congrats on 1k!!! (for 1) i'd love to see bellarke as grudging co-captains of like debate or a sports team or something, always bickering but they actually work really well together. enemies to friends to lovers, high school or college verse maybe? thanks ❤
thank you isabelle!! =D
your bellarke fic:
“What the fuck was that, Griffin?”
Clarke drops her glove onto the bench and swipes up her water bottle, popping the lid off as she whirls around.
“What the fuck was what,” she retorts, glaring up from underneath the rim of her cap.
Bellamy tosses aside his mask before roughly unsnapping the buckles of his dusty chest protector, a grunt of pure frustration escaping from his mouth. “You weren’t on your base. I told you to be ready.”
“And I told you not to try it,” she shoots back, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth after a few rushed gulps of water. “Emori was going for the bunt, I saw her.”
“And Aden’s too much of a chickenshit to go for a steal, like I said,” Bellamy gripes, somehow managing to get his gear hung up on the hook without taking his narrowed eyes off Clarke.
“Clarke’s up,” Monty announces idly. Neither Bellamy nor Clarke pay him any attention.
“It was two out,” she points out, turning her back on Bellamy to set the bottle down. “Throwing out the bunt was a safer bet.”
“We had a plan,” he snaps, yanking off his shin guards.
“Plans change,” she counters, whipping her batting gloves off the bench.
At the other end of the dugout, Raven collapses onto the bench, pinching at the front of her shirt to fan it against her perspiring skin. “Who says sports isn’t fun,” she comments to no one.
“You better get yourself on base,” Bellamy growls at Clarke as she passes him by.
“You better get me home,” she retorts, her favourite blue-streaked bat already in hand as she strides out of the dugout and into the batter’s circle.
“Oh, good,” Miller says, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “At least someone’s stepping up to bat.”
On the first pitch that comes her way, Clarke strikes a low grounder that zips right past the first baseman just along the foul line, forcing the right fielder just far enough out that she makes it to second base easily.
“Well,” Jasper remarks joyfully, elbows propped against the dugout fence, “she’s on base.”
Beside him, Harper snorts around a mouthful of Gatorade. “Not for much longer.”
Bellamy steps up to the plate and holds up a hand to the pitcher as he digs his feet into the dirt, sunlight glinting off his solid black bat.
Eighty-four feet across the field, Clarke rolls her eyes under her helmet. What a fucking drama queen.
Bellamy slugs the incoming fastball all the way out to deep left field with a satisfying thwack, the ball slicing a clean, level arc all the way past the scrambling outfielders.
Clarke makes it to the home plate with plenty of time to spare, slowly jogging off the diamond as she watches Bellamy charge right past second base, the outfielders still reaching frantically for the ball as it rolls out of their reach.
He spares a single glance behind him as he rounds third, and doesn’t look back as he races towards home, one foot landing on the plate with no more significance than any of the other steps he’s taken.
She rolls her eyes as he pulls up in front of her, his eyes flashing triumphantly even as he pants heavily.
“What a fucking drama queen,” she says, the others already flooding out of the dugout shouting excited cheers and thumping both of them on the back.
“Join the softball team, they said,” Bellamy says later, cracking two beer cans open. “It’ll be fun, they said.”
“Shut up,” Clarke tells him easily, grabbing a freshly opened beer off him as she passes him by.
“Your co-captain will be cooperative and pleasant to work with, they said.”
Clarke jabs a whiteboard marker in his direction. “First of all, no one’s ever said that. Ever. Second of all, I’m sorry if you don’t take much pleasure in winning. You know, like we just did? Today?”
“We could’ve prevented that run that came in,” Bellamy grumbles through swigs of beer. “From that centre fielder, remember?”
She rolls her eyes, turning to set her beer down on his desk. “Yeah, I can’t believe we won fourteen to two when it could’ve been fourteen to one. We should all probably just give up now. To avoid further embarrassment and all.”
“Winning isn’t about the score,” he argues heatedly, one hand on his hip. “It’s about—”
“—the game you play,” Clarke finishes, her eyes sparkling with amusement despite her bored tone. “Yes, thank you, captain. Are you done?”
He scowls, but the smile tugging at his lips betrays him. “All right, fine. What’s our plan for the next game?”
Clarke grins, pulling off the cap on the marker with a flourish. “Right,” she says, turning to the whiteboard tacked up on his wall, already covered in diagrams and player directions. “So here’s what I’m thinking…”
“Lemme guess,” Miller says the next day, when Bellamy shows up to their morning lecture, two minutes late and already yawning behind a hand. “You and Clarke stayed up half the night talking strategy. Again.”
“Shut up and send me today’s slides,” Bellamy grunts, folding himself into a seat beside Miller.
“This is insane,” Miller continues, shaking his head. “Will you two just fuckin’ kiss already? Playing in this goddamn tournament is stressful enough without having to watch you two run this eternal drill of love hotbox.”
Bellamy clears his throat. “So we were thinking about getting you to pitch a few more rise balls for the next game—”
“Slides are sent,” Miller says quickly, sitting up in his chair. “Yep, all done.”
They finally do kiss three weeks later.
It’s not exactly the most poetic kiss, or the prettiest. They’re both sweaty and grimy, each probably wearing about half the dirt off the diamond on their skin and clothes.
But when Bellamy leaps onto home plate to score their winning run and clinch them the championship, the entire team doesn’t even bother waiting for the umpire to call ‘safe’ before spilling out of the dugout.
It takes another few seconds for Clarke to fight her way through Jasper and Monty’s double hug, but when she finally does, she plants her hands firmly on each side of Bellamy’s face, and firmly pulls him down, her lips crashing into his.
Bellamy blinks dazedly when she pulls back — but the cheers, smug ooh’s and aah’s, and the enthusiastic jostling of their surrounding teammates quickly jolts him back to alertness.
“First kiss in the wake of a hard-won victory,” he says, his hands finding the curve of her waist, his mouth curving with a smirk that ends up blooming into a full-blown grin. “Who’s the drama queen now?”
Clarke rolls her eyes, but the grin she’s wearing on her face is just as wide as his.
“Shut up, captain,” she orders, already yanking him closer for another.