A Little Something
Sum: She's looking for danger. He's the definition of it. Clace. OOC. AU. AH. Rated T.
A/N: Inspired by Peaky Blinders, set around 1920 – 1930. Yikes. Fanfic just uploaded it in code, sorry for the mishap if you were early enough to catch it. Fixed now.
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It had been exactly two weeks since she had made the biggest decision in all her life. She had committed the biggest crime, the worst sin: treason.
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There was only one known way to get into contact with the Herondales from the outside, but that didn't make it easy. It was most likely more dangerous than the sin she was committing, yet she didn't let it stop her.
She was here for a reason, and she wasn't going to back out like a wimp when it proved to be risky.
The moment she set a toe over the imaginary boundary, all heads turned in her direction.
Except the boundary wasn't so imaginary, after all, with it being the doorway of a pub.
The only known way to get into contact with the Herondales, was to retrieve info from a specific source, which would then lead to the pub. The legendary pub—which no one besides the Herondales and a few select people knew of—also known as the main gathering place of the Nephilim.
In a city riddled with gangs, both big and small, maintaining your anonymity was near impossible. There were only two people she could think of: herself, and the infamous leader of the Nephilim, Jonathan Herondale. Only, her reason for anonymity was because she really didn't matter all that much. He, however, was one of the most important people in all of Alicante, therefore his anonymity was a major advantage.
So, in situations like this, where it was clear that she was here for a reason, her identity was instantaneously recognisable. Her hair being a dead giveaway and all. If the circumstances had been different, no one would've been able to make the connection.
She had made sure to come to the pub when it was certain she wasn't being followed, lest she endanger herself even more. But, now, she found herself wishing her father had dragged her right back into the pits of hell.
The entire pub fell silent, except for a singular hiss from a man at the bar.
''Morgenstern.''
Immediately, another man stepped forward and dragged her away, pulling her across the floor, avoiding the tables at which men sat narrowly—which was practically an open invitation for them to spit at her feet—until they reached a door.
The man shut the door behind them right after they entered a dark room, blindly pushing her in the direction of where he knew to be a chair, causing her to stumble and fall into it, before he turned the lights on.
''I didn't know that there was more than one spawn of Satan.'' He spat, walking over to the opposite end of the wooden table she sat in front of. The man was strikingly gorgeous, in a dark and mysterious way. His blue eyes contrasted starkly with his near black hair and pale skin.
Surely, he was speaking ill of her brother, Satan being her father.
''I suppose Satan simply doesn't know when to stop, does he?'' She couldn't help it, the sarcastic comment had rolled off her tongue before she could think to stop herself.
''I do hope you realise,'' he reached into his tweed jacket, pulling out a sharp piece of silver, ''little girl,'' for emphasis on the attempt at an insult, he banged the knife down on the table, ''I'm going to have to kill you now.''
''Why a knife? Wouldn't a gun be much easier?''
A chuckle was the response to that, a true, humoured chuckle, although with a mean undertone. ''Wouldn't want a Morgenstern to die quickly now, would we? I'd rather you suffer, before you end up in hell with your family.''
She breezed over his comment as if he hadn't said it at all, instead choosing to irk him a bit more. ''Besides, if I'd wanted to leak the Herondales' whereabouts, wouldn't I have done so much sooner?''
A tiny 'V' appeared between his eyebrows for a split second, an angry flash in his eyes, before he straightened himself up again. ''I don't think you're smart enough for that. You're not even smart enough to know that you shouldn't've come here.''
Her eyes took him in once more, both to irk him some more and come to some conclusions.
''You're not a Herondale, are you?''
''That's none of your bussiness you little cun—''
The door opened once again, granting the entrance of another man. ''Tsk tsk tsk, I wonder what your mother would think of language like that, dearest Alec.''
''Don't use my name—''
''Go, Alec, I'll handle her.''
It seemed like Alec was about to object, but instead obeyed and slipped past the man, out the door, throwing it shut behind him with a bang.
Her new interrogator was even more attractive, and dare she say, much more her type. Whereas Alec was all dark and mysterious beauty, this man was all gold, sunshine and light, yet with a biting edge to it.
''He's quite the handful, I see. I can't even begin to imagine what he must've been like in his younger years.''
This man chuckled too, only there was no malicious undertone, only humour. ''He simply doesn't like being told what to do.''
She didn't miss a beat. ''You're him, then? Jonathan Herondale?''
His eyes were possibly the most gorgeous things she'd ever seen, two pools of pure, molten gold.
A smirk tugged at his lips. ''I suppose, yes.''
Her eyes trailed over his posture, looking for any signs of a weapon, and they narrowed at his hands, stuffed into the pockets of his tweed suit pants. ''Then why haven't you killed me yet?''
''Now, why would I do that?'' His eyebrows were raised in a mock-surprised look, the smirk still evident.
''Because I'm Clarissa Morgenstern. I could spill your whereabouts in a second—hell, I could already have spilled them.'' She crossed her legs, strategically laying her hands down in her lap, in an attempt to hide a bump in her skirts, caused by the knife strapped to her thigh in case things went south.
''You Morgensterns are smarter than that,'' his eyes momentarily flickered to the bump that her arms were hiding—she cursed internally, ''besides, I can see the way you hold yourself, the way you carry yourself.''
''I haven't a clue what you're trying to insinuate.'' The lie would've burnt her lips with the severity of it, she knew exactly what he was talking about, and she was taken off guard by the fact that he'd noticed such a small thing. The leader of the Nephilim was more intelligent than she'd anticipated.
''Always tense, even when walking, you move stiffly, even though you try to hide it. You barely move your back or your shoulders. Even though there might not be any fresh wounds, you do it automatically. You're used to it.'' He walked over to the spot behind her while she kept her eyes on the wall in front of her, jaw locked in frustration. ''Now, tell me, why would anyone want to stay loyal to a family who treats you,'' his fingers touched her skin ever so slightly, raising goosebumps and along with it, a strange flutter in her stomach—until he dragged the top of her dress down the slightest bit, just far enough to reveal the first few scars, ''like that?''
She swallowed the lump of embarrassment in her throat. ''Fine, you got me. What are you going to do with me now?''
Once he was in her line of sight again, he gave a simple shrug.
Her amazement at how careless he seemed never ceased. Although he happened to be one of the most dangerous and important men in the entire country, he seemed at perfect ease.
''What did you come here for?''
''I—I have information. Lots of it.''
He seemed to think about it for a second, nodding. ''What do you ask in exchange?''
Of course, he didn't miss the flicker of surprise that appeared on her face, which he responded to with a slight tug at the corner of his lips. ''What have you got to offer me?''
''I happen to have a spot open on the inside.''
She was once again taken aback, she was a complete stranger, a Morgenstern, no less, and he was offering her a spot on the bloody inside.
''W-what does it require?'' Her attempt at maintaining her confidence was to no avail, it would be obvious to anyone that she was shocked by his boldness.
''Nothing much...'' his gaze stayed on hers, unwavering, ''Just some vows, bloodshed and a ring.''
Perhaps he was a tad bit less intelligent than she assumed, after all. ''You want to marry me?''
''Why yes.'' His confidence was magnificent, even when he was being an utter fool.
''W—Why?''
He grinned. ''Well, I find myself in need of a wife—plus, just think about how pissed your dear old father would be, the mere thought of it excites me.''
''I suppose that's a fair point.''
Why couldn't the man stop smirking for a bloody second?!
He reached out a hand to her, a reassuring smile—which was leaning towards a smirk—making her consider it.
''Why don't I show you to the room you'll be staying in?''
She took the hand he offered hesitantly, moving to stand closely in front of him.
''Alright.''
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The memory wouldn't leave her mind, and although it wasn't exactly unpleasant, it wasn't really
pleasant either. She could still feel the way the knife sliced through layers of skin, muscle and veins, the way the blood nearly sprayed out the moment she pulled the blade away. The look of pure betrayal in his pitch black eyes was something she reveled in—his innocent little daughter, stabbing him in the neck while his sworn enemies shot the rest of the Circle.
But with the blood that slowly disappeared into the drain, she forced the memories to fade to the background along with it.
All that mattered was that it was over now, and she could look forward to the future.
Her husband's arms wrapped around her small waist from behind, his lips finding their place in the crook of her neck. ''You did good, babe.''
She smirked, a bad habit she'd gotten from him. ''I know,'' she turned in his embrace, finding his eyes with her own, ''now take me to bed.''
He grinned.
''Alright.''
A/N: I saw that SereneCalamity uploaded a quite similar story—also inspired by Peaky Blinders—so I decided to finish mine, too, and post it. Which is why the ending is quite shit. So, go check out her story as well.
If you couldn't tell already, I love Peaky Blinders. Absolutely adore it.
CILLIAN MURPHY IS SO FUCKING HOT MY BLOODY GOD ON A POPCORN STICK.
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