“Magnus? Magnus Bane?”“That would be me.” The man blocking the doorway was as tall and thin as a rail, his hair a crown of dense back spikes. Clary guessed from the curse of his sleepy eyes and the gold tone of his evenly tanned skin that he was part Asian. He wore jeans and a black shirt covered with dozens of metal buckles. His eyes were crusted with a raccoon mask of charcoal glitter, his lips painted a dark shade of blue. He raked a ring-laden hand through his spiked hair and regarded them thoughtfully. “Children of the Nephilim,” he said. “Well, well. I don’t recall inviting you. I must have been drunk.”
―
Cassandra Clare,
City of Bones
“As for this," Magnus said sliding the stele into Jace's jeans pocket, "keep it in your pants, Shadowhunter." - 219” ― Cassandra Clare, City of Bones
“Jace broke off the kiss and stepped back with an exhale; before Clary could say anything, a chorus of sarcastic applause broke out from the nearby hill. Simon, Isabelle, and Alec waved at them. Jace bowed while Clary stepped back slightly sheepishly, hooking her thumbs into the belt of her jeansJace sighed. "Shall we join our annoying, voyeuristic friends?""Unfortunately, that's the only kind of friends we have.” ― Cassandra Clare, City of Heavenly Fire
“Rule number one of anime," Simon said. He sat propped up against a pile of pillows at the foot of his bed, a bag of potato chips in one hand and the TV remote in the other. He was wearing a black T-shirt that said I BLOGGED YOUR MOM and a pair of jeans that were ripped in one knee. "Never screw with a blind monk.” ― Cassandra Clare, City of Bones
“A moment later, Helen had returned; she was walking slowly now, and carefully, her hand on the back of a thin boy with a mop of wavy brown hair. He couldn’t have been older than twelve, and Clary recognized him immediately. Helen, her hand firmly clamped around the wrist of a younger boy whose hands were covered with blue wax. He must have been playing with the tapers in the huge candelabras that decorated the sides of the nave. He looked about twelve, with an impish grin and the same wavy, bitter-chocolate hair as his sister.Jules, Helen had called him. Her little brother.The impish grin was gone now. He looked tired and dirty and frightened. Skinny wrists stuck out of the cuffs of a white mourning jacket whose sleeves were too long for him. In his arms he was carrying a little boy, probably not more than two years old, with the same wavy brown hair that he had; it seemed to be a family trait. The rest of his family wore the same borrowed mourning clothes: following Julian was a brunette girl about ten, her hand firmly clasped in the hold of a boy the same age: the boy had a sheet of tangled black hair that nearly obscured his face. Fraternal twins, Clary guessed. After them came a girl who might have been eight or nine, her face round and very pale between brown braids.The misery on their faces cut at Clary’s heart. She thought of her power with runes, wishing that she could create one that would soften the blow of loss. Mourning runes existed, but only to honor the dead, in the same way that love runes existed, like wedding rings, to symbolize the bond of love. You couldn’t make someone love you with a rune, and you couldn’t assuage grief with it, either. So much magic, Clary thought, and nothing to mend a broken heart.“Julian Blackthorn,” said Jia Penhallow, and her voice was gentle. “Step forward, please.”Julian swallowed and handed the little boy he was holding over to his sister. He stepped forward, his eyes darting around the room. He was clearly scouring the crowd for someone. His shoulders had just begun to slump when another figure darted out onto the stage. A girl, also about twelve, with a tangle of blond hair that hung down around her shoulders: she wore jeans and a t-shirt that didn’t quite fit, and her head was down, as if she couldn’t bear so many people looking at her. It was clear that she didn’t want to be there — on the stage or perhaps even in Idris — but the moment he saw her, Julian seemed to relax. The terrified look vanished from his expression as she moved to stand next to him, her face ducked down and away from the crowd.“Julian,” said Jia, in the same gentle voice, “would you do something for us? Would you take up the Mortal Sword?” ― Cassandra Clare, City of Heavenly Fire
“Isabelle took out her invitation and waved it like a white flag. "I have an invitation. These"—she indicated the rest of the group with a grand wave of her arm—"are my friends."Magnus plucked the invitation out of her hand and looked at it with fastidious distaste. "I must have been drunk," he said. He threw the door open. "Come in. And try not to murder any of my guests."Jace edged into the doorway, sizing up Magnus with his eyes. "Even if one of them spills a drink on my new shoes?""Even then." Magnus's hand shot out, so fast it was barely a blur. He plucked the stele out of Jace's hand—Clary hadn't even realized he was holding it—and held it up. Jace looked faintly abashed. "As for this," Magnus said, sliding it into Jace's jeans pocket, "keep it in your pants, Shadowhunter.” ― Cassandra Clare, City of Bones
“It occurs to me," said Hodge, "that the dilemmas of power arealways the same." Clary glanced at him sideways. "What do you mean?"She sat on the window seat in the library, Hodge in his chair with Hugo onthe armrest. The remains of breakfast—sticky jam, toast crumbs, andsmears of butter—clung to a stack of plates on the low table that no onehad seemed inclined to clear away. After breakfast they had scattered toprepare themselves, and Clary had been the first one back. This was hardlysurprising, considering that all she had to do was pull on jeans and a shirtand run a brush through her hair, while everyone else had to armthemselves heavily. Having lost Jace's dagger in the hotel, the onlyremotely supernatural object she had on her was the witchlight stone in herpocket."I was thinking of your Simon," Hodge said, "and of Alec and Jace,among others."She glanced out the window. It was raining, thick fat drops spatteringagainst the panes. The sky was an impenetrable gray. "What do they haveto do with each other?""Where there is feeling that is not requited," said Hodge, "there is animbalance of power. It is an imbalance that is easy to exploit, but it is not awise course. Where there is love, there is often also hate. They can existside by side.""Simon doesn't hate me.""He might grow to, over time, if he felt you were using him.” ― Cassandra Clare, City of Bones
“Jordan followed, buttoning his jeans and muttering about how there was nothing strange about having a pattern of dancing penguins on your underwear.” ― Cassandra Clare, City of Lost Souls
“Rule number one of anime," Simon said. He sat propped up against a pile of pillows at the foot of his bed, a bag of potato chips in one hand and the TV remote in the other. He was wearing a black T-shirt that said I BLOGGED YOUR MOM and a pair of jeans with a hole ripped in one knee. "Never screw with a blind monk.""I know," Clary said, taking a potato chip and dunking it into the can of dip balanced on the TV tray between them. "For some reason they're always way better fighters than monks who can see." She peered at the screen. "Are those guys dancing?""That's not dancing. They're trying to kill each other. This is the guy who's the mortal enemy of the other guy, remember? He killed his dad. Why would they be dancing?” ― Cassandra Clare, City of Ashes
“Sorry,” she said breathlessly. “I got lost in the crowd.”“I noticed,” he said. “One second I was dancing with you, and the next you were gone and a very persistent werewolf was trying to get the buttons on my jeans undone.”Sebastian chuckled. “Girl or boy werewolf?”“Not sure. Either way, they could have used a shave.” ― Cassandra Clare, City of Lost Souls
“Emma thought of Julian, sitting here, in this office. Year after year, from the time he was twelve and all scraped elbows and torn jeans. He would sit patiently with pen and ink, writing his letter to the Clave, petitioning them to let his sister Helen come home from Wrangel Island.” ― Cassandra Clare, Lady Midnight
“The buzzer rang. Magnus pressed the button to let him enter, speechless for a moment because he had wanted Alec there, so badly, and here he was. It felt more like magic than anything he could do.Then Alec was there, standing in the open doorway.“I wanted to see you,” said Alec with devastating simplicity. “Is this okay? I can go away if you’re busy or anything.”It must have been raining a little outside. There were sparkling drops of water in Alec’s messy black hair. He was wearing a hoodie that Magnus thought he might have found in a Dumpster, and sloppy jeans, and his whole face was lit up just because he was looking at Magnus.“I think,” said Magnus, pulling Alec in by the strings on his awful gray hoodie, “that I could be persuaded to clear my schedule.” ― Cassandra Clare, What to Buy the Shadowhunter Who Has Everything
“Take them off!” I told him, grabbing the front of his jeans. “Take everything off!”“I’m trying!”“Try harder!” ― Karen Chance, Tempt the Stars
“Magnus stopped dead.The room was illuminated only by a reading lamp; all the other light came from outside the windows. Alec was painted with streetlights and moonlight, shadows curling around his biceps and the slender indentations of his collarbones, his torso all smooth, sleek, bare skin until the dark line of his jeans. There were runes on the flat planes of his stomach and the silvery scars of old Marks snaked around his ribs, with one on the ridge of his hip. His head was bowed, his hair black as ink, his luminously pale skin white as paper. He looked like a piece of art, chiaroscuro, beautifully and wonderfully made.Magnus had heard the story of how the Nephilim were created many times. They must have forgotten to leave out the bit that said: And the Angel descended from on high and gave his chosen ones fantastic abs.” ― Cassandra Clare, The Bane Chronicles
“Isabelle's clothes looked ridiculous. Clary had to roll the legs on the jeans up several times before she stopped tripping on them, and the plunging neckline of the red tank top only emphasized her lack of what Eric would have called a "rack.” ― Cassandra Clare, City of Bones
“Roses are red, and they say love's not made to last,But I know I'll never get enough of that sweet, sweet ass.All that jelly in your jeans, all that junk in your trunk,I just gotta have it - one look and I was sunk.If you ever wonder why I had to make you mine,It's 'cause no other lady has a tush so fine.They say you're not a looker, but I don't mind.What I'm looking at is the view from behind.Never been romantic, don't know what love means, But I know I dig the way you're wearing those jeans.Hate to see you leave but love to watch you go.Turn back, then leave again - baby do it slow.I'm coming right after, gonna make a pass, Can't get enough of that sweet, sweet ass.” ― Cassandra Clare, The Bane Chronicles
“I tossed it on a pile with the coat, my stiff-with-cold jeans and the expensive scrap of silk that had been wedged up my ass for the past half hour.” ― Karen Chance, Hunt the Moon
“She was standing in front of all of them in just her bra and jeans. She didn't care. She didn't feel naked- she felt clothed in rage and fury, like a warrior from one of Arthur's tales.” ― Cassandra Clare, Lady Midnight
“Jem looked at ease in a white sweater and dark jeans. His black hair had a single, dramatic streak of silver in it that stood out against his brown skin.” ― Cassandra Clare, The Fiery Trial
“As for this," Magnus said sliding the stele into Jace's jeans pocket, "keep it in your pants, Shadowhunter." - 219” ― Cassandra Clare, City of Bones
“Jace broke off the kiss and stepped back with an exhale; before Clary could say anything, a chorus of sarcastic applause broke out from the nearby hill. Simon, Isabelle, and Alec waved at them. Jace bowed while Clary stepped back slightly sheepishly, hooking her thumbs into the belt of her jeansJace sighed. "Shall we join our annoying, voyeuristic friends?""Unfortunately, that's the only kind of friends we have.” ― Cassandra Clare, City of Heavenly Fire
“Rule number one of anime," Simon said. He sat propped up against a pile of pillows at the foot of his bed, a bag of potato chips in one hand and the TV remote in the other. He was wearing a black T-shirt that said I BLOGGED YOUR MOM and a pair of jeans that were ripped in one knee. "Never screw with a blind monk.” ― Cassandra Clare, City of Bones
“A moment later, Helen had returned; she was walking slowly now, and carefully, her hand on the back of a thin boy with a mop of wavy brown hair. He couldn’t have been older than twelve, and Clary recognized him immediately. Helen, her hand firmly clamped around the wrist of a younger boy whose hands were covered with blue wax. He must have been playing with the tapers in the huge candelabras that decorated the sides of the nave. He looked about twelve, with an impish grin and the same wavy, bitter-chocolate hair as his sister.Jules, Helen had called him. Her little brother.The impish grin was gone now. He looked tired and dirty and frightened. Skinny wrists stuck out of the cuffs of a white mourning jacket whose sleeves were too long for him. In his arms he was carrying a little boy, probably not more than two years old, with the same wavy brown hair that he had; it seemed to be a family trait. The rest of his family wore the same borrowed mourning clothes: following Julian was a brunette girl about ten, her hand firmly clasped in the hold of a boy the same age: the boy had a sheet of tangled black hair that nearly obscured his face. Fraternal twins, Clary guessed. After them came a girl who might have been eight or nine, her face round and very pale between brown braids.The misery on their faces cut at Clary’s heart. She thought of her power with runes, wishing that she could create one that would soften the blow of loss. Mourning runes existed, but only to honor the dead, in the same way that love runes existed, like wedding rings, to symbolize the bond of love. You couldn’t make someone love you with a rune, and you couldn’t assuage grief with it, either. So much magic, Clary thought, and nothing to mend a broken heart.“Julian Blackthorn,” said Jia Penhallow, and her voice was gentle. “Step forward, please.”Julian swallowed and handed the little boy he was holding over to his sister. He stepped forward, his eyes darting around the room. He was clearly scouring the crowd for someone. His shoulders had just begun to slump when another figure darted out onto the stage. A girl, also about twelve, with a tangle of blond hair that hung down around her shoulders: she wore jeans and a t-shirt that didn’t quite fit, and her head was down, as if she couldn’t bear so many people looking at her. It was clear that she didn’t want to be there — on the stage or perhaps even in Idris — but the moment he saw her, Julian seemed to relax. The terrified look vanished from his expression as she moved to stand next to him, her face ducked down and away from the crowd.“Julian,” said Jia, in the same gentle voice, “would you do something for us? Would you take up the Mortal Sword?” ― Cassandra Clare, City of Heavenly Fire
“Isabelle took out her invitation and waved it like a white flag. "I have an invitation. These"—she indicated the rest of the group with a grand wave of her arm—"are my friends."Magnus plucked the invitation out of her hand and looked at it with fastidious distaste. "I must have been drunk," he said. He threw the door open. "Come in. And try not to murder any of my guests."Jace edged into the doorway, sizing up Magnus with his eyes. "Even if one of them spills a drink on my new shoes?""Even then." Magnus's hand shot out, so fast it was barely a blur. He plucked the stele out of Jace's hand—Clary hadn't even realized he was holding it—and held it up. Jace looked faintly abashed. "As for this," Magnus said, sliding it into Jace's jeans pocket, "keep it in your pants, Shadowhunter.” ― Cassandra Clare, City of Bones
“It occurs to me," said Hodge, "that the dilemmas of power arealways the same." Clary glanced at him sideways. "What do you mean?"She sat on the window seat in the library, Hodge in his chair with Hugo onthe armrest. The remains of breakfast—sticky jam, toast crumbs, andsmears of butter—clung to a stack of plates on the low table that no onehad seemed inclined to clear away. After breakfast they had scattered toprepare themselves, and Clary had been the first one back. This was hardlysurprising, considering that all she had to do was pull on jeans and a shirtand run a brush through her hair, while everyone else had to armthemselves heavily. Having lost Jace's dagger in the hotel, the onlyremotely supernatural object she had on her was the witchlight stone in herpocket."I was thinking of your Simon," Hodge said, "and of Alec and Jace,among others."She glanced out the window. It was raining, thick fat drops spatteringagainst the panes. The sky was an impenetrable gray. "What do they haveto do with each other?""Where there is feeling that is not requited," said Hodge, "there is animbalance of power. It is an imbalance that is easy to exploit, but it is not awise course. Where there is love, there is often also hate. They can existside by side.""Simon doesn't hate me.""He might grow to, over time, if he felt you were using him.” ― Cassandra Clare, City of Bones
“Jordan followed, buttoning his jeans and muttering about how there was nothing strange about having a pattern of dancing penguins on your underwear.” ― Cassandra Clare, City of Lost Souls
“Rule number one of anime," Simon said. He sat propped up against a pile of pillows at the foot of his bed, a bag of potato chips in one hand and the TV remote in the other. He was wearing a black T-shirt that said I BLOGGED YOUR MOM and a pair of jeans with a hole ripped in one knee. "Never screw with a blind monk.""I know," Clary said, taking a potato chip and dunking it into the can of dip balanced on the TV tray between them. "For some reason they're always way better fighters than monks who can see." She peered at the screen. "Are those guys dancing?""That's not dancing. They're trying to kill each other. This is the guy who's the mortal enemy of the other guy, remember? He killed his dad. Why would they be dancing?” ― Cassandra Clare, City of Ashes
“Sorry,” she said breathlessly. “I got lost in the crowd.”“I noticed,” he said. “One second I was dancing with you, and the next you were gone and a very persistent werewolf was trying to get the buttons on my jeans undone.”Sebastian chuckled. “Girl or boy werewolf?”“Not sure. Either way, they could have used a shave.” ― Cassandra Clare, City of Lost Souls
“Emma thought of Julian, sitting here, in this office. Year after year, from the time he was twelve and all scraped elbows and torn jeans. He would sit patiently with pen and ink, writing his letter to the Clave, petitioning them to let his sister Helen come home from Wrangel Island.” ― Cassandra Clare, Lady Midnight
“The buzzer rang. Magnus pressed the button to let him enter, speechless for a moment because he had wanted Alec there, so badly, and here he was. It felt more like magic than anything he could do.Then Alec was there, standing in the open doorway.“I wanted to see you,” said Alec with devastating simplicity. “Is this okay? I can go away if you’re busy or anything.”It must have been raining a little outside. There were sparkling drops of water in Alec’s messy black hair. He was wearing a hoodie that Magnus thought he might have found in a Dumpster, and sloppy jeans, and his whole face was lit up just because he was looking at Magnus.“I think,” said Magnus, pulling Alec in by the strings on his awful gray hoodie, “that I could be persuaded to clear my schedule.” ― Cassandra Clare, What to Buy the Shadowhunter Who Has Everything
“Take them off!” I told him, grabbing the front of his jeans. “Take everything off!”“I’m trying!”“Try harder!” ― Karen Chance, Tempt the Stars
“Magnus stopped dead.The room was illuminated only by a reading lamp; all the other light came from outside the windows. Alec was painted with streetlights and moonlight, shadows curling around his biceps and the slender indentations of his collarbones, his torso all smooth, sleek, bare skin until the dark line of his jeans. There were runes on the flat planes of his stomach and the silvery scars of old Marks snaked around his ribs, with one on the ridge of his hip. His head was bowed, his hair black as ink, his luminously pale skin white as paper. He looked like a piece of art, chiaroscuro, beautifully and wonderfully made.Magnus had heard the story of how the Nephilim were created many times. They must have forgotten to leave out the bit that said: And the Angel descended from on high and gave his chosen ones fantastic abs.” ― Cassandra Clare, The Bane Chronicles
“Isabelle's clothes looked ridiculous. Clary had to roll the legs on the jeans up several times before she stopped tripping on them, and the plunging neckline of the red tank top only emphasized her lack of what Eric would have called a "rack.” ― Cassandra Clare, City of Bones
“Roses are red, and they say love's not made to last,But I know I'll never get enough of that sweet, sweet ass.All that jelly in your jeans, all that junk in your trunk,I just gotta have it - one look and I was sunk.If you ever wonder why I had to make you mine,It's 'cause no other lady has a tush so fine.They say you're not a looker, but I don't mind.What I'm looking at is the view from behind.Never been romantic, don't know what love means, But I know I dig the way you're wearing those jeans.Hate to see you leave but love to watch you go.Turn back, then leave again - baby do it slow.I'm coming right after, gonna make a pass, Can't get enough of that sweet, sweet ass.” ― Cassandra Clare, The Bane Chronicles
“I tossed it on a pile with the coat, my stiff-with-cold jeans and the expensive scrap of silk that had been wedged up my ass for the past half hour.” ― Karen Chance, Hunt the Moon
“She was standing in front of all of them in just her bra and jeans. She didn't care. She didn't feel naked- she felt clothed in rage and fury, like a warrior from one of Arthur's tales.” ― Cassandra Clare, Lady Midnight
“Jem looked at ease in a white sweater and dark jeans. His black hair had a single, dramatic streak of silver in it that stood out against his brown skin.” ― Cassandra Clare, The Fiery Trial
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