Authors Note: I had these stories posted here originally, before I took a mental health break from writing and deleted my old account. I kept these stories up on Ao3, but I've noticed on FFnet people seem to leave much ruder comments. I didn't really have any bad critiques, but there was a lot of people telling me I needed to write more, or seemingly dissatisfied with the endings. Comments like, "is that it?" Is not encouraging at all and quite honestly can ruin my mood for that whole day. I am getting back into writing fanfiction, because it is something I love and offers some form of community that I enjoy taking part it. That being said, I am never obligated to provide for you, and that moment that this stops being something I enjoy is the moment that I will start to question why I would continue to do it. I am leaving this note on all my old stories, because I will be updated more regularly (once to twice a week) and I'd really appreciate if I could avoid these comments in the future. I don't want to have to resort to not reading the comments at all for my own sanity. Thanks for taking the time to read my thoughts & I hope you can understand where I am coming from. xx Be kind.


Bellamy respects people's privacy. Really, he does. He just also happens to be keenly observant and sometimes notices things that people probably don't want him to know.

He's pretty sure he figured out it was Clarke's mom who got her dad floated before Finn did. Then there's also that one time he guessed her and Spacewalker fucked, which whatever. At that point everyone was still in a horny-earth-sex, fuck-em-where-you-see-em, craze, so it's understandable. Even he'll admit to doing some weird things in some pretty weird places that first week on the ground, so yeah. He doesn't care who fucked who, honestly.

That is until Raven, Spacewalker's girlfriend (now ex-girlfriend, which he's pretty sure he is not supposed to know that either), risked her life descending from the sky in a fiery death trap like a savage.

Bellamy called it.

He knew Finn was a whiny little spacedouche before all the teen drama, and he stands by that assessment, but that's beside the point.

Shit. What was the point?

Privacy, right. He respects it.

So, when he found himself in Clarke's tent (which he graciously provided her with her very own, after the whole 'If you need forgiveness' incident, because Bellamy Blake doesn't like owing anyone anything), he didn't intend to snoop through her things. He was just looking for something to write with and duh, Clarke's an artist, which he knows – not from people telling him, but again, because he's fucking observant.

He probably could've waited for her to return before tossing items around the makeshift table, like he owned the place (he built it, so he kind of does – just saying). He wanted to draw a map of the area surrounding their camp to keep track of where certain medicinal herbs tend to grow, good places to hunt, and areas they should probably avoid altogether. At the time, it felt damn important to complete this task as soon as possible.

Okay, so, he may have been hoping to surprise the princess with more of his smart thinking and leader-y qualities, if nothing else but to see that slight twitch of her lips and quirk of her brow, which usually means she's impressed with something.

He's pretty sure he just likes being good at things and her knowing it, because he is a smug dick and wants to be appraised as such.

. . .

At first he thought it was a sketch of her and Spacedouche fucking against a tree.

He didn't mean to stare as long as he did, but there were tits peeking out above the dude's shoulders, and he really couldn't fault himself for wondering how they compared to the real thing.

She is a pretty amazing artist; he was just admiring her work.

It was harmless.

Besides, if she intended to hide it, she did a pretty piss poor job. So, really, it's her own damn fault. In fact, she should be thankful he found it first and not someone else – like Murphy.

Bellamy Blake, the hero.

He probably should have noticed it sooner. The man in the drawing is much too broad to be Finn. He figured she was compensating for something.

How does one recognize their own back anyway? It's not like he sees it often.

Now when he looks, he spots the smudges on the shoulders, which turn out to be freckles, and he's pretty sure Finn doesn't have freckles.

Bellamy Blake has freckles.

So, yeah, he should've noticed it sooner.

He didn't though, so he continued to rummage through a few more of her drawings, because apparently he's a pervert with no self-control – but she's the one drawing porn, so who's the bigger pervert here, honestly?

Then he came across an accurate depiction of his face, mid-moan, and what appeared to be Clarke, in between his legs.

His fingers are threaded through her hair and her head's in the way, but it's safe to assume she is sucking his dick.

Clarke drew a picture of herself sucking his dick.

He did what any man would do. He stuffed the papers in his pocket, without thinking much of the consequences, and now he's here. Pacing back and forth in his tent with a fucking hard on he can't control, and a guilty conscious he can't jerk off to.

His life is weird.

"Hey, Bell – " is the only warning he gets prior to Octavia waltzing into his space, and just like that his boner is dead. May they meet again.

He jumps a little at the intrusion and stuffs Clarke's porn back in his pants for safe keeping.

"Princess Griffin is looking for you," she finishes.

His eye twitches a little. He's chill.

"What does she want?" he asks, flat.

"Dunno – don't care. Go ask her yourself."

Bellamy shifts. His hand is still resting in his back pocket, like he's afraid if he moves it the sketch will disappear. Or maybe he imagined the whole thing and it doesn't exist at all. He pinches his thigh accordingly, just to be sure this isn't a bizarrely vivid dream brought on by radiation poisoning.

"Are you just going to stand there?" she asks and plops herself down on his makeshift bed, making herself comfortable. She looks up at him, curious. Then her expression changes into something sour and she glares down at the fur blanket, as if she's unsure it can be trusted.

"It's been awhile," he confesses. "You're safe."

Octavia snorts, because she's a brat who's definitely going to use this information against him later, when she's working an angle and it conveniences her, obviously.

"My, oh my, how the tables have turned, big brother," she smirks.

He wants to lock her in the dropship, until she dies a ripe, old age. It requires a lot of effort to flout all sexual inclinations regarding her relationship with the grounder and he is not happy to have all his hard work thwarted.

He is perfectly content living in the land of the delusion where Octavia is still seven years old, getting her kicks off of piggyback rides instead whatever else it is she does these days.

Ew.

"You're gross and you smell," he retorts, because he's fucking mature. She frowns at that and he briefly wants to make her smile again, but then he remembers, she's a brat.

"At least I'm pretty."

"Pretty stinky." Okay, he's like, ninety-eight percent mature.

"Eat shit and die, Bella Mia."


"If you knew someone wanted to suck your dick, but they didn't know that you knew, and never hinted that they wanted you to know, would you let them know?" he asks Miller, casual.

"This is the strangest blowjob proposition I've ever received."

"What?"


Clarke is waiting by the gate when he finds her. She's wearing clothes they found in an abandoned bunker on a scouting mission a few days ago, except he's pretty sure her shorts used to be pants. He wants to scold her, because even in this weather, winter is on its way, and she ruined a perfectly good pair of slacks for no acceptable reason. He's about to question her about what became of the spare material – to assure it went to a more practical use, when his eyes drop and inadvertently trace the curve of her ass.

All thoughts flee his mind and travel straight to his cock.

Huh.

He's totally fucked.