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impaladolan · 4 years

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Capture - Grayson Dolan [1/-]

summary: a typical morning run leads to a new life of monstrous things you’d never want to speak of in front of your own mother.. ;)

warnings: not exactly smut— but some bdsm elements, swearing, and a kinda short little chapter for this soon-to-be series!

YOUR rapid breaths aligned with the pattern of your feet created a musical rhythm for your excessively beating heart to follow, your lips muttering numbers that you really didn't know why you were counting. You could see your breath in the shallow light that cascades from each lamp-fixture littered with moths and flys that linger still in the early midst of the morning. The exuberating feeling of the cool air entering and exiting your lungs each moment was what you lived for. Though it was the very first task of the day, it was all around your favorite. To wake up around four in the morning and run a couple miles before six o'clock made you feel on top of the world. And it never feels better than it does in the fall season, where the autumn leaves decorate the ground beneath you and the air frigid but nice against your rosy cheeks. You always dread when the winter came, needless to say that you've fell a time or two on the slippery sidewalks of New Jersey in the middle of January. But that didn't stop you, though your tailbone suffered for a month or two.

But this morning's air felt different.

You couldn't necessarily put a finger on it, but it just had an off-putting feeling that made the hairs on the back of your neck rise. Maybe it was the obnoxiously loud barking dog yanking on it's bound chains or the screeching pussy cat settled in a tin garbage can, it all just felt eerie and ominous.

Subconsciously, you decided to take a breather break and have a seat on a nearby bench. Your chest rose and fell at a quick pace, much like your running, as you sat yourself down, soon to study the area around you. Tame Impala soothingly played through the earphones engulfed by your ears, a soft humming of the lyrics coming from your own mouth as your breaths began to steady. It was incredibly nice out, with barely any wind and a chilled atmosphere surrounding your active body was the perfect mixture for the start of a day. It felt almost too nice..

Yes, you appreciated the lyrics and productions of Tame Impala's songs, but if it weren't for those soft rhythms, you would've heard the obvious crackle of a broken, stepped on stick not too far behind you. You would've heard the soft breaths that heaved and hoed around you. Even the ever so quiet chuckle of a presumable man's presence hidden in the creeping darkness. So when this dark figure approached your sound persona, you had no clue. It came to you as a surprise when the sudden pressure of a cloth clashed against both of you airways. Only out of fright did you largely inhale the calming scent that made your eyelids droop. You faded in and out of consciousness, remembering the little details you could grasp at the few times your eyes were open. One moment you felt as though you were quite a bit taller, maybe thrown over a giants shoulder. And another, where the cushiony seats of a fine smelling vehicle wrapped you in a warmth you didn't know your body needed. But after hearing the faint click of a seatbelt, your body was limp and useless, so your eyes permanently shut out of fatigue and tiredness.

It feels like a dream, it has to be a dream.

To wake up in such a beautifully furnished room surrounded by a puffy duvet and comfy pillows laid beneath your head was far from what you last remembered—which wasn't much at all. You remember waking up, getting dressed and heading out for a run, as usual, but the rest was too foggy and it made your overbearing headache worsen. So instead of focusing on how you may have gotten in such a lovely room, you exchanged your thoughts to where your are in the meantime. It was no secret that you were definitely settled in someone else's bed, distinguishably a man's since the colors of the room were neutral and gray. Tall glass windows that cover the entirety of the wall on your left where showcasing the glimmering rise of the sun, but it wasn't very bright considering the drowsy overcast that hung around.

It kinda fit your mood, actually.

But nonetheless you needed to figure out how to exactly leave the nice comfort of the mattress you were sprawled across. Though, the attempt to leave was absurd. Your limbs ached as much as your head does, which is a great amount, and it felt near impossible to even lift your head in the slightest. So with a sigh of defeat, you retire back to your former position, except this time there was the view of the unmoving ceiling.

Contrary to your aches and pains, your body jolted upward when the loud, intrusive sound of a heavy door opening invaded the large space around you. You didn't dare look to your right, towards what could be the reason you were in such a place. The spaced out footsteps that smacked against the marble flooring, due to lack of footwear, became near and you just couldn't resist the slight opening of your eyes.

Low and behold, an angel of a man stood before you, with a sheepish grin and a button nose. He was shirtless, thankfully, but his lower half was covered by a pair of dark sweatpants that nicely shaped his long legs for him. His chiseled abs and biceps that were proudly on display almost seemed like a magazine cover, even his narrow jawline contributed to beauty. You suddenly felt your eyes widen and your body heat rise extremely quick. Oh god, his glossy hazel eyes that scoured your sleep-ridden face made your core almost want to explode. Your cheeks turned red by the immediate aroused thoughts that clouded your brain. Never did you ever think you'd find a capturer so handsome..

"Morning, sweetheart.." And his voice, ooh, it cut the air with a deep masculinity that you weren't even sure if you could handle any more of it. It took a second before you could finally come to your senses and realize that this man could possibly be the one that had taken you when you were off guard and oblivious to the plans of someone or some man.

You briefly coughed before announcing, "I'm not your sweetheart, sir.." It felt weird talking, almost foreign. Your throat was dry and scratchy while your mouth was the same, it was hard to even move your tongue, but you managed your sassy remark. "Not sir, Daddy." He corrected with a stern look. In an instant your entire face was engulfed by a dark red that made your eyes water with surprise and shock.

Daddy?

You've never thought to call anybody this absurd name, not even did you call your own father daddy. It never occurred to your liking, but this struck different. The way his lips formed the word and how his voice rasped made your body fall into a spell of tinglings and your core had never ached so bad— you were in need to at least touch it, or relieve the consuming pain it withheld. "Excuse me?" Your shivery voice belted, though it contrasted against your lingering thoughts and bodily needs. "You heard me, sweetheart. If I hear you call me anything but Daddy, you'll be ruined and punished. Understand?" He was stern and sexy at the exact same time, and your head was in a whirlwind. While one part of your wanted to bolt up and slap him, the other majority wanted to test him, maybe actually make him punish you.

"Oh, but sir? I'm not exactly sure if I do understand.." Oh god, the fury that came across his face when the lack of a name was present in your little sentence. You almost thought he'd kill you right then and there, but the tightness in his jaw slacked and a smirk rose on his lips. A scream was caught in your throat when you felt his large hands lift you out of the overwhelming comfort of the duvet, and sprawl you across his knees with your ass fixed high up in the air. At that moment, you noticed the black, silky nightgown you've never seen or purchased before, that clings to your body quite nicely. But the thought vanished when the same pair of hands lifted the ends of the gown and scrunched it all the to your chest. You gasped when his fingers lightly touched your regrettably soaked folds before he pulled the matching black silk thong down your slightly shaking legs.

"It's clear as fucking daylight. Maybe you need a lesson on how to actually fucking listen to instruction, yeah?" He growled while his hand clutches your right ass cheek with a firm grip. His anger had only increased the slippery mess that your core withheld, but you could never admit to that. "I'm quite sure I know how to take fucking instructions S—A-aah!" The pain of an uncalled smack against your ass silenced you from any snood remark you could muster. "Better shut that loud fuckin' mouth of yours before it gets you in some more trouble." He seethed, repeating his actions, but the harmful truth to it was that you, in fact, enjoy the pleasureful pain he was proceeding with, one slap at a time until both of your cheeks were a rosy red and your nipples were sharpened to their farthest extent. God, you never wanted to be fucked more than you do in this moment.

But he had other plans.

Although, the plans didn't exactly involve you. He roughly picked you up and laid you back onto the bed, the sight of your hazy eyes and the longing look on your face almost made him want to fuck you right then and there, but he sadly restrained. He swiftly walked away, to where he presumably came from in the first place, but he stopped mid-step to turn around and demand one last thing.

"Don't you dare fucking touch yourself, sweetheart. Or you'll be sorry you even came by those flimsy fingers of yours." His last words had you feeling worse than before and made you want to "break the rules," because whatever he would do to you would be ten times better if he were mad, right?

to be continued...

(masterlist)

#dolan twins #dolan twins smut #grayson dolan #writing #dt #ethan dolan #ethan grant dolan #ethan dolan smut #dolantwins #grayson dolan smut #smut #wrote this at 3am #;)#love you 4 reading this :)#capture #gray #dtfan10m

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the-ineffable-duo · 5 years

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in which the speed is just right

A minific about the post-nonapocalypse wherein Crowley pines like the forest he is but inevitably (ineffably) it turns out just fine. Some short angst/fluff for you all

It’s a gin and tonic night where the gin outweighs the tonic and leaves a burn in the stomach and a cough in the throat. It is after the World Didn’t End he has to remind himself of that frequently because sometimes he worries it’s an elaborate nightmare waiting to turn around and rip the rug of comfort from beneath him.

Crowley left Aziraphale at his bookshop hours ago. He ignored his aching want, the tell-tail signs in his own self of please don’t leave my sight, I am tired but I will stay awake forever to ensure you are safe and I love him I love him how wrong is it is he okay?

He ignored. Or more, he pushed back. Put it in a box. His own Pardora’s box. She only ever thought too much too.

He misses him.

He misses his cloud-soft curls and divine smile, he misses his gentle softness and tartan tie. He misses. Shoot for gold, miss an inch too wide and take the bronze medal. It’s more than he could ever hope for.

But still he aches. He aches to strike a bullseye that tells Aziraphale what he wants, what he needs, what he has longed for since they met six thousand years ago at the start of his wretched longing existence.

He shifts on his sofa now, sprawled out like the serpent he is, restless with the soul-deep want in him and he miracles himself another gin and tonic even less tonic this time, it’s almost gin over ice but he craves an illusion of control don’t take that from him it’s his life raft let him cling

He misses him. He aches for him. It’s a pain in his chest like the Almighty has ripped Her Grace away again but he cannot mind because this is Aziraphale and he would never do such a thing if he knew. Maybe that hurts worse. The idea he might pretend it all just to sate a demon.

He’s a shipwreck brought to ground by a lighthouse’s warning but instead was hopelessly drawn to. A moth to light.

He chugs his drink and yes, there’s definitely more gin than tonic. But tonic is good for you, see? It cleanses. Cleanses the bad out of you. The evil? Does it cleanse that too?

He makes another glass.

He watches the clock tick. He almost misses grandfather clocks who seemed less noisy in their quart-hourly bing bong bing bong somehow. It stopped him slipping too deep into the thoughts he should not have but most clocks just… click click click these days and grandfather clocks don’t fit his flat. Not at all.

They’d fit in Aziraphale’s though.

He watches the clock. He finishes his drink.

It’s three am when he hears a knock; soft, hesitant and wholly familiar.

He does not pause in getting to his feet, too alone to be embarrassed by his haste before he is yanking the door open like a drowning man starved of oxygen, like a wilting flower desperate for sun, like… well… himself.

And there he is and it’s three am and Aziraphale is wearing the softest of soft pyjamas (tartan of course) and he says:

“Hello… I realise it’s rather late and I’m sorry for coming like this but… I simply couldn’t sleep. I think…”

And he pauses and Crowley waits; waits like he has done for six thousand years and he dare not breathe in case it shatters the glass of this wonderfully bespoke illusion before him.

“I think I rather miss you… when you are not around and I am tired but it seems impossible without you there because…”

And he stops again, like a boat pulled into port. He’s refuelling with soft breaths as he stares at some bland part of the wall beside him.

Crowley waits, choking on air.

He will always wait for his angel.

“… because I do so love you and I hope you know because- because well there’s this cottage in the South Downs and I thought… I thought wouldn’t it be nice to go there…” His angel says and Crowley stands, mute and a bit scared before him because please don’t leave me, please oh Go- Sa- Someone don’t leave me alone here it’d kill me. Then Aziraphale slowly meets his terrible, ugly demon eyes and says, “How wonderful it might be… if Crowley went with me.”

And he breathes. He remembers how to breathe and his eyes burn and he smiles. He smiles a stupid and ridiculous, head-over-heels smile right back at his angel.

Oh I love you. I don’t care where we go, I’ll always love you.

And before he can even make a noise, his angel is continuing:

“There’s a lovely garden,” He says, “And space enough for a conservatory for the rest that need it.”

Crowley nods, like he always will and always will want to as Aziraphale continues.

“And there’s a darling kitchen and a little study we can share and…” Aziraphale pauses here, his cheeks turning pink in the low light of Crowley’s flat.

“And?” He asks, swallowing back the croak in his throat as Aziraphale looks back up to him; soft and warm and tender.

“A bedroom,” He says.

Just one. Just one to share and Crowley knows Aziraphale doesn’t sleep but he also knows Aziraphale. He knows his voice… Aziraphale doesn’t sleep but he’d like to be there with Crowley. He’d like to share a bed despite the fact either of them could miracle another out the ether.

“A bedroom,” Echoes Crowley before smiling and beckoning his angel in. “Sounds alright to me.”

#ineffable husbands #ineffable partners #writing #i had an idea and i rolled with it

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banshee-cheekbones · 7 years

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title: in the still of the night [ao3: here]

main pairing: Clary/Jace/Simon

rating: T

word count: ~3200 words

written for: round 31 of Rounds of Kink, a prompt on the Shadowhunters ficathon, and for the ‘summer’ edition of Shadowhunters AU Mondays!

short summary: The camp counselor au where Simon doesn't want the thing that him and Clary have with Jace to come to an end with the last day of summer.

Turns out that they're all on the same page.

The sun’s been fully down for nearly four hours, but the sweltering heat of the day is still clinging to the night as tightly as a blanket. The air is thick, feels like it might simply drop down and suffocate them like a pillow at any point. It’s bad enough out in the open, with nothing but the sky above and the lake below; Simon can only imagine how brutal it is up in the tin roofed cabins, which were all built in the 1950’s and sorely lack even rudimentary air conditioning.

There’s only so much a few open windows can do.

Thankfully, Simon has a feeling that, by the time he makes it back to the cabin he’s in charge of, he’ll be too worn-out to notice the heat (and, hopefully, the entangled smells of sweat, unwashed socks and moldy towels).

Blessedly, the lake is the absolute perfect temperature, hovering in the ideal zone between tepid bathwater and heart-stopping cold (which is how it’d been on the first day of camp, back in late May; Simon is about eighty percent sure that the reasons his campers spent the entire summer not listening to him had something to do with the embarrassing scream he’d let out when he’d jumped in on day one without so much as dipping his toe in the water). They’re out past the sandy, carefully maintained beach, on the other side of the floating string of buoys, above where the floor of the lake goes from a gentle slope to a sudden drop-off. The mosquitoes are still around, but they’re tolerable enough, and the sky is lit up by a dazzling full moon.

All things considered, it’s only the heat keeping it from being a perfect summer night.

“I can’t believe camp is over tomorrow,” Clary sighs, her fingers brushing against Simon’s, floating on her back. She was diligent about wearing sunscreen all summer, and she’s so pale that the moonlight seems to make her skin glow. Her long hair is gently drifting back and forth with the subtle current flowing through the lake, tickling Simon’s shoulders.

“Same,” Jace says from down by Clary’s feet. “Feels like the summer just started.” His arms are tucked underneath his head, which has to make it more difficult to float, but he makes it look impossibly easy. He’s more tan than Clary, but the black tattoos dotting his arms and chest, all graceful lines and swooping curves, still stick out from the rest of his skin. Simon’s fingers itch with the urge to trace over them, but he isn’t quite close enough to reach, and moving would take way too much effort.

“I really hope no one comes looking for us,” Simon says, for what he knows has to be the third time, but he can’t help himself. No matter how many times he tells himself to calm down, the steady hum of anxiety remains in the back of his mind.

“They won’t,” Jace says authoritatively. “Izzy and Alec said they’d cover for me and Clary, if anyone asked. And didn’t you ask Raphael-”

“Yeah,” Simon interrupts, “but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything good.” After a few moments of stammering and stuttering, which Raphael had spent just staring at him with a raised eyebrow, he’d finally managed to ask his co-cabin leader if he could watch over their campers by himself for a few hours.

Raphael had said yes, quickly followed by, “But you owe me a favor,” and frankly, that’s about the most terrifying thing Simon has ever heard anyone say.

“Like, what kind of favor does he even mean?” he groans towards the sky. “He’s probably going to make me chase the snakes out from underneath the cabins. Guys, I’d rather die.”

“There’s only so much he can ask you to do tomorrow,” Clary says, splashing him slightly as she swims closer. “We’ll be too busy. And besides, if he does ask you to take care of the snakes, we’ll take care of them for you. Right, Jace?”

“Right. I ain’t afraid of no snakes.” He says it to the exact rhythm and tune of the theme song from Ghostbusters, which Simon had made him watch earlier in the summer on one of their free days, because seriously, how had Jace made it to twenty years old without having seen freaking Ghostbusters?

Clary’s giggle cuts through the air as she turns and splashes water at Jace’s face. He splashes back, rolls onto his stomach and grabs her around the waist, which just makes her laugh harder, loud and clear and sweet. Abruptly, she goes quiet, and when Simon glances over, he discovers that the reason she’s no longer laughing is because she’s kissing Jace. Her legs are wrapped around his waist, and her arms are draped around his neck, while his are underneath the water, presumably holding her up, big hands curved around her slim thighs.

The sight makes a tiny pang of resentment sting Simon in the general vicinity of his heart. Sure, he can usually lift Clary up easily; she’s a pretty tiny person, always has been. But lifting her up on land, where there’s solid ground beneath his feet and (usually) a wall or tree that he can back her up against for support, is one thing entirely. Doing it in the middle of the freaking lake, with nothing but a fifty foot drop underneath him and legs that have been treading water for at least an hour, is another thing entirely.

He thinks it might be time to level the playing field.

(Also, he really wants to kiss the both of them, and the sooner they can get somewhere they can do that without the risk of one of them swallowing a lungful of lake water that is probably teeming with microbes, the better.)

“Should we maybe take this to the boathouse?” he suggests. When Jace breaks away from the kiss, there’s a smirk on his face that just screams that he’s about to say something annoying, but Clary thankfully speaks up before he gets the chance.

“Boathouse sounds great. Unless Gretel and Maia are already using it.” She leans over and kisses Simon’s cheek before she lets go of Jace’s neck and immediately moves into a graceful backstroke. “Race you there.”

By the time Simon realizes what she said, she’s already well on the way, cutting through the water swiftly. He glances over at Jace, who simply shrugs.

“Guess the race is on.” With that, he dives under the water, immediately disappearing under the dark surface.

Simon curses and swims after them.

He makes it to the boathouse just as Jace pulls himself up onto the dock jutting out into the water. Clary is standing just inside, wringing her hair out, water puddling around her feet. Aside from the moths and mosquito swarming around the dim light hanging from a frayed cord attached to one of the beams criss-crossing overhead, the boathouse appears to be empty. Even though they try to keep the place as organized as possible, it still shows unmistakable signs of the hundreds of people that have passed through it over the last few months; there are life-preservers scattered across the floor, some of them with stuffing leaking out of them, broken canoe paddles tucked into the corners, half-empty bottles of sunscreen forgotten on the shelves. As far as good memories of the summer go, this place holds more than a few.

(That still holds true even if Simon doesn’t include the numerous times that they’ve fooled around in here, after their campers have gone to sleep or on their free days or on the weekly bonfire nights, when all the campers are too distracted by Luke’s amazing ghost stories to notice that three of their counselors have slipped away.)

There’s a loft above the main floor, reached by a ladder secured to the wall, that’s nominally for storage, although it’s definitely served another purpose (a more interesting one, Simon would argue), this summer. Simon leads the way, pulls himself hand over hand carefully, just in case a splinter decides to dig into the meat of his palm. There’s an old rowboat in the middle of the space, more than big enough for the three of them, interior lined with a smorgasbord of items; old blankets and towels, more leaking life-preservers, pillows stolen from some of the cabins. Simon climbs inside and barely gets his back flat against the bottom of the boat before Jace slides on top of him, movements impossibly fluid per usual. His mouth drops to the hinge of Simon’s jaw and throat, and there’s a moment where his teeth dig in, just enough for it to pinch a little, before he starts worrying a mark into Simon’s skin.

Simon is fairly certain that Jace didn’t have much of a neck thing (or, at least, not such a strong one) at the beginning of the summer, but they’ve all worn off on each other.

In this case, it’s totally his bad.

Palms skimming over the damp skin stretched across Jace’s back, he digs his fingers into two of the tattoos lining Jace’s spine and tilts his head back. The next time Jace bites down, it’s harder, at the base of Simon’s neck, definitely hard enough to leave a mark.

Another thing that has happened this summer: he’s become quite adept at using concealer (usually borrowed from Izzy) to hide hickies.

The ladder creaks as Clary climbs up, and when Simon opens his eyes (he isn’t quite sure when they fell closed, but that has a way of happening around Clary and Jace), it’s just in time to see her step into the loft, utterly naked, skin still dappled with lake water.

(Thankfully, there are no leeches dappling her as well. Not this time, at least.

Now that’s a memory Simon would rather forget.)

“You two look like you’re having fun,” she says, brushing her long hair back over her shoulders as she crosses the loft. “Is there room for me?” It almost sounds like an actual question, but the teasing, sharp smile on her face makes it very clear what she wants.

Not that Simon would ever dream of excluding her. Not in a million years.

“There’s always room for you,” he says, gasping as Jace’s teeth scrape against his collarbone. It comes out softer than he intends, definitely not the teasing vibe he was hoping for but, thankfully, it doesn’t shut the moment down. Clary just grins and carefully steps over the edge of the boat, slides into the narrow space between the side and Simon’s hip. Her skin is damp and cool where she’s pressed against him, and he manages to wriggle one arm around her narrow waist so that he can pull her even closer.

Jace bites down on his collarbone again and rolls his hips down hard, and after that, it’s a long time before Simon is soft again.

Afterwards, when they’re all sated and panting for breath, tangled together in a flurry of limbs, Simon really ponders going for another swim.

He’s slicked with sweat, and the night hasn’t cooled down much. There’s not even a hint of a breeze; the air is utterly still and quiet, aside from the gentle thunk of boats rocking against the docks below them or the occasional buzz of a mosquito. While he doesn’t have his phone or his watch (both of them are with his clothes, on the shore), he knows that it has to be nearly three o’clock. In four and a half hours, they’ll have to get their respective campers up and get them ready for their last day. There will undoubtedly be screaming when someone can’t find a treasured possession they started their session with, possibly a few attempts at fistfights, definitely some last minute pranks that will lead to more screaming and fighting.

And after all of that, it’ll be time for them to pack, to get their stuff together and head back to the city.

That doesn’t exactly leave much time to talk about this. About the thing that’s arisen between the three of them this summer, the thing that’s had them sneaking off at every opportunity, the thing that’s led to rushed quickies in the woods and free nights that passed by in a blur of skin against skin and swallowed gasps and curses.

He’s not worried about him and Clary, about that particular side of their triangle. Prior to this summer, they’d been dating for two years, two years built strong on a foundation of friendship that was in the double digits, and he isn’t afraid that Jace’s presence (or, lack of it, really) will weaken their relationship. If anything, he’s pretty sure that it’s made them stronger, made them address some of the lingering jealousies and doubts that have always been there, hovering just underneath the surface.

But he is more than a little worried about the point of their triangle.

Because the thing is, he loves Clary, more than he can really understand, more than he can properly comprehend, but he thinks he could get to that point with Jace too. He’s definitely grown to like the guy, a lot, even if the persona he shows off to his campers, all arrogance and ‘talent from the gods’ is so aggravating.

Simon knows about summer flings (from movies, primarily, but that still totally counts), and he knows that most of them fizzle out come end of August, once the location and scenery changes. And part of him, the unfailingly curious part that he’s never been able to shut up, even when it would have undoubtedly been better for him, wants to see if that will happen when they leave camp, when there’s no longer their job keeping them in such close proximity.

Mainly, he just wants to know if Jace will continue to fit in with them once they’re back in the city.

More to the point, he wants to know if Jace wants to continue to fit in with them.

“Alright, so I have a confession,” he begins, trailing his fingers down the smooth length of Clary’s arm. Her head is resting on his chest, and when she turns to look up at him, her chin momentarily digs into the top of his ribs.

“A confession?” she asks. “That sounds serious.”

“Is this going to be another one of your embarrassing stories?” Jace mutters. His head is resting on Simon’s stomach, and when he talks, his breath tickles the hair underneath Simon’s navel. “Like the one where you fell off a desk and into a garbage can in front of your entire art class?”

“God, why did I tell you that?” Simon groans, running his fingers over the shorn sides of Jace’s head.

“Because I’m irresistible.”

“That’s debatable,” Clary says, and the look of sheer offense that passes over Jace’s face is almost enough to make Simon lose his train of thought.

Almost.

“I’m being serious,” he sighs. The two of them fall silent and he takes a moment to figure out what exactly he wants to say. He probably should have talked this over with Clary first, just in case she doesn’t feel the same way about Jace-

(although frankly, that’s nearly impossible for him to believe, seeing how easily they fell together, like they were made for it)

-but there’s no time for that now, not unless he wants to pull her aside for a sidebar, which would just be even more awkward, especially since they’re both completely naked, and-

“I don’t want this to end tomorrow,” he blurts out, keeping his eyes fixed on the beams criss-crossing the ceiling. “Alright? There’s the confession. This whole thing that we’ve got going on with you,” he says, waving his hand around Jace’s head, “I don’t want this to just be some kind of summer fling. If that’s what either of you want, that’s cool, but... just thought I’d put that out there.” He drops his hand back down beside his hip, close enough to feel the body heat emanating from Jace’s shoulders but not quite close enough to touch.

The silent seconds that tick by after that each feel like an eternity. Part of him wants to look down at them, see if he can figure out what's going through their minds, read it on their faces, but the very thought that he might see something like annoyance, or maybe even anger, is enough to keep his eyes firmly rooted on the ceiling overhead.

At least until Jace speaks up.

“Am I missing something here?”

Simon tears his gaze away from the ceiling just in time for Jace to sit up and stare at him with a raised eyebrow.

“What?” Simon asks, glancing from Jace over to Clary, who is giving him a look that’s almost identical.

They really have rubbed off on each other.

“You seriously thought this was just going to end tomorrow?” Jace continues, huffing out a laugh and sliding a little closer, until his legs are thoroughly entangled with both Simon and Clary’s.

“I guess we should have talked about this, right?” Clary asks, sitting up as well. “Because I kind of just assumed we were all on the same page.”

“Well, I think we’re all there now,” Jace says, grasping Simon’s chin with his thumb and forefinger. “You’ll have to try a lot harder than that to get rid of me.”

“Oh,” Simon murmurs. It doesn’t do much justice towards explaining the sheer gratitude swelling in his chest like a balloon, but he hopes that they’ll understand nonetheless. “Well, I’m not going to try any harder then.”

“Me neither,” Clary laughs, crowding in even closer, until Simon isn’t quite sure where he ends and where she begins, or where any of them begin, really.

“Good.” Jace attempts to pull them both into a kiss, which results into a tangle of foreheads banging together and spilled laughter and teeth accidentally scraping against skin.

It takes a few moments for them to figure things out again, for them to click back together, but when they do...

Well. When they do, they click.

By the time they manage to get back to their respective cabins, it’s nearly four o’clock in the morning, and they’re all littered with love bites and drying sweat. Simon tries to sneak back in quietly, but he makes it two steps into the front hallway before Raphael steps out of the room housing their campers, closing the door softly behind him.

“Well,” he says, dark eyes lingering on Simon’s throat, and when Simon slaps his hand to the spot, a particularly large hickie throbs against his palm, “you definitely owe me a favor now.”

Much as Simon feared, that favor does turn out to be scaring out the clusters of snakes that take up refuge under the cabins.

Thankfully, just as Clary and Jace promised, they do most of the dirty work, and once they’re finished and they’re all packed up, they manage to fit in a quickie in the back of Simon’s van. They finish up mere moments before Alec pops up looking for Jace, and Jace leaves them with a promise to meet them for dinner the next day, once they’re all settled back in New York.

So, when all is said and done, Simon thinks that it’s the perfect end to the summer.

(He really could have done without the snakes though.)

#shaumondays #clary x jace x simon #climace #claryjacesimon #shadowhunters fanfiction #mine #mine: fic #yeah i filled my own prompt on the ficathon #oops #i just love this au so much #and this ship needs about 200% more fics #so i guess i'll write them myself #long post

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thewormwood · 7 years

Text

A little in-between scene I wrote a couple weeks ago which is cute enough to post; Dagny is much chattier when he’s had a ‘drink’ or two. But he’s not gushing. What? He’s not.

The ceiling’s exposed beams arched overhead like the ribs of a breaching whale. In matching pairs, they ran the width of the room, the cool silvered-blue of weathered bone, or lichen. There were an abundance of greys in fact, from the floorboards to the wall paneling, to the soft wing-backed chairs held down by a patronage no few of which were also grey. The bar was paler still, a moth-white jigsaw made from hundreds of palm-sized rectangles; bone perhaps, or ivory of some kind. Dagny’s familiarity with the sort of wildlife Nexus had to offer trophy hunters was limited to being able to differentiate between something that was liable to consider him prey, and something which was safe to summarily ignore. The fact that he’d begun counting aurin among the latter may have meant something, were he required to be in contact with them for any duration. Once in a while, business in Thayd put him in the general vicinity of the small, colourful creatures, but following the mission which had sprung a swarm of them from a tiny dominion outpost, Dagny had made sure ‘general vicinity’ meant well beyond arm’s reach. The bar was, happily, not the sort of location one would have found an aurin, or a human. Neither species would be likely to appreciate the viciously morbid sense of humour lurking behind the decision to name a bar set over top a crematorium, Burn. Mordesh reality required such a sense of humour, for survival if nothing else, but it was difficult to tell at times if Trilby found this, or anything genuinely amusing. While the Long Night had changed them all, immeasurably, it had made Trilby of all people more closed, even to him. Although, in her defense, she was making an effort at present. Dagny on the other hand, was stubbornly refusing to engage beyond basic operational civility, purely for the satisfaction of watching her increasingly blatant attempts to try and jostle him out of it. It was the little things after all. “Ange says she has a contact in Galeras, but there’s nothing in Galeras right now except rock-picking humans and roans. If there’s an ICI spy embedded somewhere in that whole area, he’ll be easy to find.” “Oh?” Dagny had said ‘oh’ four times in the last six minutes, and Trilby was still pretending she didn’t notice the conversational toe-dragging. “For one, he’d be the only one with all of his teeth.” “You assume it's a man.” “Women make better spies. I wouldn’t have heard about them, if it were a woman.” Her drink was the colour of liquid rust, and viscous enough to cling to the inside of the glass for a moment after it was set down again. Dagny’s modulator offered up a sound that would have in another reality been a derisive snort; what came out was an ugly little grunt. His hands wanted a glass to fidget with, robbed of that option, he twisted the plunger on the empty syringe instead. It didn’t feel like much of anything yet, but then, the clever creature who’d realized a profitable portion of the mordesh population had lost the ability to drink but not the desire to, hadn’t gotten much of the engineer’s coin thus far. The alchemical concoction didn't have exactly the same effects as liquor, but the similarities meant anyone as focused on job performance as Dagny wouldn’t have had much use for it. The cleverness of calling the product ‘drink’ was hard to argue however. Trilby’s face finally betrayed something more than polite interest. She looked annoyed, and Dagny gave himself a mental point. “Maybe you should have another. What’s the dosage is required to reach ‘fun’?” His response was to wag the empty tube under her nose, until she batted it aside. “There are not enough of these in all of Thayd for that.” “And I had such high hopes after last week.” Dagny wasn’t sure for a moment if she was being flip or not, but relented. Twisting the cap off a second syringe, she lifted her glass at him in silent toast. “Last week? Were you feeling particularly delusional last week, or am I missing something?” The contents were almost certainly room temperature, but the slow trickle of the chemical cocktail into his system felt like flushing his veins with ice water. She was looking at him, flatly, impatiently, as though the answer were obvious. Dagny flashed a pale palm at her in a microcosmic shrug. “I honestly don’t know what you’re on about. I spent the first half of the week finding ways to keep myself from going mad with boredom while Markov rubbed his greasy little hands together over my suspension, and the second half being accosted by the professionally invasive attentions of a psychiatrist who implied more than once that I was emotionally unstable.” “Mmm,” Trilby hummed through a mouthful of liquid, then swallowed to continue, “I’ve yet to meet the emotionally stable mordesh, myself included. But you are, absolutely.” The engineer’s brows rumpled abruptly. “It was not the assertion that bothered me as much as the delivery. Pseudo concern, familiarity…” “Oh, were they too nice to you?” “You know very well what I mean. It was all professional concern, smarmy, insincere. I’m meant to believe she’s genuinely concerned for my well being while she’s judging me am I? Does anyone ever truly buy it? No one can be that gullible. The real insult is that she refused to drop the act. She's one of Markov's creatures, I'm sure.” Trilby fluttered her eyelashes at the near tirade. Dagny lifted his chin and huffed, rather imperiously. “Her eyes looked like raisins pushed into rising dough.” Her laugh carried over the audible-murk of a dozen quiet conversations. “I think it's working.” Dagny had moved from fidgeting with an empty syringe to trying to balance it on it's uncapped end. “Why, is this fun? I don’t feel particularly fun. I’m not sure I remember exactly what fun is. At very least I think our opinions on its definition are… divergent, these days at least.” If he’d been looking, he would have noticed the conspiratorial tilt to her mouth, the way her ears which had always been over-long leaned back slightly. “Maybe so. Your definition seems to be ‘can carry a tray without spilling things and pink hair’.” “Carry a- oh really. Trilby,” A prayer, a plea for mercy perhaps. Or at very least, an expression of disappointment, as though he’d thought better of the woman who had left more ruined relationships in her wake than an Arkite-Flu sufferer leaves wadded tissues. It was a testament perhaps to some unspoken depth of optimism in him. “I will even grant that she wasn’t bad. For being the help.” This time, Dagny found himself caught up in her laughter. “Oh, I'm sorry - do you outrank her then? No? I thought not. Either way, it was a…” here he made a small gesture with one hand, while the other continued to attempt a balancing act with the syringe, “small lapse in judgment shall we say. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and happened to collide with one of my more, fractious moods.” “Fractious isn't the word I'd have chosen. But, if there's a silver lining to your dalliance with a former servant, its that your standards seem to be rallying.” The woman behind the bar was yellow, more so even than the engineer; a searing, lemon-zest hue that seemed wildly out of wing with the desaturated palette of the room. She set another glass in front of the stalker, who smiled so beatifically in return that the woman’s cheeks went orange. During that fleeting exchange, Dagny had managed it. The syringe, in defiance of gravity, was standing point down on the bar, and he’d moved onto the second one. Trilby looked only, wholly unimpressed with the balancing act. “You worried me with that business about the skeleton.” “Don’t you dare thump that glass down on the bar right now,” Dagny’s brow furrowed in concentration. “What skeleton?” “The one with the good personality.” This time his gaze slipped sideways, concentration broken by suspicion. Trilby’s face gave it away, and Dagny wrinkled a nose he no longer had. “If your cynicism were a well, it would be fathomless in depth… and used regularly to drown kittens. He does have an interesting personality. Although it may be difficult for you to differentiate these days between a compelling person, and one simply feeding you flattery like scraps to a starving dog.” Anyone else would have been offended. Trilby’s amusement was like a patina poured over the steely edges of her base personality; a mere embellishment. “He is an ambulatory coat rack!” “You’re a metaphorical hive of wasps with nice hair, and it doesn’t seem to hold you back. Yes, I noticed your new one by the way, she is very tall and looks like the sort of person who thinks the ability to crush things between their thighs is the height of personal achievement. Congratulations.” “There’s no use trying to rouse my protective instincts in an attempt to change the subject. I have none.” “No, you don’t. Which I suppose makes the wasps comparison inaccurate; you’re more like… a nest of sand spiders with good hair. Be nice,” Dagny instructed, knowing full well it was outside the realm of her ability by about fourteen light-years. “I could have him kill you, and make it look like an exceedingly embarrassing accident.” Trilby didn’t guffaw, because that too was outside the realm of her ability, but she did cough, politely, around a mouthful of the rusty-red liquor. “I promise, it would be too great a challenge for that little bundle of twigs. From the look of it, opening most doors would be.” “When you sling mud, I know you have only mud to sling.” The second syringe wobbled dangerously as he removed his supporting fingers, slowly, like a magician revealing the apex of his trick. “He is rather clever, incidentally.” “And he never interrupts you, which I assume is the lion’s share of the allure. Difficult to be clever-” “When people don’t let you get a word in edgewise? Yes, I know a thing or two about that, speaking of harpies who love the sound of their own screeching.” Trilby dropped a fist onto the bar in retaliation, but the syringes had been positioned carefully, by a man quite familiar with the stalker’s destructive streak. They toppled toward one another, catching at the cross-beams, and remained balanced on their ends, in a perfect X shape. Dagny wagged a smug eyebrow at her. Trilby straightened on her stool, and took up her glass again with an air that was more exasperated than impressed. “Please, stop gushing. I’m embarrassed for you.” “You made me take two shots, and you can damned well deal with the consequences.” The gesture was a relic, one that once-upon a time would have been enough to make the honey-blond strands of his bangs flop charmingly over an eye. “His hair is.... cute.” “I’ve died. I’ve died, and this is some strange alien netherworld in which Dagny Vancura is squealing about a mouthless scarecrow. I need to speak to that psychiatrist… she’s done something to you.” “No that was Marta. She calls everything cute. It was only a matter of time before the word lodged like a poison dart in my vocabulary.” The engineer leaned forward, folding his forearms across the silvery bone mosaic that he could peer at shelves. The vague shine on bottles of every conceivable shape and size shifted with the gentle bobbing of the floating alchemical lanterns. The effect was nice; a bit like those little phosphorescent bugs. Absently, he wondered if Zoran would like it. “What exactly are you staring at?” “Hmm?” “You’re staring worryingly at that shelf, and I'm honour-bound to remind you, I’m a drink ahead.” “Is it possible to over-indulge in these?” Ruining his carefully engineered balancing act, Dagny snatched up a syringe and examined in critically. “We'll certainly find out.”

#wsrp #writing #wildstar #dagny #trilby #I tweaked it a bit because I wrote it hastily and FLOW DAMNIT #not perfect still but better!#trilby has mom-friend feels about Dagny's choices #but then she usually does

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