#mae herondale

[anniethethonker]

thoughts on gabriel lightwood and will herondale?

Found this in my drafts

Gabriel: I like how throughout tid you can see him becoming aware of how the world is outside of Benedicts shadow. He’s nice and breaking wills arm was totally justified. And in tlh he’s a good dad and it’s awesome to see him being his own person.

I forgot about Will so I’m adding him now

Will: He’s a good dude and I honestly lived off of his relationship with Jem. Mae'n gariad at fywyd @thonkernamedtheodorw felly nawr rydyn ni'n siarad Cymraeg diolch yn fawr Mr. Herondale. Mae gennych chi blant cŵl hefyd. Wedi blino. Draig dw i.

#will herondale #themulticoloredmakestheman #will herondale the man of will herondale’s dreams

[thanatosangels]

Good

a three part Matthew Fairchild fic

part two and three coming soon.

TRIGGER WARNING: alcoholism, suicidal feelings, self injury

tags: @princesslucretia @churchthecatismyspiritanimal @booksandbeanbags @tyisthebestshadowhunter @simon-lewis-is-a-skinny-legend @truth-lies-hidden @abigneignenn @oscar-fairchild @themostawesomehuman @cecilyfightwood

1901

Matthew stood in the doorway of his dining room.

Tick. Tick. Tick. The grandfather clock marked the seconds dripping away into nothingness.

His mother was upstairs, in her bed, resting. 

Recovering.

Recovering from the ordeal she had been through the day before.

Matthew balled up his hands, digging his nails into his palms.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

His father was at her bedside.

Matthew knew, without seeing him, that his eyes were ringed with red.

He also knew that there were new lines, of worry and grief, on his father’s face.

He’d seem to age five years in a day.

Matthew opened his hands, looking down at them. 

He half expected to see them dripping scarlet blood, like Dorian Gray’s painting, but there was none. Just eight indents of white crescent moons. 

Tick. Tick. Tick.

He lifted his gaze towards to drinks cabinet under the window.

The late afternoon sun, low in the sky, shone through the crystal decanters which fractured and broke the light, scattering it across the floor like the pieces of Matthew’s heart.

He could hear his mother’s sobs, floating down from her bedroom.

He closed the distance between him and the cabinet.

Tick.

He reached for the middle decanter, the one with the pale amber liquid. 

The one that his father only poured very little amounts of, on very special occasions.

Tick.

With a trembling hand, he removed the stopper from the bottle.

A sweet, fiery smell filled his nose. 

It burned.

Tick.

Matthew brought the bottle to his lips, and swallowed.

His body wanted to choke, to spasm, to spit it out, but he would not let.

He was in control now.

He felt as the whisky branded his throat and made its way down to his stomach. 

It hurt, but he needed the pain. Any pain at all.

He needed to hurt like his mother.

Like his sister.

It seemed to cauterise the throbbing, bloody slashes across his soul.

The world swam at the edges. He felt lighter, like he could float.

Like nothing was real.

He took another swig. And another. And another.

_______________________

The worst part was his mother trying to comfort him.

She sat him down a few days later, in their drawing room. There had been none of the usual tidiness Matthew associated with his mother: the bags under her watering eyes were a deep purple, her brown hair was escaping the braid on the back of her head, her old tea dress was creased and slightly stained in places, with tea and jam. She looked so tiny, so fragile, a china doll that should have been wrapped tightly and kept in the box to save it from shattering. 

She reached out across their rose printed sofa, her delicate hand covering Matthew’s. Somehow, she looked older than she ever had, yet so heartbreakingly young at the same time. Matthew could not look at her. He kept his back straight and his eyes trained on the glowing embers of the dying fire in the hearth.  He wasn’t sure what she was going to say to him. He wanted her to scream at him and slap him and hit him and throw him out on the street for what he’d done to her, but he knew she would never. 

He knew what she did not. 

Matthew’s stomach lurched as he felt her take a breath, though he wasn’t sure if it was from the anxiety that was gnawing at his heart or the brandy he had been drinking just before she had come in. 

“I’m sorry, Matthew,” She said in a very small, shaking voice. “I’m sorry you will not get to meet your sister. I want you to talk to me, if you need anything. I love you, and I wish for us to get through this pain together. As a family.”

He shut his eyes so tightly it hurt, bowing his head as the tears began to fall. She was apologising to him. His poor, sweet, innocent mother. She was the strongest woman he knew, for here she was just days after her own tragedy asking to comfort him. 

If only she knew, he thought, who was truly causing her this pain.

He opened his mouth to tell her, to let the words tumble out. I did this. I did this to you. But no words came, just the air escaping his lungs in a hollow groan. She reached out and put her arms around him, pulling him to her, as he whispered over and over again “I am so sorry. I am so sorry, Mama, I am so sorry.” into her shoulder, apologising for an act she had no true knowledge of. She too was crying, her tears tumbling into his messy blonde hair as she stroked it gently, as gently as she had done when he was a child awoken by nightmares. 

He wrapped his arms around her and held her against him, breathing in her familiar scent of paper and fresh lilies. Nausea rose in his stomach like a tidal wave, his guilt as bitter as bile in his mouth. Now he knew for sure that it was his close proximity to his mother doing this to him, not the alcohol bleeding through his veins. He buried his face into her hair, grasping at any last wisp of a childhood that was now gone. 

That day, with the grey clouds hanging over London like a shadow and the wind making the windows howl in its wake, was the last time Matthew Fairchild ever held his mother.

_____________________

It had been two months. 

Matthew had found a way to numb the pain, and it lived in his father’s drinks cabinet. 

Everyday, he drank a little more of whatever he could get. He told himself it was only until the pain lessened, until it stopped feeling like pouring gin into an open wound, but he was not sure he entirely believed himself.

His mother was preparing to go back to work. His father was anxiously looking after her, or experimenting down in the basement. Matthew did not care where Charles was.

Matthew was making his way back to his room, his throat still burning from the sweet whisky, his flask half-full to keep him going throughout the day. He was refilling his father’s liquor bottles with water and apple juice, and though his family did not drink much, he knew this could not last. He did not now what he would do when they found out.

His vision was slightly blurred, every light just a little too bright, so he did not see Charles hurrying down the corridor towards him until it was much too late. The two collided, someone’s feet on someone’s toes, heads knocking together, Matthew’s open flask sloshing onto Charles’ white shirt.

“By the angel, you bloody idiot! This shirt was new!” Charles wiped his hands down himself, a look of disgust on his face. He looked so disgruntled that Matthew let out a small giggle.

“What, you think making me look like a slob is funny? What the hell is this anyway? It stinks.” Any amusement Matthew derived from the situation evaporated like water in the sun as Charles brought his hands to his face and sniffed. The anger on his face was chased away by confusion and then replaced by disgust. “Is this whisky?”

Matthew gulped, refusing to meet his brothers eye. He felt like his legs might give way.

“You disgust me.” Charles took a step towards Matthew, a finger prodding his chest. Despite their similar heights, in that moment Charles seemed to loom over him, his face thunderous. “Mother and father have been through so much already and you think it’s wise to drink yourself away?” He scoffed. “If they weren’t so grief-stricken I’d go and tell them what a little lowlife you are right now, but I don’t think you want to break their hearts any further, do you?” The question sent shockwaves through Matthew. He knew that there was no way Charles knew what he had done, but his heart still skipped several beats all the same. Charles brought his face very close to Matthew’s and, snarling menacingly, flattened his hand against Matthew’s chest and gave a small shove, which cause him to stumble backwards until he fell into a table near the end of the hallway. 

Charles rolled his eyes and turned on his heels. “Selfish brat. Go and pour that down the drain right now.” He called over his shoulder. “And don’t ever do it again.” 

Matthew leaned back against the table, his hands and legs shaking uncontrollably. He fought to control his breathing. He took a sip from his flask, which seemed to calm his nerves slightly. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply.

Matthew was always very careful after that.

#mae writes #matthew fairchild #tsc #tsc fanfiction #shadowhunters #the shadowhunters chronicles #the last hours #chain of gold #chain of iron #tlh #tlh fanfiction #matthew fairchild fanfiction #james herondale #lucie herondale #cordelia carstairs #charlotte fairchild #henry fairchild #charles fairchild

[the-ethereal-aura]

IDK WHO THEY ARE BUT ALRIGHT LMAO

oh umm @gorgeous-herondale is nivvie and @i-think-i-can-speak-here is mae they are great

may i wanna pet a dogggggggggggggggg

#*may the cool and friendly*

[mae-loves-hugs]

Tagged by @izsza, I wasn’t expecting that

instructions - tag 10 followers or people who you follow who you want to get to know better

Name: Maru

Star sign: ♒️

Gender: f

Height: 1.62

Sexuality: Pansexual

Hogwarts House: idk, but from Shadowhunters I’ll be a Herondale

Blankets I sleep with: 1

Favorite animal: 🐰

Dream job: actress

When I made this blog: 17.07.2013

Followers: 4.897 (THANK YOU FOR THAT)

Why I made this blog: I used it for Wattpad

Reason for URL: Mae is my pseudonym and I really love hugs

@plutoniercapsuna

@retrax

@yellow-bruisess

@idummyi

@chaoticpersonaavenue

@saessenach

@wreckhavoc27

@nananinop

@gbcph

[stcrmswithskin]

character tags 

edward elric | fullmetal alchemist | 

edward elric | princess pipsqueak |

alphonse elric | don’t die by yourself and leave me on my own |

alexander | only worry about being drown in slobber |

roy mustang | the world’s not perfect but it keeps trying that’s beautiful |

alex luis armstrong | destruction and creation are two hides of the same coin |

maes hughes | death doesn’t discriminate between the sinners and the saints |

william herondale | heroes endure because we need them not for their own sakes |

#edward elric | fullmetal alchemist | #edward elric | princess pipsqueak | #alphonse elric | don’t die by yourself and leave me on my own | #alexander | only worry about being drown in slobber | #roy mustang | the world’s not perfect but it keeps trying that’s beautiful | #alex luis armstrong | destruction and creation are two hides of the same coin | #maes hughes | death doesn’t discriminate between the sinners and the saints | #william herondale | heroes endure because we need them not for their own sakes | #tag redo

[thanatosangels]

Congrats Mae!!! Can I have 🌿 with Thomas and Christopher? 💜

thank you so much!!! 

when Thomas was ill as a child, Christopher was essentially the only child of a similar age that Thomas really connected with. Because Gabriel and Cecily visited Gideon and Sophie a lot, they spent a decent amount of time together and bonded over their quirks and the fact they both felt like outcasts. They wrote to each other regularly as well.

Christopher was actually the first of the Merry Thieves to realise how Thomas really felt about Alastair. unfortunately, he did not realise how explosive this information could be. they were in the Devil one night, post Chain of Gold, and Matthew had been ranting about how much of a ‘wormy lying coward’ Alastair was when Thomas had come to his defence, albeit in a half-hearted manner. 

“Why do you like him so much anyway?” Matthew rocked back in his chair, wine in one hand and the other pointed at Thomas. Well, presumably anyway, because it was two inches too far to the left but Thomas gave him points for trying. 

Thomas just rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to explain that he didn’t like him, per say, just that Matthew was being, and always had been, incredibly unfair on him when Christopher piped up from his workbench in the corner.

“Because he’s in love with him, of course.” 

Several things then happened at once.

Matthew tipped back in his chair, his face a comical depiction of shock, and sent the wine flying across the room.

James got covered in red wine.

Thomas thought that his heart was going to give out.

“I- What? I am not. No!” He stuttered, his face matching the shade of scarlet James’s shirt had become. “Wherever did you get that from, Kit?”

James helped Matthew, who’s face was still slack with shock, up from the floor. “Matthew, you’re a bloody idiot, did you know that?” James mocked, laughter in his voice. “Also - yes, Christopher, what makes you say that?” He righted Matthew’s chair and helped him into as if he were an elderly man who needed assistance moving, then returned to his place at the table. Matthew’s face still did not change.

Christopher placed down his beaker and turned to face the rest of the Thieves, his goggles squint on his face. “Well, I thought it was rather obvious, is it not?” He walked over and sat down at the table, his hands gesturing animatedly. “You see, figuring out if someone is in love is just like trying to graph an experiment: you look for patterns, specifically in behaviour.” He looked around at the dumbfounded faces of his friends. 

“And... and what patterns are there here?” Thomas asked, hesitantly.

“First of all, you followed Alastair around at the Academy. Now, this could easily be dismissed as the quirks of a child but here it fits into our pattern. Secondly, you will not tell us what really happened in Paris. No, don’t try to argue Thomas, i know when you’re lying - or withholding information. Anyway, I happened to overhear Charles talking about seeing Alastair in Paris when I was at Matthew’s, I do not believe in coincidences. Thomas and Alastair were together in Paris. Third, Alastair is the only person Thomas would let see his tattoo. That’s a very intimate, private thing for Thomas, and the fact he’d share it with someone who is apparently a ‘stranger’ is very out of character for him. Hence I have to draw the conclusion that Thomas is, in fact, in love with Alastair Carstairs. And I have to say - i think they’d make a capital couple.”

Stunned silence. Thomas thought his jaw might hit the table.

Finally, Matthew blurted out “That is just preposterous! Never in all my days-”

“Shut up for a second, Matthew.” James looked at Thomas, his golden eyes filled with a mixture of curiosity and love. “Remember the last time somebody spilt wine? What is it with you lot and bloody wine, by the way - anyway, it was Thomas. When Matthew told us Alastair was moving to London.” Thomas felt too hot and too cold all at the same time. “Tom? Is it true?”

“I....” Thomas didn’t know what to say. Was it true? He didn’t know. All he knew is that he missed Alastair. Missed talking to him as darkness blanketed Paris, missed watching the shadows on his face change as the city illuminated itself around them, missed walking next to him and talking about everything and nothing. All he knew was that every time he saw Alastair, his heart seemed to beat that little bit faster and if he was next to him he longed to reach out and grab his hand. All he knew was that Alastair was the most beautiful person he’d ever seen, and that he wanted to kiss him, and hold him, and-

James’s voice, soft and comforting, brought him back from his reverie. “It’s alright if you do, Tom.” He looked at the faces of his friends: Christopher’s obliviously hopeful one, James’s small smile, Matthew’s - who had finally closed his mouth - that bore an open expression, one Thomas didn’t see all that often these days, that held so much love he felt his heart might burst. He swallowed thickly.

He stared down at his hands that were knotted so tightly in his lap that his knuckles were white. He could deny it again but, really, he found that he didn’t want to. “I mean... I might? I’m not really sure...” He bit his lip.

“What ho! Excellent!” Christopher ran to his workbench and began furiously scribbling in his notebook. “I was actually right! Of course, I knew i was, but the proof is always appreciated.”

James clapped him on the back. “Wonderful! I’m so glad you told us, Thomas.” Thomas grinned at him, feeling lighter than he had in months.

And then Matthew got up, a broad smile on his face, and came to grab Thomas by the shoulder. “Well! There’s a turn up for the books.” And then the smile was replaced a serious furrow of eyebrows. “I’m happy for you, old chap, i really am, but could you not have picked absolutely anybody else?” 

Thomas looked at him, his heart sinking ever so slightly, until Matthew threw his head back and guffawed. “Don’t look so scared! I’m joking - well, partially anyway - but whoever your heart decides to give itself to will be one lucky person. Even if it is sodding Alastair Carstairs.”

Thomas felt himself laughing too, and he felt like it was the first real laugh in an age.

okay, NOT a headcannon but inspiration struck and the opportunity was too good to miss!

Thomas and Christopher always get to read Lucie’s new writing: Thomas because Lucie trusts him to be kind but fair, and Christopher because he actually has a wonderful imagination that has inspired Lucie on more than one occasion. Anyway, after every new read, they get together and discuss what she wrote, how proud of her they are, and how far she’s going to go. She’s their little sister too, after all. 

#mae 200 #mae writes #tsc #shadowhunters #the shadowhunters chronicles #the last hours #tlh #tlh fanfiction #tsc fanfiction #lucie herondale #christopher lightwood #alastair carstairs #thomas lightwood #james herondale #matthew fairchild #cordelia carstairs #chain of gold #chain of iron #tsc headcannons #tid #the infernal devices #the mortal instruments #tmi #the dark artifices #tda

[thanatosangels]

Blazing

Jordelia - chapter one

chapter two 

“What do you WANT FROM ME?” James’ raged. 

His eyes were blazing like the sun as he looked over his tensed shoulder at Cordelia, his body angled towards a fist-shaped hole in the wall of the Institute’s corridor, the blood that dripped from ragged wounds on his knuckles sparkling, deceptively beautiful, in the dim witchlight. His breaths were ragged and his mouth was twisted, slightly agape. The anger seemed to roll off of him in waves. And yet, Cordelia thought as she turned her back to him, he’s still beautiful.

Cordelia was not afraid. She knew he would not hurt her, not physically, and he could not break her heart more than he already had. Everyday, she awoke thinking the shards of her heart could not get any smaller, that as a piece of paper can only be folded so many times, there was simply nothing left to splinter, and everyday she was wrong. Every smile, full of nothing but friendship, every time he took her hand, simply for show, every time he caught her staring, his golden eyes glazed over, removed, pulverised her heart even more. 

“Cordelia.” Not Daisy. His voice was uncharacteristically hard. “Look at me.”

She didn’t. 

She couldn’t let him see the tears in her eyes.

She felt a million miles away from that night in the Whispering Room.

The muffled sound of jolly music drifted up from the ballroom below. Cordelia took a deep breath, and wondered quite how her life had gotten to this moment: hiding from balls, from her best friend, from her family and her feelings, her tears and her love. She lifted her head and stared into the witchlight-sconce directly in front of her, willing the sadness that weighed down her soul to evaporate along with her tears so she could go back to how she should be, had to be: happy. She felt a hand on her shoulder, calloused and none too gentle. 

“Cordelia.” His tone was harsh and angry.

And, suddenly, she felt as if the thread of sanity that she had so carefully threaded through her heart, mind and soul these past few months had snapped. How dare he be angry with her. James Herondale, whom she had compromised her virtue for, she had lied to her beloved mother and brother for, she was willing to sacrifice her life for, she wrestled with and buried her feelings for every second of every day. How dare he talk to her as if she was the one that had gotten them into this mess. She shook his hand off and rounded on James, aware but uncaring of the tears that tumbled down her cheeks.

“What do I want from you, James?” She spat his name through clenched teeth, looking directly into his eyes. All the months of lying and acting and pretending and smiling and hoping and wishing and crying caught up to her, crashing over her like a Tsunami. She did not care. She did not care, in that moment, what he thought of her, or if anybody overheard, or about what would happen next. All she cared about was the blinding, white-hot fury that filled her lungs and threatened to drown her if she did not give in to it right now.

 “I’ve got everything I have ever wanted! And yet I have NOTHING.” She yelled. His angered expression melted into one of shock, and then confusion. “My father is coming home, but he is twisted drunk,” she took a step forward; he took a step back. “I am in London to train with my parabatai, my best friend, and yet she pushes me farther and farther away, telling me nothing,” Another step. She raked her hand wildly through her flaming hair, her cheeks burning, flushed and tearstained. “and you!” Her voice rose a crescendo. A final step. His back was against the wall. She poked a finger into his chest, just at his heart, never breaking the eye contact despite the fear she could read in his stare. 

A small voice at the back of her head told her to stop. She was about to ruin months of hard work, trying to forget his lopsided grin, how his inky black hair felt between her fingers, how his lips felt against her bare skin. But she was a train out of control, barrelling towards a tunnel which seemed to have no end, and she could not put the brakes on now. It was too late.

“I am engaged to you,” Her voice faltered slightly, but her finger remained steady on his chest. Out of the corner of her eyes she caught the glimmer of his bracelet, that damn bracelet. She grabbed at his wrist and brandished it in front of his face. His eyes widened. “And yet you wear the bracelet of another’s love. How am i meant to feel, James?” His gaze flitted between her and the bracelet, as if there was a battle being fought behind his eyes. She searched his face pleadingly.

“But…” He stuttered softly, conflicted. “But, Daisy, we’re just pretending…”

Anger, frustration, and most of all pain, bit at Cordelia’s heart again. 

She tried to swallow it back.

She couldn’t.

She exploded, a firework blazing amber and scarlet through the midnight sky.

“I LOVE YOU!”

She threw his wrist down, with more force than she meant to use, simply desperate to get any and all reminders of Grace Blackthorn from her view. 

And the bracelet went flying. 

#jordelia #james herondale #cordelia carstairs #tlh #the last hours #chain of iron #chain of gold #grace blackthorn #the shadowhunters chronicles #tsc #shadowhunters #the last hours fic #oneshot #the last hours oneshot #the infernal devices #tid #the dark artifices #tda #the mortal instruments #mae writes

[thanatosangels]

Good

a three part Matthew Fairchild fic

part one here

three coming soon <3

TRIGGER WARNING: alcoholism, suicidal feelings, self injury

tags: @princesslucretia @churchthecatismyspiritanimal @booksandbeanbags@tyisthebestshadowhunter @simon-lewis-is-a-skinny-legend @truth-lies-hidden @abigneignenn@oscar-fairchild @themostawesomehuman @cecilyfightwood

1902 

Matthew was surprised by how easy the lying became.

“I’m simply tired.”; “Come on, I just want to have fun!”; “Yes, I am perfectly fine.”.

He weaved a life of a normal boy, one who simply rebelled against society for the sake of freedom, out of tall tales and half-truths. He played the part of son, of brother, of parabatai, of friend, of lover, with a smile on his face and an adventure for everyone. He hid his flask in plain sight, in flashy waistcoats and sharp suits, and his pain in his drink. He built a home for himself and his secrets in the darkness of 3 o'clock in the morning at the bottom of an empty bottle, where he could cry to the baby sister he would never hold. 

He did not cry for himself. He never did.

He did not deserve the tears.

_____________________

“Math, you’re bleeding.” James’ golden eyes were dark with concern, and his inky black hair was falling into his face and sticking to his creased forehead as he leaned over Matthew in the rain.

He reached his hand down to assist his parabatai up off the cold, wet ground but Matthew batted his hand away, turning his face in the opposite direction and moaning. His blood was running from the cut above his eyebrow and pooling under his head, a washed-out pink colour as it mingled with the rain water under the orange streetlight. The tears running down his face mixed with the droplets of rain falling from the dark sky, and when they hit the ground together they were indistinguishable from one another. Good.

James’ face swam into his vision again: he was kneeling down beside him. “You’re bleeding.” He repeated.

“Good,” Matthew mumbled. “Then I’m lucky.” Because I can. He spat the final word as if it repulsed him, and shut his eyes, only for second, so the world above him would stop spinning. It was making him feel sick, sicker than he did when he looked in the mirror.

He dragged them open again when he felt the familiar dull burning sensation against his skin. Jamie, the dutiful parabatai he was, was giving him an iratze. 

“Gerrofme,” Matthew wriggled under James’ caring hand so he couldn’t complete the rune.

“Hold still, Matthew.” James was trying again, using more force this time. Matthew waved his hand in the general direction of the stele and knocked it aside. James swore under his breath.

“Jamie…. stop.” His voice was sluggish.

“No.” Was all he said before straddling Matthew, pinning his arms to his sides using his legs. He put his hand, still gentle, on Matthew’s forehead and moved to draw the iratze - again.

Suddenly, Matthew was filled with white-hot rage - at himself, at James, at his brother, at his parents, at the fairy, at everything. He felt it sober him, replacing the gin in his blood with fire. The world came into focus, every drop of rain twinkling against the moonlight; the warm familiarity of James’ calloused hand against his forehead; the fabric of his trousers and waistcoat, damp from the wet concrete he lay on and clinging to his burning skin.

Just as James was about to put the stele to his head, Matthew twisted his body to the side and kicked up with more force than he thought possible, sending James flying across the empty street. He jumped up, staggering slightly, and turned to see James propped up on one elbow with an expression of mixed shock, anger and confusion.

“Christ, Matthew, I was only trying to help you!”

Help you. The words chased each other around Matthew’s mind. He let out a hoarse laugh. Not his usual one, light and clear: a dark, dry sort of laugh that cut the cool air like a knife. “Help me? Oh, Jamie, Jamie, James,” He breathed, chest heaving up and down, every breath cutting his lungs like razors. There was blood trickling down from his cut and into his mouth. He spat it out onto the ground. “Nobody can help me.”

James picked himself up off the ground, his face melting from hurt confusion to softness. Anger reared its ugly head in Matthew’s chest again, clawing at his racing heart. Of course James would still approach me with kindness. He seemed to have an angelic glow around him in the darkness as he walked towards Matthew, his hand outstretched. A part of Matthew wanted to lash out, to push James to his limit, to see how easy it’d be to ruin the best thing about his sorry life so he could get the whole business over and done with. Instead, he just backed away from his parabatai, blindly stumbling along the pavement.

“We could help you,” His voice was so gentle that Matthew had to bite his lip to keep himself from screaming. “I could help you. But you need to tell me what’s wrong, Math.”

Matthew’s back hit a wall, hard. He let his head fall back against it and stared up into the midnight sky, droplets of rain thinning the blood running down his face. “What’s wrong,” He announced, arms outstretched at either side, looking like a battered angel in the blood and the rain and the darkness, a twisted smile on his lips. “is that you, dear James, are the one with demon blood coursing though your veins and yet I, pure Nephilim, am more demonic than you’ll ever be.” He brought his head down, meeting James’ worried gaze just in front of him, and licked away the blood that had gathered in the corner of his mouth. 

“Tell me, Matthew.” James was pleading, his hand on Matthew’s shoulder. “Tell me what the dark cloud hanging over you is.” His eyes seemed to ripple like liquid gold, begging Matthew for an answer.

Suddenly, Matthew was simply very, very tired. “It’s been a year, James,” His whispering voice sounded muffled to his own ears. “It’s been a year to the day since she died and yet… I still live on.” He saw James’ eyes mist over with tears, felt his own wet his cheeks. “I have nothing,” His voice broke. “There is nothing to show for her life.” And it is all my fault.

James clasped his hand against Matthew’s cheek and Matthew let his head fall forward, forehead to forehead with James. The two boys stood, sobbing together in the rain. Matthew could not find the words to say that James was holding him up, not because of the gin, but because he wanted nothing more to sink to ground, lie down and never get up as he could not take it anymore. He could not find the words to tell James that the only reason he was still alive was because of their bond, because he knew what his death would do to James. He could not find the words to tell James that in his darkest moments, whether James had known it or not, he had saved him over and over and over again, through iraztes or well placed blows to demons or turning up at just the right time or simply just existing and loving Matthew unconditionally. 

One day, Matthew would find the words to tell him, to thank him, but today was not that day.  

______________

There was a night with a boy.

It wasn’t particularly remarkable, or different from any other night with any other boy.

They had met at Hell Ruelle. His hair had looked black in the dim light but in the shining moonlight outside, when Matthew had run his hands through it, he’d seen it was actually a thousand different shades of brown. They had danced, and drank, and kissed. He laughed at Matthew’s observations, and blushed at his forward flirtations. He had let Matthew hold his hand as they wandered down deserted streets, singing at the top of their lungs, the stars wheeling through the night sky above them. 

Matthew brought him back to his empty house. They had their fun. Matthew let himself get lost in the heat and the passion and the desire, just for a little bit. Afterwards, they lay together, legs intertwined, his head on Matthew’s chest, his arm over Matthew’s stomach. They made idle conversation as they lay in the dark, about nothing much in particular.

“If you could be anything, anything at all in the world, what would you be?” Matthew asked the boy as he played with his tangled hair. He found it a rather intriguing question: it could tell you so much about a person, their values and ambitions.

The boy's hazel eyes were gazing at Matthew longingly. “I would be an author, or a playwright, I think.” His soft lips made their way up Matthew’s neck, pausing at his ear. “What about you?” He whispered.

The words simply fell passed his lips, like water flowing over rocks. He had not meant to say them. 

“I would be good.”

#matthew fairchild #james herondale #the last hours #tlh #chain of gold #chain of iron #mae writes #cordelia carstairs #charles fairchild #henry fairchild #charlotte fairchild #tsc #the shadowhunters chronicles #shadowhunters #tsc fanfiction #tsc fanfic #tlh fanfiction #the mortal instruments #tmi #the infernal devices #tid #the dark artifices #tda

[thanatosangels]

Congratulations!! I love your work!! 🥰 for Jace and Alec please.. Jace annoying Alec or anything you like

IM SOOOO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG i literally cannot apologise enough. and its not even very much. but ahh i hope you like all the same <333

________________

“JACE!” Alec lunged towards his parabatai. “That is NOT how you hold a baby!” Alec had shown him three, maybe four times now, and Jace still just wasn’t getting it.

Jace’s eyes widened and he fumbled with the small bundle in his hands. Alec let out a noise he hadn’t even known he could make and gently but firmly snatched Max away before Jace could drop him. “You have to support his head and his bottom!”

 “I was! He was just wriggling too much!”

“Jace, he’s a tiny baby and you’re a Shadowhunter - not just any Shadowhunter, one with actual superpowers. It doesn’t matter how much he wriggles, you should be able to hold him properly.” He was using his harsh ‘I’m the adult here’ voice from their youth, and the scowl that had taken up residence on Jace’s face was very reminiscent of those times as well.

Alec looked down at his son, wiggling a finger over him. “Did you piss off Uncle Jace?” Max’s stubby blue hands reached out for Alec and Jace crossed his arms. Out of the corner of his eye, Alec watched as he attempted to maintain his scowl but his mouth was very clearly trying to quirk up at the sides. Alec imitated Jace’s anger and a small gurgle escaped Max’s throat. “Don’t worry, baby, it’s too hard to stay angry at you for long. You’re just too cute.” 

Alec looked up at Jace then, beckoning him towards him with his head. “Come here.” Jace obliged, looking sheepish. “Copy me. No, left arm a little higher, right a little lower… yes! Stay exactly where you are.” He passed Max over and Jace stood rigid, his face a combination of love and utter terror as he looked at his nephew. Max gurgled again, curling into Jace ever so slightly which made Jace look like he was about to faint.

“You know,” his voice was rough, his eyes never leaving Max. “I’ve been to hell and back, I’ve met angels, i’ve been possessed more times than I’d like to admit, and I’ve still never been as scared as I am right now.” Alec laughed and placed his head on his shoulder. Years ago, simply sitting next to Jace was enough to give him goosebumps and sent tiny electric shocks up and down his arm, but now his heart simply felt full. Everything was just…. right. He knew, somehow, that everything and anything that had ever happened in his life - the tears, the danger, the fear, the triumphs, everything - had led up to this moment with his kid and his best friend.

“You’ll be okay, Jace.” Alec beamed. “We’re survivors, you and me.”

#mae writes #mae 200 #jace herondale #alec lightwood #parabatai #tmi #the mortal instruments #tsc #tsc fanfiction #shadowhuters #The Shadowhunters Chronicles #izzy lightwood #clary fairchild #simon lewis #magnus bane #tda #the dark artifices #the last hours #tlh #the infernal devices #tid

[thanatosangels]

🥰 James and Cordelia please! 💜 I love them.

Cordelia awoke in her not yet familiar bedroom, the usual weight of the world already on her chest.

She rolled over, shoved her face into the softness of her pillow and let out a deep sigh. 

Five days, thirteen hours and - she checked the gold coated alarm clock ticking on her bedside table - 17 minutes. That’s how long she and James had been married. She dropped her head back into the pillow.

When she’d imagined herself married to James Herondale (which she had done. Many times.), she had not imagined them both waking in separate bedrooms. She had not imagined them never hugging or kissing or holding hands, unless it was for show. She had not imagined having to pretend to be friends with the coldly beautiful girl who came to their house a few times a week to cover that, in fact, it was her that James was in love with, not Cordelia.

She swung herself out of bed, reaching for her black silken dressing gown that was draped over a wicker chair near the bed. Pulling it on over her burgundy night dress, she padded across her room to the door, contemplating how bizarre it was: she was about to go to breakfast, essentially almost naked, with her husband who did not love her. It doesn't matter what I wear, she thought as she twisted the door handle. He’ll never see me as anything more than a friend.

At the same time as she stepped into the hallway, so did James. His bedroom was directly across the corridor from her’s. She felt the now familiar sensation of her breath catching in her throat, her heart beating rapidly against her ribcage, her eyes involuntarily widening as soon as she saw him. This, as always, was accompanied by the sharp pang of realisation in her chest: the pain of having everything yet nothing.

For a second, when he saw her, he froze. His eyes seemed to walk up her body, from her toes all the way to her head, like the touch of a finger. She felt very exposed. She was aware that her hair was hanging loosely, wildly, over her shoulder and that she had deep bags under her eyes from sleepless, worried nights. But the look on his face wasn’t one of disgust, as she’d half expected, or even judgement. It was... something else. Something that tickled the edges of her recollection, and made her involuntarily remember the heat of his body from the Whispering Room, the feeling his lips on hers, his hands splayed on her waist. She looked away as her cheeks flushed.

 He seemed to snap out of it, and smiled brightly at her. “Good morning, Daisy.”

“Good morning, James.” She chanced a look at him, even though she knew it would hurt, hurt so much. His raven hair was messier than usual, mussed in that lazy, early morning way, and he looked ridiculously adorable in his blue striped pyjamas. This was a side of James that nobody except his family, and maybe the Merry Thieves, had ever seen before her. People he loved, people he trusted. Not for the first time, she felt like she was an unwanted intruder in his life.

An awkward silence hung between them in the air, which was odd. Cordelia felt many, many things around James, but never awkward. It made her as uncomfortable as it did curious. Something about James seemed different, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it.

Just as Cordelia was about to open her mouth to ask if he was alright, he offered her his arm. “Shall we adjourn to the dining room, Princess Cordelia?” He asked playfully.

She gave him a small, pretend smile. Just as she took his arm, she noticed something.

Grace’s bracelet was missing from his wrist. 

Suddenly, unbidden, hope blossomed in her soul like the first flower of spring. 

Maybe he could love me, after all.

And, feeling his eyes on her as they descended the stairs, the smile that spread across her face was the first genuine one in weeks.

#mae 100 #jordelia #jordelia fanfiction #tsc #tsc fanfiction #shadowhunters #the shadowhunters chronicles #the last hours #chain of gold #chain of iron #cordelia carstairs #james herondale #mae writes

[thanatosangels]

CONGRATULATIONS!! YOU DESERVE MUCH MORE!! 💜💜💜 Can I have 🌚 and 🌿 (for Mina)?

THANK YOU also - your Wessa edit? WHEEEEWW i love it so much omfg <333 and your latest Jordelia fic is absolute perfection, love <33

Mina headcannons -

she grows up hearing all about the beautiful Cordelia Carstairs. Jem makes sure she always knows his cousin, the one who saved the world, and Tessa wants her to know all about her sister-in-law, her sister’s parabatai, the one who wielded Cortana and saved her siblings lives, both with her sword and her love for them. Mina hears so much about Cordelia that when asked what she wants to be when she grows up, her immediate response is always “Cordelia!”. Jem and Tessa could not think of a better role model for their little girl.

Mina has SO MANY aunts and uncles and cousins. not biologically, obviously, but theres aunt Clary and uncle Jace - she knows she vaguely related to him, somehow - uncle Alec and uncle Magnus and cousins Rafe and Max, aunt Izzy and Simon (“I do not want to be referred to as uncle! it ages me!”) and cousin Emma. And then there’s all the Blackthorns, whom she adores but doesn’t get to see as much as she’d like because Kit ends up in tears whenever they’re mentioned, but Jules does send Jem and Tessa and painting of the Paris skyline to be hung in her room. And then there’s aunt Cecily and uncle Gabriel and aunt Charlotte and uncle Henry and aunt Sophie and uncle Gideon and all the cousins that she loves but can never meet, except in old photos and bedtime stories. Anyway, it takes literally years for her to get her head round her massive family but she loves them all the same. 

Max learns about magic before Mina obviously, because he’s older, but he takes great pride in showing her the ropes. Her warlock magic is way less potent than his but he never shames her, never laughs at her, never teaches her anything that she’ll never be able to do. On more than one occasion, Magnus and Tessa have ended up in tears because a) THEY’RE JUST SO DAMN CUTE  and b) they’re just so utterly happy.

Emma is overjoyed that another Carstairs girl can inherit Cortana. She pledges to teach Mina everything she knows and more, as soon as she’d old enough.

Mina is literally Kit’s best friend. He tells her everything, and its great because she’s not old enough to tell anyone else, not old enough to give hims dumb advice that he was going to ignore anyway, and also a really great listener. She understands, from a very young age, that she just needs to give him comfort when he’s pouring his feelings out to her, and he loves her even more everyday.

also, this is not a headcannon but a general question - do you think Jem’s time as a Silent Brother will affect Mina in any way? he went thought some powerful ass magic and combined with Tessa’s demon blood she could be one powerful baby, thats all i’m saying.

#mae 200 #mina carstairs #jem carstairs #tessa gray #will herondale #kit herondale #the last hours #tlh #the infernal devices #tid #the dark artifices #tda #the mortal instruments #tmi #emma carstairs #cordelia carstairs #jessa #the shadowhunters chronicles #tsc #shadowhunters #tsc headcannons

[thanatosangels]

Omg I loved your last Gabrily fic so so much!!! And can I ask please for 🥰 for them with their kids please? Their family dynamic is so cute, if you feel like doing it of course

thank you so much omg!! i hope you like this one aswell <333

first Gabrily here :)

~~~~~~~~

Cecily rung the breakfast bell for the second time that morning.

Baby Alexander giggled in her arms as she sighed, heavily, and placed the bell down on the table in the hall. She turned and walked into the dining room, seeing only Gabriel seated at the table, half hidden by his newspaper. 

“Gabriel darling, would you take Alexander whilst I go rouse Christopher?” Alexander pointed at himself in acknowledgement of his own name, and Cecily nodded at him encouragingly. He had a gratified look on his face.

Gabriel, however, didn’t even look up from his newspaper. “That’s nice, dear.”

Rolling her eyes, Cecily said, “Oh, yes. By the way, I heard your father returned from the grave and is causing yet more havoc as a giant worm.” 

“Is that so?” He flipped the page.

“Also, I am leaving you for Gideon. We have been having the most wonderfully passionate love affair. In the gardens, the library, even in our bed!”

Picking up his tea, he murmured a thoughtful “Mmm.” 

“And I think we should change our second name to Lightworm.”

At that, his eyes bulged and, choking on his tea, threw his newspaper down on the table. “Pardon?” He spluttered.

She had resolved to keep a straight face and a cool gaze, but she burst out laughing at his expression of bewilderment. Alexander started laughing too. “You didn't listening to a thing i just said, you bloody man!” He was still looking wounded, so as she strode over and handed him Alexander, she planted a small kiss on his forehead which brought a smile to his lips.

“You know I love you, don’t you, Cecy?” 

“I do!” She called over her shoulder as she hurried out of the dining room.

Gathering up her skirts in her hands, she began to climb the stairs. She often found herself wishing it were socially acceptable for Shadowhunter woman to spend all their time in the tight and comfortable gear rather than corsets and heavy skirts, which she felt could be saved for special events only. She was still contemplating this when she rapped her knuckles on Christopher’s bedroom door.

“Good morning, bach!” She waited for a response. Nothing.

Then she heard a small pop! and her stomach dropped.

She knocked again, more insistently this time. “Christopher?”

“Just coming, Ma!” There was a small plume of smoke coming from under the door now. 

Cecily shut her eyes and took a deep breath. Angel give me strength. “Christopher, I’m coming in.”

Tentatively, she opened the door. She saw her son, goggles sitting crookedly on his head, tongue slightly out his mouth in concentration, his lilac eyes fixed on the smouldering beaker in his right hand that he was transferring the contents of into another beaker in his left. She also saw the state of his pyjamas, which were charred at the cuffs of his sleeves and stained with an unknown blue liquid down the front.

She slowly shook her head before lowering it into her hands.

“Darling, those pyjamas were new!” Her voice was muffled. “And we talked about experiments before breakfast!” She sighed, deeply - again.

Christopher, finished whatever it was he was doing, placed the beakers down and went over to his mother. He put a gentle hand on her shoulder and she could feel the excited energy that was radiating off him. 

“I know, Ma, I’m sorry,” As she looked up, and he smiled his lazy, easy grin at her. She felt her heart expand with an all encompassing love for her Christopher, her genius, and all annoyance was immediately forgotten. She reached up -  he was quite a bit taller than her now - and ruffled his hair just as she heard the doorbell. 

“Oh! That’ll be Anna,” She heard their servant, Mary, open the door and Anna’s rich, familiar voice drifting up the stairs. Cecily narrowed her eyes and looked Christopher up and down, surveying the damage. “You’re not hurt are you?” He shook his head and his goggles fell down onto his nose, so she plucked them off and discarded them on the chest of drawers by the door. “Then you’ll have to do. Come on, and do tell me what you were doing as we go.”

As they made their way down the stairs, Christopher spoke very animatedly and very fast. Cecily was sure she heard the words “Uncle Henry”, “Magnesium” and possibly even “Arsenic” but she did not quite catch or understand the rest. She simply took a leaf out of Gabriel’s book and nodded along, smiling.

They reached the dining room, and now Anna had joined Gabriel and Alexander at the breakfast table. 

Anna had very clearly not slept.

There were dark bags under eyes that were just a little too bright. Her shirtsleeves were messily rolled to her elbows and her peacock print waistcoat was undone. Her short hair was sticking out at all angles, and she was smiling very widely at Gabriel, who had an amused look on his face.

“Hullo Anna! That is a capital waistcoat you have on.” Christopher said as he seated himself next to his father at the table.

Anna was laughing about the state of Christopher’s pyjamas as Cecily sat down next to her. Cecily leaned over, grinning, and pinched her daughter’s cheek affectionately. “You look like you’ve been busy! Did you have a late night?” She teased.

Anna cast her dancing gaze towards her mother, smiling crookedly. “Dearest Mother, you wouldn't even know the half of it.”

Cecily laughed, and looked around the table at her perfectly imperfect little family. Gabriel, her love, bouncing their beautiful baby boy on his knee, glowing with the contented happiness he wore so easily these days. Christopher, destined for such great things, trying to teach his little brother to say ‘glucinum’.  And Anna, her daughter; her firstborn; her trailblazer; her shining star of hope for the future, smiling right at her.

Cecily often wondered how she managed to get so lucky.

“Mother,” Anna was poking her arm. “Come back down to earth. You look a million miles away.” 

“Just daydreaming, bach.” She raised her voice, so as to be heard from the kitchen. “Mary! Do bring Anna a coffee, will you!”

#mae 100 #mae writes #gabrily #gabriel lightwood #cecily herondale #anna lightwood #christopher lightwood #alexander lightwood #the last hours #tlh #chain of gold #tsc fanfiction #the shadowhunters chronicles #shadowhunters #tlh fanfiction #the infernal devices #tid

[thanatosangels]

CONGRATS ON 100 MAE!!! i love your writing, so can i get a 🥰 for kitty?

THANK YOU SO MUCH OMGGG!! <333  this is way longer than i meant it to be but i had so much to say hahhaha

~~~~~

I shouldn't have come.

It was Kit’s first thought as soon as he stepped through the portal. 

Holy shit, its hot. That was the second.

Despite growing up in LA, the three years he’d spent in the English rain had clearly changed his body’s temperature regulations. He was used to all encompassing grey dampness - seriously, how can one country have four seasons but they’re all just different variations of rain? - and the scorching sun hurt his eyes and made him sweat uncomfortably. 

He took a deep breath, remembered all the advice about ‘just being himself’ that his dad had given him, and made his way up the path.

Inside the LA Institute was much the same hustle and bustle as before. It was like stepping into one of his dreams. Kit was greeted with a whirlwind of kind words and hugs, swiftly chased into the kitchen and handed a steaming cup of tea - “because, you know, you're English now!” Dru smiled brightly - and a chocolate chip cookie. Everybody was asking how he was, what he’d been up to, how were Mina, and Jem, and Tessa, how was his training going. Emma was particularly interested in the answer to that last question, and pulled him aside later to suggest training together so she could give him all kinds of tips and tricks. He realised, with a jolt, that he was slightly taller than her now. 

The only person who didn’t greet him was Ty.

As he absentmindedly answered everybody’s questions, he glanced around the kitchen anxiously. Ty was the reason he was here. Maybe not officially, and maybe it wasn't something Kit wanted to tell everyone, but it was the truth regardless. After everyone was finished, and people began to wander away to get back to their day, Kit pulled Julian aside.

“Hey, do you... uhm...,” He ran a worried hand through his hair. “Have you seen Ty?”

Julian gave him a sad sort of half smile. “I think he went down the beach.”

----------- 

The water was even bluer than he remembered, and the sand was warm between his toes. He made his way along the beach, trainers and t-shirt in hand. It was too hot for either of them. He was glamoured, so he wasn't worried about mundanes seeing the Marks that now twined their way along his strong arms and chiseled stomach. Sometimes, he had to do a double take when he looked in the mirror because he still didn’t recognise himself, even now. He still thought of himself as the scrawny, lanky, awkward-looking boy of years past.

He kept scanning the beach over and over again, looking for any sign of Ty. There were none.

He kept walking.

He kept walking until he recognised the cave that Ty and he had met with Shade - well, Ragnor Fell - in and a sudden pang shot through his heart at the memory. He walked in slowly, automatically reaching for the witchlight Ty had given him, when he realised he didn’t need it. The cave was already lit.

Kit froze in the small, corridor like hollow at the front of the cave. He stared, wide eyed, at various candles that were littered around the room, the books that were stacked neatly in the corner, and the small, wooden table and camping chair that sat in its centre. But mostly, he stared at the figure sitting at the table. Beautiful. His head was bent over a small gaming console, the Herondale necklace hanging next to Livvy’s locket at his throat, long fingers moving rapidly, black hair curtaining his face, headphones over his ears. Kit blinked, sure he was seeing things, but no.

He’d found Ty. 

He drank in the image of him in the dim light. He was taller now, his legs longer, but he had the same slender build. Kit saw the small muscles rippling in his arms under the grey t-shirt he was wearing as his fingers worked. He nearly collapsed. It had been so long, so long since he'd held him on the roof of the London Institute, so long since he’d told him that he loved him, so long since he’d watched him from afar on the beach for the final time, and yet he still felt his heart rate increase and he still wanted to run his hands through the muddle of black hair on his head and he still wanted to part his lips with his own. He still felt the same.

Ty must have sensed the fact he was being watched then, because he turned his head and looked at Kit. His grey eyes, shining like two silver rings in the candlelight, widened in surprise and he stopped playing his game. He was staring at Kit’s chest. 

Kit was suddenly acutely aware of the fact he didn’t have a top on. He felt himself flush.

Ty pulled his headphones off, putting them around his neck. The inside of Kit’s wrist throbbed at the sight.

The silence was deafening. They were both just staring; Kit at Ty’s earphones, Ty at Kit’s chest. 

Finally, after what was probably seconds but felt like hours, Kit had to say something.

“Uhm.... hey.” He gave a small, awkward wave. Smooth, dumbass. 

Ty flicked his eyes away and stared fixedly at the cave wall directly ahead of him. His mouth was in a hard line, and his right hand was tapping out a fast rhythm on the arm of his chair. Kit swallowed hard. 

“Why did you leave me?” Ty said, his voice barely above a whisper

Kit felt his heart break in two, right then and there. Tears welled up in his eyes. It took everything in him not to go over and put his arms around Ty, but he knew he wouldn't want that. He dropped to his knees instead, bending his head so his blonde hair would hide his face.

“Because,” his ragged voice caught in his throat. “Because I loved you. Because I still love you, even now. Because you're the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen. Because I want to be near you all the time.” Every thought, every word, he’d been holding in for three years seemed to be tumbling out. He didn’t stop them. “Because you make me laugh. Because I want to be there for you. Because i dream about you. Because i need you.” He put his head in his hands as a sobbed racked his body. He could feel Ty looking at him.

“You left because you love me?” The confusion was clear in Ty’s voice.

Kit took a deep, shaky breath. “Yes. But I mainly left because you don’t love me.” It was not accusatory: his voice was hollow and tinny in his own ears. 

“But Kit, I do love you.”

Kit snapped his head up. 

“What?” 

“I do love you.” Ty got up, placed his console on the table and came to sit cross legged in front of Kit, looking directly into his eyes. “Why do you think I’m in this cave? Why do you think I’m wearing this necklace?” He pointed at the Heron. Kit shrugged. “I’m here because this is a place we were together. I come here when i want to be with you. And I wear this because it’s the closest thing I have to being yours. It makes me feel closer to you.” Ty looked down at his hands then, and even in the dim light, Kit could see he was blushing. 

“But... but....” It was Kit’s turn to be confused now. “Why didn’t you come to see me today? I had to come and find you. You weren’t there.” He was aware he sounded like a whining child, but he couldn't help it.

"I’m sorry. I just didn’t know what to say, and i didn’t know want to say anything in front of the others, and i thought you might...” His voice wavered. “I thought you hated me.”

“Oh, Ty,” Kit reached out for his hand, instinctively, and Ty let him take it. “I could never hate you, not ever.” 

Kit turned his own wrist over to show the small outline of Ty’s headphones he had tattooed there. Ty traced it with his finger wonderingly. His touch sent chills all the way through Kit’s body. 

“I have spent the last three years waking up every morning and loving you even more than i did the day before, even when i didn’t think that was possible.” Kit’s voice was low and steady. Ty laced their fingers together. “I have spent the last three years dreaming about you, and crying when i realise you're not there.” Kit leaned forward, putting his face level with Ty’s. “I have spent the last three years running away from the best person i’ve ever met,” he dropped his voice to a low whisper. “But i don’t I don’t want to run anymore.”

And then his lips were on Ty’s, and everything in the world made sense.

#kitty #mae 100 #kitty fanfiction #the dark artifices #tda #kit herondale #ty blackthorn #dru blackthorn #julian blackthorn #emma carstairs #tsc #the shadowhunters chronicles #shadowhunters #tessa gray #jem carstairs #mina carstairs #tsc fanfiction

[thanatosangels]

Disregard

A (sort of) Matthew Fairchild oneshot

People often disregarded Matthew Fairchild’s attentions.

They saw the way he flirted with pretty girls and boys alike. They saw the way he adorned himself in bright, beautiful, elegant clothes and accented his every finger with sparkling silver rings. They saw him adore poetry and art as if they were the first star on a crystal clear night. They saw all this and assumed that he threw his adoration away like a penny in a wishing well, never to come to anything and never to be seen again.

But that was precisely what made his attention worth having.

Because, she felt, if Matthew Fairchild saw you - truly saw you - and his eyes still shone brightly through the murky London darkness, and he still whispered sweet nothings against your lips, and he still said your name as if it were the last one on Earth, and he still draped his arms around you, cocooning you in a haze of liquor and lust, well, that meant you truly were beautiful, didn’t it?

He had seen so much beauty in his short lived life - and pain, she was sure, for one could not see the world so brightly if one had not experienced the darker side of it. He had always known money, always known family and friendship, always had good looks and charm at his disposal. He had always had the option of whatever and whoever he wanted, and if someone like that chose to kiss you under the moonlight in Hyde Park, you simply did not say no.

Nor did she want to.

#matthew fairchild #matthew fairchild oneshot #the last hours #chain of gold #chain of iron #shadowhunters #tsc #the shadowhunters chronicles #fanfic #oneshot #james herondale #christopher lightwood #thomas lightwood #cordelia carstairs #lucie herondale #mae writes

[thanatosangels]

Congrats on your milestone!! Can I ask please for a 🥰 with Gabriel and Cecily Lightwood please? Thank you so much!

The fire was roaring in the hearth as the snow fell gently outside. The Christmas tree was in the corner of their cosy living room, draped in sparkling tinsel and enchanted candles that flickered in the low light. The elegant and dramatic painting of Balios that Will had jokingly gifted them this time a few years ago hung pride of place over the mantle.

Cecily took a deep breath and put down the tea she had been drinking a with a clatter. Gabriel looked up from the book he’d been reading in the arm chair, alarmed.

“Cecy? Are you alright?” He got up and moved next to her on the loveseat, placing a gentle hand on her arm. “You look awful pale.”

She turned and looked at him, her big blue eyes staring into his bright green ones. It was now or never.

“Well, darling, actually... there is something i’ve been meaning to tell you.” She swallowed, trying to choke down her nerves. She wasn't sure why she was so nervous, except the fact they’d been trying for so long now. “I’m.... I’m pregnant.”

Gabriel’s eyes widened and an immense smile broke out across his face. “By the angel, Cecy, are you sure?”

“Yes - i went to see the Silent Brothers yesterday.” She felt tears, happy tears, roll down her cheeks as she smiled. “Gabriel, Jem said we’re having a little girl.”

At that, he jumped off the sofa, picked Cecily up and started spinning her around in circles. The joy of the moment hurt Cecily’s heart, and it was a moment she never forgot.

Well, it was a joyous moment until Gabriel accidentally bumped into the coffee table and upended the half-full cup of tea Cecily had left there.

The stain never did come out of the couch.

#mae 100 #gabrily #gabriel lightwood #cecily herondale #the infernal devices #tid #will herondale #tessa gray #jem carstairs #tsc fanfiction #mae writes

[thanatosangels]

Okay, so I couldn't decide so if it's not a problem, can I have 🥺,🍓 and 🥰 for Lucie? 💕

🥺 - soooo kind and so sweet. quiet but incredibly thoughtful, also im not sure if its because Lucie is your avatar but i totally feel like you have brown hair. i could be wrong tho hahaha

🍓 - Medicine by the 1975 <3333

🥰 -

Tessa had bought a typewriter when Lucie was five.

It sat on the desk in the drawing room, and was primarily used for Clave correspondence or letters to friends.

Little Lucie would sit on her fathers knee and watch his fingers as they - slowly at first, as he familiarised himself with the keys - inked out words she didn’t yet understand about business she didn’t yet care for. She would rest her chin on the desk as her mother typed out letters to her best friends, her hand swiftly resetting the paper when she got to the end of a line, Lucie staring in wide eyed fascination at the whole process.

One day, when her papa was away in Idris on boring Clave business and her Mama was away seeing Aunty Sophie and Jamie had his head in a storybook, telling her to leave him alone, Lucie crept into the drawing room. The door creaked as she hesitantly opened it, and she hoped that Bridget wouldn’t hear and come running to chastise her about ‘poking her nose where it didn’t belong.’

The sun streamed through the open curtains and haloed the typewriter in glorious gold light. Lucie softly shut the door behind her and tiptoed over to the desk. With all her tiny might, she heaved the chair back and clambered up onto it. She sat for a minute, her legs swinging well above the ground, a small triumphant smile on her face. 

Then her eyes flashed with excitement, and she began to write.

She’d memorised this whole process just for this very moment. She typed carefully, her short, round index fingers punching the keys one letter at the time. Only once did she make a mistake - or rather, recognised that she’d made a mistake - and she made a small noise of frustration that imitated one her father made so often. She knew how to reset the paper, and replace it when she’d filled the page. Lucie prided herself on being a fast learner.

By the time Tessa returned to the Institute, the sun was beginning to set. She hung her coat and hat on the pegs by the front door, and James pelted down the stairs to hug her. She waited for the familiar pitter-patter of Lucie to follow suit, but it did not. It was only then, when her ears perked in the way only mother’s do if they suspect their child of trouble, that she heard the clack of the typewriter keys coming from the drawing room.

She put James down, who promptly ran back to reading or hitting Bridget with a spoon or some other mischief, and stuck her head round the door.

Lucie was perched on the edge of the chair at the desk, her tongue poking out the side of her mouth and her brow furrowed in a state of complete and utter concentration. Her hair was escaping the small bun at the back of her head and she was typing, slowly but determinedly. She didn’t even notice Tessa. 

Tessa silently shut the door and stood with her back against it, a small smile on her lips and her heart bursting with love for her baby girl.

She knew she was destined for great things.

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