#fate’s roll clove

[clickerflight]

Clove: Part 11 - Unburied Grief

Masterlist

Part 10

Hey! Look at that! A vampire who is having a bad time!

Content: Werewolf whumpee, emotional whump, fear of going back, disassociation (?)

Vampire whumpee, laceration across the chest, curse whump, emotional whump, grief

...........................................

Hyrum didn’t know why they stopped on the hill, only that Ephraim stared at the cottage with widening eyes. He looked down at Hyrum and whispered, “Goldenrod, I need you to be very brave, okay?”

“What?” Hyrum asked, clutching his toy tighter to his chest. 

“I think there might be someone dangerous here. I need you to go hide in the village. I’ll come get you when it’s safe.”

Hyrum’s mind sparked with waves of panic. “What do you mean?” he whimpered, his trembling growing stronger. 

“Just go to the village. Please,” Ephraim said, gently propelling Hyrum down the slope. “Go.”

The urgency in Ephraim’s voice raised Hyrum’s thin hackles and he nodded before turning and running back down the hill, his heartbeat in his ears. 

The rattling of his toy did not cover the sudden scream of rage, nor the horrible shrieks and hisses of an angry vampire. 

Hyrum whimpered, running faster down the hill. He screamed as he tripped, his legs feeling like jelly underneath him and he rolled down the hill, limbs searching for some way to stop himself. 

He finally came to a stop in the dirt road when he heard more nightmarish sounds from the top of the hill, and that pushed him to his feet again. 

An endless stream of whimpers fell from Hyrum’s lips. He needed to stop. He needed to find somewhere to hide, he needed to be quiet. Jack would punish him if he was too loud. He would have to kneel on silver for hours if Jack heard him whimpering. Weapons didn’t whimper. He knew that. 

But there was a quiet voice inside of him that told him he wasn’t a weapon. One that smiled with a chipped fang and pressed kisses to the top of his head. 

Just as this thought was starting to pull him from his panic, someone touched him and he scrambled to get away, yelping and crying. 

“Hey, hey,” a deep voice said soothingly. It didn’t sound like Jack but it smelled human. “It’s okay, lad. Where’s Ephraim?”

Hyrum sobbed, pushing at the firm, though gentle hand that had wrapped around his arm. He was going to be taken and put in a dark room, he knew it. He’d get so hungry he’d start eating beetles and stones again. He didn’t want beetles and stones, he wanted berries and stew and bread. He didn’t want a cold cage, he wanted impossibly soft blankets. He didn’t want punishment, he wanted soft touches and gentle hugs, and loving kisses. He couldn’t go back. He couldn’t handle it. He would surely break. Every small part of him would crumble away and he would become the dust underfoot. He would shrink away to nothing. He would flee his own still breathing body. 

When Hyrum was picked up, arms around his torso to keep his arms pinned, he screamed. He had never before known anguish so terrible. Never had he imagined that his soul could hurt so badly. There had been light after so much darkness and the darkness was all the more terrible for knowing he wouldn’t see that light again. Like fate had handed him love and kindness only so he could know what it was like to lose it. 

How much more would he be forced to bear?

……………………………….

Ephraim stumbled into the village. The wound in his chest was deep and ached with each breath. It wasn’t healing like it was supposed to, and he could feel a small curse eating away at his flesh. It wouldn’t kill him, though it might leave a scar. 

Ephraim didn’t have time to think about scars, though. He had found Hyrum’s toy dropped at the bottom of the hill and picked it up, trying to find his little werewolf. 

“Goldenrod!?” Ephraim called, disregarding the fact that he was certainly waking people up. “Sweetheart, where are you!?”

“Ephraim!” 

The vampire spotted Anna stepping out of her house. When she saw the blood in the moonlight her eyes went wide and she firmly closed the door to keep her eldest from coming out and seeing it. 

“Stay inside. Everything is fine,” Anna said through the door before rushing to Ephraim, steadying him and pulling at his torn shirt to see the cut better. “Ephraim, what happened?”

Ephraim bore his teeth, a hiss escaping before he could find his voice. “There was a madman in my cottage. He was trying to take Hyrum from me.”

Anna only just managed to keep from covering her mouth as her hands were covered in Ephraim’s blood. “No! And he did this to you?”

“Yes. Have you seen Hyrum? I sent him down here to be safe.”

“I haven’t, but I did hear someone scream-” Anna admitted and Ephraim surged from out of her grasp. 

His voice broke as he called, “Hyrum!? Goldenrod!?”

Doors were opening all down the street, voices asking what was going on, but one person’s voice boomed over the rest. 

“Ephraim! He’s over here!” Guntar called. 

Ephraim practically melted with relief, stumbling over. Guntar caught him as he tripped on the first step. Ephraim felt the spell eat deeper into his chest and he coughed as it caught in his lung, gripping onto Guntar as he spasmed. 

“Anna!” Guntar said, “Get Margie.”

He helped Ephraim into the house as Anna disappeared into the darkness. 

Ephraim got his breath back, his healing pushing the curse away from his lungs where it became invested in his sternum. 

“Goldenrod. Where is he?” he asked quickly. 

“In here. I don’t think he knows where he is, poor lad.”

Ephraim pushed past Guntar, looking around wildly for the werewolf. 

He found him hiding under the well carved kitchen table. He was laying perfectly still, nothing to prove he was alive besides a faint twitch every now and then. 

Ephraim slid to his knees, pushing in to scoop the boy into his arms. Hyrum was limp, his head lolling back as Ephraim did so. The vampire pressed the boy’s head into the crook of his neck, pressing kisses all along the side of his head. 

“Goldenrod, I’m here. It’s okay, I’m here. Please, you’re okay, please, come back sweetheart.”

Hyrum twitched, his breath catching in his chest. He whined, high pitched and scared. 

Ephraim did nothing to stop his tears from running down his face, soaking into Hyrum’s golden hair. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. I-”

Ephraim choked on his emotions, sobbing in rhythm with the curse throbbing in his chest. He wanted to apologize for the terror Hyrum lived with every day, he wanted to apologize for not killing the man who had done this, he wanted to apologize to a fledgling who wasn’t here, who he hadn’t seen for just over 40 years. None of this would do either of them any good, so he cried into Hyrum’s hair while the werewolf fell asleep in his arms. 

“Alright, what’s all the fuss about?” a crotchety old voice asked. “Ephraim, I really hope you don’t mean for me to go under there to treat you.”

Ephraim tried to slow his sobs, but only managed to make them wretched little hitching things. 

“Oh,” Margie said, a softness entering her grizzled tones. “Ah, Guntar, could you help Ephraim out?”

“Yeah. I’m going to pull you out now, Ephraim.”

Guntar’s large hands pulled him and Hyrum out before the butcher gently coaxed Hyrum out of Ephraim’s arms. 

“I’ll put him in bed,” Guntar promised as Ephraim gathered himself to pull himself up into a chair. 

Margie pulled back his shirt, eyeing the wound and the curse that was starting to play across Ephraim’s ribs. She muttered something and the chewing pain that had been crawling through his chest faded as she stifled and put out the curse. 

Ephraim took a shuddering breath, moving to look at the wound in his chest and see how bad it was when Margie’s weathered hands cupped his face. He looked into the old crone’s eyes, unchanged from the beautiful woman she had been 50 years ago. 

“Ephraim,” she said softly. “What happened?”

Ephraim stared for a moment, captivated before he found his voice. “There was a man in my home. The one who……”

“I see,” Margie said, reaching for a rag to clean out Ephraim’s wound and see if it was healing. “He was there to take Hyrum, hmmm?”

“Yes,” Ephraim breathed. “I was going to kill him.”

Margie hesitated. “And you didn’t?”

Ephraim’s eyes burned as he looked away. “He.. ah, he said he knew where Ben was.”

Margie froze at the mention of her older brother, eyes wide for a moment before she narrowed them again, cleaning Ephraim’s wound a touch more fiercely. The softness in her voice was gone as she said, “Ben is dead. You said so yourself. You couldn’t sense him through the bond. That means he’s dead.”

“No. It means one of two things. He’s dead, or-”

“You don’t seriously believe in the fae courts, do you?” she replied harshly. 

“I’ve met the fae. Just because they haven’t been seen for a long time, doesn’t mean they’re all gone. The man said that Ben had been taken by the queen.”

Margie gritted her teeth. “Then Ben’s as good as dead. We can’t get him back, even if there was such a thing as a fae court. You should have just killed the fool.”

Hurt, Ephraim looked away, towards the room Gunter had taken Hyrum. “I’m sorry, Marigold.”

Margie ignored him, and finished looking at the wound. She rubbed some balm in and patted his chest. “Go sleep,” she said. “I’ll check your cottage in the morning. If that man could cast that sort of curse on you with just a cut, I can imagine he left some rather nasty traps for you.”

Ephraim nodded, standing up. He opened his mouth to thank her, but she was already gone, refusing to meet his eyes. He stood in Gustav’s house, exhausted and drained, and he let his clenched fists relax as he turned. 

Gustav was still in the bedroom with Hyrum. He was running his hand over Hyrum’s back over the blankets. He looked up when Ephraim entered and whispered, “Before you say anything, you can stay here for the night.”

“Thank you, Gustav.”

“Do you need something to eat before you go to bed?”

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Ephraim said with a weak smile.

Gustav stood up and Hyrum whimpered at the loss of contact. “I’ll bring the blood to you. Why don’t you stay with him?”

Ephraim nodded and sat in the chair, putting his hand on Hyrum’s head. The new hair and fur starting to grow in were already so much softer than the rest of it, and Hyrum seemed to enjoy it the most when Ephraim wiggled his fingers into his curls to find the softest of it. 

Hyrum’s small, crooked, questing hand reached out and grabbed at Ephraim’s arm, following it back to his shirt before weakly tugging. 

Ephraim leaned forward, but Hyrum didn’t stop pulling until Ephraim realized what the boy wanted. 

Ephraim sighed and slid into the bed, pulling the covers over both of them. Hyrum curled up against his chest, and Ephraim could feel the tiny tremors that vibrated through Hyrum’s body. 

Ephraim held the boy close, running and hand down his back silently. 

Gunter came back with a cup of blood, which Ephraim drank quickly before curling back up and closing his eyes, listening to Gunter leave and get settled again before falling asleep. 

………………………………..

“You shouldn’t go up there alone, Margie,” Anna said. She had come by in the morning with her youngest to pick up something for a cough he’d picked up to find the old woman preparing to go up the hill to the cottage. 

“I may be old, but I can take care of myself,” Margie replied. She was rather testy that morning. More so than usual though Anna wasn’t easily scared off. 

“I’ll have Josh go up with you.”

“I don’t need your husband to-”

“Margie, you are taking someone with you,” Anna said sternly, and Margie glowered at her, trying to decide if it was worth the energy to keep arguing with the determined mother.��

“Oh all right,” Margie sighed and Anna nodded firmly. “Now, you’d better not go up alone.”

Margie grumbled as Anna gathered up her youngest and headed back out, leaving Margie to finish packing her bag with the things she would need to take care of any curses or traps she found. She hoped there was nothing too surprising up there. While she had a lot of practice with countering curses or even casting them, she was self taught and she knew there was a lot she still did not understand about magic. 

He left her house, taking her cane with her. She usually didn’t use her cane, but she had woken up with aching knees and there was no way she would be climbing up that hill without it. 

She walked through the main street of the village, passing by the shops and homes and making it out to where the dirt road thinned out. She was halfway up the hill before she heard someone jogging to catch up behind her. 

She smiled to herself and called out, “Slow this morning, aren’t we, Josh?”

Josh snorted as he caught up. “Only because Kate was throwing a tantrum. So, what’s the story? I know there was someone here who attacked Ephraim last night.”

“Indeed, and he’s a nasty piece of work. Throws curses wherever he goes, it seems. I’m here to try and clean up any traps or curses he may have left behind. Ephraim has enough going on without needing to worry about that too.”

Josh nodded. “Anything I can do to help?”

“Oh, yes. Trust me, I’ll put you to work.”

Josh smiled and looked up at the cottage. The door was open, a little askew on broken hinges, the inside yawning darkly at them. It felt so wrong to look into that friendly cottage and feel a strange prickle of fear on the palms of his hands. 

Margie sighed. “Yup. Lots of work to do.”

Part 12

Clove Taglist: @wolfeyedwitch @the-blind-one-speaks @whumpsday @extrabitterbrain @inkkswhumpandstuff @honeycollectswhump @whump-blog-reblogs

[twobraincellkentwell]

Too Little Too Late

[A Game Of False Fates]

Part Two

Series Masterlist Part One

Summary: Clio's first year as a mentor was always supposed to be easy; lapping up attention in the Capitol and learning the ropes of securing sponsorships. She was never supposed to be helping her sister through the ins and outs of the arena, but what's done is done. She'll just have to make sure the nation is ready for their second Kentwell sister in succession.

Warnings: strictly 18+ due to the nature of content in some of the chapters. Knife throwing. Siblings.

Word Count: 2k

A/N: I completely forgot that in order to have a fic on here, I actually have to post it whoops. It's updated without fail every Tuesday on Wattpad and AO3 (Same user and fic name) if you'd prefer to head over there. But I'm going to finish it here too, only about four left on wp.

Friendly reminder that this is a Cato fic so obviously I'm not going to be subjecting my mans to the dogs (I'm not that cruel), and so the name of the male tribute is completely made up but also somewhat developed (you'll see ;) )

Second reminder to read book one (A Game Called Revenge) first for the intended order.

───────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────

4th of July 74PD

Clio lets herself into her parent's house - it's not hers, not anymore - and throws open the door to Clove's room. The children in the academy are permitted to sleep in their own homes the night before the Reaping if they live within the immediate vicinity of the district's principal city, and given that the Kentwell's have lived just a few minutes walk away from the main square for decades, it's something that Clio, and now Clove, have always done despite hating growing to hate their parents. Even if you aren't selected to be the volunteer, Reaping Day is a national holiday and so it's one of the few days of the year where the members of the Academy can sleep in. Seeing her sister still sleeping, her thin blanket pulled up to touch her chin resting on the pillow, Clio throws a cold glass of water right onto her bed to wake her.

"What the fuck?" Clove startles, bolting straight up and shaking her head to send as many droplets of water flying at her sister as possible. The water drips in her eyes and Clove pushes her ponytail back to stop it from soaking through the front of her pyjama top. Her damp skin comes in contact with the air - it's not a cold day, but that's up for debate when you're soaking wet - and glares at her sister. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Besides the fact that you're obviously deranged!"

"Get up." Clio says, ignoring the insult and placing the glass of water on the bedside table. "We need to talk."

"It's a holiday." Clove whines but she gets up anyway, grumbling as her parents rush into the room, still with sleep in their inner eyes.

"Clio?" Her mum says, watching the way that her youngest daughter pries her wet top from her chest and wrings out her hair. Onto Clio's feet. "What are you doing here so early?"

"It's half eight." Clio shrugs. "That's not early. Besides, I need to talk to Clove."

"Early enough for a public holiday." Her dad scolds, landing his gaze on Clove before moving to Clio. "The reaping doesn't start until two, you can continue her training later on. She wasn't good enough to volunteer this year so you will have plenty of time to talk."

Clove rolls her eyes, pulling an athletic top and a dark pair of leggings from her wardrobe as her dad leaves the room with a huff. She'll have to change before the Reaping but she's not about to tear her new, expensive, white lace dress that is courtesy of her sister's new victor's payments. The sun is creeping higher and higher in the sky with every passing moment and they can both practically feel the tension in the air as the entire district seems to be holding their breath, waiting to bid goodbye to the two selected tributes. The younger girl rushes to throw on her clothes, ignoring the shouts from her parents and following her sister out of the door. They don't have to go far, walking quickly past the plaza in the centre of the city which is being decorated for the afternoon's reaping, and into Clio's house in Victor's Village. Clove trails behind her sister and she follows her down the stairs into her basement. In the month she spent on her victory tour after her win, the Capitol, funded by one of the highly-paid head gamemakers, converted her empty basement into a rage room fit with moving targets and a knife sharpening block.

"I know that the younger kids would die to be in here, given that you're like their new hero but then again most of them don't know that you're actually a huge bitch who enjoys ruining her sister's mornings off and depriving her of her desperately needed rest." Clio says, crossing her arms over her chest. "Why am I here and, you know, not asleep."

"I spoke to Ebony last night." Clio replies, watching as her sister freezes under her glare. "Is there anything you need to tell me?"

"Nope!" Clove chirps, reaching to pull one of the knives from the rack beside the targets, flipping it in her palm, eyes focused on the polished blade. "Nothing to tell you. So, if you'll just leave. Let me use this time-"

Clio pinches her nose between two fingers and Clove has to duck her head to hide the grin spreading across her face as she throws one of the knives at the stationary target on the wall. "I'm serious, Clove. You can't do this."

Clove freezes for a second, turning to face herself and looking closely at her sister. Dark circles are present under Clio's eyes, looking exhausted and tired as she looks at her baby sister in a way that could make her feel small under her gaze, despite the fact that the older sister is three inches shorter. She shrugs, attention returning back to one of the blades in her hand. "I'm more than ready. I'm nearly sixteen, and have had more than enough training. You don't learn anything past now anyway, otherwise they would never have let you and Cato volunteer."

"That's the point, Clove." Clio snaps, the fire returning back to her voice. "Just wait your turn and then you can receive the ultimate glory from winning a quarter quell. There'll be kids from District Twelve older than you."

"I don't see why it matters how old I am." Clove counters. "And you've been training me for the past eight months since your win. You've told me yourself that I'm good."

Clio puts her hands on her hips, scowling at her sister with eyes as cold as ice, just wishing that she would - for once - listen to her. The same scowl on her face that she wore all through her Games, fed up with the idiots she was allied with. "Can you please just trust Enobaria's judgement on this one."

"She let you go in at sixteen so no I won't trust her judgement until she gives me a reason why I can't. You're my sister, of course you don't want me stealing your limelight." Clove puts her hands on her hips, purposefully mirroring her older sister, spotting an eye roll from her when she realises what she's doing as she drops her arms back to her sides. Her grin only gets her another eye roll in response

"It's not about the bloody limelight Clove." Clio sighs, "It's about you not being ready for this."

"Now you sound like dad."

"You take that back!" Clio smacks her sister's bare upper arm with the back of her hand. "It's not that I don't think you are, it's just that if you didn't win the tribute trials you can't just go out there and volunteer. Sure, you placed first but you weren't given the role."

"Well, that is what you think, isn't it."

Clio narrows her eyes suspiciously at her sister who is trying her best to look innocent. To anyone else it would look like she's doing a pretty good job, but Clio knows her sister too well, and she's not buying it. "What I think," she says, slowly. "Is that you're not listening to a word I'm saying."

"I am!" The younger sister protests, watching Clio's lips twitch as she lets out a half-cough that sounds suspiciously like she's trying to hold back a laugh.

"Fine." Clio relents. "If Ebony hesitates for five seconds, which she won't by the way, then you can raise your hand."

"Deal-"

"And only if you can hit every single one of these targets." Clio cuts her off, pointing to the various targets around the room, holding a knife out in her palm.

Her sister takes the knife from her, and Clio moves to the far right hand corner of the room to start up the moving targets on the track that runs parallel to the door to the basement. She moves back to stand behind her sister, watching her every move as Clove assumes a stance that is both relaxed and ready, with her feet shoulder-width apart, knees bent just a touch and her shoulders square. Her gaze locks on the two moving targets and her muscles tense when she draws her arm back, knife becoming an extension of her right wrist. With a flick of the wrist, the knife spins gracefully through the air until it embeds itself with a satisfying thud into the wooden surface of the target and the track stops rolling and another knife is launched in the opposite direction in quick succession. Clove looks at her older sister for approval. Clio nods and silently gestures for her to go again. She does. And again. For at least two hours.

"How long has she been down here?" Cato says as he enters the basement level of his girlfriend's house, announcing his presence.

At the sound of another voice in the room, Clove spins on her heel and a knife leaves her hand, flying through the room towards Cato's head. Fortunately, having grown up with the two Kentwell girls, he has already predicted that a knife would more than likely be slung at his face and he has already twisted out of the way, and the knife lands in the wall. "What time is it?"

"Just gone eleven." He replies, moving to stand beside his girlfriend, who watches her sister's expression intently as if she can read her thoughts, and wraps an arm around her shoulder.

"Go home and get ready, Clover." Clio says as her sister turns off the target track. She glances her up and down as she turns back to start her walk home, choosing to ignore the disapproving scrunch of her nose at the nickname and gives her a soft squeeze on the shoulder. "I'll be home in a few weeks time and we can talk about next year."

"But—" Clove protests, eyebrows shooting up in indignation.

"No. I'm not just doing this for the sake of it, Clove. It's for your own good."

"But you said–" She tries again.

"I know what I said but fucking forget it, alright?" Clio snaps back, the hold she has on her infamous anger slipping slowly. "You're too young."

"I don't know how you can stand there and say that when the both of you volunteered at sixteen." Clove screams back, making her sister roll her eyes, and making the younger girl wish she could take a swing at her. She might, just to prove a point. "You both went and got all the fame and love at sixteen so why can't I? I'd turn sixteen in the arena!"

"Because you don't have to!" Clio yells, walking towards her sister as she stands on the first stair. Her voice is quieter when she continues. "I have enough money to support you for the rest of your life. You can come and live with me and you can learn to cook properly like you want to. You don't have to go in to prove dad wrong. Who cares what he thinks?"

Clove takes the dismissal for what it is and heads up the stairs, ignoring the footsteps of the two victors behind her; purposefully ignoring her sister. She continues to ignore Clio as she walks through the kitchen, not even flinching at the sight of a giant basket of cinnamon rolls on the island that wasn't there earlier in the morning. "See you at the Reaping, Cato." She says and slams the door behind her.

Part Three

[rubistella]

💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋

@wizofwaterdeep || send a 👄 for a 💋 gale resent because 4 was much too prude for this nasty wizard

Astarion tempted kisses with the same audacity he bent fate, and the wizard’s breaths were a lively thing in tow. Generous with how they loosened a string of pleasant sounds after every drag of an inhale, spilling exhales right into the vampire’s mouth the same way his blood would.

Heavy on the tongue. So rich and full of life.

“You-” The pale elf’s words fragmented into a slicing hiss, shaping his mouth around an age-old stanza and the promise of a kiss.

Unspoken. 

...of whispered secrets and warmest fire, have given me solace in the hearth of your desire.

Because worshipping Gale through lyrical verses in his own head was the closest to religion Astarion has gotten ever since the gods had forsaken him and all of his deathless worth. An everlasting presence, half-angel half-hell.

And hell was all around him.

“...you look lovely when you’re all drained like that.” Astarion finished instead. His smile liquid malice and wasted on the wizard’s choppy exhales. Gale’s attention was all but in shambles while the air ruptured from his throat with every practised roll of the vampire’s wrist around him. Rustling fabric and slick sounds. Strokes made fluid by clove oil. “So fresh out of breath. So...” Beautiful. And a step closer to his death.

Astarion leaned in to pull at Gale’s lower lip, grazing fangs over flesh with every intent to tear before settling with a kiss.

First for taste, then for pleasure.

After that, it was easy to fall back into old habits. All flavour and sin. Their mouths as one and their tongues entwined- baptised by Gale’s blood and consecrated by his moans.

An unholy array of deadly delights.

[vapemaster42069]

you’re right next to me, but you’re a long way from home

Scar lay there, eyes glazed, eyes crinkling at the corners in his familiar, lilting smile. His red hands, now covered in dust and long-old calluses, his red hands made for killing that came back from the dead with a bouquet, his hands that planted rue and cloves and mint, his hands that cooked bundt cake on sundays and always burned a little when he turned out the cake too early, his hands that fit too perfectly around Grian's, fell from a gentle cradle around Grian's face. They hit Grian's useless wings, draped behind his body like a shield, with a thump, sending dust into the air. A loose feather caught between two of his fingers, dragging into the hot sand, Scar's warm blood all soaking all-too-familiarly into the soft tips of the scarlet primary.

Isn’t it that birds signal life? At sea, they release doves to find land, to find life. Pigeons carry messages of hope, of fate, of death and of no importance. Canaries signal when it’s time to leave a noxious cave. But who was the canary for a macaw? What dove would lead him to land? What good was a pretty bird with cut feathers? What good was a pretty bird but to watch? To perch? To crouch over a precipice, to give into the tragedy of falling in love, to wait for this simple, massive emotion, this love full of caveats, to pull him into the sky? What good was a pretty bird but to fall?

Grian stared, useless. His wings draped, useless. His hands cupped Scar's unmoving cheeks, useless. A tear rolled down the length of his nose, his lips, his chin. He hadn't realized he was crying. His lungs heaved, heavy. His drowning, his death, was a quiet, desperate thing, a long time coming, an instant shock. He breathed in, stale air forcing its way into his corpse, into his body where he was sure there was no soul. Grian was sure he had died. Something in him had died. He breathed in. He breathed out.

He looked up. He’d won. He’d lost. He was alone. Scar’s blood oozed with his own, his heart lay still with his own, his familiar smile reflecting one on Grian's face. He traced Scar's face, gently, wiped a stray tear and closed his eyes. He didn't linger. He stepped away from the home he built with the man he just beat to death. His hands were covered in blood he couldn't see, blood that dripped and oozed and slipped under his guilty, heavy feet. He killed himself.

The wind through his feathers reminded him of flying one last time.

A distant sun began to set over the desert, the sand beautiful and silent and distantly soft, ephemerally lethal, devastating and tranquil.

Their life was over.

[phantasmaw]

♢*   —   @tenkoseiensei ​/  𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐝

     〈 ❀* 〉┊  The beast emerges from the undergrowth like a shadow from the dregs of night. The cloying stench of cloves, cake, and decay trail behind her as she drifts across the moon-kissed clearing. In the center of the clearing sits a shadow. A little husk, a smear of nothing, that not even the fireflies dare draw close to. As the beast draws nearer, she sheds her cloak of moss and jaws and wiry limbs and shredded iridescent wings. A woman slips through the curtain of disintegrating rot. She stretches her arms as though trying to reach the moon, eyes aglow with mirth and full lips painted into a picturesque smile. That smile contorts to a sneer as she crouches down over the shadow.

       "Oh Brigid, Brigid," she coos, grin all but splitting her face apart, "is this all you've amounted to? Just a dribble of tar the common folk scrape from the bottoms of their shoes? Aha-- Ahahaha--!!" Her laughter rolls across the clearing along with the dusk mist. As it grows in volume, it lapses from the joviality of a young woman to the harrowing call of a wicked creature. A deer bursts from the thicket opposite of the two, bounding away from impending danger. She lowers herself to all fours, bones snapping and popping in a sickening harmony. Her head cocks sideways, allowing shimmering tresses to tangle in the dewey grass. She rests her chin against forearms mired in mud and fetid flesh. "So this is where our fates have led us. You, hardly more than an afterthought, and I, all the unkept promises of the world. What sordid beasties we are." Giggles erupt from the chasm of her collapsed chest. "To think I was ever jealous of you. That I ever--" 

        Her jaws clamp shut before that those dreaded words can spill out. They slither about beneath the skin of her abdomen, an oily snake-like thing that threatens to swell and burst from her guts if she dares try to deny it. But she cannot say it. She will not say it. Jagged teeth grind together and prick her gums enough to make them bleed. Imelda swallows down the acrid taste of her own blood. The bitter drip reminds her of the countless nights she would spend chewing on her inner cheek to keep from declaring the very same confessions she now gorges herself upon to her dearest Brigid. 

       Slowly, Imelda stretches her legs all the way back until she lays fully on the ground. "Oh dear," the beast sighs. "Can you even understand me?"

[clovemerablog]

Beabadoobee album review: “This Is How Tomorrow Moves"

The decisions made through Beabadoobee’s third studio record both play to its strengths and hamper its own excellence as a cohesive project. 

Review by Clove Mera, 03 September 2024

Album released 09 August 2024

Dirty Hit

Usually I review artists who I’ve been a fan of many years, but that comes with a clear bias. As someone trying to write reviews and not necessarily analytical celebrations, I wanted to listen to something which I had no biases for or against. This lead me to the Browse section in Apple Music, where I’d go perusing newly released music. The first I saw of This Is How Tomorrow Moves was the album cover, which certainly piqued my interest. I’d never heard a Beabadoobee song before, I knew the artist in name only. I chose this album to review with zero expectations, and what I received was a mixed bag. 

We begin the album with Take a Bite. Energetic vocal melodies and rolling drums combined with wet guitar harken back to nineties/ oughties indie rock. Followed by California, another up tempo indie rock record, Beabadoobee starts the album strong.

In Real Man, I endured swing in the verse vocals and tediously drawn out delivery in the chorus, all atop a stop start guitar melody. Overall, the pace was wildly inconsistent with choices that grate against my own sensibilities rooted too deep in the song to overlook. 

This record’s pace had become a trudge through fondant by the time Tie My Shoes plays. The song, which is seemingly about her relationship with her father, is in fact a lesson in crafting a deeply compelling downtempo song - one I wish was applied throughout the album. Its arpeggiated guitar gives a laid back and tranquil sensation, one I enjoyed through the song’s long musical sections. Side note, songs built on a simple guitar loop can be tremendously powerful, see Hurt by the late Johnny Cash, for example. 

Just like the two aforementioned songs, Ever Seen began with the threat of yet another tediously slow song, and until halfway through I thought this was my fate. Thankfully the song shifts gears halfway through, and the album switches palettes. 

This album’s strength lies in its throwbacks to oughties shoegaze, as Post does with its acoustic drums and guitar. Another source of entertainment for me came in the occasional inclusion of out-of-left-field musical choices. There’s a wiry effect before the “He Said/ He Said” refrain in Post and without warning, Coming Home features a short Spanish trumpet section. In any project, subversive musical choices such as these cause my ears to prick up, eagerly awaiting where the curveball will go next.

Earlier I said Tie My Shoes was allegedly about a paternal relationship. Why “allegedly?” Usually my reviews touch on lyrics, why is that not the case this time? Throughout the duration of this project, Beabadoobee’s diction was such I found it near impossible to interpret her words. I’d made the choice to purely listen to this album. No lyrics, only audio. This severely impacted on my ability to receive the album’s meaning. Whatever heartfelt lyrics may have featured throughout this album were mired by unintelligible diction, further mired by poor mixing. In Coming Home, I caught a fleck of the beginning and at the end, I got “I’d sure make a movie/ before planning what to say”. With everything in between lost, I had no clue what that phrase meant. I only discovered the meaning of Tie My Shoes for the sake of this review.

I had no knowledge of Beabadoobee before listening to this album other than occasionally seeing her name on the internet. I came to this project ready for a positive impression and even possibly a few new songs to play nonstop. Although there were lots of good elements to this project, there was a lot of mediocrity in between. I hope Beabadoobee contributed lots more than her voice and her words to This Is How Tomorrow Moves, otherwise I’d say her producer(s)’ work carried the album. The first two songs set an expectation of enjoyable head bopping rock music, but the project defaulted on its own promise with numerous tracks which could soundtrack the sensation of being shot with a tranquilliser dart - and I’m not talking about ketamine. This Is How Tomorrow Moves is an experimental album with variety in its offerings, ranging from high energy rock songs with very complex and enjoyable musicality to pared back ballads, and a few delightful out of left field choices which I always enjoy.

This Is How Tomorrow Moves is available to stream now, Beabadoobee’s latest single “Beaches” is linked below:

[libidomechanica]

Untitled (“Assist thou will pass before to murder and rain is awake”)

A sonnet sequence

               1

Taking shewed his waiting thought, I make, be thy tresses sprang from whom a hyacinth is dead: and I am old, so long, so well with silke riband. This Courtesy and flowers set in conscience and voices the scene, shall obeysaunce, made my days should rage. Forever. Village schoolmaster! A petted mood and white: to see them serued for their thick-moted surface but he nould we thin! Thing, sleepe and wilt satisfie my bonie, sweet as drowsy noon! Went at thy forehead gaze o’er the basket on his edge. Passed by joy … the lust of love. Assist thou will pass before to murder and rain is awake.

               2

Not onely men in frame destroying inside you miss, yet little her heart monitor, the tidings came from Indus to these wall hung down the forstall bright and fro she live a princely give more lift him over, show of. And Lo! And I almost many a fine and when one Camel, and rounding all my joy in tracking sense unhaunted on his nail, and your goodlihead to this old he replies the Mermaid’s now, ready claime from the stone her cheek the rest, or any of the sky! May poured and so belong, and water, watery tree, mocks married up therefore, which one that he had he lived as they join in sad a sight on earth there was a commons they, what she wear locks to flow, and torch of Delight and nettles rot and to Phoebus gins to me a little Robin, take things which had Horace, or plaints, by dying fall wherein to feele my hairst, I shure in her liuely spring.

               3

Of the ryme should lovers bring; the princesses did trance roll, suck my last defray, and pour out o’ h—ll. Clad; her brow was stiff as been a sore temple girl—she were you and thriftie bitten off the houres there footless that shrines! To take such colours from commingled; and, wherewith time. Se thy pangs below thy tresses dance no more came. That slacker in sad as elephants. Such their shoul’dst be some whereas my poor, nor forbidden crime, because of diamonds, never call! He had a sigh of champagne and the universary, a dove, so they were we too be dumb? By tongue, waking, garden ….

               4

She only spirit wandered much about the brain is just your weekend but with oxytocin or continues to the soldier put out each hapless name; my fancy be condemn’d to sea. By the stars theirs of the pure snow-limb’d Eve from thy bright do burn and drunken be eldest. Within the foot- way path called the murmurs to the stands hearing, as if fate some future day has broken: time of any budding waves roar, and thy pass’d at ever unexpressive neighborhood, having mine, you walked alone; an auld wife’s flown away and white, therefore me sayd, be true passion your eccho ring?

               5

They han the Garments shame of these have been she at his slaues, they are, and I, how of. Such words fit for myself, his toil, and lustihead to be eddying within that, when I’m sitting down threw they clove to slay me by degrees is the Peacoks spotted trains across the approach’d away but the while, that spot of joy. You see the hollow sky, you are o’er the auspices of artisans were in humble round my comfort. The rising so; I must love me, or be she broke before that blood and supply, till it thee; nor sea nor cares there, I cannot brag of wool, as it was a prehistory.

[blogs0728]

How to Make Tasty Chicken Biryani

Introduction:

Embark on a journey through the vibrant tapestry of flavors that characterize Indian cuisine with Chicken Biryani. More than just a dish, it promises a sensory adventure, blending aromatic spices, succulent chicken, and fragrant Basmati rice. In this comprehensive guide, we delve into the art of creating the ultimate Chicken Biryani—a culinary masterpiece that guarantees an explosion of flavors in every delectable bite.

Ingredients:

Choice of Chicken: Bone-in or boneless, as per preference.

Fragrant Basmati Rice: Long-grain and aromatic.

Sliced and Caramelized Onions: Providing sweetness and depth of flavor.

Fresh Tomatoes and Tomato Paste: For a balanced tanginess.

Yogurt: Tenderizing the chicken and adding creaminess.

Ginger-Garlic Paste: The aromatic foundation.

Biryani Spice Mix: A fusion of cinnamon, cardamom, cloves, and bay leaves.

Saffron: Infused in warm milk for a touch of opulence.

Fresh Herbs: Mint leaves and cilantro for garnish.

Ghee or Clarified Butter: Enhancing richness and flavor.

Cooking Oil: For preparing chicken and onions.

Salt: The essential unifying seasoning.

Making Steps:

I: Marinating the Chicken Commence your culinary adventure by marinating the chicken in a blend of yogurt, ginger-garlic paste, a portion of the biryani spice mix, and salt. Allow it to rest, infusing the meat with incredible flavors.

II: Preparing the Rice While the chicken marinates, focus on the Basmati rice. Rinse and soak it, then parboil until 70–80% done. Set it aside; the rice will complete its journey in the Biryani.

III: Caramelizing the Onions Thinly slice and caramelize the onions in oil, achieving a rich golden hue. Half of these onions become a dramatic garnish later.

IV: Cooking the Chicken Sauté the marinated chicken until partially golden, signifying its engagement with spices. Set it aside to rejoin for the grand finale.

V: The Grand Performance — Layering the Biryani In a heavy-bottomed pot, layer cooked rice, chicken, biryani spice mix, and caramelized onions. Repeat until a symphony of flavors is woven.

VI: A Touch of Elegance — Saffron Infusion Blend saffron steeped in warm milk, drizzling this elixir over the final layer, imparting a regal touch.

VII: Dum Cooking — Sealing the Fate Enact "dum" cooking, sealing the pot tightly for 20–25 minutes. This slow process allows flavors to meld, with rice absorbing aromatic steam and chicken tenderizing.

VIII: The Grand Finale — Garnish and Serve Sprinkle fresh mint leaves, vibrant cilantro, and reserved caramelized onions. This garnish elevates the dish to its zenith.

Curtains Fall: A Culinary Masterpiece Chicken Biryani is an art form, each mouthful narrating a story of patience, precision, and passion. With dedication and creativity, master this culinary masterpiece, forging unforgettable memories around your dining table. Experiment with spice levels, garnishes, and accompaniments, sculpting your unique Chicken Biryani—a testament to your culinary prowess.

Summary:

Roll up your sleeves and let Chicken Biryani claim the spotlight in your kitchen. With dedication and creativity, master this culinary masterpiece, forging unforgettable memories around your dining table. May your Chicken Biryani resonate as an enduring testament to the art of gastronomy. Enjoy!

[shahid12]

Elevating Chicken Biryani Mastery: Embarking on a Culinary Extravaganza

Introduction: Embark on a journey through the vibrant tapestry of flavors that characterize Indian cuisine with Chicken Biryani. More than just a dish, it promises a sensory adventure, blending aromatic spices, succulent chicken, and fragrant Basmati rice. In this comprehensive guide, we delve into the art of creating the ultimate Chicken Biryani—a culinary masterpiece that guarantees an explosion of flavors in every delectable bite.

Ingredients:

Choice of Chicken: Bone-in or boneless, as per preference.

Fragrant Basmati Rice: Long-grain and aromatic.

Sliced and Caramelized Onions: Providing sweetness and depth of flavor.

Fresh Tomatoes and Tomato Paste: For a balanced tanginess.

Yogurt: Tenderizing the chicken and adding creaminess.

Ginger-Garlic Paste: The aromatic foundation.

Biryani Spice Mix: A fusion of cinnamon, cardamom, cloves, and bay leaves.

Saffron: Infused in warm milk for a touch of opulence.

Fresh Herbs: Mint leaves and cilantro for garnish.

Ghee or Clarified Butter: Enhancing richness and flavor.

Cooking Oil: For preparing chicken and onions.

Salt: The essential unifying seasoning.

Making Steps:

I: Marinating the Chicken Commence your culinary adventure by marinating the chicken in a blend of yogurt, ginger-garlic paste, a portion of the biryani spice mix, and salt. Allow it to rest, infusing the meat with incredible flavors.

II: Preparing the Rice While the chicken marinates, focus on the Basmati rice. Rinse and soak it, then parboil until 70–80% done. Set it aside; the rice will complete its journey in the Biryani.

III: Caramelizing the Onions Thinly slice and caramelize the onions in oil, achieving a rich golden hue. Half of these onions become a dramatic garnish later.

IV: Cooking the Chicken Sauté the marinated chicken until partially golden, signifying its engagement with spices. Set it aside to rejoin for the grand finale.

V: The Grand Performance — Layering the Biryani In a heavy-bottomed pot, layer cooked rice, chicken, biryani spice mix, and caramelized onions. Repeat until a symphony of flavors is woven.

VI: A Touch of Elegance — Saffron Infusion Blend saffron steeped in warm milk, drizzling this elixir over the final layer, imparting a regal touch.

VII: Dum Cooking — Sealing the Fate Enact "dum" cooking, sealing the pot tightly for 20–25 minutes. This slow process allows flavors to meld, with rice absorbing aromatic steam and chicken tenderizing.

VIII: The Grand Finale — Garnish and Serve Sprinkle fresh mint leaves, vibrant cilantro, and reserved caramelized onions. This garnish elevates the dish to its zenith.

Curtains Fall: A Culinary Masterpiece Chicken Biryani is an art form, each mouthful narrating a story of patience, precision, and passion. With dedication and creativity, master this culinary masterpiece, forging unforgettable memories around your dining table. Experiment with spice levels, garnishes, and accompaniments, sculpting your unique Chicken Biryani—a testament to your culinary prowess.

Summary:

Roll up your sleeves and let Chicken Biryani claim the spotlight in your kitchen. With dedication and creativity, master this culinary masterpiece, forging unforgettable memories around your dining table. May your Chicken Biryani resonate as an enduring testament to the art of gastronomy. Enjoy!

[the-coconut-asado]

MIDNIGHT IN PALERMO

Whenever I mention Buenos Aires, the reaction is always the same. When’s the next flight? 

People don’t always know why they want to go, but a seductive mix of tango, Messi, cafe society, and a rose-violet scented European vibe usually has something to do with it. The desire among Europeans for more Europe in a different continent probably warrants further inspection, but let’s leave that hanging for now. 

Buenos Aires’ essence  is an alchemy of fiesta and fate (another way of saying Live for Today). And the undiluted essence of Buenos Aires permeates Palermo. 

Palermo really comes to life after dark. Sure, you can go shopping for the latest chic additions to your wardrobe, or even an antique Apple Mac, during the day. But you really want to surrender to it as the sun sets, the sounds of milonga mix with the aroma of parilla,  and porteños and tourists  emerge from their offices,  boujis apartments and airbnbs, laconically searching for a cocktail and a good time.

There are actually three parts to Palermo - Hollywood, Soho and Viejo - but it’s Soho that has the louche  siren song (like its namesakes in London and New York). And it’s sexier in this city. 

Back in BA after a 3 year Covid hiatus, we were hungry for all of the above. This is in spite of gorging on my cousins’ Francisco and Marco’s  epic asados (this blog’s namesake), complete with melting, bubbling provoleta cheese and moreish choripan (barbecued chorizo in a miniature bun before the main meat event). 

First, we headed to the BeBop club  - a more cavernous version of Ronnie Scott’s - where my cousin Vane’s former pupil was singing a jazz-take on Disney tunes. The first of many times you could say ‘only in Palermo’. Still snacky after a sub-par burger, and approaching midnight, we went cruising around the main square, walking past DJ’s spinning their decks out onto the street and impromptu jazz bands on most of the street corners. And then our cruising became more deliberate as we remembered that Lucciano’s ice cream parlour was also still very open. 

If you want to rile up an Argentine, just say that Italian ice cream is better than theirs. There are no other desserts after those aforementioned asados - and relatively few flavour options aside from Dulce de Leche. However, when you hit Lucciano’s, there are a whole freezer-load of options: Maracuya (passionfruit), Black Cherry, Fresh cream (as opposed to vanilla - I always thought they were one and the same as a child), Banana, Dark Chocolate, Belgian Chocolate  - and always a weird blue one. As we are still in the middle of a year of celebrating Argentina winning the World Cup, there were even Messi Shirt ice pops in abundance.

The staff in Lucciano’s are clearly briefed to smoulder - or maybe they develop this persona over the course of their careers simply by their relentless proximity to the world’s best ice cream (allegedly). In an age of Insta-gratification, their smoulder was on point. And the ice cream? Beyond sublime. I went for Dark Chocolate and Maracuya. 

And just like that, Lucciano’s replaced Gelateria in my hierarchy of needs. 

Midnight is the best time to ‘ice cream’ (yes, it’s a verb). Especially after a hot day eating caramelized beef and, well,  just trying to get from one place to another. You can try it out with my recipe for Maracuya Ice Cream - but first do the hot caramelized thing with my Choripan with Chimichurri and Provoleta with oregano and almonds. 

Buen provecho!

Choripan with Chimichurri

This is a dish of few ingredients so make sure they are all tip-top. Buy your uncooked chorizo from your butcher, make your own bread rolls, but if you can’t then buy them small and crusty. 

Serves 6

Ingredients:

6 x uncooked chorizo sausages

12-m18n x small crusty rolls

For the chimichurri sauce: 

Small bunch of coriander, chopped

Small bunch of parsley, chopped

2 garlic cloves, crushed

1 banana shallot, finely chopped

1 green chili, finely chopped

A shake of chili flakes

5 tbsp extra virgin olive oil

2 tbsp red wine vinegar

How to make:

Put all the dry chimichurri ingredients into a large pestle and mortar, add the oil and vinegar and crush until a thick, clumpy dressing. Set aside. 

Shallow fry (or barbecue) the chorizos until caramelized on the outside and cooked through. Then chop into half or thirds, depending on how big each chorizo is. 

Split each bread roll, pop a piece of chorizo inside and drizzle with the chimichurri. Hand out immediately and keep serving until all the chorizo is finished. Have some extra rolls on hand just in case. 

This quantity will allow at least 2 rolls per person. 

Provoleta with Oregano and Almonds

I have yet to see provolone cheese widely available in the UK, so my advice is to order online (Casa Argentina is a reliable source). Have some crusty bread on hand to catch the molten cheese. This version is based on one I had at Zoilo in London. Serves 4

Ingredients: 

500g provolone cheese sliced into 4 discs

1 tsp. Dried oregano or 2 tsp fresh oregano, chopped

1 tbsp flat leaf parsley, chopped

Sprinkle of chili flakes

1 tbsp clear honey

20g blanched flaked almonds.

How to make

Heat the oven to 200C/ 180c Fan/ Gas 6

Divide the provolone discs between four small ovenproof dishes, then add the oregano and parsley.

Bake until just melted and bubbling - about 5-10 minutes. 

Remove from the oven, sprinkle over the almonds, then finish under a hot grill for 1-2 mins until golden and crisp ( keep checking, do not let them burn).

Remove from the grill, drizzle honey on top and sprinkle with a few more fresh oregano leaves. 

Serve with any spare choripan rolls, or some toasted sourdough. 

Maracuya (Passionfruit) Ice Cream

Next to dark chocolate, this has to be my favourite ice cream. Don’t stint on the passionfruit - you want this packed with flavour to survive the freezing process. Serves 6-8

Ingredients

Pulp from 10 passionfruit - keep some of the pips

4 egg yolks

1 vanilla pod

Juice of 1 lime

100 ml single cream

300 ml whipping cream

80g caster sugar

How to make

First, make the custard base: Whisk the egg yolks and sugar until thick and creamy. 

Heat milk, vanilla seeds and pod to boiling point, then take off heat and cool slightly.

Whisk egg yolks and sugar again slowly, add milk a little at a time then return the custard to heat and stir constantly in low heat until the custard coats the back of a spoon. Pour into a  bowl, cover with cling film, cool then refrigerate overnight (or at least a couple of hours). 

Press the pulp from 7 Passionfruit through a sieve to remove the pips then add pulp from the remaining 3 passionfruit without removing the seeds (you want to identify this as Maracuya after all). Add a squeeze of fresh lime juice, then fold into the custard. 

Churn in your ice cream maker until ready then freeze. Take out of the freezer 15 mins before serving. You can rustle up some madeleines and a batch of Mint Stracciatelli ice cream to go with it if it's a particularly inulgent day.

[penhive]

A Pastiche of Don Quixote

Don Quixote had a zany idea and you know what it is: he carefully observes clothes on a hangar and when he sees feminine cloths, bras and panties, he inserts a hole in them as chivalry. He has a peculiar habit of advertising himself on dating sites as a rich Arab Sheik and offering women false promises. He loves to interact and seduce many women. He has the grandiloquent delusion of being an accomplished writer and constantly believes that one day he will win the Nobel Prize for literature. Every day he lives on the writing dreams of madness. All his efforts to woo his wife are met with coarse rejection. He massages his wife’s legs, caresses her cheeks but she is a stubborn mule and resists all advances made by him. Don Quixote on dating site met a Thai woman and instantly fell in love with her. Then she said she will come and visit Don Quixote in Kerala and asked him to send her 1000$. Then Don Quixote suggested to her that let him come to Bangkok first. She then said: she is no longer interested. Yes, Don Quixote realized that she was a fake shit hole out to make a fast buck. Don Quixote is a realm of madness.  Don Quixote advertises on his resume as a published poet, novelist and philosopher. The religious beliefs of Don Quixote are rather peculiar. On the one hand he adheres to monotheism and on the other an eclectic pantheism. One day, Don Quixote in a fit of anger for Gods not answering his prayers threw all the idols to the ground and trampled on them with glee and said: I have become God. Sometimes he is crazy with the Philosophy of Nietzsche: God is dead! Then again he feels repentant.  Does God play dice with the universe? Yes, he does to please his whim and appetite. Again Don Quixote is intrigued by the Philosophy of Camus and Sartre. He wants to agree with them that the universe is absurd. Even in absurd universe we can live to celebrate meaning and that is the triumph of individuality and that is the Philosophy of Don Quixote. We are not condemned for the choices we make; our choices make us privileged beings. Don Quixote’s Philosophy of being is one of celebration and privilege. Again Don Quixote thinks of the Philosopher Camus absurdity. Camus in the myth of the Sisyphus says man’s fate is like that of the Sisyphus who is forced by Gods to roll a boulder uphill only to find it rolls down and he is forced to repeat this meaningless chore. For Don Quixote: the choices that man makes are creative, cathartic, affluent, prosperous, victorious, romantic, erotic, and happy and they lead to the authentication of individuality. Again Don Quixote is a bard who writes romantic poetry for many imaginary women. He is upset when he gets absurd replies like: you are so sweet. Don Quixote’s real self is an English Teacher who is mediocre and Don Quixote’s fictitious self-lives lives in grandiloquence as an accomplished writer of fame and acclaim. He has loved many women and he has seduced them with romantic poetry. He loves the clove cigarettes of Indonesia, the grilled fish and the roast duck. For Don Quixote life is a poem being written. Recently Don Quixote had a dream of poop and poop while looking in google said poop is a lucky omen signifying financial gains, fortune and good luck. Once upon a time Don Quixote visited Hong Kong. There was a fuck-shop near to the Hotel in which he was staying. When he was walking he came across the madam of the brothel who said: ‘come in son; have a drink; I have many beautiful girls’. Don Quixote at that time was a shy Puritan Christian and walked away from the place ignoring her.  The next morning as he was walking, he came across the Madam of the brothel having a broom in one hand and incense sticks on the other hand. On seeing me her face became a malicious frown and she shooed me away with a raging fit. Thinking of it today, I laugh at it. Don Quixote lives life of poetry. Many years back, the school in which Don Quixote was working had a teacher exchange program and a British teacher by the name of Valery came. She was a painter and poet and used to edit the poetry that I had written.  I didn’t at that time realize that she had erotic inclinations on me. One night staying in a hotel, she offered me teacher’s whisky and I got me drunk and then she embraced me. I became embarrassed and ran away from her room. Don Quixote nourishes lesbian fantasies. He longs to hire sluts and make them do lesbian sex. Many years ago when Don Quixote was in Jakarta, a lady colleague sold him her computer. She invited him over her place to dinner. When I went to her place, her husband said bye and left the place. Then as we started talking, she took my hand and started fondling it. Don Quixote like an idiot did not take the cue and understand that she wanted to have sex. Then again he missed a golden opportunity of having a fuck.  This incident happened to Don Quixote when he was 15 years old. His mom went to take a bath. There were holes on the door and Don Quixote started peeping. Don Quixote was so possessed that he forgot the surroundings. Suddenly there was firm grip on Don’s shoulders and when turned back: he froze and it was his dad. To his pleasant surprise Dad started laughing. This happened to Don Quixote when he was 17. Don Quixote was a virgin then.  Near Don Quixote’s house, there was a granny widow who was affectionately called Mummy by the villagers.  Her body was a fuck-practicing-ground for the youth of the village. Don Quixote’s best friend advised him: fuck her and it’s your learning nursery. So one day Don Quixote when to her house with the video cassette movie First Blood. She greeted me fondly and caressed my cheeks. Again when started inserting the tape into the player, her body brushed against me and I love it with shame. Then to my surprise she embraced me. She took me into her bedroom and she unbuttoned my clothes. She gave a violent tug of her nighty and told me to kneel down and forced me to do the cunnilingus. She started grunting like a rock. And when she was about to orgasm, she inserted me and I came immediately and I spilled all my nectar into her cunt. After that Don Quixote used to go to her house everyday stoned. Don Quixote has read from postmodern literature that literature has reached exhaustion. Don Quixote wants to refute it.  Literature is the syncretism of experiences. Literature is a melodious font of writing. Literature is passion for the soul. Tropes don’t get exhausted or die. The body and ego is the content and the mind the form. Literature has not reached stagnation, decay or death.  The writer gifts a bonanza for the readers. Writing is a phoenix that renews itself with the coming of every age. Don Quixote is a perverted voyeur. He takes pleasure in seeing woman bathing. The women complained to the inmates of the village and he was thoroughly beaten up. Don Quixote has an unhappy married life and wife who is sexless. Don Quixote had Filipino granny as a lover. The bitch was worth to be fucked. Every thrust that Don made she used to respond back with equal finesse. Don Quixote‘s Philosophy is SAD:

Sex

Alcohol

Drugs

Don Quixote observed carefully how shit falls into the commode. Sometimes shit falls like gravy, sometimes like sausage pieces, sometimes like crumbs. And that is the aesthetics of shit. Don Quixote is on psychiatric medicines for bipolar disorder. Meditation for Don Quixote is perverted lust. Don Quixote wants to promote the Philosophy of I AM ism and I Am-ology. Don Quixote imagines that he is many writers. Don Quixote would like to mention his father who was communist-capitalist an oxymoron. He was a Communist party member and at the same time he had run a private school. The school is yet to be profitable and sustainable. Politically speaking Don Quixote supports communism but it has lost its relevance as an ideology. The Communist apparatchik has themselves become corrupt. The leaders want to rich themselves and their children are running profitable businesses. The hammer and the sickle has become a tomb of an ideology. How does the author overcome death?  The author is a Writerly labyrinth. Ideas are poems of thought. Tropes are a liquid rainbow. Feelings are the reason of passion. Literature moves the soul in the depths of poetry. Literature is the mirror self of the actual self. Art is a surreal concoction. Writing has to be easy as passing shit.

[midnightsunnyday]

The Brothers Go To Bath & Body Works

A/N: because I was bored and like headcanons where the brothers are in ordinary situations doing ordinary things, yet because of their nature and ignorance of human culture, get in all types of trouble. Definitely counts as a crack post.

--------------

Lucifer: for horrid's sake it's like Asmodeus and Mammon's bathrooms exploded.

Satan: for once I have to agree with you. This place is a bit...assaulting.

Leviathan: ugh. This is just like that anime I watched: My Partner Tricked Me Into Going Shopping And Now I'm Stuck Watching Them Make Horrible Financial Decisions!

MC: that sounds way too contrived to be a real show.

Satan: furthermore, are we really about to spend an hour shopping for candles?

MC: no, I'm about to spend an hour shopping for candles. You all can wait outside *sighs* At least Asmo gets it.

Asmodeus: such splendor! Such rapture! I mean just look at it: the colors! The scents! The mini hand sanitizers! Oooh, and is that a sale? Buy three get two free, you say?

Lucifer, scanning the shelves: and what is this absurdity?  Pumpkin pecan, pumpkin apple, vanilla pumpkin, pumpkin clove, cinnamon pumpkin, caramel pumpkin...just what is it with you humans and your obsession with pumpkins?

MC: hey, don't judge my culture. Pumpkin scented and flavored products are an annual mortal tradition.

Lucifer: a tradition that should be banned, clearly.

Mammon: humans sure are strange though. I mean, why have an entire store dedicated to something so lame?

Satan: well, candles can be used for many purposes, but for most humans they're not only therapeutic, but romantic. In fact, it's customary for human lovers to light a multitude of candles around their dwelling to draw in their mate.

Mammon: to draw in their mate, huh? Ya don't say...

*loud clanging noises*

MC: Mammon...why are you scooping an entire row of candles into your shopping bag?

Mammon: oi, what are ya the candle police? Don't worry about it.

Salesperson: just so you know, all our three wick candles are--

Mammon: --buy three get two free. Yeah, yeah, we read the sign!

--------------

Belphegor: hey, which scent do you think smells better on me?

MC: *sniffs* ooh, I really like the lavender one.

Belphegor: good, then that's the one I'll buy. That way, when we finish taking our naps together, you'll smell me all over your sheets. And your clothes. And your pillows. And the rest of your room.

MC: sounds very...Pavlovian. Just no leashes or collars, please. 

Belphegor: I think you might have me confused with Lucifer...and possibly Satan.

--------------

Asmodeus: Satan dear, please tell me you aren't going to buy that just because it has a cat on it?

Satan, blushing: of course not. I was just...looking, is all.

Leviathan: you know, you're kinda behaving like an otaku who wants to buy all the latest merch of their favorite character.

Asmodeus: so like you, then?

Leviathan: hey! Otaku are a proud people who fuel their hobbies with the upmost passion and dedication. There's no shame in it.

Asmodeus: whatever you say, brother ~

Salesperson: just so you know, that's our limited edition Halloween scent, which is only around for the holidays.

Satan: hmm...

Salesperson, wearing a cheeky grin: we also have cat shaped plug ins.

Satan: where?

Asmodeus: now wait just a--

Salesperson: --did I also mention that we're having a sale on all our bath products?

Asmodeus: on all the bath products, you say?

Leviathan, rolling his eyes: normies.

--------------

Salesperson: excuse me, sir?

Lucifer, sighing: if you're attempting to sell me something, then I rather hear the quick version.

Salesperson: it's just that you seem a bit...tense. Do you happen to suffer from stress? If so, I can show you a few items in our aromatherapy collection.

*Lucifer, gazing over at Leviathan and Mammon*

Mammon: ok, ok, on the count of three. One, two...three!

*Leviathan and Mammon shrieking in pain as they spritz body mist into each other's eyes*

Lucifer: ...I'm listening.

--------------

Belphegor: hey guys, I don't think it was a good idea to bring Beel in here.

Lucifer: meaning....

Beelzebub, holding two candles and mumbling to himself: this one says banana walnut muffin and this one says warm apple pie, but it's not a muffin and that's not a pie, but it smells like one, but I can't eat it, but it's named after food, but it's not food...*falls to his knees* it's not food.

Leviathan: uh...

Beelzebub, in a trance like state: it's not food. It's not food. It's not food.

Satan: well, this doesn't look good.

Mammon, placing a hand on Beelzebub's shoulder: hey, little bro. You ok?

Beelzebub: so...the time for retribution has come? Such an ironic fate, being made to roam this chamber which torments me with scents familiar, yet unable to satiate. For centuries I've scourged the lands, devouring flesh to still the pain that naws at my being. Cursed to eat without gain. Without joy. Forever crowned as the sin of gluttony, a crown in which I sometimes find too heavy to bear. For some, I was once a god, for others a mere pest. Even so, I find myself in a hell not of my own creation, but one in which I rightfully deserve.

MC: um, Beel? I love you, but you're freaking everyone out.

Beelzebub, looking up at MC with empty eyes: ah, the mortal to whom I am bound. Tell me, are you here to guide me towards salvation? Or are you too like these wondering souls, searching for nourishment in that which is fleeting? However, I advise you make your decision with haste, as soon I will no longer be able to tell friend from prey.

*silence*

MC: ...we really need to get him some food.

Mammon, helping Beelzebub to his feet: ok, time to go, buddy.

Asmodeus: how about we get you some McDonald's. Do you like McDonald's, Beel?

Beelzebub: immortality is a curse. The only true salvation lies in oblivion.

Asmodeus: ...he wants McDonald's.

*at the food court*

Asmodeus: still, I can't believe I ended up purchasing several bags worth of lotions, candles, and body sprays *shivers* such an insidious place. I love it!

Lucifer: admittedly, this pillow mist is very soothing. Though may I suggest that next time we go somewhere less...traumatizing?

Satan, staring down into his bag full of cat shaped plug ins: *sighs* agreed.

Mammon and Leviathan, holding a cup of ice to their eyes: definitely.

MC: I just wanted us all to go shopping. How was I suppose to know scented candles would make Beel suffer an existential breakdown?

Lucifer: speaking of which, how are you feeling, Beel?

Beelzebub, stuffing his face: cheeseburgers and nuggets are my favorite food from McDonald's.

Lucifer: that's nice Beel.

Leviathan: well, that problem solved itself.

Mammon: but man, what a day. All this shopping sure gave me quite the workout *stretches his arm over MC* I think I'm just gonna head home, light a bunch of candles around my dwelling, let MC walk in and ya know...see what happens.

MC: *sighs* This is exactly the reason why I shop online.

[twobraincellkentwell]

Edge Of Seventeen

[A Game Of False Fates]

Part One

Series Masterlist Part Two

Summary: Clio's first year as a mentor was always supposed to be easy; lapping up attention in the Capitol and learning the ropes of securing sponsorships. She was never supposed to be helping her sister through the ins and outs of the arena, but what's done is done. She'll just have to make sure the nation is ready for their second Kentwell sister in succession.

Warnings: strictly 18+ due to the nature of content in some of the chapters. Not really any warnings relevant for this chapter. Maybe the threat of stabbing?

Word Count: 3.7k

A/N: Hello hello, I've finally got around the posting the first chapter of book 2, which is technically a prequel but I prefer my order because I just love building suspense. Friendly reminder that this is a Cato fic so obviously I'm not going to be subjecting my mans to the dogs (I'm not that cruel), and so the name of the male tribute is completely made up but also somewhat developed (you'll see ;) )

Second reminder to read book one (A Game Called Revenge) first for the intended order.

───────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────

3rd of April 74PD

"The tributes representing District Two in the seventy-fourth Hunger Games are..." The district mayor says slowly, watching as every academy member hangs on his every word and the parents of the potential tributes each wait impatiently for the decision. "Ebony Stein and Ajax Dumont."

Cheers fill the square as the chosen volunteers walk to the front of the plaza to shake hands with the mayor after he pats them both on the back. Ebony looks confused, the seventeen year old failing to hide the bewilderment of being selected on her face as she looks between the line of twenty girls and the automated scoreboard above her. In each of her trials, the young girl has placed second and the board providing a summary of the trials also has her sitting in second, only behind the fifteen year old Clove Kentwell. The same fifteen year old who is staring daggers into Ebony's head as she takes in the praise she is surrounded with. Ajax, on the other hand is smiling ear to ear and his father can be seen with his hands in the air celebratorily. The young children in the temporarily erected stands are clapping for their volunteers whilst the mayor speaks about the two tributes who have the potential to bring the victory home from District Two for the third year running. No one mentions the scoreboards whilst the two tributes choose their mentors for their last three months of training. To no one's surprise, Ajax chooses Brutus but doesn't fail to mention that he wants Cato to help him and Ebony chooses Enobaria. The expressions worn on the line of the unselected make it evident that this year, as with every other year in the past twenty, someone will try to take out the volunteers so that they can be replaced. "You may return to your homes, the Academy will remain open for those of you who live in the outskirts of the district but I encourage you to spend time with your families if you can."

As the lines file out, Clio watches out of the corner of her eye as her sister stands to the side of the plaza to wait for her and after excusing herself from the various district officials, she approaches. "Clove..."

"I placed first!" She declares in frustration, one hand pointing harshly in the direction of the scoreboard. "I thought you and Enobaria wanted me to continue what you started."

"Of course we do, but it's not always the worst thing to wait another year. Trust me, Enobaria always overrides the scoreboard for a reason."

Clove rolls her eyes as she retorts, "but I'm not in love with Ajax so it's not like it matters to me who I volunteer alongside."

"Ajax has been waiting to volunteer for three years." Clio reminds her, hoping that making a demonstration of the boy's patience will help her sister snap out of her anger; she hopes that refreshing Clove's memory of the fuss the boy kicked up when he wasn't chosen last year will help her realise that having to wait isn't the end of the world. But she also understands how she is feeling, remembering back to two years ago when she threw heated words at Enobaria after the mentors decided to switch up the partnerships and send Cato into the arena with Thalia instead of her. Several of the other girls and boys who weren't selected stand beside them, clustered in small groups and surrounded by family.

"Clio, sweetie, I am so happy to see you," the Kentwell matriarch muses as approaches, her voice warm and light. The woman is beautiful as always but both sisters can easily detect the coldness in her eyes as she tries to bring her eldest daughter into a hug. "You didn't come around on your birthday, you must still be too busy for little old me."

Her words, to the outsiders around them, seem lighthearted and teasing but Clio knows better. She was putting on a show to the other prominent families. The truth is, Clio hasn't spoken to either of her parents in the two months since her victory tour; only conversing with them once or twice since she returned from the arena, yet here she was casting the same old doubts that shrinks Clio back to the little girl would refuse to use up her homestay days at the academy or hiding in her childhood bedroom for afternoons at a time in hopes of not seeing her parents. "We have to go," Clio says as she looks into her mother's eyes. She wonders if she has ever loved her at all, or if she has always been just a means to receive glory and fame within the district and all of Panem.

"She's supposed to be sleeping at home tonight." Her mother addresses Clove indirectly, her lips tightening as her eyes bore into Clio's.

"We have to go." Clove repeats her sister's words, head barely turning in her mother's direction.

"She said that already." Their mother snaps as the façade falls from her face, turning her into the cold hearted bitch who raised two equally as stone cold girls with a thirst for blood and an innate need to prove themselves. She shrugs as if her daughters are inconveniencing her as she snaps her fingers to prompt them to answer.

Clove is the one to answer, watching carefully as her mother and older sister stare each other down. "We're going to go and train some more whilst the others head home. I'm going to stay at Clio's tonight but I'll have to come grab some of my clothes from my room."

"Well, don't let me stop you. Clio, darling, it would be nice if you could pay us a visit some time too."

Clio rolls her eyes as they walk the short distance to the training halls of the academy. Several of the younger children playing outside the building almost part like the sea to make room for Clio to walk through, as they have the past year. Being a victor has its perk, one of which is having access to the white cinder-block training facilities, and Clio leans towards the security system for it to scan her identity via the recognition of her retina. Flashing green, the magnet releases the heavy, stone door inside. The building is deserted as they walk through the corridors, an unnatural silence replacing the clang of weapons that are present on most days in the academy. They pass through the giant double doors hidden behind the stone staircase, leaving them to shut on their own behind them as the sisters walk straight into the top left hand corner of the centre; both scoffing at the large, professional portrait from her victory tour hanging on the wall. The gold foil of the crown reflects the lighting into the late afternoon as they each pick several blades from the rack beside the target. Without looking at the target, the two of them each throw a knife into the dummies opposite them, glancing over once they hear them hit the figures. Each landing dead centre, Clove's in the middle of the chest whereas Clio's hits the space between the eyebrows. Her signature. Clio's knife hit the target slightly earlier than her sister's but she isn't going to mention that. Not today.

"You didn't have to join me." Clio says. "I'm not going to be here long, I just needed to let out some of my anger after that conversation with our wonderful mother."

"I wanted to stay behind with you. There's no point going and speaking with Ebony yet. Now are we going to throw knives or just stand here?" Clove responds.

"I'd hate to show you up, but I suppose you could do with the practice." Clio smiles sarcastically when her sister rolls her eyes. She slings her knives at the target board. Each one they both throw hits the middle of their respective targets precisely.

"Hey!" The younger sister objects to Clio's words a few seconds after they sink in, turning towards her to ask her a question. "Instead of hogging my time, I want you to try and distract me while I throw."

Clio doesn't even blink at Clove's request. The two sisters have gone through the same routine every day for the past year because learning to ignore potential distraction is something Clove needs. Clio knows that behind the confident front her sister puts up, her emotions can sometimes leave her slightly off her game; which is a vital aspect of why Enobaria has decided that she needs another year of training before entering the arena. She'll be more than ready by the time the Quarter Quell rolls around. Following her sister's instruction, Clio walks to the side of the throwing station, standing to the left of the dummy that is Clove's target for the next hour, watching her sister launch the knives directly into the centre over and over again. Now in her line of sight, Clio removes the patched jacket from around her upper body and waves it in front of the target.

Clove's concentration wavers for just a moment, her brow furrowing as she registers the distraction. Clio continues to twirl the jacket, the bright red hues dancing through the air in a vibrant contrast to the monotonous black and white of the training room; as the atmosphere hums with the rhythmic swish of the knives and the dull thuds of them finding their mark on the dummies. Just as she raises another knife, poised for the next throw, Clio shouts a loud interjection. The sound catches Clove's attention just as she lets go of the knife, and the weapon hits to the right of the centre, causing Clove to curse.

"Hey, it would've still been more than enough for a kill." Clio reminds her when she recognises the scowl on her sister's face, moving to stand in front of the target and lifting her arms above her head, connecting her hands to make a gap for Clove to aim at. "Throw it again."

Clove throws the knife directly into the space between Clio's head and her hands, landing just centimetres above her ponytail pressed against the target. She knows that Clove would never throw the knife at her face. Her aim is far too good to actually kill her. And it's not like she wouldn't catch it anyway. Okay maybe I wouldn't catch it, Clio laughs to herself, but I'd at least I would see it coming and be able to move. 

"Now come on," Clio laughs as she pulls the knife out from the space above head. "I've got a birthday meal to have."

Clove sighs but places the knives back on the weapons rack. "I better go and collect my stuff from mum and dad."

"I have stuff you can use." Clio nudges her sister as they leave the academy's training facility, trying to swerve them in the direction of Victor's Village.

"No offence, Clio." Clove starts with a laugh, "but the twelves could fit into your clothes. I'd much rather be comfortable in my own stuff."

Clio relents, allowing Clove to steer them back towards the road which leads them to their parent's house. The walk down the cobbled stone paths of the richer area of District Two's capital, past all the white stone houses and perfectly crafted gardens. Their neighbours stand at the corner of the street, waving enthusiastically to the sisters as they walk and causing Clio to have to craftily avoid conversation by quickly explaining that they're visiting their parents for a little while and promising to return if they're still speaking once they are finished. Satisfied with her answer, the neighbours allow them to continue down the street until the familiar sight of lavender that edges the border of her parent's land. They walk up the stone steps and push the door open slowly, careful not to slam or rattle the door frame so as not to anger their parents any more than necessary. The scent of pinewood candles fills their noses as they walk through the foyer and begin to head towards the staircase when a shout comes from the living room. "Clove!"

Clove steps backwards off the first stair and follows the sound of her dad's voice into the living room; Clio following a few paces behind. As they enter they find their parents relaxing on the couch whilst a trashy Capitol provided television programme plays in the background.

"Dad." Clove says. "What's up–"

"Clove Sevina Kentwell." Their father bellows her full name, still leaning against the couch with his arms stretched across the back. "I honestly cannot believe you. I can't believe that after everything we've talked about in the past year, you continue to disappoint us."

"I don't know what you're talking about, dad. I placed first in the trials, I'm not sure what else I could have done to have them pick me."

"Something is missing if the mentors don't think you're good enough to be selected. I thought we went over this?" Their dad's worse is hoarse and disgusted as he spits the words out, turning to look at his youngest daughter.

"I'm– I'm sorry, dad!" Clove stutters slightly under the scrutiny of her parents.

"Are you lazy, Clove? Tell me, are you lazy in training?"

"No!" The youngest Kentwell protests, "I try my hardest everyday, I thought that placing first would prove that."

"It did nothing but suggest that you won't ever be ready to volunteer. Your skills are slipping, don't think we didn't notice you were off on three of your throws. We left after that but I bet your performance with the spears was just as mediocre, worse probably. Have you even been attending your training?" Their father shouts whilst their mother nods her head in agreement, silently judging her daughter.

Clove sniffles, blinking back the tears that are threatening to spill past her waterline and hoping that neither of her parents would catch her emotions and call her disgusting for having them. "I have, of course I have!"

"You're not good enough Clove, you need to do better!" Her mum voices her opinions for the first time. "You'll never be able to win if you can't convince them to let you volunteer."

"There must be something wrong with you if your own sister didn't give you the vote of confidence." Their dad hisses.

"There's nothing wrong with her." Clio snaps, making her parents turn their head to look at her standing in the door frame. "I don't have the power to make all the decisions. I only won last year, so my words don't carry much weight."

"Who do you think you're talking to?"

"I'm talking to the people who have done nothing but treat my sister like shit ever since I won. Forget me, I don't care what you've said to me but don't try telling her that I don't believe in her." Clio says, the calmness of her voice scaring her sister slightly. She reaches into the pocket of her jacket and throws a small bundle of bills onto the coffee table. "Take my money and lay off her."

"Treating her like shit?" The man scoffs. "We're trying to toughen her up. What do you think we've been doing your whole lives? It worked well enough with you, you're a victor right now because of everything we did to help you and so you have no right to speak to us that way."

Clio chuckles darkly as she looks up at the ceiling. "When I first started at the academy, all I ever wanted to do was make the two of you proud, but you know what? I'm fucking done now. This is exactly why I didn't bother coming to visit you on my birthday. Do you even have any idea how old we are?"

"I– Nine– no, eighteen." Her mother stammers.

"Seventeen yesterday, mother," Clio rolls her eyes. "And Clove is only fifteen."

"Fifteen is plenty old enough to become a victor." Their father chooses to ignore Clio's admission of their ages as he instead focuses on the topic of Finnick Odair's winning age yet again. As their father turns to face the television screen once more, Clio nudges her sister and motions for her to quickly escape the room so she can head upstairs and pack a bag with enough for a few nights stay in Victor's Village.

"You're supposed to love and care for us yet all you wish for is another victor. I'm not your child, I'm just a paycheck." Clio picks up the wad of cash from the coffee table, swatting away her father's hand as he tries to grab her wrist. To prevent her from removing her money no doubt. "I don't owe you anything, fuck you."

As she reaches the front door, Clove appears at the bottom of the stairs, with a small duffel bag in her hand; half zipped up and jumper sleeves spilling out over the sides. Ignoring her parents' shouts, Clio grabs her sister by the hand and pulls her out of the door and down the stone steps, through the lavender bushes and they run across the cobbled stone paths that lead them towards Victor's Village. Once they pass the dark, wrought iron gates at the bottom of the little village, they run down to the eleventh house in the cul-de-sac, immediately pushing open the door to Clio's new home. Inside, Clove heads straight upstairs to claim the large spare bedroom that she usually sleeps in by throwing her duffel bag onto the mattress whilst her older sister steps into her kitchen. There's a cinnamon roll with a candle placed on the middle of her kitchen island, and she laughs to herself before realising that everything has been put neatly away and that her sister hasn't joined her in the kitchen. A small shuffling noise from the direction of the living room catches her attention and she instinctively pulls out her knife from the heel of her boots, poising herself for an attack if necessary.

Slowly she walks out of her kitchen and through the open frame leading her towards the sofa. The room is in complete darkness but before she can flick the lights on, a chorus of voices call out "surprise!"

The dagger in her left hand flies across the room, embedding itself into the stone wall at the far end of the living room, and then the lights flash on and she is greeted by several familiar faces who finally pop out from around the room. Cato, Clove, Brutus, Enobaria as well as Cato's mum and sister gather around the couch, each with a bright smile. Clio can see there are two huge balloons shaped 17 and red and gold party streamers adorn the book shelves and walls.

"I told you this would happen." Clove laughs, running to engulf her sister in a hug. "Never try and surprise Clio."

"We're just lucky we didn't stand up any earlier." Brutus chuckles, waving away the little concern in the room.

"Did you organise all of this?" Clio narrows her eyes jokingly at Cato once she realises what is going on.

"I had five helpers but most of it was me." He replies, walking to her side and allowing her to wrap her arms around him. "It's not big and I wanted to do this yesterday." He directs a glare at Enobaria. "But I promise that we'll go all out next year for eighteen."

"How did you manage to not tell me about this? You tell me everything." Clio sighs in disbelief, shaking her head before looking up to meet his eyes. "How long have you had this up your sleeve?"

"Hardest two weeks of my life." He teases, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Don't forget that they kept it from you too."

"You're all amazing. I don't know how all of you kept me in the dark for that long." Clio compliments, for once feeding their egos and thinking to herself about how they better savour this moment because compliments from her don't come often. "But what's so special about seventeen?"

"It's your first birthday as a victor." Enobaria explains, appearing from behind Clio and pulling her away from Cato and into her own hug. "It's the first year since I chose you that you actually have more birthdays guaranteed."

"Oh, I was always going to win." Clio laughs, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

Enobaria shakes her head but a small laugh escapes her lips as she squeezes Clio a little tighter for a second before letting her leave her grasp and turn back to the others. Clio gives everyone in the room a short hug, thanking them all again before she approaches Cato again. "Seriously, is all this because it's my first victor's birthday? You had yours in the Capitol, didn't you?"

He nods. "I did but I thought you'd much prefer to share a cinnamon roll with your sister than be surrounded by all those people again. Besides, we've spent the last ten years watching the tribute trials on your birthday, and then competing in them so it's not like we could just leave to party, unfortunately."

"I'm not sharing the cinnamon roll." Clio protests quickly before agreeing with him. "You're right, I would. I think I can get over my celebrations being a day late if they're always like this."

Part Two

[dandelionlovesyou]

It’s You 2

Peeta gets stood up on his wedding day.

This is a short drabble between best friend!Everlark.

I hope you like it!

The other story on this collection of unplanned weddings is here 

AO3  FFN

"Peeta?" Katniss calls peering through the front door. She's supposed to pick up her best friend and drive him to the wedding reception at Sae's Mountainside Resort. Duly reminded by Finnick, the best man, to ensure that the groom was not late for his wedding, she came to Peeta's house three hours earlier than expected.

Letting herself in, she drops her set of keys inside her purple purse. It's not her choice of accessory, nor color, but for Peeta, she went along with Clove's theme selection. The mirror beside the door makes her wince as she sees herself in the off-shoulder violet and pink bridesmaid's gown. With a huff, she resigns to her fate. This day is the worst day of her life, and her dress is the least of her worries. She dreads the sight of her best friend for twenty-plus years, saying "I do" to another woman on the altar.

She’d rather that it be her.

"Hey, what are you still doing on your chair? You're about to get married in four hours." Peeta looks nowhere ready for his wedding. Looking at him, she highly doubts that he even took a  bath this morning. He also needs a shave.  

“Tsk … That’s not going to happen now,” Peeta scorns, leaning back slightly on his wheelchair. The pain in his eyes and the look of total defeat are like needle pricks to her heart. She hates seeing him like this, so out of life after his return from the war. She couldn’t blame him. Having both his legs amputated below the knee is heartbreaking. Every night she wishes she could have protected him from the IED that rid him of his legs.

“What do you mean?” she asks, mustering the courage to remain strong for him. If she plummets down with him, where would they be?

"No way! That crazy bi…," she screams when the realization hits her. A letter left open on the bedside table says it all. Clove is leaving him. Left him. Worst, she went with Marvel -- Peeta's physical therapist. That bitch indeed.

"Katniss now's not the time," Peeta dismisses, waving his hand with complete resignation.

Long silence spreads between them. Heaviness sets in.

“So, what are you going to do?” Katniss finally breaks the quiet. Shakily, she sits on the edge of his bed, debating whether to rip the letter into shreds or start a search party to locate Clove so she could rip her into shreds.

Nothing will come out of it, though. She's mad as hell that Clove left Peeta like this but getting back to her will not mend his heart.

“Marry me?” she says instead. It’s just above a whisper, and she chews the insides of her bottom lip, unbelieving that she let those words escape her lips. She winces before looking at her best friend.

Nothing. Peeta just blinks while staring out the window.

"I'm serious, Peeta," she follows, picking herself up and kneeling in front of him. Where this courage is coming from, she doesn't know. All these years, she has kept her feelings for him a well-kept secret. Unsure whether Peeta could love him the same way. She pined away year after year, girlfriend after girlfriend, watching the love of his life fall into someone else's arms.

"I don't need your pity, Katniss. I'll move on," Peeta finally answers. He sounded mad, and it hurt her.

“I don’t pity you, Peeta.”

"I'm half a person, Katniss. Have you seen my legs? Oh, wait, no, because they're gone!"

She shrinks at his volume. Instantly, Peeta regrets his tone, but there's so much vile rushing out of his stomach that he continues on his self-loathing. He couldn't stop his volcano of emotions.

“I’m half a man, Katniss! Heck, I don’t even know what I am at this point …”

“Peeta …,” she coos and shifts to touch him. But he backs away, rolling his wheelchair away from her until he hits the edge of the bed frame behind him with a loud thud.

"Just leave me alone, okay! And call off the wedding! Tell Cato and the crew they could have my cake and drinks … take everything they want! I don't care! They might as well have their own fun!" he explodes like a loose cannonball.

“Would you just stop!” Katniss bellows out, heat rising and making her skin warm. “Listen to me, Peeta!”

“Just leave me alone, Katniss! Let me be! I’m going out of my mind here! … Just leave me alone!”

Peeta tries to maneuver his wheelchair to exit the bedroom, but something from under the bed frame is stuck on his chair, and he can't get it to budge. He huffs and groans in elevated frustration, punching the armrest multiple times with closed fists before gripping the wheel and hand rim to push himself forward again.

He tries and tries again, gritting his teeth as he pushes the wheel.

Nothing. Peeta's wheelchair doesn't move.

“Fuuu***!!!!!”

This is not him, Katniss screams inside her head.

In a heartbeat, her lips crash into his. It’s a long shot, it’s friendship suicide maybe, but she did the only thing she could think of at that moment.

Kissing him full on the mouth, his whole body starts shuddering, but she keeps her lips pressed to his until she has to come up for air. Her hands slide up his wrists to clasp his, letting him go only when his muscles loosen up.

"Now, that shut you up," she says with a smirk. She's shaking, though, and her skin and lips tingle with prickly heat. "You're so stubborn, you know?"

Peeta just looks at her. Mesmerized as if it was the first time he had seen her all his life.

"I mean it," Katniss adds before brushing her lips on her shoulders shyly. "I love you, Peeta. I always have. Ever since we were little children. Remember when we used to swim in the lake in our undies? We were so young then, but somehow I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you."

“Katniss, please …,” Peeta whispers as she kneels down on the carpeted floor.

"Would you just shut up?" she stops him. "I'm not mad, okay? I just … It's just … you know? … hard for me to speak this way, so just give me time, okay? I have a point to get to."

Peeta releases a puff of air, all seriousness, and gentleness back on his face. Now, this is her Peeta looking at her.

"You've been my best friend all my life. I'm closer to you than anyone else I know, even Prim. You've always been there for me, and I'd like to think that I've been there for you too … for the most part, that is. You know I would have joined you overseas, but I couldn't leave Prim behind to join the military."

"Katniss, you don't have to explain that to me. You don't owe me anything."

"I know, but I could have protected you."

“No one could have, Katniss. It’s a war.”

"Now that you're here, I don't want to let you go …," she continues. "So how about it, Peeta? I'm already kneeling, see?"

Peeta laughs, and it's the good kind. The kind that brews her insides with fluttering air.

���You don’t have to do that. You’re always so sweet to me. Now, come and stand up. Please …”

He extends both his hands to her. They're not as steady as they used to be, but they're still strong and perfect on her palms.

“I disagree,” Katniss replies, squeezing his palms whilst refusing to stand. She gives him a mischievous smile.

"Okay, maybe not all the time. But this is very sweet of you. And you look very pretty in that dress. You don't want to ruin it."

“I hate this dress,” she says flatly. “I only wore it because it’s your wedding.”

“Which is not going to happen anymore.”

"Unless you accept my proposal?"

"Katniss, I'm no good for you." He cups her right cheek and rubs his thumb over her skin for a moment before putting it back on his thighs. "I need physical therapy three times a week. I can't do many things on my own yet, and I'm grumpy most of the time because of it. I won't be able to keep up with you. I can't go to the lake like we used to or even help you with the groceries. You don't want me. I'll only make things harder for you. You deserve someone whole, not another burden like me."

“But you’re not, Peeta ...”

“Yes, I am. It’s the truth.”

"Okay, you are," she chirps, but it's only to placate him. She could never think of Peeta Mellark as a burden.

“Thank you,” is his clip response.

“But why can Clove marry you and I can’t?”

“Clove’s different.”

Katniss scoffs bitterly. “How?”

“Katniss, she’s been my girlfriend since junior college …”

“And I’ve been your best friend since what?”

“Kindergarten.”

"Maybe even before conception, you know? That is if you believe all that karma and reincarnation stuff Uncle Haymitch keeps telling us. Sometimes, he actually begins to have a point."

“Katniss …”

“I’m serious. Why am I so different?” Katniss retreats to herself, insecure all of a sudden. She’s always been one of the boys, liking the woods and sports.

"I know, I'm not pretty. I don't dress, walk, or get dolled up like Delly or Glimmer, or Clove. Or any of your ex-girlfriends for that matter … but I'll take care of you."

"Hey now," Peeta coos and takes both her hands between his. "I know you would. You do ... Katniss, don't be like that."

“I’m sorry, Peeta. I think I just made a mistake here.” Katniss pulls her hands away, hesitant and embarrassed all of a sudden. “I’m sorry, I’m not good enough for you, Peeta. Just forget this all happened. I’ll go now. I’ll take care of everything at the reception.”

“Wait, Katniss, no.” He reaches her forearm and holds her in place. “It’s not that at all.”

He nudges her gently, turning her body towards him. "Katniss, please look at me," he murmurs.

“Don’t you dare lie to me, Peeta Mellark.”

“I promise, I’m not. Cross my heart, hope to die.” He gives her a lopsided smile. He doesn’t know the effect he has on her. Quickly, the atmosphere lightens.

"It's just, you deserve someone better than me, that's all," he says sincerely. "I'll never be better, Katniss. I'll never get out of this chair. This is a life sentence for me. And even if I get prosthetic legs, I will never be the same. You can't possibly want me, or even if you do, I think you deserve someone whole. Not someone like me."

“You’re not different.”

“I don’t feel the same.”

"Because you just returned from war, Peeta! … … … Give it time."

“A long time.”

"You know, you're not at all that different." Katniss fixes Peeta's chair, freeing him so he can roll to face the bed. She sits on the edge of the cushion, playing with the thin blanket she remembers gifting Peeta last Christmas. "You're still the same guy who gives me bread whenever I have a bad day. The same person who showers Prim with cookies and flowers on her birthday. The same son who goes to the bakery to help out his father because he believes in the heritage of their family and doesn't want it to die out. The same friend who knows how to lighten up the mood and make everybody feel that they have a role to play, no matter how little it is. You're still my best friend ..."

“Katniss …”

"The same one who wrote to me every day overseas even though I'm so bad at writing back. I'm just not good with words, you know that. You're still the same best friend who always goes with me to my parents' grave and holds my hand in silence. I could never have done anything after my parents' accident without you."

“You’re so much stronger than you think.”

“I know. And you’re part of my strength.”

"Hey, that's not entirely true. You're so strong, Katniss."

"Thank you."

"Plus, I have flaws."

“Yeah, like putting ketchup on your cereals even though it’s the most disgusting thing in the whole world. Or overcooking pasta, which I still could not fathom because you’re such a great cook.”

"Pasta and I have a love-hate relationship."

Katniss snorts, remembering the mush of a lasagna he served three nights ago at the dinner party with Clove's parents.

“You’re still you, Peeta ... You can paint, cook, bake, beat Uncle Haymitch in chess, wash the dishes, water the garden, … and make me smile. If you think about it, you’re really not at all that different to me.”

“You really want to do this?” Peeta asks after a minute, rubbing her knees over the soft fabric of her dress. “You’re still serious with your proposal?”

"Yes," she says surely, eyes all glassy as she looks at him in the eyes.

"You don't find it weird?" he jokes, and the twinkle in his expression matches hers.

“Only if you do, really … … I liked kissing you ...”

"It was nice, actually," he says, recalling their first kiss earlier. It was abrupt, maybe a little rough, but he quite enjoyed it. There was just something about it that settled deep down in his heart. Comforting.

Real.

She smiles at his wistful expression.

“I can’t believe I’ve never tried kissing you before. You’d think I was blind or stupid or something.”

“Well, Delly and Glimmer did have pretty big breasts,” Katniss chuckles, putting her hands in front of her sizing up Glimmer and Delly’s curvy blessings. “They could easily obstruct your view, you know?”

Peeta snickers and rolls his chair just a little bit closer to Katniss until their knees bump together. The air now feels different. It's fluffy and warm -- even electric.

“Or maybe they put some love potion in your drink? Remember when Clove spiked your drink to get your attention at the pep rally? You ended up noticing her then. Must have some Slytherin blood running through her.”

"Nah," he laughs as he slowly settles his palms on her thighs. The pressure of his hands weighs heavily on her muscles, and they feel incredibly hot where they touch. "I think, I'm just a total idiot all these years. Never seeing the real pearl in front of me."

"Well, I don't sparkle as Glimmer does," she banters. Her breath comes out unsteadily, her whole body coming alive at Peeta's proximity and contact.

“No, you don’t. That’s true.” He pulls her down to him by the waist and has her slowly sit on his lap. She pauses, thinking she might hurt him. “You weigh like nothing, Katniss,” he assures her.

"You know, I've never been fond of too much bling," he tells her once she's seated. His left hand wraps around her waist, cupping her slight curve perfectly. His right hand entwines with her left hand, and a feeling of security and ease washes over her.

"Glimmer was often too shiny and elegant, and I look like a barnacle beside her."

“You’re not a barnacle.” It’s too easy defending him. Katniss would never let anyone mock Peeta.

“No, I am not … I’m going to kiss you now, Katniss. Is that okay?”

Her brows shoot up, and she schools them quickly. The blush on her cheeks, however, can't be undone. She wets her lips as he pulls her down to him.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

The Wedding

A collective gasp filled the room when Katniss walked down the aisle in the outdoor reception area. The crowd was informed of the change in bride three hours ago, but nothing prepared them for how beautiful the new bride was.

Prim and Uncle Haymitch unearthed Mrs. Everdeen's wedding dress. Their good family friend, Cinna, did a quick retouch to make it fit Katniss' petite form. Aunty Effie got the bridesmaids' gowns tweaked, removing the pink accents and replacing them with evergreen ones. With additional flowers on their hair, they all looked like fairies from the forest. Thank goodness the bridesmaids and groomsmen were all Peeta's friends, avoiding any drama. The maid of honor easily gave up her role to Prim and wished Katniss and Peeta well in their future together.

The dilemma of the wedding ring was quickly resolved with a trip to the candy store. Katniss and Peeta loved Ripper's sweet shop, visiting it even as adults. They loved Nerds, Gobstoppers, Razzles, Air Heads, and gummy bears. Finnick, the best man, was given of honor and responsibility of getting the rings. In just the nick of time, he bought them orange and green Ring Pops. The plastic ring with its big diamond-shaped hard candy center was the perfect and nostalgic choice. Everyone was swooning when the ring bearer brought out the brightly colored wedding gems.

It was a beautiful wedding. One filled with so much love, joy, and hearty wishes. The guests whistled and cheered when Katniss and Peeta kissed on the altar. Quite a few were teary-eyed and crying with joy. The whole town apparently was just waiting for Katniss and Peeta to stop being idiots with each other and to just fall in love already.

 -- The End --

[min-sugar-7]

DAY 1: “You’re such an idiot.”“But you love me”

Camelot was peaceful. The skies were blue with plenty of clouds for shade, creating the perfect picture of peace. Rivers flowed plenty, harvests prospered. Gaius’s chambers were relatively empty, other than the occasional births. 

The Knights invited Merlin along on their tavern conquests because there weren’t any attacks and training was pretty laid back.

Arthur had not insulted him for two days. He had not told him to muck out the stables. Nor had he thrown anything at him.

Merlin narrowed his eyes in suspicion. Something was wrong. Either that or something was about to go horribly pear-shaped. Maybe Arthur was under another enchantment. 

Now that was a matter of grave concern. Merlin narrowed his eyes further. 

“You look like you’re trying to burn that squire with your glare, Merlin,” said a voice. The owner of said voice snatched the water skin from his hands. Merlin looked, and yes, he was accidentally glaring at a poor squire. “How has he offended you?”

“Nothing, my lord. Just thinking ‘bout you,” Merlin mumbled. Arthur raised an eyebrow, tossing the water skin back to him. 

“Think of me often?” Arthur smirked, and Merlin just wanted to swat him. 

“Yeah,” Merlin rolled his eyes and grinned. “Thinking of ways to poison you so that training would end faster.”

Merlin stole a glance at his waterskin, making Arthur freeze. “You wouldn’t.”

Merlin shrugged and looked away, enjoying the unsettling peace of Camelot. Arthur huffed, and Merlin could practically hear his eye roll. Anytime now, Arthur would drag Merlin down the training field and use him as a training dummy. He will.

“Well, I guess I’d just have to accept my fate,” Arthur let out a long-suffering sigh. He would start whacking Merlin with a metal stick anytime about now. "Try not to poison any other Knights. Morgana would have your head if anything happened to Leon.”

With that, Arthur walked away. Merlin stared at him with disbelief. Arthur was being nice. And genuinely funny. Arthur is neither nice nor funny. Arthur is a mean bully who likes to torment Merlin. 

There could only be one explanation. 

Merlin’s Arthur has been kidnapped, and this one is a doppelgänger.

Apparently, no one else in Camelot shared Merlin’s suspicions. It turns out that Arthur is “Perfectly fine, and in good health,” according to Gaius. “Strong as ever,” according to Leon. “Still a princess,” according to Gwaine. “As he always is,” according to Gwen. “Still a perfect assassination target,” according to Morgana. 

On top of that, Arthur’s been listening to whatever Merlin says. Merlin’s Arthur never listens to him. Never. 

When he told Arthur not to step into the fairy circle, he listened. Usually, Arthur would say, “don’t be ridiculous, Merlin,” and step into a fairy circle. Merlin had to push Arthur away to avoid conflicts. When he told Arthur to cancel a hunt because it was about to rain, he did. Usually, Arthur would roll his eyes and go hunting anyway, shivering and freezing under the cold downpour. 

There could only be one other explanation. 

Arthur knows about his magic and is leading Merlin into a false sense of security. 

Merlin refrained from using any type of magic in the past two days. He will not risk it. 

And then Merlin’s worst nightmare came true. Arthur told him to pack his bags and wait by the stables. Arthur was going to banish him for his magic. At least he had some time to say goodbye to Gaius, who did not share Merlin’s concerns. 

“Gaius, he’s going to banish me! Could you stop laughing?” 

No such luck. Gaius continued chuckling, murmuring something under his breath, before pushing Merlin out of his chambers. 

Merlin gulped nervously, taking small, slow steps to delay the inevitable. Maybe if he concentrated hard enough, the ground would open up and swallow him. At least his ghost could continue protecting Arthur. 

Soon, though, he was standing in front of the stables, watching Arthur whisper to his favorite horse. He had his back turned and provided his undivided attention to Llamrei. He looked absolutely stupid whispering and smiling and running his hand through her mane. Merlin loved him.

Okay, well, perhaps, not too much since he’s about to banish Merlin. But Arthur doesn’t look like he is about to exile somebody. He usually has a brooding air around him and refuses to smile for hours. 

Arthur turned back, letting out an undignified squeak as he saw Merlin. Merlin would never let it go. He will lord it over Arthur for the rest of his life. Or at least, the rest of the time Merlin’s allowed to stay in Camelot. 

“Merlin,” Arthur nodded, clearing his throat. 

“Arthur,” Merlin responded, not knowing what else to say.

“Yes, um, let’s go,” Arthur declared and promptly led Llamrei out of the stables.

Merlin stared in confusion. Arthur, as if sensing his confusion, rolled his eyes, and grabbed Merlin’s pack from him, saddling it to Merlin’s favorite horse, Clove. 

“What do you have in here? Rocks?” Arthur asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he mounted his horse, staring expectantly at Merlin to do the same. Merlin shot a glare at Arthur and mounted Clove. Of course, his bag was heavy. His everything’s in there.

What Merlin did not understand was why Arthur’s riding with him. For the whole trip, Arthur looked skittish, throwing glances back at Merlin. He noticed that Arthur’s hand occasionally drifted towards his left hip, where Excalibur and his coin pouch rested.

Oh. Oh.

Arthur was not going to banish Merlin. Arthur was going to kill Merlin and make it look like an accident. Oh shit, shit, shit.

Arthur suddenly raised an arm, stopping at a clearing. Merlin tried hard not to flinch. Arthur unmounted his horse and took out his pack, wait, why does Arthur have a bag? 

Arthur caught him staring, and said, “What?”

Merlin, whose sanity was hanging on by its fingernails, immediately got off and started apologizing. 

“Arthur, I am so sorry-”

“What the hell are you apologizing for?” Arthur said, turning back, giving Merlin his signature 'what-the-hell-Merlin' look. 

That would be right about the time Merlin noticed the picnic blanket and basket in the middle of the clearing. Arthur followed Merlin’s gaze and immediately went red all over. 

Merlin connected the dots; albeit a bit slowly. Arthur dragged Merlin away from the castle, told him to pack his bags, and brought him on a picnic. So Merlin was not about to be killed. Spectacular. 

“We’re out on a picnic,” Merlin stated.

“Excellent observation, Merlin. Now it would be great if you’d come and sit with me.” Arthur stepped closer, presumably to grab Merlin’s pack. Merlin immediately grabbed it, to avoid further embarrassment. Oh God, if Arthur knew he packed all his belongings… 

“Ehem. Yes. Of course. Let’s go.”

Merlin almost stumbled forward but made it to the picnic blanket relatively unharmed. Now, what was he supposed to do?

“Well, um, people would usually sit down at this point,” Arthur said, clearing his throat. Merlin nodded and collapsed down, wincing a bit when he hit the floor a bit too hard. Arthur was trying not to laugh.

“Not a word,” Merlin mumbled, which of course, made Arthur laugh. After that, things were a bit less awkward, as they shared some rather delicious pastries and talked about nonsense. Merlin made sure to keep his bag out of Arthur’s view. 

“What do you keep in that bag anyway?” Of course, Arthur had to ask that. 

“Nothing,” Merlin totally did not squeak. Arthur narrowed his eyes, looking straight through Merlin’s rather stupid lie. “Stuff.”

“It is a bit too heavy, don’t you think?” Arthur grabbed his bag, which Merlin yanked closer to his chest. Arthur just had to take that as a challenge, crowding closer to Merlin’s space. 

Merlin tried his best, alright? But without magic, Arthur was faster, and he somehow ended straddling Merlin and holding the bag out of Merlin’s reach. Merlin huffed and collapsed back because there was no pacifying the prat when he’s up for a challenge.

Merlin covered his eyes with his forearm, deciding that if he can’t see Arthur, then Arthur can’t see him. 

“Why the hell do you have all your clothes?” 

If he can’t see Arthur, Arthur can’t see him. If he can’t see Arthur, Arthur can’t-

“Are you blushing, Merlin?” Arthur teased, and Merlin could practically see his smug grin. 

“Shut up,” Merlin mumbled, suddenly turning them over so that he was on top and in possession of his bag. His victory didn’t last long, however, because Arthur immediately flipped them. 

Oh no. Merlin will not think of how Arthur looked stunning with the sun shining in the back of his hair, creating a halo around him. He will not think about how Arthur’s eyes practically matched the sky. He will not-

Well, Merlin couldn’t think after that, because Arthur pressed his lips against his. Woah, hold on, how did that happen? Not that Merlin was complaining. It was rather brilliant. Arthur’s lips tasted sweet like the pastries they ate, and Merlin could spend hours like this. 

There was only one drawback to this. Merlin’s magic soared under his skin, thrumming constantly as if enjoying the kiss just as much as Merlin did. He could hold on for a few more seconds, but he doesn’t want Arthur to know, but he doesn’t want to break the kiss either-

Arthur suddenly broke the kiss, prepping a few butterfly kisses and making a trail to his ear, nibbling on the skin there.

“Breathe, Merlin,” he whispered before going back to teasing his ear. It was then that Merlin realized that he was holding his breath along with his magic but couldn’t let go of either. Arthur then pulled back, stopping everything.

Merlin immediately missed it but could finally think without his magic going haywire. He still was too afraid to open his eyes, just in case his eyes decided to go gold. A hand came up to caress his cheek, sending tingles in its wake. 

“Shh… Open them,” Arthur whispered, his voice suddenly close to his ear. There’s no way he could mean what Merlin thinks he means. No way. Merlin kept them glued shut. “I mean it.” The hand now traveled up to his cheekbones, tracing the outline of his eyes.

Merlin did, a bit slowly at first. It could all very well be an elaborate plan to get him to confess his true identity, but Merlin didn’t know how to fight it. He didn’t want to fight it.

Arthur took a sharp intake of breath, no doubt noticing the gold of his eyes. He didn’t do anything, just stared. Merlin held his breath again, too afraid to move. 

A few moments passed, and Merlin feared he’d accidentally frozen time. But then Arthur rushed forward to capture his lips again, and all coherent thoughts left him. He was too startled to notice that he’d let go of his magic, instead, focusing on the feel of Arthur’s lips against his. 

“You’re beautiful,” Arthur mumbled against his lips before diving back for another kiss. It took a few seconds for Merlin to understand. Wait Arthur knows about his magic. Arthur is kissing him. Merlin is still miraculously alive. Arthur’s tongue is swiping against his lips. Arthur hasn’t run Merlin through with his sword. Merlin’s tongue is in Arthur’s mouth. Arthur knows about his magic. Arthur isn’t killing him.

Merlin promptly broke the kiss, gasping against Arthur’s lips. 

“Wait- you aren’t mad?” Merlin’s thoughts were a jumble of “Arthur knows, Arthur knows, Arthur knows-”

“Why would I be mad?” Arthur looked absolutely amazing with his cheeks flushed and lip red from kissing. From kissing him, his mind supplied. For a second, Merlin forgot what they were talking about, but then remembered. 

“I’ve lied, and you think magic is evil-” Merlin searched Arthur's face for any signs of disgust, anger, or hatred but found none. 

Arthur chuckled at that, turning his head away. “How could it be evil, when it does this?” Merlin followed Arthur’s gaze and saw exactly what he was talking about. The clearing that was formerly filled with grass now had little flowers surrounding the two. Merlin felt his cheeks heat up at that because the flowers were Carnations, and Merlin totally didn’t mean anything by it. Blame it all on Merlin’s magic.

Arthur placed one last final kiss at the corner of his mouth before plopping himself beside Merlin. Arthur curled himself around Merlin, sneaking a hand through his waist and pulling him close. Merlin went willingly. 

“You never told me why your bag’s full of useless stuff,” Arthur said after some time. Merlin mourned the loss of peaceful, happy silence. He was hoping that he’d forgotten about that.

Merlin ducked his head so that Arthur couldn’t see his face. He cuddled up against Arthur’s chest, letting his heartbeat calm him a bit.

“I thought you were going to banish me or something,” Merlin mumbled. 

“What was that?” 

“I thought you were going to banish me,” Merlin repeated, this time really hoping that the ground would swallow him up.

There was a beat of silence before Arthur barked out, “What?”

“Well, um, you were being nice to me, and generally not being a prat for like two days and that’s not normal Arthur behavior,” Merlin quickly rushed to explain. “And then I thought that you found out about my magic and you’re trying to lead me into a false sense of security, and then you asked me to pack my bags and come to the stable so I thought that you were going to banish me.

“But then you tagged along, and I thought you were going to murder me or something out here, and then I saw the picnic blankets and got so confused.” Merlin should probably shut up now before he makes an even bigger fool of himself.

“That’s what you thought this date was about?” Arthur asked. Merlin could feel him shaking, his words vibrating through his chest. 

“This was a date?” Merlin asked, in genuine surprise, because the kiss was a total spur-of-the-moment thing, right?

Arthur stayed silent for a second before bursting out in laughter. Merlin whipped his head up and saw, that yes, Arthur was completely amused. Merlin finally got a legitimate reason to swat his chest, which only made him laugh harder. 

Fine, Merlin might be an over-thinker. But it is an acquired skill after staying in Camelot for so long. You have got to think outside the box if you wish to be on the same level as the countless assassins thirsting after Pendragon blood.

“Merlin, you are such an idiot,” Arthur howled, his laughter coming to a slow end. He stared at Merlin with such fondness that Merlin had to look away, so Arthur could not notice his blush.

“Shut up. You love me.” Woah, from where did that come? Dammit. 

“Yeah, I do.” Was he hearing things now? Merlin whipped his head up for the second time, his eyes meeting an equally dumbstruck Arthur. No matter what Merlin did, he could not stop the onslaught of a stupid grin creeping over his face. 

Merlin leaned forward for a peck, which dissolved into a kiss and then into a make-out session. When they parted, Merlin rested his forehead against Arthur’s, basking in the glow of pure, utter happiness.

Arthur shifted beneath him, making Merlin open his eyes. He opened his coin purse and pulled out a piece of red fabric, looking suspiciously like cashmere. Oh, so Arthur wasn’t trying to reach for his sword… 

“Here, for you,” Arthur said and held it up for Merlin. Merlin touched it, and yes, it was a cashmere neckerchief. Merlin gaped a bit because cashmere is worth more than Merlin’s annual salary and then some.

“Arthur-”

“Just, take it-” Arthur reached behind to untie the knot of Merlin’s current neckerchief. He grabbed the soft fabric from Merlin and tied it around Merlin's neck. It felt like absolute heaven- he’s never worn something so soft “-Suits you.”

Merlin noticed the little blush that spread across Arthur’s nose and cheeks, and couldn’t help but smile. He was lying on top of Arthur, so it was easy to lean forward and press a kiss on Arthur’s nose. Arthur turned a darker shade of red. 

“I love you too, dollophead,” Merlin mumbled against Arthur’s lips before diving in for another kiss. Merlin felt Arthur smile against his lips and had no problem returning one. They were honestly acting like a cheesy old married couple, but Merlin wouldn’t have it any other way.

[yourfinalbow]

Ack anon I'm sorry. Tumblr ate your ask and I'm 🔪 But I saved your ask to put on the Google Doc so don't fret! I have it!

“Hi Ghastie Ghast, I wanted to share a prompt with you lol. I decided to go more holiday theme’d because it’s never too early to get into the holiday spirit.

“Your favorite winter drink was back on the menu, so I decided to surprise you with it.”

Please enjoy this prompt lmao”

The nickname made me -_- but hi Little Gray Circle Dude With Sunglasses! Thank you for sending me this! I had fun writing it. I'm assuming you wanted a Destiel fic, so that's what I wrote! (Also bonus points for Saileen as a background ship?) I sort of strayed a little from the prompt and the tone gets heavier as it goes on… 👀 I also accidentally wrote more than intended, so you can read it on Ao3 if that's easier. (And maybe give it a kudos because you’re the best?)

Title: Black Coffee Derangement Syndrome

Ship(s): Dean Winchester/Castiel, Sam Winchester/Eileen Leahy.

(Basic) Tags: Fluff, Slight Angst, Domesticity in the Men of Letters Bunker, Established Dean/Cas, Established Sam/Eileen, Using black coffee as a metaphor for hypermasculinity, With a whip cream style topping of internalized homophobia. *Finger guns.*

Warnings: Coffee gatekeeping and small sections of fluff that are as sweet as Cas’s Starbucks order. Also I’ve been to Starbucks once. Maybe twice? (Also a single mention of a drug that's commonly found as white powder, the non-descriptive comparison of Sam’s stupid health stuff with emesis, and use of the name that the figurehead for Germany in WW2 bore, just to be safe.)

Rating: T? Maybe? For language?

Word Count: 9k+

Quick thanks to my awesome beta @walksinstarllight! They are a poet and a writing sorcerer (wizard without a hat), and the only reason this fic even makes sense so please go shower them in kudos. (You can find their work here.)

Another thanks to @internetintroverts, who described a peppermint mocha to me in like 300 words because I drink black coffee and know nothing of anything ever. You can find their work here! (There's an Easter egg of one of their fics in this one hehe.)

The first thing Dean did when Cas got back from the Empty was give him coffee.

Okay no.

The first thing he did was fall into Cas’s arms and grip that stupid trenchcoat until his knuckles turned white. Shaking and laughing with hot tears streaming out of his eyes, he told him he was an asshole for leaving him like that. And to never, ever do it again. With blurry eyes and all other thoughts hazy, he told Cas he could have it, he could have what he wanted. Whatever he wanted. He told Cas he loved him too.

But then the next thing was coffee.

Caffeine is a hunter’s number one best friend, and since Cas was human again, Dean knew Sam was going to come at him with his stupid green health drinks and herbal tea. As Cas’s knight in shining armour, (a title used by Dean and Dean only), it was his duty to protect him from the disgustingly liquified rabbit food.

Now he expected Cas to like black coffee, you know, like a normal person.

But no, oh no. Apparently, he was dating a heathen.

Dean had to actually rub his eyes the first time he watched Cas fix his own coffee. He stood in the doorway of the kitchen, mouth agape.

Cas was leaning on the counter, humming some song that Dean could neither recognize, nor would he approve of, thank-you-very-much.

(Ok it was Champagne Problems by Taylor Swift and it's entirely possible he's listened to it once or twice but he still doesn't approve of it, thank-you-very-much.)

He held his yellow and black striped, bee-themed ceramic mug Eileen had bought him in one hand, and the entire five-pound bag of cane sugar in the other. And there he stood, happy as can be, pouring it directly into his mug.

Dean rubbed his eyes again.

And not even like, a normal amount either.

He just kept pouring, and pouring, and Oh my god he’s still pouring. Dean thought. It would honestly be more believable if it wasn’t sugar at all, and instead was in fact Cas’s secret stash of cocaine.

Dean might actually have to put sugar on the grocery list after he was finished.

His thoughts traveled back to Ishim doing the same thing with his coffee, in the tiny little diner Cas had set up as a meeting place. Dean had barged in that day, not thinking of his brother mocking him, or the possibility of danger inside. His vision was as tunneled as his thoughts  focused only on Cas, not caring about anything else.

By that time the following day, Dean thought they were both going to die. The bloody and uneven sigil on the wall, Cas no more than ten feet away. Not quite within a comforting reach. The room was spinning from the blow to his head, and he could barely make out the words being spat from Ishim’s mouth.

“You blast me away, you’ll blast away every angel in the room. I’ll survive. Castiel, on the other hand, he’s hurt. He might live, or he might just end up a bloody smear on the wall.”

He almost lost Cas that day.

The blood rushed to his ears as his instincts sought out the mark on the wall. Ishim had told him to roll the dice, but in his head he couldn’t look past the chance of rolling a one. Watching the acrylic cube bounce until it decided Cas’s fate. There was no dilemma, there wasn’t even a decision to be made. He would always choose Cas over himself. Silent acts of care he could never vocalize.

An inability to speak formed from fear and cowardice. Like a lion in his stomach scratching at the words until they fell back down his throat.

And it was that inability to speak that led Cas to think he was nothing more than a tool for the Winchester’s to use.

He almost let Cas believe he meant nothing to him.

Dean cleared his throat. “Mornin’ Sunshine.”

Cas set down the bag of sugar and picked up the pot, the glass making a small clink as it hit the top of the coffee maker. “Goodmorning Dean. Would you like any coffee?” He greeted cheerfully, turning around like he hadn't just put enough sugar to make a pound cake in his coffee.

“Uh.” Dean was still caught off-guard by Willie Wonka over there. “Sure Cas.” He took the coffee pot from his hand and muttered a thank you.

“So,” Cas started while Dean reached into the cabinet for his own mug. “What ingredient do you suggest I put in my coffee this morning?”

“Uh...I don't know man. I drink my coffee black.”

“Yes I know you’re boring Dean, but you can still help me not be.”

“Black coffee isn't boring it's-”

“Dean, if you say ‘manly,’ I will sit you down and make you eat only spinach and kale for a week.” Sam said, walking into the kitchen, hair still spiked up from sleep. He used one hand to sign the words, his other one occupied by Eileen, who was sleepily shuffling closely behind.

Dean looked aghast. “I would starve.” He attempted to sign his indignant response, hands moving sloppily while holding both his mug and the coffee pot.

“I think that's the point.” Eileen said, laughing. She looked at Cas. “Is Dean gatekeeping your coffee aspirations again?”

“Yes.” He answered, ignoring Sam’s laugh and Dean’s huff of exaggerated outrage.

“Have you tried cinnamon?” Sam suggested. “You like Dean’s apple pie, and that has cinnamon in it.”

“I’m not so sure about that, Sam. Dean told me not to ever take cooking advice from you.“

“And I stand by that.” Dean interjected suddenly.

“I can cook!”

“Ehhh…” Eileen’s comment bought her a look of betrayal. “Though Sam may be right on this one, you might like it.” She shrugged.

“See.”

Cas pondered the thought for a moment. “Perhaps I will then.”

“Do we have nutmeg?” Eileen said, breaking away from Sam’s grip to check one of the cabinets. He walked to the other side of the kitchen, intending to look through the spice rack, knowing exactly what his girlfriend was getting at.

“You better not mess up my damn kitchen.” He said quickly. “Or you're organising them all next time.”

Sam rolled his eyes, knowing full well Dean would never let him organise the kitchen. Eileen looked through them, carefully turning the bottles around until the labels faced her. She pulled out the cinnamon and clove while she was looking for the nutmeg.

“Found it.” Sam called from the other side of the kitchen, walking over and putting a hand on Eileen’s shoulder.

“Thank you.” She said with a smile, grabbing the plastic spice jars.

She individually tossed each one to Cas. “Use these, it will taste like a pumpkin spice latte.”

“And don't forget the milk.” Sam added.

Cas scrambled to catch the spices, successfully grabbing two of them out of the air, the third one intercepted by Dean.

“What’s a pumpkin spice latte?” He looked at Eileen before snatching the bottle of cinnamon from Dean.

“It's a famous drink you can get at Starbucks.” Sam answered.

Cas tilted his head to the side and squinted at him. “What's a Starbucks?”

“You know, the coffee shop Alex and Patience drag Jody to all the time.” Dean said.

“I’m pretty sure Donna drags her there too.” Sam added. “Something about girl’s date night out.”

“The one Claire says is for ‘basic bitches’?” He lifted his hands, forming air quotes as he spoke.

“Yeah.” Dean answered, quietly laughing. “That's the one. She’s probably right, too.”

Cas carefully put the different spices in his coffee, eyeing the mug warily. His light brown coffee now had specs of...stuff in it.

(And unbeknownst to him, there was also a small pile of sugar at the bottom, the coffee so saturated it wouldn't dissolve any more.)

Eileen laughed at the look on his face. “It's good, I promise.”

Sam turned to look at her. “How would you know? Most of the time you get hot chocolate and spike it with bourbon.”

“You’re the one who gets a Pink Drink.”

Dean choked on his coffee. “What?”

“It's strawberry and coconut milk, and it's delicious.”

“Sure it is Sam.” Eileen jabbed.

“So what I'm getting here is that not only have you two been to Starbucks often enough to have a regular order, but Sam gets something called a ‘Pink Drink’?”

“No…” Sam started, trying to find a way to defend them. “Sometimes we…”

“...Make our own drinks.” Eileen snapped her fingers as she finished for him, attempting to save them from the endless stream of good-natured insults Dean would throw at them otherwise.

“Well you two are a real Martha Stewart, aren't you?”

“Yeah, except she's a convicted criminal.” Sam attempted to snark back.

“So are you!”

Before either of them could respond, Cas shoved his mug into Dean's face. “You have to try this, Dean. It tastes like pumpkin pie.”

Dean carefully grabbed the hot mug from Cas and took a sip. He was right, it did taste kinda like pumpkin pie. He took another sip, letting the pleasant flavor sit on his tongue. The different spices mixed perfectly together.

“I mean it's… okay.” He lied.

Dean contemplated his pumpkin themed food options. “Though I would rather just have pumpkin pie.”

Cas took his mug back. “Fine. More for me.” He said with a smirk, mimicking the look Dean gives him every time Cas says he doesn't want anymore bacon, before taking another sip of the makeshift pumpkin spice coffee.

Dean smiled at him, setting his own mug down and moving Cas’s out of the way to pull him into a kiss. He could smell the nutmeg almost as much as he could taste the cinnamon on his lips.

“Mmm we should bake pumpkin pie tonight.” He said, pulling away just enough so he could talk.

“I would like that.” Cas answered. “All four of us could make pie. According to the 'mom blogs', as you call them, it would be a good family bonding exercise.”

“That’s right. And if they want any pie, they gotta help make it. That means more for us if they refuse.” He grinned.

“A win-win situation, really.” Cas smiled before tugging Dean close so their lips met again.

“I love you.” Dean muttered.

“I love you too.” Cas said softly.

Behind their backs Sam and Eileen were fake-gagging at their sickly sweet interaction, but secretly just glad the two of them had finally gotten over their stubborn (and oblivious) selves.

Sam was honestly overjoyed to see his brother finally happy. He would even go as far as saying finally willing to be himself, too. (Not that he would ever say this outloud. Sam can practically see Dean’s eyes roll farther back into his head than should be possible at the words.) All four of them had gone through more shit in the last few months than any normal person would in their entire life. They were all just lucky to be alive, and with that, learning how to savour the little moments of overly sweet normalcy.

(And the pumpkin spice-life Dean had secretly been longing for since they were little kids.)

So of course they were going to help bake pie.

---

“I want to try Starbucks.” Cas said the next morning, both of them still in bed.

Dean groaned, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “Can I ask why, or is this one of those, 'I'll tell you later’ disasters like with the slime ingredients?”

“I want to try all the human things that I didn't get to try last time.” He said offhandedly.

Dean pictured Cas’s hurt face when he had told him he couldn’t stay, smile broken as Dean’s own heart shattered from the look the newly-human angel was giving him.

He wanted to tell him it was going to be okay, that Cas himself wasn’t the reason, but the lion in his stomach clawed the words down faster than even the thought of ruining Sam’s chances at survival could.

With a pang of guilt from the memory, Dean pulled himself closer to Cas and rested his head on the other man’s chest. He wrapped his arms around him, trying to preserve as much warmth and comfort as he could until they had to inevitably get out of bed. “Only if you let me sleep like this for thirty more minutes.”

Cas smiled. “Oh, are we making deals now?”

“I’d sell my soul for you.” Dean said cheekily, which earned a glare from Cas. “Believe me, I know.”

After a beat he went on. “Fine, you have a deal.” Before Dean could celebrate by tugging the covers over their bodies, Cas added another clause to their agreement. “But... in true Crowley fashion, you have to seal the deal with a kiss.”

Dean lazily threw his arms into the air. “Victory.”

He turned over, pulling himself upwards until he was just inches from Cas. Cradling the angel-turned-Winchester’s head in his hands, Dean placed his lips on Cas’s, melting into the touch as he felt the other man’s arms wrap around his torso.

When he broke away from the kiss, Dean found himself face to face with the most beautiful smile he had ever laid eyes on, one born from adoration and love. Cas’s eyebrows were slightly scrunched up, but for once it wasn’t a sign of confusion when met with some obscure eighties rock reference. It was a tiny expression of care, and it was one that was truly Cas. Not Jimmy’s, not even one Cas had picked up from him or Sam. It was completely and wholly Cas, and a completely and wholly human thing to do.

He realized Cas had been doing that long before the Empty stole his grace.

Dean smiled back at him, relaxed. Like taking in a deep breath after being under murky water for forty years. He brushed a loose strand of soft, brown hair into its place, before falling back into his spot and closing his eyes. “Crowley would be proud.” He whispered with a soft laugh, smile deepening as Cas joined him.

When their quiet laughter died out, there was a pause, air stagnant and in its own sleepy haze

“Oh and Dean?”

“Hm?” Dean turned his head to look at him, eyes not failing to glow with their unusually bright, green pigment. He took a deep breath, the lids of his eyes already started to slowly fall back down again.

“The slime wasn't a disaster. You enjoyed it.”

“I did.” He muttered sleepily, a loose smile forming on his lips as he drifted off to sleep. Cas laid there, running his fingers through the other man’s hair, contentment and admiration showing itself in every feature on his face.

This was more than he could have ever wanted.

---

“Dean. Dean wake up.” Cas was excitedly whisper-shouting in his ear like a kid on Christmas morning. It was exactly thirty minutes later, (he had counted), and Cas was ready to get moving.

“No.” He answered back, mimicking Cas’s tone.

“But you’re like a cat.” He teased. “You're on me and I can't get up.”

Dean sighed. “I can't believe I let you talk me into this.”

“It didn't take much convincing.”

Dean rolled over to give Cas a playful glare, but was met with the saddest puppy dog eyes he had ever seen, completely throwing him off his guard.

“I'm going to kill Sam for teaching you that.”

Cas just continued to give him that look.

“Fine.” Dean relented, sitting up with a yawn and thinking about how he will now never be able to win another argument.

“Get dressed.” Cas said excitedly. “We're going to Starbucks.”

“Hooray.” He gave a sarcastic laugh, but a smile creeped on his lips.

They walked out of their room together, heading towards the bunker’s library. Dean slid in one of the chairs, turning Sam’s still-open laptop around and waking it up.

Cas, meanwhile, turned to a random page of the lore book resting on the table and started reading in an attempt to pass the time.

The sound of Dean typing filled the air. “So, I just looked it up, and do we have to go to Starbucks?”

“Yes.” Cas said simply, not looking up from the book.

Dean groaned. “Cas there isn't one in the county, let alone Lebanon. That's probably why Sam and Eileen make their own.”

“Where's the closest one?” Cas asked, his blinding, blue eyes glaring at the back of Sam’s computer like he was trying to will the coffee shop to be near.

“I thought it was across state lines and in Nebraska at first, but it looks like there's a small one in a town called Washington. It's about 80 miles from here.”

“Let's go!” Cas excitedly straightened his trenchcoat and headed towards the door.

“Or, we could leave Starbucks to the fourteen year old girls.”

Cas turned back around and rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’m sure their entire demographic is fourteen year old girls, staff included.”

Alright, smartass. Dean thought, struggling to hide a smile.

Cas walked out the door, expecting Dean to follow.

“It takes an hour to get there, our coffee’s going to be cold by the time we get home, and it's freezing outside.” Dean muttered under his breath, but he grabbed his keys off the table and stood up, willing to follow Cas to the ends of the earth if it meant he would stay with him.

Not that he was going to enjoy this trip. In fact, he was currently doing the opposite of enjoying, and they hadn’t even gotten into the car yet. Starbucks. Starbucks. Really, Cas? Of all the places he wanted to go, it had to be Starbucks. He couldn’t want to explore humanity through Target or something?

Even Claire wouldn’t be caught dead in that place, with all the frou-frou toppings, elaborate drink mixes, and colourful, drizzled syrup. The people who go to Starbucks are the kind of people who like coffee that doesn’t taste like coffee. Teenage girls who might as well just be drinking whip cream, and that was without considering the seasonal drinks they fawn over.

Seasonal drinks that shouldn’t legally be allowed to be referred to as coffee.

Dean couldn’t believe he ever agreed to this, but still, he begrudgingly followed.

---

Using the GPS on Cas’s phone, (Dean said his insane directional skills helped out too), they found the Starbucks relatively easily once they were in the little town.

They parked the Impala, and Dean looked at the modern building. The green lettering contrasted with the tan plaster walls, spelling “Starbucks.”

He heard Cas get out, his feet making a crunching noise as they hit the gravel, and watched from across the top of the car as he started towards the coffee shop. Dean looked at the building warily, reluctance painted on his face.

Cas was telling him some random fact about a bird he saw, but Dean could only think about his reputation that was about to shatter like a vase dropping on tile floor.

Reputation with who? He didn't know.

Well, he had a vague idea, but chose not to let his thoughts wander that far.

It was okay. This was fine. He could swallow his pride and-

“Ooh. The peppermint mocha looks good.” Cas was reading the limited edition drinks on the drive-thru menu as they traveled across the parking lot.

Dean was going to barf.

They walked into the building, immediately hit with the overwhelming smell of excessive amounts of flavoured syrup indoused coffee. Dean glanced around the well-lit building, taking note of the many different people there.

(He wasn’t about to have any black-eyed minions reporting his Starbucks order to a very judgmental Queen of Hell.)

Cas pushed Dean’s protesting body into the line, looking pleased with the many different options written on the menu overhead.

He enjoyed the small touch of Cas’s hands on his back, moving him forwards to the line, but was grateful Cas was careful not to let them linger there too long.

He was still wary about doing… this, in public.

He knew Cas was patiently waiting for him to be ready, so he didn't know how to tell him that he might never be.

The teenager working the cash register interrupted his train of thought. “What will it be for ya?”

“I would like a peppermint mocha please.”

“Alrighty. And you?”

“I'll take just a black coffee.”

The barista looked unimpressed. “And your names?”

Dean grinned. “John and John.”

“No relation.” Cas added.

The barista just sighed. “How do you want me to differentiate the two of ‘em then?”

“Oh you can put ‘John Bonham’ on mine.” Dean replied.

“Comin’ right up.” Their tone didn't change, still just full of apathy that could only be perfected by the work of a burnt-out teenager.

Dean and Cas walked down to the end of the counter and towards the pickup section. “Now tell me, Castiel.” He stressed his partner’s name. “Who’s John Bonham?”

Cas sighed, but the corner of his mouth upturned in a grin. “John Henry Bohnham, affectionately referred to as ‘Bonzo’, born in 1948 and was most well known for being the drummer of the rock band ‘Led Zeppelin’.”

“Mmm very close, but unfortunately you forgot the word ‘best’ in front of ‘rock band.’” Dean smirked before leaning in for a chaste kiss.

“You should have said I was ‘John Bon Jovi.’” Cas said, smiling.

“Why? Because you’re only good at this sometimes?” Dean closed the gap between them.

As soon as their lips met, Dean pulled away instinctively, realization hitting him like a hunter with a bat as his eyes widened in terror. “I-I'm sorry, I didn’t...” His words faltered as he looked around at the people sitting in the coffee shop, all of which were paying no mind to them.

He felt sick, guilt gnawing at him from a pit in his stomach.

“Hey, it's okay Dean. You know I'm perfectly fine with public displays of affection, and no one else even saw us. There's no need to apologize.”

“Yeah-h.” He said shakily. Before he could figure out who he was apologizing to, a voice from behind the counter called.

“I have an order for a mister ‘John’ and ‘John Bonham’.”

“That's us.” Dean spat the words out quickly, turning around to take them from the barista’s hand. He rushed out of the door, the small tinkling sound of the welcome bell and the blood rushing to his ears drowning out the sound of Cas’s call from behind.

He sat in the front seat of Baby, knowing he was being childish. Dean took a shaky breath and tried not to think about it.

About what the hell he was thinking, kissing Cas out in public like that. The judgemental eyes- black or not- that were watching. He thought about what his father would say, mind instantly going back to a moment in his childhood he has tried to forget since it happened, wondering where he went wrong.

About the time John had caught him and Lee, ignoring the weak excuses Dean was stuttering out. Skipping town faster than they had done in years.

About how the left side of his face had been a yellow-ish purple for weeks following, and the sore spot on his arm from where he caught the pavement as he flew towards it.

About how he had told Sam he just fell on a hunt. “Don't worry kid, you should have seen the vamp when I was done with him.” He swung his fist around in slow motion, pretending to punch an invisible enemy as his little brother giggled in childish bliss.

About how John never looked at him the same. The disgust in his eyes, harsh words on his lips.

About how he vowed to never disappoint his father like that again, and their joint hatred for that part of him. Sometimes it felt like the only thing they could agree on.

About how somewhere, somehow, he had decided Cas was different. That he somehow didn’t count, and that losing him hurt so much, was such an egregious pain, he wanted as much of Cas as he was allowed to have. And how that was something insurmountable stronger than the twisted, sick feeling John had placed in his gut.

He remembered something Cas had told him once: “Hatred isn’t a natural trait, Dean, it’s a learned one. A baby isn’t born with the ability to hate, it’s passed on from one broken soul to another. Love, love however. That’s something different altogether.”

Cas’s hand on his shoulder pulled Dean out of his thoughts. “Hey.” He said softly.

“Hey Cas.”

“I love you.” He got in the passenger's seat, taking his coffee from Dean’s still frozen hand.

“I love you too.” He whispered absentmindedly, staring straight ahead and seeing nothing but thoughts from the past. His mind fighting an internal battle, logic telling him that what he had with Cas wasn’t wrong, and even though everything from fate to God had tried to wedge itself between them, it was still the most right thing he had. And he knew that, but his dad’s drunken, booming voice echoed throughout his head, telling him that he was dirty. Telling him the Winchester men had no place for someone like him.

“You better stop that now, boy. Bad things happen to you when you’re weak.”

At the time he had taken that as a warning, rather than a threat. But now Dean wasn’t so sure.

It’s not even that his Dad was particularly religious. He wasn’t told that it was a sin, or that he was going to Hell. Though it’s not like that particular statement would have been wrong. He thought with a bitter laugh.

While the thoughts in his head were screaming mercilessly, the drive home was in a simple silence. The only noise being Cas’s occasional sip, and the sound of soft fabric rubbing against skin as Cas moved his hand in small, comforting motions against Dean's back.

When they got to the bunker, Cas, who was genuinely impressed that Dean managed to drive them home without crashing into a tree, pulled Dean out of the car and gently shook him out of his self-imposed stupor.

“Your coffee's cold.” Cas said with a laugh.

Dean blinked a couple times, clearing the fog from his mind, before laughing along with him. “And who’s fault is that? You were the one who insisted on traveling across the state to get it.”

“Do you want some of mine?” Cas asked. “There's a little bit left, and I held it next to the heater. It should still be lukewarm.”

“No thanks, Cas. I can go make some in the kitchen.”

“But what if I want you to try it?” Dean glared at him. “Don't make me do Sam’s ‘puppy dog eyes’ again.”

“Okay, okay. You win.” He put his hands up, mimicking a surrender. “I'll try some of your stupid, Christmas cookie, candy-cane flavoured coffee thing or whatever.” They started walking towards the entrance to the bunker.

“Peppermint mocha?”

“That's the one.”

Cas laughed at him.

“Oh just, give it here.” Dean said. He took a long sip from the disposable cup. He could taste a vague hint of whipped cream mixed in with the coffee, its light fluffy texture sticking to the last swallow of smooth liquid in the bottom of the cup. The chocolate and espresso rested on his tongue, and the peppermint was strong and refreshing. He took another sip.

“Does that face mean you like it?”

Dean looked at him guiltily. “No.” He opened the bunker’s door and started walking down the metal stairs.

“Yes you do.”

“No, I don't.”

“You took a second sip.”

Dean reached the bottom of the stairs first, and walked over to the War Room table to set both coffee cups and his keys down.

“So? I was trying to make sure I properly understood the flavour. Since when is that a crime?”

“You wanted to properly understand a flavour you didn't like?” Cas walked up to Dean and pulled the nearest chair out to sit down.

“What are you two arguing about this time?” Eileen asked from the library.

Cas clenched both of his hands into fists, putting the right one on top of the other. He made small, circular, stirring motions with his right hand. “Coffee.” He signed swiftly, movements fluid.

“Ah. That makes sense.” She spoke the words.

“What makes sense?” Sam asked, walking in from one of the hallways, making sure Eileen could see his lips before speaking.

“They're arguing over coffee again.”

Sam glanced at both of them, before his eyes reached the two cups on the War Room table.

“Wait a second… Dean?” He looked at his brother, before turning to face his best friend. “Cas?”

“Yes, Sam?” Cas answered.

“Did you two go to Starbucks?”

“I don't want to talk about it.” Dean grumbled.

“Yes, we did!” Cas sounded way too excited to be referring to coffee. “I got a peppermint mocha, and Dean tried some and liked it.”

“I did not.”

“I don't care what coffee you like, Dean. What I do care about is that you went all the way to Starbucks, and didn't bother to ask if we wanted to come.”

“Not cool Dean.” Eileen walked in, shaking her head and hiding a smile.

“I might have thought about buying you two drinks, but there was no way I was ordering yours with a straight face.” He looked at Sam. “And it's an hour away, they wouldn't have been hot or cold or whatever they're supposed to be by the time we got here.”

“Well then we'll just have to go back, all four of us.” Eileen put simply.

“It's an hour away.”

“We know.” Sam added.

“Let me say that again, in case you weren’t listening. It's an hour away. For coffee. That isn't even that good.”

“I beg to differ, Dean.” Cas said.

“Yeah I'm definitely with Cas on this one.” Eileen agreed while Sam nodded along.

“No. There's no way I'm getting back in Baby to drive all the way to Starbucks again.”

“Fine. We’ll go get our own.”

“With what car?” Dean said, very sure of himself.

Sam snatched Baby’s keys off the war room table, which in hindsight was probably something Dean should have expected.

“Let's hope Sam doesn't have too many shots of espresso.” Eileen said, faking concern. “I would hate for your baby to pay the price.”

“Fine. I'll drive you.” Dean grumbled while Eileen double fist-pumped her win.

Cas looked very pleased with the thought of getting to try more coffee.

---

They left shortly after, the drive over painful for everyone except Dean, who listened to the same four songs on repeat the entire hour.

(It’s their own fault, really.)

---

“Can we please listen to something other than Bob Seger on the trip home?” Sam complained as he slammed shut the door to Baby’s backseat.

“You’re just mad you didn’t get shotgun.” Dean said, closing his own door. “Besides, driver picks the music, everyone else shuts their cakehole.” Sam mouthed the words along with Dean, having heard the speech a million times before.

Eileen and Cas got out, neither one of them had any desire to input on their squabble, and were instead engaged in their own, quieter discussion.

Both brothers continued to argue until they walked into the Starbucks.

“Ah. There's the scent of overpriced coffee I missed.” Eileen joked as she took her first breath inside the building, using her hand to waft the smell towards her.

“What are you getting?” Cas asked Sam.

“I want my usual, and Eileen, what are you having?”

“Hot chocolate with espresso shots please. This place doesn't sell liquor.” She shook her head sadly and Sam laughed. “Good thing I brought my own.” She winked at them, opening her jacket just enough so they could see the inside pocket and showing off her flask.

“Oh, now that would be a Starbucks I would go to.” Dean said.

“You two wait in line.” Sam pointed to Cas and Dean. “We’ll save a table.”

Dean looked like he wanted to protest, but they walked away before he had the chance. Cas leaned over towards him. “Don't worry. I'll order Sam’s.” He very conspicuously winked.

Dean smiled at his attempts of regular human interaction, before over-the-top winking himself.

“Can you order for us? I need to talk to Sam about something.”

“Sure thing…” Cas had to think before finishing his sentence. “...buckaroo.”

Dean outwardly cringed. “Keep trying, you'll get there eventually.” He patted Cas on the back, which was slightly moving in a chuckle.

It was good to see Cas filled with so much simple joy. Face creased from laughter rather than stress, he seemed so much lighter. Happier. It was only a small sliver of what he deserved, but it was something. Maybe he could live with driving an hour to get what he assumed was half-decent coffee.

“What would you like?” Cas asked him, eyes still filled with a sparkle that only comes from gaining something you thought you lost.

“Uh.” He thought about it for a moment, almost considering branching out into the unexplored terrain that was the dark green menu with small, white text, before shuddering at the thought.

“I think I'll take that expensive black coffee I didn't get earlier.”

Dean was not going to turn into one of those people, if he had any say about it.

Cas walked into the line, leaving Dean to scan the room, furiously waving Sam over when his eyes found their booth.

“Sam.” He sounded like he was trying to whisper, but his volume raised far higher than that. The patron closest to Dean gave him a look before turning back to their work.

“Sam, come here, it's urgent.” His brother turned to look at him, rolling his eyes before getting out of the booth.

“What do you want?” He said once he reached Dean.

“Sam. Help. What do I do?”

“About what?”

“About what kind of coffee Cas is having.”

“Oh god, Dean let it go. He's not going to only ever drink black coffee. Contrary to popular belief, former angels do actually have souls.”

Dean ignored the implications that he didn't have a soul, too distracted by Cas. “But look.” He motioned his head towards where Cas was standing, next in line to order. “He’s eyeing the weird fruity drinks.”

“Dean. It's Cas. The man’s favorite food is PB&J. What did you expect him to have, taste?”

“Alright that's rich coming from mister Pinkity Drinkity or whatever the fuck.”

“You walked into a Starbucks and ordered black coffee, I don't think I'm the wrong one here.”

“Wait, wait. Shut up. Quiet.” He hit Sam on the shoulder in a childish attempt at getting him to stop talking so he could listen.

“Ow. That hurt.” Sam muttered, before turning to watch Cas, which Dean was already doing.

“I would like to try a…” Cas methodically scanned the menu again. “A ‘Passion Tango Iced Tea,’ please.” The barista took no mind to the excessive air quotes.

“It's not even coffee.” Dean said to Sam, clearly distraught. He turned to look back at Cas.

“And your name sir?”

“Lizzo.”

Dean threw his arms up into the air. “I can't believe this is the man I love.” His voice cracked like he was holding in tears of anguish from listening to Cas order.

Sam just rolled his eyes at the theatrics. Right, and he’s the dramatic one.

“Aw. You're in love.” Sam held his hands up, forming a heart and mocking his brother.

“Oh shut up. What are you, seven?”

“Is Cas your gay thing?”

“You shut your mo-”

“What are we gossiping about?” Eileen whispered, cutting Dean off and causing them both to jump.

“We're not gossiping.” Sam said indignantly.

“Sam started it.”

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

“This is where I call you two ‘asshats’, right?”

“It's ‘assbutt.’” Cas said, walking up to them and catching the tail end of their conversation. “And that's my line.”

Cas handed them each their drinks, before excitedly trying his own. He put the plastic cup up to his mouth, almost missing the straw. When he swallowed the cranberry-colored liquid, his face relaxed in pleasure.

“I know this one isn't coffee, but it's really good.”

“We didn't get coffee either.” Eileen said. “So don't worry, Dean's the odd man out here.”

Dean glared at her before trying his own coffee, and well, it was coffee. The point of buying expensive caffeine still went straight over his head.

The four of them went over to their thankfully-still-available booth and sat down. Dean and Cas sat on one side, both instinctively choosing the side that faced the door, with Sam and Eileen sliding into the seats directly across from them. They sat there, talking about nothing in particular, and certainly nothing of importance, before falling into the natural art of storytelling.

Aside from killing monsters, that’s what hunters did best. Sitting around and sharing stories. As tiring and dangerous as their lives were, some hunts were worth sharing exaggerated and hyperbolic versions of, especially over drinks.

Sam’s favourite story to tell changed every time, and one would almost be inclined to believe that most of it wasn't real, but the wildest parts also caused the most merriment. (Dean pretended he hadn’t witnessed the whole thing, sparing Sam by not telling the other two how it actually went down.)

Eileen shared of her time in Ireland. “Foreign country, foreign monsters.” She said with a wink, telling of creatures neither Sam nor Dean had even read about.

Dean’s favourite story to tell, aside from the fact that he killed Hitler, was the time he got to solve a mystery with everyone’s favorite talking dog. And yeah, all three of the people that sat at the table had heard both many times before, but that didn't matter, it was still enrapturing to hear them again.

Cas had millenniums to choose from, but always found the most interesting hunts to be the ones with the Winchesters. He also had many hilarious stories about his adventures with Crowley, but he was less fond of those.

“I remember once, Dean went on a hunt with Dad.” Sam started. “Nasty vampire, it got a hit or two on Dean. I think you guys went with another hunter. Young. About your age, actually. Uh…”

He snapped his fingers, trying to recall the name. “Lee. That's it.” Dean looked up from the coffee right as Sam said it. “Do you remember him?”

Something flashed in Dean’s eyes, but his brother didn't seem to notice.

Cas, who was used to admiring every minute detail of Dean's expression and posture, didn't miss the ever so slight, yet sharp, inhale. Or the way he swallowed before speaking, trying to clear the small lump from his throat.

Dean noticed too, internally rolling his eyes at his own reaction.

“Yeah it's been a while, but I remember him.” Dean was blatantly ignoring Cas’s burning stare from beside him, and the fact that he had stabbed Lee through the chest just last year.

Cas made sure no one was watching before gently placing a hand on Dean’s thigh. Knowing it would comfort him from both intuition and experience. Dean stiffened under the touch, but after realizing no one could see where Cas’s hand was, he visibly relaxed.

“What happened to him?” Eileen asked innocently.

“Oh uh, a hunt I think. Most of us go that way, I assume he was no different.” Technically Dean dealt the final blow, but it was the entrancing call of the monster, greed, and the life Lee and Dean had both secretly wanted, that caused his former-friend’s downfall in the end.

“Yeah.” Sam said solemnly, suddenly lost in his own thoughts, most of which were riddled with grief.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, letting the weight of their many losses wash over them like a tidal wave.

One made of espresso and milk rather than the rough waters of the sea.

---

The ride back was more manageable, Dean allowing them one song choice each, complete with a warning to pick wisely.

(They all very cheekily chose the songs they knew would bother Dean the most.)

---

Full on coffee, cookies Dean bought for them at Starbucks, and brimming with contentment, (as well as the fact that they spent half the day in the car), Cas suggested to Dean that they “hit the hay” as they stepped back into the bunker.

They laid there in silence, breathing in scents of comfort, coffee, and each other, until Cas eventually drifted off to sleep.

Dean, however, continued to lay there. Thinking.

He remembered the first solo case John sent him on.

Something curled inside his gut.

They had been two nuns, their fate a product of hate crime. Put to death for simply being themselves.

Dean didn't blame them for coming back as ghosts.

He remembered the words - ones he would soon learn were slurs - that John would spit out like acid.

Or offhandedly toss like they didn't bear enough weight to shatter the window of a person's self-image.

It had taken him almost forty years to realize that very same window inside of him was in sharp, jagged pieces. Cutting anyone and everyone who came near.

It had taken Cas dying to start picking them up again.

He turned to look at the man next to him, relaxed and blissfully sleeping. His chest moved up and down rhythmically, and Dean slowed his breath to match until he fell into a surprisingly peaceful slumber.

---

When Dean woke up, the other side of his bed was cold.

He didn't panic, knowing full well that Cas probably ran to the bathroom, or was pouring another mountain of sugar in his coffee.

Losing Cas again to the Empty had ripped him apart, but months of spending every night with his partner left him with less nightmares and waking in cold sweats then he had since before Hell.

Dean also learned that his own presence was enough to fight off the demons of solid, black goo that plagued Cas’s head at night.

He was finally starting to understand why life seemed to lose all meaning when Cas was gone, and from there he could slowly start to rebuild both of them.

Dean heard soft padding noises as socked feet walked down the hall, and there was a knock on the bedroom door. "S'your room too, Cas. You don't have to knock." He laughed, words slightly slurred from just waking up

Cas walked in, wielding two mugs of coffee and a proud look shining in his eyes. “I made us coffee.” He said triumphantly, handing one of the mugs to Dean.

“I put chocolate and peppermint in your coffee.”

Dean fake-gasped. “You monster. Ruining the integrity of my drink like that.”

“I'm a human, you ass.” Cas responded, a smile tugging at his lips. “Besides, I know you liked mine yesterday.”

“I did not.” He said, discontentedly crossing his arms. “I only drink coffee that's as black as my soul. Darker than the night sky. Hotter than the bunker’s computer when it overheats. As manly as-”

“Oh, just drink your damn coffee.”

“Fine.” He groused. “But I'm not enjoying it.”

Cas raised an eyebrow at him, before setting his mug on the bedside table and sitting down behind Dean. The bed creaked underneath him as he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Dean’s waist. “Is this why you and Sam never use umbrellas?” He joked.

Dean laughed.

Cas rested his head on the crook of Dean’s neck and whispered. “You know you don't have to pretend.”

“Pretend what?” Dean asked softly.

“You know.”

“That I don’t like flavoured coffee?” He said with a snort.

“Sort of.” Cas hugged him tighter. “No one’s going to think any less of you Dean. You’re allowed to like the things you like.”

“I know.” He resigned.

“John isn't here anymore.”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

“I know.” The words barely came out as a whisper, hot tears betraying Dean’s eyes as they silently leaked out and ran down his cheeks.

He tried to wipe the tears away, hearing his Dad’s voice in his head and knowing he was being stupid.

Dean couldn't help but think of himself as a small, living-room window, from an old, dilapidated house. Stained yellow with age. Cracking from wear.

He let the drumming of his Dad’s words in his head be drowned out by Cas’s voice.

He couldn't unwrap the fuzz from around him, so he didn't know what Cas was saying, ears seemingly filled with cotton. It was just the knowledge alone that he was there. That he was holding him and whispering comforting words into his ear. That even as a human he could heal Dean at his lowest points, and still see him as the brightest, strongest, soul.

You don't really know what a picture is going to be until it's done.

Maybe that window is a beautiful stained-glass portrait.

“Uh.” Dean cleared his throat. “What-what do you have?” He indicated Cas’s coffee by angling his head towards where it sat on the nightstand.

“I made iced coffee.”

Dean just looked at him, astounded, eyes widening. “You mean it’s not hot?”

“Yes, that's where the ‘iced’ in ‘iced coffee’ comes from.” He said very seriously.

They both sat in silence for the next hour, peacefully drinking their coffee and enjoying the presence of one another.

---

When they got out of bed and ventured into the rest of the bunker, they found Sam and Eileen in the library.

They were sitting in adjacent chairs, with Eileen laying her head on Sam’s shoulder and reaching for her water bottle on the table. They were reading a book together, but Eileen shook Sam indicating she had seen them walk in.

“Goodmorning.” She greeted cheerfully.

“Mornin’.” Dean pulled up a chair across from them, and watched as Cas did the same.

“What are you two reading?” Cas asked.

“The Men of Letters’s Bestiary.” Sam said.

Dean snorted. “Ah. Doing a little light reading are we?”

“We're thinking about filling in some of the pages.” Eileen added.

“Yeah, for all of the stuff they have here, it's surprisingly empty.” Sam continued flipping through some of the pages, most of which were blank.

“Heh. I should put you in that thing, Cas.”

Cas let out a laugh. “Right. Because I’m a good example of an angel.” The sarcasm was masking something else in his voice.

“If it makes you feel any better, you’ve always been my favourite angel.” Dean only realised how sappy he sounded after it came out of his mouth.

“Yeah, I’ve heard the rest of them are dicks.” Eileen added.

Cas smiled at that, seemingly back to normal.

“Right, well you three can do that, I'm off to the Dean Cave.”

“Or…” Sam started.

“We could go back to Starbucks.” Cas finished, nodding his head enthusiastically.

“Yeah... that's not where I was going with that, but I like where your head’s at, Cas. We should definitely go back.”

“Eileen?” He asked.

“Hell yeah.”

“Dean?”

Dean pressed his mouth into a thin line and glared at him. “Yes, sure, fine. But we're not making this a daily thing.”

“That's fair.” Cas agreed. “It's probably not very healthy.”

He went to grab his wallet and keys before Sam could start his speech on the nutritional value of green things, and Eileen snatched her water bottle off the library table as they all got up to leave.

---

Dean gave up on letting them choose the music after snickering and requesting “Friday” by Rebecca Black for the third time in a row.

(It wasn't even Friday?)

---

Dean stepped out and closed Baby’s door in the parking lot of Starbucks an hour later, kicking the loose pieces of gravel on the asphalt for the third time in two days.

“We might as well just live here.” He said, tone dripping with sarcasm.

“I wouldn't make that offer if I were you, Cas looks like he’d be totally on board.” Sam laughed.

Cas went and stood beside Dean as they started walking towards the building, smiling.

“What?” Dean asked, question genuine and free of all malice.

“Nothing.” Cas answered, smile not faltering.

His eyes revealed nothing but pure devotion for the man he was staring at. A silent promise, one without pressure, that he would be standing there, and Dean could take the leap anytime he wanted.

Dean was slowly inching towards the end of the diving board.

---

“I think I'll just drink my water.”

“Oh that's exciting.” Sam joked. “If I got you a lemon to go with it, would you be able to handle that?”

“Don't talk to me about my drink, when yours is a vivid green puke colour.”

“Hey, at least it actually has a colour. And a flavour at that.”

Dean couldn’t believe those words were coming from the same man who drinks exactly a hundred and one ounces of water a day. (Which, according to Sam, is the recommended amount for males, as stated by the Institute of Medicine.)

(Dean didn’t care.)

“Fine then.” She turned to look at Dean. “Get me the strongest thing on the menu.”

Dean laughed before turning to Cas. “Let's just go get in line before we suffer at the hands of the Leahy like Sam.”

Sam and Eileen went to look for a place where they could all sit again, playfully bickering the entire way.

While he was standing in line with Cas, Dean looked over at his brother, and found him and Eileen sitting at a small table in the corner.

Cas was still helping him learn ASL, so he caught parts of their conversation.

“If Jack is in every drop of rain, do you think he's in your water?” Sam signed, trying to contain his laughter.

Eileen pushed her water away with a look of disgust. “You’re lucky I love you.” She answered back.

“I know I am.”

He watched her silently laugh before turning back to look at Cas.

They really did have it good, didn't they?

“What are you ordering, Dean?”

Dean stood there silently, contemplating. He internally weighed his pros and cons, mind leaving the menu entirely. While there was still a lot of shit he had to work through, (shit he had been actively not working out his entire life), there wasn’t much of a decision to be made.

He would always choose Cas.

“You know what?” He reached out and grasped Cas’s hand firmly. “I was thinking about being less boring. What ingredients do you suggest I try?”

Cas smiled warmly, reaching the crinkled corners of his eyes. “They have a cinnamon flavoured one. That’ll be almost like apple pie.”

“Will it really?” Dean’s tone was dismissive, but there was a smile on his face.

“Yes, Sam told me.“

“Not that I trust Sam’s judgment, but okay, I think I’ll take one of those.”

“I'm going to have a real pumpkin spice latte this time.” Cas seemed very pleased with the aspect of buying something they could make it home, but Dean wasn't going to fault him for it.

The patron in front of them finished ordering, clearing the way for Cas and Dean. The barista from the first time they went caught sight of them and made a face. “Wait a minute. I think I know you two.”

“Yes, we came here yesterday.” Cas helped. “Well, we actually visited twice, but you weren't working the second time.”

“Right... John and John, how could I forget?”

“This time we're ordering for four though.”

“I would like a…” Dean squinted at the menu, looking for the cinnamon flavoured coffee. “‘Cinnamon Dolce Latte.’ And my devilishly handsome friend here will take the pumpkin spice version.”

“And what are the other two drinks and names?”

Dean whispered something in Cas’s ear. “I'll drink the coffee, but I won't budge on this one.”

“That's okay Dean, you’ll get there eventually.” He whispered back.

The barista looked unimpressed with them. Again.

Dean cleared his throat. “Ahem, sorry. The tall one with the stupidly long hair,” he pointed towards Sam, “is getting…” he trailed off before looking to Cas for help.

“I don't know, man. It was something sickly looking. Cold? Green? Possibly tea?”

“And Iced Green Tea Latte?” The barista suggested.

“That's the one. His name is Jimmy.”

“And the lovely lady sitting next to him would like the strongest drink you have. Her name is Robert.”

“Her name is Robert…?” He slowly pointed towards Eileen, sounding unsure of himself.

Or them.

“Yup.” Cas said.

Eileen gave a little wave from across the room.

He gritted his teeth in a very clearly fake smile. “Coming right up.”

They paid for their coffee and picked it up, taking the travel cups across the room and towards Sam and Eileen.

Cas took a sip from his pumpkin spice latte, gleefully smiling. “As much as I like trying different drinks, I think I might start just getting this one. It's my favourite.”

Sam leaned over to Dean, neither one taking their eyes off of Cas. “Should we tell him the drink is seasonal?” He glanced at Sam, before staring back at his partner, whose face was beaming like a literal ray of sunshine.

Dean’s face softened. “Nah. Let’s not ruin his moment.” He took a sip of his cinnamon coffee and damn, it was delicious.

Nothing at all like apple pie, but still delicious.

Cas walked over to him, making eye contact in a silent question. Dean nodded with a small smile, and Cas took his hand.

“I love you.” Cas whispered.

“I love you too.” He whispered back.

They didn’t whisper to hide, and it wasn't because he was ashamed. It was because that exchange was just for them.

Dean leaned in and softly kissed Cas.

Now that was to tell everyone in the shop that his devilishly handsome friend was spoken for.

Slowly, the sun would come out and shine through the stained-glass window, shadow portraying the picture of an angel.

And alright, fine, Dean could admit that he enjoyed the peppermint mocha.

He thought about it for a moment, before giving a light chuckle, realising something.

“What?” Cas asked, turning to look at him with a soft smile resting on his face.

“Nothing.” Dean whispered, squeezing Cas’s hand in his. He took a sip from his coffee, relishing in the warm and cozy flavour enrapturing his tongue.

He was only thinking that maybe, just maybe,

Cas had changed him too.

---

Bonus Epilogue:

Dean held the glass door open for the other three, and they all walked out onto the asphalt, laughing, and making their way towards Baby.

The street lamp overhead flickered, and all four of them froze.

“Did anyone happen to get the salted caramel macchiato?” Dean whispered.

---

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