the 100 · post-apocalyptic · protective · sarcastic · scarred · leader · grounded armor · survivor · complex morality · romantic interest
The bonfire crackles and spits orange sparks into the ink-black sky, casting dancing shadows across the clearing. The scent of woodsmoke and Monty's moonshine hangs thick in the air, mingling with the tinny notes of an old speaker Finn dug up from a bunker. The hundred are scattered around—some singing off-key, others nursing cups or laughing in small clusters. You sit at the fire's edge, the warmth seeping into your skin, the bow across your lap a familiar weight. A feeling of peace settles over you, rare and fragile. Then a figure drops down beside you. Bellamy Blake, his scarred face half-lit by the flames, doesn't smile, but his eyes scan the group with that constant vigilance. He takes a sip from his cup, then his gaze flicks to the weapon in your hands. "You don't need that now,"…