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fangirlingincamouflage · 6 years

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Blind Hope Chapter 1

Title: Blind Hope Author: Rosie Dayze Word Count: 2299 Pairing: Nick Jakoby x Reader Rating: PG-13 Themes: Angst, Plot, affectionate frustration Disclaimer: I do not own Nick Jakoby, he is the intellectual property of Netflix Originals. I make no money from this fanfiction.

Authors Note: This was supposed to be like...five hundred words. I don’t know what happened, but here you go. I put in a break so that this didn’t take up anyones feed too much. Also, sorry I got so moody with this. It had a bad anxiety day.

You are engrossed in work when you hear someone call your name. By the sound of it, it isn't the first time they've tried getting your attention. You look up from your desk and see a courier in a red and blue uniform holding up a bouquet that can only be described as extravagant. Roses of every available color mingle with babies breath and other, smaller flowers that you don't know the names of.

“If you could...just sign here?” The courier is doing their best to sound professional, but you get the feeling that the flowers are heavy and there are other delivers to make. Stunned, you sign for the flowers. Relieved, the courier puts them on your desk and absconds.

Transfixed, you run your finger across one of a petal so dark blue it's nearly purple. It's like dewy satin beneath your touch. The bloom opens and a soft floral scent fills the room. It brings with it a gentle, silvery chime. These aren't just flowers, you realize, they are elven roses. They'll continue to bloom for a whole year, maybe longer with a bit of care, and they carry song as well as scent.

They are also, ridiculously expensive.

“What...on earth?” June's voice cuts through your reverie. Bashfully you whirl around, hoping against hope that you can block out the sight of your unexpected gift. “I...uhm...” But June's already there, manicured fingers on her lemon yellow hips. You decided long ago that June was pretty much the most beautiful woman to ever walk the earth. An amalgam of American genetics mingled with a dash of magic gave her rich brown skin and hazel eyes and hair so dark and curly that the sun could get lost in it. Her eyes narrow and then go wide “Are those what I think they are?” she asks in a voice made for radio. “Maybe?” She rolls her eyes and skims past you. Gentle as can be she bends to a blossom that matches her outfit and takes a deep whiff. Her lips, glossy and bright, curl into a cat like smile. “Entarnian,” she says in perfect elfish. The tiniest points in her ears, nearly invisible beneath the wealth of her hair, belie a distant heritage. “Oh, sweetie, these are incredible.” You assumed as much, but getting June's stamp of approval means that these flowers are pretty much exactly as expensive as you thought they were. “I was afraid of that.” June blinks. “Afraid? Why?” She pulls away from the arrangement. “Who are they from?” You bite your lip. Honestly, you aren't sure. You've been on a lot of dates in the past few months, and only one of them went well. No, you admit, it was perfect. Sure, it was just dinner, and a walk, but you'd really felt something. You thought he had too, but then he didn't call. He didn't text. It's been nine days since you heard anything from Nick Jaokby and you are pretty sure you aren't going to hear from him ever again. At first you were angry about it. Now you're just confused. “I don't know. I went on a date with that banker last night.” June's nose wrinkled. “The thrice-divorced? Oh...sweetie.” You shrug. You hadn't really wanted to go on the date either, but you had hoped that dinner and a show would pull you out of this five day funk you've been feeling. It hadn't. Mr. Peter Prescott was pretty much everything you dislike in a potential partner. It wasn't his looks, those were plastic perfect, it was everything else about him. He'd spent the first ten minutes of your date demanding to know if you'd even slept with an elf and it had pretty much gone downhill from there. You desperately hope that the flowers aren't from him, but they seem like exactly the kind of thing he might send in the hopes of guilting you into a second date. The very thought of it makes your stomach turn sour. “I don't know,” you repeat. “Well, only one way to find out.” Quick as a lash June's hand dives into the greenery. The roses chime merrily, creating a delicate music. Moments later her hand reappears, clutching a tiny, pink card between her fingers. “There we are.” You see your name written in hurried script. It's not the fine, practiced hand of a florist, but there is something charming about it all the same. June passes it to you. “Open it.” You raise your brow. “You aren't the boss of me.” It's not true, and you both know it. June, who is your best friend, is also your direct superior. She just crosses her arms and gives you a long, deadpan look. “Alright, alright.” You tug at the envelope flap and a little card spills out. It's not particularly large, but you think it's bigger than the average floral notecard. You hesitate to open it. Right now the note, and the flowers, could be from anyone. Right now they are Schrodinger's flowers, and you kind of like them that way. Perhaps someone from your family is celebrating, and everyone you are related to got a bunch of overpriced, musical flowers. Maybe they are from a secret admirer who is practically perfect in every way. Maybe...just maybe they are from who you'd really like them to be from. You don't even realize you are holding your breath when you open the card. I wanted to say I'm sorry The note begins. Your heart gives a hopeful leap. Ward told me that I wasn't supposed to call for three days or I'd look stupid. I looked stupid anyway because I broke my phone when putting my warbag into my locker. I didn't know how to say I'm sorry. Ward said to send flowers. I didn't know what kind. I hope these are okay. At the very bottom of the card, hastily scrawled in what little space was left, is a phone number. “Well now. That explains it.” You bite your lip. You want to believe it. You really do but there is that tiny, ugly voice in the back of your head screaming at the top of its anxiety crafted lungs that breaking a phone doesn't delete all the information. He could have found another way to get your number. Right? And yet, maybe he couldn't. Or maybe he was nervous. Or maybe... “Stop it,” June says. You look up from the card. “Stop what?” “Stop thinking whatever you are thinking that's putting that look in your eyes.” You close the card. “What look?” “The one that says you are going to overthink whatever that card says until you make yourself sick.” Gingerly she plucks the card from your grasp. You let her take it. As she reads it her lips curve. Her eyes go bright. “Awww!” You roll your eyes; part amused, part annoyed. You wish that you had the same reaction. You wish the only thing you felt was the sweet joy that is practically beaming out of June's demielf eyes. “He could have called you, could have gotten my number all over again like he did before.” June's smile wilts. “Don't do this.” She sighs and deposits the note on your desk. “I am begging you not to do this.” “Do what?” You cross your arms. The turmoil of emotions that's been stirring in you for nine days bubbles up inside your chest. “Not take what some guy I went on one date with says happened?” “Nick isn't just 'some guy' and you know it.” “I had a four hour conversation with him.” You aren't sure if you are telling her or yourself. “I was a nice conversation, but that's all it was.” She narrows her eyes at you. June, despite being no more than two months older than you, has this amazing mom expression. Its that particular mix of I-care-about-you and you're-being-dumb that only the most nurturing of people can master without even trying. She crosses on Jimmy Choo clad foot over the other and takes in a slow breath. “Call him.” “What?” “I know you are already talking yourself out of it. You are already coming up with seven different excuses of why it can wait until later.” “I'm working.” You point at your desk. “No you aren't. You are officially on break.” “I already-” “I swear to god if you don't call him I will fire you.” You return her direct look with one of your own. “No you wont.” She sighs. Her shoulders drop an inch or so. She reaches behind her and picks up the card. “You're right. Bluff called. But darling, I love you nearly as much as I love my wife and I am telling you that by second guessing and overthinking you are going to do nothing but hurt yourself.” She presses the card to your hands. “You don't have to call him right now. Take what time you think you need but please, I'm begging you.” She touches a single finger to your forehead. “Stop thinking the worst of people.” She squeezes your shoulder, and walks away to leave you with your own thoughts. You don't think the worst of people, honestly. You just know that sometimes people are the absolute worst. Some more than others. It's printed clearly on the front page of newspapers, emblazoned across social media. It's all there, plain as day. You aren't Nick, you aren't sure that everyone is just trying their best. Your thoughts come to a crash behind your eyes. Nick. The memory of him saying those words with the fervent tone of a true believer rolls through you. He said it so honestly, with such genuine hope that you found yourself looking at the world a little differently. You started to notice things, nice things. At least for the first few days. Then he hadn't called and you'd stopped looking. You sigh to yourself. So what. So he didn't call. It was only nine days, not the totality of your existence. Nine days was nothing. Even so, that ugly voice wont shut up. You spend the rest of the day at your desk. At five o'clock you gather up your things, including the flowers and take the trolly home. You stop at your favorite deli and pick up a sandwich for dinner. You give half of it to the little old lady who lives in the apartment next to you. She comments on your flowers, asks about who sent them. You give a vague “oh, no one” answer before retreating to the sanctuary of your apartment. You read and reread the note a thousand times. You come up with worst case scenarios and fairy tale solutions. You binge watch a television show and think about adopting a pet. You eat your sandwich. You smell the roses. “Damnit,” you mutter as you pick up your phone. You dial the first four numbers and then erase them. You dial the first five and erase those two. You toss your phone down and pull your laptop into your lap so you can look at pet adoption sites and social media pages. The sandiwch in your belly starts to feel like lead. If it had been someone else you might have been amused, maybe flattered, But this wasn't someone else. This was Nick Jakoby. You spent four hours in his company and started to see the whole world differently. You saw more kindness and hope than you ever expected to. You saw a glimpse of what it might have been like to see things the way you think he does. And then he didn't call. Oh, you'd think about calling him. You'd even picked up the phone. He'd said that he'd get in touch with you and you had believed him. After all the liars and the idiots and the buffoons and thrice divorced bankers you had wholehartedly believed him. You had believed he'd want to see you. That you would wake up and there would be text asking you for coffee, or something later asking if you wanted to go for another walk. But nothing had happened. One day turned into two, and two had turned into nine and by the end of it all you hated him for not keeping his promise. But more than that you'd hated yourself for not sucking down your own anxiety and reaching out to him first. “Damnit,” you snarl and pick up the phone. Before you can stop yourself you are jabbing his number into your phone hard enough to make the screen rainbow. Ring This is dumb, you tell yourself. You are in a bad mood. You should not call him right now. You should hang up. Wait for your mood to settle. June is right. You overthink things. You drag yourself down. You let your hope for the best get drowned out by your expectancy of the worst. Ring What are you even going to say if he picks up? That you've missed him? It'd be the truth. You have missed him. But that's not the point. Maybe you should tell him you are angry that you haven't heard from him. You've been worried. That would be true too. But is it the whole truth? Nothing but? Ring The call connects with a brief click and smoke sound. The first thing you hear is his breath, a sharp intake of air that sounds hopeful. He says your name like a prayer. You sag against your couch, pull a pillow into your lap and push your phone harder against your ear like that can somehow bring him closer. “Nick?” you ask. “I am so glad you called.” He says it the way he says everything. Like he means it. “I am too.”

Chapter 2 Found Here

#Fanfiction #nick jakoby #bright movie #Bright fanfiction #youfic

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the-stick-scribblers · 5 years

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I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth, like they tell you to do when you're anxious and you just need everything to slow down. And I think of Ireland because I remember the rolling green hills giving me this peaceful feeling, and that's what I want now. This is what I'm imagining as I lay here, the IV in my arm, a place almost as far from here as possible.

Drawing blood, I suddenly understand the phrase in a way I haven't before. Sort of dark to imagine, the tiny needle literally pulling blood from the vein in my arm, slowly draining it into the clinical plastic bag at my side. God, why do they have to be clear? The temptation to open my eyes, even just one of them, if only for a second, is strong. I don't know why. I hate this. I can't even think about it without getting sick to my stomach, hence the conjured images of craggy green hills against a gray sea and white sky. I cling to them but my stomach does a sick sort of flop anyway.

"Question," says a voice from my left, but I assume it's addressing one of the volunteers and I ignore it. Then, "What are you doing here if you obviously hate it so much?"

Carefully, I turn my head -- fortunately the voice is speaking from the side opposite my own plastic bag -- and open my eyes. The man, not much older than me I guess, on the table closest to me is lying with his own arm outstretched, and I can see his bag of blood just fine, though he isn't looking at it but at me.

"Sorry?" I say. Isn't it sort of common knowledge that you leave each other alone at these things?

"You hate this," he repeats. "So why come?"

He has a haughty sort of expression on his face, and I notice that his clothes are nice. Well-fitted, and his shirt, rolled up to the elbow on his right side, just above where the IV is taped to his arm, looks expensive. He's probably just here for something to do because he has no real responsibility.

I turn my head away again and roll my eyes. This is a mistake, as it sends another wave of nausea rolling through me. "It's a good thing to do," I say. And this will be the end of it, I assume.

Only then the stranger says, "Oh, you're one of those. A Do-Gooder."

Despite myself, I'm intrigued -- and annoyed. Why else would anyone be here, and how dare this complete stranger write it off as trivial, silly, meaningless. He doesn't even know me.

"Brian," he says then, and this time my head whips toward him. He's laughing before I remember I'm wearing a brightly-colored name tag, the name "Brian," my name in at least one sense, scrawled across it in a bold, blocky script that couldn't be more different from my own. "Brian Do-Gooder."

"What is your problem?" I ask him, and to my surprise he answers me.

"About a dozen things probably, though only three or four are the reason I'm here."

This startles me into paying more attention and I notice that the mystery guy's name is on his name tag too.

"Thurio?" I say.

"Shakespeare."

"Why?"

"No idea," Thurio says. "It's not like I named myself."

Fair point, I guess. Again I notice his clothes. They're too nice to be at a blood drive, or maybe that's just what he wants people to think? I'm not sure what to make of his statement that his problems are his reason for being here. Does he mean literally -- is he sick? Does that even make sense? Maybe he means he's broke, though it doesn't look like he's donating anything they pay you for.

"Let me guess," he says now, and he tips his head further back against the little, paper-toweled pillow beneath his head. "You think there's something wrong with you. Maybe you've done something you're not proud of. Hurt someone. In the boring sense?" He lifts his head from the pillow and looks at me more closely, like he can read what I'm thinking if he tries hard enough. "No," he says slowly, drawing the word out, a long O. "I don't think so. Something more interesting. But still not as bad as you act like it is. And this is your way to attempt making some sort of cosmic amends. Probably no one even knows you're here. Am I right?" He doesn't give me a chance to answer, but instead barrels on, with apparently no care for how rude he's being. "So what'd you do? God, you didn't get someone pregnant, did you? This would be a really ironic way to try to make up for that, and it severely pales."

"I didn't get anyone pregnant," I say, and Thurio nods to me, as though he has suspected this all along even though he's the one who brought it up in the first place. Still, I'm glad to have the chance to say this, because aside from the detail of it, his read of me isn't entirely inaccurate. But he doesn't need to know that. "I don't even know why I'm talking to you," I say, and turn away again.

I'm not sure if he's going to say anything else or leave me alone, because this is when the alarm starts. At first I don't understand what I'm hearing. I think it feels so impossible, so dissonant with the time and place that my brain can't supply me with the answer as fast as it usually would. But it's the screeching, flashing noise of a fire alarm, and after several seconds of a frozen sort of terror, I realize this.

I'm so stunned -- can this happen at a blood drive? We didn't go over emergency exits -- that for a while I don't move. I'm not sure what to do with the plastic bag full of my blood, and when I look around, the volunteers working the drive are all busy with other people who probably need more help than I do.

"Jesus, you really can't deal with this, can you?" Thurio says from my other side.

I turn to look at him and he's standing right beside my padded table, his own bag of blood held in his hand.

"Here," he says. He comes around to the other side and unhooks my bag from beneath the table where it's been hanging and slowly filling up as the IV does its work. Then he wraps a hand around my elbow and pulls me so I'm sitting up. He holds out the bag to me but I just look at it with the same sick, flip-flopping feeling in my gut. I shake my head because I don't dare open my mouth to speak.

As all of this is happening, the room is clearing out and the alarm is still blaring. The people working the blood drive are helping people out of the room, directing them toward the building exits, explaining where to go once they get outside. No one is even paying any attention to us.

"All right," Thurio says. He reaches for the IV in my arm, braces one hand against my forearm and grips the other around the long plastic tube.

"No!" I say, just in time to keep him from yanking the needle out of my arm.

"Seriously?" he says, but I can't stand the thought of this all being a waste. But he shakes his head and leaves the needle in place. I get down from the table and we rush toward the door of the room. "This way," Thurio says, now carrying both bags of blood, his own and mine. He hurries down the hall and I have to run to keep up so the IV doesn't get ripped out of my arm anyway. Every once in a while I feel it tug against my skin. It stings and gives me a lurching, ill sort of feeling, but there's nothing to do other than keep on, following Thurio, who at least seems to know where he's going.

Thurio leads us to a door no one else seems to be using, but I have no choice but to follow him. Then we're outside, and I feel winded in a way I'm sure I wouldn't if all of my blood was currently in my body where it's supposed to be. But the sun feels good on my face and there's no one over here, which is nice after the panic inside.

I gesture to the wall of the building and Thurio follows me over so I can lean against it and catch my breath.

I feel light-headed, and for a couple minutes I just rest, my face warm under the sun, and try not to think about anything other than stabilizing my body. When I feel a little better, I realize that for a moment, I've felt that tugging sensation in my arm again, the soft spot on the inside of my elbow where the needle is still rooted in the vein. I open my eyes and see Thurio shaking both of the bags.

"What are you doing?" I say.

"If you don't shake them every few minutes, the blood clots," he tells me.

I take his word for it, and the shaking only lasts another moment.

It's easier to see him out here in the sun than it had been inside when I was distracted by trying not to throw up all over myself. Now the IV is attached to me but no longer pulling the blood out of my arm, and it's easier to focus. He's got dark hair that seems to have a bit of a curl to it, though it's short. Handsome features, though now he's squinting in the sun.

"Come on," he says. "We should get this out of you."

He pulls on the bag as he moves toward a set of steps a few feet away, so I have to follow him and sit beside him. Without the panic of the screaming fire alarm -- still going off faintly inside, and it occurs to me that in case there's a real fire, we should probably move further away from the building -- and the need to rush that it had presented, the idea of this stranger removing the IV from my arm no longer feels quite so horrifying, and I still don't like the idea of touching the bag myself.

"Just, be careful," I say.

Thurio looks up at me and gives me what I can only assume is a wry expression.

“Are you sure you know how to do this?”

“It’s not like it’s difficult,” Thurio says.

“Maybe we should just wait until we go back inside.”

Thurio looks up at me, expression plainly saying that it doesn’t make an inch of difference to him. “Do you want to wait?” he says.

But the thought of staying out here in the sun for God knows how long with the needle still in my arm makes me feel a little sick. I shake my head.

“Okay,” Thurio says. He holds my elbow in one hand and gets a firm but gentle grip on the needle with the other. “You might want to close your eyes,” he says, and I do.

#first i wrote the rest of this in both the wrong tense and wrong pov #then i posted it to the wrong blog #honestly sometimes i just need to be taken out of commission for a recharge #jesus h christ #short story #flash fiction #idek

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sian265 · 5 years

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Whisper Chapter 3

Whispers

Chapter 3

Alec was very happy he had let Izzy dress him. Luke picked Alec up and now the pair waited in Luke’s vehicle for valet to park the car. The line of cars was impressive with many a foreign luxury model waiting for the suited parking attendants. People weren’t formally dressed, it was still a nightclub. However, the attire was much more expensive than your average club-kid could afford. Alec himself wore a pair of black dress slacks and a black silk button-up that Izzy had presented him with on his last birthday. Even the alpha, Luke, wore fancier slacks and shirt than normal police detectives did.

Finally, the valet took the keys and Alec followed Luke into the foyer of Whispers. The outside of the club was simple, almost plain with a black awning and white stenciled ‘Whispers’ in a flowy script but inside was a whole different world. The club featured an elegant foyer with rich cherry wood. The coatroom and hostess stand both had well dressed, attractive young ladies manning them. Behind the stand was a set of stained glass sliding doors, they were stunning but it was the subject matter that had Alec blushing. Each pane of glass depicted a different scene, couples embracing in a series of intimate poses. Two women, two men, or a woman and a man, all nude, and all entwined in private dance.

The hostess slid the doors open and Alec followed Luke into the club. The interior was a lot quieter than Alec had imagined. There was light laughter, soft voices, low music and gently clinking of glassware being used. The low tables and soft lighting gave the large room a cozier feel. Couples sat at most of the tables with others standing at the long bar on one side of the room. One whole wall was made up of more stained glass, and Alec looked closer, yep, more nude pictures. Couples of every color, shape, and size, all depicted in states of intimacy. Before Alec could step through those doors, Luke put a hand on his arm to stop him. Alec looked at Luke, who seemed hesitant and unsure all of a sudden. “What is it,” he asked the other man.

Luke looked a little uncomfortable with what he was about to say. “Listen Alec, you are going to see, feel, and even hear some pretty strange things once we cross these doors. I just want you to know what happens here tonight, well it stays between us, okay?”

He had no idea what was up with his mom’s boyfriend, but decided to humor the alpha. “Sure Luke, no problem.” Alec stepped through the doors.

The lights were so low, Alec was tempted to use his night vision rune, but stopped because Luke moved in front of him and led the way. From what Alec could see there were three stages with groups of seating around all three. Luke leaned close to whisper, “The left side is the male dancer, the right the female, and the center for any undecided viewers.” Luke moved to a table in the center stage area.

A server appeared as soon as they sat and Alec ordered a beer, that he fully intended not drinking. Not only was tonight about business and he needed to keep his wits, but Alec wasn’t much of a drinker on a good night. Something told him he would need all his wits with this Warlock, Magnus Bane. He leaned a little closer to Luke, “Do we have to sit through this show before speaking with the Warlock?”

“Careful Alec, that sounded almost like a sneer when you said Warlock. Remember we want Magnus to talk, not offend him before he even sits down.” Luke warned.

Alec flushed. He had been working on his prejudices and knew he still needed to watch his tone. It wasn’t that he had a problem with Downworlders, hell his mother was dating one! It was just working past all the Clave bullshit they were indoctrinated into from birth. “Sorry Luke,” he muttered.

Luke just patted his arm. “Magnus won’t meet until after the show, but I have no doubt what-so-ever that he is fully aware we are here.”

“How do you know,” Alec asked.

Luke ginned. “I brought a Shadowhunter into his club, and not your mom. That more than anything will have Magnus’s curiosity pinged.” Before Alec could ask more the atmosphere changed.

The lights dimmed even further, almost completely pitch black except for the small flicker of candles on the tables themselves. Then the whispering started. Low, so low almost undetectable by Alec’s half human ears, but grew loud enough so that everyone in the room could hear it, not just the wolves. The voices echoed and bounced around the room almost seemingly hitting the walls to ricochet back against them. This kept on until Alec was almost ready to shout, enough! As abruptly as they started the whispers stopped.

“Good evening,” the voice whispered, and Alec shivered.

Goosebumps rose as it continued. “Welcome to Whispers.” The other low whispering was back and seemed to echo and caress the owner of the voice.

“What’s your forbidden desire?” The voice asked, and Alec felt sick. His hidden desire might be now out in the open, but he had still not found the courage to act upon it, the voice seemed to know this.

“The Whispers know, and here, you can indulge.” There was so much promise in those words, in that voice, that for a second, Alec believed it.

Luke’s hand on his arm broke the spell. Alec shook his head, trying to break away, stop the voice’s control. The hair on Alec’s arms and along the back of his neck was standing up, he felt almost electrified. He shifted in his seat, face flushed; thankfully in the dim light know no one could tell. Alec felt a stab of fear, he was aroused! The voice seemed to sense that he had enough because this time when it came the draw was not as powerful, not as seductive.

“Banish all but your desires, feast upon that which is forbidden.” The lights on the stage came up; a soft blue glow that spread till it covered the bowed, robed, figures. “Enjoy the whispers.” The voice faded away.

Alec tried to watch the show, but he couldn’t get that voice out of his head. The words kept repeating themselves over and over again. He wouldn’t have been able to tell anyone what the voice sounded like, only describe how it made him feel. So smooth, almost like what Alec imagined a lover’s caress might feel like. Or a drink of ice cold water after he had pushed and pushed in training, so good, Alec couldn’t drink fast enough. That voice could make one not think about responsibilities, not consider anything else, just following its direction. Directions to what you most desire, that’s what it promised.

He could tell Izzy later that the dancers were beautiful, that they moved in time perfectly. He would admit he still didn’t know if the center dancer was male or female. What he would tell no one was about the voice and what it did to him. Alec was ready to escape, and breathed a sigh of relief when the dancers left the stage. What Alec didn’t know was that another had not been watching the show either. Yellowish –gold cat eyes stayed fixed on the Shadowhunter through the entire performance. As soon as the house lights came up, the owner of those eyes made his move.

“Lucian Garroway, I thought my staff was joking when they reported you arrived in the company of a Shadowhunter.” A voice over Alec’s shoulder spoke and Luke stood up.

“Magnus,” Luke held out a hand. “Good to see you.” The pair shook and Alec turned slowly in his chair.

Twinkling dark eyes were trained on his face and Alec carefully stood up. “And not just any Shadowhunter, but I believe the Head of the New York Institute?” Magnus continued.

Alec didn’t remember his own name. He knew he was standing there like a fool with his mouth open, but nothing prepared one for Magnus Bane. The Warlock was only a couple inches shorter than Alec. He had black hair, spiked, and the glitter in it caught the light. His dark eyes were lined and he had the most perfect set of bow-shaped lips, stained red. Magnus was slender but with strong shoulders and biceps. Also, one impressive chest, fully on display in the shirt open to his navel. Several necklaces danced against his chest, and Alec’s eyes were drawn to that caramel-colored skin so firmly on display. Shaking his head a bit, Alec struggled to bring himself back under control. “Alec,” he managed to stutter out.

The eyes continued to twinkle and the red lips bore a slight smile, Magnus seemed to also like what he was seeing. “Lightwood, I believe, Maryse’s son?” Magnus asked, eyes still trained on Alec’s.

“Yes,” Alec answered and was thankful when those eyes left him to turn to Luke.

Magnus sighed, a small pout forming. “Well what can I do for the New York alpha and Head Shadowhunter? I take it this visit isn’t for pleasure?”

“Afraid not Magnus,” Luke replied. “Is there somewhere we can talk more privately?”

Magnus turned away and waved them to follow. “Very well, ruin my fun. Yes, you and pretty boy follow me.”

Alec was glad Luke followed Magnus first, so that he couldn’t see the grin on Alec’s face. Magnus called him pretty.

TBC…

#malec fanfiction #au #Magnus x Alec

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