#maybe the detail on the arm is brocade but surely not the shirt itself

[devilrose]

Kud-Ei from the Bravil Mages Guild

[jcmorgenstern]

Morgencest number 24 , ( if you wanted to do all the numbers I wouldn't mind)

24. Dom/Sub. Okay I’mma be real with you anon I did say I wasn’t accepting morgencest prompts but god I really love d/s for them and have been wanting to write this oneshot anyway SO here we go. you, uh, get what you pay for, i guess.

warning for like……Morgencest, in lethal combination with my brain. Set maybe a couple weeks after 3x18, completely and blithely ignoring the plot, any and all consent issues of the bond, and pretending Clary ate some really weird shellfish that didn’t agree with her and woke up a jonathan stan (and really thirsty, apparently).

Jonathan lowered the teacup carefully onto the side table next to Clary’s chair, taking great pains not to spill any. The teapcup rattled against its saucer as he placed it on a coaster, setting down the sugar bowl and a silver spoon beside it. “I made the Earl Grey,” he said, when she did not immediately turn to look. “I wasn’t sure how much sugar you like, so I put in two. But there’s more tea or sugar if you don’t like it–”

“Thank you, Jonathan.” Clary cut him off, looking up from the fireplace. He had to push down on a reflexive smile as her gaze fell on him, raking down his body. He’d agonized over what to wear for what felt like hours, and had finally settled on a slim pair of black slacks and a sweater that showed off his waist, as Clary liked. She patted her knee, gracing him with a smile. “Come on. Sit down.”

Jonathan hesitated, just for a second. The heat of the fire on the back of his neck, as well as the high, haughty spires of Lilith’s favorite chair sitting next to hers brought a memory to the surface, of sitting on Lilith’s lap as a child. She loved to hold him like that, like a real mother, to comb his hair and kiss his forehead like he was a baby.

He forced out the breath that had stuck in his chest, crossing over the brocade rug to lower himself carefully onto her lap. Clary grinned, scooping an arm under his knees and swinging his legs up over the chair’s arm. They’d gone and bought the largest armchair they could find, a huge, soft red-leather thing studded with bronze hardware that could easily fit both of them sitting side by side, for this very purpose. Jonathan leaned back against the other arm, tipping his head back so that it pillowed on the chair’s cushion, and let Clary push his legs further apart, teasing at his inner thigh. “How was your day?”

Clary smiled, pressing an insistent kiss to his lips. He chased it, tasting the aftertaste of chocolate on her tongue. He’d brought her back a choclatine from Paris after she’d portaled him there, and she’d devoured it with all the enthusiasm of last time. “Productive. I think I may have found a way to suppress the barometric drop when the apartment moves. It’s an old, simple spell, but any two-bit warlock should be able to do it. It should keep the Clave off our trail, at any rate.” She reached for her tea. “Also, I did a lot of online shopping and played a couple hours of runescape. The wifi here is incredible.”

“With 128 down? It better be.” Jonathan gamely accepted a sip of her tea as she raised it to his lips, then gave a mock frown. “But I can’t believe you went shopping without me.”

Clary laughed. “I promise you’ll like what I bought. But it’s a surprise.” She pushed at the hem of his sweater, pulling it up over his stomach and trailing a fingertip over his bared skin. Jonathan flinched—it was so unbearably good, the tickle of her touch just like the gentle lick of fire. “One of them is even for you.”

Jonathan looked up, too fast, unable to suppress the reflexive high of for me? “That’s just teasing,” he said, pulling his mouth down into a pout. “You know I’m horrible at having patience.”

“That’s what makes teasing fun,” she replied, snaking a hand up his shirt to pinch one of his sensitive nipples. He gasped, arching up his back and wriggling helplessly in her lap. He loved it when she did this, reach through the bond and give him exactly what he needed. He’d noticed the reactivity of his body had changed as the bond grew stronger—for starters, satisfying Clary had the unexpected perk of unlocking consecutive orgasms–but it was more than that. His body came alive for her, sensitive in ways and places it hadn’t been before. His stomach, his chest, his inner thighs, the backs of his knees, the sides of his neck lit up at her touch. Before, a touch to his back brought to mind his father’s belt buckle bruising his bones for disobedience. Now, he had hazy mornings of Clary’s hands roaming over his back and tracing over his vertebrae to fight back with.

“Just a little hint,” he begged, holding onto her hand. He wasn’t ashamed to beg for Clary, not anymore. She loved to give him what he wanted, to feed it to him with her fingers and let him lick them clean. He cracked the bones of whatever morsels she gave him, sucking at the marrow, gnawing them clean. He was good like that.

“No hints,” Clary said, and kissed him again. “But I will show you what I almost bought you, but didn’t.”

Putting down her tea, she pulled out her phone and tapped at the screen, then held it out so he could see. On the screen was an elegant woman wearing a long, coral-colored dress. The material was light, arid, diaphanous, like something the seelies would spin. Silk petals, pink and blue and white lined the open shoulders and translucent sleeves, scattered over the expanding skirt from the pulled-in waist. She looked beautiful, her fine bones and far-off expression giving the impression of alabaster.

Clary giggled. “Because you’re my princess in a tower. Get it?”

Jonathan looked up, into her eyes. They were a golden brown, like mead or whiskey, and twice as intoxicating. “I love it.”

She bumped his nose, fondly. “Yeah, well, be glad I didn’t actually get it. For starters, it’s nearly two thousand USD.”

“You don’t have to actually buy it.” He was full of energy, all of a sudden, buoyed by the concept. He sat up, or at least attempted to–he’d relaxed to the point of bonelessness, the constant tension bled out of his body. “I can wear it for you.”

“You…actually want to?” Clary sounded a little surprised, but not incredulous. She touched his cheek, smoothed his mussed hair. “You don’t have to, sweetheart. Unless you want to.”

Jonathan wanted. He wanted to feel her eyes on him, knowing she’d picked it out especially for him. He wanted her voice in his ear, saying that’s my little princess. He wanted to be anything, everything she desired. “Of course,” he said, swinging his legs off the armchair and sitting upright. She let him take her phone as he stood, turning his back to her as he studied the dress, taking in every detail. Then, breathing in deeply, he closed his eyes and drew on the wellspring of dark inside him, letting the picture in his mind’s eye paint itself over his skin.

Clary sucked in a breath and he knew it had worked. Something intensely scratchy was tickling his chest, and he opened his eyes to rub at it. The bunched tulle neckline fell a few inches under his collarbones, showing off the curve of his shoulders. The bodice was tight enough that it was taut over his chest, clinging down to his waist, the bunched cuffs a bit tight around his wrists. Jonathan turned, tentative, and the skirts whispered and swayed around him.

Clary was looking at him with rapt attention, her eyes sweeping up and down and all over him and he basked in the attention. She stood and approached, careful not to step on the hem of his dress, touching his waist. “You look beautiful,” she said, and there was a measure of reverence in her voice that made Jonathan’s blood heat. She pulled him in for a kiss, his skirts swishing around her legs. Jonathan melted into her, sighing as her hand brushed the buttons running up his back. Her hair brushed his face, cool and soft, and Jonathan shuddered at the intimacy of it. “How would you like to thank me for your rescue, princess?” she asked, pacing behind him to breathe the words right against the shell of his ear. “On your knees, or on the bed?”

“Yes,” Jonathan gasped, then felt himself flush. “Er, on the bed,” he corrected himself, and Clary gave him a pinched little smile that suggested she was trying very hard not to laugh. She slid a hand over his shoulder, her rings dragging on his skin, and he shuddered again, unable to keep a sound from escaping his throat when her hand slid up his neck and gripped the base of his skull—not hard, but firm.

“Good,” she replied, shortly, and Jonathan’s breath caught in his chest. If he hadn’t just said he wanted it on the bed he would have dropped to his knees for her then and there, however she wanted him. “Now be a good boy while I restrain you.”

Before Jonathan could point out that there was unfortunately no rope in the apartment, Clary snagged her phone charging cable off the table and held it up, looking triumphant. Jonathan extended his wrists eagerly, hissing as she bound them up tight, lacing the ends up together and pulling hard. The cable dug into his skin and he loved it, the harsh ache whenever he moved his arms or his fingers, the black cord obvious against the pale fabric of the dress.

“Should I try to bridal-carry you to the room?” Clary asked. She grinned, pulling at his waist. “I bet I could carry you.”

Jonathan was quite sure she could. He was also quite sure he was flushing at the thought. “As long as you promise not to drop me.”

She pushed up on her toes to kiss him. “No promises.”

Before he could protest she’d dug through his skirt to his knees, scooping him up with a profound oof. There was a bit of staggering and a bit more swearing, but at last she hoisted him aloft, a bundle of skirts. Jonathan put his arms around the back of her neck, holding himself aloft. After a lot of staggering, swearing, and laughing, Clary deposited him onto the bed. Jonathan met her enthusiasm with his own, scrambling up the mattress to let her clamber on after him. It hurt with his wrists tied but he didn’t mind the pain–if anything, it was making him more eager.

“You came for me,” he blurted out, unable to stop himself, as if it were nearing midnight and his stagecoach was about to turn back to a pumpkin. Clary had watched all the fairytale films with him, curling up with him in the armchair and holding him close. He’d cried more than once, moved by the simple magic of the stories themselves. But more than that, he’d gotten back a piece of their childhood that had never existed—a magic unto its own.

“I came for you,” Clary replied, and cradled his cheek in her hand. It was warm, calloused and rough from months of intensive training, and he leaned into the touch. He’d caught himself on his elbows and Clary had crawled over his legs, propping herself up over his chest, rustling his skirt with every movement. He could feel her breath on his chest, her hair trailing over his sides. She was right there, flesh and bone and real, and Jonathan hardly dared to believe it. And more than that, she was smiling, looking like she’d gotten something she really wanted. Looking at him. Among all the other myriad things she’d chosen in life, from clothes to toothpaste to the placement of her runes to the knife she’d stuck in their father’s throat, even for a brief period she had chosen him.

“Roll over for me, princess,” Clary whispered, and Jonathan obeyed, settling back against the pillows and turning onto his side. She pulled away and nudged his conjoined hands and he stretched so that they were propped up over his head, putting a pleasureable strain in his shoulders. He lowered himself onto his stomach, flushing with heat as Clary pulled at his skirts, exposing his legs to the cold air. Her weight shifted on the mattress as she reached into the bedside table for her harness—her first present to him. It clanked and jingled against the wood as she pulled it out and fastened it around her hips—he could just make out her movements over his shoulder, and he could feel his anticipation mounting. If he hadn’t known it would get him a reprimand, he would have rubbed his hips and chest against the bedspread. As it was he was impatient, yearning to scratch the itch, to do anything.

Clary gave his thigh a smack, as if reading his mind. “Patience,” she said, firm without being hard. Jonathan stilled instantly. Boundaries were always difficult, always invisible and shifting, but Clary was very good at giving them and he was learning with great eagerness to color inside the lines. He waited until she was ready, hardly able to contain his sounds of excitement as she grabbed his ass. “You prepared for me, didn’t you?” she asked, sounding impressed as she removed her rings to probe him easily with a finger. She rewarded him with a little kiss to his back, between his shoulder blades. “Good boy. Do you need anything else, or do you want to take me as you are right now?”

“Now,” Jonathan gasped out, into the pillow. He’d tightened up since he’d prepared after getting home to the apartment and made Clary her tea, but he’d slicked himself with plenty of lube. Besides, he loved nothing more than a little roughness.

Another smack, sharp enough to make him cry out. Clary had a mean slap when she wanted to. “Now, please.”

“Now, please,” Jonathan repeated, unable to keep a little of what she called ‘sulking’ out of his voice. The back of his thigh stung, as did the reprimand—he hated more than anything to do things wrong, dare he make her angry—but a softer touch to his shoulder told him all was forgiven.

“Then get on your back for me,” Clary instructed, her voice dripping in dark honey. Jonathan obeyed, wriggling around so that he was on his back. His wrists were starting to ache and he dress had twisted around his legs—how did anyone move in these things? She managed to find his knees and push them apart, but the mess of skirts was getting in the way, falling in Jonathan’s face. He batted them away, impatient, as Clary drew one of her kindjals and sliced through them like taffeta.

Jonathan exhaled, shakily. “I thought you were going to cut me with that,” he said, giving her one of the looks he knew she liked—the little smile through his lashes. Playful, she called it.

“And I assume by that you mean you wouldn’t be opposed to it?” Clary sheathed the blade and Jonathan watched, hungrily, as her shaft moved with her. She gave him a teasing smile, pushing the ruined folds of the dress away from his legs. He liked that smile. “Maybe just a little cut. If you behave.”

She spread his legs wide, making his breath hitch. Being open, vulnerable—he liked it as much as he liked the edge of fear it brought. Clary always seemed to know what she wanted with incredible precision, but he had no such luxury. Want and hurt felt like they were separated by a knife’s edge, so easy to mistake one for the other. Jonathan was very good at making mistakes.

“Remember the word if anything gets too much,” Clary said, softly. “Repeat it back to me.”

Jonathan swallowed, meeting her eyes. They were calm, steady, everything he didn’t feel. “Lemondrop,” he said. Bittersweetness filled his mouth, the memory of the first candy he’d ever had. His father had taken him to the shadow market for business, and he’d stolen one of the enticing yellow things when his father wasn’t looking. He still remembered the overwhelming awe and wonder he’d felt as the flavor had exploded in his mouth, so intense he’d nearly spit it back out. He’d nursed the candy in his mouth until it was gone, and thought wistfully of it for months, when he was back in the cabin eating tasteless cereal and dried meats so hard they made his teeth hurt if he didn’t soak them in water first.

“Good,” Clary replied, then rummaged for a moment in her pocket, pulling out her favorite tube of lipstick. “Hold still,” she said, then opened it up and gently smeared it over his lips. It was soft and silky and she traced his mouth carefully, molding the lines as she would one of her paintings. Once she was done he reached up to touch it, but she slapped his hand away. “Don’t touch it, it’ll smear,” she said, then leaned in and kissed him, slow and messy, and he could feel her lips moving over his, smearing the lipstick over both their faces.

When she pulled back, arranging his legs around his waist, he could imagine the mess they’d made of his own face, and smiled. It felt territorial, marking him as her own, as claimed. Taken. No one could dare profane artwork she made on him but her, not even himself. Jonathan sighed in satisfaction as she lifted his hips off the bed, pulling them towards her ownjust enough so that he could rest on her knees, spread wide for balance. Her jeans were rough against his bare skin but he loved it, the feeling of her clothes against his skin, craving the smoothness of the leather of her jacket.

Without fanfare, Clary leaned forward and pushed into him. Jonathan made a wordless sound, less a cry than an exclamation, pressing his head back in bliss as his pulse thundered in his skull. Yes, yes, yes—every inch of her was perfect, pulling him apart. The ache stung more sharply than he anticipated, but he’d asked for this, to feel deliciously abused as she pushed inside. With his bound hands he grabbed at the wrought iron headboard, pulling on the bars hard as Clary worked her way into him. What had seemed like a copious portion of lube now seemed like hardly enough, but still he bucked his hips, weakly, trying to push himself deeper, though he had to be careful. Too much pain and she’d feel it too. They had to ride that knife’s edge separating his pain from hers.

She smiled at his desperation and put two fingers to his bottom lip. “Good boy.”

He closed his lips around her fingertips and sucked, pushing the tip of his tongue against her nails and the ridged pads of her fingers. She bottomed out with a jerk and Jonathan moaned, grateful. To his great shame his eyes were watering with the incredible strain and pressure. “Clary,” he tried to say, but it came out garbled and muffled.

Clary rocked her hips and Jonathan felt himself whine as pain turned to pleasure. Every time he felt it was too much, like magic, the ache turned into another kind of ache, an ache and hunger for more. She leaned into him, bracing her arms over his shoulders, her hair falling down around her face, and Jonathan whimpered again at the shift. Then she moved, and Jonathan felt that pure, perfect drag inside him and moaned, all the world falling to pieces around him. Clary’s hand latched around his throat just as he liked, cutting off most of his breath. She’d lectured him on how it was dangerous, that this wasn’t the safe way to choke him, but he’d begged and wheedled until she’d given in and let him have the perfect build of oxygen burn.

She fucked him until he felt so raw it ached and burned and Jonathan begged silently for release, challenging herself as much as torturing him. “Clary,” he managed to gasp out, a plea and an exhortation and an exclamation all at once, and she slowed the brutal pace. She’d thrown off her jacket and was glistening with sweat, letting him marvel at the taut definition of her muscles, the hard determination in her eyes and the set of her mouth. The same determination she’d worn when she’d cut off the Seelie’s head and wrestled him out of his chains, grabbing his hand through the restraint jacket and saying, in a tone that allowed no other option, “Run.”

Clary pulled her hand away from his throat and Jonathan fought to hold his breath, obstinate. Spots were playing over his vision and he could feel himself arching off the bed as if possessed; Clary swiped her hair out of her face and twisted her hips up—

Jonathan gasped as the floodgates burst, sucking in a dizzying wave of oxygen. Clary gasped, too, his ecstacy spilling over into her, overwhelming in the resonance between them. Jonathan arched and groaned against the sheets, pulling at the bedframe hard enough that it gave a tortured creak. His burst of pleasure lapsed into waves of hers; she pulled out and unhooked the harness, crashing down beside him to lay in the aftershocks. Jonathan curled up against her, feeling the press of her body on his back and her arm around his waist, the unsteady rhythm of their panting falling into unison.

Jonathan felt himself lulled into sleep, dipping down into the undercurrent of slumber. Clary stroked his hair, absently, reaching down to untie his hands and massage feeling back into his wrists. He sighed, utterly content, and let his bare skin ripple over the ruined dress.

“Already?” Clary teased, her voice thick and heavy with fatigue. She kissed the back of his neck, tucking a stray bit of her hair out of his face. Her body was warm, strong, like a heavy blanket. “And here I was just about to go for round two.”

Jonathan chuckled, re-arranging himself on the pillow. Everything felt soft and warm—the pillowcase, Clary’s shirt, her skin against his own. “For that, I’m afraid you’re going to have to rack up another life debt. Lucky for you, I happen to like being your damsel in distress.”

“Only if you always dress like one.” Clary’s hand teased his hip, down over his thigh. He could hear the smile in her voice. “I’m talking a staple wardrobe of crop tops and miniskirts, and lots of lip gloss. I can take you to Urban Outfitters tomorrow. Insta baddie looks only.”

“Only if you promise to get that strap-on that looks like it’s chrome-plated,” Jonathan mumbled back. His eyelids felt weighed down as if in quicksand, or if they sealed with glue. If Clary kept petting him like that, he wasn’t going to last another minute. “My knight in shining armour, and all that.”

Clary gave an abrupt laugh, her stomach moving against his back. She pressed her face into the pillow, still laughing, then tucked her hand back around his waist, pulling in close for a hug. “Now I know I said no hints about your present that I just ordered, but…I think you’re going to like your surprise.”

JESUS GOD it’s done. I hope you enjoyed!!! Anyway if you want to see Jonathan’s dress here it be!