smelly tags are smelly

i'm hers and she's mine [1/1]

dedicated  to keywordlydia for being amazing and listening to me waffle on. wetbellamyblake because i like tagging her in these things. hooksandheroics guess what i did?

warnings: smut, perhaps could be viewed as dubious consent, with like a heavy filter… it is a sex pollen fic


Sometimes Clarke hated being polite, sometimes she just wanted to say no, I want to go back to my tent and sleep for a couple of days. But sometimes, life didn’t work like that, sometimes you just have to man up and do the right thing. Still, when you get stuck get stuck in this situation, you just want to be back in your own bed, curled beneath a tattered blanket trying not to think of Bellamy Blake… wait, what? No, just relaxing, just relax and do nothing for once.

So here she was, seated on a lavish chair with Bellamy kneeling beside her, a clay plate piled high with strange fruits that Clarke had never seen before. It was so strange to be seated with this group of Grounder women surrounding her, men all kneeling before or beside them.

One of the Kru’s who shared a border with the Trikru had invited Clarke (and by extension Bellamy) to the Harvest festival. She had been reluctant to attend the festival, not entirely sure why it was necessary for her to attend when any number of their people could have gone. But their emissary had insisted it be her, and when Lincoln had whispered something in Bellamy’s ear and he had volunteered (volunteered isn’t a strong enough word, not for the way Bellamy cornered her after the meeting, standing just close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his body and it felt like his dark eyes were piercing straight into her soul, the way he practically told her with a stern look that he was going, whether she liked it or not).

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Thanks bookishmadness for tagging me for the what’s in my bag tag!!

I tag everyone else, show me what’s in your bag, show me what is worth stealing *evil laughter* no wait… I won’t steal. I promise.

Cloud covered days.

Potassium cyanide and arsenic pills;

a solitary death,  or a life of loneliness.

Exclusion and exploitation of our experiences,

                                                           our euphoria

                                             or our ongoing escapades.

All forgotten by those

                        who hated.

                                                who feared.

                                                                        who ignored.

never remembering our memories

                        so we won’t remember our own.

 We fear being forgotten.

We hate being ignored.

                                                           But when forgetting and ignoring is

                                                                                    All you have.

All you have left

            Is to hate

 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                yourself.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    {s.l.e}