Alice and Her Traitorous Heart

Disclaimer: Look! I found a cool, new sandbox to play in. I swear I don't own anything.
Spoilers: None, nada, nunca

A/N: Okay, so I blatantly stole from BBC's Sherlock – A Scandal in Belgravia. In particular the bit about Sherlock figuring Irene out. I have no excuse for my thievery except that I wanted to write a Bellarke Fic that featured our two intrepid leaders kissing. And seriously, it's fucking SHERLOCK. And then of course, there's Lewis Carroll to thank for the expression I used in this story.

Thanks to those who added me as an Author Alert/Fave Author and to those who left comments on my previous stories. You're all pretty cool. I'm sorry I haven't responded to you personally, but I deeply appreciate the effort and comments. Please feel free to let me know what you think about this one.

Summary: ONESHOT Physiology comes into play when Clarke and Bellamy share a kiss.


It's human chemistry.

The way Bellamy's brown eyes darken, pupils growing wide and dilated as he gazes at her.

Clarke remembers the topic from her premedical studies, it's physical attraction, plain as day and blatantly written all over his face.


To her. To her, Clarke.

But then, Bellamy's suddenly so close. Too close. Her breath hitches in her throat and she stops breathing all together. Damn her instant reaction to his proximity, he's only inches away. His mouth inviting, lips full and pursed and perfect and descending on hers.

Clarke forces herself to remain still and wooden but she's fucking melting.

His mouth is now pressing against hers and it's so warm, soft and electric and she's realizing that she's losing her battle in the most spectacular way and that her faculties are leaving her.

No, that's not true.

They're fucking rebelling against her. Her own fucking body is starting to ignore her.

Because she can't seem to will herself to pay no mind to his overly masculine scent, warm, almost spicy, musky and delicious. Her nerve endings are buzzing and tingly and her hands itch and ache to move, make their way to his torso, and –

Stop. Stop it. Stupid girl.

And God, she doesn't want to react – can't react – to the way his mouth moves against her own. Bellamy is bold, confident and strength personified. But her body's treasonous reply to his lips is downright embarrassing.

And her stupid, traitorous heart – beating quicker and quicker, thumping and hammering away within her rib cage.

It's just a kiss.

Only a kiss. Right?

She tries again. Another desperate plea to herself and fails miserably, she can't resist and her hands reach up (by their own accord, she swears) to rest on his chest as his arms encircle her small frame, pulling her in, further down some rabbit hole, chasing something she's not ready for. Something she didn't want to acknowledge needing so blindly until now.

His lips shift slightly and curse her treasonous mouth for opening slightly and allowing his hot, wet and slick tongue entry. Now she's on fire – a full raging, fucking inferno and both arms, hands work their way free from between their bodies so that she can wrap them around his neck to pull him ever so closer and down with her.

Her mind drifts back to the seconds before his leaning in to claim her lips for the first time. Recalling human chemistry again – Bellamy's pupils dilated – but just to be sure, Clarke's hands at the base of his neck, one reaching up to entwine her fingers in his dark, unruly locks and the other surreptitiously resting on a pulse point on his neck.

And her traitorous heart rejoices at what she discovers. Her skilled hands read the telltale signs of an elevated and erratic heart rate.

Bellamy too.

His heart is thrumming rapidly away in his chest, too.

And when she pulls away for air, for much needed clarity, she sees the wrecked expression on his features, his eyes swimming with want and coming to focus on hers with pupils even more dilated than before and she wants to surrender.

And when Bellamy, arms still wrapped around her, hands clutching desperately at the back of her jacket, holding her close, lips swollen and glistening asks, "do you want me to stop?" There's only one way for her to respond to his deep, whispered, pained question.

Clarke gives in to the ruin of this man who in turn is ruining her.

She stops thinking, stops being cold and practical and leans up, hand still tangled in his hair, hand still resting against his neck, measuring his heart and she kisses him. She kisses him and returns to the heat of the fire caused by his embrace, his lips and his tongue as they tumble farther down that rabbit hole.

Her traitorous heart be damned.



Thanks for reading! What did you all think? It's pretentious, no?