[fic] delusions of grandeur
fic: delusions of grandeur
fandom: the 100
pairing: braven
summary: bellamy really wants to perform fellatio
word count: 590
recipient: upupa_epops (very late bday present my darling, ilu)
a/n: porn is the worst
[He knew his place in the world. No one could ever say otherwise.]
Despite what the hundred might think Bellamy Blake did not have delusions of grandeur. He knew his place in the world and what he could do about it.
In his mind, there was a difference between what you had the power to do and what was impossible.
It’s just that there wasn’t much he thought he couldn’t change. Here. On Earth. Here, he was a Leader and a Rebel and a Shooter.
He had always been a brother and that in itself was the most impossible thing he had ever done.
Everything else was just child’s play.
(Everything else was just circumstantial.
Okay, so he was the King now. So he was such an easy choice.)
Everything that is, except Raven Reyes.
There were certain things about Raven Reyes that were impossible.
He counted them out to himself to pass the time.
The way her thighs gripped his waist.
The way her face softened when she thought no one was looking.
The way she bit down on her lower lip, as if he couldn’t see, to stop herself from self-exposure.
The way she kept coming back night after night, her eyes full of fire - daring him to stop her.
The way the outline of her neck and jaw drove him crazy.
The way she walked away.
Every time.
This list was really just a distraction.
Because it wasn’t like any other girl in the world couldn’t do these things. They weren’t impossible, they were just Raven.
All the pieces of Raven that she allowed him to see, that never added up to a real person.
She was a shadow, a ghost.
A warrior in the daylight and soft panting in his ear in the dark.
She wasn’t impossible.
She was just so damn elusive.
Bellamy Blake did not have delusions of grandeur.
He was, however, developing a disturbing need to feel her thighs shaking on either side of his head as he tasted her.
Which is ridiculous, really.
Except when she catches her breath in his ear and there’s a slight moan, ragged and wanting underneath, and he can almost tell what it would be like. Her fingers tied up in his hair, pulling just a little too hard.
She’d laugh, he thinks one night just after she pulls her shirt over her head and stares up at him defiantly. Probably after he nipped her in the thigh a little too lightly and right as she arches her hips up to remind him that she’s waiting. She’d probably laugh. Low and throaty. Looking down at him or with her eyes closed.
She’d laugh and he’d feel it rumble beneath his fingers and he’ll smile.
She was built for laughing, he thinks once as he watches her head bend down over a pile of bullets or bombs or a rag-tag assortment of wires, he can see it right there in the corner of her mouth.
She never laughs now. It’s not in the rules. That’s not the game they are playing.
Tonight, last night, it is just skin on skin, frenzied and not at all rough in the ways he thinks she’d like it to be. Never at all soft in the ways he’d like to show her it could be.
And never, ever, have they laughed.
(But he thinks, sometimes when his hands glide up her thighs and she doesn’t stop his lips from lingering on that soft spot behind her ear that causes her pulse to leap, that maybe he could make her laugh.
And it’s the most impossible thing he’s ever wanted.)
fandom: the 100
pairing: braven
summary: bellamy really wants to perform fellatio
word count: 590
recipient: upupa_epops (very late bday present my darling, ilu)
a/n: porn is the worst
[He knew his place in the world. No one could ever say otherwise.]
Despite what the hundred might think Bellamy Blake did not have delusions of grandeur. He knew his place in the world and what he could do about it.
In his mind, there was a difference between what you had the power to do and what was impossible.
It’s just that there wasn’t much he thought he couldn’t change. Here. On Earth. Here, he was a Leader and a Rebel and a Shooter.
He had always been a brother and that in itself was the most impossible thing he had ever done.
Everything else was just child’s play.
(Everything else was just circumstantial.
Okay, so he was the King now. So he was such an easy choice.)
Everything that is, except Raven Reyes.
There were certain things about Raven Reyes that were impossible.
He counted them out to himself to pass the time.
The way her thighs gripped his waist.
The way her face softened when she thought no one was looking.
The way she bit down on her lower lip, as if he couldn’t see, to stop herself from self-exposure.
The way she kept coming back night after night, her eyes full of fire - daring him to stop her.
The way the outline of her neck and jaw drove him crazy.
The way she walked away.
Every time.
This list was really just a distraction.
Because it wasn’t like any other girl in the world couldn’t do these things. They weren’t impossible, they were just Raven.
All the pieces of Raven that she allowed him to see, that never added up to a real person.
She was a shadow, a ghost.
A warrior in the daylight and soft panting in his ear in the dark.
She wasn’t impossible.
She was just so damn elusive.
Bellamy Blake did not have delusions of grandeur.
He was, however, developing a disturbing need to feel her thighs shaking on either side of his head as he tasted her.
Which is ridiculous, really.
Except when she catches her breath in his ear and there’s a slight moan, ragged and wanting underneath, and he can almost tell what it would be like. Her fingers tied up in his hair, pulling just a little too hard.
She’d laugh, he thinks one night just after she pulls her shirt over her head and stares up at him defiantly. Probably after he nipped her in the thigh a little too lightly and right as she arches her hips up to remind him that she’s waiting. She’d probably laugh. Low and throaty. Looking down at him or with her eyes closed.
She’d laugh and he’d feel it rumble beneath his fingers and he’ll smile.
She was built for laughing, he thinks once as he watches her head bend down over a pile of bullets or bombs or a rag-tag assortment of wires, he can see it right there in the corner of her mouth.
She never laughs now. It’s not in the rules. That’s not the game they are playing.
Tonight, last night, it is just skin on skin, frenzied and not at all rough in the ways he thinks she’d like it to be. Never at all soft in the ways he’d like to show her it could be.
And never, ever, have they laughed.
(But he thinks, sometimes when his hands glide up her thighs and she doesn’t stop his lips from lingering on that soft spot behind her ear that causes her pulse to leap, that maybe he could make her laugh.
And it’s the most impossible thing he’s ever wanted.)