#[ mr thrill of the chase with mr only had secret love affairs ]

[magistheir]

ok but dorian would romance davrin and he would be insufferable about it

[bubbletimestories]

could you do a sebastian fic where sebby is dating his s/o only to get information out of them but they know he's manipulating them ? and then at one point he starts developing feelings for them but they were planning on breaking up with him :(

So....do you know the story of the girl who wanted to answer a quick prompt but finished with 5 pages ? 😅

I hope you’ll like it (I tried to write as gender neutral as possible) and thank you for the request, it’s highly appreciated  💞 💞 

The lies on your lips 

The sun illuminates the white facades of the mansion and gives the flowers in the gardens hues almost too rich for a painter's brush. The end of summer is still mild and the atmosphere is charged with the sweet scents of cupcakes and lemonade that we love to enjoy in the shade. However, not everyone takes advantage of summer idleness to relax under a tree while reading a novel. Two figures move by whirling in the courtyard, raising with each step a small cloud of dust which whitens their legs. Of the two duettists, only one is out of breath and, as usual, it's you. Your legs are stiff with fatigue, your chest heaves far too quickly but your hand does not shake, you refuse to give up. A few steps away, your fencing master does not even seem to be sweating and is patiently waiting for you to catch your breath, as he always does. His amused gaze could be infuriating if you didn't also perceive a touch of lust in it, as if the shock of your blades were only a preliminary before a more intimate and sensual melee.

“Your movement is good, Milord/Milady, but you are still resting too much on your left side. A Lisbon boot would disarm you in no time."

 Comfortably installed in an armchair stretched with white and blue fabric, your mother observes you from a distance, waving her fan of feathers. She absolutely does not believe that her child, with such an unathletic physique, can do much with a foil, but she readily acknowledges your progress since the arrival of the new teacher. If your father weren't on a trip to the wilderness of Scotland (a grim business of murder, alas, mixed up with occult), he'd probably be very surprised to see you so quick and determined.

With a discreet movement of the wrist, your teacher invites you to take a break but you don't want to, you want to draw on your last strength to carry a few more assaults before your limbs become soft like those of a puppet. Without reaching, you put yourself back on guard and attack with even greater vigor and speed, hoping deep down that you could pull even a grimace from the man in black. Your blades clash with a loud bang, you continue to waltz, gauging each other like two predators until at last you see a rift in your opponent's guard. Exhausted and excited, you rush into it and realize too late that this is a trap. The next moment you are lying on the ground, your foil a few feet from your hand.

 "Looks like you've lost again but your last streak, albeit a bit rushed, almost cost me the win. Hope you didn't hurt yourself while falling. "

 Gloved hands glide over your limbs to make sure you've got nothing, and you suppress a delicious thrill as you cross the eyes of an exquisite red. As expected since he won, you will have to resist the urge to scream while he satisfies you tonight, while his hands will hold your delicate wrists, his mouth will give you a thousand tortures without you being able to let your passion escape. One day it’s him who will lose his head, his body sweaty and your name on his lips. The delicious flavor of the forbidden only makes this relationship all the more incredible, those moments stolen from the time when the owl howls, just a few steps from the mother's bedroom. You get up with his help, dusting your dust-covered outfit while your mother congratulates the fencing master.

 - Well done, Mr Michaelis, you really are an outstanding fencer.

- It’s too much honor, Milady, I’m just one hell of a teacher.

Sebastian bowed respectfully, always so modest under all circumstances, so detached. His calm sometimes makes you think of a snake, a magnificent black viper that ripples in the grass, but that would be forgetting the burning heat of his body against yours, his kisses sometimes tender sometimes disarming at the most incongruous moments. Breathing still choppy, you take time off to go to your room and clean yourself up properly, removing the thick gray layer that covers your limbs, stuck with sweat. The bath prepared by the maid does you a lot of good and you let her clean your hair and nails, anxious to appear to your advantage. Then you ask to be left alone to get dressed, pacing the room, naked. Every corner of the room seems to you to be inhabited by the presence of the fencing master, in one place he devoured your lips, in another he healed your swollen ankle although it was not his role. You who had always refused the suitors around you, it didn't take long for you to succumb to the charm of the man in black, his soft voice, his elegance. Your affair has lasted for several weeks and no one suspects anything thanks to the young man's discretion. Your fingers stroke the glove you managed to steal from him after a night of love, you bring it to your lips, feel the grain of the fabric against your mouth. Then your smile subsides.

 Liar

 Such a perfect being, so mysterious, could not but arouse your curiosity but also your suspicions. When you have a father who investigates the cults of Britain, you learn to beware of what sounds too good to be true. And then there's this young boy you sometimes see, puny, a long lock in front of his eye. His almost ghostly allure has stuck on your retina and if you don't know exactly what to think, one thing is certain in your mind: Sebastian is lying to you, he is manipulating you like a vulgar doll. Deep down, it doesn't shock you, he wouldn't be the first to want to make an obedient toy out of you, but it's the first time you've let someone pull your strings. In the mirror, you meet a frozen gaze, filled with anger even if you don't really know which of him or of you deserves your hatred the most. Your hands angrily take the clothes on the bed, the satin slides over your flesh like an icy wave, so different from the softness of gloved hands. No need to lie to yourself, you realized a long time ago that Mr. Michaelis had wrapped his chains all around you, not just around your body but also around your heart. You want him, you love him and you hate him. However, you are aware that crying scandal would be pointless. The beautiful man is too meticulous, too well-liked to arouse any suspicion. And then, in this affair, who has the most to lose? That’s why you keep quiet, you don’t intend to chase him away or prevent him from carrying out his plans. No doubt he will achieve his ends and disappear without leaving a trace. But that doesn't mean you have to remain his puppet. Tonight you will end your relationship.

 ***

The moon is high in the sky as you leave the mansion to enter the gardens under the pretext of wanting to enjoy the starry night. The knots of your outfit flutter gently in the light breeze and you walk between the thickets to get away from the lights, the music, the rest of the world. No need to watch for a rustle, crackle or noise, you know Sebastian will arrive as quietly as a feather in the wind, as if he were emerging from the darkness. With a few glances, a purely aristocratic authoritarian chin movement which he adores, you have made a date with your lover in the secret gardens. Strangely, you don't feel any pain at the thought of breaking your bond, only a great void and a certain weariness. He gave you what you didn't think you wanted: the feeling of being desirable and lovable, and for that you are grateful to him. But it has to stop and quickly, before it gets too hard.

 "Did I tell you how much that color highlights your mouth, Y/N? Tonight you looked like you could devour the world with just one bite, with the movement of your lips."

 In the half-light, his pupils shine with a glow more reminiscent of amethyst than ruby, you have learned to recognize this change as a sign of interest, when his excitement is strong. Unless it's just a comedy, a subtle acting game. This is not the first time he compliments your mouth rather than your eyes like everyone else does, he says he loves the way you talk, curl your lips, consume like a voracious and greedy animal. Behind the delicate and elegant facade, he alone knows your insatiable appetites, the violence of your desires. You smile before picking up one of the swords you took care to take tonight. The bare blade captures the moon's rays and makes it shine with a silvery sheen.

 “We're going to play a game, Mr. Michaelis. We will face each other now, in the stillness of the night, until one of us bleeds. During this time, you will have to answer my questions honestly, without lying."

 Your vibrant voice informs the young man about your intentions, it is not a parade of seduction but a declaration of war. Regardless, both situations will bring him equal pleasure and he stares at you with a smirk, picking up the other sword without taking his eyes off you.

- This is a dangerous game, my love, what will I gain from it?

- You never refused a good fight seems to me.

 To support your point, you raise your sword with an innocent smile, knowing in advance that the pleasure of the game will outweigh anything else in the fencing master. You see it in the crease of his mouth, in the movement of his eyebrow, you've caught his attention. With feline grace, Sebastian begins to circle around the yard as before, shedding his jacket and exposing his thin muscles under the snowy fabric of his shirt. He can feel all the anger pulsing through your veins, you must have discovered something incriminating him, but that's okay. His mission is coming to an end and he will soon have to return to his little master, even if the prospect does not enchant him too much. He loves your company, your light shoulder movement when you concentrate, the tension in your muscles when you hold back from sighing, the twinkle of your eyes revealing the fire that burns under the fine varnish of appearances.

 - Let's start with something easy: is Sebastian Michaelis your real name?

- That’s the name I have agreed to bear on this earth.

 Your blades cross, you study each other with your eyes as you vainly search his face for signs of deception. You have never detected one before, you will not pierce his mask tonight. Fighting in your evening clothes is much more complex than in your fencing ones, the fabric stretches and hinders you in your movements but it only reinforces your rage. And then you have this strange thought that wounds will look better on pretty fabric than on dull cotton. As for Sebastian, he ditched the black of his suit tonight to let blood show with every scratch.

 - Did you come here to spy or to gather information ?

- Yes.

 His answer is simple, spoken in a clear voice without any emotion, shame, regret or even mockery. Would you have liked him to be more cruel? At least that confirms your suspicions even though you now feel a thousand questions on your tongue ready to pop out. You have to stay focused, parrying an attack to respond better. You feel stronger, faster than ever before, it's an exhilarating feeling but one that you can't appreciate because what's at stake in this fight is your heart.

 - Did you seduce me on purpose?

- Yes.

 Once again, he responds calmly as if you asked him if the weather would be nice tomorrow. The detachment with which he says "yes", while continuing to parry your attacks effortlessly ... it's almost painful. Sebastian executes a movement as fast as an arrow, his sword biting the fabric of your sleeve but not cutting into your skin. You're sure he did it on purpose, he doesn't want the game to end and you know full well he's too good to be hurt. His speed and agility are almost… inhuman. In a flash, you think back to the ghost you saw, to certain stories circulating about the queen's hound ...

 - Would you have kill me on the orders of your master?

- Yes.

 The attacks are faster, you waltz at a frantic pace, moving forward, backward, constantly avoiding to better face each other again and you feel the anger rising more and more at the risk of blind you and getting lost your concentration. Still, the young man does not seem to be trying to take advantage of it, just pushing your boots aside without trying anything further. On the contrary, he slows down the movement gradually, detailing your rapid breathing, the sweat that pearls on your forehead, the red of your cheeks. You are exhausted and even if you are enduring, you maintain an aristocratic health, you have to be careful. That's why he lets himself be disarmed, your sword under his chin while looking at you intently without even trying to wipe the thin scarlet line that crosses his cheekbone, signaling the end of the fight.

 "Do I have the right to add one last truth before we go our separate ways? "

 You should say no, you would like to refuse, tell him to disappear from your sight, that you never want to hear his voice again, his sweet but empty words, his exquisite and bewitching lies. But you nod your head without lowering your blade, in anticipation. Perhaps he will explain more precisely why he used you. After all, he's only telling the truth tonight, cruel as it is. Sebastian plunges his shifting eyes deep inside yours, running his tongue over his lips before speaking the most shocking, infamous truth a demon can ever articulate.

 " I love you."

[perissologist]

ok i’m in a Mood(TM) where i WILL put absolutely anything and everything on this website so i’m gonna force all of you to look at the best thing i’ve ever written in my entire 22 years of life which i’ve just rediscovered on my google docs:

It was hot and dry; nosebleed weather. Lise sat on the terrace of the most popular Mediterranean restaurant in Westminster, holding her body as still as possible so that she wouldn’t sweat in her white wraparound dress. The rookie sat across from her, eyes on the menu. He was even damper than her in his full silk suit, but it was a posh sort of establishment, and he would have looked ridiculous in linen. To their right, the peaks of Parliament rose against the flat sky like castle turrets; beyond that, the Thames glittered deep blue in the rare English sunshine, its filth masked by the light and the distance.

The rookie noticed her looking at him and reached up to adjust his tie. It was automatic, nervous. He was about as green as they got, still carrying the tics of the academy on his coattails and straight into the mission. They had assigned him to her because he was a local, supposedly her key to unlocking the secrets of Europe. She suspected that it was more of a punishment. An unofficial cuff on the head for the antics she’d pulled on her last mission.

“What is it?” the rookie asked. At least he had the sense to keep his voice low. “Am I giving us away?”

Lise forced out a smile. She leaned in and twined her leg with the rookie’s, who immediately turned an amusing shade of beetroot. “Relax, darling,” she purred, in her best London accent. “It’s not often that we get to take lunch together.”

The rookie coughed. He had forgotten their cover, but at least he was a quick learner: His shoulders relaxed under his suit jacket and he reached across the table to take her hand, no fumbling involved. She smiled again, a little more real this time, and nodded when the waiter stopped by their table to ask if they were ready. “I’ll have the lamb and rice, please,” she said. “And a glass of your driest white.”

“The seafood stew for me,” the rookie said.

The waiter jotted down their orders and departed. Lise adjusted her broad-brimmed sunhat over her eyes and checked the entrances, the exits, the rooftops above and below the terrace’s level. She drummed her manicured fingertips against her thigh and watched the rookie sweat across from her. He was so new that she felt older by a decade just looking at him, but in reality they were probably close to the same age. He wasn’t half bad to look at: A thin face with a thin nose, but a sharp jawline and crystal blue eyes to rescue it. When she had first met him, his tawny, curly hair had annoyed her, but now she found it distantly charming. Maybe it was the heat going to her head. She tilted her head at him, sweet. “Tell me your name again.”

“Oh—it’s James,” he said. “James Caleb.”

She made a face. “Two first names? That’s a bit excessive.”

“No—Caleb’s not—”

The waiter arrived with their dishes. Another patron had entered the terrace, guided by the hostess to a singles table by the railing. He was white, fiftyish, square-jawed and a little pink under the skin in the way many white men were when they got to a certain age. He wore a navy suit without a tie and oxfords polished to a precise shine; his white-blond hair was just long enough to pull off a half-decent combover. He sat down at his table and hid his face behind the menu the waiter handed him.

“Sorry, darling, but I think I’ve just spotted an old friend.” Lise pulled the napkin off her lap and rose from her seat. “You don’t mind if I pop over to say hello, do you?”

She was moving across the terrace before the rookie had even turned enough to get a good look at their target, slipping into the empty seat across the table from the man. “I recommend the lamb,” she said, without the accent. “It’s excellent with lemon.”

The man looked up, already working up a scowl. His expression changed when he saw that she was a woman, and attractive. “Pardon me,” he said, with all the oily pleasantry one would expect from a politician, “but do we know each other?”

Lise smiled. “You don’t know me, but I know you, Walter Pipwhite.” In the next second, the barrel of her pistol was pressed against Pipwhite’s knee. He paled as dramatically as if someone had drained the blood out of him. “MP of Chatham and Aylesford, graduate of Cambridge in political economy and Aberdeen in English law, serving a second term in Parliament. Leaking state secrets to black market arms dealers in Austria and Lisbon.” Pipwhite looked as if someone was currently dangling him off Tower Bridge. “You really should keep your affairs in better order, Mr. Pipwhite.”

Pipwhite swallowed. “What do you want?”

Lise sighed. It was so boring when the targets rolled over so easily. Where was the fight? The thrill of the chase? “The name of the head of the operation, please and thank you.”

“I don’t know it,” Pipwhite said. “I only know my contact in the organization. I gave her the information and she verified it. After she confirmed it was good, she passed it on to her boss.”

“And the payments?”

“They were deposited in my accounts under a shell corporation. ‘Nautilus Ltd.’”

With one hand, Lise withdrew a tiny pad of paper and a nub of a pencil from a pocket in her dress, keeping her other hand pressing the pistol to Pipwhite’s knee. She jotted down “Nautilus Ltd” on the pad. “Would you be so kind as to share a description of this contact?”

Pipwhite’s brow furrowed. “White, attractive. Thirty, thirty-five. Thin. French accent. Carried herself like she knew the effect she had on you.”

Lise glared at him. “What is this, a Nicholas Sparks novel? What kind of identifying information is that?”

Pipwhite at least had the decency to flush. “Sorry. Dark hair, gray eyes. Sharpish face. Five-seven, five-eight. I think she had a mole on the left side of her neck.”

“Name?”

“I only knew what her colleagues called her. Fleur de Lis.”

“Pretentious,” Lise muttered, but wrote it down anyway. “Final question. Why’d you do it?”

Pipwhite’s eyes widened. “What?”

“You know,” Lise said. “Betray your country, collaborate with terrorists. Why?”

“I—” Pipwhite frowned, severe, and Lise recognized the excuse forming in his mouth. She sighed loudly, cutting him off.

“Never mind,” she said, and shot him in the chest, under the table.

Pipwhite slumped against the railing. Lise rose and rejoined the rookie at their table. He had half-stood from his chair and was looking at her with wide eyes. “Did you—?”

“How’s your seafood, dear?” Lise asked. She cut into a piece of lamb with her knife and fork and scooped up some of the spiced chutney on the side of her plate. Mm. Fucking delicious.

The rookie folded himself back into his chair with painful slowness. He picked up his fork but didn’t use it. She ate her lamb and let him stare at her for a while. At last, he asked, barely a whisper, “Shouldn’t we leave?”

“No one will notice for a while,” Lise said. “Until then, it’d be a shame to waste this lovely meal, wouldn’t it?”

She sipped her wine. The lunchtime chatter carried on around them; overhead, seagulls circled the Big Ben and swooped between the spokes of the London Eye. The rookie swallowed. He was pale underneath his sunburn. “They told me about you,” he said, low, like he was sharing a secret. “Back at HQ.”

“Oh?” Lise tasted some of her rice. It was great; very fluffy. “What did they tell you?”

“That you’re as insolent as a teenage girl but as bloodthirsty as a Navy SEAL.”

Lise grinned. “Those two qualities are far from contradictory, John.”

“James.” The rookie’s eyes darted towards Pipwhite’s slumped-over form. Lise sighed and took pity on him.

“Your British fretting is very cute, but it’s unnecessary. He’s just asleep.”

The rookie’s eyes locked back onto her. “What?”

“Hydrochlorine tranq dart,” Lise said. “It’s very fast-acting.”

It took a moment, but the tension drained from the rookie’s shoulders. He looked limp with relief. “Oh.” He exhaled, shaky. “Sorry I said you were insolent.”

“And bloodthirsty,” Lise reminded him, smirking.

“Right.”

“Hey,” someone at the next table said, voice rising. “I think that guy passed out.”

“That’s our cue.” Lise stood and tossed a fifty-pound note on the table. The rookie hastened to follow her towards the exit, the waiters rushing in the opposite direction as they hurried towards the unconscious MP. “Just so you know, I never would have killed him here.”

“Of course,” the rookie said.

“It would’ve made getting out of London a nightmare.”

The rookie looked suddenly nervous again. Lise grinned and led him out onto the street. “Alright, Jimbo,” she said. “Which way to St. Pancras station?”

I WILL NEVER TOP THIS SOMEONE GIVE ME A PULITZER FOR THIS

[singingwordwright]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Shadowhunters (TV) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood Characters: Magnus Bane, Alec Lightwood Additional Tags: Canon Compliant, Marriage Proposal, Fluff and Angst

Summary:

It’s a game, you see.

Not that it was intended to be. The evolution of Alec’s contact in Magnus’s phone started out innocently enough. Almost by accident, even.

But now it’s taken on a life of its own.

This is based on a ficlet I wrote to explain the evolution of Alec's contact in Magnus's phone, which you can find here

Part I: “Pretty Boy”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Alec mutters, stone-faced, and stalks away. Magnus watches him pensively until he disappears around the corner, then withdraws his phone, in its glittering case, from his back pocket.

“Isabelle, my beauty, if I could trouble you to lay off fussing over Jace for a moment?” When she rises and joins him near the doorway, Magnus slips the phone, with its empty contact screen, into her hands. “One never knows when one may need some assistance from a very special Shadowhunter,” he explains, winking.

Isabelle grins, her thumbs already in motion.

When they’re done escorting a rather rumpled Jace from Magnus’s lair, he pulls the phone out and gazes at the contact.

Alec

Short for Alexander, no doubt. “Defender of men.” And a fitting name it is, what with the way Alec dispatched Valentine’s lackey at the rave, and then came to Magnus’s aid against the Circle members who attacked his lair.

Shadowhunters who actually protect Downworlders. Will wonders never cease?

And then there’s that bashful smile Alec gave him when Magnus introduced himself. And the way he stammered like he didn’t know what to make of a man openly admiring him. And the fear that drove him to overreact when he thought his secret might be exposed.

Magnus doesn’t make a habit of pursuing Shadowhunters. He’s had the smallest spark of interest in one or two throughout his centuries, but nothing more than that.

He also doesn’t make a habit of pursuing closeted young men, at least not in recent decades now that young men have the option of being un-closeted. While not nearly as messy as a Shadowhunter/Downworlder affair has the potential to be, chasing after men hiding in the closet requires more effort and dedication than Magnus is willing to exert for the sake of a dirty weekend or two.

So why is he having a hard time convincing himself to wait at least twelve hours before calling?

Magnus stares down at his phone. The name staring back at him from the screen just doesn’t sit right with him.

“Alec” is too pedestrian, but for some reason Magnus can’t even make sense of in his own head, “Alexander” feels far too intimate. Magnus smiles to himself and renames the contact.

Pretty Boy

It’ll do for now.

Not twenty-four hours later, Magnus’s lair is once again invaded by Shadowhunters, and Magnus once again has Alec Lightwood to thank for saving him. This time from getting his throat torn out by an injured and enraged werewolf due to an untimely case of magical depletion.

“You okay?” Alec murmurs gently as Magnus slumps against him.

Oh, this is not good. This is not good at all.

There are at least four other people in the room but as far as Magnus is concerned, it’s just him and Alec.

Clary is fussing over Luke, and Jace and Simon are fussing over Clary and snarking at each other, and Magnus? Magnus can’t tear his eyes off Alec.

Being pressed so cozily against Alec is just dandy, of course, but it’s the fact that the rest of them might as well not exist that’s the problem. If he had a mirror, he’d probably discover he’s wearing a of dopey, smitten smile on his face and words just really can’t encompass just how truly not good this is.

It means that sometime around the moment when Alec selflessly volunteered to let Magnus borrow his energy, some traitorous corner of Magnus’s brain took the possibility of just a dirty weekend off the books. His idiotic heart is going to try to make this a thing, something real, something that has a lot less to do with sweaty bodies and good times had by all, and a lot more to do with very messy and probably very painful feelings.

When he finally manages to pull himself together enough to get Luke into the bedroom, he finds himself stalling for time. He hovers over Luke, adjusting blankets and pillows, until Luke quite pointedly thanks him.

He half expects Alec to be gone by the time he returns to the living room, but no. Of course not.

Alec is picking up Magnus’s books, stroking their spines like a parent tenderly inspecting a child for injuries.

Oh, this is really not good.

Rather than deal with it, Magnus makes drinks.

“How’d you get my number, anyway?” Alec asks after the third cocktail, his head lolling drowsily against the back of the sofa. He’d shuddered his way through the first drink Magnus had made him, but once the alcohol numbed his taste buds, he’d downed the rest quite readily.

Magnus smiles sleepily at him from the other sofa. He shouldn’t be this tipsy after so few drinks, but his tolerance is always a bit lower when he’s overextended himself magically. “What do you mean?”

“When you called me earlier to invite me out. You didn’t call the Institute, you called me.”

“Oh, that.” Magnus digs his phone out of his pocket and tosses it over. Even with his reflexes slowed by alcohol, Alec still manages to snag it out of the air without spilling his cocktail. “Your little sister is as kind as she is lovely.”

Alec opens Magnus’s contacts and then rolls his eyes, but Magnus’s inebriated mind has already moved on from the subject.

When he wakes the next morning, Alec is passed out on the other sofa, Magnus’s phone lying face-down on the coffee table next to him. As Magnus starts formulating plans to woo Alec with coffee and breakfast, he opens it to see what Alec was looking at, only to find the contact has been changed back.

Alec.

Really, Alexander is a far more fitting name, but if Magnus is to have any hope of keeping this infatuation under control, maybe he’ll be better off not reminding himself how Alec seems to be making a habit of coming to his rescue.

Smiling, Magnus pockets the phone and leaves the contact as it is.

Part II: “Mr. Branwell”

“Good-bye, Alexander.”

There are a lot of things Magnus is willing do for the right person.

Carrying on an affair with someone who’s engaged or married, however, is not one of them.

He’d been willing to date Alec on the DL. He wouldn’t have been thrilled with it—in fact, he’s fairly certain he would have actually hated it—but it wouldn’t have been the first time. Indeed, prior to the 1970s, most of his relationships with men outside the Shadow World had, by necessity, been conducted with a certain level of discretion. So if that was what had been required to give Alec the time and confidence to figure out how to be honest about himself and put an end to his parents’ attempts to find him a wife, Magnus would have sucked it up and gone with it.

He just hadn’t anticipated that Alec would be an active participant in the whole matrimony scheme.

So Magnus leaves. He goes home, dresses to kill, and heads to his club.

He then gets righteously drunk, which was absolutely his plan (shut up) and wakes up alone the next morning, which absolutely wasn’t (shut. up.) He has a phone-shaped imprint on his face where he fell asleep laying on the thing, but a quick look at his recent contacts reassures him that he at least didn’t drunk-dial Alec anyone.

He did, however, edit a certain contact name again.

Mr. Branwell.

Okay. So he’d apparently gotten both sloppy and bitchy.

A few days later, Alec is back in Magnus’s loft, this time entreating Magnus to be his sister’s defender in court. Which is laughable on several levels.

First of all, Isabelle is 100% guilty of the crime she’s accused of. She definitely orchestrated the effort to rescue Meliorn, and Magnus knows this because he helped her and Jace obtain Alec’s stele.

Second, Magnus and Isabelle have had precisely three conversations, all of which largely concerned Alec somehow. Why she thinks he’s even remotely qualified to argue on her behalf in a Shadowhunter court will be a mystery for the ages.

And finally, Isabelle banters with at least one Seelie lover on a regular basis and manages not to fall into any of the usual conversational traps, like inadvertently agreeing to a hundred years of indenture in the Seelie court. Ergo, she can probably argue circles around Magnus in her sleep.

Which means she knows the Clave has her dead-to-rights, and she’s sent Alec to Magnus for other reasons. Given her unfavorable view of Alec’s impending marriage, it’s not difficult to guess what those reasons are.

But why has Alec come? That’s a much tougher question.

“...there’s nothing to keep me from slipping through this gaping loophole. For the right price.”

“Name it,” Alec says without hesitation.

That lack of guile is going to drive Magnus mad, because it contradicts everything he’s has been telling himself since he found out that Alec was the one who proposed to Lydia. Alec isn’t being strong-armed into this engagement; he’s chosen it. Therefore, all Magnus’s early reads on Alec were wrong; he isn’t any different from any other Shadowhunter who puts their brainwashed obedience to the Clave ahead of everything else.

Magnus isn’t sure if it’s pettiness or a need to figure out exactly what Alec is made of that drives him to say, “You. In fact, I’ll do you pro bono.”

He plays it off as a joke, but somewhere underneath it all, he needs to know if Alec might actually go for it, might betray his fianceé and whatever sense of honor he possesses to get what he wants from Magnus and save his precious little sister. Or if he thinks he can have Magnus as his piece on the side while he marries Lydia.

If he does, Magnus will then know that Alec isn’t the man Magnus took him for. He’ll know to stay far, far away. He’ll send Alec, Isabelle, and their entire damn Institute packing before he’ll lift a damned finger to help any of them.

But Alec doesn’t so much as waver. He looks weary and reluctantly amused by the offer, but not seriously tempted. “Anything else?”

Asking for Alec’s bow? That’s definitely pettiness. Or maybe it’s another test, after all. Magnus isn’t sure what the hell he’s really doing anymore, and by the time the trial is over, he’s even less sure.

Because Lydia Branwell is...lovely. Misguided? Ambitious? Yes. Subconsciously racist? Absolutely. But she’s almost as earnest and well-intentioned as Alec himself, and as torn between obedience to the Clave and doing what she knows is right.

This isn’t good. This is, in fact, a disaster in the making.

Frankly, this whole arranged marriage debacle is starting to take on the overtones of a Greek tragedy, with Magnus cast in the role of Cassandra. Two genuinely good people, young people who are positioned to be the next generation of Shadowhunter leaders and who may very well finally move the Clave in the right direction, are condemning themselves to a lifetime of mutual misery. And there’s nothing Magnus can do to stop it.

When he gets home, he changes the contact name in his phone back to Alec. He just doesn’t have the heart to be bitchy anymore.

Part III: “Worth The Effort”

While Alec debriefs with his furious parents after the wedding-that-wasn’t, Magnus almost changes the contact to Kisses Like A God but then decides to play it a little lower-key.

Just a little.

He goes with Owes Me A Date instead.

Not that a date is in the cards. Valentine has stepped up his campaign. No longer is he lurking somewhere sending his lackeys out to do his dirty work. No, he’s flitting all over New York, kidnapping Jace, murdering vampires, kidnapping MMA fighters, kidnapping Clary, kidnapping werewolves...

He’s collecting victims like cereal box tops. Possibly he’s planning to turn them in for a secret decoder ring.

And then Alec goes and tries to kill himself finding Jace.

Magnus wants to be furious with him, but he can’t, because this isn’t his first rodeo. He’s known parabatai before, known how far they’ll go for each other. And if Alec didn’t do this thing for Jace, he wouldn’t be the man Magnus is growing increasingly attached to.

“Please come back,” he pleads. And Alec does. Not right away, but he does.

Alec passes out again soon after Aldertree drags Jace away. Clearly he doesn’t want to; he wants to chase after his brother and demand his release, but exhaustion claims him instead. Compared to his previous comatose state, this is at least a real sleep, a natural sleep. Magnus can stand down.

It’s the second time Alec sleeps at Magnus’s loft. At least the divan Magnus had conjured when he’d transferred Alec from the Institute is more suitable for sleeping than the sofa Alec had ended up sprawled over last time. Magnus, too wired on residual fear and the realization of how deep he’s already fallen into this undefined thing they have (true love’s kiss? really?) reads on the sofa nearby for the entire night, or he does until he nods off with the book on his chest.

He wakes before dawn to discover someone has draped a throw over him. Alec is sitting nearby, looking vastly improved and thumbing through Magnus’s phone.

“Hey.” He blushes and sets the phone down on the coffee table when he notices Magnus’s eyes are open. “I need to get back to the Institute, but I didn’t want to leave without—without saying anything to you.”

Magnus rubs his eyes and tries to pull his thoughts together. “Well, let me make a portal for you.”

“You don’t have to. I’m fine. I can take the subway. I know you expended a lot of magic on me yesterday.”

Magnus flaps a hand at him. “Nonsense. I’d at least call a taxi for you if I couldn’t manage a portal. But, as it is, I’m expected by Aldertree bright and early this morning to answer to charges of—what was it again? ‘Aiding and abetting’ and ‘unlawful imprisonment’ I think?”

“Unlawful imprisonment?” Alec’s voice gains volume with his outrage. “What, of me?”

“Actually, it probably has more to do with Raj.” Magnus grins at Alec’s confused look. “It’s nothing to worry about. Let me get ready, and we can grab coffee and pastries on our way.”

The meeting with Aldertree goes about the way Magnus predicted it would. The whole crazy week is made totally worthwhile, however, by the bashful way Alec apologizes for not making good on his promise of a date yet. They’re so close to finally being able to do it, and then of course Raj has to appear to summon Alec into a demon briefing.

Magnus sighs. “Rain check?”

“Yeah.” Alec winces. “Is that alright?”

What can Magnus possibly say to that, except to assure him that of course it is?

As he strolls out of the Institute, he pulls his phone from his pocket to text that they will have that date soon, and notices the contact name has been changed back to Alec.

It’s several more days before Magnus finally convinces Alec to cash that rain check. By then, he’s desperately worried about Alec’s mental health. His desperation to save Jace was one thing, but his guilt and despair at being the unwilling instrument of the demon who killed Jocelyn Fairchild is something else entirely, leading him somewhere that could get very dark if Alec can’t find his way out of it.

Alec’s hesitation to accede to the date he’d been so eager for just a few days ago speaks volumes about the severe blow his emotional state has taken. But he lets Magnus cajole him out to the Hunter’s Moon until he finally has a drink and a pool cue in hand.

After Magnus wipes the felt with him the first time, he pulls his phone out of his pocket while Alec is racking to break for their second game. He leaves it lying very ostentatiously on the edge of the table, but Alec doesn’t rise to the bait and let it distract him. He runs the table until more than half the stripes have been sunk before Magnus gets a turn.

“Sore loser? Seriously?” he asks, arching an eyebrow over the phone as Magnus lines up his shot.

“Didn’t anyone tell you it’s bad manners to look at someone’s phone without their permission?” Magnus taunts, sinking two solids.

“You could always lock your phone, and yet you never do.” Alec leans on the jukebox and starts thumbing something into the phone. Magnus is so excited to see it that he scratches.

I Know What Youre Doing Bane

Magnus finds himself grinning so hard he doesn’t even mind when Alec finishes sinking his balls and drops the 8-ball precisely where he calls it without ever giving Magnus another turn. He thrusts the phone into Alec’s hands and goes to rack the balls for his break.

Its On Lightwood

A few hours later, their date has taken a decidedly morose turn. Alec tries to rally after the whole ex-lovers discussion and can’t quite manage it. Magnus is kicking himself for pulling a number as intimidating as 17,000 out of the air; the truth is, he has no idea what his “number” is. After the first hundred or so, most rational people lose count.

But Alec’s attitude when he asks Magnus how many people he’s been with is just judgmental enough that Magnus feels the need to challenge it. Nearly four centuries is long enough, and Magnus’s history colorful enough, that his bed-posts have long since been whittled down to toothpicks. He’s not going to pretend otherwise to satisfy a Shadowhunter’s puritanical sensibilities.

Not even Alec’s.

That indignant resolve lasts him until Alec is about to walk out the door. Magnus wants desperately to call him back, but he can’t.

He can’t, because with the exception of that kiss at his wedding, Magnus has been the one making all the overtures since they met. He can’t keep chasing after Alec; sooner or later Alec is going to need to come to Magnus, or any relationship between them will be so pathetically one-sided that it will never last.

And if Alec comes to Magnus, he needs to do so understanding that Magnus will not apologize for being who he is, for the history that has carried him through these hundreds of years. Either Alec can deal with that, or he can’t, and if he can’t it’s better that they know now.

So Magnus lets him go, turns away and waits for the closing of the door as Alec leaves.

Instead, he hears determined footfalls striding toward him. Sees the obstinance and nervousness mingling on Alec’s face as he pledges to accept Magnus, colorful history and all. Feels the trembling trembling in Alec’s body as he closes in for the second kiss he’s ever given Magnus.

There’s so much more weight to this kiss. The last one had only ever really tangentially been about Magnus. It had been a declaration about Alec, and perhaps an offer to see where the connection the two of them felt toward each other might lead, but it hadn’t been about them.

This one is entirely about them. The only statement Alec is making this time is that he’s not going anywhere, that he intends to stick around and make this work. And that’s just...huge.

Magnus relishes the rasp in Alec’s voice when he talks about relationships taking effort.

The moment is shattered by a newly homeless Jace, and the next hour or so spent settling in Magnus’s unexpected houseguest. Afterward, Alec departs with a very chaste kiss and Magnus goes to get ready for bed.

As he pulls his phone out of his pocket to set it on the bedside table, he opens it to Alec’s contact, which still reads, Youre Going Down Bane.

“Oh, Alexander, you couldn’t be more right,” he sighs, and thumb-types in a new name.

Worth The Effort

Part IV: “Mr. Lightwood”

They manage a couple days of peace before the world falls apart again, and they put that time to good use.

After their date in Tokyo, Magnus grins and edits Alec’s contact to “Thicc” Tuna.

“‘Thicc?’ What does that even mean?” Alec demands, laughing so hard he’s once again out of breath.

He’s naked in Magnus’s bed for the first time, his skin still glistening with a sheen of sweat after blowing Magnus’s mind (subsequent to a somewhat shaky start) and also getting an impromptu education in other activities involving the word “blow.”

It isn’t a lesson Magnus had imagined he’d be imparting quite so soon, but he absolutely has no complaints.

“Hmm, I have no idea,” Magnus murmurs, nipping one delightfully furred and muscled pec. “None whatsoever.”

Alec moans and lets the hand holding Magnus’s phone flop weakly down onto the bed beside him.

“No, but seriously,” he rasps a moment later, licking his lips. From the restless way his body is moving, Magnus suspects phones won’t be on his mind much longer. “This one definitely needs to go.”

“Would you prefer ‘Pleasingly Plump Tuna?’”

“Can we just declare any and all kinds of fish off-limits for the phone contact game?”

Magnus arches an eyebrow at him. “Game? You think this is a game?”

“Please tell me you didn’t name my contact in your phone after sushi because you were being serious.”

“Oh, well, if you don’t like it…” Magnus snatches the phone out of his hands and edits the contact.

Alec blushes when he sees it. Then he somehow manages, in a single motion, to deposit the phone on the nightstand and flip them so that he’s lying over Magnus. “That’s a lot to live up to for a beginner.”

“I have every faith in you, Alexander.”

The afterglow hasn’t even faded yet when Magnus finds himself agreeing to host a Shadowhunter party for Max Lightwood’s rune ceremony. These days, he’ll do just about anything for that infallibly earnest stare Alec has a habit of leveling on him.

He’s in his study, having finished calling the various Downworld caterers he knows to see who’s available on short notice, when Alec comes charging in, a look of panic on his face. He snatches the phone off his desk.

“Alexander?”

Alec’s thumbs fly as he keys in something and hands the phone back to Magnus. “Do me a favor and don’t change this until my mother leaves town?” he pleads.

The contact is now a very repressive A. Lightwood.

Magnus is sufficiently put off by the idea of Maryse Lightwood seeing her son referred to as Sex God on Magnus’s phone that he leaves it as-is—and wonders if he’ll ever be able to touch it again without that mental image coming to mind.

By the time Maryse departs, Alec has tried to kill himself, Magnus’s book of counterspells has been stolen, Isabelle has somehow become a yin fen addict and is set on dragging Raphael down with her, Valentine has gotten his hands on a weapon of mass destruction (one the Clave has been hiding from the Downworld for centuries) that he needs Clary to activate, and genocide is once again the order of the day.

No sooner have they recovered from the massacre in the Institute then Magnus finds himself trapped—and tortured—in Valentine’s body. It isn’t until after Kaelie Whitewillow’s murder spree is stopped that Magnus even has the heart to think of changing Alec’s contact in his phone.

He needs to get back to himself. He’s been reeling since his experience with the agony rune, and some very uncomfortable part of his mind keeps questioning whether he’ll truly be able to rely on Alec when the chips are down.

He doesn’t blame Alec for not believing “Valentine” when he claimed to be Magnus; refusing to believe anything Valentine says is a thoroughly reasonable and sane response in any circumstance. It had hurt, and Magnus had been terrified, but he can’t say he wouldn’t have done the same thing in Alec’s shoes.

The problem is, not all of Alec disbelieved Magnus when he said that Azazel had switched his and Valentine’s bodies. Magnus had watched Alec suppress his own instinct, his own better judgment, in favor of obedience—not even to the Clave, but merely the Inquisitor, who was about to carry out an illegal execution.

That’s the image lingering in the back of Magnus’s mind every time he thinks on the event. He doesn’t mistrust Alec’s intentions, but when faced with the dilemma, will there ever come a time when Alec doesn’t prioritize the loyalty to the Clave?

Nonetheless, Magnus makes himself smile—which seems to be the only way he can smile these days—and says all the right things about supporting Alec’s peace initiative with this Downworld cabinet he wants to host. Because Alec’s intentions are good, and maybe he just needs more time to feel confident in his own instincts and leadership before he’ll be able to stand up to the Clave. Magnus is willing to give him that.

Alec’s struggle to keep a straight face when they greet each other with such contrive formality makes it absolutely worthwhile. Then Alec turns away to welcome Luke, and once Magnus is alone, he pulls out his phone and edits the name for Alec’s contact for the first time in weeks.

Mr. Lightwood.

It feels good. It feels normal. It feels like they just might, maybe, possibly, come out on the other side of this thing.

Part V: “Alexander”

“I knew it!” Alec says, an absolutely charming hint of blush blossoming in his cheeks as he looks at Magnus’s phone after the Downworld cabinet meeting.

Magnus drops his stained eye-makeup wipe into the wastebasket beside his vanity. “Don’t you dare edit it, Alexander! It’s staying that way forever.”

“Oh, I’m definitely going to edit it.” Alec’s thumbs begin moving and Magnus charges him.

Alec unfairly uses his few inches of extra height to his advantage, holding the phone high over his head. Magnus unfairly uses his magic to grab Alec’s hand and pull it down.

The tussle eventually (accidentally, of course) sends them tumbling onto the bed and then the phone is forgotten. It’s the first time Magnus has really felt like making love since the body-swap debacle, and Alec…

Well, Alec is a young man with a stamina rune and years of repression he’s still making up for, and sex is still very new to him. He’s almost always immediately on board with whatever Magnus proposes. He opens to Magnus’s kiss, his body undulating, pressing closer. His huge hands are incongruously gentle—they always, always are—as they push Magnus’s silk dressing gown open and off his shoulders.

That night, while Alec is sleeping the sleep of the blissfully well-laid, Magnus slips from the bed. What moments of sublime forgetfulness he managed to find in Alec’s arms are past, and now he’s left haunted by his own history.

Alec is starting to notice Magnus’s conspicuous absences in the morning. It’s only been a few weeks since they began sleeping together, but they’d been well on their way to establishing a morning routine before it happened, and that routine involved a lot more pillow talk and sleepy lovemaking than has been Magnus’s recent habit.

Of course Alec is going to challenge him on it. Of course he is. Because he doesn’t understand. Doesn’t understand what Magnus is or how wide the gulf between who they are actually is.

Sooner or later, something is going to remind Alec that he’s a Shadowhunter and Magnus is a Downworlder. And when that happens, they may very well not be able to overcome it.

That’s why, of course, this relationship between them almost never got off the ground. It’s why Alec walked out the morning after healing Luke, when he passed out on the sofa after drinks. It’s why Alec almost walked away after their first date. It’s why Magnus panicked when he realized he wouldn’t be able to glamour his eyes while making love with Alec.

That’s what Magnus sidestepped bringing up the morning after they first made love, when Alec ask him what scared him. Alec asked him that question just moments after he thought Alec was going to choose rushing off to the Institute again over staying with him.

That reality is why Alec thought nothing of expecting Magnus to prove his innocence in Kaelie’s murder spree instead of demanding the Clave extend the presumption of innocence in the absence of any evidence. And even though Alec didn’t mean it that way, Magnus can’t help but wonder if that’s why Alec let the Inquisitor torture and almost kill him. Would he have fought harder to save Magnus, had Magnus been a Shadowhunter lover telling Alec the same story of body-switching?

Magnus doesn’t know, and the not knowing haunts him almost as much as the memories he can’t bury.

Will confessing to the murder of his stepfather be the thing that reminds Alec that he’s a Shadowhunter, and his job is to capture or destroy Downworlders who commit those sorts of crimes?

“I never wanted you to see this terrible, ugly side of me,” Magnus confesses when the confrontation finally happens. He too weary of fighting and questioning and trying to bury things that won’t stay buried to hide the truth any longer. If this is going to be the moment when Alec choses being Shadowhunter over him, so be it. At least then he’ll know.

Instead, Alec looks at him with that excruciatingly earnest tenderness only Alec seems capable of, and says, “There’s nothing ugly about you.” And holds him, encircles Magnus with his acceptance as much as with his arms.

For a while, Magnus lets himself believe that they truly do love each other enough to overcome what Maryse had stiltedly termed their disparate backgrounds.

“I suppose you’ll be needing a portal to send Valentine to Idris?” Magnus asks, sniffling when he finally pulls back.

“No. Forget it.” Alec shakes his head firmly. “I’ll call Catarina—”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Catarina’s in good standing with the Clave, yes, but her clearance for such sensitive jobs isn’t as high as mine. Besides, then she’d have to find a sitter for Madzie on short notice and small children don’t handle instability and last minute changes very well. Especially in the middle of the night.” He looks up and nods, a solid, determined jerk of his head. “I’ll do it. I need to see this through to the end.”

“Okay.” Alec meets his eyes steadily. “Hand me your phone.”

Magnus smiles, though it feels a little shaky, and does as Alec asks. Alec opens his own contact and passes it back to Magnus.

“Edit it. Make it something that will remind you that I’m always here for you, that I will always love you and protect you, no matter what. And then leave it that way. No more changes.”

Magnus doesn’t hesitate. He knows exactly what it needs to be. The name that one time felt too intimate to be a possibility.

Alexander.

“Defender of Men” indeed.

Epilogue: The Last Change

Magnus peers out of the steam-filled bathroom with a towel clasped around his waist. “Alec, have you seen my—?”

Alec straightens suddenly, almost furtively, from where he was hunched over something beside Magnus’s bedside table. He turns and clasps his hands behind his back. “Seen your what?”

“Alexander?” Magnus purrs, gliding forward. “Is that my phone behind your back?”

“What? Oh. Yeah.” He hands it over and presses his lips together in what Magnus assumes is meant to be a smile. “I just, um, needed a contact for that warlock you told me about a few weeks ago, who might be able to do some short-notice portal work when we need it. Now, what did you need?”

Magnus narrows his eyes and wraps his hand around the phone. It’s been years—some of them rather rocky—since he’s edited Alec’s contact, not since Alec asks him never to change it again. But if Alec was going to revive that old game, Magnus was more than willing to play. “My cobalt silk shirt. The one I wore to Jace and Clary’s engagement party.”

“I think you left it hanging in the laundry room after making some alterations to the trim on the cuffs,” Alec replies. “I’ll go check for you.”

The moment he’s gone, Magnus opens his phone to Alec’s contact and stares.

And stares.

Alexander Lightwood-Bane

The breath abandons Magnus’s lungs in a sudden rush.

“I found it, Magnus. Here—” Alec rounds the corner with Magnus’s shirt in his hands and promptly turns crimson.

“Well.” Magnus clasps his trembling hands around the phone and swallows thickly. His voice is far shakier than he would like, but he manages. “So. Alexander. Is there something you wish to ask me—?”

Please, if you’ve enjoyed my fic or meta or vids, consider buying some of my books, or buying me a cup of coffee!

[poeticandvaguelysweet]

Prompt #146 - Covert Affairs

@@cali-forniacationn  : “quit staring! they’ll notice us!”

Now, I don’t usually join in on the on-island-secret-relationship fics for reasons but this kind of called for that? and I couldn’t really think of anything entertaining enough to pull it off in any other way. 

five-word prompts 

AO3

COVERT AFFAIRS

The music was soft, barely there behind the sound of voices and glasses intermittently toasting. It was the lavish sort of love affair with corporate wine and dining's Owen tried to keep on the down low. He wasn’t really needed there. Sure, he added to the conversation and the chances of money being thrown his way afterward was high. But, if he turned down the invitation no one would miss him. Where was the fun in that. He sat at home, wallowing in beer and motor oil most days of the week, an excuse to stand around in something a little more formal was unwelcome but came with sweet reward.

Secretly, he was there for her. Not because she wanted him there but because there was nothing better than pushing all of Claire Dearing’s buttons in a public space where she couldn’t do much about it. He didn’t usually approach her. Instead, Owen Grady kept his distance, watching the curve of her hip from across the room, or the way her smile changed depending on who she talked to. There was no reason for the investment party other than they liked to do it to torture themselves. Three to four times a year, rich somebodies stumbled onto the island to rub shoulders with Claire as she robbed their bank cheques with an exquisite smile. Often times, they gave them a private tour, leading the already drunk group through the nursery and labs, for kicks, taking the worst ones into the T-Rex observation deck.

Owen only had eyes for Claire, grinning at her over his glass or past the shoulder of whomever he was talking to. Eventually, like always, she grew tired of it. He felt his heart leap when she politely excused herself from the very large man who’d been occupying her attention for a good fifteen minutes or so. There was murder in her eyes and determination in her step as she crossed the room, her shoulder hitting his roughly as she stopped, arms leaning against the bar.

‘Quit staring!’ Claire hissed. ‘They’ll notice us!’ If there was one thing Owen had learnt about Claire; it was that she was paranoid. He chuckled, sound rumbling deep in his chest as he knocked his shoulder against hers.

‘What’s there to notice?’ He asked, leaning in a little closer. Claire only turned to him sharply, glaring so ferociously her eyes had been reduced to small slits. ‘I was thinkin’,’ he drawled, ‘That maybe you could show me that thing now?’  

‘Ohh,’ Claire sighed, watching him with a particular spark in her eye. ‘That thing.’ Owen grinned, the smile sliding up his face as easily as the Cheshire cat as he nodded along with her drawn out syllables. Her hand found his thigh, sliding up the thick length of muscle as she turned away. ‘My office. Five minutes.’ She pulled away from him then, turning in a glamorous swish of black silk and leaving only the sweetest smell of her perfume.

Five minutes was suffocating, Owen’s blood already boiling under his skin as his fingers started to twitch with every passing second. He did as he was told, knowing if he turned up so much as thirty seconds early she would rather lecture him on being caught rather than what they had planned.

Owen knocked on her office door, softly and swiftly, waiting half a second before it pulled open and a slender hand yanked him inside. She was a flash of red hair, pale skin and black dress, so much so that Owen could barely focus on the minute details of her. He hadn’t seen her up close all night, apart from their moment at the bar and he was starting to question how much of it all he would remember. Everything with Claire was about savouring it for later. Owen never knew when the next time would be. He played into hope, toying with her, pushing her buttons, and whispering filthy things against her cheek when others were out of ear shot. He tried to play his cards as best he could and so far Owen was on a winning streak.

Her mouth was hot against his, fingers strong and frantic as she pushed and pulled at his clothes. Claire’s breath was already notched in the middle of her throat, causing her to pant softly, sound a little pitched as his mouth latched to her neck. ‘Careful, careful, careful.’ She muttered quietly, teeth locked to his earlobe as his rough hands tugged at her dress. Gentle fingers joined his, almost half the size of his calloused digits, assisting in the urgent crinkling of her dress. Instead, she pulled it up slowly, her fingers locked in his, eyes caught as she bit her lip. ‘Sometimes, Mr Grady, you have to be soft.’ He only grunted, smirking as he did so.  

‘I ain’t anything near soft.’ He retorted, hands sliding around her ass, grasping tightly before landing her with a swift smack. Claire jumped, shock on her face twisting into pure lust as she purred.

‘I knew what I signed up for.’ To say they had intended to fuck frantically in his office, or hers, or any other secluded yet semi accessible place, would be a lie. Neither of them planned it. Claire was happy to live in a world where she openly detested him, while he continued to make her blush. Maybe Owen planned it. Just a little bit. Never did he think it would actually happen. The two of them hissing at each other between kisses as she fought him, refusing to back down even as the whimpers started to escape her.

They refused to accept it. Not beyond continuing to collide in dark offices and parking lots, steaming the windows of her car or breaking furniture in his wreck of a bungalow. Neither knew how it moved to their homes, but understood it was a rarity. They stuck to parties and breaks in meetings, all around places where people would eventually notice they were missing.

She gasped when he turned them, shoving her back against the wall with a slight thud as she finally got his hips free from synthetic cotton. ‘I don’t think I can let you go back to that investor knowing you have no underwear on.’ Owen grunted, his palms rubbing circles across her thighs.

Claire did what she could to not roll her eyes, Owen lifting her off her feet as she sighed. ‘Have you see this dress?’ She scraped her nails across the back of his neck, lips pressed to his as he chased her for a kiss. He grunted again. Owen had seen her dress, like every other man there, and he was the only one able to make a move. ‘Plus, you and I both know that you’re going to make this whole night worth my time and tomorrow morning he’ll have donated a an even half a million to fund the new asset in the hopes of seeing me again.’

‘No shop talk.’ He grumbled before catching her lips effectively hushing her as jealousy flared in his chest. Owen was still trying to figure out if the thoughts in his head and the feeling in his chest was enough to commit to her, to inquire ever so gently if they could make it a permanent thing; strings attached and everything, that maybe he could confess it to more than just Barry and keep Claire one-hundred per cent to himself. Where he knew the lack of underwear was purely for the aesthetic of her dress, Owen also knew part of it was for him that there had to be a thrill in knowing he would discover it later and act accordingly. She knew how to keep him on his toes, regardless and Owen wasn’t sure he wanted to let that go.

She nodded softly, coyly obedient, which wasn’t Claire. ‘I’ll shut up, you; fuck me.’  Maybe he was the obedient one, the woman lulling him into a false sense of control as he did exactly what she requested and all without running her dress.