Okay, as we know, I've been getting into writing again- okay, great, yippie for me! or whatever—
We also know that I love crossovers- and am currently working on a crossover fic between The 100 and Yellowjackets (titled A Lack of Belonging)..
Cool, cool, cool, no doubt, it's going good so far-
(please tell me someone gets that reference-🥹)
Anyways, I know I've briefly brought this up before, but I kind of need to make a final decision here, so—
Should I add some of my different ocs to the story, or keep it simple and just stick with all cannon characters?
||☆—cannon characters only
||☆—cannon/oc mix
Voting ended onOct 29, 2025
——————————————————————————
To further explain, the ocs added would be:
♫-Danica and Elaine Teagues (Yellowjackets)
♫-Arabella Griffin (The 100)
(Not entirely sure about this next one, but-) ♫-Angelina Renfield (The 100)
♫-Jordan, Mary, and Evelyn Woods (N/A)
And potentially a few more!
Of course, all ocs that don't already have an intro post will have mini (or full) introduction posts made before I come out with anything else- so, considering I've got a little more free time, I'm sure you'll be meeting them soon<3
-
Also! While we're here, I'd like to let everyone know that I will be making accounts on Wattpad and Ao3, as well as setting up a writing-centered sideblog, where I'll begin posting the majority of my works in order to keep things slightly more organized<3
Clarke Griffin is not a violent person, by nature. The Hippocratic Oath frowns on that sort of thing. Only, well—it’s hockey. So, it feels sort of outside the realms of natural law and ancient oaths and the guy sitting next to her is a grade-A jerk. Which means it’s only reasonable to do what she does. Defends her boyfriend’s on-ice honor.
Words: just under 2k
Rating: fluff
Part of Connecting on the Wraparound, my The 100 Rangers AU
I have done the thing! Written words! Not a lot of words, but words all the same! This is very exciting news! A few days ago, I reblogged this post and asked for numbers and some very nice people — including @NORTHERNSHIRO who asked for No. 4 — sent numbers and now I’ve written this! If you want to send more numbers so I will write more words, feel free. I think you’re all delightful.
“I’m here, aren’t I? Like, I’m physically standing right here?”
Glancing around with enough force to make several things in her neck crack, Clarke somehow manages to keep her hands plastered to her side—but only just. Her fingers itch to bunch, to shake wildly in the air directly surrounding her for no less than seventeen straight seconds. And, well, maybe, if she possibly elbows the jersey-wearing bastard with an accent that sounds eerily similar to John Travolta’s in Hairspray, then that’s neither here nor there.
“That can’t be his real voice, can it?”
Murphy’s lips disappear behind his teeth.
His shoulders shake, though.
Somehow that makes it feel as if they're even. Although Clarke’s not entirely sure what the competition is, honestly. So the concept of equality is moot. She flinches when someone hits the boards in front of them. At some point she’s cautiously optimistic she’ll stop doing that.
Not-John Travolta yells again. With vowels that sound almost correct, until the obvious emotion takes over and the accent sharpens and Clarke’s fingernails dig roughly into her palm. Her jaw cracks, too. She’s made of rice crispy treats and anxiety.
“I hate him.”
“He has no idea who you are.”
“I could not possibly be more obvious about this.”
Scientifically speaking, her jersey does not get heavier. The letters on her back that form a name she’s not entirely in possession of yet, but is also kind of waiting to be partially hers, do not, in fact, tug on either one of her shoulder blades.
Clarke went to med school.
Multiple diplomas hang on her office wall back home. She’s smart. She knows.
She understands.
And yet.
She wants to yank her arms away from her side and toss propriety to the metaphorical winds and throttle the guy standing next to her. For shouting at the ice like that. For shouting at Bellamy like that.
Some of his insults are really creative, honestly.
Throttle is a very old-sounding word.
“Awfully self-important,” Murphy murmurs, barely audible over the din of the crowd. Clarke’s body is a medical marvel tonight. Truly, it’s incredible. Supersonic hearing and a stomach made of titanium lining because somehow that stomach has not simply disintegrated or melded with her spleen while watching her boyfriend slam into glass that’s really more plastic than congealed particles of sand.
Is that the only way to make glass?
Her familiarity with the production of glass stems almost entirely from Sweet Home Alabama. So, it’s entirely possible she’s not an expert.
“Do you want people to know who you are?”
Well, there it is. The million-dollar question. Almost literally—because Bellamy signed that extension and the money isn’t Clarke’s, but some of it’s going into a trust for Maddie and she’s sort of glad Maddie isn’t here because it’s probably not the best version of parenting to be plotting covert murder in the middle of a sold-out arena. They’re too close to the ice, anyway.
All those TV cameras would totally spot her.
Murphy hums the JEOPARDY theme song. He’s not wearing a jersey. Blake, or otherwise. Clarke briefly considered painting the number 10 on her cheeks like she was a sophomore in high school and going to Saturday’s homecoming game instead of Thursday night’s playoff-berth clincher.
“You have all the subtlety of an 18-wheeler.”
“Oddly specific.”
Clarke lets out a breath. Through her nose. She’s got to stop holding her breath. And bouncing her knee. She’s never bounced her knee before. Not even when she spent 16 hours in the ER during the first weekend of her residency. So, that’s a fun new quirk to discover. About herself.
Not-John Travolta is making up words now. There’s no other explanation. She’s never heard half of the things he’s saying—although that may be because the words are growing indistinguishable from their separate syllables, and she pretends not to notice how Murphy sits up straighter.
The Rangers are winning.
Have been for almost the whole third period, since Miller’s wrister rang off the in-goal camera. Clarke is perfectly aware of what a wrister is now.
Which is good. Great, even. Proper terminology is important in medicine and sports and those worlds aren’t mixing for her anymore. They have been mixed, past-tense. There’s no separating them now. Not that she wants to or has even thought about. Not when she’s thinking about other things and letters in names and hyphens and dollar signs and possibility and—
Liquid sloshes over not-John Travolta’s hand as he lets his arms do whatever they want, Clarke recoiling with an instinct that immediately makes her snarl.
Energy bunches in her calf muscles. The desire to run a full marathon has never been stronger. In that, it is the first time in her personal history that she’s ever felt like that. So, it automatically skyrockets to the top of the recently-formed list. Only one of her lungs feels as if it’s collapsing. That can’t bode well for her potential mile time.
“How do they track your pace during a marathon?”
To his credit, Murphy’s eyes don’t leave the ice when he replies, “Probably by the mile. Slow and steady. Winning the race.”
“Tell me more platitudes, please.”
“Idioms, really.”
“What do you know about idioms?”
“I went to college, too.” Clarke’s lips tip. Up. In something akin to happiness and anticipation. “You didn’t answer my question.”
Her lips don’t move. Her lungs don’t collapse. The energy in her calves moves toward her knees and her hips, neither of which entirely appreciate the distinctly non-ergonomic chairs at Capital One Arena.
And they weren’t hiding.
She texts Monroe with a regularity that felt like legitimate friendship. Three months ago, Casino Night photos littered more social media platforms than Clarke was aware even existed. Maddie mocked that realization for sixteen days straight. Bellamy counted. She’d met other girlfriends and… other relationship titles. That was the wrong order. No one called them GAWs, and that was probably for the best because that made Clarke think of seagulls and PIXAR movies and single parents and her mind did not prepare her body to twist with that amount of force.
Snap, crackle, pop goes her sanity.
“What the hell is your problem, man?”
Murphy had tears in his eyes by the time the final buzzer sounded. The Rangers won by two goals. Playoff-bound. Again.
“So, uh,” Bellamy says, hair still damp from his post-game shower, and Clarke has to stop herself from blatantly smelling him. In the middle of the hallway. There are other people around them, for God’s sake. She can almost hear Murphy still laughing at her. Tonight has been an exercise in stopping herself, really. That she has been only marginally successful at.
Pushing up on her toes, her nose grazes the underside of Bellamy’s chin and the side of his neck. Six-dollar ocean-scented body wash from CVS is her favorite smell in the world.
“Uh?”
“Did he appropriately cower before you, Princess?”
Her heels drop.
Loudly. Or maybe that’s just the ringing in her ears.
Bellamy smirks at her. The bastard. Absolute ass. The smirk becomes a full-blown grin, and Clarke has to blink against the force of it.
“How did you—”
“If you think I’m not always,” his head moves, “constantly,” his mouth finds the shell of her ear, “perpetually,” she shivers, he chuckles, “frustratingly aware of—”
Clarke shoves at his chest. “Frustratingly!”
“You’re real pretty when you’re yelling at random dudes in the stands, y’know.”
“There is no possible way for you to know that I was yelling.”
“The tips of your ears get red. Little signal fires. The beacons of Gondor are lit.”
“God, you’re such a dweeb. How do you function with all that dweeb’ness coursing through you?”
“You think I’m cute, too.”
“Mostly because of your hair.”
He hums, more teeth involved against her neck that time and it’s good and he knows it’s good and that’s one-hundred percent why he did it. Clarke can’t fault him for that. “Thanks for defending my honor.”
“He wouldn’t shut up.”
“What was the final decision, then? Pistols at dawn?”
“I told him to go drown in the Potomac after he said your on-ice vision was average,” Clarke takes a deep breath, “at best!” Bellamy’s eyes lighten. His lips disappear, too. Just like Muprhy’s. In any other situation, that would be sort of funny in a known-each-other-forever type of way, but Clarke’s not interested in attacking Murphy’s lips the way she is with Bellamy’s. Adrenaline is a fascinating thing. Her hair feels like it’s buzzing. She might be levitating. The only thing keeping her on the ground is the hands resting heavily on her aching hips. “And that’s,” she continues, “just patently untrue and insane. Even your greatest enemy—”
“Babe, I do not have enemies.”
“—Would be forced to acknowledge the incredible dexterity of your wrists. Hey, hey, we should study your wrists. Get a grant and do some sports science on it and—”
“You’d have to get ESPN to start that show again, and I don’t know if you have that sort of pull.”
“—So I told him to go drown and that maybe then he’d look a little better, even if he resembled a rat,” Bellamy’s eyes bug. While simultaneously glowing. No, that’s not right. Eyes don’t glow. Science. Clarke is a doctor. With degrees. And bouncy knees and so much energy and not-John Travolta had been wholly unprepared for her.
She has to take a deep breath before she finishes, “He asked if we were, and this is a direct quote, fucking married or something, so I told him about the bacteria count of the Potomac, Murphy glared, you scored the empty net and that was that. No pistols.”
Bellamy doesn’t say anything. Turns into a statue, it seems. Muscles bunch with tension that Clarke doesn’t expect, only passably noticing through the haze of her adrenaline. Until it disappears just as quickly because he’s breathing far too rapidly for a statue and she doesn’t think they make many statues out of glass or plastic. He’d be marble, anyway.
To honor his very good-looking face in perpetuity.
The one that’s moving. Toward her and to her, and it had taken everything in Clarke’s soul to avoid saying not yet to the marriage question.
Murphy didn’t hum the JEOPARDY theme song as they walked toward the friends and family station. He belted it. Let the sound bounce off walls and the tiled floors, seeping into Clarke until it times up with her heart.
A marathon, not a sprint
Bellamy’s tongue finds its way into her mouth. So, she stops thinking. Does the opposite of thinking. Pushes her fingers into water-soaked strands of hair and lets herself rest against the flat palm at her back, closing her eyes and breathing him in until all she can smell is six-dollar body wash.
Everything settles. For half a moment. Another. A third. Because every time they pull away they fall back, twining limbs and sneakers that allow for upward movement on the tips of her toes. Clarke’s hips are getting much more attention than they should in a hockey arena that isn’t as empty as a moment like this demands. Canting up and rolling, and her hips don’t stumble, but she might, pushed against the nearest flat surface while her own tongue does a thorough inventory of a mouth she’s pretty intent on marrying.
Eventually.
Plus, like—the rest of him, too. She really is super attracted to Bellamy’s hair.
“Stop staring at me when you’re supposed to be worried about faceoffs.”
He doesn’t pull away, mumbling against her mouth, “Absolutely not.”
“Ok, cool.”
“Cool.”
He asks eventually. After a playoff run that’s different than the last, longer and better and Clarke kisses him before she answers. She figures that’s the answer.
MAYBE WE'LL GET THERE THIS TIME AROUND BY SELFLESSBELLAMY
LINK IN REBLOG
This fic was written as a gift from @stealing-jasons-job to @kancjs for @t100fic-for-blm
Moodboard by: @stealing-jasons-job
Description:
“Alright. I’ll offer you a beer for old time’s sake, but if you don’t trust me, that’s where it ends. A beer, and then you leave. Got it, Reyes?”
Raven swallows hard, trying to be stoic as she replies cooly, “Got it.”
But, in reality, she doesn’t. She doesn’t get any of this. That’s why she keeps coming back to him, why it’s never really the last time with him.
***
Raven keeps coming back to Murphy's doorstep after her breakup, but she's not just looking for sex. She's looking for answers.
Message for Ryn from @stealing-jasons-job:
RYN! One of my first real friends in this fandom, and one of my favorite humans ever! I adore you. Here's to NYC shenanigans real soon. Enjoy! <3 #BAHSA
I just sat down and rage typed for 20 minutes because I’m so furious that Bellamy wasn’t included in the finale and this is what I came up with. Presenting an alternate ending AKA fix it fic AKA fuck you jroth AKA Emily is losing her mind :) Also the dialogue between Clarke and higherpower!Lexa is fucked bc I couldn’t be bothered to go re-watch the scene for accuracy. ALSO in this universe Clarke didn’t kill Bellamy, he died for her bc I rebuke her ever laying a hand on him okay? okay.
---
By the time she crawls out of the bunker and back into the forest’s comforting silence, Clarke is once again ready to be alone. Or maybe not so much ready as she is accepting. She’s done it before, right? She’d survived being alone, survived the loneliness and the heartache and the fear, she was a survivor and she could do it again. She could. She could... Clarke can see her dishonesty reflected back in Picasso’s stoic face. She had only survived her sentence on earth last time because of Madi... and because of Bellamy. If she was being honest, Bellamy and the hope of seeing him again were the only things that had gotten her through those years. He had been her anchor while she’d paid her penance. And she had paid, those 6 years providing ample time for her to repent for every sin she’d ever committed. So why the hell did she have to do it again? Why the hell did she have to die alone?
She thought of Bellamy. Taking the bullet from the disciple that was meant for her. Bleeding out in her arms while she begged him to stay. Whispering she loved him after he was too far gone to hear. Was that why she was here? To absolve the guilt she felt for letting him die for her? It was always supposed to be the other way around, but the cards had fallen and she had the rest of eternity to think about it.
Something grabbed Picasso’s attention and she took off suddenly, sprinting into the woods. Surprised, Clarke called for her to come back and was ignored. Cursing Russell for not training his dog properly and suddenly very terrified of the concept of being alone alone, Clarke sprinted after her. She followed what seemed to be the obvious trail down toward the lake, but the dog was nowhere in sight. “Damnit,” she gasped, yelling Picasso’s name again even though she had a sinking feeling it was in vain. She ran back up the hill and down another embankment onto the beach, trying to stamp down the panic she felt rising inside her. She couldn’t have gotten far, and she’ll come back when she’s hungry anyways. I’ll just...
“Hello again Clarke.”
The sound of Lexa’s voice shocks her into stillness once again, and she spins slowly, willing herself to remember that it’s not real, that this strange higher being is simply putting on the face of a person she loves. Selfishly, she wishes for a moment it was Bellamy, just so she could see him happy and at peace one more time.
“Are you here to keep me company? Or to mock me one more time before leaving me to die alone?”
The thing wearing Lexa’s face smirks beautifully in response. “Neither, Clarke. I’m here to tell you that you were right. Humanity surprised me. They proved they deserved transcendence after all. And...” She paused for a moment before continuing, “I’m here to see you through.”
Sickening hope blooms for a single moment.
“You’re saying I can transcend?”
Not-Lexa shakes her head slightly and Clarke feels the hope die in her chest.
“Unfortunately, no. Those who fail the test can never transcend. You failed the test, and therefore you have no choice.” She hesitates slightly again and Clarke thinks the tension may kill her right there. Maybe that would be better.
“You don’t have a choice, but those who have transcended do.” She finishes, and Clarke is too confused to comprehend the gravity of her statement.
“Transcendence is a choice? You can choose to come back?”
Lexa smiles again, in earnest now.
“Of course. Though until now, no one ever had. There won’t be any offspring. And he won’t join us when he dies. He didn’t seem to care. A curious species indeed.”
Clarke is stunned. He? She doesn’t mean...
“Clarke?”
For an infinite moment, Clarke is completely still. She doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, doesn’t function in the fear that she’ll move infinitesimally and he will be gone. She just stands and stares at him. Stares at Bellamy, staring at her in the same way, like she may shatter into the wind if he even takes a step.
“Bellamy?” She whispers, afraid of her own voice and the power it may hold. “is it really you?”
He nods, and even from a distance she can see the tears streaming down his face.
“It’s me,” he whispers back.
Clarke runs.
She throws herself into his arms and she sobs, feeling herself come alive again as he wraps his hand into her hair.
“You came back for me,” she whispers into his neck, muffled by how tightly he’s holding her.
“We all did,” he says, and Clarke is stunned once again. “Raven, Murphy, Octavia, Madi, we’re all here. None of us were willing to let you do this alone.”
“I love you, Clarke,” he murmurs. “Life or death or transcendence, it means nothing without you.”
Clarke kisses him. She kisses Bellamy Blake, the man she loves, with no more need for fear or sacrifice or penance. She had fought the good fight, and now she was finally home.
This Spotlight Saturday, I'd love to point out two The 100 fics that I absolutely loved:
The Wanheda Tape by @kinetic-elaboration
and
Mad Women by @kinetic-elaboration
Both by the same writer? You bet! Here's why:
They're fantastic fics that would work as stories of their own. The plot is incredible, they're properly chilling Halloween horror fics, and they are so engaging! Imagine watching a really good, suspenseful movie. That's what reading them is like!
The Wanheda Tape is loosely based on the Blair Witch project but with quite a few twists that make it an even better story! It was so eerie and delightfully entertaining.
(It's a masterpiece and I loved it.)
Mad Women is about "space madness" and two women (Clarke and Raven) driven by a maddening pursuit. The atmosphere is perfect for a psychological thriller taking place in the vast emptiness of a faraway galaxy, which it is.
If you've ever wanted to read fics that go beyond the confines of traditional fic storytelling, read these two.
I cannot recommend them - and @kinetic-elaboration - enough!
He’s a spy. Far from the best one that Marcus Kane trained, but the one who managed to get an invitation for dinner at Mr. Wallace’s estate in Mt. Weather. It’s not his original assignment, but when one recruit falls, the others have to cover more ground.
There’s an informant who regularly attends these parties, someone who provided the last recruit vital intel until his cover almost blew months ago and he had to flee back to Arkadia. Bellamy doesn’t know much about the informant. Kane said whoever it is would find him but said nothing else about the informant, most likely to protect them in case Bellamy fails and gets caught. The only important clue he has about them is that they cannot seem to get information out any other way. And that tells Bellamy that the informant is watched, which is more than enough information to go on.
A Spy AU where Bellamy's only assignment is to keep attending Cage Wallace's lavish parties so that Kane's informant can keep slipping him messages, but the mission gets complicated when he falls for his enemy's wife.
And on that note: I’m STILL hoping/praying/waiting for some angel to write a slow burn below deck bellarke au. Like honestly I have so many ideas for it I will send anyone who wants to write it pages full of notes if they need ideas. I will not stop talking about how perfect this au would be for bellarke/ the delinquents until someone writes it!! 
You huff as you accidently smear more charcoal on the screen. You’d been drawing for hours but now you wanted to read, since they’re the only things to do in this god forsaken cell, but your fingers are coated in the dust making it hard. The drab walls are maddening but slightly less so with now that you’ve decorated it. You figure Clarke’s is probably just as well done.
“Prisoner 295, face the wall.” You hear as two guards walk into your cell. You sigh and comply with a roll of your eyes, frustrated with the interruption.
“Mummy dearest find more book downloads in the database for me?” you quip, placing your hands in the air as one guard approaches.
“No” he replies curtly. “Hold out your arm” he continues. You comply again, not wanting a fight. Last time you fought them it took three shock baton strikes and a dart to get you down and you’d felt like shit for weeks after.
“You know I don’t turn eighteen for another month right?” you query, eyeing the wrist band as he clamps it down. It stings a little but seeing as there is a dozen tiny spikes on the inside it would make sense.
“I don’t care. Let’s go” he grabs your arm and starts pulling you along. Your heart begins to race as you step from your cell to see all the others like you being dragged to an unknown location.
“Mum? Mum, what’s going on? What is this?” you hear a terrified quivering voice as you turn the corner and you smile, heaving a sigh of relief at the sight of your twin. Even if you are to die today it will be with the person you’ve spent your whole life with. “They’re Killing us all, aren’t they, reducing population to make more time for the rest of you?”
“That sounds about right” you scold as you’re dragged past your sister and mother, send the latter a glare and the former a comforting smile. “At least if that’s the case we’re going down together eh sis?”
“Clarke, [Y/N], you are not being executed. You’re being sent to the ground, all hundred of you”
A/N: it may be a while before I start posting chapters but 8 are finished just need some tweaking. this just be for hype ;)
