*the castle is decorated with expensive and tasteful festive flair, beautiful Christmas trees in nearly every hall*
*the snow falls softly outside as all of Prague is white and cold*
*the vampires have been called home with a deadline looming dangerously near, many who have been free of most vampiric sins are invited to this prestigious event*
*the largest tree is in the main hall, and Regina waits as she is lavishly dressed, the Winter Ball about to begin*
*she waits for her brothers, her lover, and special guests*
I had to draw Alba De Riva for @chenkingart 's Winter Ball (mainly because this dumbass is so summer coded, they somehow manage to bring warmth to winter🌻), but I couldn't resist drawing Vesper Cullagh too!
My 🌛Moon/Sun🌞 coded pookies (from two different universes) <3
Prompt: Christmas Ball Fake Dating (Boarding School AU) Part 2
Read Part 1 Here!!
Synopsis: You and Bellamy leave the Ball together and sit outside in the courtyard. Frankly, you're sick of pretending that it's all fake, but apparently he’s even more sick of it. Bellamy slips up that it was his plan all along to go to the dance with you.
Warnings: none, fluff
Notes: It’s Day 8 of 12 days of Christmas with Bellamy!! I'm doing this challenge with my best friend @quicksilverbackshots who is doing 12 days of Buckmas (Bucky Barnes) with all the same prompts! Enjoy!
Word Count: 3.8k
You leave the ballroom before either of you can second-guess it.
Bellamy nudges the tall doors open with his shoulder, tuxedo jacket creasing slightly as warm light and music spill out into the cold night. For a brief second, the glow clings to you both— golden and bright— before the doors swing shut behind you.
The quiet hits instantly.
Cold air curls around your bare shoulders and you laugh, breath puffing faintly in front of you as you step into the courtyard. Bellamy adjusts his tie absently, still smiling, curls a little looser now than when the night started.
He lifts the napkin-wrapped cookies in his hand like he’s proud of himself. “Tell me stealing these wasn’t the best decision we made tonight.”
You glance down at the cookies you grabbed too, tucked carefully against your dress. “Oh, it absolutely was. If anyone asks, we earned these.”
He snorts. “We danced. That counts.”
You start walking side by side across the stone path, heels clicking softly against the ground. His dress shoes echo beside yours, polished but scuffed just enough to show he actually used them tonight.
You’re both still laughing— still riding the leftover energy from the dance floor.
“Did you see Miller’s face when Octavia nearly knocked Lincoln over?” you say, shaking your head.
Bellamy laughs, deep and easy. “I thought Lincoln was done for. One more spin and he would’ve been on the floor.”
“She did not need that much momentum,” you say, bumping your shoulder lightly into Bellamy’s.
He bumps you back without thinking, the side of his tux brushing your arm. The contact lingers just a beat too long before you both keep walking, neither of you pulling away.
The courtyard opens up ahead— darker now, quieter. White lights trace the edges of the old stone walls and the bare branches overhead, casting soft shadows across the ground. The music from the ballroom hums faintly behind you, distant and blurred, mixed with the low murmur of voices from students lingering near the doors.
You breathe it in.
The cold. The quiet. The strange, warm afterglow sitting in your chest.
You hadn’t expected this.
You hadn’t expected the night to feel so easy. So natural. To laugh like that with him, to forget you were pretending, to forget you were supposed to be careful.
You hadn’t expected to wish— quietly, selfishly— that it wasn’t just for show.
The thought settles in your mind as you walk, dangerous and soft. You don’t chase it away.
You take a bite of your cookie, chocolate warm against your fingers, and it crumbles more than you expect. A few crumbs scatter down the front of your dress.
You stop walking with a small groan. “Oh my god.”
Bellamy stops too, turning toward you immediately. “What?”
“My cookie just betrayed me,” you say, brushing at the fabric carefully. “Unprovoked.”
He watches you for a second, lips twitching before he laughs. “That’s tragic.”
“Absolutely devastating.”
You glance past him and spot the stone ledge a little ways away— raised a little high off the ground, just enough to be able to get up onto it in your current attire, tucked partially behind one of the trees. It’s far enough from the dance that the noise fades into something barely there. Just a hum. Just enough to remind you the night isn’t over yet.
You point with the cookie still in your hand. “Hey. Wanna sit over there for a second?”
Bellamy follows your gaze, nodding easily. “Yeah. That sounds good.”
You walk over together, steps slowing. The space feels different here— quieter, more private. The lights don’t reach as far, and the shadows soften everything.
You step close to the ledge carefully in your heels, and place your hands on the cool stone before using your upper body strength to hoist yourself up to a sit on top of the surface. You smooth your dress beneath you as you sit, your feet hovering about a foot above the ground.
Instead of sitting next to you, Bellamy stops in front of you, still standing in his tux, shoulders relaxed, the ledge bringing you to his standing eye level.
You sit there quietly for a while.
Not the awkward kind of quiet— just the soft, companionable kind that settles in when there’s nothing you need to say. The stone beneath you is cold even through the fabric of your dress, but you barely notice it. Bellamy stands close enough that you can feel his presence without looking at him, the faint rustle of his tuxedo when he shifts his weight, the soft scuff of his dress shoes against the ground.
You munch on your cookie slowly, deliberately, letting the sweetness linger. Chocolate melts against your tongue, grounding you in the moment. The distant music from the ballroom drifts out in low waves, muffled and far away, like it belongs to another world entirely. Somewhere, people laugh. Somewhere, someone cheers when a song changes.
But here, it’s just you.
And him.
You let your gaze wander upward, following the strings of lights until they disappear into the darkness. The sky above the courtyard is deep and clear, stars scattered faintly across it, barely visible through the glow of campus lights. You breathe in the cold air and feel it fill your lungs, sharp and clean.
This is nice, you think.
Nicer than you expected.
Nicer than it probably should be.
You hadn’t planned for this part— the quiet after the pretending. The way the night didn’t immediately snap back into something normal once the music stopped and the crowd thinned. You thought the feelings would fade with the noise, dissolve once you were away from prying eyes.
Instead, they’ve only gotten louder.
You take another bite of your cookie, brushing crumbs from your fingers absently, and stare at the sky a little longer than necessary. It’s easier than looking at him. Easier than acknowledging the warmth pooling low in your chest, the soft ache that keeps whispering what if.
You don’t realize anything’s changed at first.
It’s subtle— just a shift in the air, a feeling of being watched. You glance down briefly and notice that Bellamy’s hands are empty now. No cookie. No napkin. He must’ve finished it without you noticing.
You follow the thought slowly, your gaze lifting—
And you stop.
Bellamy is looking at you.
Not casually. Not the way he’s been all night when he glances over with an easy smile or a teasing look. This is different. His face is softer, more open. His eyes hold something that makes your breath catch before you can stop it.
It’s the same look he gave you earlier— when he first saw you in your dress— but deeper. Quieter. Like he’s not even aware he’s doing it.
Like he forgot to hide it.
Your heart stumbles.
You feel suddenly too warm despite the cold, too aware of how close he is, how the light catches in his eyes. The moment stretches, fragile and heavy, until your nerves spark and you speak before you can talk yourself out of it.
“What?”
The word comes out softer than you mean it to— breathy, hovering somewhere between a laugh and shock. Like you can’t quite believe what you’re seeing.
Bellamy blinks.
Once.
Twice.
And then realization hits him.
He looks away quickly, a quiet laugh slipping out of him as he shakes his head, embarrassed. He takes a small step forward— just a tiny one— closing the distance without even seeming to notice he’s doing it.
“Nothing,” he says, voice low, almost careful. Then, after a beat, quieter still, “It’s just… you look beautiful tonight.”
The words land heavier than they should.
Your face heats instantly, cheeks flushing as you duck your head, a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. You lift two fingers and gently press them to his shoulder, nudging him back just a fraction like it’s a joke, like it doesn’t affect you nearly as much as it does.
“Yeah,” you say lightly, trying to keep your tone even, playful. “You don’t look too bad yourself.”
He doesn’t laugh this time.
“I’m serious,” he says instead, steady and sincere. “I mean it. You look beautiful.”
That does it.
Your smile softens, and the joking edge falls away. You look down at your hands in your lap, suddenly very aware of the quiet again, of how close he is, of how real his words sound.
“Thank you,” you say softly.
Silence settles between you once more.
You don’t really know what to say after that.
The words you look beautiful keep echoing in your head, looping back on themselves in a way that feels dangerous. Bellamy has said things like that before— compliments tossed casually, half-teasing, half-performative. Earlier tonight, even. But that was different. That was part of the show. Something said because there were eyes on you, expectations to meet.
Out here, there’s no one watching.
No audience.
No reason to pretend.
The thought makes your chest tighten.
You pick at the edge of the napkin in your hands, suddenly very aware of how quiet it is again. Bellamy doesn’t rush to fill the silence, and somehow that makes it heavier. You wonder if he’s thinking the same thing you are, or if your thoughts are getting away from you.
Then you hear the soft scrape of fabric against stone.
Bellamy sets one hand on the ledge beside you— on your right, close enough that you feel the warmth of him even through the cold air. He leans some of his weight onto it, casual in posture but not quite relaxed. It puts him closer now, angled toward you.
He looks out into the courtyard instead of at you when he speaks.
“Is it crazy of me to say,” he starts, then pauses like he’s choosing his words carefully, “that I don’t want this night to end?”
Your breath catches before you can stop it.
You don’t know exactly how he means it. Whether he’s talking about the dancing, the laughter, the relief of a night that went better than expected— or if he means this. The quiet. The closeness. The strange, fragile space you’re standing in now.
But you know how you mean it.
You don’t want the night to end because if it does, so does the pretending. The excuse to be close to him. To look at him the way you have been without questioning it. To be something to him— even if it’s only borrowed.
The realization makes you feel selfish. And honest.
You nod once, then speak before you can second-guess yourself. “No,” you say softly. “It’s not crazy.”
He glances at you, hopeful, uncertain.
“I was thinking that too,” you add, your voice quieter but steadier now. “I don’t really want it to end either.”
Relief crosses his face immediately— clear, unguarded. His shoulders loosen like he’s been holding something in all night.
“Yeah?” he says, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Because… I don’t know. I just—” He exhales a soft laugh. “I really enjoyed tonight.”
You feel your lips curve into a smile without effort. “Me too,” you say. “I had more fun than I thought I would.”
“That makes two of us,” he says easily. “I’m glad I came with you. Really.”
Something warm blooms in your chest at that.
“Me too,” you say again, and this time it means more than just the words.
You don’t say the rest— that you would’ve been quietly devastated if he’d walked in with someone else on his arm. That you noticed the way other girls looked at him tonight, eyes lingering, smiles a little too hopeful. That he never seems to notice it, or if he does, he doesn’t let it register.
You hesitate, then let the thought slip out anyway.
“I’m actually kind of surprised no one asked you out before all this,” you admit.
Bellamy turns his head fully toward you now, one eyebrow lifting. “Yeah?” he says. “Why’s that?”
Oh.
Your cheeks heat instantly.
You stumble over the words, suddenly aware of how close he is again, how easily this could be misread. You shift slightly on the ledge, trying to play it off.
“I just mean—” you start, then stop, then try again. “Other girls like you. We both know that.” You gesture vaguely, then add quickly, “And, you know… you’re not ugly.”
The second the words leave your mouth, you want to bury your face in your hands.
Bellamy laughs— not unkindly, not teasing, just surprised. “Wow. High praise.”
You groan softly. “You know what I mean.”
“I do,” he says, still smiling. Then he tilts his head, almost amused. “And for your information… I did actually get asked out. By a couple girls.”
You blink.
Once.
Twice.
Then you guffaw, the sound slipping out of you before you can stop it. “Wait— what?”
He shrugs, casual. “Yeah.”
Your mind scrambles to catch up.
You hadn’t known that. At all. You’d been under the impression that this whole arrangement was born purely out of mutual desperation, two people trying to escape social pressure. The idea that he had options— and still chose this— hits you harder than it should.
You stare at him, stunned, cookie crumbs forgotten entirely.
You blink at him, still trying to process what he just said.
“What do you mean?” you ask, your voice quieter than you intend. “You… you got asked out?”
Bellamy rubs the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish in a way you don’t see often. It’s almost boyish. Almost nervous.
“Yeah,” he says with a small laugh. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t think it mattered.”
Your stomach twists, curiosity sharpening. “By who?”
He exhales, like he’s resigned himself to explaining. “Okay. Uh. Three girls.”
“Three?” you repeat, incredulous.
“Yeah,” he says quickly. “But it’s not— listen—” He gestures vaguely with his free hand, then sighs. “The first one was Bree.”
Your eyebrows knit together immediately. “Bree… like, Bree Bree?”
“Yeah,” he confirms. “But I heard she was kind of mean to Octavia once. Like, really dismissive. And that was pretty much an automatic no for me.”
Your lips curve despite yourself. Of course that mattered to him. Of course it did.
“And the second?” you ask.
“Fox,” he says. “She’s nice enough, just… too young for me. I had to let her down easy.”
You nod slowly, following along, your thoughts already racing ahead.
“And the third?” you ask, even though something in your chest tightens in anticipation.
Bellamy hesitates for half a second longer this time before saying, “Roma.”
Your breath stutters.
“Roma Bragg?” you blurt.
He nods like it’s no big deal. “Yeah.”
That’s… confusing. Deeply confusing.
“Wait,” you say, shaking your head slightly. “I thought Roma was your type.”
You’ve seen the way Roma looks. Confident. Pretty. The kind of girl who always seems like she knows exactly what she’s doing. The kind of girl people assume Bellamy would end up with.
“So why didn’t you say yes?”
He shrugs, simple and honest. “I just didn’t want to go with her.”
The words hit harder than you expect.
“Why not?” you ask, a little too quickly.
Bellamy looks at the ground for a second, then back up at you. “Because she wasn’t the person I was hoping to go with in the first place.”
Oh.
Your stomach drops straight through the stone beneath you.
“Oh,” you say quietly.
You hadn’t known that. Hadn’t even considered it. You thought the pressure got to him the same way it got to you— that this whole thing was necessity, coincidence, convenience.
The idea that he had been hoping to go with someone— someone specific— stings in a way you weren’t prepared for.
You swallow, heart thudding painfully in your chest.
You tell yourself not to ask.
You tell yourself it’s none of your business.
But curiosity presses in, insistent and impossible to ignore.
After a few moments of silence, you ask anyway.
“So,” you say, voice careful, “who did you want to go with?”
Bellamy’s expression changes instantly.
He looks nervous.
Not joking-nervous. Not awkward-nervous. Actually nervous.
He shakes his head, letting out a small breath. “It’s not important.”
That only makes it worse.
You reach out and give his shoulder a light shove, trying to keep it playful even though your heart is hammering. “No. You can’t say something like that and then just stop. You have to tell me now.”
He winces a little, like he’s bracing himself.
And somehow, watching him do that makes you brace too— your chest tightening, every muscle suddenly aware, preparing for a name you’re not sure you want to hear.
He takes a breath.
Then another.
Then he says it.
“Well… You.”
The world tilts.
Your heart drops so hard it feels like it hits your heels.
You stare at him, frozen. Your mouth opens instinctively, but nothing comes out. No sound. No words. Your eyes are locked on his, wide and unblinking, like if you look away this might all disappear.
Bellamy panics a little.
“I—” he starts, then rushes on, words tumbling over each other. “I just mean— I never really cared about anyone else like that. Not seriously anyway. And then this fake date thing came up and I figured, okay, it’s harmless, it’s just for show, and I didn’t think you’d even agree. But you said yes so fast and—” He laughs softly, breathless. “From the moment we walked in together— from the moment I got to pretend you were actually mine, I just… I realized I didn’t want to stop.”
Your chest feels too full. Too tight.
“It felt right,” he says quietly. “All of it. Being with you like that. I didn’t— I didn’t want the night to end because I didn’t want to stop pretending.”
Your mind is racing, thoughts crashing into each other, overlapping, loud.
He wanted to go with me.
He’s saying this now.
I feel the same way.
But your body won’t cooperate.
You stay silent, absorbing every word, every look, every shaky breath he takes. You want to respond. You need to respond. But the words pile up behind your teeth and never make it out.
Bellamy finally stops rambling. He inhales deeply, steadying himself.
When you still don’t say anything— when your mouth just opens and closes uselessly, eyes still glued to his— his voice softens.
“Please,” he says quietly. “Say something.”
Your lips part again.
Your heart is pounding so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.
You swallow, trying to force air into your lungs, you’re about to get a word out—
“Shit.”
Bellamy drags both hands up into his hair, fingers curling tight at the roots as if he can physically pull himself out of the moment. He takes a step back, then another, panic written all over his face.
“I fucked up, didn’t I?”
Your heart lurches.
Before you can answer— before you can even think— he’s already spiraling, already retreating like he’s convinced he’s crossed some invisible line.
He squeezes his eyes shut, pressing the heels of his palms hard against them. His voice keeps going, tumbling over itself now, raw and unguarded.
“Just forget it. Forget I ever said anything. God, I am such an—”
You don’t let him finish.
You don’t think.
You don’t weigh consequences or logic or timing.
You lean forward sharply, grab a fistful of his blazer collar, and yank him toward you.
Your lips crash into his.
The world stops.
Bellamy freezes instantly, breath hitching hard against your mouth. For half a heartbeat, he doesn’t move at all— like his body hasn’t caught up to what’s happening yet. His lips are warm, softer than you imagined, and the contact sends a shock straight through your chest.
Then his hands come up.
Carefully at first, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he moves too fast. His palms slide to the sides of your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks, grounding you both in the moment. His lips are still, stunned, pressed against yours like he can’t believe this is real.
You pull back just slightly.
His eyes open.
They’re wide. Dark. Completely blown open with disbelief.
He swallows, breath uneven, still holding your face like he might drop you otherwise.
“…idiot,” he finishes quietly, awestruck.
The word lands like an echo of what he almost said about himself— and something in your chest cracks open at the tenderness in his voice.
Then your brain catches up.
Oh my god.
I just kissed him.
I just kissed Bellamy.
Your thoughts scatter, panic flaring hot and sudden. Your eyes flick between his— searching, unsure, terrified you misread everything. Your heart is racing so fast it feels like it might shake out of your ribs.
And just as the doubt starts to swell—
Bellamy leans in again.
This time there’s no hesitation.
He kisses you like he’s been waiting years for it.
Not rushed. Not frantic. Just certain.
His lips move against yours with a confidence that steals the air from your lungs, like he finally knows where he’s meant to be. His hands slide from your cheeks to your neck, then to your waist, anchoring you as you melt into him.
The kiss deepens, slower and warmer, and you feel yourself smiling into it because this— this is what your body has known all along.
When you finally pull apart, you’re both breathing hard, foreheads almost touching.
Your words come back to you all at once.
“I didn’t want to stop pretending either,” you say softly, the truth spilling out now that the door’s open. “That’s why I couldn’t say anything. I— I feel the same way.”
Bellamy lets out a breath that sounds like relief.
“Yeah?” he murmurs, eyes searching yours.
You nod. “Yeah.”
His smile is slow. Real. A little disbelieving.
“Then maybe,” he says quietly, hopeful and steady, “we don’t have to pretend anymore.”
Your fingers lift without thinking, threading into the curls at the nape of his neck. They’re softer than they look. Familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.
You nod again, closer this time. “I’d like that,” you admit. “A lot, actually.”
He laughs softly, like he can’t help it.
You kiss again— lighter now, giddy and sweet, full of nervous smiles and quiet laughter between breaths. Everything feels brighter. Easier. Like something finally clicked into place.
When you pull back, still close, he murmurs, “Wow.”
A beat passes.
“What a turn of events.”
And then you’re both laughing, quiet and breathless, foreheads pressed together in your little hidden corner of the courtyard— giddy, stunned, and very, very glad neither of you let the night end in a game of pretend.
