Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Raphael taught him to ride one night, surrounded by smoke and pollution blanketed stars. Clary’s laughing somewhere in the distance, her voice barely audible over the howl of the engine despite the earpiece playing it directly into his ear. He can barely make out what Izzy is taunting Alec about (the hickey on his neck) or what Magnus is singing (he could tell it was Madonna) or what Jace is sighing against Meliorn’s lips (sickeningly sweet nothings and loving promises that they all know he can’t dream of keeping).

Raphael is pressed to his back, straddling the bike behind him, his sharp nails digging into the sides of his hips almost possessively (and that thought didn’t send shivers down Simon’s knobby spine). Every once and a while he’ll bark an order at Simon- turn here, brake, ease up on the gas- or mutter a curse in Spanish- pendejo, nos matarás a los dos, te odio. Occasionally, he’ll sigh words of praise against the shell of Simon’s ear- good boy, nice turn, good job- because he knows that Simon lives off positive reinforcement.

Every fifth or sixth compliment was bookended by ‘cariño’. Simon can hear the metal-fanged grin more than he can see it, but it’s feral and predatory in his mind’s eye and he can only be reminded of those teeth smeared with blood, can only be reminded that this man is a weapon, that he could kill Simon by barely trying, could only be reminded that this is not the kind of guy you bring home to meet your mother (and won’t Elaine and Rebecca love that- Simon, head over heels for an older Catholic man who helps run a biker gang and can make Simon fall apart without raising a finger. If only they knew about the others). Then again, family has been out of the question this whole time, something distant and unobtainable (they’ve made due with each other).

Pretty soon, Simon knows what he’s doing, and he doesn’t need Raphael’s gentle biting instructions. Instead, Raphael just hangs onto him, pressed along the wilting curve of Simon’s back as Simon maneuvers the bike, twisting through the streets of downtown Brooklyn. The rumble of the naked motorbike’s engine between his thighs and the hard line of the vamp pressed against his back makes his head feel fuzzy, makes his stomach tighten whenever either of them shifted.

The ride lasts a half hour. By the time they arrive back at the park where the others are lounging, Simon’s thighs feel almost numb due to the vibrations of the motor. He almost falls when he stands, the curt wind that blows past almost enough to knock him over. Strong hands grip his biceps, holding him up on the toes of his feet. Raphael’s face is mere centimeters from his own, their noses practically touching. Raphael is stunningly pretty up close. His brown eyes usually look black, but now they’re like bubbling fire agate hidden under long lashes and thick brows. His lips stand red against his ashen skin, stained with wine and probably blood (Simon stopped letting the realities of being friends with a vamp bother him a long time ago). The flush settling over his pale cheeks can probably be written off as being caused by the wind, or due to his paper thin skin, but Simon can tell it’s because of their proximity, the heat building between them.

Raphael’s lips are cold and chapped as he kisses Simon. His metal fangs and his pearly teeth bite into his lower lip, threatening the spill of blood if his tongue doesn’t gain entrance into Simon’s mouth. Simon’s grip is tightening on Raphael, the pinpricks of Raphael’s nails cutting through his shirt. They’re pressed together from knee to chest, their breath mingling, their tongue clashing, their teeth clacking. It’s loud and sloppy and fucking perfect.

Even the wolf whistles from their friends isn’t enough to pull Simon away from Raphael’s bite.

Chapter Text

Simon likes sparring with Jace. He’s never been good at hand-to-hand. He’s always preferred a gun, a knife, over his fists, over the unreliability of his bones and skin. Jace, on the other hand, was at ease with any weapon he finds in his hands. He preferred knives, but giving him a gun, a bat, nothing at all doesn’t make him any less deadly. Messing with Jace Lightwood is always a death sentence, one that you can’t escape because he knows how to hold a grudge.

Jace is determined to teach Simon to hold his own. It’s his personal experience that weapons fail you. Knives can miss, guns can jam, bats are rarely as lethal as they need to be. Your fists are always with you, are always as lethal as you make them.

They train long and hard whenever they get the chance, only stopping when Simon can’t breathe and his knuckles are almost bleeding and he knows he’ll feel it for days to come. Simon always gets his ass handed to him since Jace is so much better than he is, since Jace has been fighting his entire life. Maybe there’s something sad about that, but then again, there’s something sad about everything in their lives.

Four weeks after he kisses Raphael, they’re training again, just like every other day. Jace is trying to show Simon a new takedown, a way to trap his opponent’s feet between his own and toss them down. Simon isn’t doing terribly well, ending up flat on his back more often than not. Eventually, he manages to throw Jace down, more out of sheer luck rather than skill.

Jace lands with a thud, a dazed grin settling over his lips as he stares up at Simon. Simon is just as amazed, completely perplexed as to how he managed to take down Jace. Somehow that moment of ‘wow, I actually did that’ turned into an opportunity for Jace to get him. Jace sweeps his leg, knocking Simon’s feet out from under him. He lands harder than Jace had, cradling his ribs from where his weight landed on them. Jace rolls on top of him, his thighs bracketing Simon’s hips.

Simon can’t move, pinned by the weight of Jace’s stare instead of the weight of him over his lap. Jace’s hands are pressed to Simon’s chest to steady himself, practically burning through his sweat soaked shirt, his skin, his muscles, down to his spine. He’s breathing heavy, grinning as he speaks, something about not letting yourself get distracted, but Simon isn’t hearing the words coming from his mouth. Instead, he’s watching the roll of Jace’s lips, the flash of his teeth, the glinting of his tongue ring. The sun is shining through his hair and he looks ethereal, like a pair of wings is going to sprout from his sharp shoulder blades and block out everything that isn’t Jace.

Jace kisses like he fights. Sure and fast and a little too hard with a little too much enthusiasm but Simon doesn’t care, because he tastes like cinnamon and he smells like roses and his hair is soft under his fingertips. Jace’s nails are digging into his chest, sharp points that keep him grounded. It’s everything he thought it would be and more and he hadn’t thought of this before but now he won’t be able to look at Jace without wanting to bite his lower lip, without feeling the phantom drag of his tongue ring along the ridges of his hard palette.

Jace pulls away, panting against Simon’s lips. They’re still pressed close, but they’re no longer connected at the mouth and Simon isn’t sure which he likes better- the drag of Jace’s tongue or the press of his breath against his lips. “Let me buy you dinner.” Jace whispers, his breath mingling with Simon’s.

Simon finds himself nodding before he registers what Jace even says.