Chapter Text
Uncle Bellamy has been coming around for as long as Clarke could possibly remember.
Ballet recitals, holidays, birthdays, family trips, football games, snow days, chaperoning every field-trip, everything; even the most disfigured memories shaded beneath the crushing press of youthful fog could do little to remove his unending clarity somewhere in the back of her head. Like there was a whole little piece of her simply dedicated to remembering him, cataloging their extensive relationship into functionally bite-sized pieces of remembrance. It was like he was always around, even more than both of her parents.
Even in the sleepy and slow outliers of her first tangible memory of anything, a procession of hardly worthwhile thoughts wholly more sensation than legitimate awareness, she remembered uncle Bellamy more than anything else.
Wrapped up in one of those silly soft and silly pink fuzzy blankets, back wedged firmly against the inviting heat of his broad chest, little socked feet perched up on his thigh and soft crown of her head tucked beneath the hard line of his chin, thoroughly soothed into an especially sleepy doze by the continuously rolling, honey-thick reverberation of uncle Bellamy's low and quiet purr. She couldn't have been more than five, six at the absolute oldest, and had been picked early from her usual daycare after spiking a fever; hardly anything high enough to be concerning, but still enough to get her sent home for the day only to err on the side of caution. One big hand was folded around the sharp points of her knees rising up beneath the blanket, the other was mindlessly playing with silky little curls- casually alternating between scratching softly at her overly tender scalp with blunt nails and twisting small bits of bright blonde hair around his thumb and index fingers.
She had felt so shivery and sore and awful at the time, couldn't help the upset tears from gathering in thick clumps against the pale fragility of her thick eyelashes, and wanted nothing but her parents. Though the daycare nurse must've certainly called her parents upon Clarke getting bundled into the forcefully cheery little room, it had been uncle Bellamy that had come to get her. It was always uncle Bellamy who came to get her, when she didn't feel good or she was upset or that time she bit her friend Josephine for pulling her hair, even though she was fairly certain that they weren't supposed to release students to anyone but their parents. Maybe it was just a special privilege of being an Alpha.
At the time, Clarke had been so relieved at the sight of him that she had simply grown even more red in the face and burst into tears. Uncaring of anything else save for the person who would hopefully make her not feel as bad.
Sometimes, if she thought especially hard about the fuzzier edges of those memories, the parts that were patchy and blotchy and held together more by a subconscious attempt to fill in the gaps more than anything else, she can remember the nurse quietly apologizing to uncle Bellamy, saying that poor little Clarke just didn't feel good and wasn't actually that upset. If she pressed those gossamer webs of hardly coherent thought even further, she could distantly recall the faintest whisper of his response, Omegas just don't know better.
So yes, uncle Bellamy was always around.
She didn't mind though- he was her best friend, her only friend, even though he was 14 years older.
It was like they were two parts of a whole, a delicate and intensely necessary balance of two symbiotic little bugs who needed each other before they could even think of something as silly as survival. The two most special people in each other's lives, the most important, the ones who would always be around. Her mom says she's lucky uncle Bellamy likes her enough to wait this long and shouldn't be so silly, but uncle Bellamy says there's no such thing as luck and that they're the head and the heart- they'll always need each other.
And even more exciting than the constant assurance of actually having someone around who really liked her and wanted to spend time with her?
It was like the word no didn't exist to uncle Bellamy; they could go see any movie Clarke wanted at the cool movie theater with the nice big reclining seats, they could go to the fancy upscale restaurants that you always saw all the special A-list Alphas going to on the weekends, they could go to any museum or art gallery or zoo in the state because uncle Bellamy could always get tickets no matter how late the notice was, they could go to the really nice department stores that only sold custom designer pieces because uncle Bellamy kept a special little black card on file just for her.
He always gave her the best little treats and toys and trinkets and special trips, and it didn't have to be her birthday or a holiday- he just loved her that much. And sometimes, when the stars aligned just right and a few others seemed willing enough to turn a blind eye, uncle Bellamy would let her practice driving his really expensive and really fancy and really fast car, even though Omegas weren't legally allowed to learn how to drive until long after they were registered and mated.
Illusory smoke and mirrors; it was easy to feel like she had freedom with such a generous hand wielding the weight of her social leash. It was easy to pretend that other little Omega girls surely had such a vibrant and rosy view of everyday life, easy to pretend that others her age were also always drowning beneath the blinding excitement of privilege. Easy to pretend to so many other people certainly weren't miserable under the ever-tightening constraints of social pressures, unforgiving legislature and government interference, and millennia of regimented treatment as lesser, as other.
Easy, easy, easy, the little prickles of warning bells echoing lowly in the base of her skull were secondary, muffled, when uncle Bellamy cupped her face- long index fingers curling insistently against the the fragile shell of bone curving to make the connection to her ears, the rough pads of his thumbs sweeping against the silky roundness of her full cheeks with a soft drag- before leveling a soft, warm kiss against the finely pronounced bridge of her nose. Easy, easy, easy.
You're a very lucky little girl, strangers often sing-song out between overly sharp and overly poised teeth when they happen to run into Clarke and uncle Bellamy on any of their numerous outings together, to have such a nice Alpha who will treat you so well. It always sounds like a joke at her expense, something that everyone else seems to understand well enough that they whisper thinly-veiled commentary to her face, especially in those finer little moments where they would always exchange a knowing glance, but the prickling feeling of discomfort is chased away quick enough by whatever fun little expedition uncle Bellamy had planned for the two of them.
Easy, easy, easy. So why did something inside Clarke, so little and small compared to the raw expanse of her animal-Omega brain, feel so guilty?
-
It's an exceedingly normal Friday night; her mom was terribly busy with some big policy project she was mapping out at the insistence of some government official or another who was always plastered across the morning news, so, naturally, Clarke had been shuttled off to uncle Bellamy's house on the other side of town with little more than an irritation soured sigh- as though her mom found it absolutely ridiculous that she hadn't just taken it upon herself to teleport over to his house at the earliest convenience.
Clarke didn't mind spending time at uncle Bellamy's house, though.
He lives over on the older side of Arkadia, where the exclusive all-Alpha university was; all the houses were old and pretty and made of mottled brick and metal, sinewy tendrils of willowy ivy always curling across large swathes of neighboring homes. This side of town even has the big trees that change colors across the seasons and drop their leaves, as opposed to the little saplings in the new little mini-mansion neighborhood mom lived in that simply browned and wilted at the first chill. Her bedroom at uncle Bellamy's, because of course she needed her own special room to decorate and hoard away all of her little treasures, even had the best view of the massive oak in the neatly manicured confines of the fenced front yard; gently frayed edges of wide leaves shaded in various remnants of rich red and vibrant oranges floating by the window under the insistence of a stray breeze.
It hardly felt anything but normal to scamper inside, using her own key to let herself in, go about her usual rituals to be had when she was more or less unsupervised.
Kick off her shoes, drop her little sleepover bag on whatever unfortunate counter or shelf she happens upon first, hurriedly wiggle out of her outdoor appropriate clothing for the usual cleanliness of preferred indoor only comfy clothes, and then find some sort of suitable medium of entertainment until uncle Bellamy was finished with work for the day. Sometimes it would just be the familiar tedium of homework routinely assigned at the rigid governance of her online schooling program; other times it would be a vaguely productive little hobby or craft, like painting or reading or another awkward attempt at knitting. This evening, dressed in her cozy fuzzy socks and favorite stolen sweater that smelled especially like uncle Bellamy, Clarke felt entirely unmotivated to anything remotely useful beyond immediately curling up on the couch. Instead opting to dig her switch out from the hastily tossed together abyss of her little bag- the animal crossing themed console with the matching joycons, naturally- for a few hours of uninterrupted gaming without the terrible force of her mother's wrath immediately breathing down the back of her neck.
It was easy to remain that way too, curled up on a comfortably familiar couch in a home that smelled more like her than her own house did. Relaxed, focused entirely on the monotony of her little Stardew Valley farm; the lull of the overly mechanical and overly familiar little songs ringing hollowly from the hand-held tablet cozy and easy to sink into, better to place all of her habitual concentration into. Even as the seconds turned to minutes turned to hours, as the chilly gray light of the late fall afternoon gradually bled from the cold sky.
Normally Clarke didn't like to spend so much time playing mindless games in such a way, but in the waning weeks following the heat of summer she's been feeling a little.. restless. A nervous tension pulsing beneath the skin as though a secondary rate of pulse, a strange and forlorn itch webbing out beneath skin and flesh and bone. Her skin felt a little too sensitive for normalcy- clothes progressively growing more and more uncomfortable as they never seemed to sit right, somehow both too much and not enough against all the most vulnerable parts of her. The additional whisper weight of her hair brushing against the skin of her chest, her shoulders, her back felt grating on the especially bad days. Even her tummy felt a bit more wrong. Different. A little weight and tenderness sitting down low and hot within the very of her being, a newly refined awareness that never seemed to fully wane. Smells, tastes, sounds, colors- everything walking the razor-fine line of being overwhelming, each and every neuron within her body firing at a capacity that Clarke had never felt before.
Somewhere in the distant recesses of her mind, the warning bells chimed to life again. Delicate, secondary, futile against the happy tunes blaring against that blare from the screen clutched in her hands.
-
"Hey," uncle Bellamy says, voice low against the gentle hum of the tv, quiet scenes rolling together in some seamless framing of an old black-and-white movie. After indulging in the usual sacred and familiar routine of ordering takeout from the cheap little Chinese place just around the corner, Clarke and uncle Bellamy had found themselves sprawled out in the deep lavishness of the dark sectional, settled as close and comfortable as usual. As always. Uncle Bellamy had insisted on some boring movie that was totally older than both of them, hardly adventurous compared to his usual preference for documentaries, and it was especially difficult to pay attention to slow, crawling progression of story. Especially when she was so sleepy and cozy, fully ready to nod off under the weight of her full belly. One big hand was idly tracing the lip of the fancy crystalline glass half filled with whiskey, the other tightly banded around the hard jut of her ankle; rough thumb sweeping just below the soft line of her sock as he made to pull her foot a bit more pointedly into his lap. Soft little blonde hairs sparsely framed the pale length of her legs, providing a neat little jolt of awareness against the sleepy monotony of the old movie.
"You're supposed to be watching."
"Mhmm," Clarke agrees, not opening her heavy lids and instead opting to wiggle her socked-toes against the soft fabric of the plaid sleep-pants he had quickly changed into following dinner, "totally am. Never seen anything so good."
There's a nebulous pulse of slight irritation evident in the warm familiarity of his scent, a sharp undercurrent of awareness webbing out against the otherwise overwhelmingly comfortable lull of his cinnamon-musk heavy Alpha scent. The answering huff and thumb curling a bit more tightly into the gently-rising line of scent glands gently twisting against her pulse made her inhale a little, the direct contact both shocking and further relaxing. Uncle Bellamy's weight shifts a bit, her foot awkwardly wedged between his belly and lap as he suddenly makes to lean upwards and away- bending forward to put his glass back onto the old wood coffee table with a soft clink, heavy amber liquor sloshing halfheartedly against the fine lip of the old glass. Though instead of immediately relaxing back into the comfort of the dark leather of the well-worn couch, he proceeds to fumble around for a moment, blindly groping for the remote that evidently laid just out of reach- the sharp and sudden absence of flickering light eventually revealing that he did manage to swipe the remote and pause the old movie.
"C'mere for a sec," uncle Bellamy abruptly says, booze roughened voice especially loud against the persisting silence of the dark living room, big hand gently squeezing her foot for emphasis.
Clarke only hummed out a noncommittal sound in response to the unusual request, eventually cracking open a single sleep-sticky lid to peer over at him with an especially drowsy stare. The pallid light left lingering by the paused tv did little to properly illuminate uncle Bellamy's face, soft shades ranging from cool grey-almost-whites to a wasting, deep darkness creeping across the hard lines of his face; big dark eyes awash with an unfamiliar intensity, almost as though he was hungry again. The brief moment of eye contact suddenly made Clarke feel a little uneasy, some little part of her brain- the part that always seemed the loudest when it came to just knowing things- thrilling to life with a little flutter. Suddenly, she was keenly aware of all the most sensitive parts of her body.
"Clarke," he begins again, though this time his voice is sharp, expectant. Different than any way he's ever spoken to her before, "now."
Heavy with the entirely foreign weight of a comfortable command that she's suddenly very hasty and very willing to obey, body scrambling to comply with the newfound urgency laden upon her bones with the scorching weight of a fever. It's like her brain seems to turn off for a few seconds; Clarke operating entirely on autopilot and instinct as she makes to wiggle free from her especially cozy corner of the couch and crawl into the awaiting warmth of uncle Bellamy's open arms. Despite the prominent feeling of unease that she had experienced just seconds ago, it doesn't even dawn on her apparently nonfunctional brain to think of resisting- nervous system alighting with goodhappywonderful feelings as she promptly nuzzles face-first into the broad expanse of his chest. Her skin suddenly sparking to light with the intense heat of satisfaction, the raw and wild part of her being thrilled at being commanded, overwhelmed with the good feeling of knowing that she had listened like she was supposed to. Expected to.
Uncle Bellamy huffs some sound a little similar to a chuckle as Clarke practically collapses face-first into his awaiting hold, broad arms easily coming up to encircle her scrunched up form- gently adjusting her position so that she was cradled more against his hip, big heavy hands pausing to idly pet at his favorite parts of her.
"Good girl," is all he says, head craning forward a bit to roughly rub his bearded cheek against the soft crown of her head, rich scent tumultuous and heady with a newfound rawness- something inviting and warm to match the faint whisper of a purr building in his chest. Clarke sighed as she wrapped a hand around his chest and turned a cheek into the thin material of his shirt, a little overwhelmed with the fuzzy and stupefying haze of being good, the soft spread of sensitive glands in her throat and chest and tummy and knees all throbbing nicely beneath the tight-confines of his skin.
They stay like that for an unknown amount of time in the quiet stillness of the living room, uncle Bellamy's hands sweeping wide in loose circles as he makes to idly pet and hug at her; rough fingers casually creeping beneath the heavy warmth of the baggy sweatshirt that she had raided his laundry for. Even though the warning bells are going off just a little, almost lost within the murky haze of her dwindling capacity for thought, Clarke does little to fend off the increasing boldness of uncle Bellamy's wandering hands; doesn't stop him when his fingers work their way beneath her sweatshirt and rub at the softness of her tummy, doesn't stop him when his fingers pinch and squeeze at the rounded jut of her hips as though examining their curves, doesn't stop him when his hands creep higher and gently pet the soft skin of her ribs, just below the heavy curve of her tits. It feels nice, in a different and unfamiliar way- the way her tummy drops sharply every time he moves to a new spot, the way her pulse throbs sharply in time with the sudden awareness of her glands, the sudden awareness of smell and taste weighing on her tongue.
Only when uncle Bellamy's hands start to dip closer and closer to the most secretive part of her does a little bit of reason creep along the hard length of her tensed spine, a sharp little jolt of frigid awareness that makes the soft little hairs of the back of her neck stand up. Suddenly, that melty sensation of relaxation seems to wither and die. Every fine little muscle and sinew tensing up, acutely aware of her sudden discomfort. "Uncle Bellamy," Clarke whispers, her own fingers darting out to grab at his wandering wrist, curling tightly around warm skin as his hand continues to rest precariously low on her belly.
"Stop." Too close to that molten wet part of her, that part of her that always felt a little too soft and raw and unused when she sniffed his clothes for too long. He shakes her hand away with little difficulty.
Uncle Bellamy studiously ignores her quiet plea with a little sigh and a rough nudge of his nose against her flushed cheek, index and middle finger insistently creeping closer to the silky thatch of blonde curls just below the soft cotton of her underwear.
"Wait-" the reflexive resistance against the wholly new and unfamiliar way that uncle Bellamy was handling her, rough and expectant in all the ways that he had never been before. Handling her like she was some cheap bitch meant only to fuck, not his favorite girl that was regularly overindulged in treats and gifts and special affection.
A simple hmm was offered up in conjunction to her visible discomfort and mounting panic, a heavy knee nudging below the soft and tender inner-sides of her own and subsequently spreading her stiff and unwilling legs open with an unspoken firmness that allowed little argument. One big hand was raised to roughly grasp the jut of her jaw, thumb and index finger carelessly flexing against the the gentle connection of her joints in an implied threat to pry her mouth open, blunted nails dragging against the especially sensitive and blotchy skin. The heavy sweatshirt that Clarke had sleepily donned with little thought offered hardly any privacy against the quiet judgement of the otherwise empty house; easily riding up the pale length of her tummy as uncle Bellamy pulled her further up into his lap, meaning to splay her out, get an easy and reassuring hold against her. The pristine white of her panties, plain and comfy cotton, stood out starkly against the carelessly lifting drag of the stolen sweatshirt, practically a gleaming beacon in the dwindling light of the terse living room.
Her socked foot collided sharply with the now empty crystal liquor glass perched precariously close to the fine edge of the wood coffee table, a sudden explosion of sound against the heavy thud of her rapid pulse.
"S'alright," uncle Bellamy says, low whisper roughened under the syrupy slur of liquor indulgence, the prickly scruff of his short beard scraping sharply against the rounded curve of her own hot cheek as he ducked closer, "See? Not so bad, huh?" There was a thick undercurrent of a purr prevalent in his slow, lovingly patronizing murmurs; a gentle whisper of sound threaded through the casual condescension of her own tears, the consistent rumbling echoing through her own hollow chest due to how tightly she was held against his front. The sound of his purr, grating finely against both his gentle whispers and the sensitive skin of her back, was mesmerizing, alluring, relieving like submitting to the terrible currents of a sea that meant to drown her.
Yes, it is bad, the sane part of Clarke's mind insisted against the wet and hot lashing of spilling tears, it is bad, bad, bad.
Please stop, the words wither and die upon her slow tongue at the suddenly vehement presence of her own animalistic Omega hindbrain, little hand tightly curling around the wrist of uncle Bellamy's carefully probing fingers, please don't. "Please." The animal part of her, the part that was soft and small and easy, was easily able to forge dissonance against the newfound guilt welling up in her throat, was more than happy to settle back into his unrelenting hold. Press her face tighter into the warm reassurance of his warm throat, make him feel just as messy with the decoration of her tears and sweat, let herself drown in the hot overindulgence of his suffocatingly musky scent, let herself push and wiggle against the strength of uncle Bellamy's hold in an attempt to draw attention to the pulsing ache of her own thoroughly neglected scent glands.
"Please, Alpha."
The insistent pad of his big hand thumbing gentle circles against the silky soft skin of her inner thigh, the drag of rough fingers sparking alight a shimmery shower of white hot stars trembling eagerly against the flexing muscles of her belly. Clarke could suddenly feel the entirety of her own body with a new, unfamiliar sharpness- the hurried pulse of blood within the twisting expanse of her circulatory system, the heavy ache of the little scent glands dusted across her body like freckles. The funny, raw weight building in her belly, the rawness of a tension waiting to be released, fine muscles quivering in a secondary attempt at resistance. It was like something was sitting inside her, a newfound tenderness and pressure welling just below her tummy and above the cradle her hips, vaguely similar to the sensation of needing to pee. Throbbing more and more urgently with every careful brush forward from his big, warm hand; a musky surge of sharp sweetness hanging heavy on what little of her own scent wasn't overtaken by the heavy weight of uncle Bellamy's own.
The hand clutching her jaw dragged her head forward a bit in a sudden motion, leaning her away from the warm expanse of uncle Bellamy's chest so that she had a better view of his fingers gently petting along the soft edges of her cotton panties, soft lips smacking loudly against her wet cheek in a disruptively loud kiss.
"I know, I know, 'm sorry," uncle Bellamy sighed against the sensitive shell of her overly-sensitized and overly-aware ear, familiarity of his breath overtaken in the pungent sharpness of expensive whiskey, "just gotta feel you princess. Been waiting so long." Prickles rippled against her very aware very alert very knowing skin, little shivers crawling down the unseen muscles expanding outwards from the column of her spine. The sharp, sudden scraping of his teeth against the shell of her ear set the molten-hot fireworks off again with an even greater intensity, hot wet mouth dragging insistently against the tender stretch of her neck with little regard for how avidly she squirmed and fluttered- the tender pressure in her tummy feeling more urgent, more unbearable. "Just a finger, yeah? Won't stretch you out too much, hm?"
"Ah!" Clarke couldn't help the wet, whiny little girl sound that quivered past her lips at the forceful presence of his mouth on her ear, her jaw, her neck, her glands her glands her glands, his big hand suddenly cupping the entirety of her swollen little cunt with ease, heat and rough framing of his palm easily felt through the thin barrier of her underwear. Won't stretch you out too much, it was already too much, too much, too much- her skin felt like it had been seared and blistered open, pink and red flesh left to slide off her bones with no resistance. Uncle Bellamy's fingers felt so rough during that initial sliding beneath her panties, calloused index finger heavy against the soft wet heart of her as he curiously pet the swollen little lips of her cunt, another wet little sobbing sound sliding between now tightly clinched teeth; her senses effectively drowning beneath the crushing weight of his syrupy-thick purr and scent heavily laden with affection and love, vision swimming with the glimmering weight of tears.
"Just gotta be a nice girl and give it up," uncle Bellamy's wet and swollen lips brushing against the side of her own mouth as he promptly abandoned the terrible torture he was inflicting against her tender and undefended throat, nose digging into her redden cheek as he nuzzled closer. "Just need to show your Alpha how nice and good you are for him- how much you love him." Her insides fluttered happily beneath his sweetly pressing fingers at the quiet instruction, the rapidly dwindling presence of Clarke's sane mind not fully understanding; her Omega suddenly so aware and keen and in-tune with what he was asking for, innate submission coiling tightly within the tightly-wound sinews that held her together in entirety.
"Alpha," she mmmed wetly in response, tasting only her own tears and desperation, hardly even cognizant of the fact that she was speaking as his fingers carefully mapped the little opening of her pussy, lightly circling and waiting waiting waiting. All at once, it feels as though a dam violently breaks to pieces somewhere deep inside of Clarke; the funny weight in the low center of her precariously balanced pelvis releasing with a sloshy finality, hot and heavy slick gushing suddenly from her fluttering little cunt. Spilling out of her with positively no resistance, viscous and overwhelmingly citrusy-smelling slick dripping out into the awaiting warmth of uncle Bellamy's hands, easily sliding down the crack of her ass, onto the soft materials of his pants, even down to the warm old leather they were curled up against. She hardly has the awareness to feel embarrassed at the terribly wet and messy display, everything else already occupying that rational center of her brain with the awareness of it all being too much.
"Fuck," uncle Bellamy whimpers, hips roughly rocking up beneath her own at the sudden release of hot and shiny fluid, voice raw with an unfamiliar neediness that makes her feel a little better- it almost sounds like he's just as torn apart, like he's melting at the seams while he's being taken apart too. His continuous purr rocks through the hollow cavern of her own chest, a soothing vibration that settles deep and familiar in her bones. "That's it baby, oh fuck. Such a good little Omega, so good for listening."
The first insistent slide of his eager finger inside of her steals Clarke's breath away, soft inner muscles immediately clamping down against the intruding digit with a greedy easiness that feels violently at odds with the wet downpour of tears down her cheeks. His finger feels so big and so good and so bad, even when he doesn't do much beyond hold himself there in that shallow little part of her just beyond the entrance, like he could easily cut her in half with the newfound sharp ache of being sofullsofullsofull. Uncle Bellamy moans lowly in her ear, a sympathetic voice to the internal fullness that seems to strange her lungs and steal her voice; the blunt drag of his carefully manicured nails making her shudder violently all over.
"See? Not so bad, huh?" uncle Bellamy eventually manages to repeat after a few minutes of just keeping his finger nice and warm and wet inside of the soft melted ruined heart of her, sounding pained like the act of not feeling her up further is some great terrible burden. "No need to cry, huh?"
"Alpha," is the only bleary reply Clarke can force herself to eek out, insides quivering and positively aching for more movement- anything to take away the blunt pressure and fullness so terribly inflicted by the casual intrusion of his big finger. Her teary whisper a simple plea for mercy. There's a heavy red haze of instinct welling up to drown her, gently dragging her below the surface to a place where everything feels so good and nice and she doesn't have to think beyond immediate feeling. An easy and comfortable murkiness where she's nothing more than a little hole; raw and aching and needing terribly to be filled. Where there's no confusion or betrayal or hurt, just wanting and needing her Alpha. "Please."
Uncle Bellamy hurriedly readjusts his hold on her, further reclining them out so that he can easily brace his feet against the coffee table and keep her spread and wet and wanting. His free hand, the one that currently doesn't have a finger currently curled up inside of her, drops to her throat; blunt nails dragging sharply at the soft spread of mating glands spread across her skin like a spattering of freckles. The rough caress makes Clarke shudder and squeeze and keen, a strange animal sound of a girl who wanted nothing more than to sit on cock. All at once, his finger begins to move. Easily dragging back against the clutching desperation of her filthy wet cunt, a soft suckling sound ringing out in the quiet room, before pushing back inside of her; white hot little sparks of shimmery goodness flooding her veins at the simple, cursory movement.
An easy rhythm builds from there, nothing too hard or too quick. Just a casual, gentle first fingerfuck for a little girl; broken up only by the occasional careful whispers of adoring filth and searching movements against the silky muscles inside of her pussy. A new pressure begins to well up in the gradually tensing muscles of Clarke's insides, girly little Omega sounds of urgency beginning to punctuate uncle Bellamy's lovingly insistent movements, met only with the sloshy sounds of her too wet cunt and heady Alpha purrs. Every few strokes, uncle Bellamy's finger seems to catch on a soft little spot of tenderness somewhere too deep inside of her- a sharp bolt of sensation that was good and bad and way too much bubbling up sharply inside her tensing tummy, her hips jerking roughly into his hand each time.
When Clarke comes, it feels explosive and sudden; a violent convulsion overcoming her entirely without warning.
In one heartbeat, uncle Bellamy's finger brushes against that sensitive soft knot of nerves inside of her with a particularly rough caress, in the next, it feels as though every single muscle within her being has locked onto that strange, slippery sensation. Everything clenches down, a tight all-consuming tension within her muscles that suddenly ripple around his finger; it feels like her heart is going to pound out of her chest, she can't breathe under the crushing weight of her unfurling heat. A vibrantly hot gush of fluid seems to explode from her, spattering against her bare thighs and the soft wood of the coffee table with the soft pattering sound of rain. Clarke jerks and trembles, curling in on herself with a terrible wounded sound as her hands blindly fumble at uncle Bellamy's hand, desperately trying to ground herself against the torrent of sensation rushing down the twisting expanse of her nervous system. It feels like it goes on for hours, hips jerking in abortive little half-rolls as she quivers through the intense aftershocks of the experience.
"I love you, Clarke." Uncle Bellamy's voice sounds a bit more clear, less laden with the all-consuming influence of the alcohol. She can hardly hear him over the continued thumping of her heart.
The stiff silence weighs heavily upon the shadowy confines of the living room; the rough puffs of their shared breaths lingering loudly as Clarke turns her face further into uncle Bellamy's neck, trembling through the hazy aftermath of her terribly wonderful orgasm. Uncle Bellamy's bristly cheek lays heavily on the mussed crown of her head, big warm hand continuing to cradle her fluttering cunt with rapidly cooling intensity, infrequent movements gentling. His chest continues to rattle with the lasting warmth of his purrs, the heavy musk of his scent practically oozing satisfaction. Smug. Like he had achieved something wonderful, and not ruined Clarke in some new and unfamiliar way.
When he finally pulls his finger out of her, she feels raw. A little too sensitive, too tender, much too touched and undone. Clarke shudders in the too much of it all, and tries not to flinch at the sticky strings of viscous strings of slickness that web out between her tender cunt and uncle Bellamy's big hand. She would probably wince at the sound of uncle Bellamy licking his finger clean with a contented little chuff if she had any energy left.
"Love you too." Clarke slurs out between huffing breaths, unthinking and immediate in her answer. Even though she's not really sure what that means anymore.