Secret Love, My Escape
Alastair Carstairs & Thomas Lightwood
@youngreckless planned and hosted such a magnificent Thomastair week! Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to participate much given my situation, but I wanted to at least contribute this.
It may or may not be my new favorite piece. I’m so pleased with how it turned out.
What do you think? I hope you like it! 🙈
Click image for better quality
Characters owned by @cassandraclare
Tag list : @littleturtle95 @tobeornottobetequila @zfoxdraws @bookworm-jedi @magnus-the-maqnificent @banesbitch @fair-but-wilde-child @beclynn-herondale @khaleesiofalicante @lizlightwoodherondale @my-archerboy @youngreckless @thomaslightwood @runecarstairs @high-warlock-of-brooklyn @panicatwallmaria @alexandergideonslightwood @cordaisya @livvyheronstairs @time-is-the-stuff-of-dreams @queen-born-out-of-fire @shadowhuntingdemigod @clarys-heosphoros @hardlymatters @tamaraheartz @anarchistbitch @noah-herondale-lightwood @icchiruki @crazy-beautiful @jurdan-my-beloved @icycoolslushie
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the last hours characters + rick riordan chapter titles
(art by Cassandra Jean and Charlie Bowater)
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just some coi memes...
cordelia seeing james with grace at the end of coi
“tatiana is problematic but she isn’t as bad as grace-”
alastair wondering why thomas still hates him
pov: you insulted the merry thieves
cordelia: sure i’ll go to paris with you, it should be fun :)
lucie realising she has to work with grace if she wants jesse back
charles after finding out everyone hates him
matthew pretending to be happy
me reading about how an/na treats kamala
christopher basically anywhere:
thomas after being accused of being the murderer
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Kit(herondale) would totally develop a crush on Alastair should he ever find out about him
jem: *telling kit about alastair*
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Thomas Lightwood x Alastair Carstairs; The Last Hours
Day 7 of Thomastair week hosted by @youngreckless
"A moment later he was pulling Thomas toward him. Their bodies collided, awkward and thrilling. Thomas closed his eyes, unable to bear so much feeling, as Alastair's lips touched his - gently, at first, but with growing confidence, he explored Thomas's mouth, and it was like flying, like nothing Thomas had ever imagined"
tag list: (tell me if you wanna be added/removed) @foxglove-airmid @stxr-thxif @eugeniaslongsword
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I'm still not convinced that the "grey flecks" in alastair's eyes weren't just the light reflecting off of his black eyes and thomas is just a dumb white boy
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i don't hate the jordelia artwork we got but i wish artists could draw something other the the whispering room scene or the bed scene in choi. i feel cordelia is more sexualized than other main characters from cassie clare and that's highly disappointing (especially because she's the first main character that's not white in one of her books) if there are going to be more jordelia drawings please let it be of them playing chess, or their wedding reception, or them fighting demons!!
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The reactions to the newsletter fanarts…
Last month(Thomastair): AHHHHHH LOOK HOW GORGEOUS
This month(Jordelia): eh. No. Why?!
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Why Cortana is actually a TDA character
They have loyalty to Carstairs and the Carstairs alone maybe we see some Herondale love, which is basically Carstairs-adjacent
A temperamental sword which has a flair for the dramatic. they could have thrown itself into Emma's arms anytime but they chose a super cool moment?? iconic??
(COI spoiler) After being tainted by Lilith, they've actually been through so much and deserve a huge glow up in TWP
Their life goal is probably to be wielded by Jem Carstairs (so is mine)
I bet it has some gossip on Joyeuse and Durendal and if it could JUST talk like jack from Magnus Chase. the STORIES. i can't even.
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TLH rewrite chpt.2
Special thank you to Tri, Rua, Clary, Zia, Jaimie, Ana, and @bookswitchcraftandcats for beta reading and putting up with my nonsense <33
I want to put a warning here and I honestly should've put one on the first one but it's pretty much too late. This rewrite will have mentions(never graphic) of s/a and harassment, along with suicidal thoughts and even an attempt. There will be discussions and flashbacks about abuse later on so be warned. There will always be trigger warnings at the beginning of every chapter and for the most part this rewrite will be fluff and chaos, but there will be some dark moments and I want everyone to be aware of that before they continue on with this series. As a victim of some of the things that the tlh cast has been through I completely understand if anyone doesn't want to be tagged or if they want to go as far as to block me so they don't see the updates for this. Stay safe and I love you all <333
Also if you want to know more about what this rewrite will include please look at this ask and this one
Warnings for this chapter: mention of charlestair(1)(derogatory) and somewhat of a sex mention but it's brief and not explicitly said.
Word count: 1917(fun fact: the US joined world war 1 in this year)
Enjoy the fluff <333
Alastair woke up to a pillow hitting him, he didn’t even need to open his eyes to know it was his sister. “You know, Layla, we aren’t leaving for the institute until later tonight.”
“Oh I know,” she smiled cheekily at him, “I just wanted to hit you with something.”
He groaned and shooed her away, she left his room laughing, and was probably on her way to tell Risa of her success in waking him up. After a few minutes of stretching in his bed, he got up and went over to his desk, the unfinished letter to Charles still sitting there, haunting him. It was foolish of him to go to bed with such a letter out in the open where any member of his family could walk in and read it, but he knew that as much as Cordelia loved to annoy him, she’d never go through his personal journals or letters.
The man didn’t understand why it was so hard to finish said letter, he’d done a million times before, maybe it was the stress from his father’s arrest and the move. He was certain he’d be able to finish it tomorrow when he was more relaxed.
“Grace!” Her mother shrieked from her bedroom, “come here so i can decide what dress you’ll be wearing to the institute’s party!”
The young woman stared up at the ceiling, not wanting to move, but she had to. Her mother was always like this, controlling her every move, she couldn’t even eat without permission. She got up begrudgingly and put on her poker face as she walked to her mother’s room, preparing for more harassment about how her body looks.
“-cie. Lu, are you awake?” The brunette heard her brother ask from behind the door.
“Unfortunately.” She groaned back.
Lucie could hear James laughing in the hallway, “do you know where Matthew is? We’re supposed to help Kit in the lab today.”
“Jamie, I don’t think Math is feeling all that well today.”
“Is he in there with you?”
“Yeah but don’t-” James came in after hearing the affirmation, “-come in.” She finished with a sigh.
He observed the scene in front of him, his sister in her nightgown and his parabatai, who’s half-naked, asleep next to her. James shut his eyes tightly and scrunched up his face, “please tell me there is a reason excuse as to why he’s in here dressed like that.”
She looked down at Matthew then back up at James, “I promise it’s not what you’re thinking.”
“Then please explain. Actually wait, please don’t. I don’t want to know.”
Lucie rolled her eyes. “Something happened and he needed some comfort. I promise nothing you’re thinking happened.”
“Good.” And then he left, probably to bleach his eyes.
“Ariadne! Anna Lightwood is here for you, she says she’s going to take you to the institute to meet Barbara.”
The woman rushed quickly down the stairs, eager to meet her lover’s cousin and to see her friend. “Thank you mother.” She kissed her adoptive mother on the cheek and left out the door, bumping into someone. “I’m so sorry!”
The person laughed, “it’s no problem, I’m Anna, Genie’s cousin.” They winked at her, she immediately felt relaxed that she needn’t worry about pretending in front of them.
“It’s very nice to meet you, Genie talks about a lot.”
“Well I’d hope so, considering I am her favorite cousin.” Kamala giggled at that.
“My birth name is Kamala, but my adoptive parents hate it when I tell people that so only use that name when they aren’t around.” Anna nodded in affirmation. “Oh and Genie never clarified but are you a woman? Anna’s typically a woman’s name but you aren’t exactly dressed like one..”
Anna laughed again, “I get that a lot. I am,” they paused, thinking of an answer, “everything at once, and if you’re wondering how to refer to me, I simply don’t care, use whatever feels natural in the moment.” She opened the carriage door and picked Kamala up by her waist and hoisted her inside. “We mustn’t keep your friends waiting.”
Thomas knocked on the Carstairs front door and put hands behind his back in waiting, a woman answered the door after a few minutes. “Hello miss, I’m looking for Alastair and Cordelia, I’m taking them to the institute a bit early.” The woman looked him up and down with pursed lips before holding up her pointer finger to signal for him to wait a moment and closing the door. After about 5 minutes, he thinks about sitting down to wait instead when Cordelia opens the door.
“Hello Thomas, aren’t you a few hours early?”
“Yes but Lucie insisted I come get you so she can show you around London before the party. And I didn’t want Alastair to be bored around the house so I figured I’d take him to a new cafe that just opened up and then to the museum since none of my other friends want to go with me.”
Cordelia shrugged her shoulders and went back inside. What was it with these people and leaving him outside without saying anything? This time Alastair opened the door, “did Layla just leave you out here?”
“I’ve been out here for almost 15 minutes now.”
Alastair sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers, “please come inside and excuse her and Risa, Layla forgets her manners sometimes and Risa just doesn’t like people.” He stepped to the side and gestured for Thomas to come in. The house was cool compared to outside, “wait in here while I go find my sister.” He led Thomas to the family room and sat him down on one of the couches, “if Risa tries to shoo you out just tell her I let you in. And don’t move!” Thomas nodded and Alastair left the room.
He waited patiently in the room, looking at the decor and becoming very interested at his nails. He heard someone walk into the room but assumed it was Risa, she sat down in the chair next to him, it was not Risa. “Hello ma’am.”
“Hello. Are you here for my Layla?” She asked.
‘This must be their mother Alastair looks just like her.’ Thomas smiled, “Cordelia’s future parabatai asked me to bring her to the institute. And I didn’t want Alastair to be bored in his room, so I thought I’d take him to a museum to pass the time.”
“You are a very handsome young man.”
“Thank you Mrs. Carstairs, you are very beautiful as well, I can see where your children got it.”
“You know my daughter is around the age where she should be getting married.”
‘Where is this going-’ “I hope she finds someone worthy of her. Alastair too.”
Mrs. Carstairs squinted at him, almost like she was studying him. “You will have very beautiful children.”
He laughed nervously, “Thank you but I don’t know if I’ll ever have kids of my own.”
“Oh I see.” A pause. “My son is very handsome too.”
Thomas, forgetting where he was for a minute, sighed happily, “he most certainly is.” Snapping out of his thoughts, “I mean, I imagine a lot of ladies think that of him.”
Sona laughed, “you are very funny. Be nice to my son, try to bring back his happiness. He best be honored to bring such a fine young man into the family.” The Lightwood was positive his face was all shades of pink and red. “Oh Alastair there you are.”
Alastair came back into the room and kissed his mother on the cheek, “good morning mama, I hope you didn’t scare Thomas too much.” Alastair looked panicked towards Thomas, “she didn’t scare you right?”
“Calm down, azizam, I was only telling him of how you are of marrying age now.”
Alastair looked appalled, “mama!”
“It’s true! You need to start looking for a spouse like your sister.”
The persian man grabbed Thomas’ arm and pulled him out of the room and back to the front door. “I am so sorry about that.” He said, burying his face into his hands.
Thomas chuckled, “it’s alright, don’t worry. My mom’s the same way with my siblings and I, at least the both of them are in relationships.”
“My mother wants either of us to get married sometime soon so that we will be able to form an easy alliance with another family in case our reputation gets ruined due to my father’s actions.”
“Well if worse comes to worse,” Thomas put his hand on the side of Alastair’s arm and squeezed it gently, “my friends and family will stand by yours.”
Alastair didn’t know why Thomas’ smile made his heart speed up, or why he really wanted him to touch his arm again, but he found comfort in those words. Before he could reply, Cordelia showed up.
“Ooooo Ali’s got a boyfriend”
“Must you be this annoying, Layla? Tom and I are just friends.”
“For now~” Cordelia said in a sing-song voice. Alastair rolled his eyes and muttered something in Farsi.
Thomas coughed, “shouldn’t we get going now? I’m sure Lucie’s bouncing off the wall waiting for you.”
Tessa was folding laundry when she heard a knock on her door.
“Tessa, can we come in?” Cecily asked. “And by ‘we’ I mean myself and Sophie.”
“Come in, ladies, I’m just doing laundry.”
“I didn’t know Will’s new name was ‘laundry’?” Sophie giggled walking into the room. Tessa threw a hand towel at her but she ducked at the last secons making it Cecily.
Cecily bit the inside of her cheek and glared at Tessa, “oh now you’re in trouble.” The brunette shrieked as her sister in-law grabbed a pillow and chucked in at her, she missed but Sophie had grabbed a pair of socks secretly and hit Tessa dead on, who dramatically fell back onto the bed. After a moment of silence, the women started laughing hysterically, the other two joined Tessa on the bed.
Sophie sighed resting her head on Tessa’s shoulder, “Genie’s coming back from Idris today. She- they said they wanted to be here with family.”
“And we’ll do everything we can to help them feel better,” Cecily said. “We all know what it’s like to be publicly embarrassed like that, especially you both.”
“Yeah, everything’s going to be alright for them, all of them.”
Genie stared out of the carriage, they couldn’t wait to see Kamala after all these months, and their family of course.
“Genie,” their father started. “The institute is having a party tonight, do you feel you want to go? We can grab your siblings and Anna and go shopping for some outfits if you want.”
“Maybe later this week papa, I just want to be home with family right now.”
He put his hand on their knee. “That’s perfectly alright, whatever you need right now.” There was a pause before he spoke again, “I know you’re all grown up but you’ll always be mi cielo.”
“I know papa, you’ve always been there when we need you. I know you worry about being like your dad but you’re not, you take good care of us, and we love you very much.” They put their hand on top of Gideon’s and smiled, “but for the record, shopping is Anna and Barbie’s thing, not mine.” Their dad laughed as they went back to playing fantasies in their mind while staring out of the window.
Tagging: @ninacarstairss @styxdrawings @lifewouldbebetteronmars @thechangeling @shadowhuntertrash @angelwiththeblue-box @kitandtyarelife @phoenix-and-dragon @the-blackdale @wannabe-warlock @bi-peanut @i-love-all-books @arangiajoan @pjo-tsc-trc-otherthingstoo @forswell @theenchanteddreamer @i-am-church-the-cat @fortheloveofthecarstairs @queenlilith43 @imherongraystairstrash @adoravel-fenomeno @cant-think-of-anything @thehotfaeriethreesome @herondalesunsetcurve @theshadowhunter @jurdan-my-beloved @pink-party-dino @niastormbolastairkanejsambucky @ghafa-dale @nott-the-best @corvid-idiot @shadowrunner2000 @haleylightwood @autumnangel20 @icycoolslushie @anarmorofwords @thepictureofsdr @foxglove-airmid @littlx-songbxrd @tentotea @crazy-beautiful @alastair-esfandiyar-carstairs1 @eugeniaslongsword @clarys-heosphoros @bookswitchcraftandcats @khaleesiofalicante @ddepressedbookworm @for-verisimilitude sorry if I left anyone out! Let me know if you do/don't want to be tagged in this!!
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Let Me Tell You a Story (a Thomastair fic)
Inspired by Julie Berry's 'Lovely War' (but you don't need to have read that for this) | Goddess Aphrodite narrates the story of two young boys in Paris, 1902.
Amsterdam is a bustling city. Honking cars and rushing people crowd the city with incoherent noise.
In the penthouse of a luxury building, however, a man hears nothing. He is stooped over on the foot of his bed, gasping slightly as pain makes itself a welcome visitor in his back.
He is not handsome, not in the traditional sense, at least. His hands are gnarled, and his skin is scarred and singed. But his eyes are black, with flecks of amber that are reminiscent of embers in the dark. His face is both old and young, eternal and knowing. He maybe not be perfect, but he is not too far from it either.
He tries soothing himself with deep, steady breaths, but just then the door opens.
The young woman in the doorway is beautiful, in the traditional sense, in every sense. Her straight black hair falls just short of her collarbone, drawing eyes to the elegant slope of her neck, the turquoise sheen of her silken dress and her long legs, which disappear into classic heel pumps. Her figure is the sort that one would see on a runway and her high cheekbones, almond eyes and pointed chin do not dissuade.
The man on the bed smiles, his pain momentarily forgotten at the sight of his wife. She smiles back at him and walks to the bed.
"Aphrodite, my love," greets Hephaestus, pressing a soft kiss to her perfect lips. She sits down beside him and looks up at him through her long lashes.
"Hello, husband," she replies, delighting in the word. They have been married for long, but saying that word with love is still a new thing to her.
"You seem in pain," she says, reaching out caress his cheek, worry creasing her brows. Hephaestus shrugs, in an attempt to soothe her concern, but the movement sends another jolt of pain down his spine, and he winces.
"You are!" Aphrodite exclaims, and runs a soft hand down his back. Hephaestus shakes his head, trying to appear unaffected, but his wife knows him too well.
"Don't act like you aren't, what can I do?" she asks, and her husband takes her hand.
"You are here," he tells her, "that is enough."
"Lie down," she commands, getting to her feet. "I will change, and then we will sleep."
Hephaestus knows better than to argue with her, especially when she's right. Which she is usually (annoyingly) is.
He gently lays down on their bed, and sweeps the covers over himself. The room is cold, and he shoots an annoyed glare at their fireplace. Flames leap up in an instant.
Aphrodite gets back, now in a cream nightgown. She slides in beside him, and presses a kiss to his forehead.
"Tell me a story," he says as she draws away. "Distract me."
She smiles then. "Distract you, oh?"
Hephaestus rolls his eyes "With a story, yes. Your last story was a beautiful one, and it changed my mind when I was full of rage. There must be more mortals who've caught your eyes, other than Hazel and James and Colette and Aubrey. Tell me of them."
Aphrodite is silent for a while, pondering.
"Well," she says slowly, eyes glazed, "there is one I have, of a boy and a boy in Paris."
Hephaestus turns to fully face her. "Let's hear it then."
Let me take you to 1902 in the streets of Paris. A young Mr. Thomas Lightwood roams the city. He's on his travel year and is stopping by Paris from Madrid.
Thomas had already seen the tourist attractions and his loneliness was palpable. I could feel it during my stay at the L'Hotel. I was only two rooms away from his, and I knew no one more in need of my assistance.
Paris, after all, is not a city to be lonely in.
So I followed Thomas as he toured the city. His friend Matthew (a favorite of mine, that one) had recommended the Rue de Rivoli, as a must-visit location, and Thomas was headed there.
And that's where they met. Alastair Carstairs was browsing through some poetry books - having read Machiavelli's 'The Prince' too many times for even his liking - when I saw him.
That's when I knew this could be one of my masterpieces.
Alastair and Thomas knew each other from when they had attended the Shadowhunter Academy together. They were not on friendly relations there, and held no fond memories of each other. Or at least, Alastair didn't. But that's not the point.
The point is, there is no tale I delight in spinning more than one of enemies turned friends turned something more.
You see, Alastair here was lonely too. His heart labored over Charles Fairchild, who would never love him back. Their story had pinched me too many times for me to not grow pitiful of young Alastair.
All right, I told him. Look to your left.
Alastair did. Stood before him in all his glory was little Thomas Lightwood, who by no accounts little anymore. He was tall as tree now, broad-shouldered and muscled. Alastair's mouth went dry as his mind drew up a comparison to Michelangelo's David at the sight. He knew which one he liked better, and well.
That scared him.
I darted over to Thomas then, compelling him to turn as well. When Thomas saw Alastair, the tumultuous feeling that rioted through was worthy of a novel. Confusion, anger, guilt and then, hope, all bloomed in his chest, and he gave Alastair a wave.
(Yes, a wave. It was a bit embarrassing, but who am I to judge?)
Alastair pushed through the crowd of people in an instant, eyes wide and cheeks flushed, and stopped right before Thomas.
I was on my tiptoes then. First words are so very important, especially when two former not-really-enemies reunite. They can make or break a story.
"By the Angel, Lightwood,” Alastair said, staring Thomas up and down. “You’ve become gigantic."
I wanted to throttle the boy.
Thomas, for his part, did not run away at the pure (unintentional, but nevertheless there) condescension in Alastair's tone. He simply raised an elegant brow.
(He wasn't the only one. It was not everyday in Paris a dark-skinned man waltzed up to a much larger white one and commented on his size)
“This is your revenge, I suppose,” Alastair went on, as if Thomas had decided to quadruple himself in size simply to irk him, “for all the times I called you ‘wee little Thomas’ or ‘half pint’ or—I can’t remember, I’m sure I had something cutting and witty to say.”
I really wanted to throttle him. The boy had no regard for me.
“What are you doing in Paris?” Thomas asked. I sighed in relief. Atleast one of them knew how to keep a conversation.
“What are you doing in Paris?” Alastair sniped back, like the Romeo he was.
Lovely Thomas responded with eternal patience. “I’m on holiday from my travel year in Spain.”
They fell silent then. Thomas was so nervous his eyes kept darting across the shop, focusing anywhere but on the man before him. Alastair took this opportunity to admire Thomas's shoulders.
Legendary shoulders, he decided.
I did not have time to giggle at that. Thomas was clearly looking for an escape, hoping to excuse himself politely and run away screaming.
And leave Alastair to continue mooning over the no-good, redhaired, piece of trash he called a lover. Not called, because cowardly Charles was too ashamed of the best thing in his miserable life. Too ashamed, of me.
I simply could not let that happen.
Louvre, you dolt, I hissed, tell him to come with you.
“Do you want to come to the Louvre, then? I’m going over there after this,” Alastair asked tentatively.
Poor thing. It's a hard task to appear so aloof when all one wants is to open their heart and not be hurt.
He anxiously waited Thomas's answer, heart pounding. He did not know why he felt so nervous about asking a simple question. Perhaps it was because of the regret he felt on being cruel to Thomas at the Academy. Perhaps it was because the weather of Paris seemed to have risen rather rapidly since Thomas appeared. Perhaps it was something more.
Thomas, for all his convincing himself he should dislike Alastair, agreed rather quickly. Alastair's immense relief was our little secret.
And so they walked to the Louvre. Thomas, who had visited it before and taken some notes of his thoughts, shared them with Alastair, who (thankfully) for once did not have anything cutting to say. He simply nodded and continued to enjoy the beauty of the museum.
I love the Louvre. It has that effect on people, able to silence even the most brutish in all it's breathtaking beauty. Although I could say that for all of Paris.
Let the Muses take credit for the art, but it is love and beauty that make them extraordinary.
Thomas's mind was a pool of chaos during this trip. He should hate Alastair, he had plenty reason to too. But this side of the dark-haired man made him feel . . . things. Things decidedly unassociated with hate. Perhaps, he thought, he had changed. Maybe everyone grew up sooner or later. Maybe he had not even been that bad in the first place.
Although he quickly changed his mind about that, the thought did make me very pleased. My job is so much more easier when at least one of them is willing to admit the change, at least to themselves.
After touring the Louvre, the pair took a walk down the Siene (and they say it's not a date). It's a task, really, watching not-quite-love blossom in it's infant phase. Like a babe learning to walk! It wobbles this way and that, and the slightest push can send it crashing. But it's beautiful, to sit there and decode all they say and all they don't:
"Were you always travelling?" Oh, how lonely you must have been!
"I never took you for someone so interested in the languages and cultures of our world." How I'd misunderstood you, Tom . . .
"Tell me of Damascus and Morocco!" What could a worldly bloke like you possibly be doing with old me?
"Madrid must've been grand. I've heard your father went there as well, right?" Would you look so kindly at me if you knew all I said about him?
Alastair paused in his walk to gaze up at the towering Eiffel. It was nothing spectacular, a leaning stack of iron crisscrossing over each other when it came down to it.
“Have you been up there yet?” Alastair asked Thomas, gesturing to it.
"I have. The view is stunning."
“What do you think of the view from here?” Alastair asked. He desperately hoped Thomas liked the structure, could see the beauty in it too.
Thomas looked towards it, pondering. He'd had this feeling, as if Alastair was tricking him somehow.
Trust him, I said.
“I think it’s a fascinating structure,” he said. “There’s nothing like it.”
To anyone, Thomas's words would have been a passing complement, but to not to Alastair. To Alastair, they were Gospel proof that Thomas Lightwood was as good as they came. That he refused to believe rumors and saw the best in people. That he believed everyone, no matter how ugly or cruel, could be beautiful. It lit a small hope in his chest, that maybe one day Thomas would find out and forgive him.
“Indeed there isn’t. In fact, many Parisians are horrified by it. They find it ugly, hideous even, and they call it ‘Eiffel’s folly.’”
Thomas regarded the structure once again, thinking of his homeland Idris. “It isn’t ugly,” he said. “It’s just unusual.”
Alastair agreed. “Quite right. Gustave Eiffel is a genius, and I feel certain he shall one day be appreciated. Sometimes you have to stand back and let people do what they are good at, even if it seems like madness at the time.”
"Are you sure you're not just saying that to me?" asks Hephaestus, eyes sparkling.
Aphrodite shoots him an annoyed, yet fond, glare. "Of course not," she says primly. "If I were to say anything to you, I would say it outright. Especially not at the expense of these two."
Hephaestus laughs and gestures for his wife to go on.
They had dinner at an adorable little bistro, and gazed into each other's eyes as they spoke of everything under the sun and moon (and they say it's not a date). They drew amused and knowing looks from the French waitstaff. Paris had always been a bit more open in that regard. After all, Oscar Wilde (my sweet summer child) himself had stayed in the city before he died. They were not about to share commentary at the big man and his petit ami's expense.
French waitstaff, really. They are my people.
And so they talked, and I pulled up a chair to watch my little lovebirds do all the sweet things of a couple (not) smitten with each other. It was delightful.
They spoke without ceasing, as if the world had vanished and they were the only ones left in it. Scheherzade, Chopin, Lizst, Venice, Darius the Great, Versailles and even our beloved Amsterdam all wove in and out of their conversation.
It turned out Alastair was 'indifferent' to Mozart's 'Rondo Alla Turca', but Thomas and his sister Eugenia - who played the piano - loved it. Alastair always wished to see Rome and Thomas's favorite book was the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam.
"You know," Thomas said, just when I was beginning to think they had exhausted all topics of conversation, "I've been thinking of getting a tattoo, of a compass rose."
Alastair paused for a second, thinking. Oh how I begged him to keep this great yap shut! Thomas was revealing something deeply personal, not even shared to his closest friends, to him just then. If Alastair sniped at this, it would be the end of their blossoming relationship!
Thankfully, Alastair remained civil and only inquired as to why Thomas had chosen a compass rose.
"It signifies direction, awakening and change. I thought it would be quite fitting to get it on my arm," Thomas explained.
"Where on your arm?"
Thomas rolled up his sleeve and directed Alastair's hand to his skin. Alastair - bless the boy! - ran his fingers down the smooth spot quite unashamedly.
Forget Thomas, I nearly swooned.
As if sensing the awkward turn this conversation would take, a waiter interrupted with impeccable timing.
They left, with promises to meet the next day, and went to their places for the night.
Alastair spent the rest of the evening in a state of delirious happiness. Today was one of the strangest days of his life. He had gone to the Rue in search of a book to keep him company, and had found something far better. Hidden in the shadows of his friends, Alastair had never really seen Thomas, but now he wished he had.
He thought back to the day they'd shared. Visiting the Louvre, walking by the Siene, eating together, all of these things would be unimaginable with Charles. That conversation itself would lead to Charles saying things that made Alastair feel stupid.
He was quite good at that, now that Alastair though about it.
But Thomas had gone with him as if it were the most natural of things, as if there was nothing at all to be ashamed of.
After tomorrow, Thomas and Alastair would part ways for good. Thomas would remain here while Alastair left. Thomas would return to London with tales of Madrid and Paris to share with his friends. Alastair would not be in a single one of them.
And Alastair himself would return to life as it were before, to duties and hurt and secret joys. Except this time, he would know what could be. He'd discovered the taste of freedom and would long for it forever.
Thomas, on the other hand, had decided he did not want to decode what had happened between him and Alastair, and his grand plan to achieve that was by not thinking of Alastair at all.
But as Thomas roamed his hotel room, as he showered, as he dressed, as he read a book, as he attempted to sleep, his mind rang a chiming bell that went AlastairAlastairAlastairAlastair. It was rather annoying, but I wasn't about to sit idle now was I?
The next was a busy one, both for the boys and for me. While Alastair got up early and bathed and dressed, I helped him out. When Thomas rose a bit later, I flitted like a bumblebee between them, making sure everything was ready and in place.
Alastair stopped thrice for the restroom on his way, once to use it, twice to make sure his hair was in place. Just because he had an image to upkeep and his mother had raised him well. Definitely not because he wanted to impress Thomas. It made him quite late.
Poor Thomas was worrying himself sick. Alastair was most definitely tricking him, playing games and was probably laughing about dumb old Thomas Lightwood somewhere. He was not going to show up.
Thomas should have expected this. He did not know why he felt so disappointed.
But then, against all hope, Alastair Carstairs arrived, stumbling over his apology and brandishing two tickets as he ushered Thomas towards Théâtre Robert-Houdin.
For 19 minutes, they watched Le Voyage dans la Lune, or a Trip to the Moon, if you will. If something happened in the movie, Alastair couldn't tell. All he could focus on was the reality of Thomas Lightwood beside him, large as life and deeply invested in the film.
Even if it did not last, he could at least savor the last moments of this suspended dream.
I tried all I could, but as with all good things, the day came to an end. It was time for the bitter goodbye, and I was a captivated audience.
"I am leaving tomorrow," Alastair said, as they exited the Théâtre. He did not mention where and why, and Thomas wondered, but did not pry.
"Perhaps we shall meet in London again," he added, hoping the way his voice rose an octave in hope went unnoticed.
(It did by Thomas, oblivious bastard. But I heard. I always heard)
Thomas nodded absently, trying not to dwell too hard on the end of this dreamlike experience.
"I return to Spain in a couple of days myself," he said.
Alastair laughed at that. “It’s odd that you came here from Madrid. Like taking a vacation from a vacation.”
(I really, really, wanted to throttle him. So much for sweet goodbyes)
“I suppose,” said Thomas. Then he frowned. “No, it isn’t odd. A travel year isn’t a vacation. It’s an assignment to a post. Do you have to snipe at everything?”
(Had I not been me, the whole of France would have heard me sigh. Finally someone says it)
Alastair blinked. “I’m sorry,” he said slowly. “I don’t mean anything by it.”
Thomas was startled by that. Seeing the vulnerable side of Alastair Carstairs was not something he was used to. He stuck his hand out suddenly, lest he do something wildly inappropriate.
(I rather hoped he would, but oh well)
Alastair stared it for a good long minute. Ever since he had touched Thomas's arm, its thought had plagued him endlessly.
He took it, and reveled in the smoothness of Thomas's palm. It was exactly how he'd remembered.
"Well," Thomas said, trying his best to sound nonchalant (I wasn't fooled). "Goodbye, Carstairs."
“Goodbye, Lightwood," came Alastair's reply, voice too airy to be considered genuinely detached.
(Thomas ought to have noticed this, but alas, he was thicker than bricks)
"Try not to get any taller. You’re starting to be off-putting in the other direction," he added.
(Because God forbid Alastair Carstairs not snipe)
Thomas watched Alastair walk away, waiting to see if he would turn back. He didn't, for Alastair knew the best course of action for him would be to walk on, lest he give in to the overwhelming urge to go back to Thomas and stay just a day longer.
When Aphrodite had paused a long enough time, Hephaestus raises a brow. "Well?"
"What?" she asks, indignant.
"You're not going to go on?"
The goddess of love and beauty huffs and pulls the sheets up over herself, snuggling into her husband's chest.
"Not today, no," she mumbles.
"But you can't just end like that!" Hephaestus shoves her away.
Extremely disgruntled, Aphrodite sits up, glaring daggers. Her perfect hair is sticking up in all directions now.
"I'm not ending it infinitely. Maybe I shall continue later, but for now, since you seem sufficiently distracted, I am going to sleep."
The god of the forge splutters like a dying flame.
"But isn't there supposed to be, like, a moral?"
Aphrodite laughs. "You want a moral? Fine," she says, sneering slightly.
"The moral," she announces theatrically, "is that sometimes bad things happen, and we feel bad. But we never know when something good will happen, so we endure the bad thing in hope."
She sends him a pointed look.
Hephaestus sighs and rolls his eyes. "Noted."
"Good," Aphrodite mutters, looping her arms around his neck and smushing her face into his chest. "Now we sleep."
"You're still continuing their story tomorrow," he whispers.
"Not if I die exhaustion I won't."
Hephaestus snorts, but let's the lull of sleep pull him in nonetheless.
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(lemme know if u want to be added/removed)
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Can i have a Thomastair + I'm here + fluffs please?
Hi, thank you for the ask! Sorry I took so long, I haven’t had much experience writing fluff and I couldn’t think of anything lol. I hope you enjoy it, tell me what you think! <333
Notes: About 1k words. Thomas’s POV.
Early morning sunlight poured through the open windows, filling the room with soft orange and yellow hues and waking Thomas out of the slumber he was in.
Thomas yawned, blinking sleep from his eyes. Although he had just woke up, he felt a certain calm mixed with energy one might feel when well-rested. He rolled over in the bed and opened his mouth to say something—and froze. The space beside him was empty, which was odd because, unless he had been dreaming, he clearly remembered Alastair had occupied it the night before.
His mouth went a little dry looking at the spot where Alastair no longer was. So that was it, he had just taken off before Thomas awoke? They were still at the beginning of their relationship, and it had been the first night Alastair had slept over instead of the other way around, but Thomas still felt like a deflated balloon. What had he done wrong? He had been nervous about bringing Alastair into his house, but his parents and sister had given him the space he needed, and on the whole Thomas thought the night had gone quite well. He and Alastair hadn’t actually done anything, but it had been pleasant kissing Alastair for hours on end and then lying beside him and talking about idle things before one last kissing session, after which the both fell asleep. Now he tried to picture if Alastair had looked bored or uninterested last night, if he had wanted more than Thomas had given, if they had taken it too slow—
Thomas silently cursed and nearly leaped with joy as Alastair walked into the room, balancing what looked like a breakfast tray in his hands. His heart soared at the sight of Alastair’s bed-rumpled hair, his haphazardly-buttoned shirt, his foot where he was missing one sock. So he had got it all wrong, Thomas thought, unclenching his shoulder muscles that he hadn't realized were taunt. Alastair had left to make breakfast, not because he didn’t want to be with Thomas. The relief that poured over him was almost unbearable.
“What are you thinking about?” Alastair asked as he carefully walked towards Thomas, trying not to spill anything on the tray. He set it down on the bedside nightstand, and Thomas saw that it was piled high with pancakes, along with cups of water and orange juice.
“Nothing. Stupid things.” Thomas pulled Alastair into the bed as soon as he set the tray down. He pulled the other boy into his lap, leaning forward to put his face in his hair and breath the scent of him. He smelled of syrup. “I thought you had left,” he mumbled into Alastair’s hair.
Alastair turned around to face Thomas. He put his hands lightly on his shoulders and moved to touch his forehead against Thomas’s. “I’m here,” he whispered softly to Thomas. “I won’t leave you. What a stupid thought to have.”
Thomas had closed his eyes when Alastair had touched him. “I think that has already been established,” he laughed quietly.
“It seemed worth repeating.” To Thomas’s disappointment Alastair moved away from him, but it was only to remove his sock. He climbed back into the bed, took Thomas’s hand and started playing with his fingers.
“Do you remember,” Alastair said as he bent his head over Thomas’s hand, slowly curling and uncurling each of his fingers, “how you stayed with me in Paris? You went to the Louvre with me, that bistro, the film. You stayed with me even though we barely knew each other. You stayed with me then, I’ll stay with you now.” There was no doubt in his voice, and he said it as if it were as obvious as the morning was bright. “I’m here, and I won’t leave you.” He kissed the tips of each of Thomas’s fingers, then reached up and ruffled his hair.
Thomas fought to hide the goofy grin that had appeared on his face, but he lost his battle and Alastair saw it. Both grinning, Thomas pulled Alastair close and planted a kiss a the base of Alastair’s throat. “I love it when you talk so matter-of-factly,” he said.
Alastair rested his head on Thomas’s shoulder. “It’s the truth,” he said. “I won’t ever leave you.”
Thomas groaned against Alastair’s neck. “Alastair,” he said lightly. “You have to stop that, or I’ll—”
“You’ll what?’ Alastair pulled away from Thomas. With a glint in his eyes he drew his knees under him so that he was kneeling in front of Thomas. He brought his hands up to cup Thomas’s face, and started kissing Thomas, saying something with each kiss. “I’m here, and I won’t ever leave you,” he said while kissing Thomas’s forehead. “Not today.” His eyes. “Not tomorrow.” His nose. “Not ever.” He kissed him on the mouth, and Thomas, who had been relatively still the whole time, grabbed the back of Alastair’s shirt and fell back into the bed, pulling Alastair on top of him.
Which was precisely the moment Thomas’s sister Eugenia decided to open the door to his room. She was in her nightgown, and had started to say hello when she saw what was happening. “Oh,” she said, lowering her hands from her stretch and hiding a small smirk. She looked from Alastair, who had rolled off Thomas and had a amused look on his face, to Thomas, who could not have been redder. “I see I’ve interrupted something.” She walked into the room. “Well, because I only came in here to say good morning and not to see you two up to your sexual shenanigans, I think to compensate I’ll just take these.” She swiped the pancake tray off the table and left the room, ignoring Thomas’s cry of protest.
Alastair rolled back onto Thomas. “Leave it,” he said softly, putting a hand in Thomas’s hair and bringing their faces closer together. “We don’t need it. We have each other.”
Thomas smiled against Alastair’s mouth. “You bet we do.”
tag list (lmk if you want to be added or removed!) : @gabtapia @dark-artifices-only @thehotfaeriethreesome @crazy-beautiful @nightshade3465 @all-thestoriesaretrue @shadowrunner2000 @lovelaces @isoldeisnephilim @clockworknights @kitandtyarelife @the-blackdale @nott-the-best @alastair-esfandiyar-carstairs1 @this-beautiful-mess-tonight @runeless-parabatai @fair-but-wilde-child @queenlilith43 @gummybears-4u @weirdshark67 @unedibledaisyduck @writeforjordelia@theenchanteddreamer @clarys-heosphoros @hardlymatters @magnusthefreewheelingbisexual
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Thomas "accidentally" spills his drink on Charles and Augustus at every party
He also kisses Alastair when he knows Charles will see it
Remember that Wilde gif that people were saying was Thomas kissing Alastair while staring at Charles in anger?
I adore petty!Thomas doing shit like this to Charles
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Cordelia: I want to make a difference.
Alastair: Can you make a difference outside my room? I need some space from all this positivneess. It's not healthy for my sarcasam.
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the only good thing to come out of the last hours is alastair carstairs actually
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"But if my heart is to stop today, please have your lips bid me farewell"
day 7 of Thomastair week hosted by @youngreckless - free choice
shout-out to @thesapphicrend for the Farsi translations <3
Tw: major character death (implied, open ending), canon-typical violence, ask to tag
*drops this and runs*
Alastair knows right away that something is off – a wave of adrenaline sweeps through the Institute, like an electric impulse speeding up his heartbeat. Every Shadowhunter knows that feeling, just as well as they know the touch of weapons in their grip, the movements needed to draw a rune, or the names of Angels that light up seraph blades. Some say it runs in their blood. He would argue it’s just habit - when you court danger for a living, you learn to notice its signs early on.
He’s up on his feet before he knows it, casting a worried glance over at his mother, a small cooing bundle in her lap. She's dressed in a fine dress for the tea Tessa and Cecily invited her to - probably to provide a spark of joy in their otherwise crumbling world, let her celebrate the new life she brought to the world.
Unfortunately, demons don’t care much about celebration. His mother meets his eyes, and he tries to make his expression as reassuring as possible, out of habit, even when he knows there’s no use – she’s been a Shadowhunter long before he was born, and she’s still one now that Siāvash rests in her arms.
Suddenly the door bursts open, and several geared people enter the room, Thomas among them - his gaze is heavy, lips pursed. The others talk to Tessa and Cecily in rapid voices, and he hears them heading to the weaponry, but Thomas grabs his arm and leads him out of the room, with strength and determination that keeps Alastair from asking questions. They walk into the library, bathed in darkness, save for the gentle wintery glow coming in through the windows. The heavy tomes on the shelves feel imposing, and suffocating, and he wonders, distantly, if his and Thomas’s story could turn into something that belonged among them, in some other world. It’s a silly, impossible thought, but he can’t help it, his heart contracts at the mere touch of Thomas's hand on his.
"Thomas? What is happening?" He manages finally, but his question gets ignored, and the next moment Thomas pushes him against the wall, fiercely but with gentleness still, and then he's kissing him, one hand around his waist and the other buried in his hair. And Alastair's falling apart, because this was never supposed to happen again, but now that it is, he can't keep himself from returning the kiss, his hands going up to rest at Thomas's chest, as if they’d been waiting to do it ever since the last time. He feels his racing heartbeat under his palms, its sound filling the dark, empty room. Always a dark room.
He pulls away, panting, and he thinks maybe he's broken somehow, not human anymore, because no one should be able to resist this. Whatever gave him the strength to stop, now makes him put his chin up, defiantly meeting Thomas’s gaze.
"Tom, I told you this can't happen-" he starts, and then he needs to look away, from those shining hazel eyes, in which affection paints the image of a future, like a promise. A promise he can’t let himself desire, and yet can’t bear to give up.
Someone's shouting orders nearby, and the sound brings him back to the present moment, all the impossible thoughts about the future gone from his mind.
"What's going on?" He demands.
Thomas clears his throat, but his voice is taut and hoarse as he speaks. "There's been an attack, and a portal to the demon world was opened – they’re saying it’s bad.”
Alastair can feel a pang of panic – he’s used to high stakes and big risks, they all are, but this sounds serious even for Shadowhunter business. Before he can respond, Thomas continues. “I- I don't know if we'll make it, and I wanted- to see you. And say that I’m sorry for letting you go, that day. For letting you believe you deserved my hatred. If we get to have another chance, I should hope not to make that mistake twice. You deserve better than my misguided anger, and if you’ll have it, I’ll try my best to show you. Choose you.”
His tone is urgent, desperate, and Alastair can barely comprehend those words, the weight they carry – it’s too much, he feels like he’s losing his footing, and he needs to seize control somehow, stop the world from collapsing around him. His hand reaches for Thomas's arm, involuntarily squeezing it to steady himself. Desperation clings at his throat, redirecting all his thoughts towards the simple need to make sure Thomas will be safe.
"I won't let you get hurt-" he's saying before he can think it through – because of course he won’t, the urge to protect Thomas is so ingrained in his brain it feels like the most natural thing, like a law - but Thomas shakes his head and interrupts him.
"You're staying here"
He blinks, fights the urge to scoff.
"Like hell I am"
"You're staying.” Thomas repeats, and Alastair is certain he’s never felt him speak with such sureness. Somehow it makes the tight knot forming in his stomach clench even further.
“With your mother, my aunts, Siāvash and Alexander. We don't know what might happen, and someone needs to guard them. Your mother can hardly fight at the moment, and I won’t let aunt Cecily be their only protector."
Alastair can feel his heart cracking, knowing he can’t protest, yet desperately looking for a way out. He’s trembling, like a cornered animal – no escape, once again trapped between different facets of pain. His brain fights to come up with a solution – there has to be something, anything. He can’t be faced with yet another loss, not when he can barely consider Thomas his to lose.
"Someone else can-"
Thomas takes his face into his hands, forces him to meet his gaze. There are no promises in it now, just steel determination.
"Would you trust anyone else with defending them, if it came to that? There's no one better equipped to do that here. You're staying."
Alastair's heartbeat pounds in his ears, with too much force, drowning out all his thoughts. Thomas swallows, and looks at his lips again, and then he shuts his eyes.
"I'm sorry I didn’t ask before." He mumbles. "I know I have no right to ask anything of you, but... Will you let me-" his tone turns fragile, almost broken, and Alastair wants to say yes, yes to anything he might hear next - hearing Thomas speak to him like that shatters all of his self-control. And then Thomas’s eyes open again, the longing in them unmistakable, yet tinged with sorrow. He speaks again.
"Chon shāyad in forsate ākhar bāshe... Mishe beboosamet?"
Now Alastair's certain he can say yes, because if Thomas is speaking in Persian, none of this is actually happening. It must be a nightmare. Or a dream? Lately, the two seem interwoven so tightly, he screams at one and wakes up from the other.
But then he sees the light in Thomas's eyes falter, and realizes he's waiting for a response, and all of it feels real again, too real. People are shouting somewhere, readying to head for battle, and Thomas is asking him for a kiss before he leaves and maybe dies and Alastair feels the ground between his feet crumble.
All he can do is lean towards Thomas. He catches him by the waist and pulls him up against the wall, and their lips meet again. The kiss is hungry, desperate - if their first one felt like making up for lost time, this one feels dangerously close to the opposite – stealing the moments they fear they won’t be granted. Once again confined in the small pocket of stolen time.
A part of him hates it - it shouldn’t be this way. It’s unfair. Wrong. He feels stupid as it dawns on him this is what they could have been doing for days. It’s funny how death rearranges your perspective, he thinks.
And then he stops thinking about anything other than this moment, letting his hands run over Thomas’s shoulders, memorizing the taste of his lips - the afterimage of the Sanctuary, always lingering at the top of his thoughts, sparking to life - except the reality is so much better than what his brain stored away. He knows it will always be better, but still he forces himself to comit each detail to memory, desperately hoping for it to turn out unnecessary. He makes a little sound as Thomas presses closer to him, the sharp scent of his leather gear and cologne filling Alastair’s nostrils. It’s overwhelming, the way all of his senses are full of Thomas, Thomas, Thomas...
After a too-short moment, Thomas takes a step back, and Alastair opens his eyes, hazily. Before he can come to his senses, Thomas gives him a weak smile, presses something cold into his palm, and heads out of the room. And it feels like the sun just set and left everything cold and grey, all the warmth vanishing with him.
Alastair looks after him wordlessly, his thoughts slowly catching up with what happened. He shuts his eyes, inhales. The shape of the cold metal in his hand starts to feel familiar, and it dawns on him. It's a signet ring. A Lightwood signet ring.
Thomas doesn’t mean to let him go, next time. He hopes there will be a next time. He gave him his signet ring.
And he is off to face whatever awaits in the demon-filled streets.
Alastair freezes for a moment when it hits him – it might have been a goodbye. Then he pushes from the wall and starts through the house, racing in rhythm with his heartbeat.
It’s almost ironic how thinking of life made him push Thomas away, and yet in the face of death, he wants nothing more than pull him close, closer, until that longing in his chest is safe within the sanctuary of Thomas's arms.
He reaches the door and opens it frantically, almost breathless. It’s too late, of course. Thomas and the others are just small figures in the distance, distance too great for them to hear, and yet Alastair stares at them, at Thomas, and somehow almost believes the wind will carry his words.
He swings the boleadoras, and ducks, and focuses all his attention on the dark shapes around them, tuning in to their pace, their shrieks, falling into a familiar rhythm, until his body moves on its own accord.
The street is a picture of chaos and destruction, demons manifesting out of thin air. He notes expressions on the familiar faces surrounding him – they’re twisted in anger and battle cries and pain, some stilled, in a way he can’t have his brain process, not right now. Soon his mind wanders away, blocking out everything but the repetition and reflexes. We're but dust and shadow, he thinks bitterly.
And a memory, still so fresh in his mind, of soft lips and gentle eyes and too little time.
Of too many unsaid words, that he tried to press into the space between their bodies, but still worries it wasn’t enough. It will never be enough if he doesn’t make it back, doesn’t get to tell Alastair, face to face, how he feels. So he holds on to that, to the image of warm brown eyes waiting at the Institute, and slashes through demon after demon to get back to them. Even as darkness closes in around him, they’re his signpost.
The wind meanders through the streets of London, cold and unharried, until it reaches a vast square. It halts there, for a moment, at the border of the battlefield, as if fearing to disturb its stillness.
And then it rushes through it - scatters the remains of demons, catches on the clothes of the fallen, startles those wandering among the bodies. Searches.
The young man lays there in torn gear, blood staining the pavement around him. The wind tugs at his brown hair, tussles it, like a bored toddler looking for someone to play with. Finally, it surrenders, and lets the words carefully carried through the city slip right inside his ear.
* Because it might be the last time, can I kiss you?
**Come back to me.
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𝑻𝒉𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑨𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒓 ♡︎
“The whole trip had seemed disconnected and dreamlike”
for thomastair week - @youngreckless
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Modern day Matthew Fairchild would be the biggest Harry Styles simp ever
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what do i do when i get bored? shittily doodle all the weapons we haven’t seen more than once or at all
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