( night didn't often come gently for a shadowhunter, certainly not when there was the likes of a greater demon undoubtedly beginning to sneak past the wards engraved upon her apartment building. sometimes, if she lay still enough, she'd swear she could hear the steady thump of her company's pulse tucked in the living room, insisting to take the couch until he was well and able enough to head out on his own. a glance down to her forearm, still holding the bold presence of that binding rune, knowing that it decorated his flesh just the same.
silk robe is pulled over twin material of her slip, black hair nearly glinting in the night as she presses back her sheets, bare feet carrying her quietly down the hall till she reaches the kitchen, moonlight showering in and his frame curled in the last place she'd left him. her figure's been built upon stealth and nimbleness since she was a girl, and it doesn't change in the face of being courteous to the angel who she's grateful has found rest.
back turned from the living room, she stretches to her toes in order to grab a mug, setting water upon the stove to begin boiling as a chamomile tea bag wafts gently up to her senses. )
[ Michael doesn't sleep. Even needing genuine rest is unfamiliar to him, and an activity he's only taken to out of necessity. Sometimes he'll even close his eyes, his vessel's breathing slowing to a pace that most would recognize as sleep, but true unconsciousness isn't something he's experienced before. There's no longing for that particular human experience, as he has enough to deal with as it is with his memories being so perfectly vivid. Those images don't fade as they often do with humans.
He wouldn't have noticed the soft sounds of Isabelle's passing in the general quiet hum of the typical background noises of the apartment, but he's felt her restlessness over the past couple of hours, knew that she wasn't sleeping either, as she seems to do on many nights to some degree. When that restlessness turns to action, he notices, though at first he stays where he is, listening now to the gentle whisper of fabric against skin, and deft, graceful fingers at work in the kitchen seeking something soothing to drink, he imagines. It seems, not for the first time, that they both manage to be lonely in this small space, a feeling which he's lived with for a very long time but never truly acknowledged before. Or ever thought that he would assuage, by allowing someone else to get close to him.
Isabelle is close to him already though. From the moment they met there was a connection in angelic blood, one that was solidified through the rune that he absently traces over with one finger, thoughtfully. She looks into his eyes and he doesn't feel pity, or fear, or any desire for power that he could offer her, should he be unbound especially. She understands, and in turn he's learning to understand her too, and learning that he wants to know more. It's a desire that dances along the edge of old boundaries, once rock solid but now completely dissolved, and that unease has kept him at a distance until now, when he's realized that he doesn't care anymore. Things are never going to be as they were, and attempting to cling to those old ways is completely foolish.
In one moment he's laying on the couch, in his typical nighttime t-shirt and sweatpants, his own feet bare, but in the next he's calmly leaning back against the counter in the back corner of Isabelle's kitchen, his hands propped against it in a more open stance than where his arms are more usually crossed against his chest. ]
You've been having trouble sleeping.
[ His voice is low and even, tone devoid of judgment, but it's clearly an invitation for her to speak of it, if she would like. He knows that he dreams have been troubled, but he hasn't attempted to delve into them to discern what it is that plagues her thoughts. ]
( she doesn't know where they go from here, if she should even dare tread down the conscious thought of a 'they', rather than a mission she'd begun months ago on her own. for so long she'd refused to get anyone else involved, to even mutter so much as a hint of what she was up to those nights she slipped from the institute, the mornings of missed meetings, moments of recklessness even a sharp tongue as her own became tied within. she didn't want to hear that it was dangerous, didn't want to hear that she was foolish for tracking a greater alone; she didn't want to hear anything, and yet... a man who she'd just happened upon within an alley managed to ravel her trust in an evening's worth of time.
it's a naivety that, at times, she seemed unable to beat. he was one of those circumstances, cautious and soft conversations their first night turned a bit more comfortable as a few days passed. the winning of pearled grins tossed his way, a crook of ruby lips she found herself having to consciously cast away when she'd slip into her bedroom after once more saying goodnight, parting ways with him in that hallway. never once did it feel right to leave his side, and she tells herself it's the rune, nothing more, but she doesn't want to figure out just yet if that's the truth. she'll savor their little harbor of solitude, of hushed murmurings in the dark more than a plan that brought them together in the first place.
with a gasp she's torn from her daze. it's a reflexive response, single hand flitting up to clutch at her chest—just above the angelic protection rune nestled betwixt her breasts—the moment she hears the smooth undertones of his voice greet her. a quiet rush of an exhale once recognition balms the start that'd taken to her pulse, lids fluttering closed a moment merely to center herself, pink tongue running over her lips before a tired, toneless laugh comes in response. ) Michael.
( almost to herself, as if in reassurance. it's only him. it's him. but— ) I'm sorry, I— ( a look toward the couch, before it's settled back on him again. she hadn't been standing there long enough for him to wander in behind her, had she? she's gotten so little rest she has to question it herself, pressing raven locks back behind her ear before arms curl around her figure, the chill of the apartment biting at what bits of her skin are exposed. )
[ Someone more accustomed to human habits might offer an immediate apology for the startle, but Michael is distracted by her reaction, almost as if it's a novelty for him. In a way, it is. He's well versed in the wide array of reactions humans make, the tenor of their voices to match their moods, the instinctive movements that they've all shared from the very beginning. But he's never taken the time to notice, never before thought that there were nuances worth noting. He attributes much of the draw to the rune that persistently pulls him in her direction, but the interest that it's sparked isn't a part of its influence.
That much he can only attribute to himself, a fact which he's been thinking about a lot lately.
He allows her the space to catch her breath and to calm the flutter of her pulse, his head tilted slightly as he watches her, but then she wraps her arms around herself, giving him the immediate impression that she's a bit cold, but also perhaps still unsettled by the thoughts that pulled her from bed in the first place. The kitchen isn't a huge space, and a couple of steps takes him close enough to her that he's standing perhaps just a little too close. Certainly close enough that she can undoubtedly feel his ambient heat. He's very warm, as is his usual, but not feverishly so. It necessitates a sharper tilt of his head to continue their conversation, but he doesn't seem to mind. ]
You didn't.
[ There's an almost imperceptible pause after the words, where he lifts a hand to trace his fingertips along her cheekbone where her own fingers trailed a moment before, though whether it's to catch some stray strand of hair or simply to touch isn't immediately clear. The inherent intimacy of the lack of distance between them has implications, but probably fewer than it would with a human, since she's no doubt noticed that Michael has a certain ignorance of many nuances of human interaction. But he is attentive, and he's noticed that she doesn't shy away from those moments in the hallway where they're this close together.
He can't help but imagine how the silk of her robe would feel as a contrast to the softness of her skin, or how easily it would slide right off of her shoulders, and Michael couldn't say that those curiosities are entirely innocent. His vessel has inclinations. He's not so blind as to not notice them. And while he might ultimately be the one in control, he's not as above their effects as he would have been before. ]
I don't need to sleep. You do.
[ Said with a slight, pointed arch of his eyebrows. ]
[ cont. ] — ( blood must have blood. she understands the casualties loyalty can bring, but that wasn't all it took. she's seen the way some of those soldiers from the other clans looked at her, in that infinitely suspended moment when they'd believed they had her, but it was always within that pause that they made themselves vulnerable. gave it all away, the glaze across their hues that made it terrifyingly and utterly clear that they would enjoy it, listening to the splice of a blade cut through everything vital. it was loyalty, it was command, but it was also an instinctive drive that cared little for the conditions outdoors if it meant shedding warm blood across a bright white surface.
but whether or not she's insisting they prioritize, there wasn't a moment in which her own guard would falter. she isn't worried about the layers they'd need to tug on should another party ambush, adrenaline would take its course. they'd be no good against another with their limbs too numb to move, too frigid to be deft if needed. ) Then we take what time we have, and make sure we're ready.
( she notices the way he pauses at his belt as if for modesty's sake; another time, another place, she'd appreciate it, and there isn't a lack of gratitude for the fact that he's affording a bit of thoughtfulness to it all even given their circumstances. she's mature enough, they both are to recognize and accept what they need to do in order to keep themselves alive. if blood must have blood, she wants a fair fight. and maybe it shouldn't be about that itch as much as it is their own wellbeing, but... well, she doesn't think she needs to say it aloud for it to be known. the two have always held some sort of kindred understanding with one another, it isn't lack here in this cabin.
this wasn't about ceremony, anyway, and she listens to the sound of his belt sliding effortlessly from his bottoms as she busies still-nimble fingertips at her own bottoms. at this rate she'd be down to panties and the thin, black tank that'd thankfully been hidden down enough beneath the rest of her layers to still be dry. long sleeve shirt is pulled over her head, raven locks left tousled, only minor cuts kissing along her shoulders, beneath her collars.
a huff of a breath, assessing the couch and what would be the most comfortable and efficient means of sharing it. ) Just—lay down. We'll figure out what works.
What does 'netflix and chill' imply, precisely? I assume it's euphemism.
[ Michael's at the apartment alone with a laptop computer, and he's realizing exactly how much human technology has drastically advanced in such a short amount of time. Second-hand reports about such things have lacked certain... nuances that he's finding now. ]
( she can't help but chuckle quietly out into the night air, that among the uncountable things he could've conjured up while she was out for the evening on official shadowhunter business, it's netflix and chill. )
You could call it that. It really depends who you ask. ( because honestly if any 'man' were to attempt to lure her into their place with a line like that, they wouldn't even be deserving of a response. )
And I guess it depends on intentions. Have you ever watched a movie with a woman, Michael?
[ When one knows so much of the mysteries of the universe that have perplexed humans since the dawn of their existence, it leaves room to discover things on a drastically smaller scale. Michael would never have guessed that humans were capable of surprising him, but then again there was a reason that God favored them even over the shining beacons of existence that were his angels.
So yes, he's discovering the internet. ]
No. I've done very little with humans in thousands of years, and even when I did it was only with the warriors and leaders. I didn't have any interest in their entertainment.
[ 'Fun' wasn't a word in his vocabulary. Not after Lucifer's betrayal and rarely even before that. ]
( there are thousands upon thousands of nuances to the human world, the human life that she knows michael has gone unaware of. there wasn't enough time to indulge him in everything, as much as she wishes there was, as much as she wishes that's what she could spend her days and nights doing. gaze drifts over the night-draped cityscape before her on the roof of the institute, as if she could pinpoint exactly where her apartment was.
exactly where he was.
it wouldn't be much longer until she was cleared to leave. ) Novelties have sort of faded out more and more as the years go on.
It's really just a roundabout way of inviting someone over to get them into bed. A cheap one, at that. Romancing has pretty much gone extinct in the grand scheme of things. Nothing is really sacred anymore, you know?
❪ she'd sprung it on him quite suddenly, if she's being fair—but truly she hadn't expected him to go along with it as willfully as he had, borrowing a dressy getup from jace she knew he wouldn't miss. or rather, wouldn't realize was missing. it'll be returned safely later, and while her mind thrums near the entrance to the climbing ceilings of the gala, it's tiny flutters of worries that prick through the idle conversations being held on either side of her. whether or not the ironed shirt would fit him proper; if he'd be comfortable; if, perhaps, he'd decided it was better for him to return to... well, his own home.
alec had already brushed past her a few moments prior, and while she knows her parents and other institute officials wait indoors for her to make an appearance—as is expected while carrying the lightwood name—yet despite how little time michael's graced her life, she's waiting on the solidity of her arm through his to ease a soft-fluttering anxiety.
she's a socialite, naturally. knows how to make an appearance, but it doesn't mean she enjoys crowds or the attention they potentially grasp. she waits beneath the intimately-lit entryway, candles and warm-toned florals strung about. adorned in an isabelle-esque black dress, she sinks white veneers into dark lips, waiting for that rippling-low, sweet octave to greet her.
and just as a stray black tendril dusts across her temple there's a clearing of a throat, october eyes turning to meet the source — ❫
[ Every day that passes seems to bring Michael closer to his usual self, farther away from the fierce but inherently broken thing that Isabelle found in an alley late one night, and yet he hasn't been practically scratching at the walls to escape this place the moment he's felt a breath of freedom. She isn't tying him down, the binding between them still tugs them together, but he's never considered it impossible to break. To accept that he could be truly anchored by such means never quite occurred to him. Honestly he's still in no shape to do anything he needs to do back home, and until he is, it hardly matters where he's settled.
At least that's how he's chosen to see it. The truth of the matter isn't quite so simple. While his grace strengthens, so does his curiosity toward this very human-like existence that he's been leading - as well as his less than entirely human host. The smallest things, nuances that he never gave so much as a passing glance before, have taken on new meaning to him, and being more connected with his vessel puts him in a position to appreciate them in ways he simply couldn't have before.
This gala, for instance. It's reminiscent of countless gatherings he's seen before, observing largely from Heaven, and nothing he would have bothered to take note of, but this time he's navigating through the a finely-dressed, milling crowd, wearing a suit of his own that needed only a few minor adjustments to fit him as if it were made for him in the first place. Dark and sleek, with notes of deep green in the tie that accent his eyes, he could appreciate Isabelle's sense of aesthetics.
His companion - perhaps date? the precise words hadn't been settled on - waits for him to catch up at the entrance, lit by flickering candlelight which illuminates her in ways that he would have to call flattering. He's always been partial to the glow of of a flame. ]
You aren't nervous about this, are you?
[ There shouldn't be any awkward questions about who, or what he is, but then again, she would know more about the perception of this crowd than he would. ]
❪ realistically, isabelle knows that michael can't stay, but it doesn't stop those small, invisible furies from threading themselves within her chest, from wisping them into wishes that there could be a chance. with anyone else, if a mundane had stumbled upon him in that alley ridden with blood and shrunken in pain, he'd of already been gone. and while the sight of him coming toward her-lanterns at either side of the walk-stirs up only pleasant and tugging sensations, it isn't long before it's coupled with those previous worries continuing their list.
was she keeping him? burdening him with something, to him, so trivial as a gala of fellow shadowhunters? as far as she can tell, he's been sharply honest with her, but she isn't beyond believing he knows how empathy-and perhaps a bit of pity-works.
she doesn't feel the need to hide her reveling in the sight of him so done-up, after the previous night of whispered kisses held so privately in the confines of her kitchen, admiring him at a distance comes far more naturally. there's a warmth reserved solely for him that finds her lips, tugs them up at their edges, far more subtle in their reddish color than the usual bold look she adorns. ❫
The gala? No. I'm used to it. ❪ she takes to his side once he's met her in the entry, slipping lithe fingers around his arm to just gently hold there. of course, that doesn't give way to what does cause those tiny flits of nerves. ❫ Actually, I find them kind of boring. ❪ voice drops softer, leaning in with gaze still afront as if to only be heard between the two. ❫
It's more to make appearances. After that ... ❪ a single rise of her shoulder, stepping in through two-story french doors, closer to the buzzing of the crowd. ❫
[ For a while Michael was restricted to his own thoughts, where in his previous interactions with humans it was frequently easier to rifle through their heads for whatever he needed to know without going through the formalities of conversation. Now he could pry into precisely what has Isabelle's pulse beating a little faster, whether it's all about the way her gaze lingers on the lines of his suit, as the fabric accents his solid frame, or if there's other things on her mind that leave her less than settled. He could, but he won't. In any case, the time for having a conversation about such things would best be saved for when they have some semblance of privacy.
She has his attention, regardless. Ever since they broached the space between them in surprisingly gentle, intimate ways he's found himself watching her more often, thinking more about the soft curve of her lips and the graceful shift of her legs as she moves, considering how easy it might be to allow his own mouth to wander much more than he's explored so far. And it's not merely a physical curiosity. Getting to know her has been just as much about learning about her, and about how she sees this world around her. He doesn't have much need for this human obligation in particular, but he can't say that he objects to this either.
Clearly her obligations here won't keep them for very long, in any case.
He hums in acknowledgement of her assessment of the evening, sparing a glance around the room before his eyes drop back to her, moving with confidence beside her despite giving her his undivided attention, something very close to a smile tugging at his lips. ]
And what will we do with that?
[ It's nearly a rhetorical question, but there's also a certain thread of opportunity between them that's only grown more noticeable since he kissed her. He thought he knew everything he ever needed to know about human courtship rituals, assumed that it would never be relevant to him, but despite the calm confidence that he seems to emanate, this is new to him in ways that would be difficult for him to explain.
And of course she has questions that she's yet to voice. He can tell. ]
[ this isn't really how derek envisioned a night out going. he supposes he hadn't really thought through the idea of going out for drinks because he doesn't know her very well, yet, and he can't feel the effects of alcohol, so it's not like he could gauge when a good time to try to cut her off would be.
it shouldn't have surprised him that there were other men had flocked to her and it shouldn't have surprised him that other men would try to take advantage of an increasingly more intoxicated, beautiful woman who had wandered away from her assigned life partner and, therefore, appeared to be alone and single, but that had happened, too.
derek hadn't meant for things to escalate the way they had, but one man in particular hadn't been very receptive to having isabelle removed from the conversation he'd been sharing with her. ...well. under different circumstances, derek supposed he could understand that feeling, but all that mattered to him in the moment was getting his partner out of there before things got a little unsavory. derek isn't really the jealous type — okay, he is, but that's not what it had been about. it had been about the way the other man had been touching izzy and he couldn't tell whether izzy had minded or not, but there was always the possibility that they were being watched and derek hadn't been and continues not to be willing to be sanctioned by the government.
it ended in derek decking the guy and getting himself banned for life.
so now he's scooped isabelle up after getting her into a car and home, and he's adjusting her in his arms as he makes his way up the stairs in their home to put her to bed so that she can sleep it off. ]
( appearances had become more of a trademark to the lightwood name than the work and efforts that'd lifted it to recognition in the first place—it's not that she found it particularly difficult, sliding into the warmth of a muse that enjoys the chirps of short-talk and idle champagne glasses that remained pinched in manicured fingertips. her mother had insisted it was imperative for a woman of the lightwood name to show face, ensure that the authorities within the city knew that the institute was at their side. she gets it, but it doesn't change how she stirs to retreat from the crowd, how she'd much rather slip back into the suite reserved some thirteen floors up for her and her alone.
she's a good distance away from the institute, allows herself to be swept in gentle lulls from one familiar face to another—the occasional glance from her brother assuring her she wasn't the only one wishing herself elsewhere. only, she was far better at keeping ruby-painted lips in a pleasant uptick, flesh bronzed and glowing and runes vining boldly from the black slip adorning her figure. a recent observation of his furrowed brows leaves brims pulling into a smirk, symphonic music playing amidst the hall seeming to suspend for a brief moment as gaze drifts, attention stirred from the older gentleman before her riddling on about his history with the department—and she's met with those honey-brown hues once more.
there's a beckoning hidden within them, a tug within her chest that aches to let heels carry her over to the body that similarly occupies him—at least, that's what they think. it isn't the first brief look they'd held that evening, but it brings that warmth to her belly much like the bubbly settling in. while they'd met before, she can't assume he'd be able to read her well enough to understand the slightest tick of her head to the side, a gesture for him to retrieve her, find a way to steal her from the many bodies idling for her attention. and yet it's barely-there, disguised as a slow, elegant stretch of her neck and the press of a smile before black lashes are flitting back to the man before her.
that's your cue, grayson. a lightwood ripe for the taking. )
[The moment Dick had the gala ticket in his hand, he started to protest the idea of going. Sure, it was from the NYPD, and he knew the fundraising event was important to the department, but he still had argued that this was more his father's scene than his. But of course Bruce couldn't go, and someone from the Wayne family had to be there to deliver a giant ass check, take pictures and shake hands so that people would feel like they deserve the pat on the back for getting such a big donation from a business man that had very little to gain from it. There was no arguing with his father, really, and Dick had to wonder how much of this was planned by Bruce when the man mentioned that one night of being a civilian might actually do some good for his son.
At least the ticket had come with a key to the penthouse of the Ritz hotel where the gala was held. Dick had rolled his eyes at the wasted extravaganza: the king size bed, the walk-in shower, the huge bath and the massive hot tub on the balcony overlooking Central Park. At least the bar was fully stocked, and Dick had enjoyed a pre-kissing asses beer while he was getting ready for the event. And the event was just as boring as Dick had expected it to be. The constant gasping at the sudden knowledge that he was the adopted son of the famed Bruce Wayne had grown really old really fast. Luckily, by mid- evening, when all the money raised had been announced, people had moved on to drinkers and eating hors-d'oeuvres, Dick was finally left to his own devices.
Which meant that he could track down the pretty brunette that seemed to always be in the background when he looked up and away from whoever was trying to know what his father was like, but never close enough that he could excuse himself from a conversation he has had a hundred times now. They had spoken to one another a few times in passing while he had been check in with the forensic department for his own cases, but tonight is the perfect moment to chat with her outside of work.
If he was being honest, he had alway found her pretty, but tonight, she looked absolutely stunning in that black dress. The tattoos marring her bronze skin were unusual, but not foreign to Dick. He knew about the Institute, about its true purpose: him and Batman had enough dealings with John Constantine in Gotham to be aware of demons and Warlock and magic. He should have realized who she was when he had first heard her name, but they had yet to work together on a case, and Dick hadn't yet found a reason to ask her about it at work.
But he has one now, watching as she tilts her head subtly towards the heated balcony adjacent to the ballroom. The movement of her head is barely there, but it's enough for Dick to catch on, and he nods once before picking up two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter, and moves to join her outside of the crowded room.
Despite the propane-fuelled heating towers, scattered on the balcony, the night air is crisp, the thick clouds over their heads full and ready to burst into soft snowflakes. The lighting is low enough that the view of the city lights can be enjoyed. Dick finds her by the railing, and he offers her the champagne glass with a smell smile:]
Pretty view from up here.
[His tone doesn't exactly make it clear if he's talking about the city lights or her]
( there's a rouge-pressed smile held at her lips as she catches him smoothly taking hold of two flukes of champagne before heading in her direction, and isabelle isn't one to give someone nothing to follow. she maneuvers herself between the gathering of bodies like a shadow, elegant and brisk while not drawing too much attention to her retreat—she'd fit her name onto enough stranger's and familiars' tongues for the night, certainly her brother and the rest of the crowd could do without her pleasantries for the remainder of the event. there was enough bubbly to allow it, anyway. eventually, conversations would dull to a soft buzz, those seated at the head of the ballroom with strings in their hands standing one by one, music quieting and candles flickering out, wicks exhausted.
stepping out through the large double doors onto the patio rewards her with a crisp, biting gust of air—just enough to stir a thick, loosely woven tendril from over her shoulder, brushing her temple and collars, a few steps leaving her just near the stone railing of the balcony. she'd always admired the view of the city, especially when standing eye level with some of the buildings' tops; it's a sight that never got old, one she frequented from the roof of the institute. the propane towers dance with their own flames inside glass pyramids, like a warm breath of another beneath her ear; the heat of their arms wrapping around her and drifting just as quickly.
her eyes don't find him the moment he steps foot through those doors, even though she hears him, quiet steps in glossy shoes. no; but the moment she catches the glint of the glass he offers and the briefest hint of a cologne that'd somehow become familiar through brief encounters, their eyes meet again—only now, there's nothing standing between them.
a warm hum greets him in response, a musing just as much a consideration for the duality in his words, accepting the champagne just as teeth bare into a smile. and there's a hint of amusement, there, how easily they fall into those same casualties—the view, the weather, the symphony. part of her wonders how he might have come to that balcony if she were someone more frequent in his life, if those private walls weren't in place. ) Much better with company.
( but not just any company, of course. nonetheless, it's a counter spoken with a hooded gaze, snatching teeth onto the inner plush of her lip before she's casting her eyes back over the cityscape, twinkling back at her in awe. the heaters provide just enough warmth that it's not uncomfortable, given the season and the thin slip keeping her from it, but every so often a gust creeps itself along her spine just right, a beckoning reminder of the suite that awaits.
when was the last time she'd let herself slip away? let everything else—the lab, the institute, the hunts—fall to the wayside for a night to herself? far too long, she decides, and frankly, overdue. a slow sip of the golden-toned drink in her hand; she's mastered the art of control enough not to give way to the giddiness that crawls within her, the unavoidable pull at her sternum whenever she catches sight of him. the attraction is undeniable, but even then, there's something beyond it she can't quite place. )
Seems like everything tends to tug us in opposite directions whenever we happen to be in the same place, the same time again.
( when he pads barefoot through his apartment, in the dead of night, without her, bellamy can still see ( and smell ) traces of isabelle everywhere. the lipstick stains on one of his scotch glasses, long black hair all over the place ( seriously, how? ), in the candles sprinkled around his home that were never there before, and especially in the drawers and closet space in his room that items have miraculously trickled into over time. sparsely. mysteriously. one of his hoodies has become hers and he thumbs the sleeve gently, before hanging beside one of her dresses. it's more hers than his at this point.
it's late, she's not here, and bellamy is now collapsed backwards onto the bed staring at the ceiling with his feet on the floor. ) Tell me about your perfect day. Nothing's off limits.
( the chill of winter settling comfortably into the city, ready to have it as it's suitor for the following months, bites hungrily at her bare ankles. more often than not she finds herself pacing — a musing, unhurried pace, as if she needed to re-familiarize herself with her own surroundings. blindly find the spots of the floorboards that groan against her weight, where the streetlights down below flicker in and glare against the windows. everywhere he's had her. everywhere that had once belonged only to her, before he'd touched it.
her phone gives a muffled buzz against the countertop, casting a glare throughout the darkened, small kitchen of her place. she knows it's him, as if she'd invited it. as if he knew she were wandering around, trying to stitch herself back together throughout the layers of him.
she allows herself to muse on the message a moment, thoughts scattered, pieces. normally fluent in her delivery, when she does take thumbs to the screen, she isn't shy to how disjointed it all comes to her. )
It'd start with making breakfast. Something light, a little too early. ( a little too mundane. ) Knowing everyone else is still asleep.
( he imagines her curled up in a chair with hot cocoa or wine in her hands, strands of hair framing her face with a book nearby. she could just as easily be meditating, stretching, and trying to find some inner peace before bed. it's funny how familiar he's become with her habits, considering what they have isn't traditional. he doesn't think either of them wanted it to be, at first. now—
her reply disrupts his runaway mind and he smiles, delighted that she's awake at this hour even if she isn't curled up right in the space at his side that seems like it was designed for her. )
Yeah? Not with being brought breakfast in bed? Go on. It's your day.
( excuse you, bellamy, inserting yourself into the canvas that's only just been placed before her. it's not as if he wouldn't be there — even if she hadn't explicitly stated so; even now, he exists around her like a hum. she perches herself against one of the many sills in her living room, one tucked beneath iron bars of a fire escape, an edge that allows her the widest look of the city.
anyway, back to her day... (she'll get there, bell. slowly.) )
I'd train with my brother, like we used to when we were young. We're both so caught up, even when it's with the same things it's like time isn't as giving anymore. Anyway, that's what we were used to. So some of that, and then maybe something I'm not so used to.
There's so many parts of the city I've been to but never really seen.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
– michael.
silk robe is pulled over twin material of her slip, black hair nearly glinting in the night as she presses back her sheets, bare feet carrying her quietly down the hall till she reaches the kitchen, moonlight showering in and his frame curled in the last place she'd left him. her figure's been built upon stealth and nimbleness since she was a girl, and it doesn't change in the face of being courteous to the angel who she's grateful has found rest.
back turned from the living room, she stretches to her toes in order to grab a mug, setting water upon the stove to begin boiling as a chamomile tea bag wafts gently up to her senses. )
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He wouldn't have noticed the soft sounds of Isabelle's passing in the general quiet hum of the typical background noises of the apartment, but he's felt her restlessness over the past couple of hours, knew that she wasn't sleeping either, as she seems to do on many nights to some degree. When that restlessness turns to action, he notices, though at first he stays where he is, listening now to the gentle whisper of fabric against skin, and deft, graceful fingers at work in the kitchen seeking something soothing to drink, he imagines. It seems, not for the first time, that they both manage to be lonely in this small space, a feeling which he's lived with for a very long time but never truly acknowledged before. Or ever thought that he would assuage, by allowing someone else to get close to him.
Isabelle is close to him already though. From the moment they met there was a connection in angelic blood, one that was solidified through the rune that he absently traces over with one finger, thoughtfully. She looks into his eyes and he doesn't feel pity, or fear, or any desire for power that he could offer her, should he be unbound especially. She understands, and in turn he's learning to understand her too, and learning that he wants to know more. It's a desire that dances along the edge of old boundaries, once rock solid but now completely dissolved, and that unease has kept him at a distance until now, when he's realized that he doesn't care anymore. Things are never going to be as they were, and attempting to cling to those old ways is completely foolish.
In one moment he's laying on the couch, in his typical nighttime t-shirt and sweatpants, his own feet bare, but in the next he's calmly leaning back against the counter in the back corner of Isabelle's kitchen, his hands propped against it in a more open stance than where his arms are more usually crossed against his chest. ]
You've been having trouble sleeping.
[ His voice is low and even, tone devoid of judgment, but it's clearly an invitation for her to speak of it, if she would like. He knows that he dreams have been troubled, but he hasn't attempted to delve into them to discern what it is that plagues her thoughts. ]
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it's a naivety that, at times, she seemed unable to beat. he was one of those circumstances, cautious and soft conversations their first night turned a bit more comfortable as a few days passed. the winning of pearled grins tossed his way, a crook of ruby lips she found herself having to consciously cast away when she'd slip into her bedroom after once more saying goodnight, parting ways with him in that hallway. never once did it feel right to leave his side, and she tells herself it's the rune, nothing more, but she doesn't want to figure out just yet if that's the truth. she'll savor their little harbor of solitude, of hushed murmurings in the dark more than a plan that brought them together in the first place.
with a gasp she's torn from her daze. it's a reflexive response, single hand flitting up to clutch at her chest—just above the angelic protection rune nestled betwixt her breasts—the moment she hears the smooth undertones of his voice greet her. a quiet rush of an exhale once recognition balms the start that'd taken to her pulse, lids fluttering closed a moment merely to center herself, pink tongue running over her lips before a tired, toneless laugh comes in response. ) Michael.
( almost to herself, as if in reassurance. it's only him. it's him. but— ) I'm sorry, I— ( a look toward the couch, before it's settled back on him again. she hadn't been standing there long enough for him to wander in behind her, had she? she's gotten so little rest she has to question it herself, pressing raven locks back behind her ear before arms curl around her figure, the chill of the apartment biting at what bits of her skin are exposed. )
I didn't mean to wake you.
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That much he can only attribute to himself, a fact which he's been thinking about a lot lately.
He allows her the space to catch her breath and to calm the flutter of her pulse, his head tilted slightly as he watches her, but then she wraps her arms around herself, giving him the immediate impression that she's a bit cold, but also perhaps still unsettled by the thoughts that pulled her from bed in the first place. The kitchen isn't a huge space, and a couple of steps takes him close enough to her that he's standing perhaps just a little too close. Certainly close enough that she can undoubtedly feel his ambient heat. He's very warm, as is his usual, but not feverishly so. It necessitates a sharper tilt of his head to continue their conversation, but he doesn't seem to mind. ]
You didn't.
[ There's an almost imperceptible pause after the words, where he lifts a hand to trace his fingertips along her cheekbone where her own fingers trailed a moment before, though whether it's to catch some stray strand of hair or simply to touch isn't immediately clear. The inherent intimacy of the lack of distance between them has implications, but probably fewer than it would with a human, since she's no doubt noticed that Michael has a certain ignorance of many nuances of human interaction. But he is attentive, and he's noticed that she doesn't shy away from those moments in the hallway where they're this close together.
He can't help but imagine how the silk of her robe would feel as a contrast to the softness of her skin, or how easily it would slide right off of her shoulders, and Michael couldn't say that those curiosities are entirely innocent. His vessel has inclinations. He's not so blind as to not notice them. And while he might ultimately be the one in control, he's not as above their effects as he would have been before. ]
I don't need to sleep. You do.
[ Said with a slight, pointed arch of his eyebrows. ]
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– bellamy.
but whether or not she's insisting they prioritize, there wasn't a moment in which her own guard would falter. she isn't worried about the layers they'd need to tug on should another party ambush, adrenaline would take its course. they'd be no good against another with their limbs too numb to move, too frigid to be deft if needed. ) Then we take what time we have, and make sure we're ready.
( she notices the way he pauses at his belt as if for modesty's sake; another time, another place, she'd appreciate it, and there isn't a lack of gratitude for the fact that he's affording a bit of thoughtfulness to it all even given their circumstances. she's mature enough, they both are to recognize and accept what they need to do in order to keep themselves alive. if blood must have blood, she wants a fair fight. and maybe it shouldn't be about that itch as much as it is their own wellbeing, but... well, she doesn't think she needs to say it aloud for it to be known. the two have always held some sort of kindred understanding with one another, it isn't lack here in this cabin.
this wasn't about ceremony, anyway, and she listens to the sound of his belt sliding effortlessly from his bottoms as she busies still-nimble fingertips at her own bottoms. at this rate she'd be down to panties and the thin, black tank that'd thankfully been hidden down enough beneath the rest of her layers to still be dry. long sleeve shirt is pulled over her head, raven locks left tousled, only minor cuts kissing along her shoulders, beneath her collars.
a huff of a breath, assessing the couch and what would be the most comfortable and efficient means of sharing it. ) Just—lay down. We'll figure out what works.
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[ Michael's at the apartment alone with a laptop computer, and he's realizing exactly how much human technology has drastically advanced in such a short amount of time. Second-hand reports about such things have lacked certain... nuances that he's finding now. ]
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You could call it that. It really depends who you ask. ( because honestly if any 'man' were to attempt to lure her into their place with a line like that, they wouldn't even be deserving of a response. )
And I guess it depends on intentions. Have you ever watched a movie with a woman, Michael?
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So yes, he's discovering the internet. ]
No. I've done very little with humans in thousands of years, and even when I did it was only with the warriors and leaders. I didn't have any interest in their entertainment.
[ 'Fun' wasn't a word in his vocabulary. Not after Lucifer's betrayal and rarely even before that. ]
Until now, obviously.
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exactly where he was.
it wouldn't be much longer until she was cleared to leave. ) Novelties have sort of faded out more and more as the years go on.
It's really just a roundabout way of inviting someone over to get them into bed. A cheap one, at that. Romancing has pretty much gone extinct in the grand scheme of things. Nothing is really sacred anymore, you know?
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and i'm starving.
they don't know when they'll be able to get me out.
it's hot.
what do i do?
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well, this is one of them. )
the one time you didn't carry cereal in your pockets, i see.
how long have you been there?
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[ was someone dramatic? yes, someone was dramatic. ]
i wonder if i could climb out of here.
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she'll go along with it, still. )
definitely a concern for starvation, then.
you probably could, i'm sure there's a hatch. but you really don't want to be on the inside of that thing if it gets up and running on your way out.
looks like you have some time with your thoughts, doesn't it?
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– michael.
alec had already brushed past her a few moments prior, and while she knows her parents and other institute officials wait indoors for her to make an appearance—as is expected while carrying the lightwood name—yet despite how little time michael's graced her life, she's waiting on the solidity of her arm through his to ease a soft-fluttering anxiety.
she's a socialite, naturally. knows how to make an appearance, but it doesn't mean she enjoys crowds or the attention they potentially grasp. she waits beneath the intimately-lit entryway, candles and warm-toned florals strung about. adorned in an isabelle-esque black dress, she sinks white veneers into dark lips, waiting for that rippling-low, sweet octave to greet her.
and just as a stray black tendril dusts across her temple there's a clearing of a throat, october eyes turning to meet the source — ❫
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At least that's how he's chosen to see it. The truth of the matter isn't quite so simple. While his grace strengthens, so does his curiosity toward this very human-like existence that he's been leading - as well as his less than entirely human host. The smallest things, nuances that he never gave so much as a passing glance before, have taken on new meaning to him, and being more connected with his vessel puts him in a position to appreciate them in ways he simply couldn't have before.
This gala, for instance. It's reminiscent of countless gatherings he's seen before, observing largely from Heaven, and nothing he would have bothered to take note of, but this time he's navigating through the a finely-dressed, milling crowd, wearing a suit of his own that needed only a few minor adjustments to fit him as if it were made for him in the first place. Dark and sleek, with notes of deep green in the tie that accent his eyes, he could appreciate Isabelle's sense of aesthetics.
His companion - perhaps date? the precise words hadn't been settled on - waits for him to catch up at the entrance, lit by flickering candlelight which illuminates her in ways that he would have to call flattering. He's always been partial to the glow of of a flame. ]
You aren't nervous about this, are you?
[ There shouldn't be any awkward questions about who, or what he is, but then again, she would know more about the perception of this crowd than he would. ]
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was she keeping him? burdening him with something, to him, so trivial as a gala of fellow shadowhunters? as far as she can tell, he's been sharply honest with her, but she isn't beyond believing he knows how empathy-and perhaps a bit of pity-works.
she doesn't feel the need to hide her reveling in the sight of him so done-up, after the previous night of whispered kisses held so privately in the confines of her kitchen, admiring him at a distance comes far more naturally. there's a warmth reserved solely for him that finds her lips, tugs them up at their edges, far more subtle in their reddish color than the usual bold look she adorns. ❫
The gala? No. I'm used to it. ❪ she takes to his side once he's met her in the entry, slipping lithe fingers around his arm to just gently hold there. of course, that doesn't give way to what does cause those tiny flits of nerves. ❫ Actually, I find them kind of boring. ❪ voice drops softer, leaning in with gaze still afront as if to only be heard between the two. ❫
It's more to make appearances. After that ... ❪ a single rise of her shoulder, stepping in through two-story french doors, closer to the buzzing of the crowd. ❫
The night's ours.
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She has his attention, regardless. Ever since they broached the space between them in surprisingly gentle, intimate ways he's found himself watching her more often, thinking more about the soft curve of her lips and the graceful shift of her legs as she moves, considering how easy it might be to allow his own mouth to wander much more than he's explored so far. And it's not merely a physical curiosity. Getting to know her has been just as much about learning about her, and about how she sees this world around her. He doesn't have much need for this human obligation in particular, but he can't say that he objects to this either.
Clearly her obligations here won't keep them for very long, in any case.
He hums in acknowledgement of her assessment of the evening, sparing a glance around the room before his eyes drop back to her, moving with confidence beside her despite giving her his undivided attention, something very close to a smile tugging at his lips. ]
And what will we do with that?
[ It's nearly a rhetorical question, but there's also a certain thread of opportunity between them that's only grown more noticeable since he kissed her. He thought he knew everything he ever needed to know about human courtship rituals, assumed that it would never be relevant to him, but despite the calm confidence that he seems to emanate, this is new to him in ways that would be difficult for him to explain.
And of course she has questions that she's yet to voice. He can tell. ]
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me, scattering imagery via words and gifs one tag at a time
it's beautiful <3
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i have MISSED. THIS.
<3
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it shouldn't have surprised him that there were other men had flocked to her and it shouldn't have surprised him that other men would try to take advantage of an increasingly more intoxicated, beautiful woman who had wandered away from her assigned life partner and, therefore, appeared to be alone and single, but that had happened, too.
derek hadn't meant for things to escalate the way they had, but one man in particular hadn't been very receptive to having isabelle removed from the conversation he'd been sharing with her. ...well. under different circumstances, derek supposed he could understand that feeling, but all that mattered to him in the moment was getting his partner out of there before things got a little unsavory. derek isn't really the jealous type — okay, he is, but that's not what it had been about. it had been about the way the other man had been touching izzy and he couldn't tell whether izzy had minded or not, but there was always the possibility that they were being watched and derek hadn't been and continues not to be willing to be sanctioned by the government.
it ended in derek decking the guy and getting himself banned for life.
so now he's scooped isabelle up after getting her into a car and home, and he's adjusting her in his arms as he makes his way up the stairs in their home to put her to bed so that she can sleep it off. ]
– grayson.
she's a good distance away from the institute, allows herself to be swept in gentle lulls from one familiar face to another—the occasional glance from her brother assuring her she wasn't the only one wishing herself elsewhere. only, she was far better at keeping ruby-painted lips in a pleasant uptick, flesh bronzed and glowing and runes vining boldly from the black slip adorning her figure. a recent observation of his furrowed brows leaves brims pulling into a smirk, symphonic music playing amidst the hall seeming to suspend for a brief moment as gaze drifts, attention stirred from the older gentleman before her riddling on about his history with the department—and she's met with those honey-brown hues once more.
there's a beckoning hidden within them, a tug within her chest that aches to let heels carry her over to the body that similarly occupies him—at least, that's what they think. it isn't the first brief look they'd held that evening, but it brings that warmth to her belly much like the bubbly settling in. while they'd met before, she can't assume he'd be able to read her well enough to understand the slightest tick of her head to the side, a gesture for him to retrieve her, find a way to steal her from the many bodies idling for her attention. and yet it's barely-there, disguised as a slow, elegant stretch of her neck and the press of a smile before black lashes are flitting back to the man before her.
that's your cue, grayson. a lightwood ripe for the taking. )
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At least the ticket had come with a key to the penthouse of the Ritz hotel where the gala was held. Dick had rolled his eyes at the wasted extravaganza: the king size bed, the walk-in shower, the huge bath and the massive hot tub on the balcony overlooking Central Park. At least the bar was fully stocked, and Dick had enjoyed a pre-kissing asses beer while he was getting ready for the event.
And the event was just as boring as Dick had expected it to be. The constant gasping at the sudden knowledge that he was the adopted son of the famed Bruce Wayne had grown really old really fast. Luckily, by mid- evening, when all the money raised had been announced, people had moved on to drinkers and eating hors-d'oeuvres, Dick was finally left to his own devices.
Which meant that he could track down the pretty brunette that seemed to always be in the background when he looked up and away from whoever was trying to know what his father was like, but never close enough that he could excuse himself from a conversation he has had a hundred times now. They had spoken to one another a few times in passing while he had been check in with the forensic department for his own cases, but tonight is the perfect moment to chat with her outside of work.
If he was being honest, he had alway found her pretty, but tonight, she looked absolutely stunning in that black dress. The tattoos marring her bronze skin were unusual, but not foreign to Dick. He knew about the Institute, about its true purpose: him and Batman had enough dealings with John Constantine in Gotham to be aware of demons and Warlock and magic. He should have realized who she was when he had first heard her name, but they had yet to work together on a case, and Dick hadn't yet found a reason to ask her about it at work.
But he has one now, watching as she tilts her head subtly towards the heated balcony adjacent to the ballroom. The movement of her head is barely there, but it's enough for Dick to catch on, and he nods once before picking up two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter, and moves to join her outside of the crowded room.
Despite the propane-fuelled heating towers, scattered on the balcony, the night air is crisp, the thick clouds over their heads full and ready to burst into soft snowflakes. The lighting is low enough that the view of the city lights can be enjoyed. Dick finds her by the railing, and he offers her the champagne glass with a smell smile:]
Pretty view from up here.
[His tone doesn't exactly make it clear if he's talking about the city lights or her]
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stepping out through the large double doors onto the patio rewards her with a crisp, biting gust of air—just enough to stir a thick, loosely woven tendril from over her shoulder, brushing her temple and collars, a few steps leaving her just near the stone railing of the balcony. she'd always admired the view of the city, especially when standing eye level with some of the buildings' tops; it's a sight that never got old, one she frequented from the roof of the institute. the propane towers dance with their own flames inside glass pyramids, like a warm breath of another beneath her ear; the heat of their arms wrapping around her and drifting just as quickly.
her eyes don't find him the moment he steps foot through those doors, even though she hears him, quiet steps in glossy shoes. no; but the moment she catches the glint of the glass he offers and the briefest hint of a cologne that'd somehow become familiar through brief encounters, their eyes meet again—only now, there's nothing standing between them.
a warm hum greets him in response, a musing just as much a consideration for the duality in his words, accepting the champagne just as teeth bare into a smile. and there's a hint of amusement, there, how easily they fall into those same casualties—the view, the weather, the symphony. part of her wonders how he might have come to that balcony if she were someone more frequent in his life, if those private walls weren't in place. ) Much better with company.
( but not just any company, of course. nonetheless, it's a counter spoken with a hooded gaze, snatching teeth onto the inner plush of her lip before she's casting her eyes back over the cityscape, twinkling back at her in awe. the heaters provide just enough warmth that it's not uncomfortable, given the season and the thin slip keeping her from it, but every so often a gust creeps itself along her spine just right, a beckoning reminder of the suite that awaits.
when was the last time she'd let herself slip away? let everything else—the lab, the institute, the hunts—fall to the wayside for a night to herself? far too long, she decides, and frankly, overdue. a slow sip of the golden-toned drink in her hand; she's mastered the art of control enough not to give way to the giddiness that crawls within her, the unavoidable pull at her sternum whenever she catches sight of him. the attraction is undeniable, but even then, there's something beyond it she can't quite place. )
Seems like everything tends to tug us in opposite directions whenever we happen to be in the same place, the same time again.
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it's late, she's not here, and bellamy is now collapsed backwards onto the bed staring at the ceiling with his feet on the floor. ) Tell me about your perfect day. Nothing's off limits.
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her phone gives a muffled buzz against the countertop, casting a glare throughout the darkened, small kitchen of her place. she knows it's him, as if she'd invited it. as if he knew she were wandering around, trying to stitch herself back together throughout the layers of him.
she allows herself to muse on the message a moment, thoughts scattered, pieces. normally fluent in her delivery, when she does take thumbs to the screen, she isn't shy to how disjointed it all comes to her. )
It'd start with making breakfast. Something light, a little too early. ( a little too mundane. ) Knowing everyone else is still asleep.
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her reply disrupts his runaway mind and he smiles, delighted that she's awake at this hour even if she isn't curled up right in the space at his side that seems like it was designed for her. )
Yeah? Not with being brought breakfast in bed? Go on. It's your day.
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( excuse you, bellamy, inserting yourself into the canvas that's only just been placed before her. it's not as if he wouldn't be there — even if she hadn't explicitly stated so; even now, he exists around her like a hum. she perches herself against one of the many sills in her living room, one tucked beneath iron bars of a fire escape, an edge that allows her the widest look of the city.
anyway, back to her day... (she'll get there, bell. slowly.) )
I'd train with my brother, like we used to when we were young. We're both so caught up, even when it's with the same things it's like time isn't as giving anymore. Anyway, that's what we were used to. So some of that, and then maybe something I'm not so used to.
There's so many parts of the city I've been to but never really seen.
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