summary: basically I asked @ariadneblake for a smutty prompt because I have had major writers block and she gave me: ‘artist!clarke taking a break from her museum/gallery showcase for a quickie with curator / security guard!bellamy, maybe in the coatroom, or in an exhibit free of people, on the sly’
The bustle of the gallery room grew louder with each passing minute. Champagne flutes clinking and boisterous drunken laughter overtook her senses.
Abby had set up this networking showcase for Clarke, in a motion of good faith, allowing Clarke to meet potential buyers for her new collection. Clarke tried ignore how anxious she was.
She was proud of her collection. It was something she’d worked on tirelessly for the last nine months, working closely with the museum curator to maximize the use of her space and the total experience. This showcase was important, there was a lot of money in the room; money that could fund her next collection and potentially catapult her into the next level of her career.
In the middle of distracted conversation of small talk with one of her mother’s political connections, Clarke spotted him loitering in the corner.
Bellamy wasn’t required to be present at the event, but as the museum curator, he felt it necessary to make an appearance. Schmooze and booze, all that.
Clarke felt a flush creep into her chest when his eyes found hers and he tipped his head towards the hall, just slightly. She swallowed and dragged her eyes back to the Senator, or councilman, whoever it was and smiled politely.
“I’m so sorry, but I’ve just seen someone I need to say hello to. Thank you so much for you support,” she said sweetly. “If you have anymore questions about the collection or my work, I’m sure my mother can get you my information.”
The older man nodded and Clarke excused herself, grabbing a flute of champagne from a waiter as she made her way towards the hall Bellamy had now disappeared down.
He was leaning against the wall, close to the entrance. When he saw her, he rolled himself up from his position, grabbed her wrist and swung open the door beside him.
“Bellamy!” Clarke gasped, trying not to spill her drink as Bellamy rushed her into the closet and closed the door, the only light coming from a dim bulb hanging low off the ceiling. A moment later, he had taken the glass from her hand and put it somewhere she could see and then crowded her against the door.
There is an old barn in Pontiac, Illinois with sigils spray painted onto every blank surface and with shotgun shells long since dusted littering the floor.
The barn becomes a bit of a local legend—teenagers dare each other to venture in, people shine flashlights on the walls in attempt to make sense of the seemingly nonsense scribbles, rumors spread of witches or satanists or hauntings.
They’re all wrong, of course, but the conspiracies are amusing and take the edge off what the barn really is.
It’s on a whim that Castiel goes back to the place where he met Dean Winchester a year ago. The air is static, making his hair stand up and his fingertips conductive, like the electricity from the lightning that night never really left. His dress shoes become scuffed with dirt as he stands in the center of the area, facing the doors which he had entered, sparks raining down on him.
He quirks half a smile, thinking of how different he was back then, but also of how similar. There’s a sameness in that his feelings for the Righteous Man exceed those he’s ever known. The difference is that now he knows what his feelings mean.
The Castiel that had stormed through those doors did not know rebellion, did not doubt, did not know how the sun can make freckles stand out more, did not know the name “Cas” spoken in a low, ruff voice that sent shivers down his spine. He had known Heaven, and angels, and obedience, and very little beyond that.
Now he knows everything, and he’s thankful for that, despite the pain it’s caused him. If he could go back and repeat the moment, maybe he would simply walk straight toward Dean’s open and afraid face, enduring the bullets that pierced through his borrowed flesh, and not stop until he knew the taste of Dean on his mouth, just for a moment, just once.
Or maybe he wouldn’t. He doesn’t know.
He stands there for awhile, contemplating. It actually ends up being Dean’s own prayer that brings him back from his reverie of thoughts—a motel in Massachusetts, possible case, thought maybe you could help, want to see you again.
Castiel’s heart leaps at that sentiment, tacked on the end of the prayer with hesitation and gruffness, but warmth all the same. It’s that warmth that has him spreading his wings without a moment’s hesitation, taking flight the moment he’s able, following the echoes of Dean’s voice in his head and leaving behind him the place of his beginning.
There is an old barn in Pontiac, Illinois with sigils spray painted onto every blank surface and with shotgun shells long since dusted littering the floor, and etched in it is the first line of a love story.
Frustrated kitten jo trying to cuddle nate as he sleeps but he keeps rolling away
Jo just wants to cuddle!!! Let! him! cuddle!
Eventually he gets tired of chasing after Nate, since every time Nate rolls away, Jo shuffles across the bed to plaster himself against Nate’s side or back. But when it happens too often Jo curls up in a huff by himself and then wakes up and Nate apologetically kissing his neck and cuddling him properly
Well I wrote 1000 more words. They achieve nothing plotwise, and I have no idea where they are going, but I wanted to write some pre-couple Golly and was feeling too lazy to start a new story. So, anyway… They’re under the cut, if you want to read them.