The 100 fanfic: Us Against Everything

[Bellamy/Clarke]
Canon divergent. With a brutal winter ahead, Bellamy realizes there might be more than friendship growing between him and Clarke. 1539 words | [PG]

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Bellamy gets back to camp late. It’s hard to tell the exact time with it getting dark so early, but he figures it must be after nine. The sun went down long ago, and it’s abysmally cold. He blows into his hands, trying to warm his numb fingers. Two fires are burning, but the space around them is empty of their usual laughing kids.

Sterling and two of the other guys he’s with make a beeline for the fire, practically holding their hands in the flames. The other three high-tail it into the dropship. Raven and Monty are still working to get the heat going, but eighty-something bodies crammed into a tin can keeps them warm enough for now. It’s better than being outside anyway.

It’d taken all day, but they’d finally buried the three they lost last night--Edith, Jerome, and Bennett. Edith was only fourteen and down here for talking back to a teacher. He shakes his head. He still can’t believe what they did to these kids. Sure, some of them were hardened criminals. There were killers and rapists among them, but most of the kids were arrested for petty stuff—shoplifting, fist fights, hoarding. It’s almost as if they knew they needed the bodies to fill the dropship so they arrested the kids for anything. Bastards.

 

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The 100 fanfic: A Hero Without a Sunset to Ride Into

The war may be over, but the battles never end. Bellamy contemplates the consequences of war. Post-season 2 finale. 608 words | [PG-13]

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The history books never tell you that the end of the war is just the beginning. It's the start of cleaning up. Of healing wounds. Of returning to life. Or starting a new one.

Now that the war is over, Bellamy's finding this part to be the hardest. As far as he can tell, they won, but it doesn't feel like a victory. He's exhausted—physically and emotionally. He feels like he’s been torn apart and stitched back together, but the seams don’t quite match up. His world has tilted into something unrecognizable. The color drained, sounds muffled. He wades through pain and swims in a fog so thick he can’t breathe without drowning.

He's killed more people than he cares to count. His hands aren't just covered in blood, he's bathed in it. He hates the things he's done. Hates the things he's seen. He hates himself and the world and God if there is one. The war may be over, but the echoed screams of a murdered generation haunt his dreams. They wrench him from restless sleep—sweat-soaked and tear-stained. Only there’s no escape this time because he’s the monster in this nightmare.

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