From anonymous on tumblr: "Bellarke + first kiss"

Note: This gets a little steamy, but I think it's still safely in the T-rating. Please let me know your thoughts about it!

Clarke Griffin is twenty-three years old and has never been kissed.

It's like that stupid, awesome Drew Barrymore movie, except Clarke's extremely self-educated about human sexuality and it's not for a lack of wanting that she hasn't been kissed.

In fact, she's pretty sure it's an excess of wanting that's gotten her to twenty-three unkissed.

Specifically, wanting Bellamy Blake.

Sure, she's had other options. If she had really wanted to just get kissed and get it over with, she could have kissed Finn (though thank god she didn't, because after a month of Finn sniffing around Clarke, Raven turned up, and if Clarke had given in and kissed him, that could have turned out to be a major shitstorm).

Or Wells, because even though Clarke hadn't felt the same, she knows he would have forgiven her if she had taken advantage of his feelings for her to try out the kissing thing.

She'd come closest to getting her first kiss with Lexa, but though the other woman was beautiful, strong, and very attractive, Clarke couldn't get stupid Bellamy Blake out of her mind long enough to lock lips.

While Clarke has known Bellamy for the better part of a decade, Bellamy's spent that time patching up her scraped knees, scaring off potential prom dates with terrifying scowls, and in general completely failing to see how head-over-heels stupid in love with him Clarke is.

Her best friend's older brother is still oblivious to her feelings as well as her gaze as he putters around the kitchen she and Octavia share. He's staying with them while he's in town for Lincoln and Octavia's engagement party, and his proximity frustrates Clarke as much as ever. Octavia's out to brunch with Lincoln's family, trying to win over his scary-stoic mother and sister, and Bellamy and Clarke are alone.

"Do you want anything in your pancakes?" he asks, stirring a bowl of batter. "Blueberries, chocolate chips?"

Before Clarke can reply, he cuts her off. "No, you hate pancakes. Waffles are okay, though, right?"

Clarke blinks. "Yeah, waffles are fine."

"Then get out the waffle iron, princess," he says, a smirk on his lips. She rolls her eyes and slides off her stool. But the low cupboard where they store the waffle iron is directly across the kitchen from Bellamy, and Clarke pauses before she does as he asks.

"You alright there, Clarke?" he asks when she doesn't move.

Clarke considers him, then smiles slowly. "I'm fine."

She saunters across the linoleum floor, takes her time bending over at the waist as she pulls open the cabinet door and starts digging around for the waffle iron.

Hearing a clang, Clarke pictures Bellamy dropping the whisk into the metal mixing bowl. She might have picked these pajamas on purpose, maybe because the shorts are a size too small and tend to reveal the edges of her panties, and the camisole likes to ride up and bare her midriff.

Clarke knows it's not altogether sporting to appeal to a man's sexual urges, but she's been left without very many options after so many years of trying to get it through his stupid head that she's a woman, not a little girl running around with his baby sister.

Sure, she could tell him, like Raven said when Clarke had partaken in a few too many margaritas and spilled her guts about her massive and varied collection of feelings for Bellamy Blake. But that also sounds like a recipe for fucking disaster, and Clarke's not too proud to admit she's chickenshit when it comes to her heart and Bellamy's monopoly on it.

"Got it," Clarke says, setting the iron on the counter and plugging it in.

"Great," Bellamy replies distractedly; when she turns around, Clarke is delighted to see that he actually is fishing his whisk out of the gooey batter.

"Something startle you?" she asks, leaning against the counter. Her top's still bunched up, revealing her navel as the little shorts sit low on her hips and high on her thighs, and Clarke makes absolutely no move to change any of those things.

Bellamy glances up at her, his hands still in the bowl, and freezes for a moment. Then he snaps.

"Fucking hell, Clarke, put on some damn clothes!" His body looks tense, as if every part of him is coiled and prepared to strike.

Clarke's lips part a little in shock at the sudden change from the playful tone she's used to, to this––this––ferocity.

Then she narrows her eyes. She may be stupid in love with Bellamy Blake, but that doesn't mean he gets to tell her what the fuck to do.

"Fuck off," she says. "This is my apartment, and I'll wear whatever the hell I want."

A muscle in his jaw jumps.

"It's considered a courtesy to dress decently when you have guests," he says stiffly.

"Excuse me, Miss Manners, but I'll walk around naked before I'll let you tell me what to do," Clarke snaps.

"Put. On. Some. Clothes," he grits out.

Clarke glares at him, and deliberately grasps the drawstring of her shorts.

She's bluffing, of course; even if she undoes the string, the shorts are so snug they're not going anywhere.

"Clarke!"

She pulls sharply, and the little bow undoes itself.

Bellamy tosses the mixing bowl onto the counter, crosses the kitchen in a single stride, and pulls her into him with one batter-sticky hand on her back, the other on her face.

Holy shit, is this really how––

Yes, Clarke thinks, eyes fluttering closed as she registers the pressure of Bellamy's lips on hers. Yes, this is how Clarke Griffin gets kissed for the first time.

After the fierce way that he crossed the room and seized her, his lips are surprisingly gentle. It's not a soft kiss, not really, but it's not all clashing teeth and biting lips either.

Instead, it's a determined kind of kiss, and Clarke can't help the little noise she lets out when his tongue strokes firmly over her lips until she parts them.

He tastes like black tea and sugar, and somehow he already knows what Clarke likes best before she's even had time to form an opinion.

She is just starting to wonder if it's obvious that she's never done this before, and also how to breathe when her mouth is otherwise occupied, when Bellamy pulls away. His hair is even more rumpled than his usual bedhead makes it––oops, Clarke thinks, pulling her hands out of his hair and wondering when they got there.

She rests her hands instead on his chest, and feels the rapid breathing that matches her own.

"I..." Bellamy trails off. He shrugs helplessly, letting his hand fall from her face, though the other stays warm and steady against the small of her back.

"That was really good," Clarke blurts out.

"Uh, thanks?" Bellamy replies uncertainly.

She can't stop babbling. "No, I mean, that was great; I just didn't know what to expect, but you––"

"'Didn't know what to expect?'" Bellamy echoes, his face puzzled.

"Oh god," Clarke says very quietly, but he still hasn't let her go so he's close enough to hear everything.

"Clarke?"

She ducks her head to stare at his chest instead of his face when she replies. "That might have been my first kiss," she mumbles.

A moment of silence.

"You've never been kissed?" His voice is incredulous, and Clarke wrinkles her nose before looking back at him.

"Ah, nope," she replies. "No kissing, no sexing, none of that."

"No sex––wait, have you ever––?" His eyes flicker between her face and lower.

Clarke snorts and looks up at the ceiling. "Yes, I've gotten myself off, Bellamy. Jesus. It's the twenty-first century."

He tilts her chin until she's looking back at him; instead of looking sheepish or embarrassed, his pupils are so wide and night-sky dark that Clarke half-expects to see stars in them.

"Can I help next time?"

She stares at him as his words sink in. Then, slowly, she starts to giggle, the sound growing louder at the way his brow furrows in response.

"Smooth, Bellamy, really smooth––"

Her laughter is cut off when he cups her between her legs and she lets out a little surprised gasp instead. His skin is still separated from hers by her shorts and panties, but the fabric is thin enough to feel the warmth of his palm in a place only she's touched before.

"Fuck," she whispers, feeling the heat creep up her neck to her cheeks as she stares at him with wide eyes. Her fingers slowly curl into fists, holding the fabric of his t-shirt tightly to anchor herself.

"Please?" he says. That little muscle in his jaw jumps again as he waits for her reply.

"Really?" she squeaks; in response he leans forward and kisses her again, this time until she can barely think.

"Okay," she breathes when he pulls back, "Yes, please, please, please do."

(He does.)

(It's an even better first than her first kiss.)

(But the best first is four months later, when Bellamy is the first one to say I love you.)