everything about these two scenes


“You pray,” the man said, and barked a laugh. He glanced at Cassian. “He’s praying for the door to open.”

“Pray I get a chance to work,” Cassian murmured, but both men seemed to ignore him. 

Chirrut stopped his chant abruptly. “It bothers him,” he said, “because he knows it is possible.”

Chirrut’s partner laughed again. The sound was brief and ugly, but Chirrut only shrugged and told Cassian, “Baze Malbus was once the most devoted Guardian of us all.”

Baze Malbus. Cassian ran the name through his mental database and came up empty. “Now he’s just your guardian?” he asked.

Neither man took the bait. 

From the Rogue One: A Star Wars Story novelization by Alexander Freed


GRIMM | 5.03

I’d never seen a Grimm before.

Not the only one who cares...

“This sounds really dumb,” she said with a sudden violence. “Really, really dumb! But it’s––” she groped, helpless, then sprang to her feet, unable to stay still.

“It’s like––there are all these things I don’t even know!” she said, pacing with quick angry steps. “Do you think I remember what I looked like, learning to walk, or what the first word I said was? No, but Mama does! And that’s so stupid, because what difference does it make, it doesn’t make any difference at all, but it’s important, it matters because she thought it was, and… oh, Roger, if she’s gone, there won’t be a soul left in the world who cares what I’m like, or thinks I’m special not because of anything, but just because I’m me! She’s the only person in the world who really, really cares I was born, and if she’s gone…” She stood still on the hearthrug, hands clenched at her sides, and mouth twisted with the effort to control herself, tears wet on her cheeks. Then her shoulders slumped and the tension went out of her tall figure. […]

“You’re wrong, you know,” he said softly, and held out his hand to her. “It isn’t only your mother who cares.

Voyager Chapter 22 All Hallows’ Eve

“Don’t you see, Mama? He has to know––has to know he did it, he did what he meant for us.” Her lips quivered, and she pressed them together for a minute. 

“We owe it to him, Mama,” she said softly. “Somebody has to find him, and tell him.” Her hand touched my face, briefly. “Tell him I was born.”

Voyager Chapter 23 Craigh Na Dun

“It’s verra fine to see ye, Claire,” he said softly. “I thought I never… well.” He shrugged slightly, as though to ease the tightness of the linen shirt across his shoulders. He swallowed, then met my eyes directly.

The child?” he said. Everything he felt was evident on his face; urgent hope, desperate fear, and the struggle to contain both. 

I smiled at him, and put out my hand. “Come here.” […]

“My… she…” His voice was hoarse with shock. “Daughter. My daughter. She… knows?”

“She does. Look at the rest.” I slid the first picture from his grasp, revealing the snapshot of Brianna, uproariously festooned with the icing of her first birthday cake, a four-toothed smile of fiendish triumph on her face as she waved a new plush rabbit overhead. 

Jamie made a small inarticulate sound, and his fingers loosened. I took the small stack of photographs from him and gave them back, one at a time.

Brianna at two, stubby in her snowsuit, cheeks round and flushed as apples, feathery hair wisping from under her hood.

Bree at four, hair a smooth bell-shaped gleam as she sat, one ankle propped on the opposite knee as she smiled for the photographer, proper and poised in a white pinafore.

At five, in proud possession of her first lunchbox, waiting to board the school bus to kindergarten. […]

Tell me about her.” One forefinger traced the pudgy features of the baby in the snowsuit. “What was she like as a wee lassie? What did she first say, when she learned to speak?” 

Voyager Chapter 24 A. Malcolm, Printer

Sometimes, he thinks about his mother.

When the sky is grey but too indifferent for rain, and even Brooklyn is drowsy and quiet beneath him. When his schedule is unusually slow, but potions are steeping, and he needs to give his eyes a break because ancient symbols are blurring together from the strain of another night turned into an early morning. In these empty seconds, when he’s caught off-guard by the lack of consultations, meetings, visitors, demands-

Here, in these quiet moments, when the silence is staggering, his mind wanders down paths he knows are fraught with dangers. One tentative step, a smell, or in this case, a color, and he knows he should pull – run - back, but he’s already traveled too deep, hasn’t he? So he goes deeper, leaving behind storm clouds for the dull grey of three ceramic bowls set neatly along a small table.

A small and rundown thing, wasn’t it? Centered in the middle of a room he can’t quite remember. He can remember his mother’s laugh, one delicate hand cupping the thick, ceramic dish, another gently smoothing his then tangled hair. How his stepfather would wink before stacking the bowls, then tucking him into his small cot, the linen always itchy, but comfortable in ways only nostalgia can account for. Magnus thinks about how, for a few years, they were happy, a family, and then -  

A demon. An echo in time that reverberates throughout the loft, shaking the crystals of his chandelier. Forgive me, Father. He thinks about the gasp that likely came when a dagger pierced warm skin. And then-

It’s for the best, a shaken, broken voice. Just don’t fight it. Don’t fight. Fingers wrapping around his throat, squeezing and pushing him into the freezing waters below. And for a few agonizing seconds, Magnus was sure he was going to die, and maybe he was meant to, but then-

Vodka, Magnus thinks, slamming back into himself with a force that shatters the table lamp next to him. And if his heart is racing, well, he’s already reaching for the remedy.

One gulp, a quick and desperate thing, but it doesn’t help. Of course it doesn’t. The burn of vodka threatens to take him back, submerge him in memories of fire filling his throat, but it wasn’t the water anymore, was it? It was something else, something primal, building in the base of his gut until his body shook with it. And he wants to pull back, remove his own memories until he can’t remember the feeling of energy ripping from his body, but it’s too late, it’s too-

A knock. Forceful and loud against his door.

Magnus surrenders to the shudder that passes through him. It’s not enough to shake away the memories, but it’s enough to unclench his jaw, smooth away the ridges between his eyebrows until whoever’s knocking won’t notice the storm raging on the inside.  

Another succession of knocks, faster and louder than before. “And suddenly there came a tapping,” Magnus mumbles, pleased with the way his voice doesn’t waiver.

One deep breath and a snap of his fingers reveals Simon, huddled and trembling between the doors. There’s no trace of the creature that could rip a mundane in two if he chose to, just the shell of a boy, frightened and oh so alone.

“I-I saw my mom,” he says, voice breaking like a wave. “I didn’t even mean to, I swear. Not after Raphael made me promise not to after he- after he – but then there she was. Ten feet in front of me and I couldn’t say hi, couldn’t even wave to let her know I was okay. G-go-” he swallows the words he still can’t say, “I wanted to, you know. I just wanted to see her smile, tell her that everything’s going to be okay, but I can’t. I can’t and she’s so sad, Magnus. She looked so sad and I did that to her. This is all my fault.”

“Oh, Simon,” Magnus soothes and ushers him in.


Gold and green pigment swirl together like a nebula against the setting sun. Beautiful, Magnus thinks, a work of art, really. Expertly crafted with the finest of ingredients. Another job impeccably accomplished if he says so himself.

“Chance of failure?” The client asks lowering the vial until they’re gripping it against their sternum.

“So long as it’s used as directed, the chance of something- unfortunate -happening is…minimal.” Magnus punctuates the point with the wave of his ringed fingers and a smile that holds no hints of reassurance.

Glancing back towards the vial, they’re lips part in hesitation. Under usual circumstances, the caution would be something respectable, after all, potions and serums are not things that anyone should handle half as carelessly as they normally do. But today, after six months of work accumulated to only three ounces of liquid and a skeptical glace, it’s downright grating.

“Minimal,” they repeat, voice verging on accusatory.

Magnus shrugs. “If you never go out on the branch, you’ll never get the fruit.”

“It’ll have to do.” Not thank you, of course, never thank you. Just good and finally and you’ll hear from me if something goes wrong.

“Now,” Magnus says, bringing his palms together to alleviate the weariness that’s setting into his joints. “About the remainder of my payment.”


Another tissue pulled from the box, soon crumpled and discarded onto the floor with the others.

“Love,” Magnus says, certainly not thinking about brooding eyes, and a touch that literally threatens to undo him- “is a tricky thing, indeed. Let’s get you sorted, shall we?”


Magnus portals back to his loft precisely four seconds before his phone starts ringing. Placing several boxes of fresh ingredients delicately on the table, he shuffles through his pockets before sighing. So much for assuming he could have a simple night in with Alec.

It’s how he finds himself, hands in pockets, some fifteen blocks from Van Brunt Street. Instinctively, Magnus checks the glamour, making sure they’re protected from the rush-hour traffic flowing around them. Summer moisture is thick in the air, along with palpable tension. Thankfully, the situation isn’t as dire as Luke initially assumed, and while the injuries are severe, the young werewolf, Asa, if he recalls correctly, will survive.

Magnus watches as Luke sends off the remaining members of his pack, back rigid with strain. As soon as they round the corner, Luke undergoes one of several transformations he’s perfected since he was bitten. Gone is the alpha wolf, demanding order after the attack. In his place, stands someone more level-headed and tired. Magnus can’t help but see himself in the pinch of Luke’s should as the detective turns towards him.

“Witnesses?” Magnus asks, already guessing the answer.  

“Unlikely,” Luke responds. “And you’re going to be hard pressed to convince them this was an unfortunate run in between Downworlders. Asa’s convinced it was deliberate.”

Magnus noted the lack of cameras as soon as he appeared on the scene. If the fight was indeed the result of a coincidental run in and heated words, it certainly was a well-placed one. “You think he was followed?”

“Potentially. Figure I’ll pay a visit to some neighboring shops, see if I can pick up anything odd that might tip us off.“

Magnus nods. "Good call.” Then after a second: “Thought about bringing anyone else in?”

Luke rubs at his neck, likely revisiting a question that’s been lurking around the peripheral of his mind all evening. There’s no need to ask about who Magnus is referring to. Clary, no doubt, was one of the first people Luje thought to reach out to. Personally, Magnus would go with someone a little taller, someone with a wide smile, whose body contoured perfectly with his own. How he longs to be wrapped around that particular body right now.

“I’d like to keep this between us,” Luke responds, finally, and Magnus can’t argue. “This will be delicate enough without getting the others involved. At least for the time being.”

Magnus has spent a fair share of time with Luke over the past few months, between their mutual involvement with a certain set of Shadowhunters, a growing unease between Downworlders, and a desperate hunt for Valentine. So much so that his judgment is easy to defer to. Luke is careful where he needs be, bold when the occasion calls for it, and most importantly, rational when emotions are running high. It was easy to come to respect him, easier still to call him friend.

"Full discretion,” Magnus agrees with a quick pull of his lips, “say no more.”

“I appreciate it.” Luke moves to stand next to Magnus, shoulders still tight with unease. “You know they’ll want blood for this.”

“They always do.”

They exhale in unison, comfortable enough with each other to stand there, shoulder to shoulder, wondering how they’re going to prevent the situation from escalating.

“You’ll help me keep the peace?” Luke asks, finally. “May not be pretty and there’s already enough on your plate.”

Magnus takes a long, careful breath. Funny how keeping the peace always feels like picking a side. Briefly, he wonders what he’ll lose in the process this time. "As much as I can.”

Luke reaches out, placing a hand on his shoulder.  "Thank you,“ he says, and Magnus feels it.

"Of course,” Magnus answers, nearly breathless.  It’s never thank you, after all. “It’s what I do.”

“Yeah,” Luke agrees, “but you don’t have, and I can’t deny it feels good having you in my corner.”

“Well, that makes two of us.”


He loses himself, sometimes.

Nights when trails of blue weave through his fingers like serpents. Caressing his skin as it weaves through his rings until it captures his wrists, kisses his arms, before wrapping itself around his body.

There is no space here to worry about younger warlocks integrating dark magic into their spells, or contracts he’s become too preoccupied to finish. No room to envision Catarina’s self-satisfying smirk because she was right after all, wasn’t she? But he’s accustomed enough with that to tuck it away and examine it later.

Valentine is prowling the perimeters of an ever growing shadow and for the first time in a very long time, Magnus doesn’t have an immediate solution to the threat. Hasn’t a clue how to protect a Downworld that’s unraveling from fear.  

There will be time to think about all of that later. Tonight, with the last of winter nipping at his skin, Magnus unfurls his fingers as an orb of white grows between his palms. Breathing in, he expels the last of his worries, watching as his energy flows through his hands until he can cradle it.


I’m worried about you, not-Ragnor says from a position he’s certainly not taking up on the couch.

“Why?” Magnus asks in spite of himself. To his credit, he doesn’t look this time, even with evening drowsiness softening the edges of his instincts. “Just this week I saved a woman’s son, helped Luke prevent another war between werewolves - you should have seen Raphael handle the rouge vampire group, the potential in him-

Of course you did. Magnus imagines the frown, daunt and unseemly. That, my old friend, is precisely why I’m worried.


“I have to say,” Magnus says, hand trialing down the cracked cover of a tome that bleeds timelessness into his skin, “these are quite exquisite.”

Catarina hums next to him, eyes half lidded and dark. Four hours he assisted with a healing that had pushed even his friend’s abilities to her limits, yet here he is, pouring the remainder of his strength into a collection of books it’s simply not fair for one warlock to possess. Oh, Magnus has his share of collectibles and trinkets, most immortals are prone to collecting odds and ends, but these, he thinks, feeling energy pulsate under his palm, are treasures indeed.

“Something told me you would appreciate them,” she says, voice soft from spent energy.

“And I do,” Magnus agrees. He moves towards the next volume, flipping through pages of lore half-forgotten and obscured by ages.  “Well, if you wanted my curiosity consider me hooked, how did you manage to get your hands on these?” It’s unbecoming, he knows, but tomes like these are never freely offered.

Nor, it appears, are straightforward answers from friends. “I’ve seen where your curiosity leads and I have no interest in it,” she responds as sweetly as the wine in her cup. If Magnus looked up, he’d catch her staring from the side of her eyes, satisfaction settled on her shoulders like a shawl. He doesn’t give her the pleasure and imagines her smile growing wider.

“It seems like age is finally making a bore out of you,” he quips, hiding his own smirk in a sip of red wine.

Setting down her glass, Catarina sits up until she’s facing Magnus, blue skin highlighted auburn by the fire. “If that’s the side-effect of wisdom, I readily accept it. And you, dear friend, should consider those an example.”

“An example?” He’s taking the bait, but Catarina knows how to work him and they both know it.

“Of where your attention should be focused. Perhaps if you distanced yourself from the problems of everyone surrounding you, you’d have more time to spend taking care of yourself and your own passions.” If it’s meant to be light, there’s a weight to the words neither of them miss. “Instead, you’re moderating Downworlder dramatics and interjecting yourself in Shadowhunter affairs.”

Magnus feels his head tilt to the left before he realizes he’s doing it. “Trust me, Catarina, my passions have never been so well tended.”

“Ah,” she responds with her own head tilt. “Deflection. They’d be more dignity in simply agreeing with me.”

Catarina isn’t wrong, not entirely. Spaces once reserved for bargaining services in exchange for goods beyond ingredients and information are becoming increasingly overcome by Clary and Jace barging into his loft or mending reoccurring rifts between Simon and Raphael or listening to the pleas of a seelie before facing trial. After shouldering room in his schedule for Alec, well, there’s not much room for much else. 

It’s a conversation they’ve had countless times, and if Catarina has lost a measure of support in the absence of Ragnor, it’s not exactly a comfort. Thing is, Magnus has never been particularly good at turning his back on those who need his help, has he? Even when his mind begs him for it. An hour, a day, just a moment to breathe without the weight of the world pressing against him like a vice-grip.

And sometimes, Magnus wants to listen. But every time he thinks about a werewolf or vampire, frightened, alone, abandoned, he remembers walking down unfamiliar streets, the yearning to tuck himself in a cot that no longer existed, and even if it did, he wouldn’t be welcome there. Not in that bed, or that home, or the family that he was once able to call his own.

Demon, the word bites into his neck like a mantis, but he’s been living with the poison since he ran from the riverbed.

He won’t allow another Downworlder to feel what he felt. Regardless of what he has to give up in the process.

His hand stills, palm flat on the tome. “There’s dignity in helping others,” Magnus says, voice low like the flicker of flame behind him. “Besides, if Valentine wins, it won’t be the Shadowhunters who will suffer the loss.”

Catarina falls back against her chair, shoulders pushing against the plush pink velvet. “Don’t you get tired of cleaning up everyone’s messes?”

A ghost of a smile pulls at Magnus’ lips, but it doesn’t stick. “They need me, Catarina.”

“Magnus,” she says, and he can already feel her words of warning swarming towards him like hornets. Instead of a bitter sting, there’s a just a rush of air as she exhales. “There’s always been too much room in that heart of yours for your own good. It’s going to be your doom.”

She smiles at him, a soft and tragic thing born from a fight she can’t keep fighting.

They both know how this ends, the price he constantly pays.

His reply is lost to the taste of wine coating his tongue. And there it is again, the silence that creeps into his head and does wicked things with his thoughts. Bending and twisting and molding until toes are creeping past the wood of a bridge and he can’t hear anything past the roar that says jump. But instead of a roar, it’s a whimper. Pleading and begging him to give in.

Stop it coos. You’ve done enough. Hasn’t he earned the chance to rest? Let go, it soothes, and sometimes, Magnus wishes he could.

Times when he feels hallowed out and scraped raw. When he’s certain he has nothing left to give, but somehow manages to find a piece of himself not yet ripped from his rib cage and hands it over, free of charge, to another Downworlder broken in ways his soul can still relate to. Just wall himself off like his friends have begged him to, like his heart has pleaded him to, but then he remembers how hard he fought to open himself up again. Forgetting every stone that cracked his temple and the warmth of the blood that trickled down his face because he was different. Dangerous in ways that humans feared and Downworlder’s couldn’t account for.

Magnus finishes the remainder of his wine in one long gulp and for a second, it feels like drowning all over again.

“That’s what I thought,” Catarina says. “I’ve taken the liberty of sending for the others. Most won’t come; likely too busy fortifying their homes in case Valentines finds a way to activate the sword. Those who do, they’ll need orders, and something to make it worth the risk. I’ll see to that.”

Magnus snaps his head up, eyes widening. “My dear Catarina, this isn’t your fight. Valentine holds enough power to destroy the Downworld, I can’t ask-”

“You don’t have to.” If she were a lower person, she would have rolled her eyes, he’s sure of it. “It’s not your fight either, but if you choose to stand, and it was a leap to assume you wouldn’t, we’ll stand with you and your Shadowhunters.” Snapping her fingers, both glasses refill with amber liquid. “Last book, green cover; one of the first mentions of the Soul Sword. Do what you can with it. But listen to me Magnus Bane, for the remainder of this evening, I don’t want to hear a word about Valentine or Shadowhunters, I forbid it.”

“Not even a very particular one?”

And just like that, he feels a hand grasping him from the frozen waters.


Sometimes, everything is overwhelming.

When exhaustion digs deep into his bones and he’s torn between collapsing onto his couch and reaching for the drink cart, but even the idea of conjuring a gin and tonic is too much. So he lingers, idling in his living room as his legs sway beneath him, wondering if this is the moment he’s going to fall, crumble under the weight of everything thrown onto his shoulders.

When Magnus tells himself he should have known better. He shouldn’t have gotten involved with Shadowhunters. Just like he shouldn’t have taken in Raphael or Simon or Jace (or Beatrix, Naomi, Greg). But here he is, too drained to breathe think move, and even though he could rid himself of these headaches with a snap of his fingers or just saying no, his mouth mind soul betrays him.

He can hardly blame anyone for calling him a fool when he ushers Clary in later on that evening.

He’s has never been good at protecting his own heart.


He notices the garlic first.

An overwhelming scent that floods his senses as he exits the portal.

Magnus pauses before walking towards his kitchen, arms crossing before he casually leans against the entrance.  

Alec glances up from the stove, smile easy and wide. “Hey,” he says sheepishly before losing his confidence in a short huff. “I know we didn’t–I figured you’d be tired – it’s just that you were gone for a few days and I thought maybe it’d be nice if you came home to-” He takes a breathe. “Is this okay?”

Magnus feels something crack in the center of his chest. Something dark and cold, encasing the last bit of himself he was trying to protect. Part of him reaches for it on instinct, desperately trying to drag it back where it’s safe, to hide it before the cracks turn into craters he won’t be able to repair, but it’s too late. He’s split open and vulnerable yet somehow, he feels warmed because of it.

“More than.” It’s more of a whisper, a ghost across Alec’s cheek as Magnus moves to hug him. And if he gets lost in the contact, the subtle shift of Alec’s torso as the Shadowhunter moves to align his body more closely with Magnus, well, at least he’s not the only one.

Magnus sinks against him, wanting nothing more than to shut his eyes and get lost in the touch-scent feeling- of Alec. But if he closes his eyes, the exhaustion will catch up to him, and if it catches up to him, he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to handle it. 

“That bad, huh?” Alec asks, gently kissing Magnus’ forehead.

“Just tired. And starving.”

The truth is, Magnus left his appetite in the heat of India but the smile is enough to make him ravenous. The truth is, Magnus could snap his fingers and have the finest foods lining his counters, but this feeds something else, something deep in his core that’s been empty for entirely too long. Taking Alec’s chin between his fingers, he lifts his head until their lips meet, slow, and soft, so much more nourishing than anything he could ever eat.

Leaving his hand cupping Alec’s face, he looks towards the stove, then back towards his boyfriend. “So, what’s the occasion?” Magnus asks, “Last time I checked, there was still a war on.”

Alec shrugs, almost sinking back into himself, but he stays where Magnus can reach him. “You.” A smirk he’s becoming more comfortable with settles on his face and oh, what Magnus would do to keep it there. “Isn’t there always going to be a war or a problem that needs to be fixed?” Magnus smiles in spite of himself. “C’mon, sit.”

Placing a hand on the small of Magnus’ back, Alec guides him to the table before setting a plate and a glass of wine in front of him. He remains close, setting himself up so it’s easy to weave their legs together, and Magnus feels some of his exhaustion slipping from his shoulders.  

Outside, a war is one. Valentine slipped through their fingers, almost literally when he thinks about his spell book, continuing to collecting artifacts that can alter their world in devastating ways. Outside, Magnus sits through councils and Alec leads patrols, but tonight, this is more than enough.


They talk about him, about Valentine, because he’s always lingering in the undercurrent of their conversations these days, like the steady hum of magic that pulsates just under Magnus’ skin. A distraction, certainly, but Magnus has lived through enough near misses to know there are still pressing matters to attend to. One glance behind his shoulder will certainly attest to that. Books even he forgot he owned are scattered across the dining room table, with sheets of ingredients still not filled settled on top of them as lazy reminders, and somewhere amidst all the papers, there are contracts that still require his approval. Quite frankly, it’s messy. But they won’t go away until the job is done, just like Valentine won’t go away until he’s locked up or dead.

Not for the first time, he thinks of dragging himself to bed, allowing the warmth of Alec’s arms to sink deep into his muscles, soothing the tension that comes with nights spent huddled over ancient tomes that even Magnus can’t quite make sense of. As if to make a point, his eyelids droop, summoning a yawn as easily as he summons portals. How his body betrays him. Or maybe just enables him. He can’t deny the appeal of spending a few early morning hours tucked away in the bedroom with Alec.

Magnus stands at the thought, but his eyes travel back to the books covering the table. Maybe just one more glance before he takes a break. Yes, just one more glance before he drags himself across the silk sheet of his bed and gets lost in the warmth that is his boyfriend.

Magnus settles for the couch, opening the doors to the balcony before focusing his magic on bringing a tome into his hands. He pauses for a moment, taking in the sound of Brooklyn still sleeping below him. The air outside hints of spring, but is still cool and refreshing as it nips at his exposed skin. Whether it’s the cold, his exhaustion, or his longing to be close to Alec, he gives up on getting any more work done. Before he can move though, Alec emerges from the bedroom, bleary eyed and squinting.

"Have you gotten any sleep?” Alec asks, voice rough like the stubble that’s beginning to grow over his jaw. Magnus would appreciate the sight much more if it wasn’t another testament to the strain of Valentine’s victories. Magnus may know how to separate the weight of an impending apocalypse just as easily as the next immortal, Alec though, Alec carries the weight on already overstrained shoulders. Magnus sees it working through his muscles, tightening his shoulders as the softness of sleep leaves him.

Magnus offers an easy smile, “I had every intention of joining you, but duty called.” He lifts the book for emphasis.

Alec shakes his head before running a hand over his eyes. They’ve all been pushed to their limits lately.  “Magnus-“

“I should take better care of myself,” he echoes before getting drawn back into a passage.

Conceding, Alec walks to the kitchen, mindlessly grabbing the red and black robe Magnus had wrapped around himself for the majority of the night. “It’s freezing,” Alec says, wrapping the silk tightly around him to prevent the fabric from draping down one of this shoulders. Though his point certainly stands, the sight is enough to warm something in the pit of Magnus’ stomach. 

It was almost too easy falling into the rhythm they’ve finding here. Months ago, Magnus was certain he’d have to endure endless gossip about the Lightwood-Brandwell union, now Alec’s navigates Magnus’ home with an effortlessness that speaks of familiarity. Magnus wants to capture this moment, trap it in a vial to preserve its perfection. Something tells him he’ll need it in the chaotic times facing them.

The sound of the coffee maker refocuses him. Habit stops him from telling Alec he doesn’t need to go through the trouble, because Alec always seems intent on going through the trouble. Home brewed coffee, greasy hamburgers from the lower east side instead of catered meals from Nepal, small gifts before they head to the pool hall or out for dinner. It’s nothing special, but it made me think of you. And didn’t that always make Magnus feel like he was holding the world in the palm of his hands.

When Alec returns, he’s holding two mugs of coffee in his hands. It’s domestic in a way Magnus hasn’t allowed himself to think about in centuries, but here it is, draped across him like a cotton blanket. Magnus wants to sink his fingers into it and pull until he’s uncomfortable with the sensation, but he settles for accepting the cup of coffee instead.

Alec lingers, standing in front of him until Magnus flicks his eyes up, then smiling at the look of impatience. Not a second after Magnus moves the book towards the arms of the couch, Alec claims his lap as his own, curling in on himself until he’s sprawled somewhere between Magnus and the cushions, head burying itself against his chest. Neither of them notice when the book falls to the floor.

Draping a hand around Magnus’ neck, Alec tugs until their lips meet. It presses in on Magnus, the smell of coffee, fresh and warm next to them, the lazy taste of Alec’s mouth as silk glides against his skin. Trapped here, the world feels a little less chaotic than it did before.


Sometimes, it’s easy.

Times when the air outside is warm and fresh from a passing rainstorm. When Magnus shifts, trailing a finger across Alec’s exposed collar bone, instead of burying himself in research. Here, in these empty seconds, he  knows what he’s fighting for.


6x08 / 8x23

camelpoojuice  asked:

Hi, I just want to say that I'm Korean, and JB WAS being homophobic in that video with Youngjae. He's also really really heteronormative and he literally says this is not a place where two men should ever come to. Like everything about that scene his affirming of toxic masculinity, homophobia and heteronormativity. There is NO mistranslation and I have no idea why any non-Korean fans are saying it was a mistranslation. I even had my mom watch that scene and she says there's NO mistranslation lol


Ma. We need to talk.
There’s not much left on this tape.
I don’t think this can wait.


“Your whole life you talked about your favorite stories… Star Wars, Star Trek, Superman, Kensei… All the heroes you wanted to be. One day people will tell the story of Hiro Nakamura.”

  • yuri on ice animator 1: dude thats really gay
  • yuri on ice animator 2: i know dude
  • yuri on ice animator 1: but do u know what we can do
  • yuri on ice animator 2: ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Favorite Hollstein Moments 1/?

“Unless you’re going around kidnapping girls for some ancient unspeakable evil, nothing that’s happening right now is your fault.”
“Yeah. Former minion of the evil? Yeah.”


callica meme 6 happy moments
“I just like kissing one girl…you.”

Entry 22: What does Garak need?

Coyblythe reading ‘A Stitch in Time’ (Andrew J. Robinson)


“Is that what you are doing? Answering for me?”
The anger in my voice surprised me.

This weeks picture is entirly dziwaczka’s property and I was kindly given permission to use it for this weeks quote. Click here for the original art-post.

This scene takes place after Tain decided that Garak learned enough at the Bamarren Institute and sent him back home, even though Garak would have liked to stay at the Institute. He then spents some time at home until they meet again and Tain announces that Garak will work for the Obsidian Order now. This whole part of the book highlights another central theme of Garaks life in which he is constantly being subject of other peoples decisions about his life.

I just love everything about this drawing and how it goes so well with the two Tain-scenes in this part of the book. Do you see how Garak is sitting? He’s as rigid and stiff as the chair with it’s high and straight back rest. You can see the knuckles of his fingers clearly because he’s digging them into his knees, probably causing bruises. And because I talked about the chair.. do you see that sharp edge next to Tain’s hand? It looks like a fuck*** devil’s horn which taken together with Tain pacing behind Elim (almost out of sight) with his hand possesively resting on the backrest… the drawing is basically screaming at you about what a hostile and terrifying environment is surrounding Garak in this scene and this is also the impression we get in the book once Tain shows up.


For more ASIT posts, check my tag “Coyblythe reading ASIT

10 Reasons to love the Night at the Museum films

1) Rami Malek

2) The clearly homoerotic relationship between Jedediah and Octavius

3) And just every damn single thing , everything, about those two, every scene they’re in, just them generally, is just fantastic tbh

4) They’re funny as hell

5) Actually really sweet, heartwarming, very good films.

6) As far as I’m aware they’re pretty non problematic

7) They’re really fucking hilarious okay

8) Every bloody character in this thing is brilliant and spot on perfect

9) It’s museum exhibits coming to life, come on, how can you not like it

10) Rami Malek in what essentially looks like a, very ornate, but still very short, crop top