Thursday, March 26th, 2026 10:12 am
My last fic of 2017, written for ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
nightingalesighed in a Secret Santa organised by the Shadowhunters Rarepair Network.
-From where Raphael was sitting, the victory against Valentine had felt a little anticlimactic. The celebration, moreover, awkward. He couldn't say he felt comfortable in a room where Garroway was getting drunk and praising the Shadowhunters as if the last few days hadn't happened.
But he couldn't begrudge the celebration to one Shadowhunter in particular, of course.
Despite not really feeling up to it, he'd come to the Hunter's Moon; not only out of a sense of responsibility with his Clan, but because he hoped to see her. He feared he was starting to come across as predictable, but where he was concerned, she had her own gravity.
Perhaps the feeling was mutual, because Isabelle took that moment to approach him, two champagne glasses in her hands and a teasing smile on her face.
"I don't think this is your scene."
Raphael couldn't help but return the gesture, accepting the glass she coquettishly offered. She looked beautiful that night, and so he told her.
"The red suits you," he added.
She laughed, bringing her glass up for a toast. When they finished, she looked at him, pondering.
"You really don't want to be here, don't you?"
"It's not my scene," he repeated, shrugging.
"Do you wanna go for a walk?" she asked, maybe a little uncharacteristically shy.
Raphael looked around, trying to locate his people. In all honesty, they didn't seem to need their leader to control everything from the shadows. So he nodded, letting himself be guided by her hand to the exterior.
Out there, still with their hands intertwined, they walked, aimlessly, in a pleasant silence.
After a while, he realized Isabelle had left the place without any jacket, so he took off his own and offered it to her. She accepted it with a weird expression, as if she couldn't decide if she thought it old-fashioned or charming.
Then they both noticed that they had arrived at Raphael's place, and a specter of tension fell over them, as they were reminded of the previous occasions they'd met there.
Raphael was about to offer to accompany her to the Institute when she asked if he wanted to come in. Her face was resolute and just the wrong side of nervous, and despite the alarm that rang in his head, he understood what she wanted. It was a way to prove to herself, and to him, that they could do this. That they could keep seeing each other, act normally. Prove that they were past it.
He thought it was tempting fate, but he wasn't going to say no. He didn't want to say no.
Once inside, Raphael asked her, his voice a little rough, if she wanted anything to drink.
"Just water," she said, as she took off the jacket and sat on the couch, "I've had enough champagne today."
Raphael went for it to the kitchen. Usually, this was the part of his routine where he ate, but he wasn't that keen on tempting fate that day.
When he came back, Isabelle had taken off her shoes and tucked her feet on the couch, her hands twitching on her lap. When he approached, however, she greeted him with a bright smile, and drank half the glass in large gulps, leaving the rest on the table. Raphael felt his skin crawl and immediately got a coaster. Isabelle yielded and moved the glass, raising her hands in a very unapologetic mea culpa.
"So... we're doing this?"
She said that pointing between them, and clearly, she wasn't just talking about that particular moment.
"We're doing this," he echoed.
"Good," she replied, cheerful and bold. "And how do you feel about making out?"
"I'm more than fine with it, as long as we never call it that."
"I guess you don't like 'necking' either, then. Frenching, macking—?"
"'Kissing' is just fine," he interrupted her, touching her face. She closed the distance between them, placing a hesitant kiss on his lips. Raphael dropped his hand, caressing her hair, her neck, her arm. Isabelle shuddered, and buried her fingers in his hair, pulling just a little.
The kiss was light, soft, and they both let their hands wander slowly over the other. Raphael wrapped her waist with his arm, touching the skin left uncovered by the dress, when she moved away brusquely. He took his arms off her, and just as he was going to ask, he saw she was trying to cover a yawn with her hand.
"Was it that boring?" he teased her. She shook her head, amused.
"What have I become?" she protested.
"You can stay and go to sleep. I'll lend you some clothes." If you were going to tempt fate, better to go all in. "Emphasis on the lend," he added.
She nodded, and they walked into the bedroom. Raphael gave her some of the very few comfortable clothes he owned, a black t-shirt and pants he used for training, and looked at her in amusement as he saw her walk into the bathroom to change. He decided to change in his room, then.
When she came out, he noticed that the clothes didn't clash too much with her, albeit they were a little loose. He also saw how she gripped her shoulder, imperceptibly grimacing with pain.
"Is everything alright?"
"Yeah, yeah. It's just an old wound that bothers me from time to time."
She said that with a tired smile, seemingly lost in her thoughts.
"Do you want me to help with that?"
"Sure."
She sat, a little hesitant, on the bed, moving the shirt and her hair out of the way to leave the shoulder uncovered. He stood behind her, rubbing his hands together to try to warm them up, and proceeded to apply pressure, carefully. It mostly seemed she had multiple knots in the area, likely from carrying herself differently to compensate for the pain. That, unfortunately, would need more than a simple massage.
When he finished, he covered her again with the shirt, sliding his fingers over her shoulder. She stood up, and both got into bed.
"You know," she said, clearing her throat as she turned her back on him, "for an ace guy, you're really into foreplay. Not that I'm complaining."
"Ace?"
"I did a little research."
He laughed, surrounding her with his arms, and kissed her shoulder. She moved so she could intertwine their fingers.
"Good night, Isabelle."
As usual, Raphael woke up at an ungodly hour. He decided to take advantage of the fact that Isabelle was still asleep to order some food to cook her breakfast. He waited for her in the kitchen, because one had to put some limits, and bread crumbs on his bed was one of them.
Isabelle wished him a good morning when she finally got out of bed, and after thanking him, she started eating. Every time he cooked he ended up missing real food, and with Isabelle, who ate with unending enthusiasm, the feeling multiplied exponentially.
"I should go;" she said, as she finished the juice, "they probably need me at the Institute."
He nodded, trying not to feel disappointed. Isabelle approached him, and kissed his cheek.
"I'll go change."
She came back from the room with last night's dress, and sat down on the couch to put on her shoes again. When she was ready, she grabbed his jacket, still in the same spot she'd left it.
"I think I'll need this. It's really chilly out there."
"Is it?"
"Yes."
He shook his head, pretending to be surprised, and walked her to the door. Once there, Isabelle leaned in for one last, long kiss.
"Call me."
He watched her leave for a few seconds, and then he went straight to the fridge, where he grabbed a blood bag he started to drink in small sips. He hadn't realized how much he'd been repressing his thirst until that very moment.
He stood by the window, the blood bag still in his hands, and saw how Isabelle stopped for a second in the middle of the sidewalk, to raise her head and bask in the sunlight.
nightingalesighed in a Secret Santa organised by the Shadowhunters Rarepair Network.Title: breakthrough.
Fandom: Shadowhunters (TV show).
Character/Pairing: Isabelle Lightwood/Raphael Santiago.
Rating/Warnings: T. References to addiction.
Summary: After defeating Valentine, Isabelle and Raphael have time for themselves.
Word count: 1.3k.
read more
-From where Raphael was sitting, the victory against Valentine had felt a little anticlimactic. The celebration, moreover, awkward. He couldn't say he felt comfortable in a room where Garroway was getting drunk and praising the Shadowhunters as if the last few days hadn't happened.
But he couldn't begrudge the celebration to one Shadowhunter in particular, of course.
Despite not really feeling up to it, he'd come to the Hunter's Moon; not only out of a sense of responsibility with his Clan, but because he hoped to see her. He feared he was starting to come across as predictable, but where he was concerned, she had her own gravity.
Perhaps the feeling was mutual, because Isabelle took that moment to approach him, two champagne glasses in her hands and a teasing smile on her face.
"I don't think this is your scene."
Raphael couldn't help but return the gesture, accepting the glass she coquettishly offered. She looked beautiful that night, and so he told her.
"The red suits you," he added.
She laughed, bringing her glass up for a toast. When they finished, she looked at him, pondering.
"You really don't want to be here, don't you?"
"It's not my scene," he repeated, shrugging.
"Do you wanna go for a walk?" she asked, maybe a little uncharacteristically shy.
Raphael looked around, trying to locate his people. In all honesty, they didn't seem to need their leader to control everything from the shadows. So he nodded, letting himself be guided by her hand to the exterior.
Out there, still with their hands intertwined, they walked, aimlessly, in a pleasant silence.
After a while, he realized Isabelle had left the place without any jacket, so he took off his own and offered it to her. She accepted it with a weird expression, as if she couldn't decide if she thought it old-fashioned or charming.
Then they both noticed that they had arrived at Raphael's place, and a specter of tension fell over them, as they were reminded of the previous occasions they'd met there.
Raphael was about to offer to accompany her to the Institute when she asked if he wanted to come in. Her face was resolute and just the wrong side of nervous, and despite the alarm that rang in his head, he understood what she wanted. It was a way to prove to herself, and to him, that they could do this. That they could keep seeing each other, act normally. Prove that they were past it.
He thought it was tempting fate, but he wasn't going to say no. He didn't want to say no.
Once inside, Raphael asked her, his voice a little rough, if she wanted anything to drink.
"Just water," she said, as she took off the jacket and sat on the couch, "I've had enough champagne today."
Raphael went for it to the kitchen. Usually, this was the part of his routine where he ate, but he wasn't that keen on tempting fate that day.
When he came back, Isabelle had taken off her shoes and tucked her feet on the couch, her hands twitching on her lap. When he approached, however, she greeted him with a bright smile, and drank half the glass in large gulps, leaving the rest on the table. Raphael felt his skin crawl and immediately got a coaster. Isabelle yielded and moved the glass, raising her hands in a very unapologetic mea culpa.
"So... we're doing this?"
She said that pointing between them, and clearly, she wasn't just talking about that particular moment.
"We're doing this," he echoed.
"Good," she replied, cheerful and bold. "And how do you feel about making out?"
"I'm more than fine with it, as long as we never call it that."
"I guess you don't like 'necking' either, then. Frenching, macking—?"
"'Kissing' is just fine," he interrupted her, touching her face. She closed the distance between them, placing a hesitant kiss on his lips. Raphael dropped his hand, caressing her hair, her neck, her arm. Isabelle shuddered, and buried her fingers in his hair, pulling just a little.
The kiss was light, soft, and they both let their hands wander slowly over the other. Raphael wrapped her waist with his arm, touching the skin left uncovered by the dress, when she moved away brusquely. He took his arms off her, and just as he was going to ask, he saw she was trying to cover a yawn with her hand.
"Was it that boring?" he teased her. She shook her head, amused.
"What have I become?" she protested.
"You can stay and go to sleep. I'll lend you some clothes." If you were going to tempt fate, better to go all in. "Emphasis on the lend," he added.
She nodded, and they walked into the bedroom. Raphael gave her some of the very few comfortable clothes he owned, a black t-shirt and pants he used for training, and looked at her in amusement as he saw her walk into the bathroom to change. He decided to change in his room, then.
When she came out, he noticed that the clothes didn't clash too much with her, albeit they were a little loose. He also saw how she gripped her shoulder, imperceptibly grimacing with pain.
"Is everything alright?"
"Yeah, yeah. It's just an old wound that bothers me from time to time."
She said that with a tired smile, seemingly lost in her thoughts.
"Do you want me to help with that?"
"Sure."
She sat, a little hesitant, on the bed, moving the shirt and her hair out of the way to leave the shoulder uncovered. He stood behind her, rubbing his hands together to try to warm them up, and proceeded to apply pressure, carefully. It mostly seemed she had multiple knots in the area, likely from carrying herself differently to compensate for the pain. That, unfortunately, would need more than a simple massage.
When he finished, he covered her again with the shirt, sliding his fingers over her shoulder. She stood up, and both got into bed.
"You know," she said, clearing her throat as she turned her back on him, "for an ace guy, you're really into foreplay. Not that I'm complaining."
"Ace?"
"I did a little research."
He laughed, surrounding her with his arms, and kissed her shoulder. She moved so she could intertwine their fingers.
"Good night, Isabelle."
As usual, Raphael woke up at an ungodly hour. He decided to take advantage of the fact that Isabelle was still asleep to order some food to cook her breakfast. He waited for her in the kitchen, because one had to put some limits, and bread crumbs on his bed was one of them.
Isabelle wished him a good morning when she finally got out of bed, and after thanking him, she started eating. Every time he cooked he ended up missing real food, and with Isabelle, who ate with unending enthusiasm, the feeling multiplied exponentially.
"I should go;" she said, as she finished the juice, "they probably need me at the Institute."
He nodded, trying not to feel disappointed. Isabelle approached him, and kissed his cheek.
"I'll go change."
She came back from the room with last night's dress, and sat down on the couch to put on her shoes again. When she was ready, she grabbed his jacket, still in the same spot she'd left it.
"I think I'll need this. It's really chilly out there."
"Is it?"
"Yes."
He shook his head, pretending to be surprised, and walked her to the door. Once there, Isabelle leaned in for one last, long kiss.
"Call me."
He watched her leave for a few seconds, and then he went straight to the fridge, where he grabbed a blood bag he started to drink in small sips. He hadn't realized how much he'd been repressing his thirst until that very moment.
He stood by the window, the blood bag still in his hands, and saw how Isabelle stopped for a second in the middle of the sidewalk, to raise her head and bask in the sunlight.
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