Bellamy Blake | Imagines & Preferences

Warmth.

It's probably been the best night you've had on the ground. All of  the delinquents are surrounding a monster of a bonfire. There's been no  sign of grounders for a week, and everything seems so peaceful. Monty  made up a large batch of moonshine and Finn found a stereo somewhere,  complete with a collection of music more than a century old. Everyone is  bubbly with alcohol and calmed by the tunes. Even Murphy lets his head  bob along to the beat.

Your own body is buzzing with intoxication,  just to the point of a pleasurable, meditative happiness. All of your  nerves are electrified and the music digs its way to your core. It only  takes a few moments of observing the scene before you're on your feet  with another small group of delinquents, swaying with your eyes closed.  Nothing matters but the soft beat of the drums and the chill of the air.

"Hey, gorgeous."

The  voice is deep, breath hot on the skin of your neck. Hands brush against  your torso and skim underneath the material of your shirt until arms  are wrapped tightly around your stomach. A hard chest presses to your  back as rough lips prod below your ear. You're not sure who this is, but  his every touch reaches heightened nerves.

"Come to my tent."

The  warmth of his body fades as he pulls away, large hand closing around  your wrist. He tugs you gently toward him. All you want is to keep  dancing, though. You open your eyes. His face is handsome with a strong  jaw, just slightly blurred by the effects of alcohol. You're not sure  you recognize him.

"I just wanna dance," you respond, attempting to pull your hand from his grasp. His hold remains the same.

"Come on," he urges, small smirk gracing his lips. "It'll be fun."

The  next events are so sudden, it takes you a few seconds to catch up, or  maybe it's the moonshine that slows your senses. The boy is thrown to  the ground, the force and his hold on you tugging you to your knees  before he loses his grip. There's another boy on top of him with dark  hair and a broad back, but that's all you can see. You barely register  quiet gasps. In lieu of conversation, the music seems all the louder.

"Bellamy,"  you finally recognize. There's a constant stretch of the muscles  beneath his shirt. You can hear the collision of skin and tough bone,  the soft crunching of cartilage. Your stomach churns at the noise, and  then it's like the alcohol is slowly draining from your veins. "Bellamy,  stop!"

The pounding continues. Everything comes flooding in - the  cold of the air, the mumbling of onlookers, the ache in your wrist.  Your mind whirs back to life and it's like everything is sped back up.  Bellamy is still hitting the other guy. You can hear labored grunts  leaving his lips. A sharp breath leaves your own mouth as you scramble  toward him.

"Bellamy! Stop, Bellamy!" Every movement feels  strange, like you're just learning to control your own body. You hook an  arm through Bellamy's left elbow, pulling him hard. He barely budges.  You yank again, this time with more effort. "Please!" You give one final  pull that renders him off balance. He shifts onto one knee and sits  beside the boy's body, glancing briefly at you as his shoulder falls  into your torso.

The boy's face looks like more of an abstract  painting than an actual face. It's contorted in pain, swollen in odd  places, and mostly red. You can hear pained wheezes fall from his mouth,  and you sigh with relief that he's still alive.

Bellamy's own  face is contorted. His nostrils are flared and he breathes loudly,  heavily. His forehead beads with sweat. You lose your grip on his arm,  which is hot, much hotter than the air.

You glance around quickly.  Almost all of the delinquents are staring. The music still plays in the  background, now very out of place. Clarke comes running out from a  random area, eyes wide with disapproval. She kneels by the boy's side  and examines his face.