A/N: I do still plan to finish the story from the previous chapter, but I just felt like writing these first. Some late night thoughts, so I don't know how they turned out... Haha I'll find out tomorrow when I read over them again.
Turning to face the warlock slowly, Aspen let his sleeve start to slip off his shoulder, exposing some skin. The hotel room was familiar as always, but the company was new, and he was unsure of what the warlock liked yet. Like with faeries, it was hard to tell what age warlocks were, but Aspen sensed this warlock acted much older than him. How old though, he couldn't say. Besides, it was rude to ask someone's age, he'd learnt, and warlocks more often than not lied about their own.
Coming closer – but not too close - the warlock smiled in appreciation, his eyes raking over him. Aspen bit his lip lightly in a demure fashion, pretending to be shy at his gaze.
"You're like a doll, with that porcelain faerie skin of yours," the warlock remarked, finally reaching forward and running his fingers along Aspen's bare shoulder. He shivered involuntarily at the cool touch, before forcing himself to be still. "I've always admired pure faeries. Pretty and delicate."
"Warlocks have their own quirks too," Aspen remarked with a slight smile, to break the silence, although he didn't say any more at the warlock's disapproving gaze.
The warlock's fingers moved to grasp at his shirt, pulling it over his wings and head carefully, before letting it fall to the ground. Aspen's hand ached to fix his hair, but he kept it still when the gaze remained on him, appraising him.
"Will you be a doll for me?" The warlock's eyes were filled with desire and concentration as he awaited Aspen's response. It was an odd request, but then again, Aspen was used to those now. Everyone had their own hidden desires and wants.
Aspen gave a slight nod, licking his lips slowly, before closing them with a neutral expression and raising his chin a little.
The warlock's thumb slid across his lower lip, before stopping at his cheek. "My perfect porcelain doll." His gaze lowered, and his fingers ran lightly down his chest, avoiding some scratches from an injury long ago with a click of his tongue in disapproval.
Suddenly, he pushed Aspen backwards, and Aspen fell across the bed with a quick gasp. Surprised, he propped himself up on his elbows, before the warlock was there, pushing him down again. "Dolls don't move," he berated him, and Aspen fell back, limp.
"They don't breathe either," he said, placing his hand over his mouth. Aspen struggled to slow his breathing, barely daring to make a sound. When his breaths were faint enough that the movement of his chest couldn't be seen, the warlock drew his hand back.
Instead, he leaned forward, kissing Aspen's neck, as his hand moved lower to undo more buttons. "You won't break, will you?" the warlock murmured, leaving marks against his skin with his lips and teeth. "Porcelain does break easily."
When Aspen didn't reply, the warlock hissed the words again, "You won't break, will you?"
Aspen's eyes became glassy like a doll's as the warlock pushed into him, his eyes squeezing shut as he buried his head in Aspen's neck, his breathing turning uneven.
"I won't break," Aspen whispered in response, staring at the ceiling as he lay there numbly, his heartbeat the only real sign that he was still alive.
There was a town that the Downworlders preferred to go to, near the Institute where Kellan lived. Sometimes in the evening, he found himself drawn there, by a force he couldn't quite understand. Slipping on a cloak, he headed through the streets, observing silently, his eyes catching on a couple of faeries. Perhaps that's what drew him to the towns. It was the only place that he really caught glimpses of faeries, and they fascinated him. The Clave liked to paint the faeries in a very black and white image, but Kellan liked to make up his own mind, especially when part of his blood was linked to the fae. Sometimes, he felt like there was a whole other part of himself that he didn't know.
Heading down a street near the forest, he grew cautious at the sound of a struggle. Adjusting his hood over his hair better, he approached the figures, feeling sick as his vision finally made them out. "Grace-…" he choked, his movements growing quicker in his haste.
His sister struggled as a Hunt faerie – it was obvious with their mismatched eye colours, one eye a deep black – gripped one of her brown pigtails. His beautifully brave sister fought her best, but she was a practically untrained young Shadowhunter, against a more skilled and powerful Hunt faerie. She gasped when she saw Kellan, murmuring his name, and he could see how hard she was trying to hide her fear. Gritting his teeth, Kellan paused in front of them, scared to make any sudden movements. Pushing his hood off his head, his eyes narrowed on the faerie. "Let her go," he said in a low, angry tone.
"What's it to you?" the Hunt faerie laughed, shifting his gaze to him. "It's not often you get your hands on a young Shadowhunter. You've got faerie blood, yes? You should understand."
There was a challenge in Kellan's eyes. "She's my sister. I'm telling you now to let her go, or I'll make you. Don't push me."
"A Shadowhunter sister?" the Hunt faerie repeated, and his eyes lowered, the glint of a sword visible just under Kellan's cloak, and a Rune marking the back of his hand. "Ah, I see. You're a faerie traitor yourself. A Shadowhunter." He muttered the last word as if it were a curse.
Kellan didn't bother to point out that he hadn't chosen either way. Shadowhunter blood was always dominant, after all. He wouldn't have been raised any other way.
"I have no quarrel with the fae. Or the Hunt," Kellan replied, trying for some diplomacy. "I'm just looking out for my family."
"Sorry." The Hunt faerie smiled slowly. "A young Shadowhunter is too valuable to give up. She's a cute one, isn't she?" A glint of a knife was visible, before he pressed it against her side. "For a Shadowhunter, anyway."
Unable to take it anymore, Kellan's fingers were quick to reach for one of his poisoned blades. In a couple of seconds, he'd adjusted his grip and thrown it. It grazed the faerie's leg – he'd been careful to keep it away from Grace – before clattering to the ground somewhere behind them.
The faerie laughed. "Is that the best you've got? You look young, kid, but surely you know a scratch isn't going to stop me."
Kellan's eyes turned steely as he took a step closer. "That blade is coated with a deadly poison. One scratch is all I need. If you let her go now, I'll give you the antidote. If not… you have five minutes. I swear if you hurt a hair on her head, I'll leave you to die."
This time, he could tell the faerie was listening. Kellan had no idea how the poison would affect a Hunt faerie – he had never tested it on one, and he knew the Hunt had its own strange magic. However, a part bluff was all he needed. The Hunt faerie just had to believe him.
The faerie debated it inwardly for a moment, before swearing and pushing Grace away from him. Kellan rushed to wrap his arms around her, checking her for injuries. "Grace," he breathed, "Are you alright?"
Nodding, she buried her head in his chest. "Sorry… I'm… I'm okay," she sobbed, the emotions that she had been hiding so carefully finally catching up with her now that she was safe. Sniffling, she wiped her eyes quickly before straightening.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Kellan's attention was drawn back to the faerie when he made a sound of annoyance. "I need the antidote. A deal is a deal."
Kellan paused, his eyes still burning. He was tempted, so tempted to refuse to give him the antidote. It was the first time he'd ever wanted to kill a faerie. If he'd so much as hurt his sister-…
"Kellan?" Grace whispered, her fingers curling in his cloak, her eyes tired.
Biting his tongue, he reached for a small vial with the antidote, before tossing it at the faerie. He turned away without watching to see whether he'd caught it. He knew he'd be horrified by his thoughts later, but for now, all he could think about was getting Grace away from danger. Picking her up, like he used to do when she was younger, he carried her quickly through the streets. She made a sound in indignation, probably to say that she could walk herself, but he quickly ignored it.
It was only once they were back in the mundane streets, that he finally put her back down, although he kept walking briskly, pulling her along by her hand.
"What were you doing in these parts?" he asked her, lowering his voice. "You're not yet trained properly, and you know you're not allowed here alone."
"I'm sorry, I was just looking for you and I know you come here sometimes and-…"
"Don't ever look for me here again." He didn't think he'd ever berated her so angrily, and he felt immediately guilty afterwards. "This isn't a place for you. Do you understand?" If she'd gotten hurt, it would have been his fault. She'd followed him there. He knew deep down that it was himself that he couldn't forgive.
She bit her lip and nodded, although he could tell she was upset. He never talked to her like that.
Swallowing, he came to a stop and knelt down to her level, before drawing her into another hug. This time, he was the one clinging to her. "I'm sorry, Gracie. I was just so worried. I can't stand the thought of you getting hurt."
"I know," she replied quietly, and she hugged him back fiercely. He smiled slightly at the familiarity, and at the thought that nothing could ever break her spirit. "I love you too."