"Monster"

"Who we are, and who we need to be to survive are very different things" {Independant Bellamy Blake blog. Mun is 21+, will be NSFW. Read Rules before Interacting. Medium Activity.

[protectmypeople]

ㅤ"who we are, and who we need to be to survive are two very different things.." independent, canon divergent && private, Bellamy Blake, from the CW's the 100.

Run by Liv, ( she / they 24 ) Mun is 21+ so there will be mature themes present on this blog. Please read RULES before interacting.

rules. wishlist. memes.

[leneemusing]

A LIST OF CASUAL YET INTIMATE INTERACTIONS

sender to receiver:

[ HOOK ] sender hooking a finger beneath receiver's jaw

[ PINCH ] sender holding receiver's chin between their thumb and forefinger

[ LOOK ] sender holding receiver's jaw and turning their head to look at them

[ PICK ] sender telling receiver to "hold still" while they remove something from their hair

[ GRAZE ] sender brushes their fingertip back and forth along receiver's jaw while they listen to receiver talk

[ DIRECT ] sender seeing that receiver is going the wrong way, takes hold of their shoulders from behind and turns them the right direction

[ BACK ] sender grabs receiver's wrist and tugs them closer when receiver tries to walk away.

[ TOY ] sender fidgets with something receiver is wearing while receiver talks to them

[ STROKE ] sender absentmindedly plays with receiver's hair while they're focused on another task

[ DEPART ] sender is saying goodbye and kisses receiver's forehead

[ DRESS ] sender without prompting helps receiver put on a jacket

[ UNDRESS ] sender helps receiver remove an article of clothing or jewelry

[ REFILL ] sender refills receiver's drink before they can ask or do it themselves

[ FIX ] sender cleans something off of receiver's face

[ RUB ] sender places their hand around the back of receiver's neck, rubbing their thumb just under their ear

[ PULL ] sender sits next to receiver and places their arm around their shoulders, gently pulling them into their side

[ BECKON ] sender sees receiver and lifts their arm up so they can come hug/cuddle them

[ GLIDE ] sender is gently rubbing/scratching receivers back and rubs their knuckle down their spine to the small of their back

[ CHEER ] seeing that receiver is scowling, sender rubs their thumb over the furrow between receiver's brows

[ TUCK ] sender finds receiver asleep somewhere and puts a blanket or their own coat over them

[ TRACE ] sender brushes their fingers along receiver's forehead, temple and cheekbone

[ BRUSH ] sender brushes their hand up and down receiver's arm as they walk past them

[ KEEP ] sender holds receiver's arm just above the elbow while they're talking or to get their attention

[ LEAN ] sender looks over receiver's shoulder who is sitting, placing a hand on their desk while receiver shows them something

[ NUDGE ] sender grabs the chair receiver is sitting in and pulls it closer

[ LISTEN ] sender is listening to receiver talk and picks up an object that belongs to receiver to fidget with

[ SEARCH ] sender searches out receiver's gaze in a crowded room either for approval or to check if they're okay

[ SMOOTH ] sender smooths their thumb over receiver's eyebrow

[ SLIP ] sender places their hand in receiver's back pocket while they walk together

receiver to sender:

[ HOOKING ] receiver hooking a finger beneath sender's jaw

[ PINCHING ] receiver holding sender's chin between their thumb and forefinger

[ LOOKING ] receiver holding sender's jaw and turning their head to look at them

[ PICKING ] receiver telling sender to "hold still" while they remove something from their hair

[ GRAZING ] receiver brushes their fingertip back and forth along sender's jaw while they listen to sender talk

[ DIRECTING ] receiver seeing that sender is going the wrong way, takes hold of their shoulders from behind and turns them the right direction

[ BACKING ] receiver grabs sender's wrist and tugs them closer when sender tries to walk away.

[ TOYING ] receiver fidgets with something sender is wearing while sender talks to them

[ STROKING ] receiver absentmindedly plays with sender's hair while they're focused on another task

[ DEPARTING ] receiver is saying goodbye and kisses sender's forehead

[ DRESSING ] receiver without prompting helps sender put on a jacket

[ UNDRESSING ] receiver helps sender remove an article of clothing or jewelry

[ REFILLING ] receiver refills sender's drink before they can ask or do it themselves

[ FIXING ] receiver cleans something off of senders face

[ RUBBING ] receiver places their hand around the back of receiver's neck, rubbing their thumb just under their ear

[ PULLING ] receiver sits next to sender and places their arm around their shoulders, gently pulling them into their side

[ BECKONING ] receiver sees sender and lifts their arm up so they can come hug/cuddle them

[ GLIDING ] receiver is gently rubbing/scratching sender's back and rubs their knuckle down their spine to the small of their back

[ CHEERING ] seeing that sender is scowling, receiver rubs their thumb over the furrow between sender's brows

[ TUCKING ] receiver finds sender asleep somewhere and puts a blanket or their own coat over them

[ TRACING ] receiver brushes their fingers along sender's forehead, temple and cheekbone

[ BRUSHING ] receiver brushes their hand up and down sender's arm as they walk past them

[ KEEPING ] receiver holds sender's arm just above the elbow while they're talking or to get their attention

[ LEANING ] receiver looks over sender's shoulder who is sitting, placing a hand on their desk while sender shows them something

[ NUDGING ] receiver grabs the chair sender is sitting in and pulls it closer

[ LISTENING ] receiver is listening to sender talk and picks up an object that belongs to sender to fidget with

[ SEARCHING ] receiver seeks out sender's gaze in a crowded room either for approval or to check that they're okay

[ SMOOTHING ] receiver smooths their thumb over sender's eyebrow

[ SLIPPING ] receiver places their hand in sender's back pocket while they're walking

[arketypes]

front presses against cold sand - angled just so her leg rests over his thighs - ( skin warm compared to cool land and salt water drying on her skin . ) something rhythmic in her sets off as pieces of this puzzle click into place. While she’s the injured one - bedside manner they train into you doesn’t just leave out of nowhere. “ it’ll be fine - alright ? “ she nods as arms curl under her head- giving her something to rest on other than sand - “ you already stopped, most of the bleeding " thankful for the tourniquet of a shirt he’d pressed below her knee - there might be some alcoholic wipes in the med kit but - like another answer to her prayer the boy from before comes rushing up with - absolute vodka (tm) - ripping plastic open with teeth before grabbing a handful of the shot bottles out and twisting off caps “ pour it over the wound you’re gunna wanna - “

for a moment - she’s incredibly concerned about the amount of sand thats likely gotten into the cut , the complications with healing it may bring cosmetically before sentence breaks into a breathless groan “aaa-” brows knit as clear liquor sanitizes . knuckles clench piercing crescent’s into the palm of her hand & go white with exertion . flushes the wound as jaw sets, it takes her a minute to inhale - before she's nodding .  “ g-good .” needs to ensure he doesn’t stop when she’s crying out in pain - if she wants to make it through him stitching her up. “ there should be - uh “ another surge of pain makes eyes pinch shut - “p-pre - threaded needle - “ voice comes out raspy, strained “ you know how to tie a knot ?”. half joke as she blinks away blurring vision.

[protectmypeople]

A reassurance, unexpected and drenched in a shakiness that propels him. Blue lips attempt some form of reciprocation, even in just the tiniest upturn of his lips. A lie. A lie. He knew this was bad, bleeding may have slowed either from the chill or pressure. An open wound would infect. The responsibility had been laid upon him, push needle through skin, taut and tie to ensure survivability. Two. Removal of the cloth. Four. Tourniquet on. Six. Trembling fingers struggling with plastic cap, crushed between molars he tears, dumping its contents unto mangled flesh. Grip tightens, astronomically upon ankle and upper thigh. Movement would only further her pain. A tight tension consuming his frame. The mantra repeats. Desperate for unseen aid. The liquor mixes coyly with blood streaming a vibrant pink down the sides of her prickled skin. It meets the sand, absorbed in seconds. The screams of agony he awaited never arrive. Instead, a composure fit for a soldier is leveled towards him. A groan, and bite to the pain. Fuck. The wind whips at his bare back, jaw clenched, teeth gritting tightly together. The shivering he holds no power over, the chattering he could avoid. Rapid blinks, face screwed into forced concealment. It astonishes, and forces his mind, hands, body to operate with assurance.

"Y-You're doing great." A weak form of comfort, eyes flickering up every so often to meet her gaze. Mind offering to abandon any memory of her features. If she were to die- Two. Four. Six. Bellamy searches the first aid kit, finding a small suture kit, needle and thread just as she said. Medic. She had to be. A doctor, or nurse. Placating, soothing him, while in agony. Needle threaded, dipped in vodka. The weak humor thrown his way is misplaced amidst shaking hands. Fingers, knuckles, pale white-an unyielding clasp on her ankle. "Ready." Followed by a sharp nod in her direction, a breath, two, four, six. A steady hand. He pierces, curving to attach, mend the broken skin. Tight sternum, heart pounding wildly against his ribcage, yet persistent. Repetition he could do. No longer skin, no longer human, a task to be completed, his responsibility. Stitch after stitch. A tight loop, knotted twice. Blood was warm, it soothed numb fingers, bringing feeling life, to action. The knot took him several tries, brows drawn low, focus eroding with wind. Finally. Another bottle torn open, dumped on closed, sewn, shut gap. "D-Done. It's done." It left him in one breath, eyes darting between her and the haphazardly shut skin. "I think- Its fine. I haven't done this- I mean- why would I have?" Words tumble past frozen lips, crimson digits now searching for bright white gauze. What if she dies? Infection at YOUR hand. A crushing weight upon his sternum. Two. Four. Six. "It's fine. It's fine." Mumbled amongst medical supplies, stolen by the rough waves. It prickled the back of his head, brown hues sliding to hers. "You okay?" None of this is okay.

[kylo-wrecked]

Kylo watches the fifth umbrella whisk. This one, lavender.

This one, teetering on the edge

Of himself. Bellamy's eyes languoring, then dying in the red-blue-white-blue-red-white. Subtractive pupils; a determined mouth.

It was just him.

There is no enigma.

Retinas to retinas, their immense gravity pulling them into a cosmic dance, causing them to orbit, spiral inward, and eventually merge.

This is a law of nature. They orbit a common center of mass, much like stars do. Kylo... and Bellamy.

Still, this. The smoke. The salted glass rim.

"No."

A smile stirs in Kylo's mouth-corners.

"Sloppy stuff. None good."

He doesn't drop his eyes, merely adjusts his dark gaze to what he might drink. The wellspring pulsing in Bellamy's throat. Kylo whispers there.

"You're done."

Slow as molasses.

{ cont'd from here }

@protectmypeople

[protectmypeople]

A heaviness rolling across his skin. Delighted submission numbness. The refusal coaxing a spark, it curled in his gut, setting his alcohol coated insides aflame. A wide smirk slipping unto lips, crooked grin, evidence of his quick-slow inebriation. Kylo's unlit gaze ensnared, a rapture, drowning in his observance. Question, goal, escape lost upon his consciousness.

The pleasant electric buzz beneath his skin quelling self preservation to none. A disconnect, brief, eyes tracking darkened hues to freckled column. Goosebumps. A flush crawling up his cheeks, chin still resting upon black clad shoulder. It grips him, a corroded elation, clawing ferociously forward.

"Done?" A slow pull, spoken with hushed tone- between captor and captive, friends, more, more, more. Bellamy drew himself back, thigh to thigh, and swung the last of the sickly sweet drink down. A drop spilling past lips down chin, down throat. The martini glass placed softly back on brightly stained napkin. He leaned closer, daring, stupid, fingers finding home, purchase on Kylo's thigh- leverage, eyes snapped between captor and bartender, two fingers up in the smoky bar. A nod of understanding, two more cosmos- the agent, himself, brewed on necessary cut offs . Logic suffocated in lieu of THIS.

"I'm not done." Testing murky waters, pushing elusive boundaries past their pseudo points. Button pusher. He leans, shell of ear, "Neither are you." Authoritative without reason.

@kylo-wrecked

[survival-instxnct]

the walking dead x the 100. @protectmypeople

TONDC, YEAR 2149 97 YEARS SINCE WILDFIRE THE END OF THE WORLD.

Rumbling. Heads snap up; the village freezes, listening ( in the same way deer still, gaze and ears flickering when a hunter cracks a twig ). Gasps. Fingers shoot upward, pointing to clouds punched aside by sheer force. Wide, obsidian eyes track a streak of fire tearing through the early morning horizon, hurtling over the village— BOOM!

The earth lurches beneath their feet. Villagers hit the ground – clatter of cookware and metal crashing to the floor – dogs barking frantically – all muffled under sharp ringing in their ears, ache blooming across their back ( grass mostly cushioned their fall from the wall ; they’d been keeping watch ). Sharp, DEEP intake of breath – Kova forces themself upright, staggering to their hands and knees – crawls – stands ( on flesh & wooden leg ), taking in the chaos of their home. A miracle that none of the surrounding trees have toppled over.

Barely hears their own shouts of orders : for the healer Nyko and his team; for Chaski, the messenger boy, to contact the Chief; for able bodies to man the wall; for a code red. Accustomed to protocol, the villagers hide in the safety of their homes while the warriors take position inside the defensive stone walls bordering the village, swords and spears at the ready through small slats. Whatever just landed brought a lot of noise – and plenty of walkers with it.

Brows furrow – forgetting something. Code in place, message out to Indra… something – no, someone is missing. It’s only then does Kova realize – "Where’s my brother?" Question hangs in the air ( to no one in particular ) as they search for Lincoln – amongst the guards ( Where? ), in the med-tent ( Where? ) – and comes up empty. "Where’s Linkon?"

Intuition ( sibling instinct ) pulls obsidian, slowly – to dark smoke billowing from distant trees. Breath hitches. Oh Gods, no.

[protectmypeople]

The Earth met them. A deafening ringing resounding in his eardrums, the throttle of the fall vanished. Aching jaw, knuckles still white against whatever metal handle he had managed to grip. Death had surely awaited them, adrenaline spiking continuously, pumping his system full of misplaced energy. The abrupt end entirely surreal. Panicked gaze bolted across the dropship. Octavia. A buzz humming beneath his skin ( thousands of bees). Did they still roam the radiated planet?

Feet managed to find wobbly purchase on ribbed metal ground, bones stacking uncomfortably at the perplexing sense of gravity. Eyes roamed over agitated teens, hands rapidly attempting to unbuckle themselves, a few hunched over spewing vomit. Tension began to dig into his sternum, too tight, too trapped.

He dug his way forward until he reached the opening hatch. An irritated blonde attempted to prevent his exit when he heard her. "Bellamy?" A cautious voice, brunette head tore through the crowd to find purchase in his arms. The breath left his lungs, stunned, for a mere moment that he was here, she was here. Arms enveloped her fully, squeezing tight. Forehead leaning down to her shoulder. Heart still beating erratically against his ribcage- had it been worth it? The familiar scent had tears beginning to well in his gaze, forcing his eyes shut-avoidant. Seconds. Gone. T

he sensation of wind on his frame drew him from their embrace, Octavia quickly marching down a metal ramp to greet the foreign land their ancestors roamed. Too bright - by far. He squints, an assault of the senses. The breeze drifts through the dropship- for a moment, he holds his breath. Awaiting the quick drop of bodies, a poison may still be lingering in the stale atmosphere - yet grins and sprints was all that came. Shoulder checked by delinquents fleeing their death trap. Earth Day had become a reality.

One step forward, cautious, the scent- fresh, intoxicating. Dew drops clinging to mossy branches, lush green leaves. Rain ? A rush through his system, a shift in the tide- had it been worth it? The blood the blood the blood. A forced grin upon freckled cheeks, body uncomfortable within Earth's gravity.

It had to be worth it.

[protectmypeople]

@kylo-wrecked asked: ❛ you aren't going anywhere without me. ❜

A break-in, meticulous, precise, clean cut and finished in under an hour. An old desktop, dust accumulating upon the keys. Decrypting it had been harder than expected. A swarm of folders, blacked out files, recordings- unknown to him yet printed, and placed into a detachable drive. The urgency stirred a buzz beneath his skin, adrenaline rushing through bloodstream. Every part of his being had dictated the act to be of malice. Yet it intoxicated him. No prints, no broken windows, nothing out of place. Phantoms. The adrenaline had only begun to die down once seated in a booth, deep red. A dull orange light flickering left the diner feeling darker, cozier, romantic. A tightness digging into his sternum demanded an assessment. Electrifying emotions stirring within his gut. Breaking the Law? How could such elation stem from the small, yet illegal act.

Fingers dance across the rim of his coffee mug, Kylo's large frame mirrored his own, the booth contrasting brightly with his dark attire. Burgers placed in front of them, buns still steaming when the short ring of entrance beckoned his attention to the door. Two police officers strolled in, conversation muted as they sat down at the bar and two coffee cups settled in front of them. His gaze unconsciously floated towards the gun in their holsters, when Kylo's voice, sharp, cut through his thoughts. Bellamy's eyes shot back towards him, an irritation bristling across his skin when a non-leather clad hand moved towards the water glass. A mixture of pale, and pink scars stretching across tendons and bone. It stunned him, if only momentarily, fingers dancing on the edge of the table- logic abandoned, he hesitantly reached across, digits grazing the top of the sealed wound, a tightness in the skin and a warmth that radiated even without fulling grasping his hand. "I'm not stupid enough to try." He muttered out, suddenly fixated upon the crashing reality that he knew nothing of his captor, not really.

[gccdstories]

As Bellamy stepped closer, Xaden merely stood there. Arms still crossed, the wingleader merely looked at him. Like Bellamy might very well be a bug that Xaden wished little more than to squash under his boot. Maybe.

But was it really worth the effort? He knew one thought, one whisper to the shadows at his fingertips, or a quick-as-lightning reach for one of the weapons on his person, and the boy would be dead. Or at least bleeding. And maybe that would be enough to end the snark, the bratty behavior.

He didn't have the patience to deal with people like this.

❝ Again. You overestimate your worth, cadet. ❞ Xaden's voice was low, his lips barely moving. But considering he's standing right in front of Bellamy, towering over the other man, he really doesn't need to speak too loudly. Not even to be heard over the countless matches around the room. The sounds of bodies hitting the mats, the grunts and yells from those taking hit after hit--

❝ Remember that one, simple fact. No one in this place cares who lives or who dies. Those in charge probably prefer most end up dead in one way or another. Keeps others under their thumb... keeps the sheep in line... ❞ Xaden shrugged, his dark eyes piercing Bellamy, like in that one look, he could see down to the other's very soul itself.

[protectmypeople]

Cadet. Their difference in rank held high above his own head. Cold water to his growing flames. It was enough to bring the pride clawing at his insides to a stand still. If there was one reality here that reigned true, is that rank was everything. He was merely a cadet in Riorson's wing, and with that came scrutiny, and an endless sense of ego. Darkened gaze fixated upon his own, the adrenaline of the fight began to fade. Trickling out of his system the longer he stood toe to toe with his wingleader. Brows drawn low, death a whisper between them. Fresh and bloodied meat, a stamp upon his forehead. The sharp scent of iron still hot on his tongue, hardened eyes scanning across his wingleader's features. The sting of their reality quelled the swell of pride within his chest.

He disconnected their gaze, feigning boredom, glancing across at the cadets whose blood was steadily coating the training mats. His own still smeared on the rough rubber. Riorson had proven his position, his strength- overlayed upon the blossoming bruise on his cheek. It would do little for him to push further, the growing irritation static between them. Dark hues meet his wingleaders, a coldness overtaking his frame despite the heat of annoyance building in his gut. A cutting glare. Knuckles white, crescents digging into his palm. He leans in, an inch, two, a whisper between friends- enemies, barely acquaintances. "Then we're both sheep aren't we." Spoken with a roughness, eyes sweeping across Riorson's face.

The zealous nature to prove himself subsiding the longer he fixated upon his wingleader. "I'm done for today- right?" A snap to his words, already turning away from the man. A tightness betwixt his shoulder blades, an overestimation maybe, but he was an invaluable asset- admission or not. Bellamy had drank his fill, the pain from bruises concealed beneath leather beginning to curdle. Picking up discarded weapons, he attached, hid, tucked them back upon his frame. "Save me a rematch Riorson" Gaze snapping briefly to his wingleader before moving to exit combat training all together. There was a sliver of a chance Riorson would make him stay, prove himself in matches against other wings. The tightness spreading into his sternum only grew once he turned his back to the man, striding his way out of the training arena.

[thenightmareofyourdrems]

                   ˜”*°•.     It  confused  him .  Why  did  it  matter ?  If  he  decided  to  stay  away  from  the  camp,  if  he  died,  how  would  anyone  be  affected ?  He  was  doing  nothing  for  them,  he  wasn’t  helping,  wasn’t  cooperating.  Bellamy  should’ve  been  thrilled  to   see  him  gone.  And  yet,  here  he  was  -  worried ,  determined  to  make  him  stay .  Why ?  Out  of  guilt ?  

It  was  his  next  words  that  got  him  to  bitterly  laugh .  Did  he  actually  believe  his  own  words  or  was  he  just  hoping  to  fool  them  both ?  ❝ This was  a  good  one.  Well  done.  ❞  He  said  -  sarcasm  dripping  from  his  words.  He’d  been  punched,  strangled.  He’d  literally  almost  DIED  in  the   that  Blake  had  so  confidently  called  safe.  How  worse  could  wandering  in  the  forest  be ?  ❝ Having  a  rope  around  your  throat  is  not  exactly  safe,  Bellamy . ❞  They  were  all  a  bunch  of  criminals  -  how  exactly  did  he  think  that  coexistence  was  possible ?  ❝ But  sure,  let’s  play  this  utopian  game  and  answer  me  this ;  do  you  actually  trust  me ? ❞

[protectmypeople]

Guilt corroded his insides, a familiar yet unwelcome emotion. The image of a red-faced Murphy, fingers clawing at his own throat caused his grip to loosen. The question churning an unknown sentiment in his gut. "I-" Speaking without thought is burial, he has to think. Their dynamic far too tumultuous to afford meaningless words, brought on by some corrupted form of responsibility. Trust. Dark brown hues met the earth, scanning the fallen pine needles and cones as if they could whisper an answer that would satisfy the delinquent. There had been a moment, brief, yet distinctive. Murphy's hands entirely enveloped in seatbelts, his body on the other line alongside Mel's. Trust had been earned, given. A painful, skull crushing death would have awaited them. They had grown; the ground had changed them, conditioned and mutated over a short span. Ignore the nagging sense of control, leadership, responsibility. "Utopian game is a bit of a stretch." Avoidant. Gaze snapping back to meet blue hues, assessing how earnest Murphy was even being. Their hierarchal form of friendship had proven the delinquent at one point. Power Trip. If it came down to it, would he trust Murphy with his life.

"Yes." Spoken softly between them. A hesitancy in his voice he wanted to stamp out. There were only a handful of individuals from the Ark who he deigned to consider dependable. "You didn't let me fall." Earnest, as if the short answer provided enough clarification for them both. "Do you trust me?" The question posed back, features unrevealing attempting to conceal the weight the question held among them. 

[arketypes]

cant tell if its the crashing of waves, rapidly dwindling adrenaline, or blood-loss that nearly calms her as she feels her pulse thump in her leg once more , hot wet blood trailing down her leg nearly burns her in contrast to the biting wind . breathe steadies out & in with the tide , finds a new rhythm . the second earthen eyes leave her own , the force of fingertips no longer demands her attention; she's lost again , deeper than before . aware solely of the fact that she isn’t aware . until she feels the weight under her as knees and shin dig into rough sand, as ichor seeps into where ocean meets shore. ( narration from the boy in front of her pulls her back to the moment . they need to stop the bleeding. ) knows how - but more importantly - has instructed plenty of younger residents on how to stitch & clean a wound ; how to heal something far worse than this . hospital often as cold as this - though she’s never drenched in salt water there -  a tourniquet is muttered with unfamiliar roughness - drawing her out of the longing for the fluorescent lights, sterile needle ‘n thread, & anesthetic of her former reality.

STING of metal tearing inside skin ( shrapnel continuing to pierce , feels a fresh gush of blood ) from the tug of the tourniquet above the wound - sucks harsh breath from her nose in a wince . “ ti . . . tighter - " shaking voice encourages, knows pain is better than the loss of a limb, or her life.

bone deep chill setting in, prickling before he’s muttering ( or yelling - can’t tell ) about getting her up . the idea of putting any pressure on her leg makes stomach churn, even as she attempts a lift of her good knee to stand on - more hot blood gushes out and stings enough to bring her fully back . takes the offer with a firm nod - eyes meet his again as she helps to guide her weight off leaking wound , into his grasp . soft cry out as debris shifts internally , face pinching as she relies on the boy to support her . takes her all of a few conscious - present -  moments to realize theres no world where she efficiently could suture herself . 

“ we need - suture - something to sterilize -" mutters , and voice is far more dreary than she’d anticipated . adrenaline quickly pushes her toward exhaustion as the change of the wounds position to gravity encourages red to gush out . ( thankfully , tourniquet stops most of it ) . hands grasp , painfully at shoulder as he helps the two of them towards peak of the beach . by some miracle ( maybe those prayers worked on a wish larger than sunlight ) theres a medkit thats made it out of the rubble of the plane and up on the peak of the beach . the younger from before - who’d run ahead - retrieves it ( some of the contents on it being used for another small group with far less serious injuries )

“ ‘m not gunna be able to do it myself - but i can talk you through it " medic mumbles ; earthen eyes meet his own , a plea .

[protectmypeople]

Iron. Hot and thick on his tongue. Fumigating his senses in its scent. The bleeding doesn't lessen, gaze glued to the wound as miraculously, she pulls herself to her feet. Please let it hold. Crimson tracks streaks down the calf, pooling into toes blending with salt and sand. His arm wraps tightly around her waist, bruising force, careful, nobody needs a cracked ribcage. Agonizing steps forward, her digits clawing into his skin. Instructions barely hit his consciousness, far too preoccupied with ensuring there'd be enough blood to avoid a blackout. The strain pushes more blood down into his gaze, cascading over his lips. Spitting. The wind whips it back against his thigh, comedic timing. The peak is there, the drowned- now living boy has a red pack in his hand. First Aid. A voice at his ear, he turns meeting a gaze that propels him forward. Distress. The scattered vibration of pupil, to the crescent marks blooming across his shoulder. An urgency migrating through them.

"O-Okay." A suture. Stitches. They needed a medic, not an engineer. The bare medical training he had received in basic did little to quell any anxiety on his ability to press needle through skin. Combat he had barely witnessed, IED, blown limbs. Tank repair had been his entire focus. The boy was shivering beside them now, whatever was left of the kit now held out to him. The sand became their home, far from the sting of salt, unprotected from the frigid wind. Slowly, softly, he settled her down, careful to keep the wound away from sand. Wounded limb placed upon his thigh, gaze briefly snapped to meet hers only for the action to bring a fresh flow of blood into his eyes. Agitation and irritation pulled at the fragile strings in his chest. Two. Four. Six. Multiples mumbled beneath breath, kit at his side. "W-We need to sterilize." Words tumbling past his lips. An attempt to stabilize his being in the space, time, accident, they had been catapulted into. "Alcohol." Firm, decisive he looks to the boy whose eyes are glued to his own, bouncing between the slice on his forehead to Bellamy's blood soaked features. "The little bottles, you n-need to find them." Shirtless. Skin baring the harshness of the chill, teeth beginning to chatter. The boy stumbled away, head swiveling, scanning back and forth.

The small allowance of their mutual solitude allowed him a breath. "Fuck." The twinge of a whine in his voice, using the available pieces of shirt to put further pressure over the slice in her calf. It'd be enough. It had to be enough. The bleeding was slowing, either from the cold or the lack of movement. Eyes trained entirely upon the wound, an internal refusal to observe the wreckage. The cries of agony brought with the wind only furthering his resolve of denial. One crisis at a time. The boy returned, panting, soaked shirt folded to hold multiple small plastic bottles. The contents spilled unto the sand, bloodied hands immediately searching through to find the clearest alcohol available. Vodka. Dark brown hues swam with indecision, dancing across her features. "Ready?" Fingers unscrewing the first bottle. "J-Just tell me what to do." 

[arketypes]

for all the time she's spent studying medicine, she's relied on the flick ! of her eyes scanning the patient to track seconds. a natural metronome - keeps track of time & monitors whoever she's treating. when she was younger , she'd have to keep track of the seconds in her head . ( nearly drove herself crazy trying to remember what number she's on ). now it's second nature , internal clock able to pinpoint fifteen seconds , thirty, a minute, to the second as long as eyes follow their rhythm .

by the time the boys taking over her own lungs scream for air - grateful isn't the right word - but allows her to steady her own breathe , to hear the burning of her own muscles . almost unnatural , not being in action in a crisis like this . isn't entirely sure what to do with her hands when she's not needed . these moments between - when muscles aren't rapidly working to get a heart pumping its own blood - when pain sends shock through her and she remembers just how cold she is , how bone deep the salty freeze is with clouds overhead. ( raised atheist , but understands faith here ; prays for the sun to peak through the clouds ) . under blue lips , he mutters counts of compressions .

flick of her eyes tracking a half a second off from his own and in all the effort to synch counts up she lays sight on the wound on his head . dripping ichor mixed with salt under curls streams red down his face & reminds her of the pulse on the back of her left calf . HACK of lungs - salt and water spent on the sand and he's pulling the younger to his side - hand moves in soothing circles on the youngers back - encouraging inhale - exhale .

earthen eyes peel to glance back and down to the slice on her leg large enough to warrant stitches leaking its own hot ichor . pupils wide , stop flicking to scan . lips part & for a moment , she, too, is surrounded by fog - till fingertips press into shoulder hard enough to pull her consciousness back . ( near pain , grateful for it ) . eyes flick once - twice over his face ( blue lips & bloodied curls . ) right, what did happen ? " i - " till she's back in the present . blinks once - twice - jaw shakes as she swallows . " the plane crashed. "

[protectmypeople]

The eyes snap. Once. Twice. It takes him a moment to spot the steady pump of blood into the sand. Dark red absorbed in seconds. Rapid blinks, clearing the haze, forcing focus back into his mind. The obvious spills in frigid tension. He nods, affirmative. How? How? HOW? It pounds in his skull, demanding clarity. Yet, her shaky fingers, spent breath, blood loss could mean death. Without permit, he shifted around her, taking in the gruesome sight of a gash deep enough to warrant some form of serious medical intervention.

Two. Four. Six. A mantra, repetitive multiples. Breathe. Gaze continuously bouncing from gash, to crimson, to her. Fuck. He should have paid more attention in basic. "Bleeding needs to stop." Their obvious statements pulling the two further into the ground, sinking. A rise, a dawn, of a new reality. It had to be understood simply, before its intricacy. This keeps them moving.

"A tourniquet" Spoken with roughness, panic beginning to dig into his gut. Shirt off his head, he's barely wringing it before tying it above her lesion. Thin metal shard, he tightens. Gently. Loss of a limb would be a far worser fate. The chill bites further into his chest and back, skin exposed to the growing wind and sunless sky. Back of hand to eyebrow, wiping the muck of blood and sweat. Eyes still struggling against the stream. Definitely stitches.

"W-We need to get you up." Away from shore. The unfolding chaos. Desperate cries of agony beginning to break through the veil. He stood, one foot bare, digging himself properly into the stand, stable. The sharpness of injury dulled. Silently hoping for any form of cosmic intervention. The nervous system would lose its boost, its motivation. Adrenaline. It'd fade, and pain would set in properly. Knuckles white, jaw clenched, shrieking misery. Defeat. A quick scan of the beach, others have reached its peak. Some faces already buried. Gaze found hers, a hum zapping through his skin, frantic. "Can I lift you?"

[thenightmareofyourdrems]

                   ˜”*°•.     For  a  moment  he  considered  dropping  the  attitude .  The  other  had  wanted  to  help  him,  after  all  -  even  if  merely  for  selfish  purposes,  even  if  just  to  make  himself  feel  better .  But  he  was  not  an  easy  person,  and  he  was  not  going  to  change  that.  Bellamy didn’t  deserve  the  kind  treatment,  after  all,  and   no  good  deed  was  going  to  change  that. 

It  was  an  excruciating  burn  that  spread  across  his  body  and  soul  -  the  wince  impossible  to  conceal.  ❝  Wow,  you  should’ve  become  a  nurse.  ❞  Echoed  the  words  sarcastic.  The  injuries  had  hurt  bad  enough  already,  adding  whatever  Bellamy  had  put  to  them ?  It  felt  like  his  whole  existence  had  been  on  fire,  but  then …  the  pain  simmered  down.   It  was  his  next  question  that  got  a  silence  to  linger  in  the  air ,  though .  Yes.  He  was  trying  to  find  his  peace  and  quiet  out  here,  because  apparently,  his  people  had  been  incapable  of  providing  him  with  that.  ❝  Actually  yes,  looks  like  a  decent  place.  Except  if  you  had  any  exotic   resorts  I  could  put  on  my  list ?  ❞  They  were  trapped  in   a  world  that  wanted  them  dead.  So, no.  There  weren’t  many  places  where  he  could  search  for  comfort.  ❝ I am not coming back if that's what you are trying to ask.  ❞ 

[protectmypeople]

The beat of silence brought his eyes snapping back to blue hues. Contemplative. The sharp retort brought the barest of grins unto his lips, gaze reconnecting with the wound. Fingers still buzzing in unshed energy, grasping the delinquent's pale chin. Their existence went against any natural order. Kids of the sun. He understood Murphy, no place to run, no place to hide. Yet as he finished the wound, Murphy revealed more than he had anticipated. "What do you mean not coming back?" A question not meant to be answered. He knew exactly what the other meant. Fingers left wounded skin and returned to his sides, he scoffed, irritation beginning to rise in his sternum. Protective.

"That's suicide." The ground was barely livable as it was, not to mention the hundreds of unknowns that lurk within the forest, beyond its borders. Grounders already itching for their heads. "Absolutely fucking not." This he would dig his feet into, no matter their differences- Murphy didn't deserve death. Long and agonizing through lack of food, or quick and brutal via grounders. The image of Murphy hanging from a tree resurfaces, guilt bringing a flush to his freckled skin. "No Murph- You're not leaving." Voice stern, his hand wrapping around Murphy's bicep anchoring them to one another. Bellamy met his gaze, taking in bruised and blood speckled features. "Why? There's nothing out there. It may not be great here, but at least it's safe." Words tumbled past his lips, a stream of thought. Safety was relative. Bellamy ignored the corroding voice within himself, one that reminded him of fist slamming, over, and over, and over into Murphy's face. One that had intended to kill the delinquent. Retribution. Not entirely. The tightening in his lungs, and his grip on the others bicep- it ensured his own survival. Their survival. "You're staying."

[arketypes]

the wilds v. @protectmypeople … twenty one … twenty two … twenty three …  didn't want to see the Atlantic this way - hurling towards it from cruising altitude before the PLUNGE ! to icy depths. always been afraid of large bodies of open water but the ocean’s a different creature . ( the type of fear that comes from awe - admiration - the type of respect only something untamable can receive . a wild animal ; a god ) . how tide refuses to let up, unapologetic in its demands . already soaked in cold sea water - sand and salt drying against skin from clawing her way onto shore with the others . 

... twenty four … twenty five … twenty six … sun drifts between overcast clouds and god its cold , drip of nearly icy water off black curls down to her back . can barley hear the others through the pounding of her own heartbeat in ears. Eyes struggle to scan the scene - muscle memory ( healing isn’t a choice anymore , though she’d continue to make it every day ! ). Interlocked fingers press ribcage two inches down with each compression . can hear the crack of bones as she forces air into lungs - forces heart to beat  .

... twenty seven … twenty eight … twenty nine ... thirty. not badly injured herself , a couple minor scrapes a gash on her leg she’ll take a look at later but besides the throbbing nothing demands her current attention more. by the time she realizes she’s been going on long enough to feel exhaustion built up in her joints - lungs - she’s already tilting the youngers head back enough to watch lungs inflate and - thank god they do . gasp in for her own lungs  - eyes scan group till lock on the one who looks the least hurt out of everyone else huddled around - “ any chance you know CPR ? "

... one … two … three …

[protectmypeople]

It stings. Thousands if not millions, sharp and small points plunging into his skin. Breath departs lungs in a gasp, frigid temperatures seize every muscle, fiber, bone. Movement is pain. Dark curls dripping with crimson, mixing coyly against his freckled cheeks. Vision burns with salt, accompanied by the thickness of his own blood. Where? Where? WHERE? His head whips across the horizon, waves slapping unto his front forcing bitter water down his throat-aching ribcage punches out breaths. Gaze ensnared, billowing black crosses his vision, clouds of molten ash lick up at the overcast sky. Debris quick to sink, inflatables scattered across the turbulent sea. A crash? Others are swimming, faces of determination, anguish- others face down. Mind finally catching on, he moves-body compliant, flooded with renewed adrenaline.

The tides refuse him, battling against a shoreline which sinks beneath him. The sand brings a heaviness, bones settling atop one another alerting him of injuries concealed. Vision still blurred, trembling fingers touch the skin of his eyebrow, he flinches back- no, no, no. A small injury, he swipes the blood away from his eyeline- it nearly topples him, stumbling around shore. At least he's standing. The ice bites at his skin, teeth chattering, his fingers interlock together attempting to force heat back into his bloodstream. Disorientation overcomes him, he can't remember- he pushes his closed hands to his mouth choking down a panicked whine. Shaking hands, eyes boring into the thousands of tiny granules of sand. Where is his other shoe? He moves, adrenaline thumping steadily through him, body not yet protesting- an allowance that won't last. A drop dims his vision, wiping forcefully at his eyes sight- blood. blood. It repeats, stagnant in his skull- ringing pressure- he recalls if only vaguely.

A voice pushes through the fog- his eyes snap towards the unfolding, desperation and earnestness caught his attention. Aid. He finds himself moving towards the scene, body barely recognizing his minds will. "Yes." It scratches up his throat, clawing to the surface. "I know." He does. Muscle memory. Kneeling, fingers interlocking, lower half of sternum, breastbone, compress, compress, compress. The rhythm consistent, how many ? He needs to keep track, he's muttering. Blue lips mouthing a countdown, blood droplets hit the younger's chest, his fingers, knuckles white. One. Breath of my breath. The chest expands beneath him, salt hits him first, and he quickly pushes them onto their side. The body convulses into a coughing fit, and he's barely there. Fingers encircling, shoulders tight, the scene crashes into him- anger? Rage maybe- bubbling to the surface. Why the fuck did the plane go down. "What happened.." Trailed off, spoken as a whisper- he needs an answer, needs to right himself in whatever reality he had crashed into. An ache, a pounding in his temple, caught in the space between wake and sleep. Tendrils, fragments of flame and descent. Gaze catches on her, oriented, slightly injured but stable, present. A hand to shoulder, fingertips pressing urgency into her skin. "Tell me what happened." A demand between them, voice crackling, rattled. Intention will press you forward. "Please."

[thenightmareofyourdrems]

                   ˜”*°•.     One  hour  of  silence  -  was  he  asking  for  that  much ?  Their  lives  on  Earth  would  be  no  different  from  their lives on  the  Ark.  This  was  something  that  he’d  grown  to  accept.  The  people  who  had  left  them  to  die  on  the  ground  were no crueler  than  Bellamy  and  the  girl, after  all . There was  nothing  Bellamy  could  do  to  convince  him  otherwise.  It  was  only  the  head  that  wore  the  crown  that  changed  -  nothing  more.

❝ Yeah,  you  think ? ❞  Question  followed  by  an  eyeroll .  He  could  feel  his  whole  face  burning ,  but  it  wasn’t  the  injuries  that  bothered  him.  No.  It  was  the  situation  itself.  It  was  the  injustice.  It   was  the  disappointment,  the  absence  of hope.  Maybe  under  different  circumstances,  he’d  have  told  him  to  go  to  hell,  to  not  even  consider  approaching  him.  However,  under  different  circumstances  he  would  have  also  cared  more  about  his  ego,  about  protecting  his  pride.  The  pride  was  long  killed,  though.  ❝ Whatever.  If  that  makes  you  feel  better . ❞  For  it  had  to  be  this ;  Bellamy  feeling guilt,  wanting  to  prove  himself  good,  a  hero.  He  didn’t  care.  He  cared  about  himself. Still ,  he  approached.  ❝ Can  I  then  have  my  peace  and  quiet  or  am  I  not  allowed  even   this ? ❞ 

[protectmypeople]

Would it make him feel better? The incessant train within him demanded some form of penance. An offering, a hand stretched in aid would not deign to cover the remorse that churned ceaselessly in him. Yet he convinced himself. The heaviness in his sternum would ease. If for a few moments. It could make him feel better. It was a selfishness that crawled out of him in the night. To silence the cries of the Ark, the burning flames of bodies raining to the ground. To be good. Yet he felt the furthest from it.

He took a step closer, eyes fixated on the dirt barely visible in the night. "Sure, if that makes you feel better." Spoken like shrugging, his fingers buzzing, the gauze in his hand suddenly static. Too much effort for such a small, benign task. It irked him, jaw clenching as he finally observed Murphy's injuries up close. Hand flexing at his side, traveling through the air between them to find purchase on his chin. He angled the delinquent's head to the side, his grip was firm, already uneasy at the potential of Murphy's response. Not entirely eager to start another brawl. The blood was black in the twilight, already beginning to settle against his skin. "Ouch." Gaze barely flickering to Murphy's, finding blue hues before returning to the wound. Alcohol soaked gauze swiping around the cut, until pressing unto it- not as gentle as he could have been. A warmth ran up his arm, the skin on his neck burning. Murphy could have done this, without a mirror perhaps difficult but Bellamy wasn't needed. Was this atonement? No. Something else? A kinship. His eyes remained trained upon the cut. Avoidant. "You really think you'll find peace and quiet out here?"

[kinomorebi]

Oh, he's gonna be like this, huh? Two can play that game.

“Learn to trust you?” A laugh. Warm, gentle like the summer breeze. “Oh, I trust you–” Pausing as mischief sparks behind her blue eyes. “–about as far as I can throw you.” Gaze smoothing down his features, making note of that infuriating smirk he's sporting before she shifts to meet his eyes once more. Genna's not even sure she’d be able to pick him up at all, let alone throw him. It's precisely the point...

"Oh, is that so?" Cheeky grin, words antagonistic in nature. "You've been on bedrest for weeks now. You can't seriously think you're still strong enough to put someone's ass on the mat?" She could stop there. She should stop there. But she doesn't, far too curious as to how he handles his own antagonism mirrored. How he handles a challenge. After all, he was the one who started it...

"Look at you," fingers curling around his left wrist to lift his arm into view, "all spaghetti arms and no muscle." She shakes his arm as if proving a point, as if she's not lying through her teeth about his stature just to test his buttons. "What are you going to do, noodle me to death?"

[protectmypeople]

The laugh echoed through the climbing branches, it melted the tension held between his shoulders. A soothing balm to worn knuckles, punctured ribs, and a scarred thigh. Toying, teasing, playing. A shift in her demeanor, provoking a stirring to his true nature- one that craved a challenge, a fight, a worthy opponent. His smirk grew with intensity, practically smiling at her as she lifted his arm. Even he could still see the muscle protruding from beneath his sleeves, few weeks on bedrest won't eliminate everything.

Bellamy scoffs, rolling his eyes, "I am strong enough to put your ass on the mat." He solidifies his point by capturing her wrist, taking deliberate steps towards her. Boots finding purchase in the uneven terrain. A solid tree is what he pushes the back of her wrist into, thigh protesting at the show of force. Wrist still clutched in his grasp, he pins it above her head- leaving an allowance of a foot between them. A small bell of warning rang in his mind- you could scare her. The piece of him that longed for provocation, the antagonizing nature of his being overtook any and all concern.

"Looks like I've managed to noodle you to a tree." He said, a self-satisfied grin across his lips, curls falling into his vision- long overdue for a trim. The pain is still there, thumping, yet numbed. Bellamy releases his hold, a warmth spreading across his chest. There should have been some caution to his actions, yet medical isolation had proven far more lonesome than he had anticipated. Thigh stiff, an ache chattering up his bones. Pushing himself too soon will put him right back in that cot. A chuckle leaves his lips, "Yea.. I don't think you'd do much better than me- even like this." He shrugs, now convinced- he can most definitely teach her how to spar.

He leans in, blocking out the trees, the dirt, the wind which whispers between them. A secret, a plea, reserved for the savior, and saved. "So.. Trust me."

[bellamyblake]

[thenightmareofyourdrems]

@protectmypeople sent: come here , let me look at you .

                   ˜”*°•.     A  sigh .  When  had  life  become  so  exhausting ?  Was  it  when  they  were  abandoned  on  a  planet  to  die — or  had  it  begun  even  earlier ?  Back on  the Ark — that so-called place  of  salvation  and  light ?  Well ,  it  didn’t  matter  -  for  the  exhaustion  was  present,  alive,  and  he  didn’t  know  what  to  do  with  it .  His  whole  face  was  aching  from  the  bruises  -  but  perhaps  he’d  deserved  each  one  of  them .  He’d  always  bore  the  title  of  the  criminal,  after  all,  the  untrustworthy,  the   selfish .  Perhaps  a  punishment  had  been  deserved.  Still,  last  thing  he  needed  was  conversations ,  words  of  whatever  inane  nature  Bellamy  was  preparing  to  toss  him .   ❝ Just  go  away ,  Bellamy . ❞   He said  in  a  tone  so  unlike  him  -  poison  still  there,  yet  accompanied  by  something  the  defeated.

[protectmypeople]

The fight hadn't been fair. That was the reason he had intervened. That was the consistent excuse ringing in his head- as he had broken the faceless delinquent's nose. Three against one. Even if Murphy had, potentially deserved it- the largest antagonizer he knew- second to him. The last thing they needed were the guard catching wind of anything having to do with them. It had taken some wandering outside of the camp to finally find him, tucked away- hidden not hiding.

Bellamy anticipated hostility, the bite, the wash of heated words- yet he was met with vacancy. The intention of a quick sting but it failed expectations. Bellamy rounded the corner, his eyes taking in the swelling, the bruises already beginning to blotch purple and red. There was a hesitancy in his steps, cautious approach, the sliver of vulnerability he didn't deserve yet allotted. A deer in headlights. "They did a number on you." He said, a roughness coating his words, he cleared his throat. This was not the way they worked. Rage washed words, someone shoved, kicked, punched, beaten. It never went like this. His fingers turned white against the gauze, and alcohol in his hand. An ache in his knuckles from the repetitive wounds he had inflicted. A tension seeping beneath his skin, standing a foot away from the bruised delinquent. "C'mere." He opened his palm to showcase the minimal medical supplies offered. Abby had been gracious, if not suspicious. "Just let me see."

[hawkinshellraiser]

Eddie's poor, gay little heart isn't cut out for this. Bellamy's fingers pressed against his chest from the straps of the vest, looking like he's moments away from fighting Eddie to prevent him from leaving. Fine with him; getting roughed up by a hot guy is far from the worst thing that's happened to him.

He shakily lets out the breath he'd been holding when Bellamy looks away. But of course he's calling over John. Having deadbeat dads and sick mothers had been a bit of a bonding experience for the two back on the Ark. So John probably definitely knows. From where he stands slightly behind Bellamy he tries to convey in the glare he's giving Murphy to tell him don't say a fucking word.

It kind of works out, anyway, since Eddies's the only boy here who knows how to sew. From back when it was his mission to look and dress exactly how he wants to, and piss people off in the process.

"Do I get to keep the gun?" Eddie asks, wearing a bit of a smirk. Considering making Bellamy take it from him instead of handing it over. He tells Bellamy how to hold the material while they sit across from each other, so that it doesn't fold in on itself and need to be fixed every other minute. Their knees brush together, and Eddie's leaning a bit into his personal space to work, but this is irrelevant. "So…" he begins as he threads the needle which is just a broken safety pin. "Am I not ready to go out yet? Or am I just entirely irreplaceable?"

[protectmypeople]

Bellamy pricks his thumb. Again. The sharpened edge pulling a single drop of blood to the surface. Irritation fills his chest, and he's reminded exactly why his tent has holes in it. The seclusion of the tent provides a touch of relief from the constant chatter of roaming delinquents. Dark curls, and nimble fingers his only distraction. Object of the tightness in his gut, remnants of emotions he had compressed down- yet pale skin and sarcasm seemed to shatter his carefully constructed guard. The focus of his mania now settled across from him. Bellamy's jaw clenched at every snag of fabric, and stab to his finger, a murmured curse or two. Its as if the fabric was working willingly against him.

They were close. His eyes continuing to catch on quick working hands. The question pushes through the fog, and he couldn't help the smirk that slides unto his lips. "Irreplaceable?" Fingers pausing, his brows raising at the insinuation. Tension suddenly slips beneath his skin, the urge to press, pull, antagonize. His position in their psuedo-society, responsibility, and guard slipping further the longer brown eyes caught his. "I mean you are the only one who can sew."

The evening air was beginning to filter through the pockets of mesh. Why did it feel so warm? Poke, prod, his true nature unraveling in the quiet privacy that existed between them. He leaned forward, his fist digging into the ground, bracing himself beside the delinquent's hip, shoulder's brushing. "Why? Worried I couldn't live without you." A grin slipping across his freckled cheeks, ignoring the ring of honesty in his voice.