#sassamyblake

[llysandra]

Personal moodboard for @sassamyblake

Hope you like it!

[cupcakeblake]

url inspired edits: Bellamy + sass ↳ for @sassamyblake​

[prosciuttoe]

ahem for the Halloween prompts: I sliced my hand open trying to carve a pumpkin for my crush and s/he saw the whole thing and now has to drive me to the hospital. FML.

A|N: I was gonna be like… hope you love nerds being in love and acting idiotically, caitlyn!!! and then I Remembered we are Blarke Shippers so u probably 100% do_________________Look, as a objective and impartial individual, he has to say that this is almost absolutely and entirely Miller’s fault.

It happens because Monty’s drunk, and Miller’s on door duty, and he doesn’t trust Jasper with knives anymore after that one turkey incident during Thanksgiving. Besides, it didn’t seem like a big deal, at the time. It’s carving pumpkins— something Octavia’s gotten the hang of since she was eight. He’ll carve a few jack-o’-lanterns that none of their less than sober guests will notice, and be on his way.

Except that he’s hacking a lid off the pumpkin when Miller yells, “Blake, your girl’s here!” and there’s Clarke, appearing by the doorway, smiling up at him and his hand just… slips.

(Most of it, he’s pretty sure, has to do with Miller basically insinuating to everyone in the room that he’s been in love with best friend all his life, but the other half of it can probably be blamed on momentum. Probably.)

Still, it really doesn’t warrant a visit to the hospital.

“I keep telling you, I’m fine,” he protests, slumping back against his seat. Jasper had the bright idea of wrapping a dish towel around his hand so he doesn’t drip blood all over Clarke’s car, and the makeshift bandage seems to be doing its job, at least. It stings, but it’ll stop bleeding at some point, right? “Let’s just go back in and enjoy the party.”

The look she shoots him at that is distinctly disbelieving. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Not really, no.” He grimaces, shifting slightly so he’s keeping his arm elevated. “It’s just a scratch, Clarke.”

“A scratch?” she huffs, turning the full force of her glare over at him. “Bell, that dish towel is soaked through. You’ll need stitches, and maybe a tetanus shot, because god knows where that knife has been. It’s Jasper’s.”

That’s true, at any rate. Giving a half-hearted shrug, he lets his head fall back against his seat rest, hating the petulant quality to his voice. “It doesn’t even hurt.”

“That’s what you said the last time you broke your arm,” she says flatly, switching on her turn signal deftly. It’s one of the things he admires most about her— her ability to stay completely and utterly calm despite having a less than cooperative passenger bleeding out on her new car seats. “You tried playing it off as a couple of bruises, until it swelled to about the size of Russia.”

“I would say Brazil more than Russia, but okay.”

“Not funny,” she says drily, shaking at her head. Then, sobering, “Seriously, Bell. I know you like playing tough, but it’ll make me feel a lot better if you got your wound checked out.”

A snort escapes before he can help himself. “I’m not playing tough.”

“Sure.”

“I’m not,” he points out, reaching up to rub at his face with his unbloodied palm. “I’m just— mad at myself. I didn’t want to spend all of today going to the hospital, I wanted to spend it with you.” The words are slipping out of him now, hard and fast, and there’s a part of him that recognizes that he’s probably going to regret all of this later, but it’s not like he can bring himself to stop either. “It sounds stupid, but— I wanted to do all those lame Halloween things with you. Drink bad, novelty beers. Stuff ourselves with candy. Strangle Jasper with his stupid cape, maybe.”

That pulls a laugh out of her, her gaze softening a fraction. “Yeah, the latter sounds like a conducive use of our time.”

“It always is with you,” he says, before he can really stop to overthink it. The expression on her face is unreadable, at this point, and he turns away before he can do something truly stupid, like tell her he loves her, or something. “So,” Bellamy tries, clearing at his throat, “are we there yet?”

“Pretty much,” she says, pulling the car neatly into the nearest lot. “It’s a bit of walk, but I think we can manage it.”

Nodding, he’s already fumbling for his seatbelt just as her hand closes over his, lacing their fingers together.

He stills, freezing instinctively. “What are you doing?”

“I’m just,” she pauses, biting at her lip. There’s doubt in her eyes, but a kind of determination, too, and it’s, possibly, the longest five seconds of his life. “I’m trying to tell you it’s the same, for me,” she says, wry. “About spending time together.” Then, swallowing hard, “I almost always want to spend all my time with you.”

His mouth goes dry, and he has to wet at his lips surreptitiously to even manage a word. The implication in her words are clear, really, and he has to resist the urge to check that he’s not mishearing her. “Oh,” he says dumbly, because it’s all about all he can process when she’s looking at him like that. “Really,” he tries, biting at the inside of his cheek to keep his smile from showing when she grins right back at him, fucking bright. “Even when I’m bleeding all over your brand new car seats?”

“Yeah,” she says, leaning forward to press a long, lingering kiss against his cheek. (His heart doesn’t implode at the contact, but it’s a near thing.) “Even then.”

Something must show on his face at that, because she’s smiling when she pulls away, fingers cupping at the side of his cheek gently. “Now c’mon,” she tells him, tugging lightly at his uninjured hand. “Let’s get you stitched up.”

He groans, leaning into her touch. “This better not just be a ploy to get me through those doors,” he mutters, pressing a quick kiss to her fingers.

“A little,” she admits, ducking out to get his door open before weaving her fingers in his once more; like she’s not going to let go of him, now that she can. “But don’t worry,” she grins, squeezing at his palm. “There’s a lot more where that came from.”

[alwaysaprille]

T100 and TFlash

Well hello there Caitlyn. 

T100:

favorite male character: ...Bellamy Blake (can y’all imagine what would have happened if I said someone else)

favorite female character: Raven Reyes

least favorite character: Octavia Blake

prettiest character: Gaia Kom Trikru (tied with Raven Reyes)

funniest character: John Murphy

favorite season:  S1

favorite episode:  “Praimfaya”(4x13) -not even cause of the Blarke, it was just so well done. 

favorite romantic ship: Bellarke

favorite family ship: Delinquent Found Family (minus Octavia)

favorite friend ship: Monty/Bellamy 

worst ship: Doctor Mechanic

TFlash:

favorite male character: It’s literally impossible for me to choose just one so : Joe and Wally West, Cisco Ramon and Barry Allen

favorite female character: Iris West-Allen

least favorite character: Caitlin Snow

prettiest character: Iris West-Allen

funniest character: Cisco Ramon

favorite season: S3

favorite episode: “Luck Be a Lady”

favorite romantic ship: WestAllen

favorite family ship: THE WESTS (this includes Barry, btw)

favorite friend ship: Cisco/Barry

worst ship: Snowbarry

[kathanisharma]

captcassivn ----> luisadoliveira

shoutout to the only mutual that has ever mattered to me aka @ladyarianne for being the truest in giving me this amazing canon url im love her so much

[reyskvwalker]

sassamyblake replied to your post “ew rhaegar is ugly”

he looks like a clone of viserys i'm laughing

he looked like the walmart version of viserys lbr

[wisteriasnroses]

Me, Medha, and Mik

I’d ride a roller coaster with: Medha <3

I’d venture into the woods with (at night): Mik because she lives in Florida and is used to being around demons

I’d watch Netflix with all night: You so you can cook me food 

[scifibi]

Mel could I pls have option 1 for Blarke? With: Person A: I’m thinking a spring wedding, or maybe fall, I dont want it to be to cold though. Person B: Babe we aren’t even engaged Person A: sO THAT’S WHAT I FORGOT TO DO LAST NIGHT

OF COURSE you can Caitlyn <3

YOUR BELLARKE FIC:

[ALSO ON AO3]

“What?” Clarke asks, with a Cheshire-like grin.

He frowns at her, his gaze narrowing playfully. “What’re you up to, Griffin?”

She brushes a perfect blonde curl out of her eyes with one hand and presses the other to her chest, feigning mild shock. “Whatever do you mean, Bellamy?”

“Sparkling wine,” he observes, tapping their recently filled glasses. “That’s not a normal dinner drink.”

“We have wine all the time!”

“Not the sparkling variety,” he retorts dryly. “We’re at a tablecloth restaurant, too. Cloth napkins. Proper candles, with fire and everything.” He cocks his head towards a small door off to the side. “If I go into that bathroom, is someone going to offer me a mint on my way out?”

“Methinks thou doth suspect too much,” Clarke quotes innocently, with a light shrug thrown in for good measure.

“That’s not the line,” he says, already smiling despite himself. Clarke’s been strung a little tighter than usual over the last couple weeks, checking and double-checking throughout the last few days to make sure that they’re still on for tonight’s seemingly special dinner. He’s gone through his calendar multiple times, trying to figure out if he’s forgotten their anniversary or some other important date. 

(And then he’d remembered that they don’t have an actual anniversary date, considering they’d only realised they were dating after several months of sleeping together in a manner they’d both thought was ‘casual’.)

Between the two of them, Clarke’s always been the one who’s more rigid about things like dates and scheduling. Even so, something about the way she’s been acting in the days leading up to this particular dinner has just got his spidey senses tingling. Strangely enough, though, she’s been absurdly normal throughout the actual dinner. She’s laughing frequently, and smiling easily. She's… almost bubbly. Cheerful, even.

He’s beginning to wonder if he’d imagined it all.

He leans forward, making sure to carefully drop his voice a couple of pitches, so it hits that rough tone that always sparks a reaction from his girlfriend. “I’ll get it out of you, princess. One way or another.”

Satisfaction spikes through him when she sits up at that, leaning forward as her face lights up with an interest that definitely isn’t entirely innocent. “Oh, will you, now?”

He turns their lightly entwined hands over on the table, tracing a light line across her warm palm with the very tip of his finger. Light touches always get Clarke way more riled up than anything, a hint of teasing stoking her fire far more easily than the real thing does.

“Dessert first, Clarke,” he says, letting a touch of desire underscore his low tone. “And then I’ll get it out of you.”

She grins, leaning over even further so that his attention is drawn down to the line of her generous cleavage. A deliberate move, no doubt. “And here I was thinking I could be dessert.”

He groans, the sound of her laugh ringing clear in the air.

“How much do you think an open bar costs?”

Bellamy tears his gaze from his book to blink dazedly at his girlfriend.

“I… don’t know,” he says, uncertain. “Probably depends what’s on tap. Maybe… thirty bucks a head? Forty?” He pauses, scratching at his jaw. “Fifty?”

Clarke flops down onto the couch next to him. “Are you just going to keep increasing your guesses by ten?”

He squints. “Sixty?”

“Helpful,” she remarks, the corners of her mouth turning up despite her dry tone. She peers at her phone screen. “Not exactly cheap, though. Maybe we shouldn’t do that then.” She flings her phone aside, sighing dramatically. “Oh, but we have to, if we want to do it in the summer. We can’t not have an open bar in summer.”

He frowns slightly, peering at her over his glasses. It’s not unusual for Clarke to vent to him about her job planning and coordinating events for the local museum. “Miller knows this alcohol dealer,” he muses. “Pretty sure they used to work together. I can get him to pass along the guy’s contact information, if that’d help.”

She brightens instantly. “Yes, please!” she exclaims, typing rapidly on her phone. “Okay, so that’s one thing down. Although, on second thought, we should really decide first if we do want to do it in the summer.” She pauses, wrinkling her nose. “Maybe fall would be more comfortable? In terms of sweat potential, obviously. Don’t want the guests to spend the whole day all sticky and shit.”

He lowers the book, now too perplexed to pay attention to anything else. “Obviously,” he agrees slowly. “I guess. Uh, what—”

“Yeah, the colour scheme’s going to be all off if we do it in fall,” she says, focus already back on her phone. “Good point. Late summer, then? That’s, like, a happy middle, right? Or maybe early fall. I don’t know, what do you think?”

“Um,” he says, closing the book properly. This really doesn’t much sound like a work event at this point. For one, why is Clarke getting to choose the season?

More importantly, why is he getting to choose the season?!

He clears his throat. “Are we… celebrating something?”

She snorts, both thumbs still skidding briskly across her screen. “Well, we’re definitely not gonna be mourning our wedding.”

Bellamy’s not sure, but he thinks he could just about make out the sound of the microwave going off in their neighbour’s kitchen next door, the jarringly bright ‘ding’ cutting right through the walls.

He swallows, and blinks carefully. “We're… engaged?”

Fuck, is that his voice? God, he hopes it doesn’t actually sound that yelp-y.

Clarke pauses, and for a moment, it’s like he can see into her brain, all the gears and cogs grinding to an abrupt halt so that she just hangs there, like an ACME cartoon character suspended in mid-air.

“Oh,” she exclaims suddenly, looking up as she draws the single syllable out. “So that’s what I forgot to do last night!”

“What,” he starts to say, but she’s already bounded off the couch.

“Fuck, where is it,” he hears her mutter to herself as she rifles through her purse, lying forgotten on the living room floor where she’d flung it last night, too preoccupied with the sensation of his lips on her neck to bother with putting it away properly. “Where the— ah!”

She’s back on the couch within seconds, her face flushed and half-covered with untameable strands of blonde, all escapees of the loose braid she’d knotted her hair into earlier that morning. There’s a small velvet box in her hands, just a little smaller than her palm, and holy fuck, if that’s what Bellamy thinks it is—

“Sorry, I forgot to do this last night,” she says, a little breathless through her grin. “Well, to be fair, it was probably more your fault. You just had to go and distract me with sex.”

“I’m not the one who started making innuendoes about dessert,” he says tremulously, quickly laying his book aside.

She pauses, lowering the box on instinct. “You don’t seriously expect me to not make an innuendo when you’d already set it up right—”

“Clarke,” he interrupts, strained, with a pointed glance at the box. God, his heart is pounding so hard, it might just burst right through the cavity of his chest at any fucking second.

“Right, got it, got it, just—” She breaks off and closes her eyes, taking a deep, bracing breath before opening them again, the grin reappearing on her face like she just can’t keep it off. “Bellamy Blake,” she begins, her left hand clamped over the lid of the velvet box. “You are— fuck— you’re my best friend in the whole world, and I can’t ever, ever imagine life without—”

“I love you,” he blurts out. He can’t help it. His heart is literally, physically bursting. “Fuck, sorry,” he says in a rush, “I didn’t mean to—”

“No, no, it’s okay,” Clarke laughs, her grin splitting even wider. “You know what? You’re right, fuck the speech.” She opens the box, and at the sight of the plain silver band sitting there, the air fucking catches in his goddamn lungs. “Will you marry me?”

“Yes,” he says instantly, lunging forward to kiss her, both hands finding the sides of her face to hold both of them steady. They’re both smiling when he tears away. “Shit, was that too soon? I think I was supposed to wait a second or something before—”

Clarke’s eyes are shining, full of unshed tears, and with the way his vision is blurring in and out, he’s pretty sure his are, too. She shakes her head, her hand fisting into his shirt to pull him back towards her. “It was perfect,” she assures him, right before pressing her lips to his.

Hell, that’s more than enough for him.