Okay but, "or, we’re in costume and i know exactly who you are but pretend i don’t so i have an excuse to make out with you just once" is really cool ;) ;) ;)
It should be noted that, ordinarily, making out with hot girls in dimly lit stairwells wouldn’t exactly faze him. Bellamy’s been to parties. He’s hooked up with pretty girls and guys. It’s not like it’s a novel concept, or anything.
But then again, none of those people have been Clarke Griffin.
Well, not that he’s supposed to know that, considering he’s about 80% sure that the only reason this is all happening is because she thinks he’s an attractive stranger in a gladiator costume.
It had been disorientating, really, watching her take him in with no animosity in her eyes whatsoever; dancing in the circle of his arms with her hand flitting over his chest, her hair tickling against his cheek. He had recognized her after, had bit back a surprised remark when she sidled up to him with her fingers curling over his bicep in an unspoken question.
Then they were dancing together, and he had forgotten his doubts for those few minutes, let himself enjoy being with her in a way they could never be before. He’d be lying if he said he never considered it anyway, never wondered about what could have been if they had gotten off on the right foot because it’s Clarke, and—
The next thing he knows, they’re kissing, clumsy and unrestrained as she giggles against his skin, breath warm against his ear when she asks, “Want to get some privacy?”