• •

CHAPTER FOURTY SEVEN:

NOT A LOT
JUST FOREVER.

[ content warning:
sexual themes mid-chapter ]

• •

        LAYING BESIDE THE GIRL HE LOVED WAS THE BEST FEELING IN THE GODDAMN WORLD. Nestled within the safety of an unoccupied room on Alpha, Bellamy felt an unparalleled peace—the deepest serenity he had ever known—curled intimately alongside Haven's warmth. Positioned on his left side, he extended his arm outward, offering the tender crook of his bicep as a cradle for Haven's head, who rested on her right. His other arm ventured more daringly, draping gently around her waist, while his hand snuck beneath the hem of her shirt to trace soothing constellations along her spine.

He was so lucky.

Bellamy had been in love with Haven for five whole years—yet the simplest intimacy of lying beside her had remained a distant, unattainable fantasy. The rigid guard rule demanding a three-foot distance at all times might as well have been miles; the regulation seemed trivial, a laughable constraint that utterly failed to grasp the nuances of their bond. Such decrees held no weight when he was constantly touching her—either unconscious, incapacitated by grueling medication, or while learning self-defense by his steady hands.

        The mandate was bullshit.

Even if his duty to look after her hadn't required him to obliterate the enforced proximity . . . he probably, definitely, most certainly would've broken it anyway.

And though Bellamy's large frame made it  impossible for him to share a hospital bed with her, his heart had often imagined it. If Haven had ever whispered her need, he would have contorted his body into any small space, discomfort be damned, just to lay at her side. But at the time, they hadn't crossed that bridge yet—there were still silent boundaries, unspoken lines they hadn't yet dared to cross, infinitely waiting, waiting, waiting . . .

. . . Until now.

        Now, with Haven's breath warm against his throat, her locs cascading as shadows strewn across the sofa bed, their bodies entwined so closely that he could feel the pulse of her heart against his . . . Bellamy hadn't realized it was something he had been missing so . . . vitally. He didn't know that this elemental closeness, this shared heartbeat, was not merely comforting—it was critical to slowing his breathing.

        He was so fucking lucky.

Before their return to Camp Jaha, the group had reluctantly extracted themselves from the wild disarray of limbs and foilage, pausing briefly by the river's edge. The necessity to cleanse Haven was paramount; they couldn't necessarily march her into camp's borders cloaked in two shades of blood. So, the four girls had rallied around her, tenderly washing away the vestiges of blood and grime that marred her appearance . . . while Bellamy had been tasked with guard duty.

He didn't mind giving the girls space. 

Truthfully, Bellamy hadn't cared much—or so he convinced himself. And jealousy? Absolutely the fuck not. It was nowhere near his bleeding, envious heart—not even in the slightest. As long as he had kept his gaze locked diligently upon the treeline, his greedy hands clenched tightly around his rifle—he was utterly, entirely, definitively not thinking about the others tending to Haven's exposed form . . . while he had been cast aside, stationed like some stupid watchdog.

. . . It had been the fastest, most tolerable ten minutes and twenty-nine seconds of his life.

But whatever.

        After Haven had been thoroughly cleansed by the river's tide, Bellamy took on a role he felt confident in—tending to her wound. He had meticulously wrapped her shoulder, layer upon layer of bandages encircling her torn skin—twelve turns in all, each swath of gauze drawn from Jackson's emergency kit. His hands worked with utmost care to ensure the bandage was both tight and effective, skillfully managing and hiding the flow of black blood. As they prepared to re-enter the camp, he had draped his jacket over her, cloaking her form in its protective fabric, preserving both warmth and privacy.

And although Haven had been adamant about marching into camp on her own two feet, as soon as she rose from the riverbank, her legs betrayed her strength; she swayed, her face paling . . . nearly passing out on the spot.

        Blood loss. Malnourishment. Fatigue.

        The litany of afflictions assailing Haven's health seemed as endless and cruel as ever. Acknowledging the cruel toll these hardships had exacted on her weary frame—Bellamy had also taken it upon himself to ease her burden in the most immediate, tangible way he could. He swiftly assumed the role of carrying her back to camp, scooping her into his strong arms, effortlessly silencing the faint yet vulgar protests that fell from her lips.

        Ultimately, she was too tired to fight it.

        She had fallen asleep within the first two minutes.

Though the notion of relinquishing Haven to the care of a doctor physically tormented Bellamy, especially so soon after their arrival, the severity of her blood loss demanded it. Her shoulder, an abyss leaking shadows, had refused to cease its bleeding. The wound was a horrific distortion of its former strength—her arm, which had once nearly detached as she crawled through the carnage of battle, now hung by fragile threads, crudely sutured and hauntingly deceptive in its semblance of function.

        Yet, it seemed the savage wilderness had mercilessly torn apart her fragile mendings. The stitches, meant to hold her together, had been utterly fucking obliterated during her harrowing escapades through the forest. Now, the aftermath was grim; the blood was not just flowing . . . it was seething.

Visiting Jackson had been an unavoidable decision.

Haven had been dead silent as Jackson meticulously rethreaded the sutures into her shoulder and searched her body for more hidden wounds. Her eyelids would drift closed in brief, weary surrender, her head tipping back against the chair before jerking upright again—a reflex of lingering hypervigilance. For the most part, she remained relatively still, though the persistent tremor in her fingertips betrayed her deep-seated unrest . . . a fear forged in the crucible of unspeakable trauma.

        She hadn't looked Jackson in the eye once.

        Drained to the very marrow, Haven battled tirelessly against the tide of her own body's surrender. And despite her valiant efforts to cloak her fears, the true ghost of her terror—tethered inexorably to Jackson's past connection with Abby—hovered close, a relentless, devouring mist that refused to be banished.

        They needed to talk. Soon.

        All . . . four of them.

        But again—it would have to wait.

        Before leading them to a more private room to recover from the day, Jackson had whispered a solemn vow to Haven, assuring her of his unwavering presence—ready to stand by her side whenever she summoned him, whenever she decided to talk. Since the backpack she hauled from Mount Weather was laden with a trove of medical documents, files, and results from the involuntary tests they had conducted on her—Jackson had also urged a swift return within the next few days.

        There, they would delve into the depths of his findings, initiate physical therapy. . . and try to heal.

Haven's stare was hauntingly vacant.

        At that . . . a silent communion had passed between Bellamy and Jackson, a glance laden with the weight of silent revelations. They both felt the oppressive heaviness that had settled upon Haven—the weight of the day, the gravity of the last four days, the unbearable stretch of the past month had been an eternity of suffering for the girl they cared for. She had been resurrected from death's cold embrace for the seventh time just last week, learning of Abby's betrayal amidst the shadows of her own mortality. She had clawed her way out of the dark bowels of Mount Weather's torture chambers, battled through the dense, unforgiving woods . . . fleeing from the very horrors her mother had inflicted upon her.

The cruel irony of Abby's survival was a truth too harsh, too raw to lay upon Haven's already burdened shoulders—not yet, not while the wounds were still fresh.

        Now . . . they just needed each other.

"You don't have to keep looking at me like that."

At the sound of her voice, a warm and weary whisper, Bellamy stirred faintly on the sofa bed. He withdrew his hand from beneath her shirt, fingers reluctantly retreating from the ridges of her spine, and reached out to tenderly brush away a stray loc that had fallen across her eyes. Violet shadows haunted the spaces beneath their brown depths, marking her face with the indelible signs of fatigue. Every line and contour whispered of weariness—prompting Bellamy's heart to clench with instinctual worry.

Haven was tired; the most tired he'd seen her in five goddamn years.

        But she was so, so beautiful.

        "Like what?"

        "Like that."

        Bellamy stifled the impulse to roll his eyes. "I'm always looking at you," he whispered back, a faint, affectionate smile gracing his features. He shifted his hand to delicately smooth over the crown of her hair, feeling the locs slip softly between his fingertips as her eyes fluttered closed once more. "I've got a lot of time to make up for."

        "I think it's been four days," Haven added gruffly. "...or five."

        "And—?" Bellamy echoed, utterly captivated by the sight of her nestling closer against his torso. The warmth of her body seeped into his, her fingers still clinging to the collar of his shirt, gripping it with a delicate, yet fervent touch—as if she were terrified of letting go. "You saying you didn't miss yours truly?"

Haven only frowned.

Bellamy felt a fragile piece of himself tremble. "Let me have this," he insisted, his breath catching slightly as he realized that Haven wasn't burrowing closer for comfort . . . but to shield herself from his searching eyes. "Let me look at you, Hav. Let me love you."

"I don't want to be looked at."

"Should I turn the other way then? Back to back?"

Teasingly, Bellamy began a slow rotation on his torso, withdrawing his hand from the obsidian tresses of her hair and pivoting his head in the opposite direction. It was a brief charade, a fleeting gesture soon undone. Haven, summoning the last vestiges of her waning strength, grasped him fiercely by the collar—yanking him back with a suddenness that shattered his feigned act. The motion cemented him to her in an embrace that refused any distance, binding him irrevocably to the warmth of her presence.

Bellamy smirked. "We could always try spooning," he suggested, smugly reveling in her unspoken need for his closeness—even if she was too weary to admit it aloud. "You can turn the other way, and I'll try my best not to look at you. Or I could—"

       "No. It's not that," Haven cut in, her voice a fragile thread as she finally lifted her lids, holding his lovesick stare with a tentative strength. "Looking at me isn't the problem. I-I don't know how to explain it. You just..." Her breath hitched. "...you see me."

Bellamy knew exactly what she meant.

The depth of knowing Haven spoke of mirrored his own experience every single time she graced him with a glance. Every blink, each subtle shift of her all-knowing eyes wielded the catastrophic power to undo him, to rattle him to his very core beneath the immensity of love they harbored. She had ventured through the ugliest crevices of his soul, witnessed the evolution and disintegration of his past selves—from the skittish seventeen-year-old Cadet, to the assured, slightly overconfident twenty-year-old Guard, ascending to the zenith of power as King of the Earth . . . and the spiral of his inevitable downfall.

And yet . . . she loved him anyway.

It was fucking terrifying.

"Kinda hard to miss those eyes, angel," Bellamy admitted, tilting his head downward to bestow a tender, fleeting kiss upon each of her eyelids before drawing back. "Your pretty face has that effect on people. Tristan only tried to kill me because I got to see your smile more than he did. Jealous prick."

        Although Bellamy intended his words to inject a hint of levity into the solemn air, they only seemed to deepen its shadow, given Haven's persistent silence. And by the time her sniffling finally cut through the stillness—quietly, privately—it stripped the smile from his lips in mere seconds. The fragile shard of himself that had trembled at her initial frown now violently splintered . . . a thousand sharp, jagged pieces of his soul scattering as she began to cry.

. . . Fuck.

He was screwing this up spectacularly.

Bellamy shook his head. "Hav..."

"I thought you were dead, Bell. I didn't think that Tristan killed you. I thought that I did," Haven confessed shakily, her fingers loosening their iron hold on his shirt to wipe away the quiet tears carving paths down her cheeks. "Everyone in the Mountain thought you were dead, but I...I forced myself to believe you were still out there, just so I could keep going. And now, seeing you alive, knowing that you see me...you know me...but you're still..." She drew in a shuddering breath. "...You're still here."

        Bellamy stared at her as if she were speaking an alien language. "Where else would I be, Haven?" he asked quietly. "...Where else do I belong other than right here beside you?"

        It wasn't a question—not really.

        It was a confession.

        In every conceivable universe, through every infinite stretch of time, Bellamy Blake's existence was irrevocably bound to hers. This certainty wasn't merely a superficial belief—it was visceral, an indelible conviction etched deep within the marrow of his bones. Even if the cosmos were to unravel, if stars plummeted from the heavens and the fabric of reality itself frayed into nothingness, across every realm, every epoch and eon . . . he knew where his feet would find steady ground.

        His soul knew no other home.

        He belonged to her—wholly, eternally in every goddamn lifetime, without exception.

        Haven shook her head. "You say that now," she murmured. "But so much has changed this month. So much has changed in the past few days." Her next confession emerged hollow, shattered—a ghostly echo of her usual vigor. "There's so much that's wrong with me."

        Bellamy went rigid. "What are you talking about, Hav?" he asked, supporting his head in his hand as he shifted on the bed, observing her more thoughtfully. "What could possibly be wrong with you?"

        "I-I'm not the same girl I was five years ago." Haven refused to open her eyes as she spoke—a shield she raised in vain against the stare that seemed to seep into her soul. "I can't fight properly anymore. My arm would be better off amputated—it's dead weight. I feel like dead weight. I...I don't remember the last time I looked to the stars. I'm forgetting the names of constellations. I've killed people. I just shot three Grounders in the head, a-and if that gun was loaded earlier..." She paused, shaking her head, spitting out the words as if they were cruel acid scorching her tongue. "I-I could've killed you. My body's gonna fail me one day—"

        "Haven..."

        "And one day—I'll be dead for good," she choked out. "I've already scared everybody, I've scared you so, so much. And it's not fair. It's not right. I'm just...I'm just hurting you." Her words cascaded in a relentless torrent, each one a dagger wrapped in torment, blurring together in their desperate haste. "I've made it so fucking difficult to love me when it's impossible to tell if I'll even be here the next day—"

        "Loving you is the easiest thing I have ever done," Bellamy declared—unflinchingly. The same words he had uttered on the day his heart first confessed its truth, now resonated with even deeper conviction, halting her spiraling thoughts mid-breath. "I meant it then. I mean it even more now."

        It required every ounce of restraint Bellamy possessed not to elevate his voice as he absorbed Haven's torrent of self-condemnation. He wasn't angry with her—no, it was sheer exasperation, a deep-seated ire at the absurd distortion of reality she clung to. The notion that the agonizing burdens she carried—the brutal choices forged in the teeth of survival, her health—could somehow be her own fault, struck him as outrageously fucking ludicrous. No matter the depth of darkness she might face or the extremities of actions forced upon her, his love would stand immovable, eternal—beyond the reach of any catastrophe she imagined could sever their bond.

        He would die for her.

        . . . He tried.

        "Where is this coming from?" Bellamy's voice softened, a deliberate calm coating each syllable despite the hellfire raging within him—stifling the impulse to reach through her skull and obliterate the cruel thoughts tormenting her. "Who put this in your head?"

Haven remained devastatingly quiet.

But Bellamy already knew the answer.

"Clarke told me," he began gently, sinking his head back against the pillow while his arm resumed its hold around her waist. He tugged her close—so close against his torso that it became physically impossible to look at her anymore. "About your mom."

        Silence.

        Bellamy drew in a deep breath, steeling himself for the impact his next words might have—whether they would douse the flames of Haven's anguish or inadvertently fan them further. "We don't have to talk about it," he whispered, his fingers gently resuming their tender voyage along her spine, tracing invisible galaxies upon her skin. "But just know that she failed you, Hav—not the other way around. You aren't difficult. You aren't unlovable. You raised yourself for years. You built yourself up. You grew into the strongest person I've met in my entire fucking life, and I...." His breath caught. "I...I don't have words for how strong you are."

        Though Haven rarely spoke in detail about her mother's behavior, her focus limited to Dahlia's manic obsession with Earth . . . the truths of her past revealed themselves to Bellamy in quiet, piercing observations. He had noticed the meager portions she ate in the Sky Box, far less than the other delinquents, and the instinctive flinch in her muscles at each demonstration when he had first taught her self-defense—a body bracing against remembered blows. Most telling of all was the unmistakable scar, a brutal lash mark etched across her lower back, glimpsed once when her hospital gown slipped.

        So, Bellamy didn't particularly expect Haven to respond to his insight about their relationship. Truthfully, he'd prefer that she didn't—the day had already been weighty enough. Delving further into discussions about her neglectful, yet miraculously alive mother wasn't likely to help, especially when she was already so worn down.

His heart lurched as she inhaled.

"I don't want to be strong." Haven's confession emerged as a hushed, fragile muffle against the solid warmth of his chest. "I just want to be healthy. I want to be safe. I want you to be able to look at me without worrying."

        As if.

       Even without the relentless onslaught of new threats they had faced every single fucking day for the past month—Bellamy knew deep down that he would have found himself worrying about her, anyway.

       . . . Somebody had to.

Bellamy reflexively tightened his grip around her. "I know. I...I know," he voiced softly, eyes closed to focus entirely on the thud of her heartbeat racing against his chest. His mind raced too, desperate for a way to calm the rapid drumming beneath her skin. "...Do you wanna hear how else I look at you?"

        Haven remained silent.

        Well . . . that wasn't necessarily a no.

Praying to the cosmos above that he wouldn't colossally screw up his next words—again—Bellamy took a deep, anchoring breath through his nose, savoring the oxygen, allowing it to steady his nerves before slowly exhaling. Though Haven had subtly shifted, her form becoming more open to his view, he consciously kept his eyes averted, honoring her vulnerability with his restraint . . . despite the visceral urge to drink in every detail of her face.

"I look at you and I see the stars in broad daylight," Bellamy began. "I look at you, and I'm scared because I know you can kick my teeth in...and that I'd let you. I'd fucking smile. I look at you and constantly forget how to breathe, or blink, because I still can't believe that you're looking at me back." A faint, breathless smile touched the corners of his lips, softening the intensity of his words while still cradling the undeniable truth of his confession. "I look at you, and...I'm home."

Again, Haven remained silent, and although Bellamy didn't succumb to the gravity of her stare—not yet—he could feel the tempest within her begin to quiet, its wild clamor softening as it drew near his own turbulent heart. An electric silence pulsed between them, charged with the unspoken energy of converging storms—hers easing, his responding—a dance of raw, elemental emotions that were slowing towards . . . peace.

Don't. Fuck. This. Up.

        "I think you're smarter than everybody in this camp," Bellamy continued delicately. "I think you're braver than the entirety of the goddamn Guard. Funnier than Orion on her best day. Prettier than the very first sunrise on the day I realized you were alive." He could still see the tender hues of lavender and primrose even with his eyes wide open. "I-I'm not trying to compare you to these people, or tear them down to put you above them. But you make it so damn easy to put everything else to shame. You're just..."

        Bellamy paused, his heart scrambling for words potent enough to encapsulate the wonder of her essence . . . yet finding none that could shoulder the weight.

        "You're just...more. You've always been more, Haven. You're more than anything I could've..."

        His voice cracked.

        "You're more than everything I could've dreamed of," he whispered, uncaring of the raw, undying vulnerability that seeped into his voice—the words not just spoken, but felt. "And even that's doing you a disservice. I don't care what parts of yourself have changed. I don't care if it's ugly. I don't care how many phases of yourself you cycle through or step into. I love you. I love you. I love..."

His eyes, wide and beseeching, finally met hers, only to find her gaze retreating again—a withdrawal that tugged at the seams of his heart.

"Look at me."

Shattering the final thread of his restraint, Bellamy's hand moved from Haven's back to gently cradle her chin. His thumb rested softly in the center, his forefinger tenderly coaxing her face upward, compelling her eyes to lock with his. His stare burned with a fervent intensity, a conviction coursing through his veins as indomitable as liquid starlight, transforming every fiber of his being into embers that existed solely for her—his entire essence igniting, liquifying, and reforming, breathed into existence by the gravity of his devotion.

"I love you," he declared. "And that's permanent."

Bellamy held his breath, suspended in the tension of the moment as he awaited Haven's response—or the silence he feared might follow. Doubts swirled in the back of his mind, fears that perhaps he had said the wrong thing, said too much, or overwhelmed her with the sheer enormity of his emotions. Yet, amidst these swirling uncertainties, he knew with a bone-deep certainty that every word he had poured forth was not just the truth . . . but a fucking understatement.

        One heartbreak passed. Another.

        And then . . .

        "...You think Orion's funny?"

        . . . There she was.

        Bellamy released a breath he hadn't released he was holding. "Irrelevant," he grumbled, his voice tinged with reluctant amusement as a low laugh escaped him . . . despite his best efforts to contain it. "How is that your biggest takeaway from everything I just said?"

"I mean..." Haven's lips curled slowly, a mischievous, knowing grin christening her weary features—and in that moment, Bellamy swore that his heart might burst from his chest. "I guess you could tell me more."

Bellamy smirked. "So...you just want me to kiss your ass then?"

"Like you wouldn't."

Well, technically . . . he already had.

        "Fine," he huffed, smoothly retracting his hand from her jaw, leaning back onto the sofa bed just enough to recalibrate the intensity of his presence. "Adding another thing to your list of redeemable traits."

        Haven gasped. "Redeemable—?"

"Best ass on the planet—and the entirety of the fucking solar system," Bellamy declared, a smug smile spreading across his face as he allowed his hand to fall naturally, planting itself firmly on the curve of her hip with a light, yet possessive smack. "Now that's an accomplishment."

        Reeling with laughter, Haven instinctively smacked his chest, her hand striking with a vigor he hadn't witnessed since their return to camp. As his grip on her hip firmed, she attempted another forceful swat, but he only drew her closer, closer, closer—an irrepressible smile gracing his lips as she squealed and squirmed against his hold.

       "What?" he teased incredulously. "You're gonna look at me and you're gonna tell me that I'm wrong?"

        As her laughter finally began to ebb, Haven barely managed to suppress a feigned groan of irritation. "You think like a man," she jabbed, the intended insult losing its bite, utterly ineffective against the wicked, shit-eating grin that sprawled across Bellamy's face. "Stop it!"

"You asked—and I answered," Bellamy countered, his hand drifting from her hip to claim a more daring perch on her ass. "It looked at me first."

"You're filthy."

"And you're smiling."

        Almost reluctantly, Bellamy withdrew his hand from the softness of Haven's curves, only to poke and prod at her smile—a luminous departure from the sullen frown that had veiled her features hours before. Her smile unearthed itself as the dawn breaking over a war-ravaged wasteland, casting out shadows and soothing the jagged scars of battle-wearied hearts. It was a relief to know he hadn't deepened her gloom; the sight of her transformation was far more gratifying.

"You're insufferable," Haven teased, her words still lacking their intended sting as a yawn broke through her protest. Her fingers, impossibly gentle, caught his, stilling his incessant poking at her lips—the softness in her touch conveying more than her lighthearted rebuke ever could. "I love you."

Bellamy felt his heart sputter.

        Every. Damn. Time.

"I love you," he breathed into the quiet. Using their clasped fingers as an anchor, he drew her hand to his lips, bestowing tender kisses first on her knuckles, then her inner wrist. Slowly, he lowered their joined hands, reducing the space between them until he could press a devoted kiss to her forehead. "I love you."

"I love you most."

At the whisper of Haven's words, Bellamy involuntarily closed his eyes, surrendering to the wave of exhaustion that swept over him, softened by the serenity of her presence. The fatigue from the past days and the toll of his injuries finally claimed him, yet he found no reason to resist, not when her declaration enveloped him like a caress, cocooning around his dizzy mind as the sweetest of lullabies.

I love you.

. . . The rest was just confetti.

• •

🚨 EXPLICIT SMUT AHEAD 🚨

i cannot stress enough that it is far more explicit than the last chapter that contained smut. not in a gross way, but definitely more detailed and lengthy!
however...there is still about 25ish pages of plot and inexplicit cuteness beforehand if you'd prefer to skip! <3

• •

        7:12 A.M.

HAVEN FELT REMARKABLY REVITALIZED AS SHE WOKE UP THE NEXT MORNING. If the time displayed on the alarm clock beside the sofa bed was correct—she had slept for approximately seven hours straight. For her, this had been no minor feat; such a stretch of uninterrupted rest was a rarity. More notably, it was the quality of sleep that marked a significant victory—for the first time in what felt like ages, she had not been tormented by nightmares . . . nor had she awoken in a panic during the crucial REM stages of her sleep cycle.

        Clearly, the Smith girl had severely underestimated her exhaustion last night. After a grueling sequence of survival—being hurled through Mount Weather's trash chute, landing among the dead, scuffling for her life in the Reaper tunnels, then battling through the forest only to finally stagger to the fringes of Camp Jaha . . . her body was fucking wiped. Even upon waking, fatigue still clung to her like a second skin. Her shoulder throbbed relentlessly, the wound reawakening with each movement, a fiery pulse of agony that reminded her of the hell she had endured.

        Yet, beneath the surface of Haven's physical suffering, there was a subtle, almost imperceptible sense of neutrality; her stress levels, though still present . . . were kinda, sorta, slightly more at ease.

        It was good enough for her.

        Still, the enormity of her mother's mission weighed on her like a millstone, and the staggering whiplash of Dahlia's opposition to the Mountain Men churned through her mind with nauseating force. She needed to unravel the mystery of who Lexa truly was, but more pressingly, she needed to save her friends. It was infuriating to sit on her ass, but immediate action was out of reach—not with Camp Jaha's gate buzzing with high-voltage and the guard presence having swelled tenfold, forming an impenetrable barrier to any rash decisions or desperate moves.

        . . . Bellamy admitted that was his fault.

        In the thick of yesterday's frantic search to locate her—he had apparently sucker-punched a guard, causing the man to collide inadvertently with the electric fence . . . then deliberately seized the opportunity to snatch the guard's rifle.

         So, the group was now depending on Raven to disable the electricity at the back end of the fence, providing them with an indefinite window of opportunity to lay low before making their next move—unless they preferred to get barbecued.

        Among other critical updates, such as Kane's ascension to interim Chancellor, and Camp Jaha's blind adherence to his directives as if they were still orbiting Earth . . . Bellamy had also relayed the urgent need to locate Finn and Murphy.

        He claimed that Finn had become . . . unhinged.

         Apparently, the unlikely duo of Finn and Murphy had been tasked with locating a Grounder village in hopes of finding their missing friends. While Kane marshaled one search party, his lack of familiarity with the terrain put him at a distinct disadvantage compared to those who knew the land as intimately as the lines on their palms. And despite Bellamy's seething disdain for the boys—Haven knew that he also grasped the grudging acknowledgement of their necessity; the instinctual urge to protect their own surpassed all other grievances.

Well . . . maybe not all.

The last thing Camp Jaha needed was to exacerbate tensions with the Grounders, and unfortunately—Finn and Murphy's interference would make them ideal catalysts for increased hostility.

Their plan had been set.

1) Finn Finn, Murphy, and . . . Lexa.

2) Fuck shit up.

3) Save their friends.

        Haven was acutely aware that their plan had glossed over numerous variables, leaving ample room for things to go to shit—but that was simply the nature of their screwed-up circumstances; chaos was more an expectation than an exception. Still, she found some solace in having a plan, however fraught, rather than twiddling their thumbs and idly waiting for Marcus fucking Kane to miraculously orchestrate a rescue.

Or at least, that's what she told herself.

As the pressures mounted, thoughts began to accumulate and coil tightly beneath her skull, her anxiety twisting into serpentine knots in her stomach, especially pronounced in the void left by Bellamy's absence.

        He had been summoned by the remainder of the Council to answer for his actions—assaulting the guard and stealing his gun.

         In the hour that had elapsed since his departure, Haven found herself confined to the numbing spray of the shower, watching the blood from her shoulder wound dissolve into obsidian spirals down the drain. Hindered by agony, she couldn't even wash her hair without aggravating the injury; a single stitch had given way under her tentative attempts, forcing her to sit down on the cold tile, seething and exhausted. Amidst the steam and echoing droplets, she felt imprisoned within her own damn body . . . sickened by its limitations and betrayal.

Her skin had become a claustrophobic cage.
       
        So, gathering her resolve—she had picked herself up off the cold, damp floor, carefully rewrapped her shoulder as best she could, and set off to find the boy she loved.

        Haven had navigated about halfway down Alpha's metallic corridor when she caught sight of Bellamy's familiar crown of curls rounding a corner. He strode in step with Jackson, their conversation seemingly winding down by the time her shadow intersected with their path. As they reached a parting point, Bellamy offered Jackson a friendly clasp on his shoulder before they split off, each disappearing into the sterile expanse of the station's branching hallways.

        And then . . . he saw her.

        Their eyes met across the expanse, a silent collision that seemed fated, inevitable—as if invisible forces were compelling their gazes to intertwine even from afar. This locking of eyes was nothing new; it was an intrinsic ritual for them, yet this moment carried an air of . . . simplicity. Untouched by the usual shadows of dread, it was a serene encounter amidst the mundane, resonating like a distant echo from a forgotten lifetime—a stark contrast to the sharp, desperate glances they had often exchanged back at the dropship.

        It felt . . . normal.

        Haven drew her lip between her teeth as she observed Bellamy advancing toward her, his stride instinctual, a preconscious magnetism tugging at his core before he even fully registered her presence. He wore an olive green t-shirt paired with black cargo pants—devoid of the jacket that typically clung to him like a shield. Although the garments hung loosely on his frame, the soft fabric failed to disguise the powerful build beneath, outlining the firm contours of his chest and arms with every movement.

The lighting in Alpha's corridors stuttered, throwing capricious shadows across the walls, yet amidst this erratic dance of light, Bellamy's presence seemed to carry its own glow. The cosmic dusting of freckles across his face sparkled even in dim illumination, each one catching fleeting beams and reflecting the warm, tan hues that seemed to embody sunlight itself.

        But above all . . . it was his smile that transformed the space between them—a vivid, soul-stirring curve that banished even the darkest of shadows.

        He was beautiful.

        As Bellamy closed the distance between them, his arms naturally found Haven's body, fingertips pressing tenderly into her waist as he stared down at her. "I—"

"I thought you were meeting with the Council."

        Bellamy barely managed to conceal his grimace. "Hello to you too, angel," he murmured, stealthily leaning forward to plant a fleeting kiss upon Haven's temple. She, in turn, took a decisive step backward—silently awaiting his explanation. "And I was. They let me off with a warning. I only met with Jackson because he's been checking up on my..." He sucked in a sharp breath. "...head injury."

Haven crossed her arms expectantly.

Bellamy only sighed, diverting his gaze, seeking refuge from the piercing clarity of her eyes before finally relenting. "Woke up with some blood in my ears again," he admitted, absentmindedly raking his fingers through the curls at the back of his head. "I didn't wanna freak you out."

. . . Again?

Haven felt the blood within her veins crystallize to black ice. "Blood—?" she echoed, her voice barely above a whisper, quivering with mounting horror. Dread knotted tighter within her, a vice constricting her chest, stealing her breath as she lunged forward to inspect his ears more closely. "Bellamy, what the fuck—"

        "I'm fine," Bellamy cut in, smoothly capturing her wrist and halting her movements before she could tilt his jaw for further examination. "I'm fine, Hav. He thinks I'm already past the worst of the symptoms anyway. Actually sleeping last night helped a lot."

As Haven's gaze sharpened, delving deeper into the boy she knew as well as her own shadow, a stark revelation unfolded before her. It was clear now that she wasn't the only one masking the true severity of their ailments. The genesis of his head wound was clear—a cruel souvenir from the battle at camp—but the relentless whisper of blood from his ears, lingering for five torturous days . . . hinted at a menace far deeper than the trivialities he feigned.

        She understood his tactic all too well.

        Haven had mastered the art of concealment, minimizing the echo of her chronic pain in the eyes of others, keeping her cards pressed tightly against her chest until she was hauled onto death's doorstep. Even now, the ghost of the seizure that had seized her in the shadows of Mount Weather lingered silently within her . . . alongside the other whispered doubts of Tsing's diagnoses.

She didn't want to worry Bellamy any further.

        Not yet.

Not until she stood ready to confront Jackson, to unravel the threads of her condition and discern the truth of Tsing's claims, whether they were factual—or cruel fabrications designed to manipulate.

Yet, as Haven reluctantly let her hand fall back to her side—the frown marring her features was irrepressible. "Symptoms? Plural—?"

        Bellamy merely shrugged. "I'm still standing, aren't I?"

        "That's an incredibly low bar."

        "Now you see how I feel, don't you?" Bellamy knowingly tilted his head, his lips curling into his customary smirk—the one reserved for the rare occasions when his perception of being right miraculously aligned with reality. "Why are you even out here? It's early. You should be resting."

        Now—Haven rolled her eyes. "Whatever," she huffed, snatching his hand in hers before decisively spinning on her heels, retracing her steps down the corridor and lugging him behind her. "We're going back to the room anyway. Time to clean up what's left of your face."

        Bellamy's groan was low—a futile protest against the imminent discomfort of rubbing alcohol. "Can it wait?"

       "Negative. I cleaned myself up too—see?" Haven paused as she pivoted to face him again. She tugged at the collar of her long sleeve—his long sleeve—revealing a glimpse of her freshly bandaged shoulder, stark white against the dark bruises that bloomed around it. "C'mon, Bell. You seriously want to lose ninety percent of your charm due to infection?"

        Bellamy gaped. "Ninety—?"

        "Ninety."

His eyebrows shot upwards, and with a dramatic flair, he clutched his free hand to his chest—as if struck by her words. "Ouch," he winced. "So...you wouldn't be dating me if I was ugly?

        "Wait..." Haven cunningly tilted her head. "We're dating—?"

        Bellamy blinked. "Uh..."

        Truth be told, Haven had never dwelled on the labels, or lack thereof, that defined her relationship with the Blake boy. They had been mere friends aboard the Ark, neither brave enough to voice the celestial warmth that had entwined their souls over the years. It was always just . . . there, a spectral thread, elusive and timeless, its origins lost to memory. Lingering. Dormant. Waiting. A silent dance of hearts, yearning for one to crack and confess first, only to recede into the shadows when the moment passed.

        Earth changed everything.

        After the fervent truths of their love had finally been unearthed, there hadn't been an opportunity—or perhaps a necessity—to consider its declaration to the world. It didn't particularly matter what the others thought of them. He was hers; she was his. It was an understanding that transcended mere words, a profound truth known ages before it was spoken aloud in the intimacy of his tent that fateful night . . . and destined to outlast the eons.

         How could a label ever possibly encapsulate . . . that?

         It couldn't.

         Yet, the blush that seared Bellamy's cheeks and scorched the nape of his neck betrayed the intensity of his introspection. Caught like a specimen under scrutiny, his eyes wide with the raw vulnerability of the moment, he fumbled for words—a stark deviation from his usual aura of brash confidence.

        So . . . Haven was going to fuck with him.

        "Y'know..." she began coyly. "That actually requires you to ask me to be your girlfriend."

        Bellamy released an elongated breath. "Haven...I've loved you for five years," he began, his eyes darting swiftly around to ensure privacy in the deserted corridor before he leaned in closer, dropping his voice to an intimate murmur. "And, I mean...I've literally been inside of—"

"Ah, ah, ah!" Haven cut in, her eyes flashing with utter disbelief as she preempted the vulgar end of his explanation. Once his features softened back into a mischievous smirk, she impulsively flicked his chest, prompting him to wince. "What does that have to do with anything—?!"

        Despite the sharp crease of pain furrowing his brow, Bellamy's grin was unmoving—a beacon of mirth that saw right through Haven's provocations and mirrored them right back at her. "Fair," he conceded casually, drawing a deep, deliberate breath as he braced himself to continue. "Haven Grey Smith, will you—"

       "No!"

        Bellamy feigned a frown. "You didn't let me finish," he countered. Despite her slow steps backwards, each measured retreat was effortlessly met by his steady approach, as if the space between them were a mere illusion. "What if I had a ring in my pocket, right now, and you—"

        "A ring—?" Haven echoed, her tone trembling with incredulity as her brows soared to the furthest reaches of her forehead. "You're bullshitting."

        Soon enough, Haven began to suspect that Bellamy's casual allusion to dating was a cunning ploy—one designed to rile her from the very beginning. He appeared to savor her fluster far more than the fleeting blush that had momentarily betrayed his composure. As he slowly began to reach into his pocket, as if conjuring an imaginary ring from the void—Haven sharply swatted his hand away.

"Stop stalling," she declared, intentionally striving for sternness but faltering under the weight of Bellamy's infectious laughter, which coaxed her lips into an unwilling, yet ethereal smile. "Gonna have to be more creative than that, my King. Let's go."

Pivoting on her heels for the final time, Haven began her resolute march toward the room Jackson had given them—intimately aware of Bellamy's presence shadowing her every footfall.

Being back inside Alpha was an unsettling plunge into the surreal. The satellite, once a gleaming marvel of artificial gravity, now lay in disarray on Earth, its sleek elegance scarred by its descent. Traversing through its vast corridors felt like revisiting her later adolescence all over again, a stark contrast to the cramped, rusted, and congested passageways of her childhood aboard Mecha.

As they moved through the dormitories—a realm where Clarke, Wells, and Miller had likely spent their formative years—every corner spoke of a bygone affluence. Given that Haven and Bellamy primarily resided in the Medical wing, they never had the opportunity to explore this realm, nor did they have any desire to. The stark disparity of privilege was fucking jarring, serving as a glaring reminder of the luxuries their own stations had never afforded them.

Eventually, Haven guided them back to the room they had come to recognize, allowing Bellamy to close the heavy steel door behind them. The space was remarkably more spacious than the cramped shoebox she had grown up in. It featured the sofa bed that beckoned with warmth, a spacious dresser ready to accommodate a wardrobe of varied clothes, and a private bathroom that promised a reprieve from communal constraints. Nearby, a small table with two chairs stood ready for meals, offering a semblance of domestic ease outside the Mess Hall.

        Although the adornments were simple, they spoke softly of a life woven with threads of ease and . . . serenity.

Maybe in the next life.

Slipping into the shadows of the small bathroom, Haven swiftly reemerged with the half-empty bottle of rubbing alcohol Jackson had supplied them and a clutch of milky gauze strips. With a deft flick of her foot, she coaxed a chair out from beneath the table and tilted her head, silently urging Bellamy to surrender to its support.

"Sit down."

Bellamy feigned a huff.

"So dramatic," Haven tsked. "Sit."

        Before Bellamy could craft another word of protest, Haven's finger had already darted out, pressing softly against the iron wall of his chest. Caught off guard, Bellamy found himself mindlessly retreating, the lightning she wielded beneath her touch and its thrumming electricity enough to guide him backward until he gradually reclined against the stool.

And then . . .

She straddled him.

        Still clutching the medical supplies, Haven sank onto Bellamy's lap, her legs carving a deliberate arc around his thighs as she nestled into him, feet dangling in a futile search for the ground. Almost instinctively, his strong hands rose to meet the small of her back, leisurely drawing her nearer until they found rest on the gentle swell of her hips.

"Like this—?" Every nerve in Bellamy's body seemed to ignite under the scorching press of her. The heat between them was a living, throbbing entity, each breath they took a shared promise of something far beyond mere touch. "I'll do whatever the hell you ask me to."

Haven smirked. "Good."

Taking full advantage of Bellamy's lovesick  stare, she swiftly saturated the gauze with antiseptic, pressing firmly it against the raw abrasion on his cheek. He recoiled slightly, a sharp intake of breath hissing through clenched teeth as the liquid seared into his wound. The fumes from the alcohol were nearly caustic, intensifying the agony to a piercing, almost visceral level. His hands, which had been gently resting, now reflexively tightened around her waist, each contraction of his fingers a silent plea for relief.

Haven almost wanted to laugh at how effortlessly she managed to wipe the smirk off his features. But the ghost of mirth vanished swiftly, sinking into a deeper, darker melancholy as she traced the landscape of Bellamy's wounds. Most had started to heal, dissolving into the dull blues and purples of bruises, yet the jagged tear across his cheekbone and brow whispered cruel promises of new scars—scars he never asked for, scars earned in the desperate, noble bid to save the lives of their friends.

Most devastating of all was the pink scar arching cruelly above his lip . . . a bitter legacy from the barrel of Dax's gun.

        She fell quiet.

Bellamy noticed the subtle shift in her demeanor at once. "C'mon, Hav..." he began softly, carefully moderating the pressure of his hands against her waist, even as she repositioned the gauze to his forehead. "Is it that bad?"

        "I thought you were dead when I found you," Haven admitted flatly. "So—yeah."

        It was no secret that Bellamy carried an infinite weight of regrets behind him, each one as heavy as a corpse draped across his shoulders. But among these burdens, one stood stark and harrowing above the rest: the moment he had collapsed at the camp's edge, stunned by the wrath of Tristan's fist, teetering on the precipice of death as his brain bleed nearly claimed him. It might have been just another regret, another phantom in his ever-expanding collection . . . had fate not twisted its knife and Haven not found him, his body unnervingly limp and lifeless.

        But the sight of him in that morbid state, the suffocating guilt she inadvertently carried because of it . . . it was a reality too bitter, a burden too soul-crushing to bear.

        Bellamy cautiously tilted his head, the faintest shadow of a smirk curving at the corners of his mouth, seeking to banish the sorrow from her eyes. "...You really think I'd let myself die at the hands of some fuckin' Grounder?"

        Haven rolled her eyes. "I forgot your ego is bigger than the Ark."

        "What ego—?"

        At his words, Haven's hand flew out in a reflexive swat against his chest, a fragile smile illuminating her features despite the weight of everything unsaid. The traumas of battle, the void left by fallen friends, the shared mantle of grief, the fact that she had nearly killed herself alongside him—it was an unbearable heaviness, threatening to smother her beneath its malevolent tide. Words failed her, unable to match the effortless comfort he seemed to weave, yet beneath the enormity of it all . . . one truth burned clear and indomitable.

"I'm so lucky that you're alive."

"I'm lucky to be alive." Bellamy echoed the sentiment as though it were the holiest scripture in all of existence. Utilizing the leverage of his hands at her waist, he gently drew her even closer, diminishing the space between them until their breaths mingled. "I get to look at your pretty face, hold you in my lap...and pretend that the alcohol isn't killing me."

Haven tilted her head. "Is that what you call pretending—?" she jested, soaking another strip of gauze in the antiseptic solution. She dabbed it gently against a barely visible nick on his temple, eliciting yet another sharp wince from him—again. "You're such a wimp."

        Bellamy scoffed. "Lots of bullying today. You missed me, huh?"

        "What can I say?" Haven hummed innocently. "Lots of time to make up for."

After flinging the used gauze into the waste bin behind the stool, Haven pressed her weight deeper into Bellamy's lap, her body swaying slightly as she reached for a fresh piece on the table. She dipped the gauze into the shimmering antiseptic, the solution catching the light with a cold, sterile gleam. As she returned to her original position, another low, involuntary hiss escaped Bellamy's lips—not yet from the antiseptic's bite, but from the subtle, inadvertent pressure of her movement against him.

"What's that about?" Haven prodded, arching a skeptical brow as she realigned herself to fully face him once more. "I didn't even touch your face."

Bellamy shook his head. "Not my face."

        . . . Oh.

As Haven drew incrementally closer, a deeper, more charged realization swept over her—unveiling the true source of Bellamy's strained noise. Normally, he would have rushed her through the tending of his wounds, eager to shed the mantle of vulnerability. But today, his patience was uncharacteristic, marked by a charged stillness. As she felt the unmistakable tension throbbing between her hips and his, her certainty crystallized—here lay the silent confession of his deeper, unvoiced needs, the reasons why he hadn't complained . . . and why he refused to let her go.

. . . Oh.

Perhaps it was the intoxicating allure of power she wielded over him, or maybe it was her own deep-seated desire to hear that breathless whisper of pleasure escape from between his clenched teeth again. Whatever the catalyst, Haven found herself intentionally rolling her hips against his with a slow, deliberate force as she raised the gauze to his brow. The friction of the fleeting contact was enough to coax Bellamy's nails into the soft fabric of her shirt, rigidly anchoring her in place.

"Hey," he warned. "Stop doing that."

She did it again.

"Doing what—?"

"Haven."

        "I have no idea what you're talking about." Haven feigned ignorance as she leaned exaggeratedly past his torso to discard the gauze, freeing herself from his iron grip. But as she settled back, she only intensified the pressure, sinking even more firmly against him. "I'm just trying to get comfortable."

"Hm." Bellamy's response was low, almost primal, his hands clasping around her waist with an assertive grip that suggested they had never left. He immobilized her possessively, his dark eyes mirroring back to her the depth of her own worst intentions, shadowed and sinful. "You sure that's all?"

Haven blinked. Innocently.

Bellamy vehemently shook his head. "God—don't give me those eyes," he pleaded lowly, his words carrying more the weight of an appeal than caution. "Do anything else but...that. I'm already struggling here."

"Struggling with what?"

"Don't," he rasped. "Don't tempt me."

"Tempt you? I would never—"

        His mouth crashed into hers at once.

        The sudden descent of Bellamy's lips upon hers was startling, so abrupt that Haven's grip faltered, sending the bottle of rubbing alcohol crashing to the ground. It spread in a glittering pool across the cold metal floor, ignored, forgotten—nothing but a faint echo in the tempest of their embrace. The universe shrank to the fiery orbit of his arms encircling her waist, the electrifying brush of his fingertips, and the urgent, devouring pressure of his lips that swept away her provocations.

        Then, just as abruptly as it began . . .

        It stopped.

Summoning the mightiest vestiges of his will, Bellamy tore himself from the gravity of her lips—his breath a ragged whisper against her mouth. "Again," he breathed out, his forehead resting against hers, their breaths mingling in the charged silence. "...Don't start something you can't finish."

        Haven's smile was a flicker of mischief in the dim light. "You started that."

       "Did not." Bellamy shot down her accusation effortlessly, allowing one hand to cradle her chin, gently tilting her face to allow himself better access. He kissed a deliberate, slow trail from the curve of her jaw, savoring each centimeter of her skin, before his lips found their way to the shell of her ear. "You did the second you sat on my lap and pretended not to notice I've been hard the entire time."

        Haven blinked.

        Well . . . technically, her resolve had crystallized the moment she witnessed him striding down the hallway, a vision of soul-shaking sex embodied. But, it was the bold moment she gestured to the chair that had truly sealed her intent. As she claimed her seat upon his lap—now her throne—the decision to bridge the gap between them was not just made, but cemented with every greedy pulse of her desire.

       But whatever.

       She refused to grant him the satisfaction of knowing that.

        "...I wouldn't say I pretended."

        Something between a scoff and a laugh rumbled from the depths of Bellamy's chest. "Exactly," he teased, his touch retreating from her chin, fingers drifting with an agonizing slowness back to the sinuous curve of her hip. "You're wicked."

       Haven merely shrugged. "You love me."

        "Of course I do," Bellamy declared. "That's why I'll finish what you started."

        "What—?"

        Before Haven could draw her next breath, Bellamy had already stolen it, swallowing it between his lips as his mouth collided into hers again.

The kiss far surpassed his initial one—fiery and uncontained—yet still a tantalizing shadow of the deeper passion she so achingly craved. His hands clutched her waist feverishly, levering his hold to drive her more insistently into his lap, ensuring she felt the full magnitude of exactly what she'd done to him. The friction alone ignited a soft exhale of pleasure from both—a shared breath that only stoked the flames of Bellamy's actions. He kissed her with mounting fervor, sweeping his tongue across her lower lip once, twice, three times—each pass pleading for entry before he pushed inside, claiming her mouth as if staking his territory.

By some divine intervention, Haven's hands awoke from their paralysis—no longer resigned to the narrow void between their pressing bodies. She splayed her left hand flat across Bellamy's shoulder, anchoring herself to the solid warmth of his iron frame. Her right hand ventured up, fingers threading through the soft tendrils at the nape of his neck, luring him irresistibly closer with every ebb and flow of their lips.

Then, she rolled her hips against his, her thighs miserably resisting the instinct to clench as she felt him harden further beneath her.

        "Christ, Hav..."

Bellamy parted their lips only to release an involuntary curse to the cosmos above. The fleeting absence of his kiss allowed Haven's soft sigh to drift in the mere millimeters between them, swiftly captured as his mouth crashed back against hers. As she continued her slow, tormenting grind against him, a fervent thought flickered through his filthy mind: if he could, he would stay here all damn day, a willing captive to this moment, enthralled by the sight of her riding him while he sat fully clothed—his thigh, his tongue, his entire being at her disposal—anything to keep her soaring in ecstasy while her body claimed his complete surrender.

His muscles tensed as she reached for his belt buckle.

"Wait," Bellamy panted, breaking away just enough to catch a fleeting breath—but Haven's lips were relentless, claiming his with an insatiable urgency. Her fingers pried against the fabric of his waistband, beckoning him inexorably closer with every attempt he made to retreat. "I have to tell you something—"

"Tell me later."

"Haven—"

"Tell. Me. Later."

"Haven."

        At the sudden shift of his voice, Haven abruptly recoiled, observing Bellamy through a misty veil of desire, her breaths easing into a slower rhythm. His lips were flushed a vivid pink, the swift ascent and descent of his chest a mirrored tumult to her own. Yet, it was his eyes—a tempestuous sea swirling with unsaid thoughts—that unveiled the depths of his abrupt pause, speaking in silent verses only she could read.

        . . . He was hiding something.

        "I'm not saying I want you to stop. I don't—trust me," Bellamy began breathlessly, kneading small, circular motions into her waist as she hung onto his stare. "But I'm also keeping something from you right now that I probably shouldn't be. I can't let you go through with...this, not without at least giving you the option to know." His next words were a ragged whisper—yet achingly sincere. "I-I don't want you to regret this."

        Haven stared at him blankly.

        "What? Did your dick shrink—?"

        Bellamy shook his head.

        Again, her bleary eyes latched onto each flicker across his face, fervently mining for the faintest detection of truth to reveal itself. Bellamy was never the first to pull away, and he certainly wouldn't have halted the cataclysm brewing between their eager torsos without significant reason. As his gaze remained locked with hers, unflinching even against the barb of her jest . . . she knew that he was being serious.

        Haven bit her lip. "Is it life-altering?"

        "Understatement."

A beat passed.

        "...Is it something you can handle for me?"

        Technically, Bellamy had already attempted to handle the situation on three separate occasions—each attempt seething with the intent of sparing Haven from the nightmarish truth of Abby's survival altogether. The first instance was when he caught the traitorous doctor lingering among the Council that fateful day in the forest; the second, a failed attempt with his rifle before she had, ironically, aided their escape. Thirdly, today, he had found himself summoned by her to account for yesterday's deeds—an encounter that had erupted into forty-five minutes of relentless profanities, viciously hurled at the woman who continued to haunt their lives.

        He wouldn't stop trying until Abby was dead.

        "...Absolutely."

        As Bellamy's words cleaved through the stillness like a sacred oath, Haven found herself sinking deeper into the certainty of what she knew in her bones. If there was one immutable facet about the boy whose soul seemed forged from the same star as hers, it was that he likely withheld whatever the hell was going on to shield her from its sorrow. This act, equally infuriating yet profoundly tender, mirrored her own silences—secrets she kept swathed in shadows in an effort to protect him from the same heartache.

        But here, now, in the fragile closeness of their flushed lips, with his hands an unrelenting clasp against the fever of her skin—she longed to cast aside anything and everything that was unspeakable, to forsake the burdens that only sharpened the edges of their shared misery . . . igniting into something raw and consuming.

        She was okay with not knowing.

        At least . . . for now.

"Good," she whispered. "Then later."

Bellamy hesitated. "I..."

"Bellamy." Haven breathed his name like a prayer, shifting her other hand from his shoulder to intertwine with the one already nestled at the nape of his neck. "I trust you, okay? And I love that you respect me enough to tell me, but I don't care about the rest right now. I just—I want to feel good. I want you to make me feel good." Her eyes shimmered with utmost sincerity. "Please."

Nearly incapacitated by the desperation in her voice, Bellamy observed the girl seated on his lap through a veil of tender pink, his heartbeat thundering against the urge to retreat into rationality—yet utterly failing. The sight of her, so piercingly honest and devastatingly breathtaking, ignited a primal force within him, an intrinsic call that demanded he satisfy her every longing, now and forever.

        If Haven wanted to feel good . . .

        He'd take her to the stars and back.

Again. Again. Again. Again. Again.

Bellamy allowed his eyes to wander despairingly to the pink of her lips. "...You promise?"

"I promise," Haven vowed. "Touch me."

. . . Fuck it.

All at once, Bellamy's desire rocketed to the forefront, his lips claiming hers with a fervor that spoke of life-or-death necessity. He kissed Haven as if she were his salvation, the sole cornerstone of his existence, the very fulcrum of his universe. Her response was equally intense, her hips grinding into his in a passionate, feverish rhythm, their combined urgency shredding the last veils of restraint. His hands, firm upon her waist, drove her rhythmically against him, each motion a stroke of fire, each breath a mingling of soft whispers and quiet hums.

But the moment Haven tore her lips from his, tracing an incendiary path up his jaw to his ear, gently catching the tender flesh between her teeth . . . Bellamy reflexively jolted. His movements were decisive as he abruptly shifted, strong hands clumsily tightening around her waist, fingers digging into her back as he anchored her firmly against him.

Haven stared at him, breath stolen by the sudden shift, her eyes wide and searching his in a silent plea for clarity as his frame tensed . . . as if to rise. "What are you doing—?"

"Locking the door," Bellamy murmured sinfully. "What? You want all of Camp Jaha to hear me fuck you?"

        . . . There he was.

        Effortlessly, Bellamy swept one arm from  waist, his arm gliding from Haven's torso to scoop beneath her hips, lifting her snugly against his solid frame as he stood. Approaching the door, his foot swept their stool across the coarse floor, wedging it beneath the door handle with a resonant clunk. In the dim, inconsistent flicker of the camp's sparse electricity—still a half-formed promise—the steel door would serve as their makeshift barrier, sealing them in a cocoon of shadows and whispered desires, isolating them from the world's prying eyes.

        And then . . .

        He pressed her against the nearest wall.

        Haven surrendered completely to the consuming warmth of Bellamy's kiss all over again, her body arching instinctively as she tightened her legs around his torso. He supported her entire weight with the sheer strength of his arms alone, yet the wall took on the burden of her spine, allowing Bellamy to explore her body further, faster, harder—his grip intensifying with every breath. His hands roamed insatiably beneath her hips, clenching her waist, traversing over her thighs. Each grind of his hips against hers was a surge of raw desire, a relentless pursuit of closeness that left them both breathless and scorching with need.

It felt torturous to remain clothed.

        Haven finally relinquished her hands from Bellamy's labyrinth of curls, descending with wild intent to clutch the collar of his t-shirt, her knuckles whitening as she greedily sought to rip it from him. But her efforts were suddenly arrested—his hips pinned her hard against the cool wall entirely on their own, effectively imprisoning her. Then, swift as lightning, one of his hands ceased its tender explorations of her thighs, reaching up to capture her wrist in an ironclad grip . . . halting her movements with a potent assertion of control.

"Not yet," Bellamy breathed. "Ladies first."

Haven miraculously managed a scoff. "Ladies? Plural—?" she echoed, allowing her head to tilt back against the wall, her eyes momentarily rolling back as Bellamy's lips found her throat. "So you're a slut?"

        "Don't give me that."

        "Me? I'm just repeating what you—"

        "It's you, Haven," Bellamy cut in, his hips subtly receding from hers, granting just enough space for her boots to faintly graze the floor. Swiftly, he lifted the long sleeve she wore, stripping it over her head and casting it aside as a long, forgotten memory. "It's always been you. It's only going to be you." His mouth was warm against her neck as his fingers worked blindly to unclasp her bra. "Always."

        Once her torso lay bare to the charged air, Bellamy returned his mouth to hers in a fervent reclaiming, electrifying her senses with every brush of his lips. His hands, freed from their station at her back, traced incendiary paths down the smooth expanse of her bare stomach, each touch a whispered promise as they ventured toward the rim of her cargos. Curling his fingers through a belt loop, he tugged her insistently closer, his fingertips expertly dancing over the buttons, releasing them one by one until the fabric fell away.

        "Always."

        Haven felt herself disintegrating under the inferno of Bellamy's breath caressing her skin, each exhale sparking a torrent of electricity that arced up her spine and stirred galaxies in the pit of her stomach. Slowly, his lips wandered to her jawbone, tracing a sacred, burning trail down the tender column of her throat. He worshipped her skin with a ravenous intensity—sucking, nipping, revering every delicate pulse point—his path only halting as he reached the sanctified hollow between her collarbones.

        His breath hitched.

Haven already knew what had caused it.

Though Bellamy had become intimately acquainted with the map of her surgical scars over the recent weeks, each new encounter with the fresher scars still required adjustment. The scorched traces of her past resuscitations had matured into raised, pink ribbons that wove themselves among the earlier incisions made by Abby. Just inches above, faint scratch marks lingered, remnants of her frantic search for her locket within the Mountain's dark confines.

Her chest was destruction embodied.

As Haven watched Bellamy's gaze linger, meticulously tracing each scar—a stark testimony to the unfathomable trials she'd survived and the atrocious aftermath that marred itself across her body—she held her breath, fearing that he might withdraw altogether.

And then . . .

"You're perfect."

        Bellamy stared at the girl he loved as though she were a sanctum wrought from imperishable marble, a divine statue whose beauty not only sparked wars but defied the ravages of time and torment—desired by empires but defiant of their sieges. His eyes, deep and reverential, wandered over her with the intensity of a devotee before the holiest of altars. With every breath, every silent observation, he revered the undying power she embodied—a goddess not merely crafted from stone but embodying its eternal defiance. Beautifully destructible, yet eternally mending; she was an anthem of resilience, ever rising, ever radiant . . . profoundly alive.

        "You're fucking perfect."

        Haven's knees trembled as Bellamy bestowed featherlight kisses along the trail of scars that marred her chest, each touch a whisper of devotion. Slowly, he descended, his lips worshiping every inch of her, marking a delicate path down her torso until he reached the soft vulnerability of her stomach. On his knees, Bellamy paused, one finger daringly hooked in the delicate band of her underwear as he stared up at her from beneath shadow-draped lashes. It was a look thick with desire, a silent entreaty—aching, begging, pleading her for permission to venture further.

        His eyes were pooling with sin.

Haven nodded. Once. Twice.

        Then—Bellamy all but tore her underwear towards the floor, his mouth forging a searing, relentless path to the apex between her thighs.
 
       "I've missed this. You have no fucking idea how badly..." His voice was thick with unspent lust, halting as his breath washed hot against her bare skin. He delivered an incendiary kiss to her inner left thigh, then her right, his lips igniting supernovae to fester as they moved. With a firm, commanding grip, he parted her knees wider. "...I've missed tasting you."

        Haven hovered on the edge of breathlessness, her capacity to speak, think, or draw a full breath utterly suspended, each word and thought floating in the ether as Bellamy delicately lifted his pointer finger to her entrance. He refrained from crossing the tender barrier, not yet; instead, he glided it across the glistening veil of her arousal, each movement an excruciating caress that spun the air around them into stardust.

        "Look at you..." he breathed. "Already shaking. Already wet."

        . . . It was fucking humiliating.

       Still, a part of Haven itched to make a wry comment about the unmistakable bulge in Bellamy's pants that had made its presence known for the past fifteen minutes. Yet, she held her tongue, more out of sheer necessity than choice. She was already molten; her legs trembled uncontrollably at the mere sight of him—Bellamy Blake, kneeling before her, staring up at her as though she'd hung the moon in the sky . . . savoring the taste of her off his own goddamn finger.

        "You know what to do, angel."

Bellamy's words were a low directive, charged with a primitive, barely-contained hunger as his eyes locked onto hers, devotedly tethered. Despite battling the seflish temptation to drive her to vocal abandon, to hear her cries echo through the space around them—his next utterance struck with a tempestuous fervor, potent enough to cleave the heavens and convulse the very stars.

"Keep that pretty mouth quiet for me."

        As Bellamy bowed his head, his lips finally surrendering to the magnetic pull of her core, Haven's spine reflexively arched away from the wall—a visceral response to the intoxicating sweep of his tongue. Her hands, shaky and eager, grappled for stability upon his shoulders, her flung back in rapture as she twisted and knotted the fabric of his shirt between her quivering fingers, every touch an electric torrent through her veins.

It was impossible not to cry out.

Every caress of Bellamy's mouth upon her core was an exquisitely sweet torture. He anchored himself with the fervent warmth of his hands clasping the backs of her thighs, drawing her hips closer, burying his face deeper. His tongue swept flat against her entrance in a broad, languid stroke before swirling with precision around her clit—sweeping, swirling, suctioning, repeating—relentless in its rhythm. He gathered every drop of her essence, devouring it with the fervor of a man starved of air, every taste as critical as the very oxygen he breathed.

        Shifting one hand to the crown of his head, Haven feverishly threaded her fingers through Bellamy's unruly curls, gripping as though to claim every part of him—a desperate anchor against her knees inevitably buckling. Small, strained whimpers slipped from her reddened lips, their force garnering strength as Bellamy's ministrations only deepened.

        "So good," Bellamy praised, withdrawing only a few centimeters before plunging once more into her inescapable warmth. "You're doing so good, angel."

        Haven felt the simmering heat within her transform into a voracious inferno, each surge scorching her from within, relentless and all-consuming. She bit down on her lip, vainly attempting to silence the rising moans that threatened to shatter the tranquility of Alpha's sleeping quarters. Yet, with every masterful flick of Bellamy's tongue and each deliberate suction of his lips, she teetered perilously on the brink of wild, manic abandon. Her breaths, once hushed, now escaped as fervent gasps, weaving into the humid air a desperate aria of need—each note a seething plea for release.

"Not yet."

Bellamy's warning struck as a cruel vibration against her core, the mere utterance mingling indistinguishably with the incessant motions of his mouth. It was staggering—the sheer extent of his control, almost unimaginable how the rumble of his voice alone could escalate her ecstasy, pushing her sanity to its brittle edge. More than his deftly moving tongue, it was his voice that infiltrated her deepest recesses—a serpentine whisper that coiled and tightened around her very soul, unraveling her thread by excruciating thread.

        Haven tugged on his hair thoughtlessly.

        "Bell..."

        "Mm. Not yet."

The Blake Boy dared an audacious glance upward, his eyes alight with wicked intent as he adjusted his grip on her thighs. He slid one hand to the lush curve of her hip, while his other ascended higher—delving into the soaking, glistening mess he had crafted. Gradually, he withdrew the fervent chase of his lips, substituting it with the precise and deliberate intrusion of a single finger, exploring the depths of her desire with a slow, intentional rhythm.

"Hold it longer for me."

        The mere vision of Bellamy kindled an unbidden moan from Haven, his finger transitioning from a languid thrust to a relentless curl within. His rhythm was a wild oscillation—slowing, then surging with sudden intensity, retreating achingly slow only to plunge deep once again. Each movement left her senses teetering on the edge of anticipation, eventually coaxing her into perfect harmony with his actions. Her hips slowly began to mirror his explorations, moving back and forth in fluid synchrony with his guiding finger, all while he leaned back, his eyes intent and burning . . . watching her every response.

       One finger.

       Bellamy had a singular, sinful finger delved deep within her, and already . . . Haven was staggering on the precipice of ruin.

        "I can't," she panted. "I-I can't.."

"C'mon, Hav..." Bellamy murmured, his voice a low, enticing drawl as he leaned closer once more. His breath, warm and seductive, fanned across her flesh—a tantalizing prelude that promised to unravel her for good. "I'm not done yet."

        His mouth descended at once.

        . . . He was fucking with her.

       It became excruciatingly evident that Bellamy was prolonging her climax on purpose, skillfully alternating methods of pleasure, commanding her to stay silent while eating her out right beside the goddamn door. The added torment of periodically holding her breath to keep quiet, coupled with his ever-shifting techniques, seemed designed not just to extend her ecstasy but to intensify his own experience—forcing her to hover on the brink longer, longer, longer . . . each moment crafted for his own rapturous enjoyment as much as for hers.

        And as deeply as Haven desired to remain suspended in his catastrophic bliss for eternity, she felt the exact moment when the universe within her rocketed towards impending cataclysm. Every sense within her quivered and twisted, supernovae and nebulae coalescing and harnessing every speck of stardust in her bloodstream, hurtling her towards the explosive throttle of oblivion.

"Bellamy..."

The Blake boy seamlessly took the hint.

Hooking Haven's leg atop his shoulder, Bellamy drew her closer, aligning her in a new, intoxicating angle that sank her flesh deeper against his eager mouth—eliciting a sharp gasp from her lips. As he fervently circled her clit with his tongue, simultaneously driving two fingers inside her with a curling motion, his initial command for silence became a distant echo, lost to the wind. Haven's moans escalated, ripping from her throat as breathless, fervid cries that coaxed instinctive groans from him in return.

He dared another glance upwards.

And then . . .

Haven was dissolving into ruins.

. . . But Bellamy kept going.

        There was no time for Haven to comprehend the disintegration of her world, not while Bellamy remained fervently devoted between her thighs. His mouth waged a ceaseless campaign, his fingers delving deeper, deeper, deeper—each thrust synchronized with the reverent nods of his head, as if in homage to the tremors devastating her senses. The pressure and stimulation surged to an almost unbearable intensity, teetering on the brink of pain . . . then detonating into mind-numbing, electrified pleasure.

        Before she could even register the transformation, her body was already priming itself to fracture anew, spurred into a relentless tempo of ecstasy by his refusal to relent.

        "Bellamy..." she whined. "B-Bell...Bell..."

        At the whisper of his name from her trembling lips, Bellamy let out another instinctive moan against Haven's warmth, his grip tightening on the soft skin at the crest of her thigh draped over his shoulder. His fingers pressed deeply, claiming the skin as his own, destined to leave enduring marks. Her response was tumultuous, needy—hips surging against his seeking mouth, hands desperately entwined in his hair, luring him inexorably closer into the vortex of her need.

Her moans alone almost undid him.

Yet, Bellamy refused to allow his own mounting pleasure to distract him, his devotion unwavering as he drowned in the sacred task before him. His movements were deliberate, intense, each sweep and circle savoring the sweet taste of Haven's arousal, feeding on the filthy moans that spilled from her lips. Positioned devoutly on his knees, he became a fervent disciple of her body's responses, each calculated motion designed to catapult her into celestial heights—again and again, without end, relentlessly—until the stars themselves echoed his name.

        "Use me," he whispered. "Use my tongue and get what you deserve. I'll stop once your legs give out."

       Another sinful moan tore from Haven's lips, eclipsing all before it in its intensity; Bellamy's guttural response vibrating against her core with a force that promised to shatter her once more. Her thighs quaked, her mind reeled, and from her inner thighs, a luminescent glow of starlight seemed to leak. Every sense was spasming and rupturing so astoundingly she barely registered Bellamy's hand as it ascended her quaking body. It settled around her throat with possessive ease . . . his fingers pressing just enough to feel the wild, rampant pulse of her heart.

She was fighting a losing battle.

Bellamy knew it, too.

        As the cosmos fell apart for the second time within mere minutes, stars streaked wildly across Haven's vision, and comets annihilated the astral heat in her stomach. The intensity of her climas was so profound, so utterly consuming, that her knees finally surrendered—unable to withstand the volcanic surge of pleasure any longer.

        Satisfied with his ministrations, Bellamy cradled Haven's weight upon his shoulder, bestowing a final, lingering kiss upon her trembling core before reluctantly withdrawing. Rising breathlessly from his crouch, he lowered her leg to the ground, gently steadying her back onto her feet with an ironclad grip at her waist. Once she found her balance, the magnetism between them stretched taut, rendering his efforts of restraint utterly useless as he crashed his lips against hers.

        His mouth knew no other home.

By the time their mouths finally detached, the both of them were so breathing so heavily it felt as though every cell within their beings was vibrating. Their faces lingered mere inches apart, caught in an ethereal trance as they observed each other through half-lidded eyes, intoxicated by allure. The air between them crackled with an almost unbearable heat, a fire that demanded more, more, more—thrumming in every heartbeat and echoing in every pulse, binding them so tightly together that it became impossible to discern where he ended and she began.

Bellamy's clothes hit the floor one by one.

        Haven felt her heart falter.

        Bellamy fucking Blake, a god amongst mortals, a spectacle of cosmic divinity enshrined in flesh. He was the ethereal embodiment of war and beauty, an unrivaled force that stirred the ancient gods from their celestial thrones. They raged with divine envy, their heavenly powers clashing against his terrestrial majesty, yet none could dim the lustrous fire of his existence. His eyes, deep and dark, were black holes capturing the essence of the night itself, and his hair—a cascading shadow framing the tempest within. His muscles, forged in the heart of dying stars and tempered with the resilience of time, sculpted him into a figure of sublime and terrifying splendor.

        He transcended the mere concept of beauty, existing beyond the limits of mortal comprehension, a paragon whose brilliance defied the boundaries of time and space.

And yet . . . Haven had sunk him to his goddamn knees.

        Before she could summon a whisper or draw a breath, Bellamy had already tucked Haven flush against the searing expanse of his bare torso. Flat against her spine, his hand guided them with silent promises to the corner where the sofa bed awaited. His touch was paradox incarnate—unfathomably tender yet vibrating with tumultuous desire as he maneuvered to lay her upon the cool sheets . . . yet, Haven halted him with an authoritative hand to his chest.

Bellamy tilted his head. "You're finished?" he probed, his voice a low murmur against the growing silence, his tongue sweeping across his lower lip as if tasting the last remnants of a forbidden sweetness. "Fair. I've had my fill."

"No," Haven answered simply. "Sit."

At her command, something enigmatic flitted across Bellamy's gaze, a quicksilver flash of uncertainty as he traced her eyes to the awaiting sofa bed. His thoughts, wild and untamed, darted through the maze of potential meanings her words might veil, each possibility more intoxicating than the last. As realization finally dawned, his eyes snapped back to hers, locking with an intensity that seemed to scorch the very air between them.

        He swallowed thickly. "I..."

"What?" Haven drawled, forcing him backward with the gentle press of her palm. Her touch was not merely a barrier, but a declaration—a powerful incantation that both invited and commanded. "The King can't handle a joyride—?"

. . . Absolutely the fuck not.

Bellamy's response was caught in the brief tightening of his jaw, silently acknowledging the cruel gauntlet she had thrown down. "...It's not me I'm worried about."

Haven smiled. Wickedly.

"Whatever you say."

Then, Haven drove him back into the shadowed embrace of the sofa—eyes ablaze with devious intention as she observed him positioning himself.

Stripped bare, Bellamy sat ensconced in the dim light, his arms crossed rigidly across his chest as he reclined against the sofa's backing. His eyes voraciously tracked the hypnotic sway of her hips as she approached, each movement a siren's call that drew him deeper into the throes of desire. The intensity of his gaze held a wild, feral edge, teetering on the brink of madness as he absorbed every nuance of her approaching silhouette—a shadow play of temptation that flickered tantalizingly just out of reach.

        Poised like a sovereign without a crown, his body lay in wait, hips forming the base of an unclaimed throne, waiting for Haven to ascend and claim her dominion. And as she finally bridged the expanse between them, straddling him with a defiance bordering on the divine . . . Bellamy felt his final line of defenses disintegrating.

Haven's palms anchored firmly against his shoulders, elevating her form in a regal yet provocative ascent, hovering just above the length of him. Below her, Bellamy's hands instinctively encircled her waist, fingers pressing into her warmth as if trying to sculpt her into his own flesh. His teeth gritted, a muffled groan of internal conflict echoing the torment of resisting her, seething against the scalding urge to close the gap that lingered between them once and for all.

As she lowered herself ever so slightly, each subtle descent allowed her to brush against the mere tip of him—a scorching caress that left a trail of warmth—before abruptly retreating into the taunting cool of absence. Each deliberate undulation of her hips became a masterful torment, her heat wrapping around him in fleeting embraces, only to cruelly recede, plunging him back into aching emptiness.

Belllamy's head flung backwards.

"Oh my fucking..."

        Shaking, the Blake boy jerked his neck back against the wall, screwing his eyes shut. Each breath he drew was laden with low, guttural curses that slipped through clenched teeth, resonating in the heated air as Haven mercilessly continued her sweet torment. Desperate for some semblance of control, he cast a silent, fervent prayer to the cosmos above—beseeching the stars for strength, begging the angels to blind their eyes and deafen their ears to the blasphemies rolling off his tongue, to the sin he was on the cusp of committing . . . and to the unholy noise bound to follow.

        "Hav..." he warned.

        Lips barely curving, Haven reveled at the sight of the formidable man before her, now reduced to a state of quivering need by her fleeting touch. "What?"

        "Just..." A fervid hiss of air warmed the skin of her neck as Bellamy finally mustered the strength to face her. Yet, the intensity of the moment abruptly overcame him, and his eyes snapped shut once more. "...fuck."

"Fuck—?" Haven echoed. "I mean . . . eventually."

Resuming her tantalizing hover above him, Haven's hand slid from the solid expanse of his shoulder, descending with a daring certainty to encircle his shaft. Her touch was agonizingly intentional, her fingers tracing sinister patterns over his sensitive tip before smoothly aligning him beneath her. The masterful adjustment stripped away any veil of uncertainty, her grip a commanding bind that merged their desires into one fervent pulse.

Bellamy's response emerged as a choked grunt, a raw sound that seemed ripped from the very depths of his being, balancing on the precipice of fathomless ruin. His hands reflexively tightened around her waist, fingers digging into her flesh, tinting her skin a soft pink under his urgent grasp. His hips surged upward in a desperate arc, feverishly seeking the culmination of their shared torment, but just as he grazed her entrance . . . Haven cruelly withdrew.

       His jaw clenched with irate desperation.

       . . . Good.

If Bellamy had selfishly wanted to draw out her climax . . . she could play, too.

"C'mon, Bell...use your words," Haven coaxed, her voice a silken caress, both rich and devilishly sweet as she observed Bellamy's miserable attempts to speak. His lips parted, a silent battle waged within, no words emerging—just shuddering, devastated pants as she slowly began to stroke him. "Can't you do that? Or is your jaw too tired—?"

        Bellamy shook his head. Pathetically.

        "I...can't...stand...you."

        Haven's smile was deceptively innocent, achingly beautiful—a vision so sinfully enchanting it could paint the heavens scarlet.

"Good thing you're sitting."

And then . . .

. . . She sank down.

A mutual gasp richoeted through the air between them as Haven's warmth finally engulfed him, sheathing only halfway down his length before the intensity became nearly unbearable. Although the depth was shallower than their first time upon Bellamy's cot, the stretch now seemed to amplify every nerve, every fiber to an otherworldly degree. She became intensely aware of each pulse that throbbed through him, echoing within her own body—while he was nearly undone by the scalding caress of her heat alone, her inner walls clasping him like a silken vice.

"Fuck," Bellamy cursed brokenly. "Fuck. You feel so..."

A tortured sound—straddling the line between a groan and a whine—ripped from his throat as Haven sank deeper, each inch she lowered herself only intensifying his ecstacy. Leveraging her weight, she descended slowly, fully acclimating to his imposing length. His hands roamed from her waist to her back, splaying wide across her spine to draw her tightly against his chest. He buried his face in the sweet curve of her neck—a deep, resonant moan vibrating against her skin as she settled completely against him.

Bellamy Blake could handle anything.

        Bloodshed. Death. War.

But this . . .

. . . This might be the worst test of his endurance yet.

Gradually, Haven initiated a rhythmic rolling of her hips, her eyes momentarily clamping shut as she adjusted to the stretch within her. Each languid grind elicited a sharp exhale from Bellamy, his form throbbing, twitching, pulsing inside her—a torrent of sensation that defied comprehension, birthed from the pleasure she crafted. Eventually, she harnessed the strength of her knees to lift and lower herself in a measured cadence, gliding up and down, each movement becoming more fluid as she eased into her rhythm.

"Go on," Bellamy encouraged. "Ride me."

Amidst the tumult of her own gasping breaths and the thunderous pulse in her ears—Haven could barely register Bellamy's low murmurs against her throat. Every fiber of her being blazed with a celestial fire as she quickened their pace, his firm hands descending to her hips, guiding the fervent rhythm of her movements—up and down, rising and plunging. His onslaught on her neck became relentless, his breaths hot and desperate as he lavished her skin with impassioned kisses and sharp, insistent bites, shakily burying his moans into the fervor of their embrace.

"Good girl," Bellamy praised, unlatching his lips from the tender pulse point beside her collarbone. With a deft hand, he gathered her locs, gently tugging them aside to expose more of her feverish skin—while his other hand tightened possessively around her hip. "Good fucking girl. Keep going, Hav."

        As his lips ascended to reclaim hers, Haven's left hand twisted into his curls, tugging him close enough to smother her moans between his swollen, reddened lips. Breath became a lost treasure, thoughts scattered like stars in the void—his breath merged with hers in a desperate tangle from which she could not, would not, extricate herself.

         And by the time Bellamy's movements began to mirror her own, his hips snapping upwards in a seamless, fluid counter-rhythm, every thrust aligning with a precision that tore gasps from her lips . . . she was utterly fucking lost to the exquisite syncopation of their bodies—two beings, converging into one pulse, one breath.

        As Haven's knees weakened, her rhythm slowly began to dissolve, flickering out like the final embers of a raging fire. Yet, even beneath her, Bellamy's influence only intensified, his control ironclad as he breathlessly orchestrated their movements from below. His touch commanded her motions with imperious intent, dragging her back into the incendiary rhythm of their connection—each thrust a powerful surge that reignited the wildfire within her.

        "Bellamy..."
        
        After the sound of his name on Haven's lips, Bellamy's eyes involuntarily fluttered shut, momentarily lost in a delirious daze of pleasure. When they flickered open again, a sharp clarity pierced through his lust-drenched gaze, focusing intently on her flushed features. "It feels good?"

She nodded. Breathlessly.

        "Say it," he panted. "Tell me how good I feel."

        "I...can't..."

        "C'mon...use your words," Bellamy rasped, a strained grunt punctuating his challenge as he cruelly echoed her earlier taunt. "Can't you do that—?"

         . . . She couldn't.

        She fucking couldn't.

        Overwhelmed and utterly molten beneath the scorching intensity of Bellamy's stare, Haven could only emit a ragged cry of pleasure, her voice cracking under the crescendo of his increasingly forceful thrusts. He nodded, his approval dark and silent, savoring the broken, unfiltered sounds that spilled from her lips like forbidden hymns. Exquisitely attuned to each tremor of her desire, he felt her arousal deepen—a cascading torrent that leaked luxuriously down his pelvis with each relentless snap of his hips, coating him in her starlight.

        "Look at me," Bellamy breathed, withdrawing his hand from her hip again to gently clutch her chin, redirecting her gaze from wandering to the ceiling to meet his possessive eyes. "Look at me, Hav. I wanna watch what's mine."

        Bellamy drank in the vision of the girl he loved, senselessly spellbound as she delicately guided his hand from her chin to the tender column of her throat. Her slender fingers wrapped around his, pressing his palm lightly against her skin—a gesture fragile yet intimately possessive. The act of trust and surrender nearly unraveled him on the spot, utilizing every fucking shred of his control not to spill into her right then and there. Her eyes were glassy with pleasure. Her lips, swollen and parted, quivered under the weight of continuous moans, while her jaw trembled with the ecstasy he had summoned from the depths of her being.

        Haven was unfathomably breathtaking.

        . . . And she was his.

        "Mine," he declared. "All fucking mine."

        "...Yours."

Bellamy's breath snagged violently in his throat, the soft whisper of her submission striking him like a brutal lash of lightning, igniting an uncontrollable moan from deep within. His eyes raged as smoldering pits of starfire, the dark irises smothered under a thick, impassioned veil of lust. With every pulse, he drove into her relentlessly, his body demanding to extract her affirmation again, to hear the echo of his claim reverberate through the incendiary air between them.

        "Say it again."

        "Yours."

        "Again."

        "I'm..." Haven whimpered. "...yours."

        Now . . . Bellamy was on the verge of total dissolution. Control had been obliterated as soon as Haven's legs had buckled; he was utterly undone, his essence fraying, pulled apart by the irresistible gravity of her presence. His breaths came in short, sharp gasps, each one more desperate than the last. His movements were unrestrained, frenzied—each thrust deeper, harder. He lost all rhythm, all composure, driving into her with a wild, untamed intensity that sought to obliterate the boundaries between them for good.

He was close.

        He was so fucking close, but he vehemently resisted the selfish lure of his own release, not yet . . . not until she had reached her climax first.

Haven helplessly surrendered her hands to the gravity of Bellamy's flushed visage, cradling his face gently between her palms—a stark contrast to his grip on her throat. Dark, unruly waves of hair framed his furrowed brow, each strand coated in a fine sheen of sweat that caught the dim light. Yet, amidst the storm of his intensity, it was the profound, almost ethereal softness gleaming within the depths of his eyes—a softness that whispered secrets meant only for her—that threatened to unravel her completely.

         Her image was alarmingly clear in his eyes, amplified a hundredfold by the love she glimpsed within them—a love that was hers alone, a sanctum only they shared.

And for the first time in eons . . . Haven found herself unafraid of the reflection of herself that he cast back to her.

Not here. Not now.

"I love you," Haven whispered, her thumbs tenderly tracing the curls that clung damply to his forehead. "I love—"

Before Haven could shape the rest of her vow into sound, the universe spun wildly out of its orbit; her back met the cool embrace of the sofa bed in seconds.

        Shredding through the last vestiges of his strength, Bellamy swiftly overturned their positions, placing Haven vulnerably beneath him. She hardly had time to even blink as he silenced her tender declaration with a kiss—fierce, possessive, and recklessly abandoned. As he anchored his weight above her, he secured his forearm beneath her torso, effortlessly drawing her into his inescapable hold.

"I-I can't hold it much longer," Bellamy admitted, his voice ragged between desperate pants, irresistibly drawn back to the flush of Haven's lips—over and over again. Each time he tore himself away, breathless, only to inevitably return and repeat the action—as if the mere act of kissing her was enough to shatter him. "You're killing me, Hav. Come for me. Again."

Haven's breaths escalated into ragged pants, driven to the brink of delirium as the ghost of her climax thundered within her, surging into a blinding white light and spiraling deep into her core. Each of Bellamy's movements was more forceful than the last, each thrust delving deeper, paced with an escalating madness that sought to obliterate any remnants of distance between them, fusing their souls into an indistinguishable whole.

"Please," Bellamy choked out, the word torn from the depths of his soul, repeated as a breathless incantation. "Please. Please. Come for me. I-I can't..."

Bellamy Blake—the man forged of iron and fire—now reduced to a raw, pleading form, each thrust into her stomach delivered with every sinew in his body drawn taut to the point of trembling. His muscles were clenched, rippling like molten steel, every pretense of control long abandoned. Here, now, he was unmade and remade, his very essence intertwined with hers. He existed not as his own entity, but as an extension of Haven's will—each breath an undying pledge, each pulse a resonant ode, declaring that he was irrevocably and wholly hers.

Haven felt her world begin to thin.

"I'm—"

"I know," Bellamy cut in, each syllable bitten out through gritted teeth. The distinction between control and sheer instinct had vanished; his voice, once grounded in deeper groans, now broke into breathless whimpers and urgent pants. "I know, angel. I'm so...fucking....close..."

        Desperate for his nearness, Haven stretched her good arm towards the boy who seemed to hover just above her, her forearm hooking around Bellamy's shoulders and clinging to him as tightly as their bodies could muster. She could feel herself slipping. He could feel himself slipping. The entirety of the goddamn Ark itself seemed to sway under the weight of their fervor, its walls trembling, metal wailing as though it too felt the imminent surge of their cataclysm. Undying devotion and explosive energy bounced off the steel confines, a tempest desperate for escape, making the ancient vessel pulse as if it were a living, breathing extension of their souls.

       As Bellamy tenderly lowered the crown of his forehead to hers . . . he made the catastrophic mistake of looking into Haven's eyes.

        In that delicate convergence, his soul seemed to stutter and his remaining strength seeped away, as if siphoned by the intensity of her gaze. Reflected back at him was not just his image, but his very being, fragmented and reassembled in the depths of her eyes. Haven beheld him as if he were the entirety of the cosmos itself, suspended just above her, the vastness of his being cradled in the delicate hold of her palms—but still, she ached for more, for the unformed parts of him yet to emerge. She stared at him as if she had never loved anything more . . . almost, as if he truly deserved such unconditional devotion.
       
        . . . Almost.

        He choked out the plea like a prayer.

        "...Please."

        As Bellamy delivered one final, seismic thrust, Haven unraveled catastrophically, a supernova of white-hot pleasure erupting from her core and tearing through the universe of her body. Bellamy, too, succumbed a heartbeat later, their climax colliding as twin stars in violent, glorious fusion. Reality frayed at its edges, dissolving into the cosmic dust of their mingled breaths. Time suspended its march, stretching into a boundless expanse where seconds morphed into eternities, irrelevant and forgotten. They hovered in this liminal space, adrift in the infinite, utterly lost to the world, their existence reduced to the raw, incandescent now of their union.

        Nothing else mattered; nothing else existed—only them, here, alive . . . together.

        Reeling from the aftershocks, Bellamy bestowed a series of tender kisses upon Haven's features—her forehead, her nose, her chin—before his strength finally gave way, and he collapsed upon her bare torso. His head nestled weakly against her chest, his breaths heaving in an attempt to regulate, though he had never felt more alive. His fingers trembled, muscles twitched with residual energy, the tremors of their shared climax echoing through him . . . all whilst still buried inside her.

Haven's voice, raspy and worn thin from exertion, was the first to break through the still air. By some divine intervention, she miraculously summoned the strength to lift her hand, her fingers tenderly weaving through the crown of curls resting atop her.

        "...Is now a bad time to say that Jackson never actually told us whose room this is—?"

Bellamy only nestled closer against Haven's torso, clutching her tighter, his ears solely tuned to the soothing cadence of the heartbeat beneath him. The steady thud was a lullaby—a whisper of eternity that lulled the frayed edges of his consciousness, coaxing him deeper into the tranquil arms of sleep once more.

"Yeah," he whispered. "Ours."

• •

......HEY

pls tell me somebody spotted the finding nemo reference and the reference to the haunting of hill house 🥹 AND THIS ONE LMFAAAOO

NOT EVEN GONNA TALK ABOUT THE SMUT IM LITERALLY NOT OPENING THIS APP TIL TOMORROW.... someone had to do the girlies right and i volunteered as tribute✊ comparing to the last smut I wrote I feel like it has evolved so much lol oooops. sex is such a beautifully human thing when it comes to the ones you love and i wanted to capture that first and foremost! especially for them!!  <3

that being said ... i dont even blame them for getting freaky and for haven not wanting to know about abby!! if i died TWICE, found out my health was a result of medical abuse, thought my mans DIED, found out my dead mom was ALIVE as im going insane in an underground bunker that locked me in a cage to be experimened on....alongside literally EVERYTHING ELSE thats happened within the past 2!!! weeks!!! ..... girl i wouldn't wanna fuckin know either!! live laugh ride the dick and forget ✨🥰

but anyway. we back on track and into the main plot again next week! this was just the reprieve chapter :)))) i hope it made u happy!!!! 16.4k words....can u believe there was still an additional 3k i cut from it

I LOVE YOU MY BESTIES ✨ BEYOND LIFE! BEYOND EVERYTHING!!!!!

haven's kill count: 9
(2 repears in tunnels, 1 grounder in the caverns)