Disclaimer: I don't own the Mortal Instruments. Cassandra Clare does.
Written late at night, since High school allows no time otherwise.
This takes place during City of Ashes—the second book in the Mortal Instruments.
And, uh, wow. I'm getting really unoriginal. I need to have some structure, lol.
I have a feeling that I'm going to delete this later. s:
And then.
To Alec, warmth had always been hard to come by.
The institute had always been stone cold; the library, the halls, the kitchen—and most subsequently, his bed. Even under the heavy comforter, he'd feel the usual tang of ice creep up his arms and chest, producing both goose bumps and occasional shivers. He'd often found himself curled into a small ball, clinging to warmth; just like a kitten.
Except Alec's muscles were much, much more tense.
Whether he had come from a walk, a hunt—it didn't matter. He'd always be uptight; even when in slumber.
Was it the fear? The fear to be found out—to be opened and drained of all secrets? Or was it longing? Longing to be held—to be cherished—to be mourned when succumbed to the doting claws of death?
Over many years of thought, Alec had discerned every fact and notion he had sought of. It was then he knew every nook and cranny—both his mind and own soul—wanted one thing.
To be loved.
He'd often find himself knocking on Magnus' door, asking for it. Just begging for it. And it was beautiful—breathing Magnus' name upon his own lips; moaning the whispers of his own semi-beating heart, his usually mentally closed mind.
His mentality claimed he didn't remember any of it; but, as soon as he lay down, he'd recall every bit of it. And it would be amazing; just like a lively motion picture, flashing before his eyes.
Nonetheless, shortly after he would sprawl his stressed azure orbs over Jace's cool tawny ones, he'd mentally kill every memory with the downworlder; but then, when Magnus' angered cat like eyes brushed over his... he'd beg for forgiveness. Again and again; like he was every drug, every deal of instant ecstasy.
Once—by chance—Alec had lay next to Magnus, right in his arms. He had felt his chest rise and fall; comforting him, yet leaving sharp blows into his gut. He knew he consciously bled all over the bed, but did not move—he just watched Magnus' eyes roll under his eyelids; dreaming personably.
These actions were those of a sweet torture. They left chains—chains of both malice and inclination riding up his flesh. They dug at and burned his skin; leaving the warm, supple kisses of conspicuous wounds.
But when Alec had shut his eyes, two tawny gold ones waited behind them; shunning him, looking down high above on a polished golden thrown.
All he felt would slowly back away, making him sigh in an unpleasant gush of air. His teethe clenched and his heartbeat would slowly degrade into a small flutter. As his arms spread—his body uncurled out of its own ball. The chains, which he had grown to like, unlatched and released him from its godly hold. Tears trickled down his cheeks, making him choke and whisper hollers of lament, fetish, and joy.
And then it was cold; colder than he'd been, and ever will be.