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Insert Titanic Quote Here

bellarke • rated: mature • words: 6k

“You volunteered to be a nude model?!”

Her face has grown warm and she’s certain her neck is starting to rash, her completely obvious tell that she’s mortified.

He seems to be as embarrassed about it as she is. He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “Ah, yeah. It’s a hundred bucks, so…”

“But you can’t!” she stutters out and God, she’s making a total ass of herself. But she’s panicking because she has a lot of repressed feelings about him and she’s certain that seeing him naked is a bad, bad idea.

“Why? I need some extra cash and this seems like a pretty easy way to get it.”

“It’s my class, Bellamy!”

Hurt passes through his features so quickly, she’s almost certain she imagined it. He purses his lips and returns to his seat, reaching over to log out of his email for her. He turns his attention to his book, his pen extra scratchy as he writes his notes. She emails her paper and closes the laptop gently. He doesn’t say anything, just keeps writing and because she’s stubborn, she doesn’t say anything either. She pulls out her copy of Leaving Van Gogh and tries to read, but after the seventh attempt at one line, she gives up.

She hates the silent treatment, but she hates upsetting him, more.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly, nudging his elbow with hers. “I just figured you’d be weirded out being naked in front of me or something.” It’s definitely the other way around. And she’s not proud of her next sentence, mostly because she’s aware it’s an attempt at deflecting any actual conversation regarding her true feelings about the thing. “I guess I’ll get to see what all the fuss is about, huh?”

Not exactly a lie. One of the downsides of being best friends with Bellamy is that she’s often the one people try to go through in order to get to him. Which was a lot less annoying when she, you know, wasn’t in love with him. Or hadn’t realized it, anyway. Now, every time she overhears someone talking about how amazing he is in bed and even better to look at, she grinds her teeth into little mini-saws and contemplates biting their throat out.

(Over dramatic? Sure. But feeling this way about someone who doesn’t reciprocate has her emotions a bit unstable.)

#bellarke fanfiction #my writing #bff net #reposting because app users couldn’t see the first one for some reason?#modern au #mutual pining

tender (in your arms)

for @viviansternwood

bellarke • 3.5k • rating: mature (language)

(ao3)

The worst part of separation, the part no one ever talks about, is forgetting.

It takes only a month to forget the feel of her next to him, the semi-permanent indent her body had created on the left side of his bed has now fixed itself, just another spot on the mattress that molds to him when he rolls over, that’s been cold for exactly thirty days. When he closes his eyes, he can almost imagine her laying next to him, can still think about the warmth of her skin, the exact curve of her hip. When his hand falls onto the empty pillow, he tells himself it’s okay. That he could never really lose her.

He forgets her smell after six months, something he thinks is similar to lavender but not quite that, and even though he has one of her t-shirts underneath his pillow, it only smells like his shampoo and patchy drool. He buys a bottle of the soap he knows she uses, but it’s still not the same exact scent, and it’s the first real moment her absence seeps into his soul. He feels it.

After eight months, he forgets the sound of her voice. On those days, he has to listen to voicemails to remind him, and he’s grateful that she had been that person. He always teased her for it, her love of talking on the phone and preferring call to text. Most of her voicemails are mundane: “Babe, make sure you pick up milk on your way home.” and “I think I forgot to turn my curling iron off, can you check it?” and, “You’ll never guess who I ran into today…” He laughs when he listens to them, sometimes he cries because God, he just misses her so much and he feels guilty for having to be reminded of her voice.

When the year mark hits, his memories feel distant. The last time he held her feels like a lifetime ago, the last time he saw her smile even longer. When he scrolls through photos on his phone, when he picks the framed photos from their wedding up off the mantel, he finds himself thinking, “I could have sworn her beauty mark was on the right side.” and “Were her eyes always that shade of blue?”

After that, it all becomes a distant ache. He misses her the same way he would miss limb, hard to adjust to at first but at some point it becomes the only life you know. It’s learning to live without, even if you wish you weren’t. He’s spent exactly x amount of days without Clarke, it’s just another one. And another one. Normal. It becomes normal and he hates that.