When I am gone I hope that you’ll stay Keep me close in memory You can move on With your promise of new I’ll be right here waiting for you
Don’t forget me my love My love I won’t forget you my love My love
To the end of the world And back Until the end of time No one can stop me If they tried The darkest days The darkest nights I won’t stop until the Day I die Until the end of the world My love To the end of time
Eternity is so beautifully cold I wonder if angels ever feel old I’m lost in your eyes I’m stranded at sea You know you’re everything to me
Don’t forget me my love My love I won’t forget you my love My love
Quietdrive - Until the End
This Jean aged a little ^^;
That is a piece I started a time ago (like 3 weeks? oO) but never finished it, because I got so frustrated about it… And now I tried to fix the worst mistakes. I don´t like it now, too, but… fuck it :D To kick my low-self-confidence in the ass, I upload it here! Chacka! TAKE THIS! ~
“Just remember: If one bird carried every grain of sand, grain by grain, across the ocean, by the time he got them all on the other side, that would only be the beginning of eternity.” Truman Capote, “In Cold Blood” 1965
Summary: A kiss is never just a kiss…and definitely not when it’s shared with your best friend’s sister.
Fox can take a slow fall to hell. The slowest of falls. And hit every bump along the way. They can also have Bawson when they pry them from my cold, dead, ETERNALLY BITTER hands. I’m gonna keep writing Pitch fic for the most amazing ship to never sail.
Will sighs as he leans against his car, waiting for Ginny to come out of the house so he can drop her off at Mike’s soccer game. Frowning at her window, he shouts, “Let’s go Gin! Don’t think I won’t leave you.”
Ginny’s head pops out of the window a moment later. “I’m coming.”
A few minutes later, she comes out of the house and Will frowns at her. “Where’s the rest of your shorts?”
Ginny looks down at her Jordache daisy dukes, a gift from Evelyn, and shrugs. “Everybody’s wearing these.”
His frown deepens when his eyes move from the short’s high waist to the soccer jersey tucked into it. “What are you doing in Mike’s jersey?”
Again, Ginny shrugs. “It’s lucky. Someone has to wear it to every game.”
“That doesn’t answer my question,” he replies.
“Yes it does.” Ginny gets in the passenger seat and Will gets in the car as well, giving her a long look before he starts it.
“You know Mike has a girl, right?”
“Well just because he says Rachel isn’t his girl doesn’t mean you are.”
Ginny rolls her eyes. “What are you even talking about?”
“You heard what I said. You’re not his girl.” He backs out of the driveway. “You better not be anyway.”
Ginny rolls her eyes again, looks out the window. “Shut up and drive, Will.”
Just some cute, domestic Malec fluff I wrote this week, inspired by this amazing drawing by mundanelion.
It was the
first genuinely warm day after what seemed like an eternity of cold, rainy
weeks in New York. And Magnus Bane intended to make the most of it. His entire week had been extremely busy – he
felt like there was hardly a downworlder in New York that had not been one of
his clients over the course of the past few days.
Sam’s been watching the same infomercial for the last hour and a half, eyes red and burning from the tears that are starting to gather there but he uses the corner of his sleeve to angrily wipe them away before they have the chance to fall and clicks the tv off, bathing the cheap motel room in darkness.
There’s an aching worry in his chest and a knot in his throat. The alarm clock reads one in the morning, they should have been back by now and Sam’s quickly losing his wits. He hears the familiar rumble of the impala seconds before he sees the headlights flash bright, breaking through the blinds and he jumps to his feet and throws open the motel door.
The panic that he’d been somewhat successful at supressing now bubbles forth at the sight of Dean, slumped forward against john, his pants completely covered in blood and he rushes to his brother’s side
“Heya Sammy.” Dean says as he tries to smile at his brother but then sucks in a sharp breath at the stabbing pain that shoots through his body.
“Help me get your brother inside.” His father commands but Sam can’t seem to tear his eyes away.
“What happened?” He asks but doesnt give John time to answer. “You were supposed to protect him!” He yells out, not caring if anyone can hear them.
“Not now boy.” John commands . “Help me get your brother inside so I can tend to his wounds. He’s already lost quite a bit of blood.”
The words hit Sam like a freight train and he pushes past the anger and shoulders most of Dean’s weight as he helps his dad carry his brother inside and lay him on the bed.
He hurries himself getting hot water and fresh towels before coming back to Dean’s side. Watches as his dad uses the scissors to cut up the entire length of Dean’s jeans and pulls back the material to reveal an angry set of gashes that are still bleeding profusely. His hands are shaking as he rings a washcloth out and tries to wipe up the blood that’s running down his brother’s thigh as their father gets to work suturing up his wounds.
He’s not sure how much time goes by but every second feels like an eternity. Dean’s out cold, either from the pain or the medicine, and Sam hopes it’s the latter.
Dad’s no comfort, drinks himself stupid with a bottle of Johnny walker black and passes out in the other bed leaving Sam alone with his grief. He gently crawls into bed with his brother, easy not to jostle him, and tries to focus on anything but how completely useless he feels.
His pillow is wet with tears and he tries to quiet the sobs that are escaping from his chest but they’re violent and they threaten to break Sam apart from the inside out.
“Sammy,” He hears his brother whisper weakly against his back. A warm hand cards through his hair and he squeezes his eyes closed and takes a deep breath.
“Sammy, it’s okay.. I’m okay little brother.” He tries to soothe but it just makes the tears come harder.
“Look at me,” Dean says. “I’m fine Sam. Look at me.” And he turns around and buries his face into the crook of Dean’s neck.
He holds Sam close as he cries, hand gently rubbing his back, both calming and stirring the desperation he feels.
“Figures,” Sam says as he wipes at his tired eyes. “That you’re the one who’s hurt and you’re trying to comfort me… I’m a horrible brother.”
“No you’re not Sam.” Dean whispers against sams cheek. “Don’t say that. Besides, I’m fine. Just a scratch.”
He raises his head up, finally looking into those moss-green eyes and sighs.
“I was so scared.” He admits. “It’s just- I don’t know what I’d do if I ever lost you.”
“Hey,” Dean smiles. “You’re never gonna loose me. You’re stuck with me for life.” He adds and Sam smiles back… I love you, he thinks. “I hope so.” he says instead.
Morning brings with it a false sense of calm that’s shattered the moment he opens his eyes and looks at Dean. His face is littered with at least a dozen cratches, some more prominent than others, and his lip is busted open. There’s a quarter size bruise under his right eye and it takes him a minute to push down the urge to cry again. He grabs some chapstick from the night stand and gently applies some to his brother’s lips, careful not to hurt him. Dean opens his eyes and smiles.
“Is it time for my sponge bath Samantha?” Dean teases, eyebrows wiggling suggestively.
“Shut up jerk.” Sam says back without any real heat but can’t help the blush that colors his cheeks.
“Make me bitch.” His brother quips.
“Alright you two,” comes a familiar bark as the motel door opens.
“I’ve made arrangments for you both to stay at Bobby’s while he and I wrap this hunt up. I don’t like leaving it un-finished.”
“But dad,” Sam interrupts. “Dean’s hurt, he’s in no shape to travel.”
John runs a calloused hand down his face and sighs. He doesn’t want another fight with his youngest. “You think I don’t know that Sam? I do, but cash is low and I can’t leave you two here. I’ve no other option but to take you to Bobby’s. So, get your gear together, we leave in twenty.”
A million things he’d like say come pouring into his head but every. single.one. dies on his lips when Dean squeezes his hand softly; a silent plea to just let it go. He drops his head and grabs his bag, a quiet “ yes sir” leaving his burning tongue.
The ride to Souix falls is just as bad as he thought it would be. Dean’s in the back so he can stretch out his injured leg so that puts Sam up front with his dad. Great.
Two and a half hours later they finally arrive. Sam hops out and rushes to dean’s side, carefully helping him out of the impala, ignoring all of John’s efforts to help, and slowly makes their way inside the house where he deposits Dean comfortably on Bobby’s couch.
Bobby claps John on the back and asks if he wants a drink and as a suprise to everyone, himself included, he turns it down.
“Just wanna go ahead and get on the road.” He says, back turned to the boys and lowers his voice. “Besides, I got a feeling that boy is probably thinking up ways to murder me in my sleep.” He says and motions his eyes to where Sam is sitting at the foot of the couch, Dean’s injured leg propped up on his lap. Bobby laughs, but John’s half serious. John runs his hand across the back of his neck.
“I wish I was kidding Bobby. You should’ve seen the looks that boy gave me everytime I hit a bump or took a turn.”
“Don’t be ridiculous John” Bobby says, turning around ignoring him completely.
“Boys, there’s fresh sheets on the spare bed upstairs or you can just let the couch out if you’d rather. Also, the fridge is full, help yourself… Oh, and Sam.” He says at he stops in the door way. “I just got a new book on Celtic tree magic. If you find time, you should check it out. It’s an interesting read.”
“Thanks uncle Bobby.” They both say in unison as the door shuts leaving them in the only house that’s ever been close to being theirs.
Dean naps on and off most of the day which leaves Sam with way too much time on his hands. He aimlessly walks the halls, skims through the book Bobby recommended and scours his library for anything else that might peak his interest. He finds it hard to concentrate though, constantly listening for any signs that his brother might require his assistance. He’s hovering, he knows, but he can’t help it. He wishes there was more he could do for Dean. Wishes that it would have been him instead. But mostly he just wishes his dad would stop putting the job before them and that their life didn’t have to be so fucked up.
At four thirty Sam sighs and makes his way to the kitchen to prepare some food for them while Dean flips through the channels on the tv. A small oven fire and three episodes of Mash later and the spaghetti and garlic bread is done.
They eat in silence, enjoying a home-cooked meal for once and afterwards Sam cleans Dean up and changes his bandages.
“Well?” Dean asks. “How bad does it look?”
It’s not nearly as awful as Sam thought it was gonna be and it’s definitely not as panic induing as it was watching their father sew him up but looking at it still makes his chest ache.
“It’s healing nicely.” Sam says trying to keep all emotion out of his voice but Dean can always tell when Sam’s holding something back.
“Then why do you like you’re about to cry Sam? ” Dean asks suddenly sounding as hysterical as Sam feels. “Am I gonna lose my freaking leg?”
“No.” He half laughs, shaking his head. “It’s just been an incredibly emotional couple of days and these,” he says looking down at the angry red gashes, “are a painfully vivid reminder of how close I came to losing you.”
Dean looks at him with something unreadable in his eyes and squeezes his hand.
“I meant what I said Sammy. You’re not gonna lose me.”
“You can’t promise that Dean.” He says suddenly sounding so much older than just fourteen.
“You and me against the world little brother.” He promises.
“Always.” Sam says on cue and re-bandages his leg in silence.
Later, when he’s done washing up the dishes and the small disaster he left from eariler, he makes his way back into the living room to check on Dean.
He’s all stretched out, his right leg propped up on a stack of pillows, face scrunched up in sleep, head lax and layed back against the arm of the couch and Sam is overwhelmed with how damn beautiful he is in this unguarded moment. He walks back through the hallway to the bathroom and gets two white pain pills out of the medicine cabinet and brings them to Dean. Tips the cup gently towards his brother’s face, encouraging him to swallow them down.
“You take such good care of me Sammy.” Dean says, eyes shinning bright as he stares up at his brother, still half asleep. Sam smiles back and wipes a drop of juice off Dean’s chin.
“You ready for bed?” He asks suddenly nervous about the prospect of trying to get Dean upstairs.
“Yeah, but let’s just stay here.” He says patting the couch underneath him.
“Well, let me pull the bed out Sam insist but Dean’s having none of it. He reaches forward, hands wrapping around Sam and tries to pull him down on top of him.
He’s got the annoyed little brother routine down pat but if he’s being honest, with himself at least, he wants nothing more than to fall down into the embrace and live in that warm cocoon of Dean’s arms wrapped around him.
“I think you’ve had too many pills.” He laughs and gently moves Dean to the chair while he unfolds the bed and gets it ready.
They lay there listening to the storm that blew through about an hour ago. The October wind, howling past the window, but Sam can’t seem to care from his current position curled up against Deans chest.
It’s a peacful moment as they both drift off to sleep to the sound of each other’s steady breaths.
At some point in the early hours of morning Sam’s eyes flutter open on a sigh, toes brushing Dean’s foot as he rocks his hips slightly foward before he comes to enough to realize what he’s doing.
“I’m sorry,” he quickly says and goes to pull away from his brother but Dean gently grabs his arm and pulls him back close.
“ It’s okay,” Dean says and for a minute Sam’s brain, still hazy with sleep, doesn’t know how to react.
Dean’s warm hand comes to rest at his lower back. Fingers trailing goosebumps across the tiny strip of skin that’s peeking out from over his boxers.
“Dean?” He whispers, voice heavy with uncertainty but he can’t deny that he wants this. Even if he doesn’t entirely understand what this is.
His cheeks are burning hot as he hesitantly rocks forward, his hips grazing Dean’s un-injured thigh and he squeezes his eyes closed and does it again. And again. And again.
It doesn’t take long before his dick is dripping, soaking through the threadbare pair of boxers he’s wearing and he can’t stop the little half broken sobs from escaping his trembling lips.
Dean’s hand fists in Sam’s grey t-shirt urging him closer, simultaneously rucking his shirt up in the process. Sam shifts, trying to get better situated, and sucks in a suprised gasp as his hard prick drags against his brother’s.
“Yeah, Sammy. That’s it.” Dean says encouraging him, pulling him even closer. “Feels good baby brother. Keep going.”
“Brother.” That word sounds dirty givin the context of what they’re doing and it should feel wrong as hell but it doesn’t. Dean’s words only seem to fuel Sam on, his small hips picking up speed and the friction is great but it’s not enough.
“Dean.” He calls out but he’s not sure what he’s asking for just that he needs something more.“ Dean seems to understand completely and pushes Sam’s boxers down, quickly following suit with his own and brings their hard lengths together.
The skin to skin contact is a shock to Sam’s system, and his toes curl and the grip he has against his brother’s bicep tightens.
Dean has his hand wrapped around both of their lengths, slow drag up circling the head and then back down again, their shared precome slicking the way.
"Kiss me Sammy .” He urges and his brother complies crashing their lips together with awkard grace. It’s messy and uncoordinated but it’s perfect because it’s Sam and Dean thinks that he could die right now with the taste of Sam’s lips on his tongue and not have a single regret.
Sam’s balls pull up tight, spine tingling with the sudden rush of his orgasm. He tucks his head into the hollow of Dean’s throat and shutters as he paints his brother’s belly in white.
At the First hot splash of Sam’s come against his throbbing dick, he’s joining his brother over the edge. Both sweating and panting, each other’s name on their swollen, spit-slicked lips.
It’s quiet in the shared space between them, and neither of them speak for several minutes unsure how to start a conversation after what they just did.
“I didn’t hurt your leg did I? Sam asks a little cautious. Waiting for Dean to freak out any minute now
"No Sam, you didn’t hurt me.” He says as he slowly adjusts himself into a sitting up position.
“Not gonna freak out Sammy.” Dean says, somehow reading his brother’s mind. “But I do need to ask if… I mean, you didn’t feel forced into that did you? Cause if you did,” he begins but Sam stops him before he can finish that train of though and scoots up close so he can look into his brother’s tear-filled eyes.
“No Dean. I didn’t feel forced. I wanted to do it. If I’m being honest, I wanna do it again.” He says and hides his eyes feeling suddenly embarrassed.
“You mean that?” Dean asks. “You really want this Sam…. You want me?”
“Yeah” He says on a whisper and tentatively lowers his lips to Dean’s. It’s just a peck really, whisper-soft against Deans mouth but it’s the emotion behind it, the love that pours out from Sam with the small, simple gesture and it’s ridiculous but Dean already knows he’s never gonna get enough of this.
“No take backs Sammy.” Dean breathes into his brother’s mouth and swallows up a moan that crawls it’s way up Sam’s throat.
This title is like Robert Service level bleak. On bleak… Bleak af…
I started crying as I brainstormed responses to this. I mean, sobbing inconsolably into a box of fried chicken with snot bubbles and everything. Not a hot look. Each idea just seemed to get sadder and sadder until I really felt like I didn’t even want to do this anymore but by then it was too late and the ideas just kept coming anyway. It was like a friggin’ nightmare.
I stood up and stretched and tried to stop the rush of thoughts about an eternity of coldness and loneliness and that horrible layer of ice crystals that ruins perfectly good ice cream and that burning sensation you get in your hands after you’ve been out under dressed for too long in the cold.
I put on some cheerful music and forced myself to smile and jumped up and down a little but all I could think about was the outline of a motionless body, against a seemingly endless stark white horizon, being buried by softly falling snow so slowly that it was hardly noticeable with the full knowledge that it would keep up long enough to eventually bury them alive.
It got me thinking about Bucky in cryostasis. What if the Wakandan scientists made a miscalculation and inside the cryo chamber Bucky was motionless but fully awake with an induced version of Locked-In Syndrome?! Now there’s a fun thought!!
Oh, there’s more!! The only thing that keeps Bucky going is the brief visit Steve makes each day just to show his solidarity and be with him for a while. He stands and stares at Bucky with those big, sad puppy dog eyes while Bucky screams inside begging for him to notice that something isn’t right.
After everything they’ve been through together, Bucky can’t help questioning why Steve can’t tell that he’s awake. He oughta fucking know… Is he awake?! Bucky wonders if he’s dreaming. He asked to be put on ice because he couldn’t trust his own mind. Nothing’s really changed at all. He’s just colder now.
And then there’s the creeping panic that slowly consumes him as he tries to judge after each visit whether Steve is turning up just a little later or leaving minutes earlier each time…
Bucky aches to hear his trigger words, clinging to the hope that maybe
the monster inside of him can break him out of his cage and free him
from the ceaseless boredom, the cold that bites all the way down to his
bones and the painful loneliness that seems to slowly hollow him out,
leaving him a little less hopeful each day.
Sometimes, he has
flashes of memory so intense that it’s like he’s living it all over
again. Blood-soaked carnage, tears, begging, the smell of gunpowder, the
stench of death. Thoughts he’d never imagined would offer a welcome
respite from the deafening silence of the chamber. Other times, he
remembers Natasha. The two of them together in another time and place.
Flashes of scarlet. The smell of her hair. His fingers lacing through
Eventually, it’s silent again and he stands waiting for
rescue as days turn to weeks and weeks turn to months and he struggles
to find a way out.
You two had it all planned out. Raphael was to bring some food and you bought the newest action movie on DVD. It was supposed to be a relaxing evening at your place. Away from the sewers, away from Raphael’s ever-present brothers. They were like a family to you, but they could be tiring at times - especially when you wanted to be alone with your favorite terrapin. And now that you actually had the opportunity to spend some quality time with Raph, you grew pretty excited. You scurried around, lit some candles, blew them out again because it seemed too cheesy, put his favorite soda on the table in the living room only to put it back in the fridge again, so it would remain cold. Your hair looked and felt incredibly soft today - the cause may be the boatload of conditioner in it. You wanted to be beautiful for him. And what could be better than a nice hugging dress to show him what is his?
Hi! I love your fics and i had this prompt that I really want written so i thought who better to ask than one of my favourite writers? No pressure to write this if you don't want to btw, but Todd said something about Simon holding the secret of how he got to be a daylighter dear to his heart cuz otherwise it would complicate things for Jace in S2B. So maybe play around the idea that some vamps are trying to get the ability too and Simon won't spill no matter what & risk endangering Jace? Thanks!
ur so SWEET i cant believe this omg here u go love
In some ways, the whole thing was Simon’s fault.
He’d known what would happen if word got out about his new ability to walk outside without disintegrating. Magnus had sat him down and, after a surprising moment of the warlock hugging him and smoothing his hair over like his mother, had told him the best and safest course of action.
“Don’t let people know.” He’d advised. “If you go out during the day, be sure that you aren’t anywhere too public. Simon, you have what some vampires would kill for. And don’t underestimate them, because they just might.”
“How would killing me help anything?” Simon had asked. He wanted to be angry at the idea of someone killing him for this, but he really couldn’t. Only a few months without sun had made him desperate. He wondered how many years would have to pass before he’d be willing to kill, too.
“Well, remember, they have no idea what made you a Daylighter. They might think that drinking your blood could give them the ability.”
Magnus had shrugged, and looked almost defeated by not knowing. “Maybe.”
At first, Simon really had stayed sealed up in the boathouse during the day. He even moved his bed to a spot where the sunlight shone through the cracks between the old boards and soaked up the small slices of sunshine he could get.
But then a lingering coldness sunk into his bones, a permanent chill that he couldn’t get rid of. He tried jogging in place and pressing his body against the warm panels of wood and burying himself under blankets, but it wouldn’t go away. Clary found him, shivering in his makeshift bed and too exhausted to move.
So once again Magnus’ expertise was required.
“Is he sick?” Clary asked, sitting beside Simon on Magnus’ couch. He was wrapped up in two blankets, one that plugged into the wall and heated up, with a warm wet cloth draped around his neck. “Can he even get sick?”
“Simon how do you feel?” Magnus asked him gently, putting his fingers under Simon’s chin and lifting his face. “Does anything hurt?”
Simon shook his head. “Just c-cold.”
“We had a dog when we were younger,” Alec spoke up from where he was watching in the nearby armchair, “and for a few days it wouldn’t get out of its bed. It would hardly lift its head at all, really. Izzy cried about it so much until our parents broke down and took it to the vet. Anyways, it turned out that the dog was physically fine. But it hardly got to go out, because we don’t exactly live in a normal house with a yard, so it just kind of…shut down.”
“You had a dog?” Clary asked, sounding baffled. “Shadowhunters have dogs?”
“It was Jace’s. He named it Pollux.” Alec shrugged defensively. “Anyways, it could be like, Simon’s body knows it can accept sunlight now. And depriving himself of it is making his body react badly.”
Simon and Clary looked at Magnus for confirmation, and he was looking at his boyfriend like he’d just cured cancer. Like he was the smartest man alive.
“Okay, kiddo. I’m prescribing an hour of sunlight every day. The previous warning still stands, don’t do it anywhere where you’d be noticed by a vampire. Or someone who would inform a vampire. Okay?” Simon nodded, and Magnus leaned forward to press an affectionate kiss to his forehead. “Feel better.”
It took about two days for Simon to get his strength back, and evidently Alec was right. Simply sitting in the sun atop his boathouse made him feel refreshed and warm. And then, eventually, when his phone timer went off and the hour was up, he just stayed.
He couldn’t waste this gift. His body ached to be outside, to feel the sun against his skin. Laying inside in eternal coldness when he had the opportunity to be free wasn’t even life, it was just hiding.
He took small steps. One day he went to the Institute, then to Central Park, then to Times Square. He avoided the Hotel Dumort. He went with Clary to get coffee and with Luke to get lunch and with Jace to just walk around and talk, to listen to Jace vent and reciprocate when he felt frustrations.
He made it almost two weeks with no disturbances. But as all good things must come to an end, a vampire sat herself across from Simon at open mic night right in the middle of Maia’s song.
“Do I know you?” Simon asked, already on alert. “That seat is actually taken, by my friend Maia. She’s just singing right now, but she’ll be back soon and uh, she’s gonna need her seat back–”
“I’m going to tell you what I need from you.” She interrupted. “And you’re going to do it.”
“Well.” Simon said. “I’ll see if I can help.”
“How did you become a Daylighter?” She hissed. “Did Magnus Bane do it?”
She must have seen the sincerity in his eyes, because she moved onto her next theory. “You’re around the Shadowhunters an awful lot. Is it something to do with them? Why would they help a Downworlder?”
Simon’s one year of high school theatre failed him. Though he shook his head and tried to act completely unaffected by the mention of the Shadowhunters, she could see something that proved he was lying. She latched onto it.
“What did they give you? Was it a potion or–or like a spell?”
“No.” Simon sighed. “Why do you care how it happened? If you want to suck me dry, just get it over with. Playing twenty questions won’t help anything.”
She seemed startled. “I wouldn’t drink your worthless blood. Raphael said that wouldn’t even work. But why would you mention that? Did you…drink a Shadowhunter’s blood?”
Simon’s chest tightened. This was wrong. He thought they’d just try to kill him, not go after Jace. Why would they go after Jace? Why would Raphael have told them not to go after Simon? In what world would it make any sort of sense for Jace to be punished after saving Simon’s life?
Was the universe capable of being that ruthless?
“I’ll tell you.” Simon said carefully. “But you have to promise not to kill me. Alright? I’ll tell you who I got it from, and you can go to him.”
She nodded immediately. While Maia sang with her silky, angelic voice Simon let himself be dragged out the side door and into the alley. The vampire pinned him against a brick wall that was hastily decorated with Christmas lights. At least it was a pretty place to die.
“There’s a Daylighter I met. He was traveling here, I don’t know where he was from. He had an accent.” Simon explained slowly. “I bit him. And when I woke up, I was invincible. He escaped, but I remember his name.”
“What was his name?” She whispered, and he could almost forgive her. She looked young, younger than him. She couldn’t have been older than sixteen when she was turned. He could see the hope shining in her eyes and the slight sense of hesitation. Maybe she didn’t want to be doing this.
“Pollux.” Simon said firmly. “And you can find him if you–”
The bite didn’t even hurt. It startled him, because he wasn’t expecting it to happen yet, but it didn’t hurt. It only took a minute for his knees to buckle and his back to slide down the wall, and he thought of Jace. He thought that Jace might be upset if he realized that he’d given Simon his blood for no reason.
But at least this way Jace was alive. Simon pictured Jace’s laugh, just two days before in Central Park, and the determination in his eyes when he talked about finding the Soul Sword and destroying it. He deserved to live over Simon.
“Just remember,” Jace had told him one night in the park, “no matter what happens, we’ll look out for each other. You, me, Clary, Iz, Alec, Magnus. All of us. They can’t get us if we look out for each other.”
His mind replayed that moment over and over while she drank from him, and then it abruptly stopped when she was suddenly yanked away from him. He opened his eyes and tried to decipher the hazy blur of golden and black that was suddenly in front of him.
“Simon?” Jace’s voice swam through the numbness. “Simon. Simon, can you hear me?”
“Good, oh my God. Thank God. Come on, grab onto me. Let’s go to Magnus.”
He tried to get a grip on Jace’s arm, but his fingers couldn’t seem to grasp anything. Before he knew it, he was being hauled off his feet and his head was against Jace’s chest. The sound of his heartbeat was soothing enough to put Simon to sleep.
He woke up again in a bed, and Alec was sitting beside him with a look of disbelief on his face. “Honestly, how many times can you get yourself hurt?”
“A lot.” Simon managed to croak, and Alec rolled his eyes before whipping out his phone and texting someone, presumably Magnus. Simon remembered what happened, but not really falling asleep or passing out, whichever happened. “Oh G–. Did I drink from anyone?”
“No.” Alec assured him. “Magnus had bags. Jace actually tried to give you some, but you wouldn’t take it. Magnus said it was kind of amazing, actually. Because you were starving.”
Simon relaxed. “Good.”
Magnus and Jace entered and gave him a weird mix of hugs and scornful lectures about safety, which was greatly comforting. Alec and Magnus left, the latter muttering about hopeless baby vampires. Jace stayed, sitting on the edge of Simon’s bed.
“How’d you find me?” Simon asked through a yawn.
“I came to hear you sing. Maia said she didn’t know where you went, and your phone was still at the table. I knew something was wrong. Why was that vampire drinking from you?”
“She wanted to know how I became a Daylighter. And I lied and told her that drinking from other Daylighters worked.”
Jace looked up to meet his gaze, seemingly surprised. “Why didn’t you tell her the truth?”
“Because I didn’t want this to happen to you.” Simon shrugged. “I didn’t deserve your blood, and she definitely doesn’t.”
“You deserved it.” Jace said firmly. “God, Simon. You–you do these things for people, you nearly die for them, you refuse to drink from them when you’re literally starving. And you think you don’t deserve to be saved in exchange. Listen, you deserve good things. I’ve seen horrible people do horrible things, and you’re the opposite end of the spectrum. Trust me.”
Simon might’ve cried if he weren’t exhausted, but he could manage a weak grin. “Thanks. I like you too.”