea that maybe uncle Bellamy needs her too. Maybe needs her in a different way, taking all the good parts of her and trying to make them fit into a role that she was never supposed to fit in- but needs her all the same. Just a fraction of how intensely Clarke needs him; that terrible yearning for a sense of completeness that seemed innately intertwined with the biology of an Omega, the head and the heart.
Splayed out, half-naked and wet and uncomfortable, the rising swell of misery opening up before her evidently meant to exist alongside the smug affection pouring off uncle Bellamy. Clarke didn't feel loved, didn't feel overcome with some shimmery, shivery love-hazed afterglow. She just felt thoroughly small, far away and out of place in the dark living room. But maybe love wasn't really necessary, Clarke thinks somewhere between the insistent rolling of little shivers blossoming outwards from her fluttering inner muscles, maybe biology and that terrible, wonderful connection between Alphas and Omegas was enough.
Maybe uncle Bellamy needed her and she needed uncle Bellamy and that would always be enough. Dependency so deeply entrenched that they would always forgive each other, no matter how terribly it hurt to be forced into some new and demanding role.
"I love you too."
-
In the morning, it's almost like nothing really happened; the soft dusting of stubbornly lingering salt gracing the tired lines of her cheeks and the newfound tenderness gracing the raised freckling of her tender little mating and scent glands the only real physical reminders. The couch and coffee table had apparently been meticulously cleaned, sticky evidence of hurt and love easily wiped away without a care. Even the sharp and raw scent of Clarke's wetness and uncle Bellamy's syrupy-thick musk somehow settles secondary into the familiarity of the house. Hardly even a noteworthy presence within the deceptively cozy atmosphere, their combined scents were so deeply ingrained into flesh and bone of the old house that it seemed to permeate even the rough wood floors.
Not even a lasting trace of what had felt like her destruction.
"You tired, honey?" Uncle Bellamy had eventually questioned in the uneasy quiet, big hands easily dragging Clarke around in his lap as he made to pull her panties back into place and tug her thieved sweatshirt back into a semblance of order. His movements weren't rough like before, but still held an undercurrent of abrasiveness- like she was some sort of little doll that he wasn't terribly afraid of handling, unconcerned with her perceived fragility. Everything sat normally on her skin that now felt too hot and too tight and too tender, everything somehow just feeling wrong. "Wanna go to bed?"
Clarke's hand remained loosely wrapped around the hard muscle and bone of his offending wrist, roughly chewed nails absently scratching at the warm skin of his hand and lower forearm- still too frozen under the lingering pulse of stress and post-orgasm haze to even think of forcing herself to move beyond that instinctual and autopilot phase. Licking her dry lips, she could only force out a whiny little sound of agreement at first, voice still content to hide somewhere between her thudding heart and frenzied lungs. She wanted to go to bed. She wanted to go home, even though home had always felt like her little bedroom at uncle Bellamy's house.
"Please," Clarke eventually manages to croak out, words thick with the tremulous weight of spilling tears that just wouldn't stop. Nothing seemed willing to stop, her body too alive and too undone and too sleepy to keep up with the frazzled confines of her idle thoughts. "Please," not really sure what she was asking for anymore.
"Alright baby," uncle Bellamy had whispered back, big hand curling around the thin weight of her flushed throat with a familiar gentleness- cradling her head like she was little again as he made to stand up from the couch. The way he was holding her was nice and comfortable, and made her think about how he used to carry her around when she was a kid. When they would spend hours together because Abby was always too busy and Marcus just didn't seem to care much either way. It felt familiar and habitual to swing her legs over uncle Bellamy's extended forearms that lock below the soft and sensitive inner-sides of her bare knees, felt even better to wind her own arms around his neck and press her flushed face into the waiting warmth between his jaw and collarbone.
Like she was little again.
Clarke doesn't even mind when uncle Bellamy goes right past the safety of her bedroom, doesn't even mind when he takes her to his bedroom instead and lays her out against his chilly dark sheets; his bedroom dark and too him. She doesn't even care very much when he disappears and leaves her alone in his big bed, her sleepy skin alight with the instinctual urge to roll and stretch and luxuriate in this new comfy space given to her by her Alpha. Though her heart does skip a little when he returns, big and broad in the darkness, clutching an old worn penguin stuffie that he must've raided her sleepover bag for. Something of hers, something light and bright and familiar- a little piece of hers that wouldn't be swallowed up in the Bellamyness of his bedroom.
"I love you so much, Clarke." Uncle Bellamy eventually whispers, voice a little resigned and sad. Like this whole thing felt just as raw and grating and wounding for him, to be so filled with love that there was no boundary that wouldn't be crossed. She wiggled back just a bit, making sure that her back remained firmly set against the broad and bare warmth of his chest; they had curled together like two halves of a whole as soon as he crept into bed beside her, heavy blankets and sheets drawn high over their shoulders as though they were some sort of secondary shield from the world. The worn fabric of her penguin stuffie curls inward graciously against the hard press of her fingers, clutched close and secretive against her chest.
"I know," Clarke says back, a lot more certain in this reply. It doesn't make the hurt lessen.
-
Clarke thinks about talking to her mom about what happened. Even thinks about maybe asking Marcus of all people, big brown eyes always overflowing with that nice and non-confrontational Beta patience.
It seems like something your parents would want to know about, would know what to do for it- something they would be concerned over, be mad over, be understanding over, be something. But neither Abby nor Marcus had ever been particularly concerned with Clarke's proximity to uncle Bellamy before, they had both gone out of their way to encourage it over the past few years. Always talking about how lucky she was, always going out of their way to let them spend time together- always unsupervised, always for as long as uncle Bellamy wants. She doesn't like to think much about the conversations Abby and Marcus and uncle Bellamy had in private, studiously dismissing her far from earshot every time.
But Clarke's not very brave- feels what little courage she has cool and congeal when her fingers hover over the cheery little call symbol, her cell phone weighing unusually heavy against the finely pronounced nervous tremble curling across her tightly-clinched muscles. Abby was all Alpha in the worst way and always more of a parent in the obligational sense of the term, and not out of any silly notions like love- she would probably just use that exasperated why-are-you-even-talking-to-me-clarke voice upon answering the phone, like being a parent was nothing more than a neat little hobby that couldn't ever disrupt her work. Asking Marcus probably wouldn't turn out any better, considering he would just tell mom and then Clarke would probably still get fussed at for being disruptive.
She feels so different and so helpless and so strung out with the weight of it all, and all she wants is for someone to notice and answer the questions that have been relentlessly building. It's a very strange feeling, to be alone for the very first time.
In the end, after what feels like eons of agonizing debate, Clarke simply turns to the internet- because where better to seek cold unfeeling help than the sacred anonymity of old forums and Reddit? Though, her tentative attempts at searching up anything remotely related to her situation only really redirect to the clean and bright webpages hosted by the Department of Designation Registration Services. The little drop-down menu has a few different options, ranging from overly sterilized and clipped explanations of different types of puberty and presentation to all sorts of formal services, like where to submit requests for paperwork.
The brief explanations she manages to find about how it's normal and natural for an Alpha to eventually touch you like that don't make her feel better- how it's important to let these things happen because it was what nature intended, how it was good and important for Alphas and Omegas to know their place, how it was a balance.
Clarke doesn't try to look up anything about what might be happening anymore.
-
Aunt Octavia comes to visit.
Uncle Bellamy is happy to see his sister; aunt Octavia seems just as thrilled, even though she rarely comes around for more than a day or two around the holidays.
It's a nice distraction, makes Clarke focus less on how undone and unwell she feels. Makes her focus less on how her mom and Marcus don't really call her to come home anymore, how they seem to come around only to drop off more of her stuff at uncle Bellamy's house. A lingering whisper of permanence, finality, weighing heavy on her stiff and sleep-deprived shoulders.
In a lot of ways that she would never admit to, aunt Octavia is Clarke's secret favorite- she's cool and pretty and doesn't seem to care much for her own designation of a Beta, she travels to all sorts of faraway places on all sorts of shadowy reaches of the world, and best of all? Aunt Octavia always talks to Clarke like a normal person, never seems to look at her with sadly expectant eyes and certainty in her apparent compliance. When they're together, it feels normal- like they're just two regular people, like the world isn't explicitly structured against girls like Clarke. It feels fun in a way that she doesn't always get to experience.
"How are you, Clarke?" Aunt Octavia suddenly asks one afternoon, warm and soft hands gently clutching Clarke's own as she attempts to paint her niece's roughly-chewed nails in some sparkly pink polish that they had found in one of Clarke's little makeup baggies. They were curled up on the couch, comfortably close to one-another in face of the persistent chill that had dug its claws and teeth deep into the old house- nail polish remover, little hand towelettes, and various manicure tools strewn haphazardly around them with little care. The tv was playing some old cheesy chick flick, volume turned just low enough to provide a gentle and pleasant curtain of background noise while uncle Bellamy was at work.
"Good, I guess." Clarke responded after a curious moment, a little surprised by the unanticipated line of questioning. Aunt Octavia had been here for a few days already, and she was never one for dragging on unnecessary pleasantries that you were usually forced to endure during those first few interactions.
Aunt Octavia's words seemed casual enough, though the intensity of her big dark eyes was enough to make Clarke pause, worry glossed rich and warm beneath the dark spread of her thickly-curled lashes. "Really?"
"Uhm," Clarke whispers after a few moments, wiggling her fingers in the gentle hold of Aunt Octavia's own, studiously avoiding that intense and overly familiar dark gaze. "I haven't really.. felt like.. me in a while, I think." Uncle Bellamy's sleep-thickened I love you rings hollowly in her ears at the admission, everything suddenly aching that the acknowledgement of how different and sensitive she's felt in the aftermath of that night.
"Yeah?" Aunt Octavia questions, abandoning her attempt at painting Clarke's nails with a sudden meticulousness that seemed really unfamiliar to the graceless lack of care that she normally carried herself about with, that innate entitlement and certainty she always treats everything with. As if it was always replaceable, always. "What does that mean?"
Clarke isn't really sure what it means. Isn't really sure how to describe the funny ways she's felt like she's been changing ever since that night on the couch with uncle Bellamy happened- feels a little raw and small and weak to be acknowledging the void inside her. But aunt Octavia's hands are warm and their fingers lace together like a daisy-chain, and she really feels like she doesn't want to keep having to keep all of this quietly closed up inside of her anymore. Wants to be a little bit more like herself again, less like her head was perpetually pulled beneath all-consuming tides.
Clarke studiously examines their clasped hands, cataloging all of the little differences between them; differences in skin tone, differences in sizes, somehow different enough that aunt Octavia didn't ever have to go through whatever Clarke was going through. "Just haven't felt very good- I haven't been sleeping lately." She eventually responds, a satisfactory halfway concession in her own weakness. Enough to take away a little of the loneliness, satisfy the intense undercurrent of notrightnotright always lurking below the surface- all without giving away too much, without being too weak and pathetic.
Besides, aunt Octavia gave a little smile that was just a hint too sharp with a bit of sad understanding, knowing without knowing. It was probably better that way. Clarke didn't want to get anybody in trouble, make anything harder on anyone. Aunt Octavia's fingers brushed against Clarke's own with a newfound whisper of urgent sympathy, finely manicured long nails gently dragging against a particularly sensitive scent gland with a surprisingly limited hesitancy.
"I get it."
-
Aunt Octavia leaves a few days later, after straining herself under the positively boring stress of camping out in uncle Bellamy's living room for a week or so.
Ever since that night in the living room, uncle Bellamy had been a bit more careful about when they would go out- a little more conservative since Clarke wasn't feeling so well. But the stifling lack of anything genuinely exciting had been curbed by aunt Octavia staying with them, made Clarke feel a little bit more normal. Normal enough to pay little mind to the seemingly perpetual lowgrade fever lingering at the base of her spine, normal enough to ignore the quiet conversations aunt Octavia and uncle Bellamy have about her- speaking in hushed voices like she wasn't even around to catch whispers.
Clarke is sad when aunt Octavia eventually leaves. Remains sad when aunt Octavia hugs her and kisses her cheek in a chaste little goodbye, promising that soon they can go travel to some of the places aunt Octavia had talked about before. Once you're feeling better, she had promised; dark eyes a wide, dark twin mirror to the incredibly familiar warmth of uncle Bellamy's own big dark eyes.
-
Some nights, Clarke starts out in uncle Bellamy's bed and then moves back to her own. Others, she simply stays in whatever bed she manages to crawl into.
On the really bad nights, where she feels less like herself and more like some terribly wild and sick animal caught in human skin, Clarke sleeps in whatever closet or cabinet seems most appealing at that moment. Where it's dark and small and comfy, especially when she manages to pull in all of her favorite cozy blankets and other variously soft treats and trinkets. Where it doesn't overwhelmingly smell like anything but her and only dust and unused, unwanted things. It somehow makes her feel better, to be small and confined, settles that newfound tension constantly buzzing beneath her skin- helps make the lasting tenderness in her belly feel a bit more bearable.
Uncle Bellamy doesn't seem to care much either way, his unending commitment to normalcy making Clarke feel both better and worse. He doesn't seem to care if she sneaks into his bed, doesn't seem to care if she returns back to her own- just seems content to have her around in whatever way she's willing, unflinching in his readiness to exist comfortably within her own space like every Alpha seemed so aptly capable of doing. Though, he did try to help that first time he accidentally stumbled upon her rearranging a specific hallway closet to her exact likings. Tried to help in that overly-controlled, overly-measured uncle Bellamy way that was a little too Alpha to be of any genuine comfort without the metaphorical hint of teeth; somehow always knowing better than everyone else, like he always understood some little secretive joke that everyone else had yet to figure out. The disruption hadn't been very appreciated, especially when Clarke felt as half-strung and unwell as she did.
"Oh hey baby," uncle Bellamy had said after finally stumbling across her haplessly picking and placing and replacing the perfectly disorganized mess, big and broad and filling up the hallway behind her, "that looks nice. You making yourself a little bed?" The simple act of him just standing so close made her feel a little grouchy, overly sensitive to the idea that his smell might sneak into her special hiding spot. Might ruin it before she was ready, ready for whatever looming and oppressive sense of change was so deeply ingrained into her bones.
Clarke paid little mind to the heavy pad of his footsteps inching closer, paid little mind to the sudden whisper of excitement and curiosity threaded heavily through his voice, more focused on petting her pretty little collection of soft things stuffed into the bottom compartment of the linen closet. More focused on how she felt itchy and restless and ready to shake apart with the force of nervous tension, momentary relief fizzling out across her unpleasantly overactive nervous system only at the brush of her soft and fuzzy and nice blankets and sheets and trinkets.
"Mhmm," Clarke jumped a little bit at the sudden feel of his fingers curling across the tender crown of her scalp, half-minded sigh of a response lulling slow and lethargic off her tongue at the sudden disruption to her nice and all-consuming actions. The rounded blunt of his nails drag carefully against the messy, silky little curls adorning the top of her head, a heavy shiver bubbling up against the intricate knotting of her nervous system- her glands throbbing with a newfound significance against the sleepy drag of her slow pulse.
Uncle Bellamy's hand gradually tightened in her hair, winding pale tresses around the loosely-clenched weight of his fist with an ever-tightening urgency, giving himself enough leverage to carefully pull her head up and backwards. Perched up on her knees, kissed blush pinks and raw reds from sitting on the rough wood floor for so long, the guiding force of his hands made Clarke rise just a little bit more; spine curling up and chest jutting out just a touch, leaning back against the controlled measure of his awaiting hands so that she could peek up at him with big, sleepy eyes. The soft ends of her unkempt hair brushed against the base of her spine, the rounded hollows of the back of her knees; the new position placed a bit of firm pressure against the seemingly always achy tenderness of her lower belly, making her heart go sleepy and slow under the muted drag of warmgoodsparkly feelings seeping into her blood like a drug.
"You want some help?" His free hand comes to carefully rest against her forehead, against the raw and sensitive and ticklish sides of her neck, looming above her with that same terrifying and wonderful intensity in his big dark eyes. Checking for a fever in that casual and never directly upfront way of his. "I know you haven't been feeling good recently." She hadn't; hadn't felt like herself even before uncle Bellamy had melted her down and pulled her apart in the living room, only managing to feel worse and smaller afterwards.
“No,” Clarke had said without really meaning to, teeth clicking together sharply at the end for additional emphasis to her suddenly very made up mind- some instinctual little knowing wiggling up her spine, certain that she just wasn’t ready. Wasn’t ready to share in some lovingly violent way, wasn’t ready to jump into the yawning maw of that terrible awaiting precipice of change. “No, just wanna be alone.”
Though she still remained settled on her knees with nothing but certain compliance, fully trusting and comfortable despite that terrible knowing in the way that uncle Bellamy looked at her and the way that Clarke looked at him- that little long ringing warning bell hardly worth anything of substance.
Uncle Bellamy’s scent was so strong and so inviting and felt like a constant shot of heroin more often than not; it felt hard to think like this, felt hard to think beyond how itchy and prickly and tired she felt. How tender her tummy always felt. Clarke’s body slow and sleepy under the now gentle petting from uncle Bellamy’s hands. The one-track focus on trying to make her little closet bed flawless was rapidly dwindling, even though she wasn’t too happy with the idea of uncle Bellamy being so close and making everything smell like him and not like her.
"Alright," uncle Bellamy eventually concedes after a heavy beat or two, sounding as though he wasn't exactly happy to agree to her half-baked request. "Whatever you want, baby. I don't mind waiting a little bit longer."
One hand, which had previously been cupping her face in pursuit of the faint undertones of fever, relaxed a bit; instead coming to lightly brush and thumb across the fine sculpting and lines of her face. Gently drawing across the fine hair of her blonde brows, tapping down along the hard line of her nose, calloused pad of his fingers catching softly against the rounded jut of her parted lips- to which Clarke halfheartedly attempted to catch with her teeth, tilting her head back a little bit in a bleary haze of good smells and good feelings.
I don't mind waiting a little bit longer.
Clarke didn't really process those words, the soft and wild animal part of her fully in control as she lightly caught one of uncle Bellamy's fingers between her teeth, tasting warm skin and familiar smells. Maybe she wouldn't really mind being touched by him again, if it was more like this- less raw and less strung out and less wetmessyterriblegoodhurt.
I don't mind waiting a little bit longer.
-
Sticky pulses of dwindling sunlight seep through the partial obstruction of askew drapes; wide puddles of drifting golden light that rise and flicker against the quiet monotony of uncle Bellamy's bedroom with all the grace of something living. Great windows partially ajar, the grating itch of heavy fabric catching in upon itself at the gentle insistence of the occasional breeze. Faint hiccups of disruptive outside noise trading in against the infrequent whispers of fresh-air, rising and falling in arrhythmic mirrors to the irregular bustle of the neighborhood street. Meandering shadows, a direct synchrony to the slow progression of falling afternoon daylight and the cheery dusting of clouds somewhere high above, creep across the walls in a seemingly endless game of chase- shapeless and sightless and lacking any significant permanence against the otherwise still walls.
It's somewhere in those liminal, lasting hours between afternoon and evening. Clarke can't sleep.
Her miserable lack of sleep from the night before doing little to soothe the uncomfortably early hour of day, minimal adventures beyond the bed offering little grace as well. Brain and body wired, unwilling to relax for more than a superficial, all too shallow dozing.
No matter what she tries, the desperate prospect of a lasting nap stubbornly eludes her. Couldn't sleep in her bed. Couldn't sleep in one of the many little cozy hideouts she's managed to accumulate all throughout uncle Bellamy's house. Couldn't even sleep on the couch, one of her favorite places to nap. Curled up in uncle Bellamy's bed in her favorite old thieved sweatshirt from his closet, with her favorite soft blankets and her prized old tattered penguin stuffie- yet, all she has to show for the hours of studiously attempting to fall asleep is a restless thrum of energy pulsing low and vibrant alongside the lethargic rush of her pulse. She's spent hours kicking and twisting beneath the silky dark sheets, futile wriggling about in a lackluster attempt to find some secretive comfy position that would finally allow her to doze off, her frustrated puffs of exasperated sighs lifting the sheets carelessly strewn above her head and further muting the already dissipating light.
There's a lasting dusting of sweat always lingering sticky and hot at the base of her skull; Clarke always too hot and too agitated and too unable to do anything. The animal part of her brain, soft and little and useless, has seemingly expanded; a newly infectious series of tangled connections webbing out with all the quiet grace of an intravenous system of little knowings.
I get it. Aunt Octavia had claimed easy enough, a reflexive offering of comfort as instantaneously forthcoming as her mostly passive nature. Clarke thinks about the constellation map of her exceedingly limited close relationships, thinks about there's nothing and everything interlinking everything all at once. Yeah right. Nobody gets anything- not really.
It's like this more often than not, now.
Strewn apart and stripped down; hot flesh and bone and muscle meticulously peeled away to the finite standings of singular threading, unwound and frayed as though a delicate sweater thrown in the wash too many times. Melted down a little beyond the point of functionality, still knotted together by the instinctive urge to tread water and keep your head above the tides. More.. other than Clarke, but too Clarke to be other. The billowing discomfort, a perpetually sticky weight billowing somewhere low and central to the heated point of her spine, seems to take over most days; hormonal and off-center and predisposed to keeping a hand pressed tight against her belly in an attempt to tighten her muscles against the remnant of a lasting emptiness. Against the occasional flutter of wanting, instinctive desperation to feel that same overstuffed fullness from that night. Indecent and improper behavior, fibrous tendrils of slippery wildness carefully curling across the webbings of the center of her being; the type of poor behavior that her mother would sooner slap her over before ever extending the courtesy of mildly disinterested concern.
You're a very lucky little girl, to have such a nice Alpha who will treat you so well.
Haplessly doing her best to push down the awareness, Clarke makes to draw her knees up into her chest, little fissions of discomfort creeping up the length of her spine at the series of small movements. Winding her arms tight around the bony points of her folded knees helps lessen the little bit of long-lasting pressure in her belly, makes it feel just tolerable enough that goosebumps flush out against her skin, makes her sigh a little in relief and dissatisfied acceptance. Hard enough to sleep even when uncle Bellamy was willing to indulge her with a gratuitous amount of fussing meant to lull her off like an overtired newborn, virtually impossible without the syrupy-sweet and cloying aid of an all-consuming distraction.
Kicking the carefully accrued and meticulously thieved conglomerate of blankets away with little more than an idled puff, the thick undercurrent of lethargy running sullenly alongside the twisted webbing of her circulatory system bogs down the virtually thoughtless actions of abruptly climbing out of bed. Clarke abandons uncle Bellamy's room and ridiculously large bed with little more than an irritated sniffle, loosely-socked feet padding quietly as she meanders up the hallway; one hand lightly bearing into that soft connection between her lower belly and navel, the other rising to carefully prod at the inflamed and seemingly always itchy rising of her primary scentglands.
You're so lucky. You have it so easy.
Fractional little dimensions of hazy recollections linger insistently against the molten remnants of Clarke's lasting bad mood, a new shiver of awareness clinging unpleasantly to her lasting prominence of understanding. Thinking about it for too long, even when she's meticulously taken apart as she is now, is a little too difficult; she lets herself slip below into that overstated place of not thinking beyond a surface depth, instead focusing on how the hallway up to uncle Bellamy's office yawns long and dark even with the afternoon sun.
Lucky that he likes you enough to wait this long, the scowl-laden hiss of her mother's passive disinterest seethes hot and prominent even in her fuzzy and distracted recollection. The massive old door is partially ajar, she belatedly realizes as she draws closer and closer in quiet steps, dark framing otherwise bled warmer at the uncorrected misalignment. A light at the end of the tunnel; some sort of final warning that she was probably going to do something stupid and should turn away now.
It’s not wrong to want to feel better, right? It’s not acceptance.
The heavy brass of the old doorknob circles listlessly against the sweat-softened clasp of Clarke’s nervous palm, slipping back and forth in an endless click of heavy metal turned round and round. The sallow grate of heavy wood dragging unevenly against the faintly sloped floor- stubbornly lacking the polite disquietude of quiet allowance, unwilling to allow Clarke the luxury of slipping into uncle Bellamy’s office without obviously gleaned intent.
It’s not wrong to want the perpetual fog of dissatisfaction to burn away, right? It’s not compliance.
It’s not her fault, the minute sliver of rationality gracing the sloped confines of her exhausted brain tries to passively assert, none of this is her fault.
Uncle Bellamy hardly engages with the initial interaction of her sudden presence, just the brief flit of dark eyes beneath even darker lashes darting up from the mountainous amount of papers and files and folders spread across the great desk of the office. Probably entirely unsurprised- probably heard her anxious, meandering steps long ahead of the effective disbursement of courage required to open the door. Could’ve probably smelled her coming long ahead of her even deciding to retreat from bed.
“Hey, baby.”
Clarke leans against the cool, dark wood of the door, shivery and unsure and weighted with the sticky itch of tension curling tight in the over-sensitive confines of her belly. The hand currently unoccupied with the slowly warming brass knob reaches up to reflexively pull through unkempt stray hairs slipping down around the slope of her shoulder. Never felt so nervous and out of place like this before.
“Are you almost done, yet?” Clarke finally questions, voice dry and uneven and too warm against the tender insides of her throat. Uncle Bellamy simply shakes his head, sitting upright a bit more against the rich backing of the plush, dark chair. The heavy drum of his idle hand tapping out against the dark fabric encasing his thigh is the only direct acknowledgement to her question, a silent invocation to come here. A warm, shivery pulse linking up between delicate framings of thoroughly sensitive constellations of scentglands flares a little hot at the certain and silent instruction, sock-clad feet padding faintly against the floor as Clarke promptly abandons the safety of the door.
It’s easy enough to slip into the broad expanse of his awaiting lap- heavily muscled thighs spreading lax without the purposeful merit of intent, an easily awaiting perch purposefully meant for Clarke to crawl into. A broad hand even comes to grasp at the hard line of her hip, carefully drawing her high on the ridge of his own pelvis as Clarke makes to settle into the half-space offered up by uncle Bellamy’s lap- the anxious flutter perpetually billowing somewhere low and vital partially soothed in the limited immediate contact. The hollow ache yawns just a touch wider as she makes to drop her head against the firm curve below his jaw, finely made teeth of absolute bearing down with an ever intensifying medium of want.
“What do you want?” The heavy drag of uncle Bellamy’s passively knowing voice seeps down to Clarke’s bones with all the grace of thunder. The finite gracings of exhaustion weighing upon her lashes grows heavier still, partially pacified by both the contact with uncle Bellamy and the smell of him.
“Don’t know,” Clarke finally idles after a few moments of absent recollection, tilting to press the cool point of her nose into the soft warmth below his jaw. Fingers, sluggish with the faint strain of a lingering chill, lightly pull at the soft collar of the dark fabric of uncle Bellamy’s shirt. Thoughtlessly scrounging for just a little bit more of him, the soft and spongy primal little happenings of her consciousness desperate for unrestricted access to the point of him that smells unbelievably good. The uneven drag of her raggedly clipped nails catches abruptly against the smooth material, somehow a physical manifestation of the lasting whisper of unease always crawling through her. “Just bored, I guess.”
The faint sifting of folded papers is the foremost answer to her half-baked response, uncle Bellamy’s resounding murmur of detached interest doing little to fend away the meandering crawl of distracted motion- Clarke’s fingers playing closer and closer to the familiar warmth of his exposed skin. It’s more than a little pathetic how instantaneous the relaxation comes about, every little threading of animal instinct mollied and softened at the edges from the mere act of being close enough to touch. The fine pricklings of billowing tension and faintly lingering fever-pitch sleuthing through the sticky knottings of her circulatory system soothed by the presence of him.
Her Alpha.
“You usually don’t have any issues entertaining yourself,” the shade of slightly removed irritation makes the words a touch sallow, attention still more fixed upon countless points of contending focus scattered all across the desk.
It’s a far cry from the drunken and saccharine indulgence he had meant to drown her within only a few nights ago; a purposeful withholding of the cards, intent upon making her crawl for the simple luxury of mildly devoted attention. An unintentional mirror to the cruelty uncle Bellamy always seems happily ready to inflict upon her- a sharp mouth full of hungry teeth, unthinking about the necessity of reminding Clarke of that terrible innate need enmeshed between them.
“Well usually there’s more to do,” Clarke snips, retort resounding sharply in the curled-together confines of their bodies, grumpy and hormonal enough to push back, “and usually I’m not stuck in the house for weeks .”
The heavy hand that had taken up idle residence beneath the slight flare of her oversized clothing, nails softly scratching against unblemished skin in hopes of encouraging a stray shiver or squirming pauses abruptly.
“Clarke,” the rough-tipped exhale is still a little too fond to be underscored with true exasperation, but it’s enough to set her entire nervous system alight with the understanding of going somewhere a little dangerous, as though treading upon thin ice. The delicate freckling and risings of meticulously placed scentglands and sensitive points ache a little more firmly, a hot little echo of tension building somewhere instinctive and vital. Clarke pretends to be noseblind in that moment, despite the heavy wellings of saliva wetting her mouth at the faint smell of terribly mild irritation.
“Do I really need to explain to you why we haven’t gone anywhere recently?” Uncle Bellamy’s rough thumb gently drags against the vertebrae of her spine, focus upon the mountain of carelessly strewn paperwork effectively disseminated. No, he really doesn’t- despite how lame and out of place and behind she tends to feel, she understands well enough. The hot, rough-tipped threading of tension and animal-instinct hungrily underscoring the simple connective points of being leaving her off-center and a little less than a person proof enough without anything needing to be spoken.
Clarke exhales noisily in response to the slight condescension readily available to her dawdling, teeth aching under the soft force of her own growl, ill-tempered and frustrated.
“Whatever,” she grumbles, purposefully scraping her teeth against the hard line of uncle Bellamy’s jaw in retaliation, “still bored.” If she doesn’t do much to avoid all the points of anatomical importance, she doesn’t care. The fine dusting of half-grown hairs framing the ridge of her nape prickling in delight at the sudden shiver blossoming through his body at the abrupt assault of sensation.
“Fine,” uncle Bellamy grunts, the hollow clatter of pens and papers suddenly tossed to the wayside ringing sharply in Clarke’s terribly sensitive ears. A heavy hand curls firmly into the unkempt curls with little preamble, making to instead drag her free of the coveted little hiding spot willingly offered up by the hard muscles of his throat and shoulder.
“Entertain yourself, then.”
It’s most certainly a trap.
Just the latest in a terribly long line of loving cruelties continuously laden at her expense; helpless to deny the purpose nature had quietly sewn into the meticulous niceties of their respective genetics. Too Alpha to resist the desperate want to keep her pinned and wanting and small. The heavy smell of him weighs even heavier against the sensitive expanse of Clarke’s nervous system, made fragrant with smug pleasure at the immediate way she peeks free of the hiding place. Always certain of the compliance she seemed incapable of immediately affording.
The idle click of Clarke’s teeth is a quiet acquiesce, momentarily consumed with thought.
It feels like an out-of-body experience; relegated to little more than a passive observer of circumstance as uncle Bellamy abruptly readjusts her weight atop the line of his hip before roughly guiding her unthinking hands to unbutton the hard metal buckle of his dark slacks.
The blunt head of uncle Bellamy’s cock bumps up against the clumsy skimming of a tentative hand, a silky brush of hot skin gently rolling beneath the pads of her fingers. Clarke’s face flushes a thoroughly scalded blush at the contact, the once benign ache of carefully ignored scentglands fervently pulsing to importance beneath the thin skin delicately overlaid upon muscle. The tight fabric of his boxers waistband traps her hand against the warm curve of his belly and navel, her little hand awkwardly wedged down between the constraint of his pants and boxers. In the subsequent lull of further movement, his own hand makes to join hers in the palpably cramped confines of his boxers. The familiar curve of a roughened palm boldly encircles the entirety of Clarke’s half-heartedly exploring hand, long fingers easily twining around hers in a motion meant to guide her into a tighter grasp.
The frenetic pulse of blood, throbbing tightly just below the delicate skin, matches the frenzied beat of her own newly-speeding heart. Like her glands.
Uncle Bellamy’s resounding sigh of relief, low and grating against the tightly-pressed confines of their chests, makes an abrupt little sound of surprise well up from somewhere low inside- an ugly half-whine crawling out from the half smothered point of Clarke’s face purposefully buried against his throat.
The smell of him is irresistible. So good even in the most appropriate of situations, downright destructive in the moment. Rich and cloying, a heavy musk of arousal and raw pheromones weighing heavily against the tender curve of her soft palette. Makes her tongue rub reflexive and helpless against the soft ridges lining the roof of her mouth, an instinctive attempt to further drink down the heady pulse of hormones billowing in her bloodstream. Makes the usual rancorous symphony of anxious thoughts dwindle down to an absent, idle reflection- little more than background noise to the feelings of it all.
Makes it easier not to think, to just go along with the happenings.
“See, baby? Nice and easy, just like this,” he rasps, face turning to nuzzle roughly against the thoroughly-mussed crown of her head. Clarke’s hand trails just a half-second behind the guiding force of his own; the slick, soft drag of skin echoing wetly in her ringing ears as his fingers squeeze hers tighter around his twitching dick. Hot, sticky droplets of precum slip free from the flushed head of his cock on the upstroke, easily smoothing the way for the leisurely roll all the way down to the partially swollen curve of his knot.
Just accidentally brushing against the hot, hard ridge of his knot makes the desperate ache fluttering in her belly seize violently, makes her tuck her thighs tighter around the wide bulk of uncle Bellamy’s in a futile attempt to alleviate the building tension. The soft smear of wetness soaking between her tensed thighs makes the motion feel nice, an easy little roll against the softened fabric of her underwear.
“Sweet girl,” the grumbled whisper of praise is partially muffled against the half-knotted tresses of hair mostly obscuring uncle Bellamy’s face, “my sweet, sweet girl,” His dick twitches abruptly between their adjoined fingers, as though making to agree with his assertions.
Her resounding little sigh of relief, eased by the acknowledgement of goodness, rings wetly in her own ears. It sounds suspiciously similar to the sticky-hot plea of Alpha, a saccharine slippage of shapeless sounds.
Uncle Bellamy tilts his head back and moans, hand urging her pumping motions to speed up, shivering a little at the feeling of her underwear-clad went cunt dragging against the rough material of his partially askew pants.
“Fuck, princess,” he growls, breathless and a little mean, blunt nails curling roughly into the tender curve of her scalp as he gives Clarke a little shake. The wet heat building between their bodies is suffocating, molten hot and sticky with the heavy pulse of building hormones. She can’t breathe- partly in discomfort from the tense heat, partly in fear that any subsequent breath drawn down will only serve to further drown her in the alluring seas of hormones.
Just cognizant enough to find herself perpetually wary of ending up like she did on that night; all animal worn down to the bone, little beyond the instinctive desire to feel.
The familiar shape of the desperate urge to whimper Alpha hangs hard and heavy against the line of Clarke’s teeth, the shivery urge to relax into the mindless, gaping maw of want billowing ever harder somewhere low and vital inside. Her hand mindlessly closes around the thick weight of his dick a fraction tighter, nothing more than an idle twitch of the fingers. The aching throb beneath the silky skin of uncle Bellamy’s cock pulses happily in response, weeping sticky rivulets of precum over the tightly wound knotting of their joined hands. Clarke’s own awkward rolling motions against the firm muscle of uncle Bellamy’s thigh, lacking any semblance of finesse or skill, jerkily matches the twitchy tension evidently building somewhere low and hot in his belly; inner muscles fluttering wildly and clenching down against the exceptionally limited prospect of relief.
Clarke is suddenly desperate at the thought of him giving her something to break the feverish ache between her thighs- forcing her to take his fingers again, even in spite of all the desperate pain that had subsequently unfolded from such an action. Alpha, it's a quiet, half-murmured whisper of a prayer, a dichotomous sting of sugar and sultry sour atop her tongue. Alpha.
It’s an unwarranted, unthinking concession to press her face even closer into the comfortable curve of uncle Bellamy’s throat, nuzzling closer to the throbbing rise of his own mating gland. Lips and tongue soft and wet with her own wordless moan, a strangled little sound that treads dangerously close to the slippery desire of voicing the word she so very wants to say. The heavy musk of his scent pulls her down further; tongue peeking out to lightly brush the inflamed pulse of uncle Bellamy’s hot mating glands. Alpha.
The simple act of curiously lapping at the delicious welling of hormones is, apparently, enough to set Clarke off. The cloying, mind-melting amassing of endorphins suddenly exploding across her tongue makes her moan around her newly-found mouthful of skin; everything abruptly clenching inwards in a weak imitation of an orgasm. A sugary, white-hot starry rush of relief sleuthing wetly across the frenetic webbings of her nervous system in a firm enough push to make Clarke seize and thrash a bit against uncle Bellamy’s side. Alpha.
“Just like that, baby,” uncle Bellamy strains, the hard lines of his face further darkening under the continuous building of a fever-pitch flush, head abruptly tilting back, “fuck, fuck, fuck.” He goes entirely rigid beneath her, muscles locking hard and stiff beneath the idle suckles laved against the musky, urgently throbbing delicate mating glands framing the delicate arch of his throat. The heavy jut of his knot swells up a bit further, a firm pressure gently brushing against the soft underside of her desperately rolling palm. Alpha.
“Fuck!” His swollen cock twitches violently between their fingers, a sticky pulse of cum suddenly spilling out hotly above Clarke’s sticky fingers, sluggishly rolling down across her partially covered knuckles with a lacking sense of urgency. The next pulse splatters high against uncle Bellamy’s disheveled shirt, the slender skimming of warm, well-defined skin revealed by the carelessly strewn fabric newly decorated in the heavy drippings of thick cum. Their fingers remain tightly clasped and leisurely pumping through every subsequent throb and twitch, rough movements meant to work through the remaining aftershocks carelessly guided by his hands; uncle Bellamy’s teeth clicking faintly as his jaw grinds, heavy moans and whines lingering hotly in place of any significant thoughts on behalf of Clarke.
“So good, princess,” uncle Bellamy’s half-moaning hangs hot and heavy with the familiar slurring of lust and affection, eerily similar to how he had spoken to her on the couch, breathless and without objective permanence. “S’always so good.”
Alpha. Alpha. Clarke doesn’t deign to lift her head from the safety of its hidden perching between the connective points of his jaw and shoulder; the cooling surge of hormones pulsing to prominence in her bloodstream a secondary twin mirror to the cooling streaks of cum framing the lithe expanse of uncle Bellamy’s heaving torso.
She feels unmoored, drifting in circles as though an unmanned ship left at sea. Unsatisfied and relieved; desperate for him to touch her without making her ask. Pleased at learning a new skill that rends him down to flesh and bone with white-hot satisfaction; guilty at even doing something like this, willing complicity in her own mistreatment.
Sticky, translucent tendrils of spit web out from Clarke’s newly-disconnected lips and their relinquished trophy of the warm skin of uncle Bellamy’s throat as she shakes away his now softened grasp to bring her fingers up to her mouth. She doesn’t even attempt to think about why she’s doing this; aching and raw and all fatty flesh simmered down to scorched gristle and bone, wholly guided by the quiet hum of instinct and lost to that little place one drifted within when overwhelmed with feeling.
The slight weight of his cooling cum hangs precariously and awkward against the faint tremble of Clarke’s hand, thick droplets tentatively awaiting the ability to drip free in wake of the unthinking movements. The heavy musk alone is enough to make her entire nervous system set aflame again, sad little pulses of an ache hanging hollow in her continuously twitching belly muscles.
Uncle Bellamy’s dark gaze, half-lidded and heavily framed under the relaxed weight of thick lashes, gleams hot and heavy and predatory, as though a cat returning to lay a dead bird at the feet of an owner. His hand now roughly combs stray, frizzy strands of hair free of Clarke’s face as she brings her fingers to rest on the slight weight of her tongue, heavy droplets of tacky cum eagerly melting against the soft warmth of the heavy muscle. The taste is strange enough that her nose would probably wrinkle in dislike if she was in a more grounded, less animal state of being.
Though, now, as she is, the taste is enough to make everything shiver under the delightful echo of warmsparklygood feelings; a deep, tremulous moan rattling up from somewhere atop a scalding breath of relief. It is relief, a quiet allowance to fully drift away into that nonsense place where thoughts can’t bear to break through the hazy shine of hormonal bliss.
The quiet, faraway contentment of lapping at her sticky fingers doesn’t last long, uncle Bellamy forever too handsy to let her find some semblance of solitude without the menace of his own guiding involvement. The hand once idly pulling away misplaced locks of hair, drunkenly clumsy with the heady rush of release and satisfaction, comes to gently grip her face, a firm thumb carefully resting atop the faint divot framing the muscle of Clarke’s chin.
She hardly has time to pull her fingers from her mouth, shiny rivulets of spit carefully webbing out from her now parted lips, as uncle Bellamy pulls her into a kiss. It’s a rough and rather clumsy kiss; a strange mirror to their relationship, all teeth, lacking finesse, and casual possession of one-another. A messy confessional, codependency and desire laid bare amongst shared breath and spit. Clarke enjoys the tentative, unpracticed brushing of tongues as much as she doesn’t.
“Still bored?” Uncle Bellamy’s murmur is a little hoarse, lips bruised and shiny as they finally part after a few languid moments of making out. Distantly, from somewhere outside of her body, she wonders if he could taste the remnants of his own come after licking into her mouth so intently.
“No,” the reluctant concession tastes a bit like blood, so Clarke leans in again and chases another kiss in hopes of finding some semblance of absolvement.
There is very little relief to be found.