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macabre-mangled · 16 days ago

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you wanted it to be me. (b.blake x reader)

☾✩˚₊‧ Summary: "Bellamy said what during sex??" —You, moments before tying him up in your tent and proving exactly why your name's on his lips.

☾✩˚₊‧ Tags: smut, gender-neutral, 2nd person pov, tongue kissing, spit, mostly a lot of teasing, and you manhandle bellamy a little ;3

☾✩˚₊‧ WC: 4.4k

Listen.

You tried not to associate with people who dragged drama behind them like a ball and chain.

On the Ark, survival was more technical. Numbers, calculations, food and oxygen rations. Keep your head down, and you wouldn't deal with bullshit. Simple.

Down here?

A soap opera with grime under its nails.

You got along fine with Harper; better with Monroe. Miller and Monty were funny in their own dry way.

Octavia?

Oh, you two got along like kindling and fire. Volatile, intense, rebellious in an exhilarating way. She was a wild card you genuinely liked. You didn't have to pretend, didn't have to mask your distaste for others around her. No expectations except for a good time and backup when things got rough.

It was her brother that was the problem.

Bellamy Blake.

Irritating. Constantly shouting at someone about the 'new life on the ground' or whatever excuse he came up with. Always in charge. Always acting like the entire camp would collapse if he didn't micromanage every goddamn thing from food storage to people’s bowel movements.

And sure, fine—he was hot.

Whatever.

The dark, curly hair, the broad shoulders that carried the responsibility of every delinquent's actions, the way he stalked around camp like a wet dream come to life?

Yeah.

You had functioning eyes.

But everything even remotely attractive about him got obliterated the second he opened his mouth.

God forbid something happened to Octavia, with the way he hovered over her like she would break if someone breathed wrong in her direction. You had no patience for that kind of overprotective bullshit. And if you were being honest?

You and Bellamy clashed because whenever his 'no rules' rule blew up in someone's face, you were usually the one cleaning the mess. The one patching up wounds, calming down panicked delinquents, reassuring the young ones, making sure nobody died.

So, yeah. He had a tendency of pissing you off every other day.

In that same breath—even if Bellamy would never admit it himself—he was constantly around the other drama-attracted ones. Clarke and Wells were your least favorite offenders, of course. Self-righteous, kids of the privileged, blah blah. You get the gist.

The rest of the delinquents? Fine. Tolerable, even.

Which was why you had no idea why the hell Roma and Bree suddenly iced you out.

You weren't exactly close with the two, but you got along well enough. One night chilling around the fire, trading jokes and half-burnt meat. The next?

Roma wouldn't look at you without a sneer wrinkling her face. Bree stopped showing up to hangouts if she even thought you might be there.

Again, you weren't friends exactly. But you never had beef either. Not until suddenly, apparently, you did.

You let it go for a while. Bigger problems to handle, like not getting killed by a Grounder, or starving to death, or some fucked-up mutated animal mauling you. But then the two moved out of Bellamy's tent and into their own, and the weird vibes had turned sour. Suspicious, even.

You were never one to believe in superstition, but your left ear had been itching at you like a mosquito made a home there. Didn't take much to figure out who was talking shit about you.

…but what the hell happened?

You wouldn't get an official answer until wall duty one night—Harper on your left, Monroe on your right, all of you squinting into the dark as the crickets chirped loudly in the background.

(You also had never imagined how loud Earth would be. But it just replaced the constant mechanical whirring of the Ark.)

"Alright y'all," you began, looking between the two women. "I gotta ask. Please tell me you've noticed Roma and Bree acting weird lately."

A snort left Harper. "You mean how they act like you took a shit in their bed?"

Lightly, you smacked her arm with the back of your hand, comforted by the fact that she had noticed too. "Exactly! I didn't even do anything—we were fine one night, next day they starting ignoring me completely."

Monroe was suspiciously quiet, her gaze fixed on the treeline.

But you saw the shift.

The way her back straightened, the way her lips pressed into a thin line.

Harper raised an eyebrow at her. "You know anything?"

She didn't answer at first.

"C'mon, Zoe. Spill." You nudged her with your boot. "I'm in the dark here."

Even Harper leaned in, eyes glinting with interest.

A sigh. But Monroe admitted, "I overheard them talking…with a few of the other girls."

Oh god. What did that mean? Your stomach dropped. "About what?"

Harper already looked wary. "Zoe, if it's—"

"Bellamy said your name during a threesome with them."

Silence.

Not even the crickets could save that one.

You blinked.

Once.

Twice.

You brain stalled. Hit a wall; tried to reboot.

Laughter erupted out of you, forcing you to slap a hand over your mouth. You glanced around like your giggling might attract Grounders. Though more uncertain than amused, Harper joined with her own.

Then the two of you saw Monroe's expression. How her blink lengthened as she turned away.

Oh.

She wasn't joking.

The laughter died in your throat.

"Huh?!"

Later, when your shift ended and Miller took over, you thought about going back to the bonfire for a last snack before heading to bed.

No, you weren't stewing in the knowledge that Bellamy fucking Blake had apparently moaned your name while having a threesome with Roma and Bree.

Of course not.

…what the fuck.

You had barely stepped past the tents when you spotted them by the fire.

Roma. Bree. Laughing at something some other girl said, their body language light and free in a way that made your skin crawl.

Listen. You weren't a coward.

But drama was only fun when it wasn't yours. You liked to spectate, to listen in. Not be part of it.

So you turned around—

—and smacked straight into a wall of warmth and woodsmoke.

Bellamy's hand was midair, like he was going to tap your shoulder. Now it just hovered between you.

"My bad," he said. "I was looking for you earlier."

Stepping back quickly, your spine stiffened. "…why?"

"I..."

Oh, hesitation from him was not a good sign.

"Can we talk?”

You swallowed thickly. "I'm busy."

"Doing what?"

"Watch duty tonight."

Fuck.

You dumbass.

He raised an eyebrow.

Yeah, of course he knew you were bullshitting—he made the goddamn schedule.

You turned away before he could call you out on it, but of course—of course—he followed as you marched past him, past the tents, further into the quieter part of camp where you had set up your new home.

"I just want to talk," he said once the sounds of laughter were a dull hum behind you.

"You? Talk, and not yell at someone?" You didn't look at him. A low blow, you knew.

"Yeah, well. Maybe we should."

You rolled your eyes and kept it pushing. "Look, if this is about the wall or someone messing with your food system again—"

"It’s not, and you know it."

The two of you reached your tent. The plastic flap rippled slightly in the breeze. You turned, reaching for the tie of the entrance—

A hand closed gently around your wrist.

You froze.

Not a hard grip—but firm enough to keep you from leaving.

Ooh, you wanted to yank yourself free so bad. Instead, patiently, you exhaled slow through your nose and said flatly, "Let go."

"I will. Just listen for a second."

The silence stretched.

Finally, you met his eyes.

"I… I'm guessing you heard," he said quietly.

You scoffed. "What, that you were just having such an incredible time that you accidentally said my name?”

He winced, grip loosening. "I didn't mean for it to come out like that."

"Bullshit." You yanked your wrist back. "Whatever you did, it was bad enough that Roma and Bree won't even talk to me. I had to find out from Monroe!"

"I know. I know it was shitty." He sounded frustrated now—with himself, not you. "It wasn't about them."

"No shit."

He ran a hand through his hair. "I didn't want to do this like...this."

…oh.

Strangely, that sparked something in your chest.

"Do what, Bellamy?" You crossed your arms. "Make things even weirder between us?"

He stepped closer.

You did not move.

Refused to.

Not even as tension spiked between you two, sparks flaring.

"Listen, I'm not…" A sharp exhale left him. "I'm not good at this, alright? Talking. Feelings. Whatever."

"Apparently not good at fucking without pissing people off, either."

The words slipped out of you.

That earned a faint smirk, like he couldn't help it.

You hated how much you wanted to kiss that smirk off his dumb, pretty face.

"That's exactly why I keep thinking about you." He murmured.

Your eyes narrowed.

"Not just… like that," he added quickly. "I mean, yeah. Obviously that too. But you're the only one who ever calls me out on my shit."

…and for once, he left you speechless.

"I said your name because I wanted it to be you," he admitted, and this time, he met your eyes. "That's the truth. I wanted it to be you."

Your throat bobbed with a thick swallow, brain stalling. No sarcastic comeback, no quip or barb or a laugh to deflect the suddenly honest confession from him.

You just stood there, wide-eyed.

Shit.

You didn't know what his game was. Didn't know if there even was a game or if this was just another fucked-up Bellamy Blake moment—half-formed, emotionally-charged, and dropped at your feet like a live grenade.

…but honestly?

Yeah, no. You weren't going to pass this up.

Because something in the way he said it—"I wanted it to be you"—lodged itself under your flushed skin. A splinter you couldn't ignore.

Dammit.

Slowly, you pulled back the flap of your tent and jutted your head toward the entrance.

A blink in response. Surprise. Bell's mouth parted slightly, then closed like he thought better than to speak. Glancing behind him, he checked around, then ducked his head and slipped inside.

And as he passed?

You smacked his ass.

Hard.

He jolted. Practically jumped out of his boots.

You snickered and followed him in, not even pretending to be subtle about the way you pulled the flap down and tied it shut.

Bellamy turned toward you slowly, brow furrowed, lips twitching like he didn't know whether to be annoyed or intrigued.

Good.

You liked keeping him on his toes.

"Seriously?" he asked, but his voice was already looser, warmer.

"You're the one who said you wanted it to be me," you shrugged, taking a slow step forward. "Don't act surprised now."

His jaw tightened, a scoff turning his lips into an incredulous smile, as if he thought you would just tease him just to mess with him.

An irritating expression.

Your fingers twitched.

Oh, he had no idea what he was getting himself into.

Hooking your thumbs into the collar of his jacket, you shoved it down his arms without ceremony.

No protest. He barely blinked.

The jacket barely had a chance to touch the ground before your hand gripped the collar of his shirt.

Before you kissed him.

Mouth open, teeth catching on his lower lip before you sucked it between yours and bit—just enough to make him grunt and clutch at your hips like he was trying to steady both of you.

Big, calloused hands.

Restless.

Sliding from your waist to your jaw, back down to your sides like he couldn't decide where he wanted you most.

You didn't give him time to choose.

Grabbing the belt loops of his pants, you yanked him forward until you were chest-to-chest, swallowing the curse he let slip into your mouth.

Not even a little bit of resistance.

His mouth moved against yours like he had spent nights thinking about it. Matched your pace. Matched the desperation behind each slid of your lips.

Sure, he had height on you. And you could feel how he tried to trip you into falling on your cot.

Amateur move.

You saw it coming the second his stance shifted, the subtle step of his boots like he thought he was still in charge. Like you would just let him manhandle you into the bed like every other person he had ever hooked up with.

Hah.

Instead, you hooked your leg behind his, twisted your weight, and slammed him onto your sleeping bag in a controlled fall.

A startled grunt left him as he hit the cot.

Before he could think twice, think of retaliating, you straddled him—thighs on either side of his hips, hands braced on his chest.

Wide eyes met yours. Breathless.

"You—" he started, but you shut him up with another kiss, slower this time.

…maybe a tad bit meaner. A nip here and there.

When you pulled back, you smirked down at him. "You're sexier when you shut the fuck up."

Anything he had planned to say died in his throat, but my words seemed to flick a switch in him.

Because of course Bellamy wasn't the kind of guy who just gave up control. Even lying on his back, even with your hips rolling forward to make him groan, you could feel him trying to keep some illusion of power: His fingers digging into your sides, guiding your rhythm; mouth chasing yours as if he were the one the one setting the pace.

Cute.

You let him pretend. Just for a minute.

Then you leaned down, grabbed both of his wrists, and pinned them above his head.

The little sound he made?

Downright devastating.

His chest rose and fell under you, and for once, Bell didn't argue.

Moving back, your hands skirted down his arms, over his chest, unbuttoning his shirt one snap at a time.

His eyes never left yours.

"You do this often?" he asked, his voice rough around the edges.

"What, dominate emotionally constipated revolutionaries in tents?" you deadpanned, tugging his shirt open. "Only the hot ones."

A huff of a laugh left him, but it died quick when you leaned down and licked a slow stripe from his collarbone, up his neck, stopping just below his earlobe. His hands twitched like he wanted to grab you again. He didn't.

Good boy.

You rewarded his obedience by rocking your hips forward, slow, sending sparks up through your lower abdomen. He cursed and bucked up instinctively, but you ground him back down with a firm roll of your own body.

God, you liked him like this. Breathless, quiet.

Almost new, not seeing him bark orders or argue about ration counts or overreact over his sister.

Just you, him, and heat pooling where you two were connected.

And this time, when he couldn't resist touching you again? You couldn't bring yourself to punish him.

Starving, desperate, his hands slid under your shirt, over the bare skin of your back, up your spine like he wanted to memorize every inch. A sigh left you as you leaned forward, pressing your chest against his.

"Didn't expect this," he muttered against your throat.

"Which part?" you breathed, goosebumps running up your spine. "The part where you said my name during sex with two other girls, or the part where I'm grinding you into my cot?"

His groan rumble through his chest, through yours. "Both."

Fuck.

Your lips found his again, his fingers tangling in your hands as you shifted, bodies sliding together. He tasted like some sort of meaty food and the ache of something long-denied.

"You're gonna ruin me," he whispered when you two parted.

Mmn. He was right about that.

You hummed your agreement.

Hands tight around your waist, his fingers dug in as if he thought he could control the pace from down there—like he could pull you down and make you move the way he wanted.

Cute.

You smiled sweetly at him, and his eyes widened as he noticed a glint in your eyes.

He tried grinding up against the slick heat between your thighs, but your thighs were stronger. You held steady. Just enough resistance to make him groan, to make his eyes flutter half-shut like he was losing his damn mind under you.

You would not be his peace.

Not yet.

One hand slid up his chest, over the rough stubble of his jaw, cupping his face. Not sweetly, but to keep him still. To control where he looked.

To keep his eyes only on you.

And then you licked him.

One long, unbroken stripe from his collarbone to the shell of his ear.

You felt the tremble in his chest, in his thighs, in the twitch of his cock still trapped in his pants. A violent shudder. He tried to keep still, tried not to buck again, but he failed. His hips jerked up into yours, seeking friction like a starved man.

You smiled against his jaw, smug and sharp.

"Easy," you murmured. "You'll get what you want. Just not yet."

Your hands went to your belt, unbuckling with a slow flourish.

Bellamy's breath caught.

You let him undo the buttons of your pants. Let him slide his hands under the waistband like he was going to peel them open—

Until you grabbed both wrists and slammed them back down against the bedroll.

Swallowing thickly, his eyes widened.

You grinned. "You didn't think I'd let you off that easy, right?"

Before he could protest, you wrapped your belt around them. Tight, but not painful. Snug enough that he wasn’t going anywhere.

You vaguely heard him breathe out a curse, but you were too busy adjusting, sitting back on his thighs, shifting deliberately over the bulge straining in his cargo pants. Another mutter left him, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched like he was doing math in his head just to stay calm.

You stood.

His brows drew together. "Wait—"

Then your pants were at your knees.

And your underwear?

You peeled them off, nice and slow. Made a show of it. Then dropped the whole bundle right on his face.

Bellamy sputtered.

You laughed.

He turned his head, sputtering out fabric like he couldn't decide if he was humiliated or into it.

(He was into it. Very, very into it.)

By the time your garments slipped off his face, you were already crouched between his legs, unbuttoning his cargo pants. Your fingers dragged the zipper down, slow, deliberate. You didn't bother pulling them off completely. Just down enough to get access.

To see.

To feel.

Because the tent in his briefs was obscene. Thick. Desperate. Pulsing. A wet blemish at the very tip.

You slid forward and ground down against him again, your bare heat pressed around him through thin fabric.

His hips bucked, involuntary.

A pleased sigh left you, audible enough to watch his reaction.

His head fell back, chest arching.

Cupping his face again, you loomed over him, lips brushing against his, chaste.

Not for long.

You swiped your tongue against his bottom lip, coaxing—no, commanding—his mouth open. When he did, you took full advantage.

Shameless, you slid your tongue into his mouth, half-lidded eyes watching his reaction as you gathered his tongue in your mouth, wrapping your lips around it before sucking hard.

Completely wrecked.

You could tell by the way his hands strained against the belt, trying to grab you. The way his hips kept pushing up, chasing friction, craving your weight like a drug.

And when you pulled back?

A dazed look met yours.

You weren't done. Not even close.

"Did you think about all this?" You couldn't help but ask as you grabbed his jaw again, tipping his head back.

He didn't have a chance to answer.

Not when you let a string of spit slip from your mouth into his.

You watched it land.

Watched his throat bob as he swallowed it down without thinking.

And you felt it—how he hardened even more underneath you, cock straining against the fabric, painful to remain untouched.

"God," he groaned. "Please—"

You didn't let him finish.

You kissed him again, tongue filthy, claiming his mouth like you owned it. Like you owned him. Your nails scraped down his sides, fingers sliding beneath the waistband of his briefs.

No more games.

You dragged his briefs down, slow enough to savor the sight of his cock springing free—hard, flushed, already leaking at the tip. The head tapped against your dripping heat as you moved to straddle him again.

No hesitation.

Didn't need to. Already wet, aching.

You sank down onto him in one smooth motion, tight heat stretching around him, swallowing him whole.

Eyes rolling back, he let out a ragged, shaky moan.

You paused with him fully inside you, walls fluttering around his length, clenching without mercy.

Sweat plastering his curls to his forehead, a flush rising in his cheeks, he was completely wrecked.

And you?

You looked down at him like a feast. Chest heaving. Smirk curling your lips. Fingers splayed across his pecs, groping, grinding down slow.

"You wanted this," you whispered, rolling your hips just enough to make him groan. "Could've had anyone, but you said my name, right?"

He nodded desperately, the belt around his wrists creaking.

"Good," you murmured. "Then you better take what I give you."

You leaned in and dragged your tongue across his jaw again, whispering filth into his skin as you rode him—slow at first, then faster. Deeper. Making sure every thrust, every squeeze knocked a sound out of him.

He had no control now.

Not with his hands tied, not with your pace, not with your mouth licking and biting at every inch of skin you could reach. Not when you kissed him like you wanted his tongue down your throat.

Bellamy Blake had no idea what he was in for.

But he would learn tonight.

Thighs trembling, you pushed past the ache and slammed your hips down over and over again, the sound of wet skin on skin making you flush.

Or maybe it was the way his cock buried inside you, thick, pulsing, stretching you full until your head spun.

Ugh. Of course he'd have a nice dick.

It drove you crazy, the way the fat head of his cock teased against that sweet, devastating spot deep inside. Your hole instinctively clenched around him, greedy and slick and wanting more. And from the way Bellamy groaned beneath you—shameless, teeth gritted, brow furrowed as he concentrated on not finishing early though his eyes never left the place where your bodies met—you knew it was driving him feral too.

"Holy shit," he hissed out a whisper.

You leaned forward, angling your hips, chasing that perfect spot. The insides of your thighs strained, a delicious burn. Your forehead brushed his—

A shift.

Body pitching forward, you blinked in surprise as a pressure at your back pressed your chest against his, arms trapped between the two of you.

A pressure at your back.

Still bound at the wrist with your belt, Bellamy had moved his arms down and around you. Tight. Using the strength of his forearms, the position, to trap you.

Exactly where he wanted you.

"Bell," you breathed shakily, half warning, half want.

He just turned his head until his lips brushed your ear, voice dropping like gravel as he said,

"Got you now."

Oh, fuck.

Before you could even try to regain your footing—

Your body bounced with his thrust. Not fast. Not jack-rabbit wild.

Deep.

He rocked up into you with precision, each thrust pushing every inch of his cock inside. The belt strained at your back, his forearms wrapped tight around your waist as leverage.

And when he shifted his hips just slightly, hitting that spot head-on?

"Fuuuck," tore from your throat, raw, raspy as you clung to him, breath coming in stutters with every roll of his hips, nails digging into the muscle of his pecs. Almost instinctively, your body rocked with his, matching his mind-numbing rhythm.

Truthfully?

You didn't mind.

Your thighs had begun to burn, your knees aching, your stamina shot from the earlier pace. This? This was good. This let you feel everything. Every inch. Every drag. Every pulse of heat and stretch and need.

Bellamy moaned under his breath, words slurred with lust. "God, your so fucking tight."

You clenched around him just to hear the broken sound he made.

Slow and deep and punishing, his cock mercilessly hit that devastating angle, your bodies locked together so close there wasn’t even space for air—skin sliding and suctioning with a noise that would've made you cringe if you weren't focused on that low, growing pressure deep in your belly.

His thrusts stuttered, and you could tell he was getting close.

Moving your hand out between your bodies, you found his cheek. Cupped it.

His eyes snapped to yours instantly, wide and dark, pupils blown.

You dragged his face to yours, kissed him deep, greedy, sucking on his tongue like you had earlier.

Kissed him like he was the last good thing left on Earth.

Unconsciously, your hole squeezed with pleasure, and he groaned into your mouth, loud, desperate.

Full-body tremble.

His warmth spilled into you as he came, your own orgasm slicking him up further as the two of you shuddered. You swallowed his sounds down your throat like it was yours to keep, and he kissed you back, wild and messy like he wasn't ready to let go of the high just yet.

You were drunk on it. On him.

His arms stayed wrapped around you, belt still tight, bodies still tangled. And for the first time since hitting the ground, you didn't push him away.

Not when he panted beneath you like that, hearts pounding in sync.

Not when you felt full in every sense of the word.

You stayed there, pressed to his chest, still joined.

And Bellamy—silent, for once—just held you.

You had no idea what camp would see that next morning, but you got the full play-by-play from your friends at breakfast.

Bellamy, shirt inside-out, belt coiled in one hand, and most notably: walking just a little funny, rubbing at his lower back with a pleased smirk.

#omg Mimi #I need more sub bellamy tbh #ceces reccs #cece reblogs #bellamy blake #bellamy blake x reader

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