A/N: feedback is always appreciated! especially since I haven't really written for a while. this is inspired by this post on tumblr: post/122610196549/bamf-happens-imagine-your-otp
Clarke was fast asleep, sprawled across the couch when her doorbell rang. She jerked up, sending the head shots she'd been evaluating to the floor. It took her a moment to get her bearings. Why did she have all these pictures? Right, for her Satan project. Sadly none of the (three) applicants so far had quite the look Clarke wanted. Sure she didn't exactly know what she wanted herself, but she'd know it when she saw it. The doorbell rang again, startling her, and reminding her why she woke up in the first place. As she got up it rang again, followed by intense knocking.
"I'm coming, I'm coming!" she shouted, now pissed but also still half asleep, so her attempt at angrily striding to the door was marred when she bumped into the wall. She did manage to throw the door open angrily and glare at the- the really nice body whose owner had a not-too-shabby face either. Clarke grimaced inwardly and shoved that thought aside.
"What is it?" she snapped, irritated both at being woken up and at the (hot) stranger's rudeness.
He grinned. "Calm down princess, I heard you could use a little help, and I'm here to offer some."
Clarke bristled at his cocky attitude. "Excuse me? Exactly what help am I supposed to be needing?"
The stranger's grin widened. He pulled a newspaper clipping out of his pocket and unfolded it, reading aloud, "Model to pose for portrait of 'Satan After the Fall.' If you think you look like Satan, ple-"
"Yeah, yes, I remember now," Clarke cut him off. She stared at him now unabashedly, examining his features closely with her artist's eye. Now it was his turn to be flustered, except he wasn't. Her gaze seemed to increase his arrogance. "What's your name?"
"Bellamy Blake. First things first though, this is a paid gig, right?"
Clarke groaned inwardly. She always hoped people would forget to bring up money. Her parents were successful enough that when Clarke struggled (like she was now) she could always borrow, but she hated being in debt, even to family. Then again, many artists were much less fortunate than her, so she couldn't really complain.
"Yes. Does seven dollars an hour sound good?"
Bellamy raised his eyebrows. "Less than minimum wage never sounds good."
Clarke took a deep breath. "I'm going to be paying you for sitting around doing nothing. You want minimum wage, go get an actual job."
"Already have one, thanks, princess." Clarke blinked, and started to say something but Bellamy cut her off. "You know what? Seven dollars an hour is fine. So, do I look like your Satan?"
Clarke looked him up and down. In her half-formed ideas of her Satan, she never pictured anything like Bellamy's freckles or slightly crooked nose. But he did have an intensity in his eyes that worked for her (that is, her project), and he certainly had the attitude. In any case, she had posted that notice in the paper a month ago, and had gotten so few responses Bellamy might well be the best she would get. And this best wasn't too bad.
"Alright," she said, done with her evaluation. Bellamy seemed to relax a little. Clarke raised her eyebrows. She hadn't noticed he was tense until that moment. "On one condition," she added, smirking when he tensed up again.
"And what's that, princess?" he asked, trying to play it off, it seemed to Clarke.
"Don't call me princess."
