I keep getting requests for Sizzy, but no word prompts or anything. So I just kind of improvised with this one. Here goes:

"You think I'll be the dark sky so you can be the star? I'll swallow you whole."

― Warsan Shire

"Albino Hedgehogs."

"No."

"Suicidal Snowmen?"

"No, Simon.

"How about 'In This For The Fame'? You know, kind of ironic?"

Isabelle sighs and shifts on the couch to rearrange her legs, which are tossed carelessly over Simon's lap. She once told him that his legs are too bony, and completely uncomfortable, but she refuses to rest them on a pillow instead.

Isabelle's desire for physical proximity is one of the few displays of a need for intimacy that show her vulnerability. So Simon won't mention it.

"Why don't you focus on your music first, then worry about your name. You guys need to focus on your music, anyway."

"Thanks," Simon says drily but the reply is half-hearted. Isabelle isn't malicious, only honest. Simon has always seen her as a star, shining brightly in the darkness, without a filter or a veil. It's something deeper than her beauty, but not quite as deep as her heart. That may as well be hidden by a smoke screen for all she lets people see of it.

Simon throws his head back and closes his eyes against the light of a passing car, shining through the window. It burns red through his eyelids. "Eric thinks it's important. I think he just keeps talking about it because he doesn't know how to have a conversation about music."

When he glances back down, Isabelle's eyes are closed, her chest rising and falling slowly, but she seems alert, even as still as she is. She opens her eyes and sits up, scooting forward until she is almost in his lap, her warmth – too warm, so much skin – pressed against his side. "What is there to music? It's just notes, isn't it?" She sounds genuinely interested, which is unusual. Simon isn't sure he's heard her evince much interest in anything she considers mundane, ever.

Simon has to turn his head away from her coltish body, her too-red lips, to recall anything even remotely related to music. "It's more than that. Pitch and tempo are all technical stuff. It's about expression, and the way you play, where you put crescendos and-"

"What's a crescendo?" Isabelle asks. She draws a finger up his arm, under the sleeve of his shirt, almost absently, but he's sure she can feel him shiver. After becoming a vampire, Simon realized how many physical reactions have nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with something else.

Beneath her skin, Isabelle smells like sunlight, and slightly like vanilla. He remembers kissing her, and she tasted deeper, more sumptuous, more sinful, than vanilla.

"It's a buildup, something growing," Simon says, his voice surprisingly steady, but his breathing is suddenly ridiculously loud to him. It sounds obscene in the silence. And it has nothing to do with Isabelle stroking my arm. Nope. Music just makes me really excited.

"Is it?" Isabelle's voice comes from right beside his ear, and something soft is pressed to his arm, right around her chest level. Simon feels like he is floating in some in-between space, half awake, half-dreaming. It is similar to when Clary said the word "sex" that one day on the couch, lying beneath him, mouth swollen from kissing. But he had been alert when Clary was beneath him. Now he is heavy and stupid, as though he has fallen asleep in a patch of sunlight.

He feels human. Incredibly human. It aches. It feels like floating.

As he turns to find Isabelle's mouth, kissing her with everything he has, still feeling unpracticed, as he does every time he kisses her, she moves closer to him, curling into his waist, holding his hand and slipping it down to her hip.

Isabelle pulls away, and looks slightly wanting as she breathes, "Crescendos sound cool. But your band name sucks."

Simon tilts his head back, watching her from heavy-lidded eyes. An advantage, he's discovered, of being a vampire, is that he can compete with shadowhunters. Being human, he was incapable of inking himself with any of the runes that adorn Nephilim bodies like exotic jewelry – strength, speed, stamina But now he has his own strength, his own speed.

And much more stamina.

He kisses Isabelle again, lightly. "I'm open to suggestions."

Isabelle looks at the CD rack on the wall, pretending to contemplate. Her chest pressed against Simon's, heaves with her still-slowing breaths. It isn't doing wonders for his concentration.

In the dark of deepening night, Isabelle's eyes are dark and shining. They are more pupil than iris, and it makes her look feral. Simon half expects her to have fangs of her own.

Isabelle's eye stops and centers on one CD, but Simon does not turn his head to follow her gaze. Her mouth curves at the corners, in a tame smile that has darker promises lurking beneath it. "What about 'Barenaked Ladies'? I'll help with advertising."

Thanks again for the reviews! I'm having a lot of fun with these!