On the night of Alec's 25th birthday, Magnus took him to a nice steakhouse in the city.
Magnus ordered an Old Fashion Dry and their waiter recommended a house Pinot Noir for Alec. They decided to split a surf and turf with Alec craving seafood and Magnus steak but desiring just a bite of the other's as well.
Magnus chose this specific restaurant because he remembered just how much Alec loved their a la carte creamed spinach last time and ordered a side of sautéed mushrooms for himself. As the main course finally arrived, he watched as his partner went not first to the steamed lobster tail but instead to the dollop of spinach left beside it by their wait staff.
They talked as they usually did, lives intertwined. Alec recounted the previous day's outing with his siblings-- they had taken him to an orchard out in New Jersey for apple picking. Magnus had unfortunately not been able to join them due to a last minute emergency with a client, but listened contently to his partner's depictions of the day. His mouth watering at the vivid descriptions of drunken cider and juicy crisp apples, some of which now lay in their fruit basket at home.
As the mostly empty plates were taken away, new and clean ones replacing them, Alec excused himself to freshen up. In this time Magnus hailed over their waiter, passing him a discreet note, a quick skim of the contents and a nod later, the waiter was gone before Alec returned.
They continued to talking about everything and anything. Work, interactions, ideas, all the while noting how many times the song “Happy Birthday” had been sung at the tables around them. Alec joked about the restaurant apparently being everyone in the city’s go to for birthday dinners and Magnus added to it with comments on the operatic singing of the tune by the waiters. How equally amusing but impressive it was.
As the night stretched on, their waiters seemingly having disappeared without notice, the two moved on to a game of whispers, creating lives for the people around them. How the middle age man who had walked in earlier with a 20 something year old model sporting a floor length mink coat was a mob boss. How the table next to them was a mother visiting her son for uni.
Alec opened his mouth once more to speak when the light of a candle began to illuminate to his side and with it the familiar tune of happy birthday. He turned to look, thinking maybe it was for the uni student but was shocked to find that it was instead their table that was surrounded by the operatic wait staff. A plate adorn with a massive helping of fresh cream, a slice of New York cheesecake, decorated berries, and a glittering candle now placed in front of him.
Alec’s face flushed red at the attention of the restaurant now turn to him, whispering Magnus’s name out of sheer accusal towards the other man before covering his mouth, but Magnus could see it, the small smile that adorned his face behind cover. Magnus on the other hand smiled largely and openly, sitting back in his chair. While Alec looked down and around, rarely meeting the gazes of anyone, eyes only flirting over at Magnus every so often before letting out a small laugh and looking away again towards the waiter’s performance— Magnus stared at his partner.
He intended to take in the sight in front of it for as long as he could. To etch every detail upon his memories, The crinkly of his eyes, the soft look of amusement and pleasure in his gaze, the way the flame flickered and licked at his skin, casting shadows over the edges of runes peaking out from underneath his sweater, the cool silver of metal on his finger, the new grey hairs that had sporadically begun to appear amidst his raven black hair…
The finally note of the song had began, a long and drawn out “Youuuu” completed and followed by the soft claps and cheers of the restaurant. Finally, Alec dropped his hand away from his mouth, uncovering his smile, laughing softly once more before looking at Magnus, the wide grin softening, his eyes shifting from amusement to pure unadulterated love. Magnus’s heart ached. Alec closed his eyes before blowing out the candles, Magnus let out a breath he unknowingly was holding in as well.
The two thanked the waiters once more for the desert and performance before being left to their treat. Alec laughed, shaking his head side to side, “Only you.” He said.
“Only for you my love.” Magnus responded.
The two fell into silence, just a moment held for the mourning and gratitude of time, taking in the night.
“Thank you” Alec mouthed sincerely, and with that the evening went on. The two picking up their respective forks, ignoring their clean plates to instead pick at the sweets right off the platter.
Another year, gone and past, and to many more to come.
Malec, Teen & Up, No Archive Warnings, Chapters: 18
The Brooklyn Wolves are coming off a mediocre year, not to mention they’ve lost their long-time catcher, but the group and their surrounding fans have hope for them after a strong finish last season. Alec’s not expecting the new guy to fill Luke’s shoes right away, but little does he know his new teammate Magnus will fill holes in his world he didn’t even know he had, and be a huge part in catapulting the team to new heights.
rough on the surface but you cut through like a knife
A Malec Fic | Rated E | WIP
Magnus Bane finds himself reluctantly entangled in the affairs of the Downworlders–a family legacy immersed in black market organ trading. Though he never chose this path, he takes control where he can. Those choices happen to lead him directly into the arms–or bed–of Alexander Lightwood, heir to the Lightwood family's empire of illicit drug sales and money laundering.
As their worlds collide, Magnus and Alec navigate this thrilling and risky connection they’ve formed, and together, they must face the inevitable repercussions of their inextricably linked futures.
@cuubism decided to dig out a forsaken ask I sent god knows when, and nearly killed me with the amount of typos I managed to cram into this single message— mama mia. Anyhow... call it a quick rewrite, and a sign of life from me.
Malec - hurt/comfort - 483w
▾▾▾
Alec seldomly gets riled by Maryse’s cutting remarks anymore.
Quiet. That’s more likely. That much he’s willing to admit.
A contemplating, serious demeanor that seems to convince most people.
Most, but not him. Not Magnus.
The sympathetic look in his honey brown eyes is too telling, too knowing. He knows from the moment he opens the door to welcome him and Alec doesn’t quite meets his eyes.
Alec doesn’t snap anymore, lash out or take his frustrations on the people who actually try and help him. He learnt. He just doesn’t feel like discussing it, acknowledging it, how dysfunctional his family is.
He sits there, at Magnus’ peaceful haven —
a dark blemish against the colorful decor.
Magnus on the other hand, is wonderful as always.
For one, he doesn’t force him. He doesn’t make him talk, he doesn’t pry or nag, he doesn’t even make Alec’s quietness the center of their time together.
Instead, he magics blankets, he makes them herbal tea, he takes his hand.
He talks about nothings, carrying an almost one sided monolog. His soothing, melodic voice filling the space between them.
He also ignores the single tear falling across Alec’s cheek.
Alec is not sure if he had ever loved another person as much.
Magnus pulls him against his chest, he asks him if he’d like a movie?
Would he like to go to bed instead? Just stay here? He smiles.
Alec doesn’t need to look to know, he hears it in his voice.
Acutely, reflexively—he feels undeserving of this much affection. He doesn’t deserve this patience, this care, this attention. And yet... he’s too worn out to refuse, too tired to reject the possibility of being just loved.
Not when he so desperately needs it, wants it. To be loved without conditions, without rules. To be enough, to be worthy. To just be.
It’s a long evening, it takes time.
He stirs eventually, moving in Magnus’ light embrace, burying his face into his chest and inhaling so deeply his lungs ache.
He wraps his arms around him in a hold that is too tight.
He feels Magnus’ hand in his hair, a kiss against his temple, a breathed, soft “Oh Angel... You’re so sweet, do you know?” there’s a touch of sadness in his words.
Alec holds onto him for a long time. When finally he’s able to meet his eyes, he’s met with the golden pools of the most beautiful, kind, amazing person he knows.
Once again, he’s reminded of just how lucky he is.
“We can watch one of those movies you like, those that make no sense” Alec says, voice raspy, trying for funny.
Magnus, only momentarily puzzled, laughs brightly and starts a stern lecture about why the lack of exposure to true art had hindered all the Shadowhunters from truly developing as a society.
Through the whole evening, all Alec feels is peace.
Summary: There's always a consequence for bringing someone back from the dead. The real question is this: who's the one paying for it?
ao3 link
It’s eleven-twelve, which means it’s almost the worst moment of Clary’s life, suspended in the stifling Institute air, the smell of death and salt-lake brine taunting her.
Clary arranges his pillow as Jace lies back on the bed, a strategically cut sheet of plastic that just manages to cover the bed placed under him.
“Okay?” she said, then shakes her head. It’s a stupid question.
Jace tries to smile for her. It doesn’t reach the brilliant shine of his eyes.
“It’s all good, Clary. No more I’m sorrys, remember?”
“I love you,” she offers, as small it feels, and brushes a loose strand of hair out of his eyes to tuck it behind his ear. Jace opens his mouth like he’s going to respond, but he chokes on it, and when Clary looks down, his shirt is soaked through with blood.
They’ve tried dressing the wound before. There’s not much point when it heals back up after he wakes, like it was never there, and when his blood is fully replenished. Like it never happened.
Still, “I’m sorry,” Clary says and holds his hand through it. She’s not sure how much pain he feels and how much is lost to numbness. She never asks. “I’m sorry.”
She stays there until the tight grip of his hands goes lax and his eyes flutter closed.
If she was any less selfish, she’d stay with him the whole time, whether it takes hours or minutes. It varies a lot.
As it is, though she can’t leave the room—someone needs to be here when he wakes—she can’t quite bring herself to stay at his bedside, his skin growing colder against hers, his face growing sick and pale and alien to her.
So she grabs her sketchbook from her bookshelf, and then sits with her back to the side of it, legs crossed and back stiff against the dark wood.
The whole scene doesn’t coax much inspiration from her.
What would she even draw? Her boyfriend dying? His greying skin? Their other friends? Izzy, with her trusting, unknowing eyes, and Simon with that smile that’s always believed in her goodness. It’s laughable.
Or the mother she couldn’t save, didn’t save, didn’t wish for.
Or then there’s Alec, with dark circles painted under his eyes, panic and terror masking themselves as anger in his unyielding expression.
Jace has deluded himself into thinking that Alec can’t feel it. Clary, for her part, knows they’ve ruined his life, too. He’s stopped asking questions, but he’s also stopped speaking to either of them much at all, except to send them out on mission.
They’ve been making it work, but Clary wonders how long that can last. There are few things she fears more than the day when they’re late getting back and he goes down and doesn’t get up again. When a demon spots how weak she’s made him in the moments afterward, when he breathes back to life, disoriented.
When he dies on her for real.
Clary shakes her head out of the thought and looks back over to where Jace lies.
Yup, still dead.
Unbidden, her mind conjures swirling images, merged together from memories of some mythology class she took in school—Prometheus, who stole fire. Sisyphus. And that goddamn boulder.
All the legends are fucking true, Clary thinks, and without conscious thought, she slams her sketchbook shut and lets it clatter to the ground as she pulls her knees to her chest. She closes her eyes, but not for long, because when she does, she’s back at Lake Lyn, the salty breeze of it on the tip of her tongue, the angel bright and solemn, on the very precipice of this existence. The way she’d forced her will into becoming his.
Valentine’s eyes as she worked the dagger in. Once, then twice, then three times for good measure. After she’d already slit his throat, too.
She leans her head back against the wood.
It’s worth it, she thinks, even as she turns to Jace and he’s still lying there, the room nauseatingly quiet. It has to be.
Clary feels acidic bile rise in her throat. But she chokes it back. And then she picks up her pencil.
Clary arranges his pillow as Jace lies back on the bed, a strategically cut sheet of plastic that just manages to cover the bed placed under him.
“Okay?” she said, then shakes her head. It’s a stupid question.
Jace tries to smile for her. It doesn’t reach the brilliant shine of his eyes.
“It’s all good, Clary. No more I’m sorrys, remember?”
“I love you,” she offers, as small it feels, and brushes a loose strand of hair out of his eyes to tuck it behind his ear. Jace opens his mouth like he’s going to respond, but he chokes on it, and when Clary looks down, his shirt is soaked through with blood.
They’ve tried dressing the wound before. There’s not much point when it heals back up after he wakes, like it was never there, and when his blood is fully replenished. Like it never happened.
Still, “I’m sorry,” Clary says and holds his hand through it. She’s not sure how much pain he feels and how much is lost to numbness. She never asks. “I’m sorry.”
She stays there until the tight grip of his hands goes lax and his eyes flutter closed.
If she was any less selfish, she’d stay with him the whole time, whether it takes hours or minutes. It varies a lot.
As it is, though she can’t leave the room—someone needs to be here when he wakes—she can’t quite bring herself to stay at his bedside, his skin growing colder against hers, his face growing sick and pale and alien to her.
So she grabs her sketchbook from her bookshelf, and then sits with her back to the side of it, legs crossed and back stiff against the dark wood.
The whole scene doesn’t coax much inspiration from her.
What would she even draw? Her boyfriend dying? His greying skin? Their other friends? Izzy, with her trusting, unknowing eyes, and Simon with that smile that’s always believed in her goodness. It’s laughable.
Or the mother she couldn’t save, didn’t save, didn’t wish for.
Or then there’s Alec, with dark circles painted under his eyes, panic and terror masking themselves as anger in his unyielding expression.
Jace has deluded himself into thinking that Alec can’t feel it. Clary, for her part, knows they’ve ruined his life, too. He’s stopped asking questions, but he’s also stopped speaking to either of them much at all, except to send them out on mission.
They’ve been making it work, but Clary wonders how long that can last. There are few things she fears more than the day when they’re late getting back and he goes down and doesn’t get up again. When a demon spots how weak she’s made him in the moments afterward, when he breathes back to life, disoriented.
When he dies on her for real.
Clary shakes her head out of the thought and looks back over to where Jace lies.
Yup, still dead.
Unbidden, her mind conjures swirling images, merged together from memories of some mythology class she took in school—Prometheus, who stole fire. Sisyphus. And that goddamn boulder.
All the legends are fucking true, Clary thinks, and without conscious thought, she slams her sketchbook shut and lets it clatter to the ground as she pulls her knees to her chest. She closes her eyes, but not for long, because when she does, she’s back at Lake Lyn, the salty breeze of it on the tip of her tongue, the angel bright and solemn, on the very precipice of this existence. The way she’d forced her will into becoming his.
Valentine’s eyes as she worked the dagger in. Once, then twice, then three times for good measure. After she’d already slit his throat, too.
She leans her head back against the wood.
It’s worth it, she thinks, even as she turns to Jace and he’s still lying there, the room nauseatingly quiet. It has to be.
Clary feels acidic bile rise in her throat. But she chokes it back. And then she picks up her pencil.
“Tell your Shadowhunter to stay out of our business.”
Magnus glares at Stephan’s back long after he’s vanished through a portal. He is and has always been a pain in Magnus’ ass.
It’s not as if Magnus had wanted to bring a Shadowhunter to a warlock fight. Alec had just been with him when he’d gotten the call and he hadn’t had time to explain.
And now he’s got one warlock pissed off gone through a portal to who knows where and another passed out on the ground of the alleyway where Magnus had to subdue him.
Admittedly, yelling about opening up interdimensional rifts may not have been the best way to de-escalate this fight. But he’s well aware that Alec’s presence had only added to the tensions between the two warlocks when he’d arrived. It isn’t like he can do anything about it now. Fucking immortals and their stupid petty arguments ruining his day off.
Magnus stares at the unconscious warlock, sighing internally. Well he has got to deal with that now.
“Stand down,” Magnus calls to Alec, who is still standing behind him, alert and ready to spring into motion if needed, “I just need to deal with this. I’ll meet you at home?”
It isn’t that Magnus doesn’t enjoy Alec’s company, quite the contrary actually. It’s just that he is agitated now and both warlocks are going to make a fuss now that they know a Shadowhunter was here, however uninvolved he may have been. Magnus just doesn’t want to deal with it.
Alec seems to get the message because he just nods. “Okay. I’ll see you at home.” He hesitates and Magnus feels slightly guilty for making him feel that way. “Be careful.”
Magnus sends Alec as much of a smile as he can. “I’m always careful.”
It takes longer than he’d hoped to deal with everything and the sun is setting by the time Magnus finally gets back to the loft.
Alec is curled into the side of the couch when Magnus walks into the room. He doesn’t notice him at first, so Magnus goes for the drinks cart, taking a moment to watch an unguarded Alec.
He has one of the books on magic theory from Magnus’ library on his lap, fingers careful as he flips the page and a furrow between his brows that is an indication that he’s engrossed in what he’s reading.
Magnus smiles. Alec doesn’t read the magical theory section of his library all that often, but he has been known to pull down a book from time to time and settle into the couch. It has always made something inside Magnus sing.
He pours them both a glass of whiskey and sits down next to Alec.
Alec doesn’t startle and accepts the glass without looking up from the book so maybe he had noticed Magnus come in after all.
Magnus sips his drink and then leans into Alec’s side, dropping his cheek to Alec’s shoulder and looking down at what he’s reading. “Interdimensional travel,” Magnus murmurs.
He really should have seen that coming shouldn’t he?
Alec finally looks up from the book. His expression is serious enough that Magnus stops leaning on his shoulder, instead opting to turn and sit cross legged on the couch, facing Alec’s body.
“I forget sometimes, that there’s a part of your life that I know next to nothing about,” Alec says, looking genuinely disquieted.
Magnus smiles slightly, affection bright in his chest. This man who cares so much. Who just wants to love every part of Magnus completely. Magnus wants to keep him forever.
Magnus brushes fingers down Alec’s jaw. “Would you like to know?” he asks.
Alec shifts so Magnus’ fingers lean into his skin. “I always want to know about you if you’ll let me.”
Magnus isn’t sure why he hasn’t come to expect things like this yet. Lines that should sound cheesy but somehow send Magnus’ heart reeling simply because of the way Alec says them.
Magnus turns his attention back to the book so he doesn’t have to deal with the depth of emotion whirling in his chest.
“So, lesson one: Interdimensional travel?” he asks, nudging Alec’s thigh with his foot.
Alec shrugs, “I wanted to know what you were yelling about.”
Magnus laughs, pressing back into Alec’s side and explains the downright idiocy that was happening between Stephan and the other warlock and why exactly it was magically irresponsible. Soon, that turns into Magnus sleepily regaling Alec with everything he knows about interdimensional travel, including how he came up with the portal because if he’s getting the opportunity to brag to his boyfriend, then he’s going to take it.
Alec listens intently and asks questions that surprise Magnus with how well he seems to pick up on everything.
Once Magnus is starting to trail off, the exhaustion from the day's events finally getting to him, Alec asks a question that doesn’t have to do with magic.
“Do you ever regret it?”
Magnus sits up a little, confused. “What?”
Alec huffs a breath and looks up at the ceiling rather than at Magnus. “Falling in love with me. Do you ever regret it?”
Magnus looks at him for a long moment. “Well, someone’s being dramatic tonight.”
Alec flicks his gaze over to Magnus and then rolls his eyes. “Answer the question, Magnus.”
“No.”
“No you won’t answer? Or no you don’t regret it.”
Magnus rolls his eyes this time, swatting Alec’s bicep, “don’t be a smartass.”
That gets Alec to smile. He huffs and swats Magnus right back. “I’m trying to be serious. I saw the way those warlocks reacted to me being there with you. I can’t have made your life any easier.”
That much was true. Being with Alec had caused many warlocks usually loyal to him to question his judgement. He’d heard his fair share of the gossip they spread about him and ‘his Shadowhunter’.
But he loves Alec and Alec loves him. That matters a lot more.
“Who said I wanted easy?”
Alec chuckles to himself, “even when that means you have to spend,” he checks the clock on the wall, “five hours tracking down a warlock that portalled away from the scene because he saw I came with you?”
The first question had been serious but he’s joking now.
Magnus shrugs, pitching his voice lower in a poor imitation of Alec, “Relationships take effort, remember? And I wouldn’t give up a day of loving you for anything.”
Alec’s face goes serious again and he looks genuinely touched. Magnus pecks his cheek and watches his face morph into a surprised smile.
“For the record, I wouldn’t give up a day of loving you either,” Alec murmurs, turning his head so they can press their foreheads together, “even if it means I have to hear people gossip about us all the time.”
“If anything,” Magnus says, tone teasing, everyone gossiping about it confirms to me that at least we aren’t boring.”
Alec laughs and Magnus kisses him because he wants to and he can.
Their bedroom smells like jasmine and vanilla and hairspray. Jasmine from the vase of flowers in the corner, vanilla from the scented candle still burning away, hairspray wafting in through the open door of the bathroom. The blinds are drawn, the only light coming from the hallway — and that candle, burning patiently.
Clary and Maia enter in a haste, hands itching to grab at each other’s clothes. The moment they’re within five feet of the bed, Maia pulls Clary in for a wet, passionate kiss.
“Someone’s eager,” Clary teases.
“Yeah, yeah,” Maia says against her lips. “Says the girl feeling me up under the table all night.”
“Let’s call it even, then,” Clary says before diving back in for another kiss. Her hands gently but insistently pull at the fabric of Maia’s blouse, tugging it out from under her skirt, and she reluctantly breaks the kiss to pull the blouse over Maia’s head and completely off.
“Wow…” Clary whispers, which is what she always does when she sees Maia in any state of undress. She’s seen her naked so many times before — after a fight when Maia is shrugging clothes back on after shifting back, after a shower when Maia is wrapping a towel around herself, while getting dressed in the morning in their shared apartment, and of course, the countless other times they’ve reached for each other desperately before tumbling into bed — but the awe of undressing her never fades. Clary doesn’t just think, but knows, that Maia Roberts is the most beautiful person in the world. And when she bares herself like this to Clary, with warm and trusting eyes and scarred skin seeming to glow in the light, Clary feels like she’s looking at something holy.
( Heaven and the Angels have nothing on your breasts, she wants to say.)
Maia kisses her again, and this time Clary busies herself with unbuttoning Maia’s skirt — until Maia’s lips move to her neck and Clary loses all control of her limbs and can only cling to Maia’s hips for dear life while her love sucks a bruise into her skin.
“Why are we still wearing clothes?” Clary groans when Maia has moved on from the hickey and is instead placing gentle kisses along Clary’s throat and jaw.
“I don’t know,” Maia says. “You should probably do something about that.”
Clary agrees. She returns her attention to Maia’s skirt and undoes the last few buttons before pulling it down. Maia lets it drop to the floor and steps out of it, kicking her shoes off in the process. Clary quickly pulls her hair over her shoulder and turns to present the back of her dress to Maia. Maia unzips it for her, then helps her peel it off completely. Maia pulls her close then, her chest to Clary’s back, and presses her lips to her shoulder while she unhooks Clary’s bra. When the garment is off, she only steps back far enough to be able to trace a finger down the lines of Clary’s back. The touch is just shy of tickling, but Clary doesn’t mind. In fact, she lives for these moments, and she knows that Maia does too.
“Can I…can I see them again?” Maia asks softly.
“Yes,” Clary says. She steps forward, just to be a safe distance away, and closes her eyes. She doesn’t need the rune to summon them anymore, and she’s finally managed to block Raziel’s attempts to push back. They are now hers and hers alone.
And Maia’s. Maybe, mostly, Maia’s.
With a deep breath she summons them. Maia lets out an awed gasp as two great white wings arc above Clary’s shoulders, glowing bright for a moment before settling in place on her back. Clary folds them behind her. Maia gingerly touches one, and Clary feels the heat of her hand as if she’s grabbed her arm, or her face, or her thigh.
“Beautiful,” Maia mutters.
Clary turns to face her, and almost subconsciously wraps her wings around Maia’s frame, pulling her closer until their chests are pressed together. Her lips find Maia’s. “I love you,” she mutters into the kiss. Maia’s mumbled reply is swallowed up by Clary’s eager lips. They hold onto each other, and Clary pulls Maia back with her until they reach the bed. Clary lands on her back on the soft pillows. Her hair spreads like a halo around her head and her wings splay out on the blue sheets. Maia climbs on top of her and kisses her again and again and again. Then her lips trail over to Clary’s jaw, and her finger begins to stroke a single feather on Clary’s left wing.
“Are you sure—?” she begins to ask.
In answer, Clary spreads her legs, wrapping them around Maia’s waist. Maia smiles against her chin and lowers her lips. Her kisses are gentle, feather-like connections with Clary’s skin, lingering for only a moment or two before she moves on. From Clary’s jaw, to her neck, to her collarbone, to the space between her breasts. Finally, she pushes herself up and takes one of Clary’s breasts in her hands and, with one last look up at her from beneath her dark lashes, Maia takes the other breast into her mouth.
The pleasure is instant. The wet warmth of Maia’s mouth combined with the circular motions of her thumb around Clary’s nipple have her throwing her head back and gasping before Maia’s even truly started. If her arousal wasn’t strong before (and from where Maia’s sitting, she can tell that it was), it’s now growing rapidly. When Maia’s teeth gently graze her nipple before she gives it one last lick, Clary has to fight to stay put.
Sensing her tension, Maia smiles. “You’re getting impatient again,” she says, but there is no heat or warning to her tone. She loves how eager Clary gets when they’re in bed together. She would be lying if she said she wasn’t just as impatient herself. But she holds back, because she wants to take her time, to give Clary as much pleasure as possible, and she knows that Clary would do the same for her.
She starts to lick Clary’s other breast while her hands trail slowly down the redhead’s sides. She hooks one finger under the waistband of Clary’s panties and begins to pull.
Clary’s wings flap once, forcefully, in anticipation, sending a gust of wind that flutters the curtains. Maia chuckles as Clary flushes, more in embarrassment than arousal now, and fails to hold back a laugh of her own. She adjusts her legs so it’s easier for Maia to take her underwear off. Maia throws them somewhere over her shoulder and climbs back up the length of Clary’s body. If Clary sees heaven when she looks at Maia, Maia sees everything else when she looks at Clary. The blue sky and the bluer ocean and the unexplored deep and a million galaxies mankind has yet to discover. The woman beneath her is her everything. She’s something deep and unknowable and welcoming. Her undoing and her salvation. And if she wasn't naked and wet and waiting under her right now, Maia would stop everything to say all of that out loud. But it's rude to keep a lady waiting.
When Maia’s fingers first find their way between Clary’s legs, the latter’s eyes flutter closed. They do this routine often, so often they know the steps like a dance: Maia working slowly and tirelessly, her hand everywhere but where Clary needs her the most, and Clary breathing heavily, her hands clutching the sheets and Maia’s shoulders and everything else that’s within reach. But every time, it's just a bit different. And every time, no matter what, it brings about indescribable pleasure.
Maia’s thumb caresses Clary’s clit after what truly feels like forever. Clary’s body reacts instantly. Her back arches off the bed and her wings — those beautiful great wings that fit so perfectly around Maia every time, as if they were made to hold her — lift off the bed and wrap around Maia’s shoulders, holding her close.
Once upon a time, Maia would have felt conflicted about them, these wings that Clary had given herself using Angelic powers. But ever since the Angels cast Clary out, ever since she turned her back on them in turn and reclaimed the power as her own, her wings have felt less like a consequence of an Angelic gift she’d never asked for and more like an extension of her. They are warm and soft and when it comes to Maia, they seem to have a mind of their own. And Maia loves them. She loves the way they sometimes extend over her sleeping form when Clary’s spooning her. She loves the way Clary sometimes brings them out when they’re outside together, watching clouds or stars, so Maia has something soft to lay on. She loves the way Clary holds her close with them when Maia is naked in her lap, keeping her warm and safe no matter how exposed she is.
Maia smiles and leans down to kiss the side of Clary’s mouth as she continues to gently stroke her. Clary chases her lips and earns a kiss on the mouth as well.
“Maia…” she mumbles, nuzzling Maia’s neck and kissing the hollow of her throat. “
“Yeah, baby?”
Clary opens her eyes. “Take off your goddamn bra.”
They both laugh and Maia shifts, as much as the wings will allow her, until she’s unhooked her bra. She leans over again so Clary has a clear view of her cleavage, then lets the bra straps slip from her shoulders. Clary snatches it up and tosses it off the bed as if afraid that Maia will put it back on again.
“Thank you,” she says, pushing herself up to kiss the tattoo under Maia’s left breast. She looks up into Maia’s eyes. “You can go back to doing what you were doing now.”
And Maia does just that. Her fingers continue to circle Clary’s wet folds, her thumb gently and, often, teasingly rubbing her clit, and watching Clary gasp and moan and cling to her with need. Eventually, Maia slips a finger inside her, and Clary’s wings bristle.
Maia kisses her jaw. “You okay?”
Clary nods feverishly. Then, as if her wings aren’t doing a fine enough job of it, she wraps her arms around Maia too and uses them to pull her in for an open-mouthed kiss. Her hands trail over Maia’s bare back, then down to her hips, then up her sides until she’s cupping both of Maia’s breasts. Maia’s breath hitches at the contact, and it takes her more than a moment to be able to focus back on what she’s supposed to be doing.
She thrusts her finger slowly in and out of Clary a few times before adding a second. And then a third. And the whole time Clary grips and kisses and bites various parts of her body — and the sheets beneath them, and Maia kisses every inch of her skin that she can reach from her position. And her wings slowly lose their hold on Maia, instead beginning to flap and flutter in reaction to the intense pleasure.
Before long, Clary's hold on Maia stiffens and she throws her head back in a moan as she climaxes. Then she falls back against the bed, limp and panting, wings fluttering.
“That…was…” she sighs contentedly, ecstasy still on her face. She opens one eye halfway and gives Maia a small smile. “Wow. Give me one minute, okay?”
“‘Course, baby,” Maia says, lying down on top of her and waiting patiently. She loves watching Clary like this: hair sticking to her forehead with sweat, limbs splayed across the bed, and that euphoric look on her face. With a view this beautiful, Maia doesn’t mind waiting her turn one bit.
A few minutes later, Clary starts to sit up, and Maia rolls halfway off of her to allow it. Clary reaches for a water bottle on their bedside table and sips at it. She offers it to Maia, who also takes a sip before putting it back.
“Okay, now,” Maia says, tracing a finger up and down Clary’s stomach as she gives her a teasing look. “Where were we?”
Clary smirks, as if to say, Oh, I’ll remind you, and switches their positions so quickly that Maia is left to wonder whether she’s activated her speed rune.
With Maia on her back, Clary positions herself between her legs and leans down to kiss her. This is another part of their dance:
Maia is attentive and focused and so, so, so good at what she does and in the time they’re together like this, all she cares about is making Clary feel good. It makes her feel good too, of course, especially with Clary’s hands on her breasts and Clary’s wings on her back, but Maia’s own focus is on making certain her girlfriend is getting as much out of the experience as possible. But when Clary starts to kiss her like this — slow and deep, her tongue in Maia’s mouth guiding the kiss — Maia knows what it’s signaling. That it’s Clary’s turn to take care of her now. That Maia just has to sit back and relax and not worry about a thing in the world.
They don’t always do the same dance, but this kiss from Clary is almost always there to remind Maia that all she needs to do now is feel good .
Clary pulls away slowly, looking down at Maia with half-hooded eyes.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey,” Maia says.
They smile at each other for a long moment. Then Clary places a kiss on Maia’s cheek, then her jaw, then her neck, her shoulder, her collarbone, her chest. Each breast. Down the lengths of her arms. Her stomach and sides. Her thighs. Knees. Ankles. She takes her time kissing every inch of Maia’s body, her hands roaming Maia’s skin all the while. When she finally arrives at the practically-soaked underwear, Maia is breathing heavily and urging her on with her eyes.
Clary sits on her hands and knees, spreads her wings wide, and begins to mouth at Maia’s pussy over the fabric.
Maia makes a noise that is half-squeal, half-groan. “Clary…” she says breathlessly.
Clary knows she doesn’t expect an answer, so she doesn’t bother stopping what she’s doing with her mouth. She alternates between kissing Maia’s thighs and the space between them for what feels to her like barely more than a minute, and to Maia like an eternity. Then Clary uses one hand to carefully push the fabric of Maia’s panties aside, granting her full access to the main event without having to take them off Maia.
Maia moans beautifully when Clary starts to lick her directly, her tongue moving in slow, deep circles. And then, when Clary’s tongue flicks her clit, Maia cries out and buries both hands in Clary’s hair.
Clary giggles and turns her head to kiss the inside of Maia’s palm.
“You doing okay, babe?”
“Yeah,” Maia says, biting her lip. “Just— don’t stop.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Clary says, and dives back in. Maia writhes in pleasure and lifts her hips off the bed, one hand leaving Clary’s tangled locks to grab her own breast. That’s my job , Clary thinks distantly, but doesn’t dwell on it. She lowers one wing to Maia’s face and caresses her cheek with the soft feathers, making Maia smile. Then she continues to lick and tease Maia with her tongue.
Until Maia gasps and shudders and twists her hand in her Clary’s hair as she’s overtaken by waves of pleasure.
Clary doesn’t stop until Maia is gently tugging her up to kiss her deeply, tasting herself on Clary’s tongue. Then she lies back and smiles, playing with the strands of Clary’s hair still in her hands. Clary adjusts herself so she’s lying next to Maia and drapes one wing over their still-naked forms. Maia turns into her arms, facing her, smiling broadly.
“I take it you enjoyed that?” Clary says more than asks.
“Always,” Maia says. “I love you.”
Clary kisses her on the forehead. “I love you too!”
Maia glances at the white feathers on top of her. “Does it take a lot of effort? To keep them out, I mean.”
“No.” Clary shrugs. “I wouldn’t mind if it did, though. You like them.”
“Oh, I more than like them.”
“Oh, I’m aware.”
Maia laughs and wraps her arms around Clary’s middle. Her hair tickles Clary’s chest and nose, but Clary isn’t bothered by it.
“They feel nice,” Maia says after a moment. “They feel like…”
