This Night Is Wild, So Calm and Dull
Bellamy/Clarke, ~1700 words
Clarke is so sure that Bellamy isn’t the
boyfriend type that when he kisses her, and it’s sweet and gentle and soft,
she’s more taken aback by the careful way he lets his palm rest against her
cheek than by the kiss itself.
Read below or on AO3.
Among Clarke’s idle thoughts, sometimes as she
Bellamy walking through camp, or giving orders, or standing watch; and sometimes alone, at night, while she
up into the red-dark shadows of her tent ceiling, is: Bellamy would not be the type of boyfriend who likes to hold
hands. It’s a silly thought. Bellamy is also not the type of person who becomes
a boyfriend in the first place. And she’s not the type, either, to form vague
romantic fantasies—certainly not about assholes like him.
He’s probably the
type who barely acknowledges the relationship. He’s probably the type who’s gruff in public, not
demonstrative; who maybe, every now and then, will place a hand to her back just to let someone
else know: hey, she’s taken, and that’s all. But then in private he’s harsh kisses and sex standing
up, her back against the wall, her legs around his waist. Biting kisses instead
of sweet kisses. And not a talker. Not a sweet talker, not much for words at
She’s so sure of all of this that when he does kiss
her, and it is sweet, and gentle, and soft, she’s more taken aback by the careful way he lets his
palm rest against her cheek than by the kiss itself. She doesn’t quite kiss
back. But she doesn’t pull away. So for a long moment they just sit there side
by side next to the dying fire, their knees touching, their lips touching, statue-still like
they’re posing for a tableau.
Then Bellamy pulls
away, and just stares at her, blinking slowly.