me: *wears black during March 22*
mom: it’s the middle of summer why are you dressed like that?
me: Mama, It’s Not a Fashion Statement, It’s a Death Wish
mom: are you okay?
me: …well if you wanted honesty
mom: I’m going to have to call your father–

All We’re Going Is Up

Notes: In Which I read THIS prompt, got hard JIMON feels, and proceeded  to write some fluff.

In Simon’s defense, this was not his fault.

Absolutely not, not in the teensiest bit.

It all starts and ends with Judgey McJudgerson and his stupidly attractive face and soft looking golden hair and—Hold it! NO! No! No! None of that is at all relevant. Not even slightly.

What is relevant is the fact that Simon’s best bro and possibly previous fairy princess in some other life, Clary got him an internship at Lightwood and Lightwood publishing, “To get your foot into the door of this whole realm  Si,”! because she knows how hard he’s been working to actually become a journalist—one as renowned as his Saba. And honestly, if it weren’t for the looming threat of Clary’s terrifyingly sexy girlfriend’s sharp stilettos, Simon would’ve kissed her right then and there in thanks. Even if the job  was basically working right under Izzy’s older brother’s nose—most probably getting the trust fond brat’s low fat, soy milk frap with a dash of caramel on top, and fanning his already ivy league ego, and spending monotonous days printing and copying and taking messages and scheduling pointless meetings—If Simon is being at all frank, it’s most probably gonna be Simon’s ADHD wired brain’s  own personal hell.

But still, even working as nothing more than a fucking shoe shiner in the walls of the esteemed publication is enough to get all Simon’s classmates salivating in jealousy.

So, the morning of his first day Simon wakes up extra early—like an hour before the fucking sun starts to rise, and enough to make his stoner roommate throw a shoe at him. He freshens up—showering, shaving, slipping on his best fitted slacks and button up, the whole shebang. He eats an actual breakfast, like as if he was in one of those family sitcoms with a friendly labradors and way to smiley dad. And to top it all off he makes time for a detour in his track towards the subway to get Izzy some flowers in thanks, and his new boss a cake pop from Starbucks, because he’d have to be an actual demonic creature of hell to not like one of those babies.

So yeah, it was all turning up Simon. He was basically levitating on sunshine by the time he got to the front doors of the imposing Lightwood and Lightwood headquarters—like hand to god Simon is pretty sure there were little birds chirping in the background.

He’s totally got this whole first impressions shit down the bag—Simon can practically see his Saba preening from beyond the grave about how Simon isn’t a complete schlep, and actually remembers a thing or two that he’s taught him.

It was all clear blue skies and double rainbows—well until Simon caught sight of the rapidly shutting doors of the last elevator heading up.

“Wait dude!” Simon calls out, running as fast as he can with a bouquet and Starbucks bag in his hands. “Hold the door!”


The doors keep on closing as if the guy didn’t hear’m. And fuck that. Simon has it under good authority—AKA every person he has ever met in the history of ever—that Simon has a very loud voice, one that can easily carry through a crowd, let alone a nearly empty first level of a not yet open for the day   corporation.

“Dude! You heard me! I know you did!”


The doors keep on closing, and this may be the first time Simon has ever been thankful that Jocelyn had forced Simon and Clary to try out for the track team at their high school, where Simon quickly learned his aversion towards sprints, even if he was great at it.  Simon still remembers the lecture Luke gave him about how if he ever  sees or hears about  him using his gifts to run away from one of New York’s finest, that he’d make him regret it. Luke never said anything against running towards douchebags in elevators.

By the skin of his teeth, Simon miraculously slips through the doors, heaving out muddled curses towards college and the freshman fifteen persisting through his second and third years too.

“You read of sweat.”

And that about  does it.

Simon is leaping forward in an instant and tries his hardest  not to wrap his hands around this pompous dicks neck while glaring daggers at his smarmy smugness.

“Fuck you! Why the fuck didn’t you hold the door for me! You fucking heard me! Hell you fucking saw me!”

He wrinkles his nose at Simon’s general disposition, and honestly Simon just wishes that the dude  didn’t look like a fucking Brooks Brothers model—bulging muscles threatening to tear right out of that jacket, and a face that looks like it was personally touched by a fucking angel or some shit. Damn, it’d be so much easier to hate this dude and all his cockiness if he weren’t so pretty.

Clary says it’s the artists in them, that they’re just naturally inclined to people and things that please their muses. Simon isn’t too sure about that. He’s pretty sure the only thing that this blonde fucker is inspiring is Simon’s dick right out of his pants, but to be fair, it doesn’t take much to inspire that particular part of Simon’s anatomy.

“I was running late,” he practically snarls out, as if Simon were nothing more than a piece of chewed up gum on the bottom of his Versace.

“And what? You thought it’d be dandy to bring all your doom and gloom to me? Like the fucking grinch?”

“It’s April,” the blonde sniffs airily, obviously finding Simon’s comparison uninspired. And fuck, it’s like the flicker of this guys lips can make Simon’s rage boil over.

“Fine, then did fucking Peter rabbit stick his dandy carrot stick up your ass, or are you always this stuck up?”

This time the blonde doesn’t even bother with sparing him a response, opting to glance at his Rolex, one which reads 9:00.

Simon still has fifteen minutes to reach his meeting.

At that realization, something visceral  clicks in his mind, a sick satisfaction slinking up his body with a whole buzz of excited nerves left in it’s wake—the same juvenile feeling he use to get whenever he and Clary would pull punk pranks against each other.

Simon flickers back to the display of buttons—He and douchebag McGee—who most definitely spends his summers in Nantucket sipping on vintage wine and looking like a fucking advert for the wonderfulness of being affluent and beautiful—are both headed to the top floor.  But again, Douchebag McGee is in a hurry, and Simon is definitely not, his old boy Scout’s epithet of how early is on time, on time is late, and late is being left behind being long ago scorched into Simon’s mind.

So with one quick drag of the hand, Simon selects every single key of the board, something primal coiling in his stomach at the affronted, borderline panicked expression panning across Douche McGee’s stupid face.

“W—what did—what did  you do that for!”

Simon doesn’t exactly have an answer for him, but stands his ground nonetheless, shoulders squared, and glare firmly in place. “You started it.”

Douche McGee is gaping.

“I started it?” He flails indignantly, glowering at a timid looking lawyer type when he tries to step in once the elevator stops on his floor.  “Are you a ten year old, or do you just act like a dumb one?”

“I dunno, are you constantly a cross douchebag or do you just act like an annoying one?” Simon counters just to be contrary—which obviously is not the right response if the downright mutinous look Douchebag McGee’s giving him now is anything to go by.

“I’m already ten minutes late to a very important meeting!”

“Can you sound anymore pretentious?” Simon almost guffaws. “And besides dude, I don’t give a fuck if you’re meeting with the queen of England, not my problem.”

Simon thinks he catches Douchebag McGe muttering something like,”She might as well be,” but isn’t sure seeing as he just huffs and puffs and tries to form some sort of curse directed towards Simon, but doesn’t come up with anything because he’s obviously a total dumb ass.”

They stand in a thick sort of silence as they patiently await the elevator stopping at every floor, Jace baring his teeth at anyone who tries to join them, and Simon trying his hardest not to be amused by his antics— until they finally reach the top level.

Simon is excited to finally shake him off and forget about this whole irritating, and awkward encounter—letting himself only jack off to Douchebag McGees glowering face once, and only once. But the thing is he never shakes him off—instead it’s like they’re following each other into the offices of the publications executives, something heavy dropping in Simon’s gut when he sees a smiling Izzy—lethal and flawless looking as always—strutting towards them. And Simon is pretty sure he already knows what she’s about to say before she’s within hearing distance, and he starts to panic.

“So you guys’ve met?” She greets, kissing each of Simon’s cheeks before accepting the flowers in thanks.

“what are you talking about Iz?” Douchebag McGee—who Simon is slowly coming to accept is actually Jace Lightwood, EG Simon’s boss, questions before reluctantly kissing her cheek. He looks like such a sourpuss doing it, and it’s all Simon could do not to poke fun.

“C’mon big brother this’ll be good for you,,” Izzy goads, obviously misinterpreting his cross demeanor. “You need some help and Simon is like top of his class in Colombia.”

At that, a whole spectrum of emotions flash across Jace’s brightening face, slowly but surely slotting all the pieces to their rightful places. “Izzy, for the love that is wholly and right, please tell me this asshole is not your girlfriends best friend who you hired on my behalf.” Jace grits out, never taring his gaze away from Simon, who in turn is trying to decide if he should get his dick checked out by a professional based on the fact that he’s riding a half hard fear boner.

“Why?” Izzy blinks innocently, her eyes going owlish. “What’s wrong with Simon?”

“What have I done in another life,” Jace groans, running a hand down his face in exasperation and possible repentance.

“Cake pop?” Simon offers probably way to brightly. Jace’s expression doesn’t even flicker. “Hey! You can not fire me cause of that! I didn’t even know you were my boss five minutes ago!”

“OH, now why would i fire you?” Jace grins wolfishly, a gleam that really should not arousal Simon, flickering in his pretty, mismatched eyes. “That’d ruin all the fun.”

Simon gulps and Izzy crows over how she’s a genius for pairing them together.

Simon doesn’t think he exactly wants to disagree.