a Magsey fanfic
"Now Magnus, enough talk of blue-eyed boys and dead parabatai. Where were we before we were so…rudely interrupted?"
Woolsey Scott had had little real interest in the conversation between his current bedfellow and the young upstart who had burst into his flat and all but ruined his favorite yellow dressing-gown. Some of the details were certainly worth keeping in mind, however – one never knew what information might come in handy – and even Woolsey had to admit that some part of him, though perhaps small and obscured, ached for the doe-eyed girl and her predicament. Although that feeling may have been jealousy; he couldn't be certain.
"Woolsey, have a care," Magnus replied, sinking into the flower-patterned armchair. "The boy isn't dead yet."
Woolsey scowled and sauntered over to the gilt-framed mirror that hung over the mantelpiece to examine the mark Will Herondale's silver ring had left on his cheek. The burn would heal, but he could only hope that there would be no noticeable mark left. If he didn't have his looks, Woolsey was certain he didn't have anything. "Dead, dying – what difference does it make in the end? At some point, James Carstairs will no longer be breathing, and that will be the end of that. What can you do?"
"I can do what I can to help," Magnus replied, his tone firm, almost biting. It was bad enough that Woolsey had picked a fight with Will; he didn't need the werewolf baiting him now that Will and Tessa had gone. "That's all there is to it."
Woolsey fell silent, looking over his shoulder at the cat-eyed warlock draped over his armchair. Magnus looked tired – more tired than he had looked in a good long while. The lanky werewolf's heart went out to him. Even if he could not quite find it in himself to commiserate with the young Shadowhunter's plight, seeing the state it put Magnus in certainly tugged at his heartstrings. Perhaps he loved the warlock. He wasn't entirely sure. He certainly loved what Magnus could accomplish between the bed linens, but Woolsey had not quite decided whether his attachment to the warlock transcended the physical. Or had he?
Enough questions, Woolsey chided himself. Just ease his mind so that he'll come to bed. Simple goals, Scott. Easy targets for now.
"Then perhaps I will stay awhile in London yet," Woolsey finally replied, gliding over to stand behind the armchair, leaning over the back and looking into those yellow cat eyes. "The city may be dreary in winter, but it's worse when one is alone. I'd hate to think of you in such a downtrodden state, withering away all by yourself while I gallivant across the countryside, sleeping with all manner of strange bedfellows and getting up to all sorts of mischief."
Magnus sighed, and for a moment, Woolsey regretted the comment about bedfellows, but before he could even think to apologize, the warlock had reached up to take Woolsey's hand in his own and drag it down to rest on his shoulder. The werewolf's heart skipped a beat, but quickly resumed its normal pattern.
"I can't bear to lose, Woolsey, you know that," Magnus confessed, and Woolsey could feel the steady beat of his pulse against his fingers. "But I sometimes wonder if I must come to admit when I am beaten."
Woolsey stepped with a dancer's grace around to the front of the armchair, never once letting go of Magnus's hand. He bent down to one knee in front of the warlock, the sorrow in those cat eyes driving a stake through his heart. "I may care little for the fate of one Shadowhunter, but I can't bear to see you so…" He couldn't find the word for it.
Magnus was silent for a long moment, his eyes searching Woolsey's face. Woolsey wasn't sure what he was looking for, but at long last, Magnus's expression changed – just slightly – and Woolsey knew that he had found it. The warlock shifted his position, leaning forward and planting a gentle, chaste (was such a thing as chastity even possible for Magnus Bane?) kiss against the werewolf's lips. For a moment, Woolsey was speechless, but Magnus filled the silence.
"Let's get you cleaned up, shall we?"
That struck Woolsey even more speechless, and his brain barely processed the need for him to move out of the way as Magnus stood and headed for the doorway that led to the washroom and bedroom in languid strides.
"Are you coming?" Magnus asked, the tiredness leaving his voice, if slightly.
Woolsey all but scrambled to his feet. Surely the warlock had worked some spell on him. Here he had been, trying to take Magnus's mind off his predicament long enough to seduce him, and the warlock had turned the tables that easily? But there had been no blue sparks, at least not that he had seen. There had been nothing but that gentle kiss, so full of need and reliance and yet so tentative. Woolsey had to shake his head before he lumbered after Magnus, feeling like quite the blithering idiot. The slightest of grins turned up the corner of Magnus's mouth as he watched Woolsey approach, having waited for the werewolf on the threshold.
The pair followed the short, narrow corridor back to the bedroom, where the sheets and coverlet on the bed were already rumpled from their previous endeavors. "Sit," Magnus commanded, guiding Woolsey to sit on the edge of the bed with the gentle pressure of a hand on his shoulder. "Good boy," he teased, heading for the adjoining washroom. Woolsey could hear the sounds of water being sloshed around, and just moments later, Magnus returned with a basin and washcloth in hand. Woolsey's heart fluttered as Magnus perched on the edge of the bed beside him, setting the basin on the oak chest at the foot of the bed. The warlock dampened the cloth in the basin and with a feather-light gesture, guided Woolsey's chin so that they were facing each other. Then, with the patience and precision of Florence Nightingale, Magnus began to dab at the werewolf's face. Granted, much of the blood was not his own, but there was a split in his lip from one particularly well-delivered punch from the Herondale boy's fist, and the edges of the silver burn were raw and slightly bloody, as though the skin had torn away from itself just enough to allow beads of blood between the cracks. Woolsey knew he would heal – werewolves healed quickly, especially when the wounds were superficial – but it was the meaning behind the act that made his heart clench. Magnus said nothing as he worked, and his touch was gentle, guiding the cloth over Woolsey's cheek so deftly that he could barely feel it – like the touch of snowflakes upon one's skin. At last, Woolsey could take no more. His body ached for the warlock's touch – the real touch – and he could not bear the waiting any longer. The werewolf placed his hand over the hand that held the cloth, pressing it against his cheek, leading the caress. Closing his eyes, he kissed the warlock's palm, breathing in the scent of light incense.
When Woolsey opened his eyes, searching for acceptance or – he wasn't sure – justification? – Magnus leaned in to kiss his lips. There was no smile on the warlock's face. This was need. This was pure, unadulterated need. This was the act of two consenting adults who needed something from each other desperately, like a pair of passengers aboard a sinking ship. Magnus's lips pressed hotly and firmly against Woolsey's, and for a moment, the werewolf panicked, not having had the chance to breathe before this new kiss. He broke away for only a split second, just long enough to take a great gasp of air, and dove back in without missing a beat. His hands cupped the warlock's cheeks, his fingertips sliding past Magnus's hairline to rest among the dark locks. Magnus sighed out a breath through his nose against Woolsey's cheek, sending a shiver up the werewolf's spine. Woolsey deepened the kiss, returning every bit of need and ardor that Magnus was giving him. His lips parted, and the warlock's nimble tongue sought entry between them. Woolsey's hands tugged blindly against the collar of Magnus's shirt, seeking the skin underneath. He could feel himself growing harder with every passing moment, and he sensed that Magnus was feeling the same way. He could practically smell the desire coming off of his partner, his werewolf nose picking up the scent of some very strong pheromones. Magnus broke the kiss, but before Woolsey could groan in protest, the warlock's hands had pushed the yellow brocade of the dressing gown off of his shoulders and taken hold of the hem of the shirt underneath, whisking the fabric over Woolsey's head in one fluid motion.
"Magnus – "
"Don't talk," came the hushed interjection. Magnus placed his palms against the now-bare plane of Woolsey's chest, dragging the werewolf further onto the bed while also pressing him onto his back. Woolsey shivered in anticipation and laid back, hands at his sides, waiting for whatever was to come. The warlock gently scooped him into his arms, turning him so that he was fully on the bed, head up against the pillows. Magnus dragged his hands down from Woolsey's chest down to the closure of his trousers, skimming over the tight muscles of his abdomen. Those same muscles quivered as Magnus deftly opened Woolsey's trousers, revealing his stiff member. Woolsey's eyelids fluttered and he sighed out raggedly, a strangled whimper emerging among the breath. He was lost in a sea of sensation, his every nerve on end, waiting for more pleasure. This was so different from the times before. There was more to this than there had ever been before. It was not love – at least, Woolsey didn't think it could be. No, it was something just as powerful, but not the same. Whatever it was, Woolsey didn't care to ruminate on it now – not while Magnus was doing such delicious things with his hand…
The warlock had wrapped his slender fingers around Woolsey's manhood, stroking it slowly at first as he watched the werewolf from behind his dark lashes, taking note of every hoarse moan and every weak sigh that escaped those parted lips. As he sensed Woolsey growing used to the pace, he moved his hand faster, working up to a fever pitch that had Woolsey's abs tightening visibly as he strove for release. Just before the werewolf could find that release, however, Magnus stopped, drawing a grunt of protest from his partner. Magnus moved his body upward so that he was in a similar place on the bed beside Woolsey. Propping himself up on an elbow, Magnus looked down at the werewolf, tenderly brushing a lock of Woolsey's hair out of his eyes. He bent his head to kiss Woolsey again, matching the tenderness of his fingers in the kiss. There was nothing about this that was overstated, nothing made grander than it needed to be. This was an understanding.
Woolsey craned his neck upward to press more firmly against Magnus's lips, his arms circling around the warlock's neck to pull him down. They remained like this – Woolsey shirtless, trousers open, Magnus still clothed, lips together, parting, taking, giving – for several moments, until finally, Magnus pulled away. Woolsey reached out for him, but had no reason to fret. Magnus pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it blindly away. Throwing a leg over Woolsey's waist to straddle him, Magnus bent down, pressing his bare chest to Woolsey's as he kissed him once again. Woolsey could feel the bulge in Magnus's trousers and his fingers itched to release it. As he reached down, however, Magnus's hands captured his wrists, holding them away for a few moments more. Finally, Magnus guided the werewolf's hands to the closure of his trousers, where Woolsey's fingers worked quickly to free the warlock's manhood. He pushed the fabric of Magnus's trousers down as far as his reach would allow, and then slid out of his own trousers, kicking them off once they reached his ankles. There was nothing between them now save for all the unspoken words, but those could wait.
Their kisses continued, tongues battling, and Woolsey couldn't help the tiny sounds of pleasure that he was making. Everything about this seemed so right. He hadn't known he needed lovemaking like this – it had always been games and insincerity for Woolsey. Care was a commodity. Care detracted from the pleasure.
Oh, how wrong he had been.
Magnus broke the kiss wordlessly and reached over to the nightstand, where the bottle of hand oil was already uncapped from their earlier exertions. Woolsey's breath hitched in his chest, watching the warlock through heavy-lidded eyes. Before Woolsey could breathe again, Magnus had replaced the bottle on the nightstand and was liberally applying the oil to his manhood. Woolsey furrowed his brow, but said nothing – of course, any hope of reply was immediately crushed by the sensation of the warlock's fingers against his entrance, preparing the werewolf for invasion. A strangled moan escaped Woolsey's lips as those amazing fingers worked to open his ass ever so carefully. There wasn't much work to be done, considering that the pair had been bumming each other silly just hours earlier, but the feeling still sent shocks up Woolsey's spine. It wasn't long before Woolsey knew he was primed and ready for Magnus, and the warlock bent down, planting another gentle kiss against the werewolf's lips as he navigated his hips in between Woolsey's long legs.
"Magnus," Woolsey whimpered, eyelids fluttering as he felt the head of the warlock's rigid shaft against his entrance.
The warlock silenced him with another kiss, sliding his hands behind Woolsey's knees to hold up his legs as he slowly, gently pushed his cock past Woolsey's entrance.
Woolsey could hardly breathe. Every cell in his body was crying out in pleasure. Lights burst before his closed eyes. Magnus was being incredibly gentle – gentler than he had ever been before, and certainly gentler than Woolsey had been the few times the pair had swapped positions. He still couldn't make sense of all this. In truth, he didn't want to. Something had changed in Magnus over the course of that conversation with Will Herondale – something that had turned him from the clever, sharp-tongued lover he normally was into this passionate, emotional creature. Woolsey couldn't say he didn't like the change, but it puzzled him in more ways than one.
Stop thinking. Don't waste this, he thought.
Woolsey shifted his hips, allowing Magnus better access and more leverage. Magnus pulled out, causing the werewolf's brow to knit and his hands to clench around the sheets in pleasure at the friction. Another thrust, and a moan tore itself from Woolsey's throat, his hands reaching out to hold the warlock's face and bring him down for a kiss. Magnus kept the pace of their lovemaking slow to begin with, every thrust meeting its mark deep within the werewolf, eliciting gasps, sighs, and groans each time. Woolsey fisted his hands in Magnus's hair, holding their lips together with gentle force that spoke of need and desire and mutual understanding. The pressure of Magnus's stomach sandwiching Woolsey's erection between their bellies was magical, the rhythm of Magnus's hips driving his cock home into the werewolf over and over sent a sweat across Woolsey's brow. After picking up the pace, moving his member like a flash in and out of his partner's body, Magnus took Woolsey's erection in his hand. Woolsey cried out even before the warlock began to stroke him, and hardly five minutes had passed before Woolsey felt his abdomen tighten with impending release. Magnus stopped jerking him off just a moment too soon, though, and just as Woolsey was about to protest, clenching the muscles of his ass, Magnus thrust hard one more time, giving Woolsey's member one last, tight stroke.
The two Downworlders came together, bodies shaking, juices emptying onto and into each other's bodies. Breathing heavily, they both froze for a few moments as the aftershocks made their hands and hips twitch just slightly. Magnus slowly, achingly withdrew from Woolsey one last time, collapsing forward onto the werewolf's chest. The two closed their eyes, breathing in the scent of sweat, semen, and passion. After a minute or so, Woolsey knit his fingers through Magnus's black hair, stroking his scalp almost lovingly. Magnus, eyes still closed, finally spoke.
"Thank you, Woolsey," the warlock murmured, his voice thick and low, husky with exhaustion and – tears? "Thank you."
Woolsey said nothing. Instead, he arched his neck forward to kiss the warlock's hair, the dark strands tickling his lips.