the mortal instruments has taken over my life. reading isn't a hobby anymore, it's an addiction that has no form of rehabilitation.
Don’t ask Alec Lightwood to make you a pie in Hell because…
- He does not have any pie ingredients.
- He doesn’t know how to make one.
- He is not your bitch.
your lover, all for free
TMI characters + first and last words
i’m going to go and reread everything
The Infernal Devices, and every Mortal Instruments book and cry myself to sleep by saying, “It’s not over.. It’s not over..”
Small drabble bc feels.
Clary stared into the mirror, confused by the reflection staring back at her. A girl, who was no longer a tiny, fragile teenager; one who had grown into a beautiful woman was looking right back at her. Her fiery red curls, which rivaled the hue of heavenly fire with their intense crimson color, were cascading down her shoulders in wild spirals. And as she continued to observe this beautiful, feminine stranger whom was so unlike herself, she paused to admire the handiwork of the gown she was in. It was more than beautiful. The gown made her glow with —
“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who got paint on their wedding dress, little sister,” Jonathan, leaning in the doorway of the room, chuckled. How long had he been there? “Not even our Mother.”
Clary, snapped out of her reverie, spun around, staring at him. Her eyes were mostly filled with confusion, and a hint of annoyance that could only be produced from sibling love. “I swear if this is one of your jokes like that time with my gear —” She trailed off, not quiet finishing the sentence. Clary had seen the blue stain in the mirror. Her eyes grew wide and frantic, although no sound left her lips.
Jonathan, who’s emerald optics sparkled with amusement, departed his place in the doorframe and approached her. Pressing his thumb to his lips, he allowed his tongue to slide over the calloused surface of his finger. Pushing the moist thumb to the delicate, white fabric of Clary’s dress, he rubbed at the area right above Clary’s hip, making an effort to get rid of the blemish. His eyes narrowed in concentration, lines of frustration began to show on his face as the stain demonstrated resilience. It just wouldn’t go.
Clary slapped his hand away, annoyance clear in her expression. The two Morgensterns — or Fairchilds — whichever way you preferred to think of them, were both known for their tempers. “You idiot! Don’t, you’ll make it worse! Everyone knows acrylic paint doesn’t get off of clothing by just rubbing at it!” Clary stated the last part as if it was common knowledge and even the stupidest of demons knew it.
“Well I’m not the idiot who went painting with ’acrylic paint' on the day of my wedding, in my wedding dress,” Jonathan retorted, his tone teasing despite his sister’s being severe. He knew she didn’t mean anything she had said. He added, clearly after contemplating the matter, “Well I wouldn’t be wearing a dress in the first place,” He shot her a toothy grin, attempting to subside her panic with feeble play on words.
It didn’t work. Clary had completely ignored Jonathan. She pressed her hand to her forehead, groaning quiet audibly. “What if we google it?” She whispered softly, her tone hopeless.
“Google it?” Jonathan quirked an eyebrow, clearly confused by the term she had used. He had picked up a blood red apple off the table and was currently munching on it, leaning against the mahogany table.
And then she remembered who she was talking to. A shadowhunter. Mundane instincts did not leave her easily, even after living the life of demon hunting for many years. “Nevermind,” She grumbled, a slight pout forming along her lips. It seemed to be a trademark trait she was never aware of.
Jonathan, fully conscious of his sister’s expression, shook his head, clearly attempting not to laugh. He failed. “Let me get our local expert on all things glitter and fashion. I’m sure he has a spell that could fix your… creative problem.” The older boy grinned, clearly entertained.
But his mirth was coming at the price of Clary’s sake. Suddenly she had the urge to reach out and yank on his fair hair as she had done many times when she was a petulant child that didn’t get what she wanted. For example, when they opposed each other on what to eat for dinner. Or what video game to play. Sebastian used to sit on her, as if his weight could crush her into obedience. And she, in return, would grasp his hair tightly and pull at it as if it were the reins that could control a feral mustang.
Clary moved her hands from her forehead, which was stained blue now, and put them on her hips, clearly heedless of the fact that the acrylic paint was coming from them; and it was pretty fresh, too. She scowled at Jonathan, “Well why don’t you go get him, you fiend?"
A snort left Jonathan. "Yeah, sure, whatever you say, smurf.” He spun around on his heel, pushing the door to the room open. And as he moved out into the hall, the male made another comment, “Keep your hands to yourself, little sister. I’m sure your soon to be husband and your dress would both appreciate it.”
Smurf? As Clary was about to make a witty retort that went something along the lines of Oh, so you know what a smurf is but not Google? When she realized he had addressed her with the nickname.
Clary turned around quickly, almost tripping up in the mermaid gown. She glanced at herself in the mirror. There was a smudge of blue on her forehead, from she had pressed her palm against it. And as she moved her hands away from the beautiful, but now ruined dress, there was the twin mark in blue of two, small, delicate artist hands. Clary’s emerald green eyes widened. “Jonathan!” She shrieked.
More laughter could be heard, as the footsteps of a certain male sped up and soon vanished down the hall, in search of supernatural assistance.
“You never cared that I was your sister before.”
“Didn’t I?” His black eyes flicked up and down her. “Our father’s dead,” he said. “There are no other relatives. You and I, we are the last. The last of the Morgensterns. You are the only one left whose blood runs in my veins, too. You are my last chance.”
HE WOULD HAVE PUSHED CLARY ON THE SWINGS
HE WOULD HAVE PLAYED VIDEO GAMES WITH HER
HE WOULD HAVE PROTECTED HER FROM BOYSTHEY WOULD ARGUE OVER THE DINNER TABLE
BUT THEY WOULD ALWAYS MAKE UP AFTERWARDS
BECAUSE THEY WERE SIBLINGS AND WOULD HAVE LOVED EACH OTHER
HE COULD HAVE BEEN A GREAT BIG BROTHER
You are the only one left whose blood runs in my veins too. You are my last chance.