Disclaimer: I don't own Netflix's "Shadowhunters." Everything belongs to whoever owns them, my wishful thinking aside.
Authors Note #1: Inspired by Raphael's smile in 1x08 while he is tossing Simon his second bag of blood after being reborn a vampire. I wanted to get into what he might have been thinking as he watched Simon tear into the first bag.
Warnings: season one spoilers up till 1x08. Blood, blood drinking, mild sexual content, canon appropriate language and violence.
Sentido
"Simon? Simon, it's me. It's Clary."
"Once reborn you emerge hungry… very hungry."
It was arousal more than anything that damned him. Arousal for the newborn strength of him, animal and wild. And arousal – as unexpected as it was - for the strength of the man locked inside. Trapped by demon that haunted the inside his own skin as he fought the blood lust. Panting in the dirt as he looked up at his friend, struggling to remember why he needed to fight the pull of the sweet song of her pulse before his tenuous control snapped. Leaving him hissing and stumbling through a strike, collapsing with a wounded snarl when his legs refused to cooperate.
If he'd been capable of it, he would have shuddered right there in the graveyard.
So much control for one so young.
It was almost unheard of.
He hadn't been able to snuff his smile. Refusing to censor his feelings when his lips pulled back to hiss with him. Soothing and low at a decibel only they could hear as he threw him the second blood bag. Relishing the tang of iron-red as it fountained up in a gushing, fractured mist when the fledgling tore into it. Lost with the need to feed.
Newborns were always hungry.
That part was always the same.
Like his own rebirth Simon broke earth ravenous and greedy.
Dangerous in his fragility and animal in his needs.
A carbon copy of the perfect predator replicated time and time again.
And yet-
This one was different, something in him purred.
It was the same voice that had uncoiled in the back of his mind like a cat - lithe and lazy - in a sun beam when he'd held a knife to the mundane's throat. Scenting the truth of it on his skin. Interest. Possibility. Something he'd never felt the equal to in all his years despite the stink of Camille smeared deep into his pores.
Dios.
There was guilt, of course. The knowledge that this fate was not one of Simon's choosing. But rather, hers. Reaped for the love of a friend too lost in grief and well-meant selfishness to let him go.
Guilt that instead of staying silent, he'd willingly offered to make the fledgling one of them.
Guilt that it was excitement rather than respectful sullenness that was vying for a spot on his face.
Guilt that he wanted.
Waspishly glad that after tonight, their footing would be close to equal. That if the time ever came, he could touch, taste and slake without fear the boy would break. That they could learn the more intimate ways of their kind together. The ones he'd kept himself vacant from, aloof and unmoved as the decades passed with little consequence. Leaving him with nothing back the company of his clan and his own foibles right up until a single order from Camille had changed everything.
Guilt that even now he was standing above him, above the wreckage of his mortal life, wondering what it would be like to have him. To pull him close in the shadows corners of the hotel and drag the sharp of his fangs down the pale of his neck. Wanting to know every inch of him like that – every curve. Almost trembling with the awful pleasure of it when he imagined how the fledgling would arc, gasping for air he no longer needed. Making noise, just like he always did.
A symphony of carnality that would be his alone to enjoy.
That would air out because of him.
For him.
"Drink up."
He inhaled throatily, forcing a flippant string of words to ease the horrified quiet. Watching out of the corner of his eye as the girl's expression ranged from fear to disgust when Simon tore into the second bag with relish. Spilling half of it down his front in his eagerness as something tightened in his chest. Shaking off the layer of dust where his living heart used to beat as something dangerously close to yearning reared its head.
The emotion was unwelcome.
Out of place.
But he was already enthralled by it.
Así que sí, que quería. Dios viva quería él.
But for now?
He would be patient.
He had a newborn to train and a clan to lead.
Only time would tell on the rest.
A/N: Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think. – This story is now complete.
Reference:
The title "sentido" is the Spanish word for: "deeply felt," "meaning."
"Así que sí, que quería. Dios viva quería él." – "So yes, he wanted. God alive did he want."