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perrigoaway · 4 months ago
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hellooo!! can we have some kristoph gavin content?? thank you :))
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I always like drawing this guy. I think cause I enjoy beautiful men LOL
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faejilly · 1 year ago
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hello!! absolutely adore your writing <3 no worries at all it not, but may i request an alternate pre-series meeting in canon / canon-adjacent where valentine is actually dead? always very curious about how malec’s relationship might change if they met and started dating Not in the middle of a really intense war lmao, so i thought maybe their first meeting would be a good starting point? but don’t sweat it if this doesn’t strike the fic muse <33
asdfjklgh thank you! so this MORE THAN struck the fic muse, but I got distracted by a tangent as to how it all Got Very Differentâ„ąïžand have not actually introduced Malec to each other as of yet but if you'd like some Magnus going what the fuck? at the Clave actually being competent this will hopefully be entertaining. AND ISTG I will get to Malec meeting! Eventually?
A familiar flare lit up his apothecary, and Magnus reached out to catch the fire message. The flames sparked brighter, and he blinked away the after-images as something heavier than he'd expected solidified between his fingers.
A single sheet of paper, cleverly folded up to resemble an envelope and keep the message inside; there was the unfortunately familiar black curl of a rune along the edges.
Magnus grimaced.
It was probably some horrifying form letter designed to intimidate him into something that was not remotely his problem, but he was going to have to clean up regardless. Shadowhunters didn't request things, they ordered, and brow-beat, and the only reason they got away with it was because they treated everyone equally terribly, including themselves, and to be quite fair to their militaristic grand-standing, the world was continuing to not be overrun by demons, so it seemed to be working for them.
Even Valentine hadn’t made much of a dent in their self-righteous arrogance. The Lightwoods hadn’t lost possession of the Institute they’d killed to get, buying clemency with their children, from what he’d heard, which was even worse than typical nephilim parenting. Despicable, ev–
He blinked. That wasn't the New York Institute's watermark, it was the Inquisitor's.
He tilted it to let the light from the windows spill across it, but that was very clearly the silhouette of a Demon Tower behind two crossed blades, not the broken stone the Clave had required the New York Institute to use after the Uprising to signify its failure to uphold their so-called sacred duties.
He huffed out a breath in not quite a sigh, and felt a frown starting to form between his brows. It was easier to deal with Inquisitor Herondale and her people than the Lightwoods. (She at least hated Valentine as much as the downworld.) But that didn't mean a formal letter was likely to be a good thing. Whatever had happened in the aftermath of Valentine's attempted coup had been kept very quiet behind Alicante's borders, and everything the downworld got to see had returned to business-as-usual.
He rolled his eyes, because nephilim, but ignoring one of their summons made them even more petty and obnoxious, so he turned it over to unfold.
And stopped again upon seeing how it was addressed.
High Warlock of Brooklyn Senior Scholar of the Spiral Labyrinth Ambassador of the Accords The Right Hon. Magnus Bane
They'd used a fountain pen and written in proper uncial calligraphy and if he hadn't known that the magic for fire messages didn't work on animal skin, he might have thought they'd used actual parchment rather than what must instead be a very high quality paper stock.
"Huh." He peered down at the letters, trying to think if he'd ever seen a nephilim address a notice to a downworlder in the same formal terms they used amongst themselves. And then almost dropped the whole damn thing when he realized that the initials scribbled across the fold in lieu of the wax seal that would have prevented the fire message from activating properly were IWH. And in the exact same calligraphy as the address.
"What the fuck." He spoke aloud, louder than he'd expected or intended, almost loud enough to startle himself even as he flung the whole thing out and away.
He watched as it fell to the floor, and he stared at it.
It still just looked like paper.
It had to just be paper, the rune to send it wouldn't have worked otherwise, but High Inquisitor Imogen Whitelaw Herondale had written on that with her own hand and sent it to Magnus as if he was an equal and what in all seven hells was that about?
He stepped sideways, unable to convince himself to look away from those initials even as his fingers scrabbled across his desk in search of normal paper and pen to send a message of his own.
Ragnor, could you please indulge me with your thoughts for a moment?
He'd half expected he wouldn't get an answer, not even another fire message or a call on the phone in the other room; Ragnor had been even more of a hermit than usual since the Uprising. (Not that Magnus could fault him for that. If he wasn't a High Warlock he probably would have disappeared into the countryside somewhere as well.) But instead he felt the familiar press of Ragnor's magic against his wards as a portal opened almost immediately in the foyer.
"Apothecary!" Magnus called out, still staring at the paper on his floor.
He heard footsteps, felt Ragnor's magic approach, could even see the shadow stretching towards him when Ragnor paused in the doorway. "Ah, you got it too?"
That finally made Magnus blink, the hold of the strange message broken. He turned his head and lifted his eyebrows.
Ragnor shook his head. "I think you need to experience it for yourself."
Magnus snorted, but stepped forward, picked up the paper, and this time he unfolded it and began to read.
And then read it again.
And again, even as Ragnor came to stand beside him.
"What the fuck," he repeated.
Ragnor grunted, apparently not having any more idea than he did.
"Do you think it's real?" Magnus asked, and he could hear the almost plaintive whisper of something he couldn't pretend wasn't hope in his own voice.
"Only one way to find out." Ragnor's voice was dry, but gentle. There was hope hiding in his voice, too. "Shall we?"
*
It seemed real the next evening.
They arrived in front of the New York Institute to find Theo and Gretel from the closest Werewolf pack already there. A pair of fae nobles Magnus didn't recognize, both in full Court regalia, one Seelie and the other Unseelie, arrived a few minutes later, just after the last lingering blush of daylight faded, escorting Raphael and Lily who were here for their Clan.
Magnus almost asked if any of them knew what the fuck was really going on, but did in fact retain his composure and instead just lifted his chin to wait. (He had to admit, even if just to himself, that he was glad Camille was off somewhere being Camille rather than here in New York to represent the vampires and make this whole situation even more uncomfortable.)
They didn't wait long.
The double doors to the Cathedral swung wide open, rather than the main entrance that led to the central hub of the Institute and the Heads' Office. The High Inquisitor herself stepped out, and fucking bowed to them, and Magnus made a small noise of disbelief that he would deny to his dying day if anyone ever asked. (He didn't think anyone would, however, as he had not been the only one. In fact he was pretty sure the only one who hadn't betrayed their surprise was Ragnor, though the fae had managed no more than a slight shift in posture or positioning.)
"We have set up precautions so all may enter." Herondale paused, and tilted her chin towards Ragnor and Magnus. "I understand if you wish to verify before anyone tests my word?"
Magnus stared at her. She'd just admitted that they had no reason to believe her. She'd admitted it out loud and didn't even sound upset about it.
Ragnor bumped his elbow, and Magnus tucked it all back behind his High Warlock mask. He nodded back as formally as he could manage before lifting his arms and letting his magical senses expand.
There was something inside that was still warded enough to prevent him from being able to tell what it was, but its power was passive rather than active, so it wouldn't be able to be turned against them without warning.
There was also an echo of banked power that felt suspiciously like Silent Brother -and- Iron Sister -and- Soul Sword which was a thing the letter had mentioned but he hadn't been sure he'd believed; (especially that it was only there for Herondale to swear on rather than to be used against the rest of them, somehow). Beyond either of those, it was also very clear the resonance from the Angelic Core had been banked, somehow, the blessing to make the ground hallowed had been covered and muted, and it was entirely safe for any downworlder to enter, regardless of age or power level or wards.
He couldn't quite resist a glance at Ragnor, whose expression indicated he was right there with Magnus and his inexplicable conclusion. Ragnor managed to imply a shrug with the shift of his eyes, and Magnus turned to their fellow downworlders. "She's correct, the building is completely safe for us to enter."
He refrained from suggesting that the nephilim in the building were trustworthy, as they'd all already decided to take that risk when they'd shown up in response to Herondale's summons.
He supposed the fae might not have decided so much as been ordered, but regardless. They were already here. And it was time to see if the rest of it was true.
The rows of pews were nearly full of nephilim in mourning white, more than Magnus suspected usually served in New York, all of them eerily silent, heads politely bowed just enough to lessen the weight of their attention on the entering downworlders.
Behind the chancel, in the raised choir stands, there were additionally about a half-a-dozen black-clad guards, an Iron Sister in gleaming white, a Silent Brother in his bone-dull robe, and the Soul Sword itself, the ruby glinting in its hilt.
To the left of the altar were half-a-dozen nephilim children roughly equivalent to elementary school aged Mundanes, only one of whom had the steady glow to Magnus' senses of a runed Shadowhunter rather than the flickering eldritch taste of angelic potential that the young ones carried before they received their first Mark.
Except for one small red-head just under ten who was familiarly blank, and he realized that the Inquisitor must have found the Fairchilds because that was young Clarissa, still under the power of the wards her mother had paid him to build for her.
He hoped Dorothea was safe, wherever she was. He hadn't felt her magic break, so at least he was reasonably sure she was still alive.
He swallowed, let his gaze skip over the draped stand centered on the aisle in front of him, and focused instead on the dozen adults opposite the children, each with a visibly red Circle on their neck, their shoulders all stiff in the distinctive posture of prisoners whose hands were chained behind their backs. Some of them he didn't know at all, a few were only vaguely familiar, but then there was Jocelyn herself, and Starkweather, and both Lightwoods, and someone who looked eerily similar to the Consul himself.
There was one man beside the rest with his hands cuffed in front of him instead of behind, his Circle rune dark and quiescent rather than inflamed, a Chinese Shadowhunter standing next to him, close enough the white of her sleeves brushed against his arm, with neither a Circle rune nor any restraints on her at all.
"Thank you for coming on such short notice." Herondale spoke up after giving them all a moment to look around, and without another word she turned her back to eight potentially hostile downworlders and knelt before the Sword.
The Silent Brother lifted his hands, the pressure of his attention clear even when he didn't say anything. The Iron Sister lifted the sword, balancing it gracefully in such a way that it tilted gently down from her grip until the tip almost rested on Herondale's forehead. The ruby glowed, and the flare of angelic power was strong enough to sizzle against Magnus' skin. Carried along with the magic was the Silent Brother's intent, and the Inquisitor's voice filled the Cathedral, both inside and outside his head, resonating in his bones and his blood.
"The traitor Valentine Morgenstern has been killed, and the only surviving nephilim members of his Circle are here to face their final sentencing, as witnessed by the Downworld Leaders of New York City, in this the soul of the New York Institute, a place most wounded by his actions. This truth I swear, upon the Angel Raziel and His Mortal and Immortal Instruments, as High Inquisitor of Alicante and Idris, Commander of the Gard, Elder of the Clave and Council, Head of the Herondale Family, Blooded Shadowhunter and Mother of Soldiers, Lady Imogen Whitelaw Herondale."
Magnus swallowed, ignoring the burn in his eyes and the faint taste of copper down his throat.
The Soul Sword compelled the truth from the nephilim, but all it required when they swore upon it was that they believed in whatever truth they spoke.
This ritual was something else entirely. The balance of the magic he'd just witnessed, a trio of complementary powers braided together, Brother and Sister and relic, knowledge and skill and power, secrets and vows and faith, with each separate piece enhancing the other two, meant that Herondale couldn't have sworn on something that was untrue at any level, even if she'd personally believed it all the way down to her bones.
"Well, fuck me."
Magnus snorted, barely stopping himself from giggling (possibly slightly hysterically) at Ragnor's sotto voce reaction. Not that he'd been thinking anything any more eloquent.
It was real.
*
The rest of the meeting was less dramatic. Even whipping the cover off the stand in the middle to reveal Valentine’s head encased in silver-edged glass had been less shocking. (Well, to the warlocks and fae, at least. Vampires and werewolves weren’t quite as able to feel the way the ritual had invoked truth magic against the nephilim, so being able to examine (and presumably scent) proof that Valentine was dead was a bigger deal for them.)
The former Circle members were all going to be deruned, exiled, and imprisoned, each alone at a different Institute so they couldn’t work together and their status could be verified by downworlders whenever they wished, unlike traditional prisoners kept in Alicante at the Gard.
There were two exceptions. One: Lucian Graymark, now Luke Garroway, was a werewolf, and the nephilim abdicated their authority and explicitly left his punishment up to the downworld itself. Second: the man who’d been standing slightly separate from the other prisoners, Patrick Penhallow, who had avoided participating in any of the Circle’s true atrocities and was the one who had discovered Valentine was alive and hiding with the presumed dead Herondale heir and promptly informed Imogen personally. He was still to be exiled from the Clave and Council for punishment, but would be allowed to continue as a Shadowhunter and would, in fact, be staying in New York City where he would be an official liaison to the downworld.
But only if the downworld representatives summoned agreed.
Magnus wasn’t complete sure which part of that was supposed to be mercy and which part was punishment, but he was surprised enough at the validation offered to himself and the other representatives that he did, in fact, agree to it along with everyone else.
That wasn’t even the last surprise though.
No, it got better.
Worse?
Magnus wasn’t sure anymore. He was going to tell Catarina about this and she wasn’t going to believe a single damn word he said.
Instead of re-opening their Academy in Alicante, the nephilim were going to train their children at the Institutes, and would include exposure to and lessons from former mundanes and current downworlders. The children there in the chapel for this meeting were the orphans of the Circle, whose parents were all formally being removed from their bloodlines, and this new generation would be raised in New York City.
Imogen Herondale herself was going to be acting as Head of the New York Institute with Jia Penhallow (Patrick’s wife, who had not ever been part of the Circle) as her Co-Head until such time as as the downworld agreed that the next generation of nephilim seemed sufficiently un-Circle-like and one of them could be appointed.
(That wasn’t, of course, how she’d said it, but it was clear enough.)
Magnus was mostly in shock and just nodding along at that point.
When she’d confirmed that the downworld was reasonably accepting of all of that, and had even told them how to contact Patrick directly with any questions or concerns, she slipped into something that looked like parade rest, and without a bit of warning that Magnus could recognize, the entire chapel-full of nephilim all stood at the same time, chanted “ante faciem Angelus” all together, and then they bowed, too. All of them, each with a hand over their heart, respect and responsibility and something that felt like an apology ringing through the air. From nephilim. To downworlders.
“Fiat justicia!” Herondale called out in response, and the nephilim filed back into their institute, and the black-clad guards very politely escorted the downworlders the other direction and shut the big fancy doors behind them, and Magnus was blinking at Ragnor in the street outside the Institute again.
“What the actual fuck.” Gretel broke the silence first.
Magnus started laughing, and nodded in agreement. That absolutely covered it.
The Clave had said they’d dealt with the Circle, and requested the downworld’s input, and claimed that things were going to be different this time, and it was all really, truly, completely, real.
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possiblyhuman-dotcom · 3 months ago
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Me when-
I-
Me-
I-
I when-
Me cause-
.......
MUMBO MERCH ARRIVED AAAAAIAHDHEBSUBEBSB
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sharonisthebettercarter · 9 months ago
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Let's do something more lighter, how do you feel about yax??
provided and hoping you're not the same anon who'd taken to raising my blood pressure but fine ugh WHAT!?
what the fuck is a yax???
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allo-frouto · 1 year ago
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Do you ever post risqué selfies?
I don't even post regular ones.
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codecicle · 4 months ago
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Guys I'm so glad everyone loves hit JRWI campaign: The Suckening so much. 12 thousand notes on just a thumbnail that's so cool. Anyone think about emizel pussy-out post revival
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sunshineandlyrics · 3 months ago
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Women supporting women!
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valdotpng · 21 days ago
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an accomplice turned victim his apology, long overdue
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czerwonywilk · 11 months ago
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a great change and a great way to execute the idea
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stargatebarbie · 7 months ago
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mroddmod · 25 days ago
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out of context meme of an au i'm cooking
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tizeline · 1 month ago
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Okay so my brain got infected by Gravity Falls again oopsie daisy here are a bunch of random doodles
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Dipper and Mabel would be 25 this year, right? Anyway I wanted to draw them grown up so woah look at that
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Anway Ford totally uses two fingers to flip people off just because he can and you can't tell me otherwise
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frenchublog · 2 months ago
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kosovo miku
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butchfalin · 1 year ago
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the funniest meltdown ive ever had was in college when i got so overstimulated that i could Not speak, including over text. one of my friends was trying to talk me through it but i was solely using emojis because they were easier than trying to come up with words so he started using primarily emojis as well just to make things feel balanced. this was not the Most effective strategy... until. he tried to ask me "you okay?" but the way he chose to do that was by sending "đŸ‘‰đŸŒđŸ‘ŒđŸŒâ“" and i was so shocked by suddenly being asked if i was dtf that i was like WHAT???? WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY TO ME?????????? and thus was verbal again
#yeehaw#1k#5k#10k#posts that got cursed. blasted. im making these tag updates after... 19 hours?#also i have been told it should say speech loss bc nonverbal specifically refers to the permanent state. did not know that!#unfortunately i fear it is so far past containment that even if i edited it now it would do very little. but noted for future reference#edit 2: nvm enough ppl have come to rb it from me directly that i changed the wording a bit. hopefully this makes sense#also. in case anyone is curious. though i doubt anyone who is commenting these things will check the original tags#1) my friend did not do this on purpose in any way. it was not intended to distract me or to hit on me. im a lesbian hes a gay man. cmon now#he felt very bad about it afterwards. i thought it was hilarious but it was very embarrassed and apologetic#2) “why didn't he use đŸ«”đŸŒ?” didn't exist yet. “why didn't he use 🆗?” dunno! we'd been using a lot of hand emojis. đŸ‘ŒđŸŒ is an ok sign#like it makes sense. it was just a silly mixup. also No i did not invent đŸ‘‰đŸŒđŸ‘ŒđŸŒ as a gesture meaning sex. do you live under a rock#3) nonspeaking episodes are a recurring thing in my life and have been since i was born. this is not a quirky one-time thing#it is a pervasive issue that is very frustrating to both myself and the people i am trying to communicate with. in which trying to speak is#extremely distressing and causes very genuine anguish. this post is not me making light of it it's just a funny thing that happened once#it's no different than if i post about a funny thing that happened in conjunction w a physical disability. it's just me talking abt my life#i don't mind character tags tho. those can be entertaining. i don't know what any of you are talking about#Except the ppl who have said this is pego/ryu or wang/xian. those people i understand and respect#if you use it as a writing prompt that's fine but send it to me. i want to see it#aaaand i think that's it. everyday im tempted to turn off rbs on it. it hasn't even been a week
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bumblebeebats · 9 months ago
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Every time i purchase a moderately expensive item the Karl Marx on my shoulder is like "For shame... you purchase yet another pair of jeans when you have 5 already at home, you despicable commodity fetishist? In my time, a man with five outfits would consider himself blessed beyond measure, and yet you want for more, while there are children starving in the world??" to which the second Karl Marx on my other shoulder says "Objection! Those 5 pairs of jeans all wildly uncomfortable or have holes in the ass, due to the decline of clothing quality driven by the fast fashion industry, unfortunately making this purchase a necessity... Plus, by purchasing a slightly more expensive pair of jeans from an independent brand, seeking quality over 'brand recognition', they are deliberately trying to avoid engaging in conspicuous consumption!" to which the third Karl Marx clinging to my back like that beetle from Doctor Who says "Remember, my friend; the less you eat, drink, buy books, go to the theatre or to balls, or to the pub, and the less you think, love, theorize, sing, paint, fence, etc., the more you will be able to save and the greater will become your treasure which neither moth nor rust will corrupt — your capital. Buy the jeans," to which I say "I don't know if any of you have actually read Karl Marx"
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