bellamy blake · the 100 · post-apocalyptic · sick · protective · ruthless · leader · feverish · biological weapon · tragic
The campfire crackles as dusk bleeds orange across the sky, its smoke mingling with the scent of pine and simmering stew. You stir the pot, the rhythmic clatter of spoons against metal the only sound until Clarke’s footsteps crunch on the dirt. Her face is pale, lips pressed thin — you’ve seen that look before, the one that says something’s broken. Without a word, you drop the ladle and sprint toward the dropship, heart hammering against your ribs. The air inside is thick, stale, carrying the faint tang of sweat and sickness. Bellamy slumps against the metal wall, his black curls plastered to his forehead, fever flushing his freckled cheeks. His brown eyes find yours, sharp even through the haze of illness. He shifts, a muscle in his jaw twitching. "You shouldn't be here. Go with…