Shape of You

You Center Me

It was mid-August before Clarke felt worthy of Bellamy's love again. She hated that it took her seven weeks to accept everything that happened that afternoon wasn't her fault. He—Carl Emerson—is sick and needs help. Any man who thinks he has the right to touch a woman without her consent is certainly out of his mind and in need of help.

She smiled at the thought and opened the door of the apartment from a mind numbing day at work to find Bellamy grading quizzes, she seriously hates summer school because it stresses him out more than regular school did. His inky hair was a mess, his fingers combing and yanking it every which way, his red pen tapping against his bottom teeth, a tell that he was annoyed with the quiz answers.

Clarke knew what she had to do, she's been wanting to do it since she woke up that morning with such surety that even if she changed her mind, she was sure that her body would do it on impulse.

He hadn't noticed her yet so she snuck up behind him and when she was directly behind him, she pulled the pen from his fingers and lips and as he turned to look at her, she leaned down and their lips met, slightly off center, but all that really mattered was that she wasn't freaking out over being touched by someone—by Bellamy.

She wanted more, she wanted to see how far she could push herself, if there were any limits she had with Bellamy after Emerson. She pushed him against the back of the chair and climbed into his lap before parting her lips and Bellamy warily licked into her mouth. Clarke sighed, she still wanted more, she needed more of him and she didn't want to wait for him to realize she's truly okay with what's going on. She's in control, it's what she needed.

"Clarke, wait," he said in between kisses but she pressed on, pulling at the hem of his t-shirt. "Clarke, please."

She pulled back and looked at him, slightly embarrassed that she practically attacked him but also not even remotely close to regretting it as he cupped her cheek.

"Are you okay? You didn't take anything to make your worries disappear for a few hours? Is there even a drug that does that?"

Clarke chuckled, loving that he was worried about her. It's Bellamy, he's always worried about the people he loves and she's finally accepting that she's one of them. "There's weed, which could have that effect on people but I haven't taken anything, I'm just accepting that I can't control everything. That Emerson wasn't my fault and in the aftermath of that, I pushed you away again. I don't want to push you away."

He smiled, placing his hands on her waist gingerly, "I'm not going anywhere."

"You can say that now, but you can change your mind too."

"It's been years, Clarke. I'm pretty sure it's not going to change."

"I know you're busy, but if you need a break..." she shrugged, biting her lip.

"Yeah, I could use a break. Where—"

"Bedroom," she suggested and Bellamy, without warning, moved his hands from her waist to her ass and lifted her as he stood, his chair flew back onto the floor and he carried her to his—their—bedroom, depositing her on the bed.

"You're amazing, you know that?"

Clarke rolled her eyes, "I—"

"What is it?"

Clarke grimaced, "I don't exactly know. I know I want to be with you and everything that entails, but I don't know how to get there. It's like I forgot or..."

"You're nervous. I am too. We don't have to do anything now or today, we have time. We have all the time in the world."

"I want to, but I don't want to freak out on you because of what he did."