#I WANT BELLARKE

[scarringstars]

bellarke → 1.03: earth kills

[bellamyblake]

Random Bellarke moments (pt.8)

[bellarke]

BOB MORLEY AND ELIZA TAYLOR AS JULIE AND MARCUS I’LL BE WATCHING (2023) Dir. Erik H. Bernard

[clarkgriffon]

TEN YEARS OF THE 100 ↳ Favorite Relationship ∞ Bellarke

[izloveshorses]

BELLARKE + Official Soundtrack (template)

[bellamysgriffin]

I'd go back in time and change it, but I can't So if the chain is on your door, I understand

[okmcintyre]

After years of keeping his people hidden, Bellamy knows witches like him are rare... dark witches like Clarke Griffin even moreso. The last thing he wants is to get involved, but fate has other plans: when they accidentally realize how much stronger their powers are together.

[tangledstarlight]

let the cold come in (you'll chase it away)

clarke learns she hates the cold the hard way, bellamy keeps showing up to keep her warm. aka 5 times bellamy gives clarke something to keep her warm and the 1 time clarke gives something to bellamy. “Bellamy, seriously what—?” is all she manages before he’s letting out a small sound of success and is standing up and closing the distance between them in two quick strides. All her questions and annoyances die on her tongue as, carefully, slowly, gently, he reaches out to tug a soft hat over her head, tucking hair behind her ears and making sure it’s tugged securely over them, his fingers are chilly where they brush against her skin, calluses rough and she’ll blame the snow that’s started falling in earnest for the way she shivers and has to squeeze her eyes shut. “There,” he says softly, fingers lingering on her cheeks for a heartbeat before they’re gone. She suddenly feels colder than she was before.

bellarke | word count: 11,287 | complete | ao3

[justalittlebluetiefling]

Not to be like, time traveling or something, but I'm thinking a lot about early Bellamy/Clarke today and how Bellamy tries so hard to be for Clarke what she is for him and she's always pushing it away because she thinks she doesn't deserve it, but he never stops trying.

[cominguproses13x]

New story incoming… watch this space you undead Bellarkers 😚

[carothehotmess]

Trying to figure out why I love Twisted Games by Ana Huang so much and I just realized:

Bridget is blonde with blue eyes, grew up privileged, and is very proper (most of the time)

Rhys is dark haired, grew up underprivileged and poor, and is very much not proper

He is older than her

He is the strong and quietly deadly type, and uses his stature and strength to be threatening

She has no problem using speeches to her advantage, and uses her intellect to win arguments and even intimidate people

She trusts him to protect her and follows his lead at times

He trusts and encourages her as a leader

They hate each other at first, but then after a traumatic experience, they begin to trust and rely on each other more

He calls her princess

…. They are Bellarke. This book is just R-rated Clarke and Bellamy in a modern au

[kinetic-elaboration]

March 3: Bellarke, Adoration

Bellamy/Clarke, from the same verse as Make a Lot of Money and Feel Dead Inside

For the prompt "adoration" from my July Break Bingo 2023 bingo card

~1360 words, written in about 40 minutes

*

In the early pre-dawn hours, Clarke stalks through Bellamy's apartment, stealing her fingers across his possessions like a burglar. This is how she will come to learn him again. The small, square rooms are shadowed in soft grays, only the hints of sunbeams filtering through the curtains, dust motes in the widest and strongest of them. The fake-wood floors are smooth and cool beneath her bare feet. She examines the cracks in the spine of the paperback on his coffee table, something science fiction from a library book sale, the call number crossed out on the bottom; she smells the coffee mug left sitting next to it, completely empty, stained on the inside from repeated use. She looks for dust on the flat, shiny leaves of the only plant. She picks up the sweater lying over the back of the sofa, scrunches up the heavy, cabled fabric in her hands, presses it against her face and holds it there.

In the silence all around her, she can hear the tiniest disruptive sounds. The traffic on the street below. The sound of a door closing somewhere in the hall, the click of a lock. If she listens hard enough and holds her breath, she can hear her own heart beating at all of her pulse points. Last night, he kissed them one by one. Her wrists, her neck. He counted each of her ribs. She'd come back to him for this alone, because no one else has ever been so thorough and so patient with her. No one else has ever catalogued every detail of her like Bellamy has, like he's memorizing her, like he's obsessed with her.

She slips on quiet feet into the kitchen. The tile makes her shiver. She's in one of Bellamy's t-shirts and her own underwear from last night that she picked up off the floor, and goosebumps pinch and form down the bare skin of her arms like small pebbles. In the drawer, she counts the knives and the forks and the spoons. Extra plasticware from take-out arranged neatly to the side. Only two mugs and a plate and a fork in the sink, a few more dishes left out drying on the rack. He's become neat. Not that he was ever the worst—but she remembers sneaking into his room in eighth grade, finding piles of laundry on the dull brown carpet and a tower of CDs leaning so precariously, she'd thought she might breathe wrong and send them toppling. A notebook sitting on his desk that might have been math homework or a diary. She'd imagined it was the latter, and if she'd had another moment in the room, she would have opened it. By the time she graduated high school, he was letting her read all his stuff. Those were the days they'd had no secrets from each other.

She leans back against his refrigerator. She's already counted every item inside it. She's imagined him eating strawberries and leftover fried rice and putting creamer in his coffee and she's tried to taste those same tastes on her tongue—what if she could become him? Last night at dinner he'd been quiet and polite, steady like it was a first date and she was someone he wanted to impress. His hair was cut short so, if she didn't know him so well, she wouldn't know that it curled when it grew. He talked about going back to school, asked her questions about the things she'd already told him in their emails back and forth, said on three separate occasions how good it was to see her again. I missed you, I missed you, I missed you.

So polite and formal. The soap in his shower smells like pine, his hand soap like nothing at all. His toothbrush looks new, the bristles on it stiff and barely faded. In his medicine cabinet, ibuprofen and floss. He's responsible. Last night he asked her if she wanted to spend the night before he made any assumptions at all. In high school, he had her hand up her shirt the very first time they kissed.

She'd had a crush on him since the sixth grade. Since she was eleven years old, and he was thirteen. Octavia knew—Clarke told her or she'd guessed, doesn't matter anymore which—maybe it was so obvious that only Bellamy himself could never have figured it out. That was one of the periods where he hung out with them less. Octavia said he was dating a girl in his grade and that had seemed somehow inevitable and impossible both. Bellamy, with a life outside of their friendship; Bellamy falling for someone who wasn't her, when he was supposed to fall for her and be forever with her.

The summer after graduation, he'd driven them all the way out to the next town over, like they were running away, rented a hotel room and told her, You're going to find someone so much better than me. Sounded angry when he said it. He'd been angry often then. Not picking fights but letting her pick them, while he moped around feeling so sorry for himself, and always on a hair trigger—jumpy when she touched him. She asked him if he wanted his jacket back and he said not a fucking chance. He said you're going to be better than all of us and then that he didn't want to talk anymore and then he spent what must have been an hour with his head between her legs.

That's how she remembers it now. Jump cuts and haze and how terrified she had been.

Now he's so upstanding. She's a burnout. And she can't tell him for the same reason he didn't tell her about all of his ancillary jobs back then, cause he had some sort of idea that there existed anything in the world she'd judge him for. Maybe the secrets are where the anger was coming from. By her own logic, she should tell him everything. But he looks at her like she's a goddess.

She catalogues the books on his shelf, the neat stack of notebooks on the bottom one, the photographs in rectangular brown frames on his desk.

If she takes in enough details she'll know him again, she'll know him, she'll take in everything there is to know and she'll have him and he'll always be hers—she'll own him as in blackmail and as in possession and as in true love. What can she do to prove it? Where can she worship? What could she destroy so that he understands her true devotion?

The thoughts, in their circular patterns, drive her mad.

In the small, square bedroom, with its single window and its bed right in the center, and their clothes still scattered on the floor, she pauses for a moment, feeling the way her breath hitches in her throat. Bellamy is sleeping on his back, one of his arms flailed across the mattress, one of his legs bent at the knee. She wets her lips. She stalks closer on her bare feet.

She climbs up over the foot of the bed.

She climbs over him and hovers above his chest.

His freckles are just the same. The ridge of his eyebrows, the shape of his nose and mouth. The delicacy of his eyelids, closed in sleep. No one else has ever understood him like this, and no one else ever could, all the way down to the worst of him—not like her, because she was there. And even if someone could, or if he wanted to trade understanding for calm placidity, for ease—even then, no one else could ever adore him like this. She adores him. She is bound to worship and adoration. She loves all the parts of him he fears and abhors in himself—and she believes of him what he once said of her: you'll be the best of all of us. He already is.

He'd never believe her. Those are the best kept secrets: the ones that would never be believed.

She leans down and kisses the soft spaces beneath his eyes, and waits for him to stir.

[bellamyblake]

[jonsaslove]

Idk if this is just a me thing or what but i can seriously not remember the last time i watched or read an actor's interview about the show/movie they were on, I simply do not care to hear about their interpretation of things. I will come to my own conclusions and nothing anyone involved with the creation of the media can say will hurt me lol.

I think most people would benefit from this advice.

[mandarintheactor]

Do you ever feel so sad that characters in a show didn't get happy ending even if it's like three or more years later from when you watch the show/movie and you get so emotional about it and you just want them to be happy but the show is over and you can't do anything about it so you rewatch it and read fanfictions and it helps for a while but than you run out of fanfictions and than you are still frustrated because after everything they still deserved a happy ending in canon and you gaslight yourself into thinking it ended well but than something remind you that it didnt and you are lying to yourself and get sad again or it's just me?

[izloveshorses]

the 4x06 callback (tehe this is 6x04 <3)...... the little smile and shoulder bump she gives him,,,,,.... the way she immediately clocks his Worried About His Sister mood,,,... the way they can have their little emotional release with each other but can say 'i'm done now pls' and the other will say 'okay',,,,, the proximity.,,,, the height difference,....,, ladies i fear i am not beating the Over Them allegations