The Mortal Instruments Series belongs to Cassandra Clare.
The ability to brutalize the English language belongs to me.
BLANKET WARNINGS: Self-harm, self-loathing, internalized homophobia, attempted genocide, and outright prejudice
This is very much unlike my AU fics - so if you're looking for light and fluffy, please reverse direction.
With his hood pulled over his head and a dagger tucked into his jeans, Alec sneaks across the damp asphalt. He clings to the shadows, slipping silently along the street like a specter; a mere five inches away from various mundies walking home from a night on the town, but completely unnoticed. He twists and turns silently, slipping through alleys and hurdling one-handed over dumpsters without displacing a single piece of trash. Not even the rats, so well attuned to the sound of predators, have the foresight to scatter at the quick brush of his footfalls. He keeps his eyes downcast and his hands tucked deep in the pockets of his ragged jeans. There is nothing but a quick glance over his shoulder every few blocks to signal that he has even the slightest concern about anyone following.
He catches the subway, cramming himself into the smallest possible space in the back of the last car. He looks up only once, when a Mundie, who he can tell has a pocketknife up one sleeve and no fucking idea how to use it, stalks into his car, full of false bravado. He pushes himself away from the wall by his fingertips, scuffing his sneakers against the vomit-and-garbage encrusted floor and raises his eyes slowly. The Mundie steps back, startled, and then obviously thinks better of his decision. Alec melts back into the shadows, awaiting his stop quietly.
The station is empty as he makes his ascent to familiar ground. The junkies loitering in the alley near his exit give him a wide berth, understanding that he's the most dangerous person to emerge from the steps that night. He walks purposefully, taking side streets with no hesitation, and comes to a stop in front of a bar, hidden between a late-night vendor and a run-down movie rental boutique. There's a low, pounding beat blaring from inside, and a haze of smoke obscures the faces of the gangly teens that hang about the front.
One of the boys – a rangy teenager who's face is a ghoulish mask of chipped teeth, sunken cheeks, and wide eyes framed by greasy black strings of hair – steps toward him, arm outstretched. "Twenty bucks a blow," he says, his voice burbling up from his throat like the croak of a toad. He grabs at Alec's arm, intending to pull him closer, but Alec traps his wrist against the side of the building.
"Don't touch me," says Alec lowly. He can feel the boy's pulse stuttering under his thumb, and he applies a bit more pressure. The boy nods his head quickly and Alec glances behind him to make sure the others are watching. Then he lets go, letting the boy fall to the ground unaided.
Inside the bar, the lights are low and the music is loud, leaving very little room for polite conversation. The bar is lined with men, but there's a space at the end that no one dares occupy. Alec slides into the empty stool and pushes a twenty-dollar bill at the bartender. He picks it up immediately, black-polished nails tapping briefly against the counter, and comes back with three shots of whisky and nothing to chase. Alec tips back the shots in quick succession, savoring the burn and ignoring the way that eyes drift surreptitiously toward him to watch the slight rise and fall of his pale throat.
It takes a while for one of them to approach. He's big – bigger than Alec by at least half – and used to pushing people around. He leans against the bar, a maneuver designed to emphasize his biceps. On anyone else it may have been effective.
Alec gets up from his stool and makes his way toward the back of the bar. People move for him instinctually, though his eyes don't leave the panels of the beer-stained floor. As he rounds the corner to stake a claim in the single-stalled bathroom, he feels the weight of someone's eyes on the back of his neck. Hairs prickling and a cold dread spreading through his body, he whips he head around to seek out the source of his discomfort. His hand twitches toward his dagger, and though it looks likes a simple stretch – to relieve a cramp, perhaps – to the man accompanying him, Alec could have the dagger in someone's throat and be out of the bar in the time it would take to scream. There's a brief flash of yellow and a rustling of fabric in the direction of the unsettling stare, but after a quick shake of his head Alec finds the corner is empty.
It takes a few seconds for his new friend to follow him into the bathroom, giving him time to slip the dagger from his back pocket into the sleeve of his sweatshirt. He unbuckles his pants, letting them fall to his ankles when the Mundie locks the door behind him.
"What's the rush?" he asks when he turns around. "We've only just – "
Alec silences the man with a single look. He's usually better at weeding out the chatty ones. Usually, the only ones who dare follow him back here are the ones who have something to prove, which is how he likes it. He has no time for flirting or conversation. "We're here to fuck," Alec says, spitting the word as if it burns his tongue. "So let's get on with it."
The man's eyes flash, and Alec is reassured that his instincts haven't let him down. He lets himself be pressed against the cold surface of the counter, his breath coming in deep pants as the burly mundane presses his wrists against the wall. He pushes back with just enough force to feign belligerence and finds the pressure on his wrists doubled.
He shivers as the man's pants hit the floor, feeling the familiar rush of lust and shame as rough fingers brush along his ass.
"Get on with it," he snarls, pushing back impatiently.
The Mundie doesn't have to be told twice, and drives into him with enough force to slam Alec back against the wall. Alec hisses at the burn, and the man chokes out a laugh.
"Like that, do you? You little fucking freak." He picks up the pace and Alec can feel the cool tip of his dagger pressing into the delicate skin of his palm. The pain is bright and soothing, and the weapon reassures him, even though he knows he wouldn't need it if this guy tried to take things too far.
The sex is vile and exactly as expected: rushed, unsatisfying, and over in a matter of minutes. Though Alec is still hard, he hauls of up his pants immediately, watching with distaste as the mundane ties of the condom and throws it in the garbage. He feels the familiar revulsion uncoiling in the pit of his stomach, and fights the urge to be sick. He flicks his dagger back into his pants too fast for the mundane to know what's happening, and hauls up his sleeves so that he can splash some water on his face.
"Nice tattoos," the man says. Alec can't tell if he's serious or not, so he lets the comment slide.
The man reaches out and grabs Alec's wrist. "Some kind of tribal shit, or something?" He looks curious and is completely unaware of how close he is to being throw through the wall.
"Or something," Alec mutters, drying his hands quickly in his jeans.
"Well then what do they mean?" The man's breath smells strongly of cheap beer and cigarettes and Alec is sure that he's going to be sick.
"They don't mean anything," Alec says, yanking his sleeves down and raising his hood once again in preparation for his trek back to the Institute. "Not anymore."
Kind of a teaser start, to show you Alec's headspace right now. This is going to be a bit of a bumpy ride for our boys, and not for the faint of heart. Hope to hear from you all. :)