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One. Ops Center
Alec squirms, uncomfortable in the leather chair, and tugs at the fabric of his black shirt. Cotton isn’t so bad, stark black against his too-white skin from locking himself away during the day, and only going out at night. At least his skin hasn’t erupted in rashes from the prolonged contact this time, he thinks.
The shadowhunter feels like he’s about to choke with the collar of his shirt leaning heavily around his throat though, and can’t help but feel wary. This is Alec’s battle gear. He usually wears these clothes when he leaves on patrol, but there is nothing to fight here, except the urge to slap Jace over the head.
Why do they have to get dressed in the Institute? Shouldn’t this Clary girl adopt their customs rather than demand they all get dressed to spare her from… from what, exactly? Alec has seen the way she blushed at the sight of Jace shirtless, Clary enjoyed the view. Is she jealous of Isabelle? She’ll look like Izzy, like them all soon enough, better start living like them too.
Hodge seems uncomfortable in his clothes too, his hair in disarray and his clothes as revealing as possible to let his skin breathe. The pink tinge of Hodge’s complexion clues Alec in on the fact that he’s not the only one that feels too hot right now.
Alec cannot see Jace squirm because the blond puts up a brave front for Clary, but the parabatai bond is taut with concealed frustration. There is a suspicious looking tinge at the back of Jace’s neck too, bright red on beige. No wonder the bond is so sour, Jace must be in pain, Alec muses.
Serves him right, Alec can’t help but express through the parabatai bond.
Alec looks up with a start when the screen lights up with pictures of a warlock, always surrounded by other downworlders. The man is beautiful, with luxurious clothes and Alec squints as he tries to catch sight of a scar, or maybe a defining trait on the smooth expanse of skin exposed by the High Warlock’s clothes.
Magic is nothing like shadowhunters battle skills and there isn’t much to learn from Magnus Bane’s outward appearance, except that he’s rich, and good at hiding everyone and everything. Alec doesn’t approve of the plan, but there isn’t much to do or say either way. They need Clary’s memories. He glances at Isabelle, propped on the edge of the table, and the back of Clary’s head, bright orange hair curling down her back.
“Can you two focus,” he interrupts the banter going on around him, “this is not a joke.”
“Someone needs to get laid,” Isabelle quips.
Alec rolls his eyes and makes a face in reply to his sister’s teasing. Isabelle got away with a sports bra. Her tawny skin — from lazing in the sun when she naps during the day — is left on display. Apparently this is alright with Clary, and Alec has to hide his envious look. He really wishes he could take off his shirt now.
As things are, he follows along with the plan, so there won’t be any getting out of his clothes until he’s back in his bedroom for some well-earned rest.
Two. Brooklyn Heights
Magnus doesn’t give much away, even in person. Alec cannot find any tell-tale signs of age on this flawless face, and there are no scars marring this beautiful skin of sepia and magic. The sparkles of color dancing at Magnus’ fingertips always come too late for Alec to feel like he has a chance against the warlock; not that he wants to fight Magnus anyway.
Alec retreats by Jace’s side once he’s sure the loft is secure, and once again wishes the rest of the world, and Magnus specifically, would wear less clothing. The warlock doesn’t need these clothes anyway, Alec reckons. Even if Alec could read Magnus’ body like he does other fighters, magic would glamour anything of use to the shadowhunter. Magnus looks like a dancer, quick on his feet, and it makes sense with the way he wields his magic, this is not about strength.
The shadowhunter glances at his sister as she interacts with Magnus. Isabelle mastered mundane cues to look non-threatening, but Alec can read the danger in her muscular thighs and the few scars on her arms. She doesn’t get hurt often, because her opponents don’t have the time to do any damage.
Jace, in comparison, has many more scars — sometimes more than older shadowhunters — because he fights in close range. It speaks of recklessness, and survival.
Alec startles when Magnus gestures to boss them around, “Pretty boy, get your team ready.”
Jace steps forward at the command, but stops abruptly as Magnus pushes him back to point at Alec instead. The blond steps back reluctantly, glancing between the warlock and his parabatai, and Magnus ignores Jace.
“I’m not talking to you,” Magnus corrects, “I’m talking to you.”
Alec blinks, the flicker of a smile playing on his lips because Magnus likes the way he looks, and Alec takes pride in his body, the work of an entire life, training to hone his skills. He doesn’t need to go hand to hand, because Alec can take his opponents out with his arrows alone.
Jace glances at him with a mock-offended frown, but the blond’s eyes sparkle with pride at the acknowledgment of his parabatai’s strength. Alec shrugs, adjusting his quiver on his shoulder and elbowing Jace. Their bond hums playfully as they get moving.
“Maybe you need to train more,” Isabelle whispers to Jace, teasing.
Clary looks at them like they’ve lost it. She wouldn’t understand, Alec imagines. Soon enough, she will be familiar with shadowhunters’ customs and read their bodies with new eyes. Hers speak of a sheltered childhood, and except for the stain of paint, nothing lingers on her skin. She’s a novice, and it shows in the way her shoulders drop when she sits, too. She has never been on guard, doesn’t need to stay alert.
Alec shrugs and pushes the unexpected compliment to the back of his mind as they get on with the summoning. He can’t wait to go back to the Institute and finally shed his clothes. It feels like he has been on patrol for the entire day.
Three. Training room
Alec skirts the punching bag, the light of stained-glass windows fanning in red and purple over his naked back. The floor is comfortably cool beneath his feet and the impact of his knuckles against the bag grounds him. Alec punches once, then twice and thrice and exhales loudly as the clatter of heels echoes behind him.
Alec stills, surprised, as most shadowhunters walk barefoot, and he watches from the corner of his eye as Magnus comes round to face him.
The shadowhunter grabs the bag to stop its momentum, the leather slightly warm against his palm. He glances at Magnus with interest, at loss of what to think with the heavy ornaments the warlock chose to adorn his outfit with that day. There is barely any skin to see this time, and Alec tilts his head to the side. Maybe there is something to gather from Magnus’ clothes. Isabelle would know, he imagines, but this is a foreign language to Alec.
Magnus has zoned out, staring at Alec’s groin, and the shadowhunter frowns, confused. What is the warlock looking at? The parabatai rune maybe? Alec looks down at his chest, then his length, flaccid between his legs, and Magnus finally averts his eyes when Alec makes no move to hide himself. Alec even preens a little to show off the curves of his muscular frame, and Magnus gapes, shaking his head before speaking.
“I had forgotten about the customs of the Nephilim. Should I have undressed at the entrance?” Magnus asks with a wry smile.
“We do not impose our customs on our guests, but they like to deny us of our comfort,” Alec replies evenly.
Magnus’ eyebrows arch up, but he doesn’t comment, and neither does Alec. Clary has yet to adopt their customs, but she has taken to wearing sports bras like the one she allowed Isabelle to wear when they planned to meet up with Magnus, Alec muses as he moves to grab a towel. He wipes sweat off his chest and arms, glancing at the file in the warlock’s hands.
“I have the preliminary autopsy findings,” Magnus explains.
Alec accepts the file, but doesn’t look at it, admiring the colorful dance of the light pouring from the stained-glass windows and onto Magnus’ face instead. Magnus belongs there, Alec can’t help but think as he takes in the sepia of the warlock’s skin, and the royal blue of Magnus’ outfit, that aged like fine wine and shines gently centuries later.
It’s a beautiful contrast, and for a moment, Alec understands the appeal of such clothing. Then, Magnus shifts and the light falls to the floor between them. Alec throws the towel over his shoulder and finally glances at the file he dismissed a moment ago.
“Should I walk you out?” he offers.
“No, thank you. I should be alright,” the warlock gestures at Alec to get going.
Alec can feel Magnus’ gaze on his back as he leaves the warlock alone and walks out of the training room.
Four. Master bedroom
For the importance mundanes and some downworlders put on clothes — and especially when to take them off or with whom — Alec finds it increasingly peculiar that Magnus and him keep them on in the warlock’s loft. It’s warm there, and most of the surfaces available are comfortable to lie on.
Alec particularly likes the couch near the window, and curls up there most of the time to catch up on paperwork. He can’t stop fussing today though, and keeps moving around instead of settling in. Alec would enjoy the comfort of the loft a lot more without clothes on.
He doesn’t mind per se. Alec understands that there is a time and a place to go around naked. This was the very reason for his annoyance when Clary insisted they get dressed in her presence at the Institute, Alec’s very home. Alec simply did not expect Magnus’ loft to be one of these places.
“Something’s bothering you, darling?” Magnus calls from the apothecary.
“Why do you love clothes so much?” Alec blurts out without thinking.
Magnus stills in the doorway and peers at him. Across the living room, it feels like the gap between them is too wide, and that Alec can never understand Magnus. He tries though, and stands up to cross the room, stopping a breath short of Magnus.
“Why do you hate clothes so much?” Magnus replies, with a teasing glint in his eyes.
“They’re impractical and because of their clothes I can’t tell someone’s social status and battle experience just from looking at them,” Alec explains without thinking.
“To you, maybe,” the warlock nods, “but I love my clothes, I choose them with care. They show a part of me that I cherish, and nobody can ignore these statements I make. Yeah, sometimes I use my clothes to conceal how I feel or what I am truly capable of, but would you know how strong of an opponent I am just from looking at me anyway?”
“Magic is different,” the shadowhunter concedes, “how… do you feel good when wearing clothes?”
Alec fiddles with the collar of Magnus’ shirt, curious, but rubbing the fabric between his thumb and forefinger doesn’t bring any answer. Magnus smiles instead, and takes Alec’s hand to lead the way into the master bedroom.
The warlock opens a drawer in his wardrobe there and pulls out a jet black garter belt. It comes with a set of matching suspenders, and a complementary bra, made only of straps to wrap around the chest. Magnus offers them to Alec with an encouraging smile.
“What I like about my clothes is how smooth they feel, and how they enhance my features.”
The shadowhunter nods slowly and takes the jet black set of satin straps. The fabric is soft and flows in his hands like ink, barely there. At Magnus’ instruction, Alec strips and slips on the garter belt first, adjusting it on his waist, and then the bra. The straps crisscross across his chest like a harness and the sharp pattern of geometric shapes reminds Alec of his rigorous nature.
He likes the way the garter wraps around his legs like thigh holsters, too. It follows the lines of his muscular frame in beautiful curves and Alec smiles a little as he realizes he can barely feel the lingerie on his skin.
“I think I understand now.”
+ one. Apothecary
Alec fiddles with a letter opener in Magnus’ apothecary while his boyfriend entertains Clary’s curiosity about the potion he’s making. Magnus is patient, and Alec can appreciate how attentive Clary is. She listens intently and hands Magnus whatever ingredient he asks for, squinting to read the tiny scrawl on the various jars around them. Alec has long given up on deciphering his boyfriend’s handwriting (or so he told Magnus) and relies on a series of tips and tricks to read the most important words, while the warlock does his best to write in a more modern script for Alec’s benefit.
Isabelle hasn’t, and she browses through a handwritten grimoire left open on the cluttered desk, her tongue poking between her lips as she reads. She pushes a misplaced quill out of the way to flip the page, and a picture flutters out. It falls on the floor and Jace bends to pick it up, a smile lighting his face at the sight of the photograph. Isabelle peers over his shoulder, a curtain of dark hair hiding the picture from view. She grins as well, glancing at Alec to wink.
“Damn Alec!” Isabelle whistles approvingly, “Did you really need to wear heels too? You’re already so tall!”
Alec rolls his eyes and ignores his parabatai humming in agreement. He strides forward to grab the picture and have a look as well. Alec is pleasantly reminded of the photo shoot that took place in Magnus’ bedroom when he tried on the garter set and strap bra.
Black satin wrapped around him aesthetically, with matching heels. It was a beautiful pair of heels too, that tied around his calves with black satin ribbons, enhancing the curve of his muscles in all the right places. Alec smiles at the reminder, and moves closer to Magnus, showing him the picture too.
“I don’t want to see that!” Clary shrieks, hiding her eyes.
Magnus chuckles and takes the picture, pressing it against his chest with a dramatic sigh.
“An early birthday present from me to me!”