I haven't written fanfiction in a really long time (and this is my first one for the 100), so I thought I'd start out with a one-shot.
Kryptonite
Bellamy knew the stories. Those stories deemed "not of literary value". The ones that were not taught in school, but told sitting around common areas after long shifts of work. The ones passed down by the last men and women on the Ark who had stood on solid earth. Stories sold only on paper and not bound in the books that were so precious and rare. Stories of heroes who were made from radiation or born on distant planets. Stories of ordinary men who could save the day. And stories of heroes who saved Earth from destruction nearly every week. But they were just that - stories.
Still as a child, Bellamy wondered why a man, who was faster than a dropship and so strong that he could lift the whole Ark with one hand, couldn't save the Earth that week. He would sit for hours listen to his father's enthusiastic tales about this man who was called Super, but that was, of course, when Bellamy still had a father.
"It's just a story, Bell," his mother said. She sat at the small kitchen table, trying to salvage her husband's shirt...again.
His father just winked at him, as though they shared inside knowledge that his mother could never know or understand. Superman belonged to them, not her. "It's more than a story. Heroes exist, but they have weaknesses. His was kryptonite," Bellamy's father whispered.
Bellamy never asked what kryptonite was exactly, and his father would never properly describe it. The pages of brightly colored drawings and bubbles of text had long turned to dust and all that existed were hazy stories half made up by those who claimed to have read them once. All Bellamy knew was that kryptonite was a weakness and all heroes had them, but he never planned to be a hero.
The tension within camp could be cut with a knife, a knife Bellamy was certain people probably shouldn't have ,given the fact that the younger of the teens went into a panic when they had a splinter. He was anxious, pacing around camp. He kept expecting to see her. She'd walk through the opening in their wall with her hair shining like the sun, having somehow talked her out of the Grounders' capture (or else she annoyed them until they had no other choice but to let her go - either were viable options).
But Clarke didn't walk into camp. Not the morning after her disappearance. Not the night after her disappearance. And so, Bellamy made plans. He could move faster on his own, even though he did like the idea of going in guns blazing, that wasn't practical. This was stealth, and frankly, very few of the delinquents had fully gotten their Earth legs. They were careless and loud when they walked. A single branch snap and any one of the Grounders could be alerted to their presence.
So, Bellamy would go in alone. He pulled out his pack and began putting pieces of clothing in the bottom - not that he had much clothing - and other things he'd need. Knives, ammunition, a blanket, and the last of the protein packets that he'd stashed from when they first arrived.
"Where do you think you're going?" Raven asked.
"I didn't know you were my keeper," Bellamy snapped in reply. He hadn't even heard her come in. Never the less, he didn't look her in the eye. No good could come from her standing there again.
Raven scowled at him. She was not his keeper. She was no one's keeper, but they needed him because somehow he had become everyone's keeper, their leader, and he was throwing it away to save one person. She knew well enough that he didn't care about rescuing Finn. Clarke was his priority, and he could say over and over again, it was because she was their medic, but they both knew it was more (even if he would never admit it). "Would you risk your life for anyone else, Bellamy?"
Bellamy ignored her, continuing to shove various items into a pack. Of course, he would risk his life for any of their people, he told himself. That was a lie. A way to make himself feel better that he wouldn't just let anyone else rot for being captured by Grounders. Anyone but her - them.
"You don't have to be a hero."
"I don't owe you an explanation," he reminded her. Their roll in the sheets as she revenge fucked him didn't mean he suddenly had to answer her beck and call. It didn't mean she meant more to him than just another body to fuck, like all the other girls who paraded through his tent.
"You didn't answer my question." Raven didn't wait for a response; it was like talking to a brick wall. He could get himself floated for all she cared. He was as good as dead with his plan, or lack thereof.
She was right, he admitted begrudgingly to himself, once he saw she was gone. He wouldn't risk his life for most of the ragtag of misfits who looked to him as their leader. He'd risk his life for Octavia...and Clarke. Kryptonite. That's what they were - his own personal kryptonite. Whatever the fuck that was.