#peek at apollo’s vampirism thing

[paingoes]

Rubies - Snowstorm

not really nsfw but pretty intimate i guess???

this is set a bit further into delta’s recovery!!

(Content: caretaker POV, recovery, fever, nonsexual nudity, sickfic, platonic intimacy, past trauma, discussion of past abuse, crying, brief discussion of noncon, vampire caretaker???, brief discussion of self harm)

~

The white mountains went on for miles in every direction. In the past weeks, they’d been broken up only intermittently by the wildfire smoke, but today the sky was clear and bright. Even in the dead of night, the atmosphere had a brightness about it. The surrounding woods would darken, but overhead the clouds remained luminous. Still, they hoped not to take so long on the trek that they’d be forced to travel by it.

They were making good time, all things considered. The rebel group was only thirteen strong — it was a lucky number. Large enough to function as a single organism at times, but not so much as to become unwieldy. Two dogs jet back and forth between the party members — only one of the hounds had been brought on purpose, the other had simply found them and tagged along. 

Apollo once again scanned the frozen landscape — all bitterly cold and pristine, made to destroy things like him. But he was not immune to its beauty, and he could not help but be mesmerized by it. After all, there was little else to focus on.

Galatea stretched its medics thin. This time was no exception. Again, he was the only one to the group. They were protective of him for that. It was mutual, pleasant. It felt nice to be needed. He never balked from it.

Delta moved a few meters to his right, skirting the edge of the canyon, the abyss below. Apollo clicked his tongue a bit, beckoning him closer. Delta came away from the border and did not seem to resent the summons.

One hand against the nape of his neck proved he was freezing, but he always ran cold. Apollo replaced the scarf around him, relinquishing the contact. Delta peered up curiously, much of his face still obscured within the fabric. 

He didn’t need to be here. The only reason he’d tagged along was because he’d asked. If Levon had his way, Delta would never leave the fortress. All the time, he’d been making himself invaluable there, in a way Apollo could ungenerously describe as calculated. All the same, he understood the impulse.

“Are you cold?” Apollo asked. It’s a dumb question, but he liked that Delta indulged him with it.

“Nah,” he answered back anyway. “I like it more like this. The lake isn’t frozen through all the way, even though it should be by now. There’s vents at the bottom. We’re on a volcano.”

There was a soft gravel to his voice that immediately caught Apollo’s attention. He was getting sick. He might not have even realized it yet.

“Do you think that’s what’s been causing the smoke on the horizon? Volcanic activity?” Apollo asked. 

Delta considered this.

“No.” He said finally. “I think that’s just because of the bombs.”

Apollo nodded in understanding.

~

It seemed to really hit him just as soon as they’d reached the safe house. To be sure, there were places for it to have hit him. But there were also places much, much better.

Delta struggled valiantly through it anyway. The arrival was when the hivemind really seemed to kick in — and each of them present moved like one consciousness, unpacking, drudging water and electricity up from the ancient system. Apollo caught sight of Delta amidst a mess of wires, willing the radio to work. He was tireless. All of it was up and running by the time the pale moon was directly overhead. It was only then he’d let himself be tended to.

Delta coughed terribly, the congestion in his chest now fully audible. Apollo listened closely, in search of something worse.

“You picked an awful time to do it,” he tsked in mock disapproval. “Going to need Balto to carry it all the way up the mountain.”

“Who’s Balto?” Delta asked blearily.

“Nevermind,” Apollo shook his head. “You’re going to be fine. Bacterial, though. It’ll put you out for a couple of days.”

Delta looked up at him pleadingly, as if this was a sentence that he could adjust.

“Gonna be fine,” Apollo repeated, petting his hair. Delta nudged his hand back, leaning into the touch, though he still looked resoundingly unhappy with this verdict. He still let himself be led into the quarantined bedroom, collapsing down onto the cot the first second he was able to.

~

One night later, Delta half-stumbled out of the doorframe. He shivered, visibly, little pinpricks forming all up and down his bare arms. Bare arms, even in the cold climate, because he’d been tucked beneath the blankets and too many layers would make him feel trapped. When he got like this, his eyes turned to sea glass, all soft and cloudy.

“Do you want me to help you?” Apollo asked. Before he could answer, he’d already moved to steady him. He placed one hand against the soft cotton of the tea shirt, feeling at the fragile shoulder bone beneath. Delta let himself be leaned back against the wall. The offer had not been merely to steady him.

Delta nodded yes. He had gotten so much better about receiving it.

They both sat on their knees against the cool tile of the bathroom as the old clawfoot tub gradually filled with mountain water. Delta rested his forehead against the edge of the porcelain. He had a migraine, on top of everything else. When he got anything, the migraine tended to come with it.

Apollo dipped one hand tentatively beneath the surface. It was colder than he would’ve liked, but he knew he was an abnormality in that regard. Delta voiced that it was perfect. He said “perfect”. He was always more agreeable with Apollo, more insistent, strategic to counter the other’s nervous fussing.

It was a pleasant surprise to find that the old house still held the soap for a bubble bath. Apollo had taken liberties with it in the interest of privacy, and because the lavender scent had made him nostalgic. A family had lived here, once upon a time. He felt a soft twinge of sadness as his attention turned back to Delta, who still lay oblivious with his head down against the ledge. It would not mean to him what it meant to Apollo.

The issue of privacy turned out to be of little concern. He’d have offered to turn away, but Delta had already placidly stripped the shirt from his back, then all the rest. Used to it, he’d said the first time, and Apollo’s heart had sunk all the way into his stomach until he’d clarified. There’d been maids. His dignity had been denied to him constantly, or it had never even been considered, but at the very least it had not come to that. Nevertheless, Apollo remained cautious and tentative as he moved to touch the bare skin.

Delta only leaned into it. Apollo had wondered once how much of it was trust and how much of it was simply obedience. He did not wonder so much anymore. All of his movements were slow and controlled, still doing his best now to startle him. He poured the plastic cup carefully over his head, letting a gentle stream of water pour down over the black locks. His hair was longer now. Not as long as it had been, but getting there. It had grown back fast.

He felt the way Delta tensed when his hands brushed over his scalp. The touch was soft. It was the placement. He uncurled his fingers, undoing the hold of his hair.

“Still okay?” Apollo asked quietly. 

“Mm,” Delta agreed at the same decibel. 

He had tensed, though. And his eyes now seemed to study only the surface of the water.

“…You know he tried to drown me?” he said. By the end of the sentence, all the words were only mouthed shapes. No sound came out.

Apollo’s hands froze, given way to still shock. He didn’t know why it surprised him. He’d seen what they were capable of. Nothing should have surprised him anymore. 

“One of the last nights,” Delta added quietly. “It’s why I had to leave.”

He’d wondered all the time what the last straw had been for him. 

“Do you want to get out?” Apollo retracted his hands back to the ledge, lowering his body slightly as if it might make him less intimidating. 

But Delta didn’t look scared, really. His eyes hadn’t left the surface of the water, but they were all half-lidded. He was just sad, in the way he tended to be. He shook his head slowly, slightly.

“No,” he said. “I know you’re not going to. I was just…”

He sunk further into the water without bothering to finish the thought. Apollo cautiously resumed washing the shampoo out from his hair, extra careful not to run his fingers through it too hard. Extra careful so as not to pour the water into his face, so as not to obstruct his breathing. He moved his hands through his hair dutifully, working the conditioner and jojoba oil through the ends. 

When he looked up, he was surprised to see that Delta had started crying. With all the water, he could not be sure if they were really teardrops. Delta’s expression was more or less unchanged. There were no other tells. He wiped his eyes as if he nothing had happened, but his shoulder blades cinched together in a silent sob at the same instant.

“Sorry,” Delta said first, sensing the way his eyes had fallen upon him, “It’s not…”

Again, he didn’t bother to finish the thought. Apollo frowned. He ran his knuckles back up by Delta’s scalp, moving them in soft circles. He leaned into the touch, the crying seeming to slow for a moment.

“I love you,” Delta said.

A small, discontented noise. Apollo sighed as he drew him in a bit closer, kissing him gently on his temple.

~

Though it was deep into the night, the living room was still alive when they emerged into it. It still glowed with the warm orange light. One of the dogs snored atop of the rug just by the fireplace. The scout sat cross-legged next to it, headphones on as she played with her weighted carry-on computer. In the kitchen, the voices were indistinct, but pleasant all the same. 

Delta followed him readily onto the couch, curling up at his end of it. His hair was still wet at the edges. After a moment, he brushed it away, tilting his head to the side to expose the skin.

Apollo stared at him, unsure of what he was seeing. As the silence endured without any movement from Delta, he knew it was what it looked like.

“What’s this?” Apollo’s tone was gentle. “Are you baring your neck for me?”

A soft blush rose up in Delta’s cheeks, not just flushed with fever. Apollo shook his head. Delta straightened his neck back out and — blessedly — did not seem too distraught over the denial.

“Why don’t you?” Delta asked. He let his hair shield his skin again, but leaned closer, pressing his head to Apollo’s shoulder. “Can’t you?”

“I can,” Apollo answered, though for a second he really thought about lying. “But I don’t need it.”

“Lun does,” Delta pointed out. “They need it. If you don’t need it, what does it feel like for you?”

“…Heady.” Apollo admitted. He brushed his nails along the side of the boy’s head. There was too much heat there.

“It gets you loaded?” Delta asked incredulously.

“Not quite,” Apollo said, mostly because he sensed the alarm in the other’s voice. “Just dazed. I don’t like the feeling.”

Delta frowned anyway, but he did not question further. He rearranged himself, asking if he could place the pillow down in Apollo’s lap. He did so. He did not take the blanket and he did not need it. The fever was startling. It would peak tonight.

“You like me more when I’m like this. You just want a patient.” Delta accused, but the tone was teasing.

“I like you all the time,” Apollo said, though he didn’t deny it. Delta sighed discontentedly, exhausted. The skin of his neck was still bare then, unguarded. Apollo pressed two fingers to it, checking the pulse. Steady.

[assomoir]

the sky might be falling; but the stars look good on you

Fandom: Ikemen Vampire

Pairing: Theodorus van Gogh x MC

Summary: A peek into a day of Theo’s life [and a reminder that she had her insecurities sometimes].

Note: Written for the @ikevamp-holiday-exchange​​ ! Hello @ceet​ , I enjoyed writing this (although writing non-smut was a challenge for me), so I really hope you’d like this too :) I saw your tags, so here’s to the both of us being fools for this man.

Title taken from the music of Ólafur Arnalds’ biography.

She slept in his room more often than not these days, and Theo’s morning routine shifted to accommodate her presence.

Between the two of them, he would wake up first. It’s a hard-formed habit carried over from the years before his death; one he sustained for many reasons, but also because she looked softer in the pale gray of dawn. Lights from his chandelier fell on her sleeping form, and he propped himself up as his eyes were inexorably drawn to the way the sheets shaped themselves over her waist, the drape of hair over her breasts, the trail of hickeys blossoming along her body—

She stirred under his gaze, and blinked her eyes open with a yawn.

“Theo..?”

“Yeah.” He leaned back on the pillows, enjoying the way her languid stretches shifted the covers and exposed more skin. “Good morning.”

The patches of red scattered on her neck seemed to call for his touch, because he knew they matched the curve of his teeth – remembered how she tasted on his tongue. When he reached out to touch them, she pressed a string of open-mouthed kisses on his palm, a pleased smile forming on her lips, the echo of flame dancing in her eyes.

(There’s something about her that, when seen in these quiet, intimate twilight hours, felt like something really close to perfection. He’d seen it in the way she lowered her lashes as she bent down for a kiss, or in the way her back arched as he drove her over that maddening edge for the umpteenth time in a night.)

(It still left him breathless every time.)

“…hey,” he half-heartedly asked— no, warned her, if she really wanted to rouse him so early in the morning, when the rasp in her voice is still so clearly audible and the marks she left on his back still tingled.

(He absently looked down to find that her trimmed fingernails had grown longer, and thought about how he would know about it; for he wore the shape of them in various parts across his own body.)

“Sorry, sorry,” she chuckled, “but ten more minutes, please?”

Theo hummed in assent, suppressing his smile. Kissed the top of her head and quietly let the fire, simmering low in his stomach, burn.

Most days, they work together. This cloudy Friday was one of those days.

Their only client that noon was an elderly nobleman in his late 50s, a Marquis Theo adored due to his kind disposition and shared appreciation toward the impressionist movement. Negotiations involving two of Vincent's paintings had gone swimmingly well, and as they stepped out of the gates, just before he hailed a carriage to take them home, she grabbed his sleeve and shyly asked if they could, perhaps, go for a stroll around the city? If he would like to have a little date before going back, because she had dressed up in a dress that matched his new suit, which would be wasted if they weren’t paraded around town for a bit, especially since the weather was nice albeit a little cold, and it would do him no harm to slow down because he had always been working hard, and—

"Sure," he said, effectively cutting her off, yet the fond amusement was plain to hear even for himself.

It's going to rain, he thought, glancing up at the sky overhead. We can go tomorrow instead, on our day off. But he went along with her plans anyway, mostly because Theo had stopped trying to tell himself that he still had any semblance of self-control around her months ago.

(That, and something about her had seemed a little sad this morning. It upset him in a way he couldn’t quite understand.)

So she took him to the Louvre, where everything began – saying that despite having visited the place many times over, he still owed her a proper tour of the museum. They ventured into the Assyrian Gallery, walking among creatures of black marbles and gray stones that left them more than a little amused. In the French Gallery, Géricault's Raft of the Medusa stole her attention at once – but when he explained the event depicted behind the painting, she had this extremely sad expression on her face – such that he had to practically drag her into the next gallery, half-panicked, so she wouldn't cry. It worked, though, because the mirror-like floor and gilded ceiling in the Gallery of Apollo fascinated her. They spent the rest of their visit admiring the artworks in Salon Carré: him explaining the Wedding at Cana, Pardo Venus, Soult's Virgin, Titian's Mistress, and them snickering in front of Mona Lisa and la Belle Ferronnieré.

By the time they stepped out of the Louvre, it was already half past three in the afternoon. The chilly November air had gotten even colder; the sky considerably darker.

(But her smile got a little wider, too.)

Expecting the rain to come any time now, he took her to this quaint café-slash-bookstore tucked in the corner of the 1st arrondissement. True enough, the storm started in the middle of their late-afternoon meal – and they watched the passerby bursting into a hurried frenzy all at once. After a little less than an hour it turned into nothing more than a light drizzle, but the streets had turned muddy and her skirt must be hiked up high when crossing Place Vendôme. The rain had not dampened her mood at all, though, for she kept humming happily as they passed through the high column overlooking the square.

“I assume you're no longer sad?”

She blinked at him. Once, twice, before timidly grinned. “I wasn't sad though. Things went smoothly at work, and you’ve been very indulgent today."

"...Has it ever occurred to you that those two things are probably related?"

The tinkle of her laugh filled the air, alongside the scent of petrichor as the shower ceased to an end. Rain had always lent the city some sort of a gloomy mood, but for the first time, Theo took a deep breath and let himself bask in it.

Maybe because somehow, the amber glow of streetlights looked a bit more somber than usual, and it bathed the city in a warm luster despite the crisp atmosphere. Seine was flowing by, where from this distance, they could see the turbulent waters moving below Pont Royal. The hustle of shops lined up on the other side of the street and busy traffic rumbled the sidewalk they were walking on, giving that distinct, noisy bustle he had grown to associate with the city.

She took his arm as they continued walking along the cobblestone, and he was struck quiet by the strange thought of how at home she looked like. As if she belonged right here, in 19th century Paris, all along—

"It's just— I was thinking," she suddenly murmured, "that I've been here for almost a year. Time flew really quickly. I'm still very happy, though."

It was almost imperceptible, the way she turned her head to glance at him – like she did whenever she was unsure about asking him something – but enough for him to press an encouraging kiss on her temple. Go on, he conveyed. I'm listening.

"...I hope you're still happy too, Theo."

Ah.

The faint kaleidoscope on the river was reflected on her eyes not unlike the starlight, and when the following silence stretched for a second too long, his next words slipped out without permission.

"I can promise you, I've never been happier in all my life."

A burst of giggle escaped her. His brain, half-relieved and half-caught off-guard, scrambled for a response, and ended up blurting the first thing that came to mind.

"Don't laugh! I'm serious."

"I know, I know, but it's adorable. You indulged all my wishes because you thought I was sad?"

"...It's because you did great today. That calls for some treats, no?"

She quickly recovered and playfully smacked his shoulder, but he inwardly cringed because it actually hurt. He deserved it, though. "Again! I'm not your puppy."

"Really? But puppies are cute, I love them."

"I'm cuter."

"Well yeah, you are."

She was clearly taken aback by this, and he couldn't help but snort at her flabbergasted expression.

"Theo!"

That evening, he kissed her hard and rough, tangling his fingers in the strands of her hair. I haven’t had dinner, he teased, voice low and tempting, his breath hot on her lips. May I? She couldn’t help but moan then, a hand fisted in the fabric of his shirt, the other pushing his head to her neck. Heat consumed them as he carried her to the bed, prompting him to strip her down and let his body do the talking for the next few hours.

Later, when the high had worn down, he pulled her into his arms – freshly bathed, smelling like roses – and she grew quiet, lulled by the distant thunder and the sound of raindrops. He watched the light playing tricks on her hair, heart softer than the spun silk of her nightgown, and thought—

If I could spend eternity like this—

“Theo, sleep.”

He smirked. “Why is the dog telling me what to do?”

“Because you’re thinking too loudly,” she smiled knowingly, and his own softened. “I love you, you know that?”

Sometimes Theo forgot just how easily she unraveled him in all the ways that counted, leaving him a flustered mess wrapped around her little finger. “…Cheeky hondje. I love you too.”

If he was any lesser man, he’d probably skip all those elaborate, carefully-crafted plan about proposing and just drop on one knee right there and then; the lack of ring be damned. But since he liked to think he still had a teeny bit of restraint (however small) a peck on her forehead was deemed enough, followed by drawing the cover higher over their bodies.

She’s here, he mused before drifting off to sleep. 

For as long as they had each other, he existed only in bliss.

[ohhdarlings]

𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒸𝒽 𝒶𝓅𝓅 ( reese witherspoon. cisfem, she/her, light on + maggie rogers. ) i heard CONSTANCE GODFREY singing the other night, though it didn’t sound like english… it’s so admirable that someone who’s only 46 can sing latin so fluently! heard they hang out with those LUX CIRCLE, that must be because they’re a CURATOR at THE GUGGENHEIM. i always see them going home to BROOKLYN by CAR under the moonlit night. (gracie,24,she/her,est) *godfrey leader, *eliot wc 
hello its gracie here with my second small blonde ready to ruin your life or adopt you. Bio and info below the cut! Like and i will slide into your dms. 
The house, she tells you, sits on a vital magical nexus and must remain with the family. You are ten years old, and it is cold. You do not want to be shivering in the yard waiting for the moon to slip into exactly the correct position to foretell the sex of your expected younger sibling. You definitely do not want a younger sibling, you and your older sister are enough. Huffing with the impertinence of childhood, you whine louder, but stop at the sharp words from your father. He likes your sister better, she’s smarter and more adept than you are. You want to resent her but are unable. She is all starlight and laughter, winking at you from across the circle, she makes you feel like you belong. She does not treat magic with the same deistic reverence your parents do, almost as if they are afraid of what they can do. No, Cassandra casts with love and enthusiasm, and she teaches you to delight in the possibility of the world. You don’t know what she plays with the nights she stays out later, you believe her when she says the scars were accidents. And two years later when she heads off to school, you somehow know she will never come back. Eliot grips your hand, unable to understand why everyone is so upset. You vow never to leave him. Magic, you learn, is about balance. 
Steady Constance, once a command, a warning, became a mantra. You are steady like the river, feeling the pull of the tide in your bones and the rush of the water through your veins. Always moving, always going, but always constantly there. You stay in the city, get a degree in Art History your mother scoffs at. You try to bring some joy to the house, the coven. You teach Eliot to delight in the wonder of the world around you. Magic is not something to be feared, but loved. If you can love it for what it is, not fear it, if you are allowed to revel in the majesty - perhaps less and less witches will be drawn to the darker aspects. Defensive doesn’t mean weak, and teaching them to fear themselves will only drive more away. Your parents balk at this suggestion, but steadfast you remain. Steady does not mean boring, life can be beautiful and you wish to know it all. Heartbreak and sadness, exaltation and bliss. It all matters, and you want to revel in it all. Your sister doesn’t invite you to her wedding, and she does not come to your mother’s funeral. You only learn of your niece’s existence in a dream, and you aren’t entirely sure it is true. There’s a man who’s laughter reminds you of your sister, you let yourself fall for him. When your brother’s heart breaks, you let him tattoo the constellations on your back. Upon your father’s death, the last of the old way dies with him. In your first hours as leader, Eliot tattoos the upright empress tarot card from the deck your sister sent for your 15th birthday on your forearm. Family, you learn, is the most important thing to cherish. 
You were not born to rule, and certainly not to lead. The anxiety and pressure nearly kill you that first year and you try to find time to delight in your children. Balance, that crucial piece of any magic, is much more difficult. Your desire to live and feel everything remain, and you give a bit of yourself to every witch or lost soul who walks through your door. Each individual you take in carries a piece of your heart with them when they go, and they return like the warmth of the sun peeking out from behind a cloud. You become the mother to them you wish you had - drink water, wear sunscreen, have you eaten today, come sit and tell me what happened. Steady like the river, steady like the seasons, steady like the perennials in the back garden. And there is the world outside your door to deal with, factions and politics and ancient feuds begun by those whose names no one can remember. It is, frankly, exhausting. And something has to give. You blink and your babies are not babies but boys, the older twin tugging on the strings of memory with the smirk like your sister’s, his brother following adoringly like you always did. You cannot give them as much as you need, you cannot be everything for everyone. But by god, do you try. You feel her magic begin to stir from the other side of the continent and learn of your sister’s death from a lawyer. And so, for the first time in your life - you cross the river and head west. The child you find in this arid land wears far too much sorrow for her age, jumps at shadows and flinches at her own power. For a flicker of a moment, you understand the draw to that dark offensive magic, the anger for the brother in law you never knew filling you with such an intensity it scares you. But you are steady, and you hold her shaking hand the entirety of the plane ride. The last of that terrifying rage vanishes as you watch your niece almost smile at her first spell. Leadership, you learn, requires sacrifice. 
But no matter how steady you are, things still break. And sometimes - they completely shatter. You should have seen this coming, you should have recognized the signs. He was so like her, curiosity and boldness. Had you paid more attention to your own children instead of spreading yourself thin among all the coven, you could have stopped it. Maybe your parents were right, maybe magic should be feared, or at the very least you should have told him the possibility of fear. But your son left, left you and his twin and everything, and it feels as if one of your lungs has been ripped out. His brother pulls away from you too, not to the dark, but into himself. You should have told them, should not have spared them from the cruel truth of the aunt they never got to meet. She died because she pushed too far, threw off the balance. And magic, you have always known, requires balance. Now you fear he is headed the same way and you will move heaven and earth to prevent this. You feel more unsteady these days, plagued by an irrational fear that the river will run dry or the house will fall down. You try to delegate, to learn to let others help you with the wider world order as you struggle to maintain the family ties you still have. Steadiness, you learn, often demands loss. TL/DR : constance is the mama bear who is literally just doing her fucking best. Think molly weasley specifically in the ‘not my daughter you bitch’ mode combined with sandra bullock in practical magic (gracie you’ve mentioned this in BOTH do you maybe only know one witchy movie? Yes ok midnight margs forever). She has never touched dark magic, nor would she actively seek to harm another. But she will fight you and the entire PTA to protect those she loves - the embodiment of ‘do no harm but take no shit’. Curses like a fucking sailor because she’s a fucking lady. The house is in Prospect Park, an old victorian mansion that is for sure haunted, the door is literally always open. Witch, werewolf, vampire, hunter, human, whatever you are, you are welcome if your intentions are pure or if you really just need help. She has two poodles named Artemis & Apollo and they are the biggest attention whores, will follow anyone around the house for pets. 
Wanted plots: Gimme all the collected children please! Other founding family leaders that Constance has to interact with. Someone to threaten her children/family. Friends! Exes! If anyone wants another character we would LOVE a husband/partner/baby daddy.

[fyrapartnersearch]

Flower's Search for New Partners

Hey, I'm a 30 year old writer in search of new partners. 

About Me

Posting Schedule: I do my best to respond to my stories once every two to three weeks. There are times when I respond more frequently on weekdays but other times when I post primarily on weekends. It all depends on how busy life becomes. Fair warning, sometimes my writing partners may have to wait longer than a three week period. Being made to feel guilty about not posting is a massive turn-off for me. Spare us both the headache and please search for another partner if you are the type to become anxious while waiting for posts.

On Smut: Smut tends to take me longer since I am very critical of my writing in those types of scenes. Intimate scenes take me twice as long to write for male characters in comparison with females. Again, just being upfront and honest with you. I enjoy smut as an added condiment rather than main dish.

OOC Communication: We do not need to become best friends but I need to feel comfortable with my partners. I need to feel like we can have our characters have a dispute or dislike one another without it leading to misunderstandings between us as writers. 

Types of Writing Partners Desired: Anyone is welcomed here. I want your brain. Your real life gender is irrelevant to me. I prefer partners who write in past tense and third person. First person is perfectly fine in character thoughts. I want to craft a story with another person. Give me your ideas and I will give you mine. We can beat it together into something we both are eager to write. Must be 18+ in regards to your actual age.

Characters I Play: I am perfectly capable of writing either a male or female character. Usually, my female characters tend to be either bi-sexual or heterosexual. Other labels (bi-curious, lesbian, pansexual, etc.) will sometimes make appearances as well. My male characters are more times than not heterosexual but they are capable of being bi-sexual. 

Post Length: I can post a lot or I can post a little. It depends on where we are in the story. While I do value quality over quantity, I despise one-liners.

Malleable Ideas: I thoroughly enjoy collaboration. Typically, none of my ideas are set in stone because I prefer to build a story with my partner rather than dictate all of the terms.

Stories I like:

Diversity: The world is filled with a lot of similarities but there are differences too. I enjoy writing people of color (PoC) within my stories. I look through through those face claims first when searching for character inspiration. I don't mind writing other races either! In fact, I am happy too. However, if you would have an issue with me using a PoC, either as an NPC or main character, I would rather not write with you

Drama: I really, really love drama in my roleplays. A lot of my characters have tragic pasts. My partner would need roll with the punches and maybe even return them because it's boring for me to play submissive characters with no backbone. It's also boring for me to write the perfect couple. I need hellfire dammit! Now, this does not need to happen all of the time. As with all things, too much of something lessens its appeal

Humor: Make me laugh. It is one of the greatest gifts you can give a person and I will like you ten times more for it.

Low (Modern) Fantasy: A good example of this genre, for me, would be the television show, Supernatural. I write these types of stories most because they are so much fun!

Superheroes: I like playing superheroes! I haven't done it in a while but my interest has not waned. I should warn that I don't like playing canons like Storm, Thor, or any of those awesome creations. I don't feel like I can do them justice so I rather just make my original character.

Mythology: Admittedly, I have a bit of a weakness for mythology. While I am most familiar with Greek myths, I am more than happy to explore others. Stories that entice me are mortals falling in love with gods. Recreating a romance between gods such as Hades or Persephone. Or defining the reason why a god might be perceived as something such as why Zeus is seen as a cheater or what not.

Lycanthropy: There’s a special place in my heart for werewolves. Not only do I enjoy reading and watching movies about them but I really love writing them.

Vampires: Same as above. I’ve been reading about vampires forever and I do enjoy a good movie, like the Underworld series. I’m pretty flexible on the lore we borrow from to craft our own versions.

Angels: Love them! They can be sent from heaven on a mission, stolen by some bold demon, or banished for a misdeed.

Demons: Love them!

Westerns: Westerns are a tricky category. As such, it really depends if I’d enjoy writing them or not. I like the idea of rural setting in modern times. I’m not sure if that’s what someone might consider a western. I also really love Westworld. The grittiness of the characters and such. It really just depends with this one.

System Roleplays: I’ve been wanting to try a system game for the longest. It just hasn’t happened yet. If you are looking to write one with me, whether if in a 1v1 or group game, you will need to be patient. I have no experience with it other than a few brief games and watching Critical Role every week.

Historical Settings: Again, like with Westerns, it really depends with this category. Don’t get me wrong. I absolutely adore period pieces. I’m constantly searching for one to watch on Netflix. They’re just so hard and my confidence in writing them is pretty shaky.

Apocalyptic Settings: I don't mind these types of games. I will usually take a peek at group games with this setting but I have never ventured to do a story in a one on one setting. Doesn't mean I am not opened to it though.

Fandoms I Like (Original Characters and sometimes Canon Characters):

Westworld, Sense8, Charmed, Blade Runner 2049, Altered Carbon, The Magicians, Potterverse, Merlin, Penny Dreadful, Critical Role, Game of Thrones, Lord of the Rings, Downton Abbey, The Dragon Prince, My Hero Academia, Mirai Nikki, Akama Ga Kill, Sword Art Online, Elfen Lied and loads more! 

Here are some examples of story ideas I've come up with in the past. These are all modern mythology retellings.

Eye of The Storm

Story : Your character has always been troubled, the type who skipped school on the daily basis and stole lipstick from stores, even though there was not a need. People, who have the misfortune of knowing her, view her as being another ungrateful brat, destined to end up in some expensive rehab center or overdosed in a darken corner of the club. They were correct. She turned out to be a blemish upon the face of the world and her parents’ constant shame. No one understands it as there is no visible explanation for it. Either way, somehow, she ends up at the chaotic shores in the middle of the storm, garbed in her vomit stained clothes and deadly intent. She walks out into the water, seeking to end her life, and finds herself rescued by the most unlikely of sources.  Setting : A college town a few hours out from the city. The only qualifier I have in regards to setting is that it must take place near the seas.  Keywords : Romance, Substance Abuse, Suicide, Modern Fantasy, Mythology(Poseidon)  Seeking : Your character, of course, is our troubled young woman, who desperately needs to be guided away from what has been destroying her from within for years. I have a loose idea that something escaped the mysterious and dangerous depths of the ocean and has taken up residence within her body for years, potentially poisoning her beyond redemption. Maybe she discovered a necklace as a kid or something? We can discuss this together.  Kinks : Due to lack of a better word or descriptor, this might be considered a Dominant/submissive type of roleplay with Poseidon (Ishmael) assuming the dominant role. The God has possessed a lifelong obsession with water so there would obviously be a few scenes within that type of environment. Water is open to change though so he would be willing to permit whomever he’s with to lead every once in a while. 

Waste Not, Want Not

Story : Apollo has often been regarded as being a fairly lighthearted god, one who brings constant sunshine and inspires brilliance into whomever surrounds him, much like the sun which is essential for the creation of life. However, with the disappearance of his wild but truly believed twin sister, his gentle countenance has become resigned and withdrawn from the world. Unfortunately, his grief is not one to be experienced alone. Without the presence of its sun prince, the world becomes dark in consequence, not just in temperature but also in creativity .Where people experimented to create a new, they have become content with their ignorance and current circumstances. Apollo finds inspiration though in the most unlikely of places; however, what price is he willing to play to regain his muse? Setting : This can take place in a modern (rural or urban) or historical setting.  Keywords : Romance, Modern or Historical, Mythology (Apollo),  Betrayal, Punishment, Teasing, Exploration  Seeking : This is a fairly loose idea. I am basically seeking someone  who is capable to break a God’s muse block. 

To Kiss A Spy

Story : Marriage is not to be broken. Zeus has sworn himself anew to his wife, Hera, determined to take his vows seriously and be loyal to her until the end of their days. Faithfully, he ignores the temptations of the flesh, no matter how succulent, from both human and goddess alike. His temper suffers as a result but those around him have learned to adjust to their new leader’s temperament. In other words, he is given a wide berth. All that matters is that his Hera is content, basking in being the sole owner of his affections.  At least, he believes she is. In truth, the Queen of the Gods does not believe her husband is capable of the barest hint of monogamy. She is certain that he is still cheating on her even though her evidence suggests he speaks truthfully about his change of heart. Determined to prove herself right, she acquires some temptation, one which her husband would not be able to resist.  Setting : This can take place in a modern (rural or urban) or historical setting.  Keywords : Romance, Historical or Modern, Mythology (Zeus),  Betrayal, Punishment, Teasing, Cheating Seeking : Whomever Hera has bribed, hired, or threatened to do this piece of dirty work for her.

Contact: Please contact me at hyacinth.elliquiy@gmail.com if you're interested in writing with me. 

[bussanbaby]

veni vidi amavi

soulmate (noun) - a person with whom you have an immediate connection the moment you meet; a connection so strong that you are drawn to them in a way you have never experienced before.

What does time mean to an immortal being?

Mundanes have a limited amount of it. Aware of the final line, they try to live out every fantasy before their hourglasses run clean. They plan out the years, goals to be achieved, memories to be made in the right order. They dream of being remembered after their years have rushed by, whether for something worthy of fame or just simple photographs set in frames on homely mantelpieces.

Sometimes, Magnus hears people say ‘We haven’t seen each other for so long!’ when it’s been a year or five, and it makes him smile. He’s always felt stationary, almost solid against the waves of time; for Magnus, there’s no end line in sight, no set rules, no bracket to keep him contained.

Immortality doesn’t mean invincibility - Magnus has learned that the hard way - but there is a specific sense of freedom in not having to count your years.

He turns the shower lever and waits until steam rises from the stream of water, then steps in.

Magnus has lived over four centuries on this earth, watched it evolve before his very eyes. He’s lived through many wars, fought to keep himself and his kind alive against all sorts of evil. But there have also been years of peace, when he was free to indulge in adventures, his studies and pleasures of life. With these years, came people.

He’s made great friends, like Catarina and Ragnor, who’ve stuck with him through thick and thin, made unforgettable memories and annoyed him out of his mind in the most loving way possible. There have been other acquaintances, warlocks he worked with, loyal clients, and random downworlders whose presence Magnus enjoyed immensely. They’ve all made his life different in their own ways and he will remember them, even if the world forgets about their existence.

There have also been lovers, many of them. Single night flings he remembers as clothes draped over furniture, long hours tasting like liquor and laughter, followed by parting ways. Some people stuck around for longer, held Magnus’ hand and went with him on dates, but, sooner or later, they always fled. Whether it was his cat eyes, past deeds or something else entirely, the relationships never lasted, each leaving behind a new fissure in Magnus’ soul.

Magnus tips his head back, letting the water from the showerhead spray over his face. He’s not sure why he’s thinking about all of this, old loves and the many years he remembers; maybe it’s the date or the repetitive motions that leave his mind wandering. His eyelashes flutter as droplets of water hang onto them, only to slip down his nose and chin, catch on the sharp edge of his jaw.

At first, he had hope - a romantic at heart, Magnus loves like he lives, to the fullest. But for an immortal, love, like everything else, is only temporary. He understands these feelings aren’t meant to be timeless, because even other warlocks or vampires he’s been with had never stayed as soon as the flame of affection dimmed.

Of course, break-ups are a commodity in the world of relationships, but, at some point, a tinny voice in the back of Magnus’ mind warned him to not get too attached, because he would always end up alone. By the point Camille had come into Magnus’ life, he was tired of it all, but let himself take a last chance; a last shot at putting his hand in the fire and hoping it wouldn’t burn.

She was good for him for a while - distracted his thoughts, set his mind at ease with her colorful personality and all kinds of frivolities, told Magnus she understood the pain he felt in his heart, pulled him away from the edge in more ways than one. They crashed events as famous people, partied until the sun rose overhead; Camille made Magnus feel good, made him feel important and wanted when the world meant to prove him otherwise. He loved her with his whole being, gifted her with his best works to keep her smiling, but her feelings for him were never quite the same.

Magnus has realised her decadence over time; for Camille love was just another plaything, an entertainment, something that required little effort on her side. Ruthlessly cold at the core, she toyed with Magnus’ emotions, selfishly manipulated him into giving her all she wanted, put thoughts in his head, ones he should have never believed. Where for him love was a gorgeous thing, for Camille it was a ball and chain; despite all she told Magnus, she never intended to be his forever.

Camille broke Magnus’ heart, shattered it into sharp pieces it took decades to pick up and put back together. After her, Magnus had had enough; he closed himself off from any kind of feelings for other people. He was sick of baring himself, letting people in, only to be pushed away over and over. And so, he’d promised himself to never love again.

Magnus lets his head lull forward, blinks his eyes open as water trickles down the back of his neck. Puffs of white foam wash down the drain, swirling around his feet, as he stands under the warm stream just for a moment longer. There’s no rush for him to be anywhere, no lives in danger, no early calls, no war to fight.

With a relaxed sigh, he steps out and dries himself off before wrapping the towel around his waist. Without the loud hum of the water, Magnus can clearly hear the birds chirping right outside the house through the open window; the air brushing his bare skin smells of sea salt and the citrus trees growing nearby. Hair dry after a click of his fingers, Magnus combs it back loosely, and with a brief glance into the mirror, he leaves the bathroom.

He’s bought this Provençal little house on a whim, after on one date night Alec suggested that if they ever get a day off, they should elope, spend it out in the countryside and away from the big cities. And now, they’re here on a sunny Saturday, with their phones turned off and all day to themselves. Fingers dragging over flowery wallpaper, Magnus makes his way over to the master bedroom, old wooden floors creaking under his weight.

They’d arrived yesterday evening, just after they both got off work and said goodbyes to their kids, who were staying with Luke and Maryse. The summer warmth stuck to their skin the second they stepped through the portal, kept them company while they strolled around a nearby quaint town tucked into the seaside, hand in hand down cobblestone alleys lined with buildings painted the muted shades of sunset. They tried the food and listened to stories told by locals, until it got dark and the stars rose above their heads. New York’s sky couldn’t ever measure up to to the bright-freckled night in the middle of a heather field.

At one point, when they were already drunk on love and rosé, when Magnus was laughing at something Alec said so hard he had to prop himself on whatever was near, it seemed like they were the only people in the entire world. Not hearing Alec’s laughter along his own, Magnus looked up, caught him staring with a gaze intense and tinted with something earnest and tender, something that spoke beyond simple words.

“Look at you. You’re so beautiful.”

Magnus has heard those words many times from Alec, who takes every chance to tell him how gorgeous he is, inside and out. He has made Magnus feel far from an abomination, monstrous and dangerous - when faced with Magnus’ past, Alec hadn’t passed judgement; instead, he’d embraced Magnus, along with all his vices and virtues, and accepted him as he was. Alec had made Magnus feel safe.

With stars above them and the brightest ones set in Alec’s eyes, Magnus crowded him against a wall, kissed him with all he had - passion and fondness and devotion. Alec smiled against his mouth, Magnus could feel him push his entire body into the gesture, respond to the kiss like a storm, electric and enticing at once; Magnus would never tire of it, of how each kiss made his heart grow two sizes, whether it was an everyday greeting or something deeper and more reverent as this.

When Magnus walks into the bedroom, Alec seems to still be asleep. Before, he was settled on his stomach, his bare back exposed to the rays of sun slipping in through the wooden shutters, pale ochre-colored light cutting thick lines like painter’s strokes into his runed skin.

Slipping out from beneath the thin sheets, Magnus had dragged his gaze along the curves of Alec’s muscles, over paths Magnus’ hands have taken more times than he can count. It felt impossible to leave the bed with his husband still in it, warm and solid, yet he had, mind heavy with thoughts only to be resolved under a stream of hot water.

Now Alec is on his back, tangled in the lavender-colored fabric, sleep-hazy and uninhibited, with his arms resting loosely over his torso and a sliver of thigh peeking through a gap in the coiled sheets. He looks like an artist’s muse, Greek Apollo captured in tan marble. Stuck in the doorway, Magnus smiles absentmindedly, wanting to keep this image forever.

The clothes they’d shed the day before, lost in the sensation of skin on skin and fingertips pressed into muscle, are still scattered over the wooden floors; Magnus picks up a crumpled shirt and a pair of pants on his way over to a small suitcase they’d brought along. He throws them onto an armchair in the corner of the room and fishes out some fresh underwear, the breeze from the open balcony door wrapping itself around his ankles. The towel lands on the ground with a soft noise and Magnus pulls the red boxer briefs over his ass.

“Nice view,” Alec murmurs, his voice rough with disuse, the words slurring together into one noise Magnus deciphers with years of practice. He turns to look behind him, only to find Alec with a smile on his face, somewhere between sleepy and playful, an arm tucked behind his head as a pillow.

Magnus lifts an eyebrow at Alec, unimpressed.

“Good morning to you, too,” he says with a semi-flat tone, his amusement at the mischievousness coloring his voice despite best efforts.

With a sigh accompanied by Alec’s chuckle, Magnus looks towards the horizon beyond the balcony railing - the pale sand bordering overgrown flower fields, the sea waves lapping at the coast, cerulean lined with white foam. He glances back towards Alec and sends him a sly wink.

“It’s quite impressive, wouldn’t you say?”

“Oh, it’s extraordinary,” Alec hums in agreement, then huffs out an indulgent laugh at their stupid little jokes; the sound echoes bright between Magnus’ ribs as he goes to hang the damp towel over the balcony railing.

The late-morning sun touches at his skin when he leans against the carved wood, letting the wind play with strands of his hair. He’s spent so much time in New York that this kind of quiet feels almost eerie - there’s no honking taxis, no helicopters flying over buildings at random hours in the night, no people with their easy chatter littering every nook and cranny of the city. Instead, there’s just nature, bees and birds mingling, the rustle of branches against the roof tiles.

“Come back to bed? I haven’t kissed my husband today yet and I really want to,” Alec says, voice teasing, yet soft.

“Only because you asked so nicely,” Magnus remarks, taking deliberately slow stops towards the bed, watching Alec’s smile grow into a sleepy grin.

The mattress creaks beneath Magnus’ weight when he settles on his knees across Alec’s hips, arms pressed into the pillow on both sides of Alec’s head. Alec looks up at Magnus, hands raising to rest against his neck, feather-light and adoring. It’s slow and easy to drown in, Alec smiling mid-kiss, pressing soft pecks to the corners of Magnus’ lips before pushing up for more open mouthed kisses.

When Magnus met Alec, he had long forgotten what true love felt like. It was a tumultuous time, with Valentine on the rise and the warlocks uneasy. Then, Clary came like a whirlwind back into Magnus’ life, turning it inside out. With Clary, Alec had begrudgingly tagged along, at first thorny and closed-off, always keeping himself safe in the shadows of others. Yet, since the first time they’d spoken to each other - even before that - they’d had a connection.

It was beyond simple physical attraction; it was more than skin-deep. Even in the aftermath of their short-lived fight with that Circle member, they took a moment just to breathe each other in, Magnus watched a smile grow on Alec’s face, unabashed and uninhibited with the burdens of his everyday life. There was something so special, something Magnus couldn’t deny, and it was exactly what pushed him to reach out, start the entire chain of events that led them here.

Kissing Alec feels easier than breathing, their bodies responding in sync to each other, one of Magnus’ hands travelling down Alec’s chest, over coarse hair and to his side, thumb dragging against the sharp line of his hipbone only to grab at his thigh. Before they even realize, their chests are pressed flush together, legs tangled and hearts beating to one rhythm.

They’ve done this more times than Magnus can count, kissed until their mouths were red and puffy; sometimes it was all passion and heat deep in the pit of Magnus’ stomach, their hands reckless and needy, but sometimes it was just like this, steady and lazy and slow, touching for the sake of it.

The initial leap into the unknown was terrifying, every exposed piece of Magnus’ soul a step onto the minefield. The first Shadowhunter to come into Magnus’ life, Alec was a key to the cage Magnus had locked himself into a century ago. And it wasn’t easy at the beginning - with every move forward, they made two back; after all, nothing good ever comes easy. The turning point was the wedding Magnus crashed, when he decided to fight once more for his and Alec’s happiness, with a little bit of help from an old friend. In hindsight, it was one of the best choices Magnus has made, because Alec was like summer rain - powerful, yet soothing.

He turned Magnus’ world upside down and led him home at once.

Magnus presses his lips against the deflect rune on Alec’s neck and feels the fingers buried in his hair tighten, pulling a hum from his chest. It’s mouths brushing against stubbled cheeks, smiles hidden in collarbones, ticklish touches leaving them giggling like teenagers. They kiss and kiss and kiss, until they feel full, if for a little while.

Helplessly tangled up in the sheets, Magnus lies down on his back next to Alec, who shuffles closer, resting his chin on Magnus’ chest and winding an arm around his waist. Without the need to say anything and slightly out of breath, Magnus moves his fingers through Alec’s hair, combing back the unruly curls that keep springing back into their place.

“25 years, huh,” Alec muses, his chin digging into the muscle underneath with each movement.

Magnus cranes his neck down at a strange angle, pretty positive he’s sporting a double chin from Alec’s point of view; his fingers keep running through the motions.

“That’s roughly half your life you’ve been married to me. How does it feel?”

“Wonderful, actually.” Alec smiles lopsidedly, halfway lost in his thoughts, swallows around the next words. “Do you think I’d be bald by now, like Camille said? Or maybe I’d have grey sides, all rugged and sexy a la Oscar Isaac.”

Magnus chuckles, a vision of Alec dressed like the Star Wars pilot forming in his imagination; the leather jacket would look surely nice on him, fitting well into Alec’s already existing fashion sense.

“First of all, did you hang out with Simon recently? And second of all, Camille didn’t know what she was talking about. I love you as you are, in all your messy, bed-hair glory.”

Alec’s snicker is mixed with a soft glance from beneath his eyelashes, before he pushes up on his arm to peck Magnus on the mouth, lingering close just for a couple of seconds. “Love you too, baby.”

He lies down comfortably again, this time with his scratchy cheek against Magnus’ skin. The hand that was resting loosely around Magnus’ waist begins to trace feather-light shapes over his side.

Magnus’ hand stills, settling against the curve of Alec’s skull, almost cradling it against his chest.

Their love was a conversation, a dialogue of souls made of the same material. Smitten with each other from the very beginning, it was impossible to stay away - no matter what life threw at them, they’ve always returned, found the right path and tangled their hands together. They’re good for each other, but in a healthier way than Camille was for Magnus. While it’s impossible to avoid comparisons, Magnus knows deeply they’re two entirely different worlds, a theatre show versus something so real and tender that sometimes it hurts to feel.

Alec has made Magnus open up and believe again - in true love, in stability, and a kind of safety going beyond locked doors and magical wards. That he still can have his happy forever. Alec has listened to Magnus’ doubts and fears, opinions and memories, heard beyond his voice. Alec has loved him in the moments when Magnus felt unlovable.

Magnus sighs, a subtle smile settled on his mouth, as he blinks himself out of his thoughts. He used to have quiet days a lot back in his more lonesome times. There’s less of them now, but they still happen, almost welcome - times likes this sun-lit morning, where’s no darkness weighing down on him, but something peaceful and complete instead.

His fingers dance down Alec’s back, over the straight line of his spine, pulling a drowsy hum from Alec resting on his chest. He seems to be drifting in and out of sleep, eyes closed, but fingertips still moving against Magnus’ side.  

“Let’s have breakfast, dove,” Magnus says quietly, drumming his fingers against the knobs of Alec’s vertebrae.

“Can’t we have breakfast in bed?” Alec groans back, pushing his face into Magnus’ skin as if he could escape the reality and the sun slowly climbing higher and higher in the sky.

It’s a tempting offer, one snap of Magnus’ fingers and they could have the feast of their lives in these very sheets, but it doesn’t feel right; he’s gotten so used to doing things the mundane way with Alec that it’s almost ridiculous.

“Come on, you lazy oaf, there’s only so many hours in a day. And I’m really craving your special recipe scrambled eggs.” Magnus pats Alec’s ass and with one final sigh of defeat from the Shadowhunter, they both start to get up, the mattress squeaking with each sluggish movement.

Alec pads over to the suitcase and picks out a pair of black underwear to slip into before brushing past Magnus in the doorway, his hair sticking out in every possible direction. They walk down the stairs, the worn carpet rough beneath their bare feet. The small kitchen they walk into is connected to a dining room, framed with black and white linoleum and kitchen isles, plenty of space for a whole family. The sun is pouring in through the window, exposing all little dust particles floating around.

“Chef Alec is in the kitchen, two orders of five-star scrambled eggs with spinach and tomatoes coming right up,” Alec jokes as he pulls a pan from one of the cabinets, twirling it in his palm before he sets it on the stove.

The fridge is freshly well-stocked, charmed with a spell to always provide everything they need, and Alec dumps an armful of ingredients onto the counter, busying his hands and mind with making breakfast, already looking much more awake than moments before.

Magnus, on the other hand, busies himself with coffee and making the toast to accompany the eggs; he cuts thick slices of dark bread and puts them in the oven to crisp up, before pulling out the french press.

Still, Magnus can’t help but stare.

Alec still looks so young, bright-eyed and with morning scruff covering his face; there are no grey hairs on his head, no wrinkles embedded in his skin, except for little crow’s feet around his eyes that came from smiling. The golden band around Alec’s right ring finger catches the light as he cuts the tomatoes, quick and efficient.

It’s an unspoken rule that warlocks rarely marry. Usually, it’s the fear of commitment with mortals - the promise of heartbreak after they pass lingering like a ghost over your shoulder or people not wanting to spend the entirety of their lives devoted to one soul. But Alec has always had a tendency to surprise Magnus.

He always manages to say things that nobody has ever told Magnus before. There’s nothing ugly about you. I don’t think I can live without you. Will you marry me?

How could Magnus say no to the love of his life? They’ve gotten married, surrounded by their friends and family, all dressed in shades of gold. Magnus has never thought it would happen to him, that he’d be able to walk down the aisle covered with rose petals, holding his newly-wed husband’s slightly clammy hand, to see him smile at Magnus like he hung the stars and the moon in the sky. Magnus had resigned himself to a life alone, but there was Alec, taking down all his walls one by one, pressing a pair of gentle hands against Magnus’ heart.

There have been many lovers in Magnus’ life and he could not count them all, no matter how much he tried - fleeting romances, deeper connections, flings that turned into friendships. But never before has there been a person like Alec. Never someone who was more than a lover, who was also a best friend, a partner in crime, a kindred spirit.

With Alec, everything clicked - every joke was funnier if told by him (even if he stuttered through the punchline) and trouble never seemed as daunting with his presence behind Magnus’ back; they could talk about anything and everything from dinner options, politics and opinions, dreams and deepest fears, right to their plans for the future.

There wasn’t a day where Magnus didn’t think of his husband, his honest and loyal and tender husband, where his chest didn’t burst at the seams with all the love he harbored for so long. Alec isn’t Magnus’ longest relationship by far, but Magnus is sure it will outlast the world itself - he is a constant in a world full of temporary people.

After dumping a few spoonfuls of coffee grounds into the press, Magnus sets the kettle with a click of his fingers, not wanting to get into Alec’s way as he’s shuffling the eggs around with a wooden spatula. The food smells heavenly and Magnus feels hunger gnawing at his insides, almost tempting him to steal just a little bit off of the pan.

Alec glances up, one of his eyes lit up by the sun while he studies Magnus’ expression; since somewhere along the lines he’s learned to read Magnus like a book, he smiles and scoops some of the food onto the spatula, blows on it to cool it and carefully brings it closer to Magnus’ face.

Magnus dips down and takes a bite, managing to not spill any on the ground. With his mouth full, he can’t speak, so instead he expresses his emotions by a dip of his eyelids and a shamelessly exaggerated moan; there’s just the right amount of spices and herbs in the food.

Alec chuckles, his smile somewhere between smitten and pleased. “I’ll take that as a yes?”

With a hand on the side of Alec’s neck to draw him closer, Magnus nods, pauses chewing to peck Alec’s mouth and wink at him. “Yum.”

The kettle starts whistling, bursting their flirtatious bubble. While Magnus pours the boiling water into the press, Alec reaches into the oven with the mitts on, pulling out a pan full of already browned, crispy, and perfectly warm toast, then sets it aside for a bit to cool.

With a sigh, Magnus focuses on stirring the coffee mixture, waiting for it to brew properly; nobody wants to drink bad coffee.

He didn’t want to let Alec go, still doesn’t. And while at some point in his life, Magnus had had come to terms with the issue of mortality, sometimes it surfaced like an oil spill over seawaves, dark and worrisome. Over a year of their marriage later and right on the day of Alec’s birthday, they were sat with half-full glasses of wine on the loft’s balcony, when Alec turned to him with a vulnerable look after Magnus asked him what he’d like for his birthday next year.

“The only gift I want is an eternity with you.”

The words resonated loudly as if the entire world had disappeared into silence, only leaving him and this hazel-eyed mystery of a man, always making Magnus’ heart strain against his ribs. Immortality is not something he’d ever push Alec about, because while it sounded good on the surface, it came with a price of death - not yours, but everyone around you.

But Alec was sure of his decision, sincere and quiet in the way he held Magnus’ hands; for Nephilim, death was always on the other side of the coin. It had taken a deal - a dangerous amount of energy and an exchange with a yellow-eyed creature in the middle of the glowing summoning circle.

And now, there were the two of them, moving against the current of time, watching almost everyone around them age with grace.

The clink of plates pulls Magnus out of his thoughts again and it’s a miracle he hasn’t spilled any coffee on himself. Alec piles the eggs onto the dishes in even amounts, pairs it with the now-buttered toast and sprinkles everything with just a bit of grated cheese.

Magnus closes the lid and pushes down on the press, filtering the coffee before pouring it into two mugs, one of them chipped at the handle and Alec’s utmost favorite. With their hands full, they move to the porch on the back of the house that looks out onto the shore, a small space surrounded with glass walls and a ceiling like a greenhouse. The cold from the stone tiles seeps into Magnus’ feet as he wanders over to the patio furniture to put down their coffees - a dark wicker table and matching chairs, the entire space cluttered with potted plants.

Alec lingers behind, his deep breath audible in the vague quietness.

“We should bring the kids here for a weekend, you know, have a little picnic at the beach.”

Magnus smiles to himself, takes the plates from his husband’s hands and sets them down alongside the mugs. “We should, I’m sure they’d love it here with all the space to run around in and explore.”

“They’re a lively bunch, just like the ones before them. I fear for Luke and his back.” Alec chuckles, his words conjuring the fresh image of pepper-and-salt haired Lucian in Magnus’ mind, the eldest Garroway-Lightwood enjoying his role as a grandpa.

“He’ll handle himself. If he made it through Clary’s puberty, then what are three little downworlders in comparison? And he’s got Simon and your mom on stand-by,” Magnus shrugs and they sit down side by side.

Through the glass, Magnus watches the sea move, waves folding over each other, washing out empty shells and starfish onto the sand. Alec takes a bite of his food and washes it down with a sip of coffee, then turns in his seat to face Magnus, cheek resting against the top of his palm, the fork unsteady between loose fingers and dangling above the plate.

“A penny for your thoughts?”

Magnus sighs, turns to meet Alec’s eyes, curious and roaming over the lines of his face with half-hidden worry. He looks and looks and looks - takes in the little scar in his eyebrow, the edge of the rune curling up his jaw, the small birthmarks at the base of his throat.

This is the man who has stolen Magnus’ heart, the one who knows him better than anyone else in the world, the one that treats Magnus like a sacred and powerful demigod. Alexander Lightwood-Bane, Magnus’ immortal husband, the father of his children, his North Star.

Magnus lifts his palm, presses it against Alec’s face, thumb swiping in slow motions against his cheekbone. He leans into it, patient and golden-hearted.

“I am glad to have met you.” It’s a simple statement, underlaid with emotions too big to describe in any sort of language.

Maybe it’s Magnus’ expression what gives it away or the way his hand stills as he gathers the next words, but Alec seems to understand - he smiles encouragingly, his coffee-warmed palm settling over Magnus’.

“When I saw you for the first time, not at the loft, but at Pandemonium, my heart ached and I knew you’d be someone special. That you’d be it.”

In that moment, as Alec pushed past Magnus just after saving his life, a feeling surfaced, something almost like a voice in Magnus’ ears despite the bouncing club music - there you are, please stay for a while.

Now, he’s looking at Magnus with this bittersweet fondness, as he tugs his hand down from his face and instead cradles it in his own palms, long fingers wrapping their way across Magnus’ skin. The touch is grounding in a way, a quiet expression of love and awe.

His grip tightens for a breath and he smiles again, there and gone.

“Listen, I had a whole speech ready for our candlelit dinner later, but I wasn’t prepared for this.” They laugh, because of course Alec had a speech planned. He keeps saying he’s far from a romantic, but if the spontaneous and heartfelt confessions and random gifts, just because, are anything to go by, Alec is one of the most sentimental, idealistic people Magnus knows.

“I wasn’t prepared for you, either. From the moment I was born, I was taught to not believe in the idea of happy love. Practical marriages, alliances for wealth, yes, but not the kind of affection that makes your life better, that makes you happy. You saved me, Magnus.”

The words hang in the air, echoing in Magnus’ mind. He has never really believed in the concept of soulmates, two people destined to cross each other’s paths, two hearts bound to each other before they were born. Fate herself is a trickster, painting an endless amount of paths to take, and before meeting Alec, Magnus would’ve scoffed at the notion of someone meant for him; it just didn’t seem reasonable, but now, it’s different. Maybe they did save each other after all - from loneliness, heartache, a sort of emptiness nothing material can fill.

“Hey.” Magnus catches Alec’s gaze, their hands still tangled in his lap, cooling breakfast be damned. “Thanks for loving me.”

Alec’s following eyeroll is a mix of exasperation and understanding, because he’s been there too, when the best things in your life feel like a dream never meant to last. But theirs had, against all odds.

“You are the man of my life and if I could marry you again, I’d go down on my knee right now. It’s an honor to love you,” Alec says with pure conviction, lifting Magnus’ palm to his lips, branding a soft kiss onto his skin, a knight’s promise.

Magnus swallows the lump in his throat, voice breathy. “I’d say yes. Always.”

They fall quiet against the song of the sea and Alec leans closer, kisses Magnus; it’s far from rushed, not a fire doused with gasoline, but a steady light against the dark. With that, they settle back into their seats, hands still linked, but now resting on Magnus’ bare knee. He clicks the fingers of his free hand to heat up their food again, the steam curling above the plates in abstract shapes.

Alec hums, then laughs quietly, almost as if to himself. “We’re giant saps, aren’t we?”

“Yes, we are.”

They both pick up their respective coffee cups, clink them together in a mock-toast like champagne flutes.

Fifty, a hundred years ago, Magnus was disillusioned, disappointed by what the world was to him. He was drowning in something dark, a cold and deep ocean that sat inside of him - pretty on the surface, but harboring things nobody wants to see.

Here he is now, bathed in something peaceful, something that tastes like black pepper and coffee. The darkness, the cold water, they’re still there; love will not erase it, nor it will fix it, because it was never broken. Love just makes living easier, all the rights brighter and all the wrongs more bearable.

Alec smiles at him, fingers squeezing Magnus’.

“Happy anniversary, love.”

Whether it’s in a year or five or ten, it will be okay. Storms at sea pass and one day everyone finds their someone, their somewhere; for every sailor, there is a haven.

Magnus smiles back, lifts his cup to his mouth and takes a slow sip. The hot liquid warms him from the inside as it travels through his body.

“Happy anniversary, my dear Alexander.”

It will be okay.