“Both my parents loved music,” he said
abruptly. “My father played the violin, my mother the qin. I chose the
violin, though I could have learned either. I regretted it sometimes, for there
are melodies of China I cannot play on the violin, that my mother would have
liked me to know. She used to tell me the story of Yu Boya, who was a great
player of the qin. He had a best friend, a woodcutter named Zhong Ziqi, and he
would play for him. They say that when Yu Boya played a song of water, his
friend would know immediately that he was describing rushing rivers, and when
he played of mountains, Ziqi would see their peaks. And Yu Boya would say, ‘It
is because you understand my music.’” Jem looked down at his own hand,
curled loosely on his knee. “People still use the expression 'zhi yin’ to
mean 'close friends’ or 'soul mates,’ but what it really means is
'understanding music.’” He reached up and took her hand. “When I
played, you saw what I saw. You understand my music."
so confirmed tarjei’s friends 100% talk to him and show him at least some of the nasty comments you guys leave on their accounts so seriously think about what you’re posting and why you feel the need to make them uncomfortable
Nightmares was the first fan fiction I ever wrote for Voltron, and it is BY FAR the biggest response I’ve ever gotten for something I’ve created. It’s a year later, and I am still very active in this fandom, and a lot of that has to do with the continuous comments and messages I get from you guys about this fanfic.
Thank you. So much.
This year has been very difficult for me, but Voltron and talking to you guys has been an important path of escape. Without you guys, I can’t imagine how difficult the past few months may have been for me.
Here’s to another year of Klance hell and creating content that I find fulfilling and I hope you guys enjoy.
So I commissioned my wonderfully talented friend @plastic-pipes to make a piece from the last chapter of my fanfic Surrender and she absolutely knocked it out of the park.
The compression of tumblr doesn’t do this picture justice so please click it and really look at it because there are so many wonderful little details all over the place. Pipes is absolutely magic and I love this so much.
the aftermath of it
can’t find it in herself to be mad anymore.
At the start, after Magnus had portaled home, staggering and hurt and halfway to death with this boy leaning against him, asking that she help this Shadowhunter first… she remembers healing him – Alexander
– and feeling rage. With runes stark on his skin and blood
on his knuckles, he had been every inch a Nephilim. The Nephilim who
had stolen Magnus’s heart.
She remembers the way she’d frowned at his unconscious face,
comparing him to the strip of photographs Magnus left on his desk.
Watching him lying there on a makeshift cot in the living room,
suffering from the shock of blood loss and broken bones, she couldn’t
imagine him making funny faces, couldn’t imagine him looking at
Magnus with soft, sweet eyes. Couldn’t imagine that
he’d want Magnus’s touch, that he would smile
that boyish, lopsided smile with her best friend’s arms looped
She remembers thinking, you don’t deserve him. This
Shadowhunter, this lying Head of the New York Institute,
didn’t deserve Magnus and his love. Magnus, who had started
sleeping exclusively on the right side of the bed, who looked at
Madzie with something wistful in his gaze every time she ran toward
him, who always protected his people at the expense of his own
He’s too good for you, she had thought as she glared
daggers at the boy in front of her, with his angel blood and penchant
for prejudice. But she hadn’t said anything, hadn’t rolled him down the stairs, and had gone to help Magnus instead; her best friend, drained of magic and still stubbornly trying to heal himself. She’d gone to the balcony afterwards to clear her mind for a minute, to rest her hands, and now, as she turns around to check in on Magnus…
The Shadowhunter is missing from his cot. Classic. Rolling her eyes, she opens the
door to the master bedroom.
They’re lying in Magnus’s bed together, Magnus’s head
pillowed on Alec Lightwood’s chest, nearly asleep as he slowly
heals from the wounds of battle. His body still lies stiff from the aches
of demon venom coursing through his blood, skin paler than its usual
golden hue, bruises littered everywhere, yet his arm is still curled
possessively around the Shadowhunter’s waist in a familiar motion.
And the Shadowhunter…
He’s looking at Magnus like he’s a miracle.
His eyes never leave Magnus’s and his face is soft and warm and
content, like he’s holding onto something he thought he’d lost
forever. He looks young like this, the way he smiles and whispers
secrets into Magnus’s ear, the way his fingers trace patterns on
his bare shoulder, the way he readjusts the red silk blanket so that
it’s tucked carefully under Magnus’s chin.
Magnus can’t see it, with his face buried into the
Shadowhunter’s shirt, but from the doorway, Catarina can. This boy…
he’s truthfully, honestly, painfully in love. The
type of love Catarina hasn’t seen Magnus receive in too long, the
type that’s as helpless and natural as the sky is blue. And a part
of her still wants to be angry, to shake Alec Lightwood until his
teeth click in his skull, to tell him, don’t you ever hurt
him, but from the way he’s staring down at Magnus with his
heart in his eyes, she thinks he already knows.
Catarina starts to turn around, when unexpectedly Alec Lightwood’s
eyes dart up to meet hers at the sound of her loafers swishing
faintly against the rug. They stare, frozen for an awkward moment,
and she nearly laughs at loud at the way his cheeks go rosy pink. She
opens her mouth to say something, to make fun of him
maybe, or tell him to let Magnus sleep, but right then Magnus shifts,
groaning low in his throat, and the Shadowhunter breaks his gaze,
mumbling something into Magnus’s hair that makes her friend smile
Wordlessly, Catarina magics the door closed, staring at the smooth
black wood as Magnus and Alec fade from view. In the kitchen, she
makes herself a cup of chamomile tea, hands wrapped around the
soothing, fragrant heat as she sighs in exhaustion. The two of them…
they don’t make sense to her, not at all. They shouldn’t work.
But Magnus is Magnus, and he’s never done anything by halves. If
his happiness comes in the form of a too-tall Shadowhunter with
gentle eyes and a cautious smile, then Catarina will be the very last
person in this dimension to tell him no.