A/N: Yes, yes. I know, where are my updates for the other stories. They are on their way I promise, halfway through more of their chapters, just a little more fine tuning involved. Here is a little small competition I had between my friend, based on the prompts of 'Coffee Cup', 'Mortal Instruments AU' and the 'Destiel' pairing. Hope you would like it, would appreciate it if you just just a heads-up. Like it? Don't like it? Just drop a review.
That's all, enjoy. Disclaimer: I do not own anything. Supernatural characters and Mortal Instruments Universe belongs to their respective owners, and likely will not be owned by me. If I did, likely there would be more angst involved and Destiel would be canon.
The dusty old clock chimes for a languid three times; the long resounding echoes resonating through the empty coffee house at Taki's. A stray, vagrant man nursing a chilled bottle of horrid tasting beer by the corner. The ancient fans protesting against years of hard work; their paint rapidly peeling off. Coupled with scratched leather seats and the chilling night air, the Taki's practically screamed of neglect, long forgotten and very much close to disuse.
Castiel swallowed, barely keeping his wits together in the desolate area. With a quick sip to his rapidly cooling coffee, the Shadowhunter struggled to keep his nerves under control. The vagrant to his right shifted suddenly, groaning in his drunken stupor. Castiel jumped, before forcing himself to stop freaking out every sound in the last half a minute or so. The coffee house was practically empty save for Castiel and the drunk; the owner probably lunging off in a properly stuffed sofa back behind in the kitchen. He made a quick, and hopefully, subtle scan, convinced that members of the Clave would jump upon his irregular visits to the half-broken shack in the middle of some alley in Manhattan.
The fear, however, couldn't beat the anticipation and adrenaline that raced through him; probably the only thing keeping him awake at the wee hour of three-thirty after a long day of demon hunts. His muscles ached constantly, protesting despite the stamina runes he had drawn in earlier. Those eyes of his aren't faring well either; half-lidded and ready to shut at any notice of a moment. Alongside with the promise of another long arduous day tomorrow, Castiel was almost ready to call it a day. Almost, and most certainly would had the usual scribbling not revealing themselves underneath the curious napkin he had always received, complimentary to his hot beverage.
The writing was messy, likely to be scribbled on within a moment of haste. It was all the encouragement that the Shadowhunter needs. A couple of words, simple: 'Tonight, the third cubicle. The usual.' His heart throbbed, racing at unbelievable speeds as he clutched the napkin, nearly crushing it with the rush of silent excitement.
It has been three long days.
Three fucking, frustrating days of thinking, anticipating for his moment. Forcing himself to calm down, Castiel placed the coffee cup back onto the table. He made a quick check to rid of the napkin after reading it for the umpteenth time; one could never be too careful. With feigned air of calm, the Shadowhunter left a hefty tip on the silver table. He always did. It paid to have the owner close those two eyes to his highest tipper, for his Shadowhunter heritage would have ousted the pair in downworlder's territory long before had he not gone the extra mile.
His trained ears affirmed of no other presence within the male toilet. He paused, making himself check for another time before he approached the designed cubicle as slowly as he could. Step, step and step. Castiel stood right before the rusted door, his fists clenching and unclenching repeatedly in an attempt to calm the sudden, irrational rush of anger. Why did the Shadowhunter need to hide himself, his true self from the rest of his kind? The Nephilim, so righteous in their fight against the constant battle against evil, protecting the mundane from demons and otherworldly presence. The Shadowhunters, the Clave; his people, couldn't accept him for who he is. Why did he have to hide his sexuality in order to protect his Marks, his way of life? That was so fucking unfair.
He huffed, biting his knuckles unknowingly until they bled in a struggle to calm his whirling thoughts. Castiel simply stood there, caught up so deeply in his own world that the man had been caught off guard. It would have been a definite, fatal mistake had he been in a battlefield; although he wasn't so sure then that hadn't already stepped into one. Well-muscled arms pushed him against the stained walls, rugged breathing panting by his ears. The façade persisted on for a moment as he struggled against the invader, before being stunned completely with the tawny orbs, burning and brimming with complete, utter lust. For him. Castiel hissed, his pants growing tight in a state so swift it had almost hurt. Hands roamed, familiarising with planes of flesh that had already been burned into memory. The gesture was merely a process for the pair to remember; the illicit liaisons simply too brief for any more comfort to be provided.
"Dean. Dean!" Gasped murmurs continued as physical touch took over what couldn't be placed into words. Dean, being the shorter one of the pair, seemed determined to prove that height was never a problem. He quickly robbed the dazed brunet of his black trousers. The sharp clang of his metallic belt falling to the floor seemed so loud, as though anyone would walk in and expose them in that instant. Though if you ask either of the pair then, they probably wouldn't even care. Fevered kisses and burning touches were probably the only that went on their mind now, some stroking and some tugging. There were fleeting moments of gentleness, small caresses to incite shudders to their partner. Then, rough play took over.
The leather trench coat was tossed to the side as he grasped onto Dean's shirt collar, determined to commit the shape of his mouth and taste into his memory. Musk, with a hint of freshness akin to mint; something that defined his fellow parabatai as who he always were. Brash, courageous and determined. The complete opposite of Castiel, the black to his white. Together, rough and trapped in the dirty hell-hole at Taki, the pair never felt more complete.
With almost an unspoken word of consent, the pair begun ripping off each other's clothes in an almost frantic craze. Castiel shuddered when warm flesh finally met in contact with each other, scorching and more tempting than any kind of fire. Brown eyes met his, his head tilted ever so slightly as their breathing grew more ragged. With an answering nod, the taller Shadowhunter inclined his head toward the pockets of his abandoned coat. He almost groaned in impatience when warm fingers left him to search. The first pocket was empty, and so was the following.
With a frustrated growl, Castiel guided Dean's arm back. He took a deep breath, then proceeded to coat the individual digits with saliva thoroughly. Dean's eyes never damped with intensity at the gesture, in fact even soften a little. He looked, searching for any moment of hesitation before a rare smile of genuine happiness was offered. Castiel prided himself for being the only being to see this side of the sarcastic front Dean often hid behind.
Warm eyes that were soon filled with such intensity that always left Castiel hungry for more. If only they could, bring this into the open and be recognised. If only. As though sensing the drifting thought of his partner, Dean took the opportunity to part the cheeks, inserting the finger in as slowly as he could afford to. The startled gasp brought a smirk to his face this time, before another was swiftly added. Scissoring, stretching and ensuring that pain would be kept at a minimum. The only times where Dean would be allowed to show he cared. Soon, the anticipation took over.
Castiel hissed at the loss contact, opening his mouth to demand for more before behind silenced by a well-positioned thrust from his partner. Efficient, confident ones, again and again. Dean eagerly lifted Castiel's legs to shift to a better angle, his body towering over the Shadowhunter. Sweat ran along the sides of his temple, panting and gasping. Castiel couldn't find another sight more beholding then, the utter look of concentration Dean would have on his face, with almost reckless abandon yet with every intention to bring utmost pleasure to his partner. Then, Castiel would experience it. The blinding white as Dean pounded against the bunch of nerves; leaving the strong Shadowhunter keening for more for once. Thrust would be met with met, again and again until they would climax in a unison of perspiration and cum on the yellowed tiles.
Castiel breathed, taking a few more moments to collect himself before forcing himself up. The pair would then dress quickly, and part with reluctant smiles and promises. There would be no room for even a rumour to get to the Clave of their actions; punishment would only be dealt as swiftly. Then again, they couldn't afford for such a distraction when Lucifer was out there running loose and wreaking havoc. For the moment, all they would offer each other are short trysts, to relieve their collective frustration against their people, against the world for being so narrow-minded. One, however, can still hope for a radical change to the society, and they would be welcomed once more. Respected for who they are, and not shunned for who they love.
There would be small scribbled notes, leading them back to Taki's again. They were always destroyed after, for memories were all they could afford to keep. No fleeting touches or accidental brushes of the hand. No lingering gazes or extended training sessions. It would have to start again. It was the only way.
At the napkin, underneath of the coffee cup.