#having an immortal girlfriend vampire would take some of the sting

[gemder]

a bubbline wip, featuring a dissociative episode by our fave punk rock vamp. set shortly after Stakes.

She doesn't know how long she's been hovering over the couch like this, with her gaze trained on the bumps and dips on the ceiling and her bass planted in her arms. How many times has she sung that old song, so old and resilient it survived the death and rebirth of the world (and the both of hers twice over, now) just by hiding in the corner of her mind she doesn't like to visit? She can't see the sun or moon rise through the entrance to her hideaway from this part of the house, and the cave-imposed darkness tells her nothing of the time or how much of it has passed.

She doesn't dare budge from her spot. She's been turned twice now; she knows from experience that any sudden action, anything to startle her base thought process, could spark that bloodlust from last time. That was some ugly biz, if she remembers correctly. It's been a while, but something like an uncontrollable urge to drain the lifeforce of every living creature within 30 miles sticks to you. She's just going to have to wait it out, until the itch in the back of her throat dies down and she doesn't worry it'll become an insatiable burning for hot blood, no matter how long it takes.

Marceline has had an excessive amount of time to learn how to be alone; 1003 years, in fact. So why does it never get any easier? Why does being left never hurt any less? Why does she seem to be so completely destined for eternal loneliness? What asshat decided she deserved to spend the entirety of her neverending life without a single constant presence?

Mom went out with promises of keeping safe and finding food and I love you so much, sweetie, that alone is strong enough to bring me back to you. It took two weeks before little Marcy came to the conclusion that her mom wasn't coming back with food or supplies, or even returning empty handed. Simon let a stupid magical crown take over every single cell of his brain and wrote a bunch of scattered letters about it while it happened instead of, you know, telling the frightened 7 year old she was going to be left soon. Dad just up and left to go back to running the Nightosphere after a few weeks, with nary a parting word nor any notice. Her post-apocalyptic comrades had no choice but to flee from an otherwise inevitable extinction. Bonnie had to go and grow up, and in the process decide that her 900-something year old girlfriend wasn't mature enough.

(She checked that old, busted up camper as often as she could over the following months. There was never another life in that thing after she hopped down the little steps and let the screen door slam back with the carelessness of a 6 year old.)

(She found a decomposed corpse months later that just happened to be wearing some torn up rags that looked like her mom’s old sweater and jeans. It must have just been a coincidence, though; there were a lot of recently dead back then, and even more moth-eaten sweaters in the world.)

(“I’m trying to save you, but who's going to save me?” ‘I don't know, old man, maybe you could have saved yourself? You could have not purposely used the magical relic that was making you go bananas?’ If a 7 year old could make it through the apocalypse without magic then so could a fully grown man.)

(He left her to survive on her own in the name of being executive manager of hell and he still wonders why she wants nothing to do with him, why she used to have such a hard time so much as calling him “dad” when he’s never been anything like what she was lead to believe dads were supposed to be like.)

(She’s 1000 years old, how in the name of the nightosphere could she not be mature enough?)

(Over the years she’s replaced the world “hell” with “Nightosphere” the same way the being once referred to as “God,” back when even she was young, is now called by their proper name of Glob. The Nightosphere really is hell, so it fits.)

(Sometimes she takes the time to think about how she's the heir apparent to the actual, literal, real life hell, and how she's one of the oldest beings around these days, maybe the oldest to still really be sane, but still a messed up teen.)

(She doesn't know how old she was when she was turned; years and months and all that are hard to keep track of when the species that invented it is all but extinct. Is she old enough to drive? Probably. She does and can regardless, because screw the old ways. Old enough to drink, smoke, vote? Debatable. The point is that she’s 1000 years old but actually, like, 18. What the fuck.)

She drifts, both mentally and physically. She's had plenty of time and isolation to ponder the Big Things about life and the world and why and how things happened the way they did, and what it means. She will have an abundance of opportunities in the future to think about these things, too. Some day she'll reflect on this part of her life in the far away, nostalgia-filtered sepia tones she currently thinks of her childhood and adolescence. She'll remember when Finn and Jake were the heroes of Ooo, when Simon used to chase after princesses who will have long since passed, when she couldn't get over her ex-girlfriend who happened to be sentient candy. It will be distant and she will miss it terribly, the same way she misses her mother, and Simon when he was Simon, and fries in a long-abandoned diner. But it will be a wound long since closed and numbed, like the deep scar she got on her calf sometime in her early teens that still exists today, preserved in her immortality and a sentimentality that prevented her from insta-healing it away, sting and blood long gone.

She has forever to reminisce, but only right now to live in the present. She makes mental patterns in the bumps on the ceiling, and slowly loses grip on her body. She is a million miles upwards, where the sky holds no oxygen and the stars are still pinpricks in a sea of indigo construction paper. Like a kid poking holes in the top of a jar of lightning bugs, equipped with a fork and enthusiasm at being able to destroy something for the sake of encapturing something else. She is, at the same time, hovering above her uncomfortably hard couch. One of her hands slips from its place atop her bass, and Shwabl licks it from his spot next to her on the dusty carpet.

She doesn't hear the knock at the door. She is right there, but she is centuries back and in a different part of the continent entirely. She doesn't hear Bonnie getting increasingly agitated, trying and failing not to raise her voice at her through the door. She doesn't notice when Bonnie lets herself in regardless of Marceline’s lack of response, or when Shwabl jumps up to attention at the guest.

It's the “Marceline, what -” that breaks her dissociative spell. That tone of exasperation in that particular voice is a very familiar one, especially within the last decade. She comes to to find that there are fresh tears in the corner of one eye and the words to a song as old as her youth on her lips.

“Oh, hey Bombòn. How goes it girl?” Marceline has had a millennium to convince the world that she's chill and totally not a big mess, and it shows in the lilt to her voice that screams ‘I'm just chillin’’ and not ‘I've been dissociating and crying and probably singing for who-knows-how-long and I'm really messed up’. She still doesn't dare move from her spot, because moving around could still trigger what she's trying to wait out.

“It's been three weeks, Marcy. Three weeks, and all that heavy biz, and no one's heard from you since. Doesn't that seem even a little bit irresponsible to you? Didn't you think people would worry? Or even wonder ‘hey, what happened to that girl who saved all our butts and got revampified?’”

“Dude, I've just been chilling. You know how it is; jams, games, pets, it keeps a girl busy. It’s cool. Ice cold, in fact.”

Bonnie sighs. Marceline has heard that sigh a million and three times over by now, and she's learned to like that particular sound from the pink girl; it's the one thing about herself that she can't manage to sweeten to the point of oversaturation, until it (like the rest of her) is practically dripping sugar. Marceline likes to deal with the authentic rather than the idealized versions of people, because the latter rarely ever means anything good is coming her way.

(She rationalizes that the Ice King component of Simon, while not idealized, is not authentic in the least; the products of full humans getting mixed up with magic seldom are. The authentic Simon Petrikov is the one who found a 6 year old girl in the ruins of a suburban New Mexico town and still had enough selflessness in the aftermath of the apocalypse to comfort her and take care of her.)

The sigh doesn't lead to the reprimanding the vampire expects. Instead, she watches as Bonnie leans down in her peripheral vision to pet Shwabl, expression focused intently on the dog. She's doing that same schooled neutrality shit she used to do during those globawful trade meetings - the ones Marcy used to steal her away from the go gallivanting through the rock candy mines.

“What kind of sweet tunes have you whipped up, then? Lay it on me girl.”

Marceline lets her face adopt a smirk - the expression has become a reflexive habit after centuries of being a bitter undead loner - even as something in her stomach drops. Bonnie rarely asks about her music because she knows so much of it is personal, and that which isn't is vulgar or morbid and prone to being shared regardless, not to mention the fact that Bonnie’s interests definitely don't lie in the arts, or punk rock music, or most of the uglier parts of Marceline.

“You know my latest album is the epitome of personal mush, Bons. It's so personal I'd have to kill you if you heard any of it. But, I do have a new demo about a fisherman.”

Bonnibel definitely wants something out of her; she has that smile she reserves for Cinnamon Bun and Finn when he's going on about dumb 13 year old boy things, the one that's polite and reservedly encouraging, the one that Marcy has always found to be condescending although it always looks as sweet as its wearer who is literally made out of candy, almost as sweet as the girl’s public persona.

The thing about being 1000 years old and also a teenage girl is that you spend forever being a socially-minded person on some level or another, because back in the day that's how girls were socialized to be - social-driven creatures who cared more about what Allyson wore on Tuesday or what Theresa said about Serena in math class than anything practical. So Marceline has had a long time to notice the tells and ticks of the select few she surrounds herself with often enough to care about. PB smiles like her kindergarten teacher used to on particularly trying days when she thinks the people she's with are idiots but can't call them out for it. Her eyebrows droop when she's so tired that sheer willpower will no longer keep them up. She plays with her hands when she's nervous. She used to chew on her hair when she was younger and in the process of creating her kingdom, when stress was a new feeling she hadn't yet made a feedback loop out of.

This is totally, completely because of the sexist socialization of the old world, and nothing else. Totally not because they dated for a good chunk of time, or because one or the other might, maybe be having rose-coloured thoughts about the other again.

“Everyone and their granny has heard that one, Marcy. If you've had all this time to do nothing but groove and game then I wanna hear some tunes! Don't be a butt about it.” She's trying to gode the older girl, but Marceline is itching to get out of this particular conversation. Somewhere in her cursed, mostly re-dried blood she knows this is a test.

“I don't bust into your lab and start interrogating you about your experiments - can you just lay off, man?” she says it more harshly than she had meant to, but being yanked back to reality and immediately questioned over every move will do that to a person. “Tell me what's been going on in Candyland. You finally get all the earwax off of your junk?”

“You know if you did ask about my science experiments I would be happy to tell you all about them - well, the ones that aren't classified. It's called caring, Marce, it's a thing that friends do.”

A tense silence follows as Marceline thinks of something biting (but not petty!) to throw back at her.

“And yeah, actually, I did. The dingus left a huge mess but there's nothing my purple cleaner can't get rid of.”

Bonnie can't leave a single box unticked, can she?

“Glob, that stuff is nasty. The fumes make me gag, and I don't even need to breathe!”

The princess raises a brow at her. The queen furrows both of hers in frustration and fixes her gaze back on the bumps on the ceiling. When she was younger she used to make images out of the dips and dots in the kindergarten room ceiling; the RV’s was smoothed and didn't allow that particular part of her imagination to play around.

“And I think the expression you're looking for is sharing is caring, Bubs. It's a thing they used to say waaaaaaaay back in the day whenever the old people got tired of little kids fighting over toys.”

*******

this was gonna be a longfic feat. mutual pining by our fave disaster gays and more references to marcy’s life pre- and during the apocalypse bc i have a lot of feelings about Stakes. might come back to it, who knows!!!

[morgemuffel]

MALEC. ➰FORGET. EASIER SAID THAN DONE. (aku cinta kamu)

This story takes place after the episode 3Bx18

-> Let's have a look on a deeply sad Magnus after Alec broke up with him. His best friend Cat is not available and he needs someone to talk to. Painful memories of him and Alec are haunting him and a homeless man gives him a lesson in life.

I remember the pain very well, which I went through a few weeks ago when I collapsed because of Lorenzo's magic. I thought I had reached the peak of my pain tolerance. Such an enormous pain that led me to experience my deepest desires. I had this dream, this idea of a perfect life with Alec. We sat at the table ate waffles were joking about crêpes laughing and dancing. A dream quite obvious. Dazzle, deception I would have many names to call it. Never again, I had sworn after Camille. Never again would I open myself, make myself so naked and vulnerable towards another person. Over 400 years old but I never learn. I'm not worth being loved. Not even my mother loved me enough to stay with me. How could I assume that it would be different with Alec? Maybe because he had said so? Because after all these years of incompleteness he gave me the feeling of finally being whole and complete? Because he made me feel like I was the only important thing in the world, the only thing that matters? And even worse, all these things I do have for him. Even now while I'm sitting here and still can't believe it, can't understand it and don't want to understand it. Even now I know that the love for him and thus the associated loss will be my end. A life without Alec surpassed every imaginable pain. "Stay with me" I had whispered desperately. And I thought I knew pain, I knew loss. But as Alec walked through that door, the memories of us shattered into thousand pieces and pelted down on me like dangerous shards of glass. I can clearly visualize the splinters above me. As if they were real and every single one of them wafer-thin and razor-sharp, shoots down on me and right through my heart. My heart that doesn't seem to beat any longer, because there is no reason for it to beat anymore and even worse there is no one there for it to beat for. Magnus sat huddled up on the floor in Maryse' bookstore. He was replaying the past situation over and over again in his head. And tried to figure out when the exact moment must have been when Alec realized that the relationship was no longer working for him. Was it already after his collapse at the institute in his office last week or after the failed dinner yesterday or even before? He knew that he wasn't an easy Person and his personality wasn't simple either. As well that his losses had entirely thrown him off track. Magnus trembled with anger and the tears flowed down his face hot and salty. At first he was angry at Alec because he had left him and then at himself because he knew that this time it was his fault. His depressive mood fluctuation, the constant self-pity and not to forget his slightly exaggerated alcohol consumption had teared the couple apart. He took a deep breath and stood up to put on his jacket. He had to get out of here because he didn't want to accidentally fall asleep and still lie here like a bunch of misery, when Maryse comes back tomorrow to open the store. "You're part of the family." he heard her voice in his head. Every single word was a sting in his heart and the pain it caused almost strangled the air out of him. Alec was everything he had ever wanted, his one true love, his home, his safe haven and his soul mate. And now he was gone, forever. Magnus left the bookstore and locked the door behind him. He hid the key in the large flowerpot next to the front door. But where should he go now? His first instinct was to go to the next best bar, but then it occurred to him that his drinking was a reason for his new single existence and he decided to discard this idea. So he wrote Cat a text message to ask if she would like to eat two or three cans of ice cream with him later and just started to walk in no specific direction. Without knowing it he suddenly stood in front of a big rusty heart made out of metal with the capital letters L O V E beside it and the next memory of him and Alec appeared. His smiling face as he proudly presented Magnus the lock he bought to implement the European tradition in New York. Their trip to Paris had inspired him to place a symbol of their love here as well. A symbol of their eternal love, "Aku cinta kamu", Magnus heard himself whispering before he shrugged from the touch on his shoulder and the memory faded away. He turned around to identify the person and saw a scraggy man in a dirty checkered shirt and a much too-short dirty pair of trainer pants. Clearly a homeless person. Magnus looked at him expectantly with his face smeared with tears.  "I noticed that you weren't doing very well..." he began to speak hesitantly. "Maybe you would like to feed the pigeons with me... that calms me down most of the time when I am sad... and I have a half of sandwich left that I would share with you... if you like? You look so sad..." the homeless man said with a throaty smoky voice that was actually much too deep for his stature. Magnus was visibly irritated but wrested to a smile as he nodded and followed the man to the nearest bench. Cat still hadn't responded to his message, probably she had a late shift. And since Magnus urgently needed someone to talk to, he decided to trust this stranger man with his sorrows. Of course a censored version without shadowhunters, warlocks and vampires. The cool October breeze blew passt the two of them and they sat there for a while and remained silent. Bob the homeless man fed the pigeons with some grains and breadcrumbs. As he broke the silence. "I wasn't always homeless, you know," he suddenly spoke. "I had a great job, a lot of money, a beautiful house, my wife and kids... But when the children grew up and moved out and my wife died cause of her illness a year ago and I was suddenly alone, I realized that all these material things were worth nothing to me. He looked at Magnus to see if he was listening to him and nodded as he continued speaking. "For some reason we all define ourselves more and more by status symbols and forget that it's the little things that really count. Like spending unforgettable moments with your loved ones." Again he looked at Magnus who slightly blushed under his examining gaze. "Every day I try to give something back to the people around me. I help in the soup kitchen or clean the streets in winter and so on. They are small things but they fulfill me. Some people look at me and see a disgusting homeless person, but why should it bother me how others see me as long as the people whom opinions really matters, know my story and love and appreciate me? Love is the only true currency and once you have found it you don't need anything else. He paused and looked into the void when he asked: "Do you believe in magic and the magic behind love? The Has-been-warlock thought about the question and although Bob didn't know that Magnus is, was a centuries old warlock, and belonges to the shadow world. Magnus still felt as if the homeless man could completely see through him. Magic, yes he believed in magic and he thought he was missing his and the immortality and that he'd be nothing without it. But the truth is Bob was right. There is another kind of magic. Magnus chose his words with caution as he replied. "I thought I had everything, too. A great job, a great home, magic... well..." He cleared his throat and continued: "The love of my life I mean, but he left me and it is my fault. He faltered as he spoke and Bob didn't urged him to speak any further. Instead he continued: "I have learned to renounce, because I can and not because I have to. What does the well paid job mean if you don't have anyone you can share the money with? Or worse, what use does money have if you're lonely at the end of the day? We don't live forever and the time we have should be used sensibly. I miss my wife every day, but I know that the time with her was magical and when your girlfriend..." he broke off when he saw Magnus raising his eyebrows. "Your... boyfriend...?" he asked hesitantly and Magnus nodded half-heartedly. "Probably more my ex-boyfriend now" he murmured embarrassed. Bob looked at him insistently as he began his speech again. "If your boyfriend is really the love of your life you should ask yourself if you want to fight for your relationship or try to forget him and guide your time and energy into a meaningful direction. A dove sits on my lap as I open my eyes. It's already dark and Bob has left, if he was even real... and I didn't just imagine the whole conversation. I'm not sure cause I'm holding an empty tequila bottle, wrapped up in a paper bag in my hand and my head is humming. So much for that no more alcohol statement before. Alec's face appears again, his loving smile... God my soul hurts and it's hard to think clear. I have to shake away the thoughts of his perfect face. Fight for us or guide my energy into a meaningful direction Bob had said. I had fought, hadn't I? I literally threw myself at him when he was about to leave me. Begged him to stay, kissed him and tried to show him that I was still the same. That I love him and need him. But he didn't care, he left and I can't and don't want to forget him. Or can I? I always kept telling myself that the pain after a break up is part of the process to forget, it's there to learn from your mistakes. But a life without Alec and knowing that he left me literally tears me apart and I only know one person who can take all those bitter-sweet memories away from me. Yes maybe I'm a coward, maybe that makes me hypocritical and weak but I don't want to stand on a bridge again and... I just can't live with the memories. I need to talk to Jem Carstairs and ask him to erase my memories of Alec.