Series masterpost: Immortal Instruments Warm-Ups

[terresdebrume]

[TMI, AU, Clizzy, Jalec, In progress]

Sometimes when you work on a big project, you write little things that fit into it during the working phase, but may later turn out to be invalidated by final 'canon'.

This series is made of those things. Hopefully, it'll make you want to read Immortal Instruments, but if it doesn't, at least you'll enjoy the snippets on their own!

***

✗ HOW TO SAY 'FUCK YOU' THE SHADOWHUNTER WAY

RATING: General
WORDCOUNT: 156
PAIRING(S): Implied Maryse/Robert/Michael
CHARACTER(S): Michael Wayland, Maryse Trueblood, Robert Lightwood, a couple of OCs
TRIGGER WARNING(S): -
SUMMARY: Maryse got a proposal. She's not enthusiastic about it.

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“I want to punch you,” Reese declares with the regal airs of her father. Then, after a pause: “In the nose, several times.”

Robert chokes on his pea soup, and Mike is so busy trying to muffle his hysterical snorting into his handkerchief he doesn’t even notice his parabatai is about to die.

The room erupts in scandalized conversation, several people from the De Fombelle family leaping to their feet in indignation while Marlene Trueblood tries to decide on an emotion to display—amusement, embarrassment, fear, anger flicker across her features while her hands grip her cutlery with white knuckles.

“Well,” Reese’s dad chokes after a violent fit of suspicious coughing, “You did ask what she wanted as an engagement gift.”

Robert, still half-choking, still manages to trip François De Fombelle on his way out—that’ll teach the insufferable brat to think he can just assume his proposal will be met with instant and enthusiastic agreement.

***

✗ IT'S LIKE KISSING A TRASHCAN

RATING: Teen & Up
WORDCOUNT: 283
PAIRING(S): Clizzy
CHARACTER(S): Clary Fray, Isabelle Lightwood
GENRE: Gross fluff
TRIGGER WARNING(S): -
SUMMARY: In which Clary and Isabelle kiss after a hunt.

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

Isabelle is still reeling from the lack of air–a combination of surprise and her knocking into the angle of her vanity table with the momentum of the kiss–when Clary draws back, falling back on her heels with a scrunch to her nose and a slightly disgusted grimace on her mouth.

“You taste like sewer waste.”

Izzy blinks, caught off guard–and alright, maybe a little distracted by the black streaks of ichor and drying blood splattered over Clary’s face–and wipes at her mouth before she chuckles in disbelief:

“I didn’t know you were an expert on what sewage tastes like–did you try different sources before we met?”

There’s a moment of silence as Clary stares at Isabelle in disbelief, one eye half-closed with a forming bruise and the other framed with blood pouring from a cut on her forehead—she’s flushed and sweaty and smells like she came out of a toilet bowl, but Isabelle has never seen her look half so alive or, surprisingly enough, half so pretty.

“Tell you what,” Isabelle manages after a while, “How about you let me brush my teeth and we try that again, see if it improves the experience?”

Clary grins, grabs the edges of Isabelle’s collar, and pulls her down for a kiss that sends shivers along her spine–makes her want to skip washing altogether and keep kissing Clary all night long.

Possibly also do quite a bit more than just kissing.

"I’ll see you when you’ve showered,” Clary says when they pull apart  beat later, “Don’t take too long.”

Isabelle swears up a storm about stupid Morgensterns and their penchant for teasing, but she does break her personal record.

***

✗ JUST TALK IT OUT
RATING: Teen & Up
WORDCOUNT: 593
PAIRING(S): Pre-Clizzy
CHARACTER(S): Clary Fray, Isabelle Lightwood
GENRE: Bit angsty
TRIGGER WARNING(S): -
SUMMARY: Being a Shadowhunter sounds really cool when you first learn about it but it does take a heavy emotional toll on those who practice it, and Isabelle--as Clary is about to discover--is no exception.


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

Clary emerges from a restless sleep when her mattress dips under someone’s weight, ready to scream until the smell of sleep-warm skin and vanilla float to her nostrils. Isabelle.

“I’m not staying the night,” Isabelle promises as she lifts the covers and slips in bed beside Clary, rolling into a tight ball on the other half of the bed.

Clary is about to answer when Isabelle continues:

“It’s just–normally I’d just sit with Alec or something. He does his arrows near my door when he can’t sleep. Or I’d go with Jace–whatever. I don’t want to be here specifically but–there’s no one else right now, so. You’ll have to do.”

Clary stares at the darkness in front of her, the bare wall separating her room from what passes for a bathroom in the Institute, and wonders–stupidly, she knows–how Isabelle manages not to touch her even as they share a bed meant for a single person.

That has to be some sort of exploit in and of itself.

“Not that you’d be very useful even awake, I mean–you can’t have suffered much if you’re willing to trust us that quick. Maybe it’s just a mundane thing. Maybe you guys are just naive or something.”

Part of Clary–the offended one–wants to break the pretense and protest, tell Isabelle off for her assumptions, but Clary stays silent. She’s not even quite sure why–maybe it’s the odd touch of vulnerability in Isabelle’s voice, but then, that’s not all there is. Maybe it’s just too late in the night to get properly worked up.

“Whatever,” Isabelle sighs, her body relaxing next to Clary–just a fraction, but it probably still counts as progress. “It’s not like I actually need you to relate, I just need to talk it out.”

A pause–Isabelle readjusts her position, and the heat of her spreads a little, as if the knot of her body uncoiled under the cover.

“Just talk it out,” Isabelle repeats, shivers in her voice–it makes Clary’s spine tense in response, but she manages not to betray herself, and Isabelle continues: “Just talk it out. Angel, it’s harder when you’re alone–I’m sure you don’t know that uh? Mundanes probably don’t have to do that.” A pause. “At least not the white ones, I guess. Urgh. This isn’t working–stupid nightmares. I’ll just–”

Clary feels Isabelle shift beside her, and the sound of bones popping into place, followed by a muffled groand and a sharp string of Alicanti that can only be cursing. Isabelle falls silent then, tension returning to her body–it takes Clary a minute to realize there are footsteps coming up the corridors, hurrying to the bedroom with a regularity that reminds Clary of Fourth of July parades.

“Oh thank the Angel!”

Clary has to repress a hiss when Isabelle lifts the blanket and cold air slips under her shirt, but she manages to stay silent while Isabelle tip toes out of the room. There’s the sound of relieved greetings in Alicanti, followed by animated chatter and a deep voice–Mr. Lightwood’s, Clary thinks–responding with soothing words of Arabic.

It takes a while before things settle down–doors clicking open and shut in rapid succession, sleepy voices asking if everyone’s alright from Maryse’s end of the corridor… some singing even, at some point, and Clary is surprised to recognize Jace’s voice in the German lullaby–but eventually the Institute falls quiet again, and Clary is left alone to wonder what, exactly, she got herself into.

***

✗ A WHOLE NEW WORLD
RATING: Gen
WORDCOUNT: 1 091
PAIRING(S): Pre-Clizzy
CHARACTER(S): Clary Fray, Isabelle Lightwood, Alec Lightwood, Jace Lightwood
GENRE: Family time
TRIGGER WARNING(S): -
SUMMARY: In which Clary is invited to spend an afternoon near a river in Idris.

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Clary yelps when someone splashes water against her back—after several minutes of sunbathing it feels like being hit by ice cubes, and even Izzy’s mischievous grin over her broken nose isn’t enough to stop Clary from glaring at her:

“I hate you,” she hisses with a glare as she peals her sundress away from her breasts, “Do you know how cold that is?”

“It’s fifty-three degrees Clary, it’s not that cold.”

Clary wants to complain again and ask why she’s even dating Izzy, but then her mouth curls into the half smile that knocked the breath out of Clary’s lungs from the very first day, and Clary gives up. Izzy’s long black hair clings to her, thick and full of water—Clary can even smell the green scent of it from where she’s sitting. The sun, still bright and warm for an early September afternoon, traces steaks of gold over the bronze of Izzy’s shoulders, and her dark blue eyes look almost black in the back light. She’s soaking wet and covered in scars and oh-so-much-more muscular than any of the girls Clary used to admire…but she has a smile to light the sun with and beautiful lips and the custom-made artificial leg to demonstrate just how smart she is so, really, how’s Clary meant to resist?

“It’s colder than a swimming pool,” she says anyway, and she’s rewarded with a fond eye roll and a swift kiss on the lips:

“You’re such a city rat.”

“Hey!” Clary protests, it’s not my fault we’re from different worlds!”

Just today, Clary has had to adjust to:

1. Portal traveling.


2. Knowing that she is now in a place where she can reach the literal edge of the world, like in Atlantis: The Lost empire except without the lava.
   2.a. Knowing that her mother once jumped off that very edge while pregnant.


3. Crossing a city that looks like a Mucha painting decided to take over the entire landscape (and had the illegitimate, magical child of the Shanghai Maglev train)


4. Seeing more plants and insects-inspired clothing than she’s ever seen in her entire life.


5. Stepping through a gate and leaving said Mucha-town in profit of something that looks like the medieval architectures of all five continents decided to have an impromptu World’s Fair a couple of centuries early.


6. Apparently having missed seven years worth of exams.


7. Learning that, outside of the AsLine (the aforementioned magical train), people around Alicante travel by foot, boats or horse.
   7.a. Riding a horse (with Jace, but still)

And, of course, the part where people in Idris apparently find it normal to swim in rivers.

“You’re making it into a bigger deal than it really is,” Izzy says after a bit. “Look at Jace, he’s enjoying himself.”

Izzy’s shoulder is cold against Clary’s when she nudges her, but Clary follows her gaze and she is, indeed, forced to agree.

Jace dragged Alec further up the stream to what looks like a crumbling boulder streaked with translucent yellow stone, and the two of them have been foraging between the rocks for a good twenty minutes now, their hands and forearms streaked with mud. Both of them are shining with sweat, darker patches of skin where the sun hits them—Jace’s umber skin has turned even blacker around his shoulders and between his shoulder blades, and the light makes the copper of his un-dyed roots look almost as bright as Clary’s puffs. Both of the boys look intensely focused on whatever it is they’re doing, and Clary can’t even find it in herself to make a gentle dig at them.

Instead, she turns back to her girlfriend and tries to sound arch when she says:

“Maybe I have better things to do than dig holes between stones.”

Izzy barely swallows a bout of laughter before she shakes her head and says:

“I keep forgetting you don’t know about those things. They’re fishing for water bees.”

“Water bees?”

“They’re creatures you only find in Idris—they’re a pain to find, but if you can get some to swarm in your aquarium you can treat practically any kind of burn for the rest of your life. Alec has been wanting some for the infirmary for ages.”

“Are you pulling my leg?”

“The only leg I pull is mine, and only when I go to bed.”

Izzy uses the wooden knee of her prosthetic leg—on the left side—to nudge Clary’s thigh–Clary snorts and gently kicks her away. Izzy pretends to be offended at the gesture and tries to tickle Clary through her shirt but Clary manages to dodge and, by some miracle of luck, manages to end up on top of Izzy and tickle her under the arms.

Izzy’s resulting shriek of laughter is almost enough to make Clary stop, but she keeps going once she realizes Izzy isn’t actually defending herself that much. Clary has her girlfriend doubled over in laughter in less than a minute, and for a while the only thing Clary can see is Izzy’s laughing face framed by the copper mess of Clary’s corkscrew curls, until Izzy turns her head to th sides and yells:

“Brother, save meeeeeeeee!”

There’s the sound of bare feet running on the sandy shore, the press of arms around Clary waist, and then she’s flying through the air and crashing in the water, her butt bouncing on the riverbed before she pushes herself upright, coughing and spluttering with abrupt cold. She flings her hair out of her face with a wet splash and glares at Alec in utter disbelief:

“WHY?”

“I’m defending my sister,” Alec says with a shrugs and a smirk, “Nothing personal.”

Clary, her hands trying to wring the worst of the water out of her dress, doesn’t notice Jace walking up behind Alec until he’s already pushed his parabatai face first in the water, where Alec crashes with a panicked flail and an undignified yelp.

“I’m defending my sister,” Jace says when Alec straightens up, hair falling into his face like a thick curtain of curly ink, “Nothing personal.”

Clary tries—but probably fails—to hide her pleased grin at that, something happy fluttering in her stomach as she drinks in the knowledge that Jace is going to be a constant in her life now—that he’ll have her back for as long as the two of them live without question. It’s almost better than dating.

Also, she thinks when Jace raises his hand for a high-five, it’s fun to teach him normal New York stuff.

***

✗ PARABATAI
RATING: Gen
WORDCOUNT: 592
PAIRING(S): -
CHARACTER(S): Jace Lightwood, Alec Lightwood
GENRE: Mourning
TRIGGER WARNING(S): -
SUMMARY: One of Jace’s friends just died. Alec does what he can to help.

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Alec finds his parabatai on the high plazza of Alicante, sitting at the edge of Raziel’s fountain, back turned to the statue. Behind Jace, the last of sunlight colors Raziel’s bust and the top of the Palace of Justice in various shades of bronze and honey gold while the rest of the official buildings slouch in the shadows—they have, it seems, decided to mimic Jace’s mood. Alec doesn’t linger on the architecture, majestic as it is, and sits next to Jace instead.

They stay silent for a while—Alec, his palms flat on the cooling stone beneath him and Jace, hunched on himself as he stares down at his favorite knife and the whetstone he’s holding in his hands.

“Don’t worry,” Jace chokes eventually, voice tight, “I’ll handle it.”

Alec turns to look at his friend—the defeated tilt of his shoulder blades sticking out under the black skin, the thin dusting of coiled hair at the base of his neck—and sighs. He considers giving Jace a back rub—even goes so far as to bring his hand up, the golden bronze of it looking almost white in the dark—but thinks better of it. He closes his eyes instead and reaches for the part of his soul where his and Jace’s parabatai bond resides, opening himself up to it the same way he’d open the curtains in his bedroom to get more light.

His heart speeds up, tightening his throat, and when he finally speaks his voice feels tighter than he’d want it to.

“I know Pip was your friend—”

“Of course,” Jace snaps, making anger flash inside Alec’s stomach, “You know everything about me.”

Fear seizes Alec’s throat and chest, and he finds himself closing the bond before he thinks better of it, breathing in deep to soothe himself down. Next to him, Jace curls up in a tighter ball, bringing his knees up to his chest and his head down, until Alec can barely make out the top of his hair, still pearled with water.

“Sorry,” Jace mumbles through his knees, “I forgot.”

“It’s alright.”

It’s not—not quite—but that’s not Jace’s fault, and not something Alec wants to discuss right now. He watches Jace’s shoulders rise and fall with his breathing. Slowly, making sure to telegraph his move, Alec brings his hand up—the one with all the fingers—and sets it down at the base of Jace’s neck, rubbing circles into the skin.

The shadows around them make Alec’s hand look freakishly big against Jace’s smaller stature, but he leans into the touch anyway, and Alec sets his forehead down on Jace’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he says, careful to keep his voice soft. “I really am.”

Jace snorts. He knows, of course, that Alec could never stand Pip O'Leary—and vice versa, for all that it matters now—but Pip was Jace’s oldest friend, and he died on Dooring day. Anyone would be sorry about that.

Under him, Alec feels Jace’s breathing pause, speed up, grow uneven and shaky. There’s no sound, of course, but when Alec pulls Jace closer, he leans into the hug all the same.

Alec pretends not to notice the wet coldness of Jace’s cheeks and holds him tight instead, rocking back and forth in a soothing rhythm. Around them, the few hunters still coming out of the official buildings give them a wide berth, tactfully pretend not to see them while Alec makes soothing noises in Jace’s hair and says:

“It’s okay Jace. We’ll handle this.”