Chapter Text
Bellamy has been banished from his own living room. He’s leaning against the counter in his kitchen, his jaw set, as he listens to the laughter and girlish squeals floating in from the living room above the awful dance music that’s playing. He told Clarke she could have a party for her seventeenth birthday, as long as he was there, and as long as she didn’t invite too many people. Now, there are currently about thirty teenagers in his living room, probably breaking shit he can’t afford to fix, and slipping smuggled alcohol into the soda he’s provided.
His sister, Octavia, was the one to drag him into the kitchen, claiming Clarke was too polite to say, but he was bringing down the mood. It does sound like they’re having a lot more fun now that he’s not watching over them, with his arms folded threateningly and a sour expression on his face.
“Bellamy,” Octavia says. She sits on a stool across the counter from him, twirling a straw in her coke. “You’re going to have to accept one day that she’s growing up. You can’t treat her like a little girl forever.”
Bellamy’s jaw ticks. He’s all too aware that the girl he’s raised since she was seven years old is almost an adult. It doesn’t mean he has to like it.
“I know,” he growls.
He wishes he’d said no to the party. If it were up to him, they would have had a nice family dinner, just the three of them, and maybe Octavia’s boyfriend. He knows he has limited time left with Clarke before she goes off to college, and he wants to make the most of it. But he also knows he can’t try to control her, or stop her from seeing her friends, or she’ll resent him.
He thinks he’s done a pretty good job of raising her so far. She gets good grades, doesn’t get into fights at school the way he and Octavia had when they were teenagers. She’s smart and artistic, doesn’t flout his curfew or any other rules he sets in place. She doesn’t drink or smoke and she’s never brought a boyfriend home, much to his relief. This relatively tame party is the wildest he’s ever seen her get, and even then, it’s really her friends are the ones causing most of the commotion.
Clarke skips into the kitchen then, and Bellamy straightens, forever ready to wait on her every whim. He doesn’t approve of her outfit tonight either. The skimpy little crop top shows way too much skin, and he shouldn’t even be fucking noticing, but he thinks she might not be wearing a bra. He has a brief notion to turn the air-conditioner up to see if her nipples get hard, and then immediately wants to slap himself for the thought.
“Cheer up, grumpy,” she grins. “It’s my birthday, I want everyone to have a good time.”
“Your friends are making a mess, kid,” Bellamy sighs.
She screws her nose up. “We’re seventeen and it’s a party, what did you expect?”
Bellamy sighs again, loudly. “Did you want something?”
“I just came to see you,” she says. Warmth blooms in his chest, and he struggles to keep his stern expression. “When are you going to give me my present?”
A slight smirk makes its way onto his face. “Later,” he promises. “When your friends are gone.”
“Is it something embarrassing?”
“No,” he laughs. He just wants them to be alone when he gives it to her, so they can enjoy the moment properly. So his gift isn’t thrown to the side with all the other useless junk her friends have given her.
“Clarke!” a boy’s voice calls, and then a guy with floppy brown hair bounds into the kitchen. “What are you doing in here with the old people?”
Bellamy’s mood immediately sours again. He’s not that much older than them. He’s only thirty-three, and Octavia is four years his junior.
“Shut up, Finn,” Clarke giggles, batting her eyelashes at this Finn character. Bellamy grits his teeth to keep from scowling. He clenches his fist, as if ready to beat a seventeen-year-old to a pulp if need be, if he so much as lays a finger on his little girl.
“Come on,” Finn coaxes. “You said you’d dance with me. And then Josie wants to play spin the bottle.”
“No,” Bellamy and Clarke say in unison. She glances at him, blushing.
“What, is it too awkward to play with your dad around?” Finn asks. Clarke blushes even harder, and Bellamy’s gut clenches. The words I’m not her dad dance on the end of his tongue. A mantra he repeats to himself all too often lately.
“How about we keep the kissing games for another time?” Octavia suggests. “I don’t think it’s appropriate.” Ah, how much she’s matured. As if she wasn’t doing far worse at seventeen.
“Good idea,” Clarke agrees quickly.
Finn grabs her hand, and she looks back over her shoulder at Bellamy as Finn drags her back to the living room, Bellamy glaring at him the whole time.
“You know, some might say you’re a little too protective of her,” Octavia muses. “She’s going to want to date one day. Do you really want her keeping it a secret from you because she’s afraid you’re going to scare off anyone who shows an interest?”
That’s not what he wants at all. He’s kind of hoping she never wants to date. He’s pretty sure no one is good enough for her.
“Shut up,” he mutters.
“And you know, you might even give dating a try. I understood it when she was younger, but I don’t see how it could hurt now. Don’t you get lonely?”
Bellamy baulks at the idea of dating. It used to be, before Clarke, he dated all the time, found it fun. Now the thought of meeting someone new, getting to know them, bringing them home—he can’t stomach it. And how could he be lonely when he has Clarke?
“Have you even gotten laid in the last ten years?” Octavia snorts.
Bellamy glares at her. He has gotten laid, albeit sporadically, and never with the same woman twice. The last time was probably almost two years ago now. No wonder he’s always so sexually frustrated. Still, it’s none of Octavia’s business.
“I said, shut up,” he snaps, then stalks out of the kitchen towards his bedroom.
-
Clarke Griffin was seven when she entered the foster system. Her dad died a year earlier, and her mother was so spaced out on pills she’d forgotten she even had a daughter.
Bellamy had been out of college for a year, working as a social worker, and was assigned to Clarke’s case. She’d taken to him right away. He had a natural gift for caring for children, and he took her trust in him very seriously, especially since she didn’t seem to really trust anyone else.
She had been scared of her mom, but she still cried for her dad. Her first foster carers found her rebellious and angry. She wouldn’t sleep, wouldn’t eat, refused to go to school. As far as Bellamy could tell, there was nothing wrong with the couple who’d taken her in, and they seemed like they were trying their best to care for Clarke. They said she screamed that she wanted her dad frequently, and when they gently reminded her what had happened to her father, she asked for Bellamy instead.
She was never like that with him. With him, she was the picture of innocence, wide blue eyes and blonde curls, though her smile was always a little cheeky.
But her second foster home was the same, and to see her distraught made Bellamy distraught. He didn’t like the thought of leaving her with someone else. He’d grown attached to her. His heart ached when he thought of her sobbing by herself, crying for her dad, or for him. So when, after a month, the second carer didn’t work out either, he took her in himself.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was certain he’d have to let her go at some point. She had no other family, but her mother was working to get clean. But then, a year later, Abby Griffin died of an overdose. And there was no fucking way Bellamy was giving Clarke up to someone else. He loved her like she was his own daughter, and the thought of someone taking her away from him was unthinkable.
Her case was given to someone else, someone who checked in on them every now and then. But eventually Bellamy was considered capable enough of caring for her, and they were left alone. Just the way he still likes it to this day.
It’s after midnight when the last of Clarke’s friends are finally gone. He’d reappeared in the living room an hour ago, making his presence known until the teenagers finally got the hint and called their parents or whoever to come and get them. Octavia had even given a few of them a ride home on her way.
Now, Bellamy sits with Clarke on the sofa, her feet curled up under her as he hands her the small box, painstakingly wrapped in pink paper. She’s in her pyjamas now, which is somehow worse than the outfit she was wearing earlier, because it’s just these tiny cotton shorts and singlet top, and she looks all soft and innocent. He wants to pull her onto his lap and tease her little cunt through those indecent shorts.
His cock stirs. He grits his teeth and pushes the thought away.
Clarke takes the gift from him, and he watches her carefully as she unwraps it, then opens the box. Her eyes light up as she lifts the charm bracelet out of the box. It only has one charm on it so far, a little crown, with the word princess engraved on it.
“Oh, Bellamy,” Clarke beams. “It’s so pretty.”
She always calls him Bellamy now. She’d tried out dad and daddy when she was younger, but she eventually just settled on calling him by his name. He thinks perhaps she liked the way it made her sound grown up, to call adults by their first names.
“You like it?” he smiles.
Clarke nods, and holds out her wrist. “Put it on me,” she says, handing over the bracelet. Bellamy clasps the bracelet into place around her wrist.
“There,” he says. “My little princess.”
The nickname originated in the early days of her living with him. She loved the colour pink, and she loved anything to do with princesses. That, plus the fact that he’d do anything for her, earned her the nickname.
She used to have bad nightmares as a child, about the car accident she’d been in that killed her father. About her drug addled mother neglecting her and abusing her. The kids at school bullied her for anything they could think of—because she accidentally called the teacher mom, because she liked the colour pink too much, because she went to a sleepover and wet the bed.
Bellamy was always there to console her. Once, when the nightmares and the bullying were really bad, he got the idea to build her a blanket fort. Only, he called it a blanket palace, and he bought her a tiara covered in diamantes and declared her princess of the kingdom.
“Brave princess,” he called her. “Nothing can hurt you in your palace.”
It became a tradition—whenever she was particularly sad or scared, they’d build the blanket palace together, and then he’d crawl in there with her, and he’d read to her, or play dolls or tea parties with her, or sometimes just hold her.
They haven’t done any of that in years now. She used to be so affectionate with him too, she was such a tactile child. But she rarely touches him now. Sometimes Bellamy misses it. Sometimes he’s glad of it.
Clarke admires the bracelet, and the charm dangling from it. “Thank you,” she says. She lurches towards him and throws her arms around him, pulling him into a tight hug. Her soft breasts crush against his chest. Definitely not wearing a bra. His traitorous cock twitches.
He pulls away hurriedly, before his thoughts can descend any further into dangerous territory.
He gets up off the couch, ruffling her hair. “I’m off to bed. Happy birthday, kid. Goodnight.”
-
It’s not the first time he’s had these kind of wayward thoughts about Clarke. He didn’t notice, at first, what a beautiful young woman she was growing into. Not until she was fifteen, and she awkwardly asked him if she could go bra shopping, blushing the whole time. And his eyes flicked down to her chest, and he realised he’d been letting her go without one for far too long.
He should’ve let Octavia take her, but Octavia was busy, and Clarke wanted to do it right away. She wouldn’t say, but he got the feeling she’d been teased about her already large breasts. He hadn’t noticed before, the way they jiggled under her loose-fitting t-shirts, but the kids at school must have. It was all he could think about as they walked into the lingerie shop.
Bellamy had hung back as a sales assistant helped Clarke, but he felt his ears go red as they picked out lacy bras in different styles and colours. Couldn’t she just pick one of those unsexy beige contraptions? When the sales assistant started picking out matching underwear, he had to intervene.
“She’s fifteen, for fuck’s sake,” he had scolded, tearing the collection from the assistant’s hands. “She shouldn’t be wearing this kind of thing.”
The sales assistant had stammered apologies, claiming she’d thought Clarke was older—that he and Clarke were a couple. Clarke had blushed deep scarlet, and Bellamy hadn’t been much better.
In the end, they’d left with the plainest, most practical bras, and never spoken of the humiliating encounter again.
Still, the knowledge was there now. That she wasn’t exactly a little girl anymore, that she was blossoming into an attractive young woman. Wicked thoughts would seep into his brain if he didn’t keep his guard up—at first it wasn’t too hard.
But as she grew older, the thoughts became more frequent, sicker, harder to banish. Thoughts of her writhing beneath him, naked. Thoughts of his cock sliding inside her, her tits bouncing as he thrusts into her.
He has similar thoughts now, lying in bed, listening for her footsteps down the hall as she goes to bed herself. What if she opened his door instead? What if she crawled into bed with him like she used to do when she was a child? But this time she wraps her mouth around his cock and he spills his seed into her perfect, warm mouth.
He groans. It’s sick, he knows it’s sick. She’s practically his daughter. It doesn’t matter that they aren’t biologically related, or that he never officially adopted her. He’s the only family she’s got, and he can’t ruin that by entertaining these disgusting, awful thoughts. What would she think if she found out? She’d never trust him again. Maybe she’d never trust anyone again.
He doesn’t want to have these thoughts. He’d do anything to go back to thinking of her as a child again. But every time he looks at her, all he can see is how beautiful she’s become, how fucking sexy her body is. His stupid brain can’t seem to accept the fact that she’s as good as his daughter, that’s she fucking seventeen, that he’s sixteen years older than her, that he’s known her since she was seven.
He refuses to masturbate. He’s not going to get himself off thinking about her, he can at least congratulate himself for that. He just lies there, willing his aching cock to go down. He eventually manages to think of something else long enough for his cock to stop throbbing and to drift off to sleep.
-
He surprises her with a treat the next morning, to make up for running of so hastily last night. She usually gets up before him, coffee made just the way he likes it sitting on the counter when he drags himself out of bed.
She’s always been an early riser, and in the early days of living with him, she’d get up and tidy the place, watched him intently for a week to learn how he made his coffee, then had it waiting for him every morning after that.
He assured her she didn’t need to do any cleaning, and she definitely didn’t need to make him coffee—he didn’t really think it was appropriate for an almost eight-year-old to be making coffee anyway.
But she kept doing it, no many how many times he told her she was allowed to sleep in, or play in her room until he got up to get her ready for school.
It took a month for her to tearfully confess to him that her mom would get mad if she got up and the house wasn’t clean, and that she’d be even worse if she didn’t have coffee, and she was afraid if she didn’t do the same for Bellamy he’d give her up.
The second he heard that he burst into tears himself. He held her tight and promised her nothing would make him give her up, nothing she could do to make him not want her. She seemed to believe him, and gave up the cleaning, and took to either drawing in her room or simply getting into bed with him until it was time to get ready for school.
She stopped making coffee too, for a while, but after a year, she started again. Said she liked making it, that it made her feel grown up, even though he wouldn’t let her drink it herself.
Bellamy let her keep doing it, because he saw it for what it really was—something that used to be a habit of fear turned into a gesture of love.
Clarke walks into the kitchen now, hair in a messy bun, still looking tired from her big night. She’s got on a pink robe with the word princess embroidered on the pocket, and he can see the charm from the bracelet he gave her last night dangling from her wrist.
“Morning, princess,” he grins. “I made your favourite.” He gestures to the freshly iced red velvet cupcakes on the counter.
“For breakfast?” she asks, as if she can’t quite believe the man who won’t let her put sugar on her cornflakes is letting her have cake for breakfast. (Not that she ever listened to the no sugar rule anyway, and he never had the heart to scold her too harshly for it.)
He shrugs. “You deserve a treat.”
“My birthday was yesterday,” she points out, even as she reaches for a cupcake. She bites into it, and Bellamy busies himself with cleaning the icing he spilled on the counter. He can’t even watch her fucking eat without getting turned on.
When he looks up again, she’s got cream cheese icing stuck to her lip. He wants to kiss it off. Instead, he reaches over and brushes it off with his thumb, tracing over the sexy little beauty mark above her lip. Clarke stares at him with those wide blue eyes, like she’s not quite sure what’s happening.
“You’ve got icing on your lip, kid,” he explains, trying not to think about how soft her lips are. How he wants to run his tongue over her beauty mark. How he wants to push his fingers into her mouth. How he wants to push his cock into her mouth. Fucking hell, he needs to get a handle on himself.
Clarke ducks her head, blushing as she wipes her mouth. Bellamy raises an eyebrow. Is she really embarrassed about getting icing on her face? He’s seen her through much worse. Vomit, blood, tears. And she’s blushing over a little icing?
“What are you plans for today?” he asks, dropping his hand.
“I thought we could hang out,” Clarke says. “Since we didn’t really get to yesterday.”
Bellamy is pleased. He likes that she still wants to spend time with him, even though her popularity seems to have skyrocketed in the last year, and she could be hanging out with any of her millions of friends.
“Yeah?” he says. “You’re not embarrassed to be seen with me now that you’re seventeen? Not too cool to hang out with your dad?”
Clarke rolls her eyes, but she’s blushing again. She seems to do that a lot more lately. Bellamy loves the way her face gets all red when she’s embarrassed.
“You’re not my dad,” she huffs.
No, he’s not. “I’m the closest thing you’ve got.” It’s a reminder to himself as well as to her.
She bites her lip, then dips her finger into the icing on her cupcake and scoops it into her mouth, sucking on her finger. Bellamy almost groans out loud.
“Seriously,” he says. “You don’t want to hang out with your friends?”
Clarke shrugs. “They don’t get me like you do.”
Bellamy smiles, pleased. “Should we ride our bikes around the lake?”
Clarke nods, then skips back to her room to get dressed. She comes back down twenty minutes later in a crop top and the tiniest pair of denim shorts he’s seen in his life. He feels like a pervert for even looking at her. And yet, he feels like he can’t say anything, because that would mean he noticed, and the last thing he wants is for her to feel uncomfortable around him.
He lets her lead the way to the garage, where their bikes are, and he wants to die when he realises he can see the bottom of her ass cheeks poking out from her shorts. He imagines getting his hands on those ass cheeks, rubbing his cock against her crack, coming all over her back. It’s getting more difficult to hide his growing hard on.
It’s a short drive to the lake, with the bikes strapped to the bike rack on Bellamy’s four-wheel-drive. He gets them down, Clarke’s pink one first, and then his black one. She seems reluctant to put her helmet on, for fear it will mess up her hair, but he makes her put it on anyway. He’s not letting her get a brain injury over vanity.
As they’re riding, he can put thoughts of his attraction to her from his mind. She’s a kid again, racing him around the next bend, fresh spring air in his lungs. He loves the sound of her laughter, wants nothing more than for her to be happy always.
They stop at a picnic table for a water break, and Clarke perches herself on top of it, taking off her helmet and shaking out her blonde hair.
“We should watch a movie tonight,” she says.
“Twilight?” he guesses.
Clarke pokes her tongue out. “Maybe one day I’ll surprise you and want to watch something different.”
“But tonight?”
“Twilight,” she agrees. She tilts her head back, eyes closing, soaking up the sun. Bellamy allows himself a moment of weakness, and his eyes rove over her body, admiring the large expanses of white skin on display. Her long, toned legs, her soft tummy, her round breasts, rising and falling heavily from the exertion of the ride.
He flicks his eyes back to her face, and his gut drops when he sees her watching him. She flushes, and he knows he’s been caught out. The thought makes him sick.
“Zoned out there for a moment,” he chuckles casually, though his heart is pounding. “Should we keep going?”
Clarke nods, and Bellamy feels a lot less carefree on the way back to the car.
-
Bellamy cooks the popcorn while Clarke gets the movie ready on the TV. It used to be she’d sit on his lap while they watched movies together, and then when she was too old for that, snuggled up against his side. Now he keeps the bowl of popcorn between them, but he wishes she would sit on his lap again.
Clarke hits the play button, and New Moon starts playing. They’d watched Twilight a couple of weeks ago, and are cycling their way through the movies again. Bellamy has no idea how Clarke isn’t sick of this series by now—they must have watched it twenty times, and honestly it wasn’t that great the first time. But Clarke loves them, so he watches them, and he must admit it does have a certain fondness for them, if only because Clarke loves them so much.
The movies ends, Clarke having eaten most of the popcorn, with Bellamy only eating a couple of handfuls.
“Eclipse next weekend?” Clarke suggests.
Bellamy smiles. “Sure.”
“Oh, wait—” Clarke says, as if she’s just remembered something. “Actually, I kind of wanted to talk to you about something. About next weekend.”
“What’s that?” Bellamy asks, Clarke’s nervousness making him uneasy.
“So, you know Finn Collins, who you met last night?”
Bellamy immediately tenses at the mention of Finn’s name. “Yes,” he says carefully. “What about him?”
“He kind of asked me on a date.”
“No,” Bellamy says, the visceral feeling in his chest taking over. Clarke looks surprised at his vehement reaction, and he feels guilty for a moment. But he’s not changing his mind.
“No?”
“No dating until you’re eighteen,” he tells her. It’s a rule he’s just made up, and he’ll probably regret it when she turns eighteen, but he figures at least he can put off the inevitable for another year.
“What?” Clarke pouts. “Why?”
Bellamy hesitates. He has to have reasons? Isn’t enough that he doesn’t want her to? And how the fuck does he explain to her why he doesn’t want her to date, when he can barely explain it to himself?
“You’re too young, kid,” he says, trying to keep it light. Using the nickname he calls her to remind himself what she really is, what she can only ever be to him.
“Don’t call me that,” Clarke snaps, causing Bellamy to flinch. “I’m not a kid. I’m seventeen, you should treat me like an adult.”
Bellamy swallows, trying to maintain his composure, to remain the calm, responsible person in this argument. “You’re still just a kid to me,” he lies. “You’ll always be my kid.”
“Perhaps I should start calling you daddy then,” Clarke says, icy. Bellamy’s cock jumps, and his eyes flash. Does she know what that word means? She must, she’s not that naïve. But she can’t know what it does to him—she’s just being a brat, that’s all. Not purposefully trying to tease him, to turn him on.
“You can call me whatever you like,” Bellamy says, trusting she won’t take him up on that offer. She has to know what it would sound like if she started calling him daddy for fucks sake. He doesn’t know if he’d survive that. “You’re still not allowed to date.”
“Plenty of other girls my age are dating,” Clarke huffs.
“Plenty of other girls your age are pregnant, too.”
Clarke’s face goes a deep scarlet. “It’s just one date, you can’t get pregnant from one date.”
“Boys will take advantage of you. I don’t trust this Finn character.”
“So you don’t trust my judgement?” Clarke snaps.
“You’re only seventeen,” Bellamy growls. “You don’t know anything about what men can be like. What goes through Finn’s mind when he looks at you.”
“Maybe I know exactly what goes through his mind, and maybe that’s exactly what I want. I don’t want to be a virgin forever.”
She shocks him with that one, and he feels his face turning red. Still, he doesn’t flinch. “My word is final,” he growls. “No boys, no dating. Not while you’re under my roof.”
You’re mine, he wants to scream. Nobody else can have you.
Clarke gives him a scathing glare. “I’m not a baby,” she says, standing up. “You can’t keep treating me like one forever.”
She stalks from the room then, and Bellamy groans, massaging his temples. He feels a little guilty. He knows it’s only natural for her to want to start dating, for her to be curious about boys and sex at seventeen.
But the thought of anyone touching her makes his blood boil. Some stupid high school boy won’t know how to treat her right. He wants to protect her, and take care of her forever. He doesn’t want some other man to do it for him. Yet deep down he knows she won’t be his forever, one day, probably soon, she’s going to go off to college, meet somebody, follow her dreams, settle down—have her own life that doesn’t revolve around him.
It’s how it should be, he knows that. But still it leaves him feeling achingly hollow.
-
He can’t sleep that night, thinking about his argument with Clarke, so he ends up getting up and cleaning out his closet, a job he’s been meaning to do for months.
He hates when they fight. It happens so rarely, they’re usually always on the same page. He can’t remember the last time she was angry with him, or vice versa.
He feels guilty for enforcing the no dating rule, but at the same time, he can’t bring himself to take it back. He’s convinced himself it’s the right decision, especially if the person she wants to date is Finn. Bellamy can just tell he’s just another fuckboy, ready to take his baby girl’s innocence and break her heart. Bellamy is not going to have that on his conscience. He’s sure Clarke will understand one day.
Eventually he tires himself out, and he puts the bag of old shirts and underwear in the hall outside Clarke’s room, in case she has any clothes she wants to get rid of. He crawls back into bed, and he still feels wretched, but he must fall asleep eventually, because the next thing he knows he’s waking to the sound of birdsong, sunlight creeping through the cracks in the blinds.
His stomach drops when he remembers his fight with Clarke. What if she’s so mad at him she decides she doesn’t want to live with him anymore? What if she’s finally entering her rebellious phase, and he goes downstairs to find a note telling him she’s run off with Finn?
He pushes the covers aside and races downstairs to confront his worst fears. Instead all he finds is a cup of coffee on the counter, still steaming, and a piece of toast cut into a heart shape.
His shoulders sag in relief, and tears spring to his eyes, heart full of love. He quickly wipes his eyes when he hears her enter the kitchen behind him.
“Are you getting rid of those clothes?” she asks as he turns to her.
“Yeah,” Bellamy says. “Most of them aren’t nice enough to donate, I’ll probably just throw them away. If you have anything you want to get rid of you can add them.”
“Okay, thanks,” Clarke says. “I’m going to finish my homework then go over to Wells’, is that okay?”
“Of course, princess,” Bellamy says. He doesn’t worry about Wells trying to make a move on Clarke—he knows the kid has been in love with her for years, but Clarke only sees him as a friend. Bellamy feels for him, but he’s also happy he doesn’t have to keep an eye on them.
“Thanks,” she says, before turning to leave.
“Love you, kid,” he calls after her, just to make sure she knows.
“Love you too, daddy,” she calls back. Bellamy chokes on his coffee.
-
Clarke seems to have forgiven him completely for the no dating rule after that. She acts like the argument never happened, and he’s happy to forget the issue entirely. He just wishes he could forget the way she called him daddy. As if his thoughts weren’t inappropriate enough.
He makes her a snack of pizza rolls on Monday when he gets home from work just before six, even though he’ll start cooking dinner soon and she’ll probably spoil her appetite, but she asked for them, and spoiling her is his favourite thing to do.
He tries to help her with her homework, but truthfully most of it is beyond him by now. She’s so much smarter than he is with science and maths and English and art—he can usually help her with history and Spanish, but that’s about the scope of his expertise. He’s so fucking proud of her intellect and her work ethic.
After dinner, he cleans up while she goes to her room to get ready for bed before they settle onto the couch to watch Grey’s Anatomy.
His heart stutters when she walks back into the room. She’s not wearing her usual tank top and pyjama shorts combination, instead she’s dressed in a worn, navy-coloured t-shirt that barely reaches the tops of her thighs, and nothing else.
“Is that mine?” Bellamy chokes out, his voice thick.
Clarke looks down. The shirt hugs her breasts, makes her legs look miles long. She looks so fucking sexy dressed in his clothes, a neon sign telling him she belongs to him. The princess bracelet on her wrist doesn’t hurt either.
“Yes,” she says. “I took some of the stuff you were getting rid of, I hope that’s okay. It’s comfy.”
“Yeah,” he says faintly. He must have done something truly horrible in a past life to have deserved a torture this excruciatingly painful. If it’s a test of his self-control, he thinks he’s doing a fucking fantastic job, if he doesn’t count the fact that he’s thinking about pushing that shirt up to her waist and licking her pussy until she comes all over his face.
“Does it look okay?” Clarke asks, tugging at the hem.
“Yeah,” Bellamy says. “Yes. You look cute, kid.”
“Thanks, daddy,” she smiles.
Bellamy’s face contorts like he’s in pain. He tries to control the throbbing in his cock, but it has a mind of its own, and its standing at full attention now. Clarke, looking all sweet and innocent in his shirt, yet devastatingly sexy at the same time, calling him daddy. Her blonde braids hanging over her shoulders, her wide blue eyes, tell him she’s seventeen, far too young, far too pure for him to be having these thoughts. The way she bites her lip, juts her tits out, calls him daddy like she has no idea what it means—scream the opposite.
“Are you okay?” she asks, sitting on the couch next to him.
“You shouldn’t call me that,” he mutters, hand on his crotch, trying to conceal his erection.
“What? Daddy?”
“Yes.”
“Why not?”
He shoots her a look. He can’t bring himself to explain it out loud. What if she really doesn’t know?
He swallows. “I’m not your dad.”
“And I’m not your kid,” Clarke agrees.
Bellamy squeezes his eyes shut. “Let’s just watch the show.”
-
As if the universe is conspiring against him, Clarke decides she likes wearing his shirts so much, it’s basically all she wears when she’s at home. Maybe it should feel like a blessing that her cleavage isn’t on display so much anymore, but he feels like this is worse. Every time she bends down, or reaches for something, or fucking sits with her legs crossed, he’s treated with a tantalizing glimpse of her panties, begging to be pulled off so her pussy can be stuffed with his cock.
He wants to bend her over the kitchen counter and take her from behind, wants her bouncing on his cock in his lap, wants his face buried in her cunt while she sucks him off—all the while wearing nothing but his t-shirt. He can’t stop thinking about it, and it’s sick.
His cock aches, his balls feel like they’re going to explode, but he doesn’t masturbate. He can’t. Not when he’d be thinking of her the whole time.
He hates himself. He wants to gouge his eyes out so he can’t look at her that way. Imagine if she knew what he was thinking. That the one man she trusts more than anyone to care for her and look out for her is thinking such dark, nasty thoughts about her. She should be able to walk around the house in whatever she pleases, without some dirty old man sexualising her every move. He’s despicable.
To make matters worse, every time he calls her kid, she responds with that word, the one that makes cock hard and his gut clench.
Do you want dessert, kid?
Yes please, daddy.
Don’t forget to put your laundry away, kid.
I won’t, daddy.
Love you, kid.
Love you too, daddy.
It should make him stop calling her kid, but he thinks it just makes him say it more. So he’ll get to hear her call him daddy, so sweetly, yet so seductively. He thinks about how it would sound while she moaned it with his cock in her sweet, wet cunt.
Despite her assurance she would remember to put her laundry away, she leaves it folded in a pile in the living room for three days, until Bellamy finally resigns himself to putting it away himself, while she’s at Wells’ after school on Friday night.
He doesn’t go in her room often, not because he’s not welcome there, but he likes her to know that she has her own space without him intruding if she needs it.
He hangs her clean dresses in the closet, and those stupid crop tops she’s so keen on wearing, leaving her underwear for last. He’s not dwelling on the fact that he’s touching her underwear, that would be fucked up.
He opens the top drawer of her dresser, and before he can shove her panties into it, he notices a small silver pill packet, marked with the days of the week. His gut drops. She’s taking the pill. And she’s hiding it from him. Probably got Octavia to take her to get it, and Bellamy feels a surge of annoyance at his sister for not telling him.
He tries not to jump to conclusions. There are other reasons for taking the pill other than as a contraceptive. But then he notices what’s underneath it, and he wants to throw up. Gingerly, he extracts the bra, if it can even be called that, from the drawer. Totally sheer, other than the white straps holding it together, and a pink floral pattern embroidered on it, that he’s not sure would cover anything. He’s not sure how this tiny thing would hold her massive tits. And with it, matching panties that are basically just a string and a see-through triangle with some flowers on it.
There’s no denying why she would have a lingerie set like this. That, combined with the fact that she’s obviously been taking the pill for at least a couple of weeks now, tells him one thing. She’s ready.
His little girl is ready to have her pussy filled with cock, like a plump little cherry hanging from a tree, ripe and ready for picking. He wonders if she masturbates, if she’s put this little number on and pranced around in front of her mirror, then fingered herself to orgasm. He wants to know what dirty little thoughts she has hiding behind those innocent blue eyes.
He’s hard at the thought, feels hot all over. But a moment later, he realises who she must want to give her virginity to. That fucking Finn Collins, whose very name makes Bellamy’s blood boil. Who she wanted to go on a date with tomorrow night. He’d thought that comment about not wanting to be a virgin forever was just to rile him up, he didn’t realise how serious she was.
The thought of his princess being spoiled by somebody else fills him with a white hot rage like nothing else he’s never felt.
He hears the front door close, and he knows she’s home. He considers for a moment shoving the lingerie back into the drawer and pretending he never saw it. But he’s too angry.
“Bellamy?” Clarke calls.
“I’m in your room,” he yells back. If he doesn’t confront her about it, she’ll think it’s okay, that he’s totally fine with her losing her virginity at seventeen to some fuckboy who doesn’t give a fuck about her beyond the fact that she’s a hole to put his cock in.
Clarke appears in the doorway, looking confused. Her eyes widen almost comically when she sees the bra and panties in his hands, her face going redder than he’s ever seen it.
“What is this, Clarke?” he growls.
“Underwear,” Clarke says. She’s obviously trying to seem nonchalant, but she sounds timid and nervous, and she won’t meet his eye.
“Underwear,” Bellamy repeats. “Clarke, this is so inappropriate. It covers absolutely nothing.”
“Why do you care so much about my underwear?” Clarke huffs.
Don’t answer that, he tells himself. “Do you think I’m an idiot? I know you don’t buy underwear like this because it’s comfortable. You bought it because you want to show it to your boyfriend Finn.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“That’s even worse,” Bellamy says angrily. “You really want to give up your virginity to some high school boy who cares more about his hair than he does about you? That idiot is not good enough for you Clarke, and if I have to forbid you from seeing him, if I have to keep you home every night until graduation to make sure he doesn’t touch you, I will.”
“Oh my god, I don’t give a fuck about Finn,” Clarke groans. “I don’t want to have sex with Finn, I didn’t buy those for Finn.”
Bellamy stops, breathing heavy due to his rant. He licks his lips, trying to run through every potential boy Clarke knows that she might want to lose her virginity to. “Not Wells?” he asks. Had he read that situation so wrong?
“No,” Clarke whispers. “It’s no one from school.”
Bellamy’s stomach lurches. If the thought of her having sex with one of her classmates was bad, the thought of someone older preying on her is so much worse.
“I swear to god, Clarke, you better tell me who the fuck this man is, so I can have him fucking thrown in prison.”
Tears form in her eyes, and guilt tugs at him, but he has to know. He can’t let anybody touch his baby girl.
“It’s for you, okay?” Clarke whispers. “I bought it for you.”
Bellamy stares at her, breath knocked out of him. God. Fuck. Fuck. Surely he heard wrong. Surely he didn’t just hear her say that she bought some fucking sheer lingerie to wear for him, the man who raised her.
It should sicken him, but it doesn’t. It thrills him. Knowing she’s his, if he wants her. But he can’t want her.
“Clarke—” he chokes out. He has no idea how to respond to this. How to tell her how wrong it is without hurting her. How to stop his heart and cock from rejoicing at her confession. How to be the responsible adult here when his baby girl as good as told him she wants him to take her virginity.
“I’m your father,” he reminds her gently, and reminds himself.
“No you aren’t,” she says vehemently. “You may have raised me, but we’re not blood related. You didn’t even adopt me.”
“Clarke—”
“I see the way you look at me sometimes,” she says. “I know you think about it too.”
“No, Clarke,” he denies. “Even if I’m not really your dad—it’s still wrong. Even if I did sometimes think about—about what you’re accusing me of. I’m way too old for you. You’re seventeen for fuck’s sake. And we’re still family. We can’t think about each other that way,” he says, even as he’s picturing her in this scrap of fabric, sucking his cock.
Tears spill down her cheeks, but she nods, like she knew that’s what he would say. “I’m sorry,” she sobs.
Bellamy feels awful. But what was he supposed to say? I think about fucking you all the time? I want my cock in your virgin pussy so bad it consumes me? I want you naked, tied up, tits in my mouth, cunt dripping? I want my come in every single one of your tight little holes, and I want you to beg for more?
He pulls her into a hug, and she’s still crying. He hopes she can’t feel his erection pressing into her stomach.
“Hey, it’s okay,” he coos. “It’s okay, princess.”
“Do you think I’m fucked up?”
“No, no, of course not, sweetheart. It’s just a little crush, you’ll get over it. Promise. I bet all your friends have a crush on me too.”
Clarke gives a watery laugh at that. “They do,” she agrees. “They always say your dad is such a daddy. It makes me so mad.”
“Oh yeah? Why’s it make you so mad?”
She pulls her head back to look at him “Because you’re mine,” she tells him earnestly. Bellamy’s heart skips a beat.
“Is that right?” he says, swallowing thickly.
Clarke nods. “You always put me first. You never date. You spend all your time with me. You don’t care about anyone else except Octavia. So you’re mine. And you don’t need to worry about Finn, or Wells, or anyone else, because I’m yours too. Even if you don’t think of me the way I think of you.”
Bellamy can’t help but realise how right she is. And how if he’s ever going to gain some semblance of sanity, he might just need to change that.
-
Bellamy gets Octavia to set him up. She’s so excited about it too, like she’s been waiting years for him to ask.
The woman’s name is Roma, she’s twenty-seven, and she’s in Octavia’s kickboxing class. She’s not into the outdoors, she’s a hairdresser, and her hobbies are shopping and Instagram. She really doesn’t sound like his type, but at this point, anyone will do. Anyone who isn’t Clarke.
He meets Roma at a bar for a drink, something casual that doesn’t have too much riding on it. She’s pretty. A brunette, with a good body and a nice smile. She’s not as vapid as he thought she would be, and he enjoys himself.
He doesn’t take her home, because it would be weird with Clarke there, and besides, he didn’t tell Clarke he was on a date. She thinks he’s out with his only friend, Miller.
Roma invites him back to her place, and he almost says yes. But for some reason, he can’t go through with it. He’s horny, yes, and he wants to have sex. But not tonight. Not with her. His heart isn’t in it.
Maybe it’s got something to do with the fact that he can’t get the image of Clarke wearing that little lingerie set for him out of his head.
But he sets up another date with Roma, because he does like her, and he thinks with a bit of time he will want to sleep with her.
He checks in on Clarke when he gets home, just to make sure she’s okay. He thinks she’s asleep, but then he hears her voice murmur in the darkness.
“Did you have a good time with Miller?”
“Yes,” Bellamy replies, feeling guilty. He never usually lies to her.
“That’s good.”
Bellamy smiles. “Goodnight, princess.”
“Goodnight, daddy,” she whispers sleepily.
-
Bellamy sees Roma a couple more times, still keeping it a secret from Clarke. He still hasn’t had sex with her, and he knows Roma is wondering why. Next time, he keeps telling himself.
Truth is, while he has a nice time with Roma, it’s not like being with Clarke. Roma is nice, sure, and fun. But she doesn’t brighten his whole day like Clarke does. Doesn’t make his heart swell, doesn’t make the world seem just a little bit better simply by existing in it. Doesn’t get him like Clarke does. And she sure as hell doesn’t turn him on like Clarke does.
He was supposed to have his fourth date with her tonight, a month after the first. The previous two were lunch dates on weekdays, so he wouldn’t have to make up an excuse to tell Clarke.
He cancelled tonight though, because Clarke wants to watch Breaking Dawn Part 2. He told Roma he wasn’t feeling well.
He forgets to put the popcorn on the couch between him and Clarke, and halfway through the movie he finds her curled up to his side, his old button-down she’s wearing bunched up to reveal her pale pink panties. She hasn’t done the buttons all the way up either, and he can see a tantalising glimpse of her cleavage every time he looks in her direction. His cock stirs. He feels like he should push her away, but it’s been so long since they’ve been close like this that he can’t bring himself to. He wraps his arm around her instead, and he hears her sigh in contentment.
“I’ve missed this,” Clarke murmurs. “Being close to you.”
“We’re always close.”
“You know what I mean. You never hold me anymore. You barely touch me.”
Bellamy swallows. “What are you talking about? You’re the one who stopped.” He glances at her, to see her shaking her head.
“You stopped first,” she says. “You put up this invisible barrier between us as soon as you realised I wasn’t a little girl anymore. Like you were afraid people would think our relationship was creepy.”
Bellamy stews in this for a moment. Is she right? Is he the one who inadvertently denied her tactile nature? It wouldn’t be a stretch. He’d realised she was attractive when she was fifteen, and it was around the same time when she stopped being so affectionate with him. Perhaps he did push her away, without meaning to.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t realise. I thought you outgrew that kind of thing. Lots of girls do around that age.”
“Never.”
He gives her shoulders a squeeze, and she hums happily. What he wouldn’t give for her to always be this happy.
“Wait, I missed too much of the movie,” Clarke says. “We have to rewind.”
“You’ve seen this movie a hundred times,” Bellamy points out, pulling the remote out of her reach so she can’t rewind. It’s not like they won’t be watching it again in a few months time anyway. And he so hasn’t been paying attention to the movie anyway, not with Clarke pressed up against him like she is.
“Come on,” Clarke pouts, reaching over him to grasp at the remote. “It’s just a few minutes.”
“The longer you spend trying to get the remote, the more you’ll miss,” Bellamy says, as Clarke battles him for control. He waves the remote around as she gets up on her knees, trying to grab it from him.
He shoots his arm up over his head, and Clarke crawls onto his lap, laughing as she tries to get the remote from him. She grabs his wrist and he grabs her waist, tugging her down. Her breasts squash against his chest, and she squirms in his arm, straddling his lap now. She makes another grab for the remote, and her soft body wriggling against his has his cock standing to attention, a large tent forming in his sweatpants. He panics, stomach churning, and he wills his cock to go soft before she notices what she’s done to him.
Clarke huffs, slumping back down. A jolt goes through him as her panty-covered cunt makes direct contact with his erection. He grunts, and she lets out a squeak. Fuck. She felt it. He drops his arm and the remote, but he doesn’t move her, and she doesn’t move herself.
“Oh my god,” she whispers. “Is that—"
“Shit,” he swears. She’s pressed right against him, right there, right where he wants to touch her the most. Right where he can never touch her. “Fuck, Clarke.” He swears he can feel her heat, pulsing for him. His cock aches. “You’re missing the movie.”
“I’ve seen it a hundred times,” she reminds him. She bites her lip, then moves her hips, ever so slightly—just testing.
“Clarke,” he says, strangled, pleading. Pleading for her to stop, or keep going, he doesn’t know. His heart is racing. “We shouldn’t be touching like this,” he whispers. “You shouldn’t—” he stops. He’s not going to say the word cock in front of her. Or the words dry hump.
“Shouldn’t what?”
Another small rock of her hips, her pussy dragging against his cock, giving him a taste of the friction he so desperately needs.
“You know exactly what,” he says, his voice ragged. “It’s wrong.”
Fuck, he wants to kiss her. Wants to grind up against her, flip her over so she’s underneath him, then pull off those panties and fuck her deep. He closes his eyes, trying to find the strength to stop this.
His responsible, sensible side tells him to just pick her up and move her. It’s gone too far already. But for once, that side of him isn’t winning the battle. She rubs against him, a small whimper escaping her mouth.
“Bellamy,” she whines, still rubbing her cunt against his bulge. His breathing is shallow, and he feels like he’s going to die. “I want you so much. I think about you all the time—your cock.” He groans. His little girl saying the word cock—telling him she wants him. It’s too much to handle. “Tell me it’s not in my head. Tell me you feel the same.”
He can’t lie to her. Can’t make her think she’s crazy. “You know I do,” whispering the admission, as though if he says it quietly, it doesn’t make it wrong. “But there are so many reasons we can’t do this. You know what people would say if they found out I touched you like this. They’d take you away from me.”
“But I’m so horny,” Clarke says, and she sounds like she’s almost on the verge of tears. The slow, torturous way she’s rocking her hips has him feeling the same way. “My pussy hurts, daddy.”
Fuck. The magic word. It occurs to him she knew exactly what she was saying the whole time.
He grips her waist hard, his head falling to her shoulder, trying to control himself. “Clarke, sweetheart. Princess.”
“Please, daddy.”
How can he deny her, when she wants it so badly? When she’s in such pain, and he can make her feel better?
“No one can know,” he rasps. “And your panties stay on.”
Clarke nods, and she increases the speed of her gyrating. Bellamy watches her, entranced, as she humps his cock. Her fingers find their way into his hair, but he keeps his firmly on her waist. She’s so desperate, so needy, as she grinds against him, rubbing her clit against his massive bulge. The sounds coming from her mouth are obscene, and god she looks so fucking gorgeous, flushed and panting.
“That’s it, baby girl,” he groans. “Hump daddy’s cock, make yourself feel good. You look so pretty, sweetheart.”
“Oh my god, daddy,” she moans. She drops her head to his shoulder, her arm wrapping around his neck, moaning in time with her thrusts. Bellamy fights to keep his composure, but it’s a losing battle. Every moan, every rub of her hot cunt against his erection, every time the word daddy slips from her mouth, he spirals a little further into bliss and madness.
“Clarke,” he groans. “Are you going to come for me, baby girl? Look at me when you come, I want to see you. That’s it, princess.”
She pulls her head away from his shoulder, and it only takes her a few more strokes of her pussy on his cock before she’s tilting her head back, crying out, clutching at him as she orgasms on top of him. Fuck, she looks so fucking gorgeous.
She’s stopped her motions now, although her thighs are still quivering, but Bellamy is nowhere near satisfied. She’s teased him right to the brink, and is cock is harder than ever, throbbing painfully. He thrusts his hips up against her, almost unintentionally. He needs to come, and he needs to come now.
His arms circle around her, and then he’s shifting her from his lap, laying her down on the sofa so he’s on top of her, his cock still pressed against her pussy. When he looks down, he can see how wet she’s made herself, soaking through her panties and onto his sweatpants.
“Look at how wet you are,” he groans.
“I’m always this wet for you, daddy,” she confesses. Fuck. How often does she think about him this way? As often as he thinks about her? He wants to know all her dirty little fantasies about him.
His eyes rake over her, taking in her messy hair, her flushed skin, the way the shirt she’s wearing has opened so her tits are almost visible.
“Fuck, you are so gorgeous, princess.”
“Kiss me,” she begs. His lips are already so close to hers, it wouldn’t take much. And how can he refuse her, when he wants it just as much? He brings his mouth to hers as he thrusts his hips against her. His tongue pushes into her mouth and she accepts him greedily, meeting him with her own tongue.
“Fuck,” he groans. “This is so wrong.”
“It’s okay,” Clarke assures him. “I want it. Please. I want to make you feel good.”
Her legs are wrapped around him now, her body pressed up against his in all the best ways, and he can’t hold himself back any longer. He ruts against her, desperately chasing his release, humping her wet panties with a vigour he didn’t realise he possessed. He keeps his mouth on hers the whole time, kissing her, revelling in the feel of her lips on his. Nothing else matters except the way her body feels.
“Fuck,” he groans. “Fuck, I’m going to come. You feel so perfect, baby.”
He grunts animalistically as he comes, holding his cock against her mound, semen flooding into his boxers as he finally gets his much-needed release.
“Bellamy,” Clarke whimpers. “Will you fuck me? Please?”
Bellamy gut drops, and he comes hurtling to his senses. Fuck. Fuck. He leaps up from the couch, putting a good few feet of distance between them.
“Fuck,” he swears. “Clarke—” he groans. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have—oh my god. Fuck.” He drags his hand through his hair, overwhelming guilt and self-loathing filling him.
She sits up, her lip trembling. Shit, she looks sexy. All fucked out, in his shirt, the wet patch on her panties mirroring the one on his pants.
“Bellamy, it’s okay,” she tries to assure him. “I wanted it. I promise I wanted it.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Bellamy says. “I shouldn’t have done that, not to you. God. Fuck.” He’s despicable. He’s corrupted her, ruined her. Touched her in a way that a father should never touch his daughter.
“Bellamy, please. I won’t tell anyone.”
“It can’t happen again,” he growls.
“But—”
“No, Clarke,” he snaps. “I know you think you want me, but this is just—it’s so fucked up. God, the fucking—psychological trauma I’ve probably caused you. Touching you like that.”
“You’re not my dad, Bellamy,” she reminds him.
“Technicalities don’t matter,” he says. “Maybe I’m not your dad but I can’t be—whatever you want me to be. I need you to start dressing properly when you’re around me. I’m not saying this is your fault, but fuck. I can’t think clearly when you’re walking around in my shirts, flashing me your panties. Shit. You’re fucking seventeen.”
Tears splash onto her cheeks, and Bellamy feels even more wretched than before. He really is the worst person alive.
“I’m sorry,” she sobs.
He wants to go to her, hold her, make her feel better. But how can he, when that’s the very thing that got them into this situation in the first place? When the evidence of his crime is all over the front of his sweatpants? When he can’t stop looking at her, half naked and crying, and his cock is starting to harden again because he’s just that sick in the head?
“Clarke,” he says, softly, kneeling as close to her as he dares. “Please don’t cry. It’s not your fault, it’s mine. I shouldn’t have let it get so far. I should’ve been able to control myself. I wish I didn’t think about you like this, but I do, and it’s wrong. It’s so, so wrong. So we have to be more careful. Do you know what would happen if anyone found out what we did?”
Clarke nods, wiping her eyes. “They’d take me away from you.”
“Exactly. I couldn’t bear it if that happened.”
“Me either,” Clarke agrees.
“So we never speak of this again, yeah? And we don’t think about each other like that anymore.”
“Okay,” Clarke agrees.
“Okay,” Bellamy repeats, sealing their pact. He only wishes it would be as easy as that.