#v: reverse

[knockknockinginthedark]

@exploringxshadows is ready to greet their new guest.

▪▪▪ It was a foggy, gloomy late afternoon. Cinnamon eyes were watching  the clouds warily, wondering if he’d find himself being greeted by a storm  when he reached his destination. He listened to the rhythmic click of horse  hooves and the creak of wood from the carriage as it was pulled along worn  dirt roads. Dmitriy sighed, closing the small bible he had been reading and  tucking it into the bag sitting against his hip.

He had received a letter from his twin that had been...concerning. Talk of lethargy in some of the townsfolk, sheep drained of blood - things that indicated something of an unholy nature was residing in or around this town. Dmitriy, a priest and specialist in studies of the occult and the unordinary, had chosen to investigate the matter personally. This was where his family  resides, of course he would be more invested in seeking out the answer and dealing with the issue at hand. He just hoped that it hadn’t gotten worse since he has received the last letter...

Dmitriy lifted his head when he felt the carriage jostle as it was brought to a  halt. He was here. He sighed, making sure he had all of his things and the strap of his bag was secured around his shoulder before he opened the door and eased out to stretch his legs and put his feet on still ground for once. Dressed in a simple black cassock, the white collar clear as day, it was plain to see he was a priest. He could see a few townspeople peeking out of the windows, wondering who on earth the new person was.

There was someone else peering through a window though. Golden eyes peered out the glass from the looming building of the local lord. Bells jingled  as the owner of the eyes leaned back, a roll of joints heard as their head  turned to look back into the room.

          ◊”My lord, it appears that your small ginger servant has duplicated - he’s  arrived to town.”◊ Geall spoke, ◊”What do you plan to do with him?”◊▪▪▪

[chatoyerdemoniste]

@lumenlignum

He can’t breathe. 

Magnus is nearly doubled over on Alec’s couch, face in his hands. But it’s not enough to stop the moisture building in the corners of his eyes and catching at his lashes before they spill down his cheeks. 

He sits upright again, hands falling away, and all it takes is one quick look at Alec, the skin at the corner of his eyes crinkling before he’s losing it again. 

It’s pushing one in the morning and Magnus is laughing so hard that he can’t breathe. He slumps back against the couch, wheezing with slowed laughter, but all it takes is a single thought of Klaus cheerfully breaking down some comically named sex act to their father before he’s off again, whole body shaking with the force of his laughter. 

“He told him...he told him...” Give him a second here. Magnus is fresh off patrol and punch drunk with it, boots still flaked with dried ichor. It hadn’t been his smartest idea to show up here, but an idle mind and unchained feet found him at Alec’s door. 

He doesn’t know why the warlock let him in. Or why he was awake at this hour with nothing better to do than listen to Magnus’ dumb story about his beloved parabatai, but here they are. 

(Maybe, Magnus tells himself, maybe they could be friends. Maybe he could make it be enough for him. Maybe his heart wouldn’t break in two when he had to swear his life to another.)

Magnus wipes a tear from the corner of his eyes. “He told him ‘dad, everyone knows what an eiffel tower is in the bedroom!’” 

[kingofdirtandnothing]

“you’re going to get yourself hurt.”

Protector Starters: (Accepting)

“What else can I do, Jace?”

His hands are a nervous twist between him, thumb digging into his palm. Magnus shouldn’t be asking for help at all, but he’s at his wit’s end. There has to be a way to get Alec’s magic back. 

It’s his fault he lost it in the first place. 

Magnus’ heart is a stone in his chest, cold and heavy and exhausting to carry around. “He lost everything because of me. I have to know that I did everything possible to give him his life back.”

No matter the cost.

[amatdestrui-blog]

@lumenlignum

Jace always gets up later than Alec. It’s been that way as long as he can remember. Jace gets up and Alec’s already got the beginning of his day going. He drinks his coffee, eats whatever he’s going to eat, and then he’s out of Jace’s way when he rolls out of bed himself. Neither of them has ever made a point to do family breakfasts, and it’s not like Alec is inclined to social gatherings in his best moments, let alone right after waking up.

Which means when Jace walks past the table and sees breakfast out, he’s completely justified in stopping dead in mystified silence.

At first he wonders if he’s missed a holiday-- birthday, maybe-- but someone’s already eaten some part of the meal, so it’s got nothing to do with him. Izzy would’ve woken him up. Gabriel wouldn’t have left food behind.

“Oh my god.”

Alec had breakfast with a non family member. He made pancakes. Unpoisoned pancakes, he discovers on stealing a bit that’s been left untouched.

“--Are you getting married?”

[lumenlignum-blog]

@chatoyerdemoniste

“So, uh...if Jace asks about breakfast, is there any chance you can say we just had bacon?. Waffles? Maybe that’s too close to pancakes." 

[dramaticlatinname-blog]

@amatdestrui 

Can you feel it coming, Jace? The words are building up in his chest, giddy and butterfly light. 

The words are pressing against the backs of his teeth, insistent on finding their way out. No escape now. 

“...I rescued you.”

Does that make him a real shadowhunter now?

[godforsakenthing-blog]

‘ you touch my soul, you pain my mind. ’

Sentence Meme: (Accepting)  

It is a very human thing, to dream.

He has long marveled at what their minds are capable of, the colors and depth of imagination that comes in their time of rest. For centuries, he has lingered as close to the veil as he can without interfering, like a man standing before an aquarium.

Castiel has dreamed of hell since Dean first felt his soul cradled in Samael’s hands.

It was Castiel’s dreams that Dean learned he could wipe away with only a gentle curl of his grace, leaving him in the kind of sleep that children in the womb know. Dark. Quiet. Safe.

Samael watches him, but says nothing. Dean is not a protector, he is no warrior. But at least in this way, he can keep one of the Novak siblings safe.

When Castiel dreams of other things, when he dreams of still waters and long roads, it pains Dean to have to be the one to step in, to leave messages. To mar the beauty of the comfort Castiel’s mind is able to stitch together for himself.

Sometimes, Dean walks those empty roads and beach lines for no purpose other than his own comfort. Those are the days he prays for forgiveness for his selfishness.

But it never stops him.

What stops him is hearing his own voice. Not his True Voice, but the one filtered through lungs and vocal cords of his mechanic vessel’s body, raspy and exhausted.

Castiel is laying on the hood of his car, arms laced behind his head, and face upturned to the stars.

And beside him?

Dean and his vessel, as seen through Castiel’s eyes. A little ragged, a little exhausted, wearing a broken down leather jacket, hands clasped neatly in his lap.

The angel, the real one, not a fabrication of Castiel’s sleeping mind, has to clamp a hand over his mouth to keep from making a sound. He retreats from the dream as gently as he can, curling in on himself inside of his vessel when he feels the hotel floor beneath his feet. 

For some reason, the soft smile on Castiel’s sleeping face makes his borrowed heart clench. 

[chatoyerdemoniste]

@allpurposebogeyman

Magnus kind of has a soft spot for Pandemonium. He’s been sneaking into this club since he was eighteen years old. It was the first place he realized that he wasn’t the only who liked guys as much as girls, and the owner, a dark eyed Seelie, has let Magnus sleep off more than a few fae liquor induced black outs here. 

But he’s never really come here with the intent to get smashed before. 

His mind is a carousel of other people’s voices. Catarina, telling him he needed to protect his heart. The way warlock rolls so acidic off of his father’s tongue. And go do your job, shadowhunter. 

Magnus doesn’t want to do his job. (Not true, he never really feels at home in his skin until he’s fighting. But he doesn’t want the politics that come with angel blood and the Bane name.)

So he pounds back shots in eye watering neon colors and waits for the music to seep into his bones. Magnus slinks out onto the dance floor and closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to see the distrustful looks from the downworlders. 

He loses himself in the bass, in the fuzzy edges of the world as alcohol settles on his empty stomach. A long, lean line of a man presses against his back, and Magnus doesn’t question it, he pushes sweaty hair out of his face and revels in being touch. 

In being wanted. 

The hand on his wrist startles him, and the stele is out of his pocket as he spins, graceful in spite of himself. It’s not sharp edged, but he’s been taught to use it as a weapon in a pinch. 

The seelie bouncer watches him with eyes wide, and it makes the flowers tattooed against his cheek look like they’re in bloom. The guy has him by an inch and a half and twenty pounds. That almost makes it a fair fight. Boss wants to see you he says, though his eyes are on the vampire who was backing away from Magnus, palms up. 

He was too much trouble, even here. 

Magnus trudges up the steps to the office, sullen and very drunk as he flops down on Roderick’s couch. 

“I didn’t even stab anyone this time.”