#and please NO SCATT QUESTIONS

[cumcov3redangel]

You have such a nice ass! Do you do anal often? Can’t stop thinking about fucking your tight ass after seeing those pics on twitter

No unfortunately I don’t get my ass fucked NEARLY as much as I want due to my IBS flares ;(

[incognito-lionbeast]

Aftercare (And Maybe More?)

The truth beyond all other truths is that I write things so that I can be Really Very Silly. Anyway, follow-up to that smut I posted earlier. (This one is just suggestive & not explicit)

Series: Scum Villain’s Self-Saving System Pairing: Mobei-Jun/Shang Qinghua Ao3 Summary: After having given Shang Qinghua the dicking-down of his life, Mobei-Jun tries with some difficulty to be a loving and considerate partner. It works! Mostly. --------------------------------------------------------------------

Cleanup was such a confusing, awkward affair. In stages, Shang Qinghua first experienced the very special sort of grief that can only accompany the sight of a partner’s freshly re-dressed silhouette leaving them behind. Mobei-Jun had spoken a single word at the time: “Towel.” Cryptic as that was, Shang Qinghua wasn’t sure what to do with it, so he sat—any followup questions drowned out by the door sliding shut. Thus, the second stage came as a wave of surprise and embarrassment, huddled miserably and rather foolishly at the corner of his bed like an abandoned, sticky puppy.

As promised, Mobei-Jun had returned, toting both towels and a surprise newcomer: a clean sheet! Suddenly, the one-word reply made sense, but that only made Shang Qinghua feel all the more foolish, shrinking into his shoulders when Mobei-Jun approached. Positively cherry-red, Shang Qinghua stared anywhere and everywhere but his king’s face, yet found that his tepid attempt to grab a towel was thwarted by Mobei-Jun’s still very cold hands. The demon leveled his face closer, brows crimped together with one of Shang Qinghua’s wrists firmly held as if suddenly afraid he might bolt.

“...have I offended you?” Mobei-Jun asked, having entered the room earlier in a rather good mood. Yet, it seemed perhaps his imagination had been wrong after all? How vexing.

“Er–uh, no! No, my king,” Shang Qinghua stammered, gently pat-patting the vice-grip upon his wrist with a free hand. Never had he been so aware that he was still naked. “No, I mean it. I promise. I just—”

Wasn’t expecting you to come back? No, he definitely couldn’t say that.

—can do this myself? Well, true, but that still felt like the wrong answer here. Was Mobei-Jun really intent to help him clean up? Shang Qinghua felt a second wave of flustering bashfulness take hold, praying to any god that might listen to not allow him the vitality to get hard again. Please. Absently, he caressed the back of Mobei-Jun’s hand, still slightly at loss on a response, but a quick glance told him that his king was, once again, becoming impatient. Spoiled, always. So, Shang Qinghua–so used to groveling by now–erred on the side of pathetic, summoning up the strength to stare with upturned brows at Mobei-Jun’s collar (and not a centimeter higher! God help him!).

“I guess it’s a human thing,” he explained. “To be a little embarrassed after, uh…   It’s nothing. It’s fine. Thank you. Er, not for that—for the towel!—but I guess thanks for that, too.”

He needed to stop talking. Desperately.

Yet, Mobei-Jun’s grip loosened and his expression relaxed back to its normal icy demeanor. ‘Good,’ it seemed to say. Although he hardly understood, embarrassed was better than the alternative, ignoring Shang Qinghua’s second attempt to grab a towel from him. He could try all he liked–and make all sorts of interesting sounds–but his king was determined, pressing the chill, damp towel against his lover’s body with all the tenderness a ruthless demon lord could muster. Not an easy task, but one Mobei-Jun attempted diligently, pausing only when Shang Qinghua gasped especially sharply. In pain? He wondered, but Shang Qinghua neither flinched nor attempted to stop him. So, he simply cataloged the noise for future investigation.

With most of the sticky unpleasantness wiped from Shang Qinghua’s body, Mobei-Jun discarded the towel. Really quite satisfied with his handiwork—he was earning a good grade in human husbandry, for sure!—he had only just begun reaching to collect the scattered remnants of Shang Qinghua’s robes when the man in question finally objected.

“My king, I can dress myself. There’s no need for you to–” Did Cucumber-bro suffer like this, too?! His demon partner was really only half, but that bizarre Anti of his had made Luo Binghe so much worse. He couldn’t fathom handling that nannying crybaby if Shen Qingqiu was just as attracted to Luo Binghe as he was to…

Mobei-Jun frowned, but acquiesced with a counter-demand. “Then get up.”

Ah.

Right, was that better? A little more normal, anyway. Shang Qinghua scrambled off of the bed, snatching several pieces of clothing and hoarding them to his chest like his life depended on it. Far be it from him to complain about being treated well, but this was Mobei-Jun not Luo Binghe. It was a bit jarring even if it was nice, and though maybe the idea of going for a second round was appealing in its own right– One thing at a time. Later. Maybe. He’d really like to.

Once fully dressed, Shang Qinghua’s confidence returned to him. After those precious few minutes spent finagling with his robes, he couldn’t help notice that his bedsheet had been torn asunder and swapped for a new one. Ah. Well, he couldn’t give Mobei-Jun full marks for tidiness or presentation, but he was startlingly efficient. And he still hadn’t left, either, seated upon the bed regally. Waiting for something. Him, maybe? Mobei-Jun’s stare was piercing, nearly making the reclamation of his robes feel irrelevant. Still, a tad more daring now, Shang Qinghua settled at his side, considering heavily the risks of taking Mobei-Jun’s lap instead.

He thought better of it. For now.

“Do not thank me.” Mobei-Jun added decisively.

“Hm? Oh– okay?” Shang Qinghua tilted his head. Was this about the sex or the bedsheets? Probably not a ‘both’ this time, he surmised, inching just slightly closer. Maybe if he looked confused enough, then Mobei-Jun would clarify for himself.

“It wasn’t a favour. Do not thank me,” he repeated, now with slightly more context! Then, Mobei-Jun held a hand out expectantly, seeming to struggle with the action the longer it remained unanswered. In the moment’s hesitation it took for Shang Qinghua to understand, Mobei-Jun had already fought several battles with himself (and seemingly the rest of the world, too). His hand twitched, bound to the spot by sheer willpower. Frankly, it was a little funny, but eventually Shang Qinghua caught on—well, he hoped he had?—settling his own hand into Mobei-Jun’s open palm. Holding it.

Even if that was somehow the wrong answer, the hand stopped twitching, so Shang Qinghua decided he was probably right. It was then that Mobei-Jun hit him with a verbal truck.

“...Daddy.”

Shang Qinghua couldn’t decide whether he wanted to laugh, cry, or die in a hole somewhere. Simultaneously, that one word was everything he wanted and didn’t want at all! He was gobsmacked. Well, part of him was proud, too. Vindicated, even. Yet, that part was quickly overshadowed by horror, still somehow unable to meet Mobei-Jun’s searching gaze with anything other than a scandalised blank stare. Now was not the time to start listening to the stupid shit he’d said angrily, okay? Not right after they’d–  

Daddy kink was not an option here!! Too real! Way too real!

“My king…” How to word this? Shang Qinghua laughed awkwardly. “I was– no need to call me that, really! Really, really. I was spouting so much stupid shit back then, I– I was just angry! It felt like you didn’t respect me at all, so I wasn’t thinking straight. How could I ask you to call me something like that? ”

Yet, that was not the response Mobei-Jun wanted. Rather, to Shang Qinghua’s continued shock and awe, he looked a little… disappointed? It was hard to tell through the frost, but there was a glimmer of something sad etched just underneath that first layer, prompting Shang Qinghua to lean in just a little closer. Shit, don’t tell him it’s too late? Or, rather, don’t tell him that Mobei-Jun, one of the most fearsome demons in all three realms, suddenly wanted to call him Daddy? Unthinkable. Shouldn’t that be humiliating for a demon like him??

“Shizun?” Mobei-Jun tried a second time.

Now that one wasn’t right to either of them, but he was not a demon with much in the way of creative naming capabilities. Not much unlike the man sitting beside him, really. Yet, he was determined to get something special out of this. After all, he’d officially claimed Shang Qinghua as his; that was his right and privilege.

Shang Qinghua balked, “Absolutely not. Where did you– never mind, I know where. My king, please. If you want a pet name so badly, call me—!”

Call him what, exactly? He blinked, realising for the first time that he’d never actually given the character “Shang Qinghua” a birth name… or Mobei-Jun, for that matter. It’d never felt important, so he’d taken the easy way out and simply never bothered with it. After all, “Shang Qinghua” was just supposed to be some cannon-fodder nobody. Although admittedly, searching through his memories, it was uncanny how the world around him had gotten away without even acknowledging that fact! It was always “gege” or “gongzi” or things like “Shang-Shidi” or even occasionally “An Ding Peak Lord” — or, hell, Cucumber-bro just called him Airplane.

And that name was definitely out—not like Mobei-Jun knew what an “airplane” was, anyway—and he had to think of Mobei-Jun’s image! Someone had to. So, “Great Master” felt like a little too much, though incredibly tempting. So, under Mobei-Jun’s intense evaluation, Shang Qinghua settled on a rather personal title. One he hadn’t heard in a while.

“Yuan, call me Yuan. It’s, uh, my real name. My birth name, I mean. No one else uses it,” Shang Yuan quickly reassured. “I don’t think anyone else actually knows it, to be honest…”

After a moment’s consideration—Shang Yuan yelped, dragged mercilessly into Mobei-Jun’s lap. Then, with such imminent satisfaction that Shang Yuan suddenly felt a bit proud and a bit embarrassed (again), Mobei-Jun agreed:

“Yuan.”

[akkkkollle]

Dear Akkkollle,

I have a request could you do super masochist Omega Mikey x super sadist alpha male reader where the read goes in to rut and make it super dirty smut ?

With these kinks: Spanking, Biting/marking, first time dry orgasm, Knotting, Nipple play.

Also could you have the reader call Mikey princess too please ?

Thank youfor hearing me out 🙂

Pairing: Omega!Mikey × Alpha!M!Reader.

Words: 1000+.

CW/TW: biting, dry orgasm, nipple play, knooting, spanking, size difference, denial of orgasm, cum inside, "Princess".

- M/N, just relax, okay? - he whispers, playing with your fingers on your left hand. - You know you can just fuck me, I don't mind.

-That's the problem, Mikey. - you pull your hand back, making him whine.

-Drop this idea, you're going to have this soon, honey, you need to have sex. - he smiles, and you sigh heavily.

- Are you sure you agree? - he nods.

A few minutes later.

Two completely naked bodies are lying on the bed. Your hands press him to the mattress, pressing your lips into his. He just whimpers, wrapping his legs around your waist, his hands tangled in your hair as he pulls you to his face.

You pull away, lowering your head lower, already kissing and biting his neck, he swallows when you bite the area between his shoulder and neck and sobs, feeling how you literally bite through his flesh.

- Why? You did it before... - he asks, but then he screams feeling a slap on his ass.

- I will mark you as much as I want, don't ask stupid questions. - you lick his blood, feeling the taste of metal on your tongue. - Everyone should know that this princess is mine, don't you agree?

He makes a sound like "Uh-huh", while sobbing, feeling your lips almost at his penis. He twitches negligibly right in front of your nose and you teasingly lick the tip, from which he raises his legs.

-How small you are, princess. - you're chuckling, making him snort.

- You're too big.

At the same moment, he moans, feeling your fingers on his penis, and your mouth on his right nipple. His hands cling to your hair as his legs wrap around your body, pulling you closer, which immediately makes him feel a slap that makes him moan even harder.

He whimpers when you start pulling his nipple with your teeth, biting it. He feels the imminent approach of orgasm, he violently jerks his hips in your grip, trying to cum faster.

A loud moan escapes from his lips, and then a sob as tears flow down his face. You pull away from his chest, chuckling. He's still hard, there are only a few drops of pre-cum on your hands.

His cheeks are covered with even more blush and tears flow down them when he sees the way you look at him. You lower your hand lower, circling his fluttering hole, feeling how wet he is. He jerks his hips impatiently and immediately feels another slap. He swallows, whimpering.

-Princess, be patient. I need to enjoy your pathetic appearance. - he nods, biting his lip, no longer trusting his own voice. - I've never seen you have a dry orgasm, you're just a priceless sight right now.

He whimpers a quiet "Please" that can barely be heard. You just roll your eyes and direct your dick into his wet, mucus-filled hole. He groans from stretching, and then from the pain when you immediately start moving.

His hands grab onto your shoulders, his nails dig into your skin as you grab onto his thigh, going much deeper, hitting his prostate.

A low growl escapes from your lips when you feel his ass squeezing around you, making the feeling even better. He licks his lips, pulling you to him, as a result of which you collide with his shoulder. He whispers a quiet "Please" again, but this time there is an extraordinary desperation in him. You bite his shoulder, making him moan and twitch his hips.

His black eyes are tightly closed while crystal tears flow from them. His face is absolutely red, although it is impossible to even think that a person can blush like that. His lips are bitten with anticipation. And his blond, usually gathered hair, scattered all over the pillow.

- M/N, please, I'm going to cum now..! - he shouts when you suck his neck.

- Nope. - you squeeze his whole penis, which makes him whimper loudly. - We'll come together, okay, can you stand it, princess?

He nods quickly while crying even harder. He feels like he's ready to cum right now, you just need to let go of his cock, but you obviously won't do it. You're still nibbling on his neck, although you are well aware that tomorrow he will look, to put it mildly, not very good in the neck and shoulders.

He can feel you twitching in him. He squeezes his legs even tighter, pressing you closer and stronger to him. He feels another slap when you unclench your hand, and squeezing you, he comes with a loud moan that echoed through the room. And you come with him.

- Damn, you came inside me. So warm... - he whines, squeezing your hair.

-This isn't the end, Princess. - he looks at you questioningly, and you just grin, making a lunge, making him whimper.

[silvereyed-rose]

Da Rules

No god moding. Dont be a dick.

 No vore, scatt or piss. The more taboo kinks can be discussed via IM

I am VERY slow about replies and will take time to get them out. Please do not pester me about them. If its been 3 days and you have not seen me ‘LIKE’ the post, contact me.

No art is mine unless specified otherwise

I am in CST time zone and do my major writing 7pm-1am when Im not working.

You MUST tag all NSFW and put it under a ‘read more’. If you are a mobile user, put [[ MORE ]] to do this. Posts must be cut after 4-5 replies, depending on reply length

I REALLY prefer single/multi-paragraph replies. Its not required, but I would like you to TRY to match my reply length. Its just really aggravating to put so much work into a reply to only get 2 sentences.

NO SHIP/CHARACTER HATE. I am a ship whore support EVERY SINGLE SHIP

That being said, I probably ship our muses

Regarding OCs. I REALLY like them to have a good bio, FC, and just be ready to answer questions and asks. I love supporting OCs but I cant do anything if youre not ready

If im not interested in your OC, please dont take it personally. Its nothing against you. I just have to feel that spark.

If I follow you and you make a post about being upset or sad, I will IM you and ask you if you are ok. I dont like people being sad so I want to help you how ever you let me.

I have my own issues and insecurities.

[thistleandthorn-rpg]

**Special acceptance due to a litany of failures on Mack’s part**

Congrats Lexi on your audition for Fiona Hudson! Please check out this page for what to do next and send us her blog within 48 hours. Welcome to the group!

OOC INFORMATION:

Name/Alias: Lexi Preferred pronoun: She/Her Age: 28 Timezone/Country: GMT RP Experience: 10+ years Activity Level: 8/10

IC INFORMATION:

Name: Fiona Hudson Designation:: submissive Age: 23 Faceclaim: Anna Kendrick Birthday: December 3 Orientation: Bisexual Kinks: pain play, shibari, bondage, marking, pretty much everything Anti-Kinks: scatt, piss, gore.

BIO:

Fiona couldn’t really remember a time before Burt Hummel and his children had joined their family. She had never known her biological father yet she often dreamed of him. His face would come to her in the night and when she’d wake, she was never sure if it was a dream or a memory. As she got older, her fathers face would fade, despite how hard she tried to keep it in her mind.

As Fiona got older, she found herself struggling to keep up with the others in her classes. She was a day dreamer, often staring out of the window, rather than at the blackboard. Often she would get in trouble for her lack of focus and although it was a problem, her eagerness to please and the fact that when she did manage to focus on a task, she was capable of performing extremely well meant that she was able to get through school.

After high school, Fiona returned to the Hummel Hudson home. She spent her time with movies and books and music and making a mess of the Hummel Hudson kitchen with her baking, never really getting involved in anything beyond her little family. She was satisfied. But as she got older, she could see her Mom was not. Carol fretted about her and that in turn upset Fiona. So she packed up her books and all her childish things and set out for the Academy. She just hopes that her family will look out for her while she’s there, after all, she’s a little young for her age and not the brightest spark.

BIO QUESTIONS:

What are your feelings about the mark you have received?

My feelings are happy and lovely and wonderful. I like being a submissive. I like serving and making people happy and I think it’s rather a lot easier than being a Dominant would be. Or a switch.

How do your feelings on the system compare to your parents’ feelings on it?

My Mom gets really worried about how things will work out for us in this world. I don’t worry so much. Whatever will be, will be, you know? I’m pretty sure I’ll be okay.

Where do you see yourself in 10 years?  

I’ll be 33. So I guess I hope I’ll be claimed, in a happy little family like the one I grew up in. Maybe with a puppy and a kitten and a baby to read stories to. Yeah. That;d be nice.

Describe what terrifies you the most.

Being without an imagination. Whatever would I do if I couldn’t escape to my head? If I couldn’t picture what things could or should be? It’s scares me just to think about it, honestly.

[naivety]

Hollow Lives

Post 4x07, Gimme Shelter. Some aftermath contemplation. A lot of angst. Bellamy is struggling, Monty is a nice younger sibling, Kane is a conflicted muffin, Murphy is a sunshine, and Clarke is a wonderful person who wants to help.

Fandom: The 100 Words: 2565 Chapters: 1/? Characters: Bellamy Blake, Monty Green, Marcus Kane, Clarke Griffin

On AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/10417977/chapters/23005041 On fanfiction.net: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12416826/1/Hollow-Lives

A/N: Still not okay. Spoilers for 4x07, Gimme Shelter. Post 4x07, Gimme Shelter. Companion piece to Hollow Lungs. Rated T for dark themes, some self harm-ish. The lyrics are from Dean Lewis - Waves.

There is a swelling storm And I'm caught up in the middle of it all And it takes control Of the person that I thought I was The boy I used to know

But there is a light In the dark And I feel its warmth In my hands In my heart Why can't I hold on?

It doesn't feel like the last time. An ache, all encompassing, like he's being split in two, shredded to ribbons and left in the winds. Fire, ice, burrowing from his chest and radiating outward through his veins, a screaming deep in his lungs so loud in his head no amount of sobbing could release the tension.

There's no panic, no freight train of scattered emotion, no onslaught so heavy his own legs can't hold him up anymore.

There's just...

Emptiness.

The bursts of activity around him don't register to his sightless gaze, voices reduced to mindless buzzing in his ears. He feels weighted, tethered to the earth, yet also lost, disjointed, foundation-less. Skin is too taught around his bones, a shell too small to contain whatever it is that writhes inside him, snuffing out. Dying.

But it's not like it was before. It's dull, distant, small and large, light and heavy all at once.

And an itch sprouting over his mind, his neck, his arms, incessant. It's all he can feel for a fleeting moment before the nothing returns to swallow him whole.

Nothing and everything.

An itch.

"Bellamy."

Dark, warm eyes nestled below black bangs, sorrow stirring in hesitant movements, pity.

"You're going to hurt yourself."

A pause, and he blinks, confusion only adding to his drifting thoughts. The warm gaze darts down and he follows the line of sight until he sees red.

Dark and glistening in the low lights of what is left of the Ark, smeared across his forearm in small ditches.

You're going to hurt yourself.

As if he hasn't already.

But he stops himself, stilling the impulse to scratch until the nothing and everything goes away by locking his hands together, bloody fingertips digging into tendon and bone.

The warmth shifts from in front of him to his right, so close its knee knocks against his.

"...Can I take a look at that?"

He swallows the stone in his throat, twitching against the urge to just get up and leave, pace the room full of bodies until the itch and the nothing and the everything melts away, to just leave the camp and never come back, let the universe decide what should or shouldn't happen to him.

Warm fingers brush against his arm and he flinches at the contact but doesn't pull away. Questions bore into his skull, burning, but he doesn't meet them. Instead he just lets the fingers encircle his wrist and lift, twisted but not painfully so Monty can get a better look at the damage.

He wonders if there's any part of him Monty can see that isn't damaged.

"Kane said the rain got through your suit?" More questions, still burning, but he gives Monty the courtesy of nodding. "Your fingernails did more damage than the rain. I think you'll be okay."

He nods again, free hand curling into a fist, the itch crawling further up the limb he hadn't gotten to relieve yet. Blood is cleansing. Blood stains. A paradox that he doesn't want to explore.

The warmth of Monty disappears and leaves him chilled, goosebumps trailing down his spine until he shivers. He drops his gaze back to his arm, watching the red as it beads on the angry marks and drips down, collecting for a moment before dropping to the floor.

He wonders what Clarke is doing right now.

And the warmth suddenly returns to his side, gentle hands taking his arm once again, this time with wrappings brushing against his skin. A canteen, his arm pulled further away from his body, and water washing away the red to reveal each and every rut that follows his veins.

He put them there.

Blood is cleansing.

The bandages are soft and thin as they cover his moment of weakness, hidden from the world that doesn't care.

Blood stains.

Maybe every moment for him is a moment of weakness.

"You'll be okay, Bellamy," Monty repeats, and Bellamy knows he's not just talking about his arm.

And he discovers that is what does hurt. Everything else is numb, tingly, itching, but not that.

He'll be okay.

While Octavia is dead or suffering alone.

And he's supposed to be okay with that? The sting slowly blooming over his chest begs to differ. He pulls his arm close to the pain, listening to the slow and steady breathing of the body next to his.

He doesn't know who he is if he's not Octavia's brother. He's never had to be anything else.

My sister, my responsibility. The very air he breathes.

Is that why every breath feels like water, thick and heavy to inhale, sloshing around in his lungs and burning as they leave?

If there wasn't a looming apocalypse, if every able body wasn't necessary for their potential survival, he could just-

No.

He shoves that twisted, selfish thought into the dark recesses of his mind for another time when he can actually afford to think it.

The warmth moves away as Monty suddenly stands, hovering close by but wanting to leave. When Bellamy sees Harper huddled between the cots with her head in her hands, he knows why.

"Monty," he says, ignoring the way his voice creaks like a rusted door on its hinges. The warm eyes meet his, clear, kind, without judgment. As always.

Monty is one of the reasons why he'll stay.

"Thanks."

A smile tugs at the corner of Monty's young face, a rarity these days. "We should be the ones thanking you. For keeping us alive as long as you have."

Thank you. For keeping me alive.

He looks at the floor, throat working.

I can't protect anyone.

"...I'm not the only one who's done that," is all he can say, words dropping from his tongue like lead. He thinks of eyes glistening like the sun on the ocean, hair lighter and more golden than the sand.

"I know... But there would be a lot less of us still breathing right now without you." And with that, Monty disappears into the quiet motion of the people, finding Harper at the center and joining her on the floor.

Monty is one of the many reasons why he'll stay.

"Bellamy."

He glances up, to the radio station and the man sitting next to it. Kane's face is soft but contemplative; he's still thinking about what Bellamy said to him.

You floated my mother.

He doesn't know if he regrets saying it or not.

"It's Clarke."

A second of his thoughts running into each other, the world slowing down as his heart speeds up, mouth going dry, fingers trembling-

The radio in Kane's hand is proffered in his direction. He blinks, confusion once again clouding his head, but then he understands and he's pushing himself to his feet and nearly stumbling over as the blood rushes from his face.

Kane makes a move to grab him, but hesitates, thinking better of it and opting just to stand there, stiff as a board. Bellamy almost feels sorry for him. But he's too tired to feel much of anything other than the itch and the nothing and the everything.

"Thanks," he says once again, making sure he meets Kane's eyes when he says it. Kane just nods, eyes still sad like they always are, and offers the seat to Bellamy. He takes it and the radio.

He gives himself a few moments to just sit there, elbow planted on the table and hand over his eyes, breaths washing in and out of his lungs.

"Hello?" crackles over the line and he instinctively lifts the radio to his mouth, finger already pressing down on the button.

A breath.

"Yeah, I'm here."

"Bellamy." Her relief slips through the speaker and falls like a blanket over him, muscles he didn't even realize were bunched tight loosening. "Are you okay?"

You'll be okay, Bellamy.

The muscles tense again, and his arms itch.

"Can we... talk about what's going on over there?"

He knows she can hear the unspoken please ringing in his words, even through a radio.

It's pathetic, right?

"Uh, yeah. Of course," she says after a pause, and he can hear her glancing around, thinking of the different things she has to talk about. A beat, then her voice again. "Did you know Murphy can cook?"

His eyebrows tick up at that. "What?"

"Yeah, and he can read too."

A genuine smile cracks open his lips. "Good for him," he says, and he means it.

He hears a faint 'hey Bellamy' and a small huff of laughter from Clarke. "He says 'hey'."

"Hey Murphy," he replies, smile still stuck to his face. "You guys staying out of trouble?"

"...As much as we ever can down here," she says, but she took too long to respond and his smile has already vanished, replaced by pinched brows and his fingers twitching for something other than the radio to cling to. "We're okay."

Good.

That's good.

He swallows and nods at no one, free hand tapping the table absently, anxiety tempered but still there.

"They have showers here."

He breathes a stuttering laugh at that, imagining water warmed by electricity, shining chrome, actual soap, shampoo, a hot spray of water against his back.

"What was that like?"

"Heavenly," she answers, smile audible in the static. It's contagious. "They also have actual beds. Mine has like ten pillows on it."

'Don't forget the pool' rings faintly in the background and his eyebrows raise once again.

"There's a pool?" he says, not bothering to hide his incredulity.

"Yeah, there's a pool."

"Sounds like you guys got all the fun toys," he pipes, going for levity but finds his gaze wandering the cavernous room and the hurting people scattered throughout it, the image of a pool and showers and beds clashing with the raw misery around him.

"You'll have to get over here and see it for yourself," her voice breaks through the line like water over rocks but quieter, the sentiment of her words clogging his throat.

I wish you were here.

He wishes he was there too.

But as always, his people, and the world, needs him here, doing whatever he can do to save everyone.

As always.

He suddenly feels very very tired and just lets gravity hunch him further in his seat, breath seeping slowly out of his lungs, the only thing keeping his head up being his hand braced against his forehead. Every drop of sweat stings, every smear of mud a burning imprint searing his mind, every ache and pain gathered in the past who knows how long flaring and making themselves known, no longer content to be ignored.

His eyelids feel heavier than eyelids should feel.

"You did good, Bellamy," she whispers, strong and sure and quiet like she always is. She's only human, he knows, but sometimes she seems unshakable. He needs her strength like he needs air, yet he's too tired to actually want it.

All I've done so far is not get killed.

He stares at the bandage around his arm, studying the blossoms of red on the white.

Keep doing that.

He's not sure he wants to.

He's not sure what he wants.

He presses his fingertips against his eyelids until stars pop like flares across the blackness, hating the heat of moisture there, hating the strangled feeling rising in the back of his throat.

"Bellamy?"

"I'm still here," he rasps, thin, taking his finger off the button to clear his throat.

Silent seconds crawl by. Then the radio flares, her breathing slightly labored. She moved somewhere else. Away from the others.

"You can talk to me, Bellamy."

You don't have to do this alone.

A bitter pang in his heart that he chose not to feel in his head. Those words he gave to her long ago were like the very air being torn from his lungs, blood taken from his veins as an offering to help, and she dismissed them without a second thought.

I don't want to feel that way anymore.

He forgave her. Of course he forgave her. His heart is just slow to tackle what his head takes in stride.

"I know," he finally says, no other response forthcoming.

"Kane told me what happened." A pause, but her finger holds the button down for it. "He's worried about you."

Pained eyes, stiff movements unsteady in the mud. I'm sorry.

"I know."

People like you always are.

Maybe he and Kane weren't that different.

Maybe none of them were that different.

"Talk to me," she says, voice hushed and... pained.

"There's nothing to say, Clarke."

The itch is back, scratching and pulling at his arms, up his neck, behind his eyes.

"Say that you'll stay safe. Say that you'll stay alive."

He picks at the unmarred skin of his left arm and ignores the tremble rippling through each finger as he does so.

You can't save someone who doesn't want to be saved.

He thinks of Monty's kind eyes in the face of tragedy, Harper breaking in the shadows, Peter choking on his last breaths through the rain, Kane falling apart each time he can't put them back together. He thinks of Jasper, of Bryan, Miller, Raven, Murphy. He thinks of all the faceless people he never bothered to learn the names of yet would still die for without blinking.

He thinks of Clarke, hands clutched around a radio somewhere on an island, worried about him when two—maybe three—people died because he couldn't reach them.

His people.

He can't keep living just for them. Living for people he can't save.

But without O, he doesn't have anything other than these people to live for.

How can he care about nothing and everything all at once?

A paradox that he doesn't want to explore.

"I'll stay alive," he promises.

Whether he's deceiving her or himself, he doesn't know.

Kane's words sing like a mantra in his head, haunting, clinging to him, a second skin.

Nothing and everything.

You can't save someone who doesn't want to be saved.

An itch.

No. You can't.

And freedom And falling The feeling I thought was set in stone It slips through my fingers Trying hard to let go It comes and goes in waves It comes and goes in waves And carries us away

Through the wind Down to the place we used to lay when we were kids Memories of a stolen place Caught in the silence An echo lost in space

A/N: Still still not okay. Bob Morley and Bellamy Blake once again destroyed me. I'm glad Bell is hopefully letting go of Octavia, but like... he better not see himself as one of the people who can't/won't be saved. Clarke Griffin, Marcus Kane, and many delinquents will be coming for you, Blake, if that's the case.