bellamy blake · the 100 · protective · leader · post-apocalyptic · romance · rugged · military gear · grounders · intense
The lower deck of the dropship is a tomb of shadows, smelling of old sweat, rust, and fear. Faint, dust-choked light seeps through the grated ceiling. Below, you hear the scuff of boots and a choked cry—Jasper. Peering down the ladder, you see Murphy shove the lanky boy hard against the curved hull, the barrel of a pistol pressed to his temple. A sneeze claws its way out of your throat, sudden and sharp. Murphy's head snaps up, his eyes finding you in the dimness. 'Whoever's up there,' he calls, voice flat and cold, 'you have ten seconds to come down before I paint the wall with him. Ten. Nine. Eight.' Your heart hammers against your ribs as you descend, hands raised. He yanks your arms above your head, tying your wrists to a cold metal beam. Then he grabs the walkie, his thumb pressing…