#ada writes

— ALHAITHAM:

Alhaitham doesn’t care for his nine to five job.

His job is something that is a necessity for the sake of proper functioning as a self sufficient adult, and being a self sufficient adult is an inevitable part of life, therefore, he cannot avoid his job. He cannot survive without it, in fact. But there are times where Alhaitham wonders if he really needs this job. He wonders if he really has to waste the time he does in his small, cramped office, when there’s a large bed with a good amount of pillows to reside in instead.

Reside in with you.

“You’re quiet,” you poke his nose. He scrunches it, giving you a glance from the corner of his eyes.

“Aren’t I always?”

“Well, yes,” you giggle, snuggling closer into his side as your chin plants onto his chest. “But you’re quiet-er. It’s unsettling.”

You can’t sleep. You should, but you can’t. Not when you know Varka will be home soon. Well, maybe soon isn’t the right word for it—it could be far later into the night than your sleep cycle should accommodate for, but you still can’t help but stay up. He’ll be back, he said so in the letter, and you can’t sleep.

Luckily, the door creaks open sometime past midnight, so your poor sleep schedule doesn’t take too heavy of a hit.

“You’re late,” you murmur from the couch, blanket pulled up to your chin.

“I know. I was hoping I wouldn’t wake you.” His voice is low, familiar. Heavy footsteps cross the room, and then his hand is on your cheek—rough, warm, and still always gentle. “But you always wait up, don’t you?”

You crack one eye open. “Someone has to make sure you don’t get lost. I was wondering if I should’ve waited at the gates—you’re gone so often, I wonder if you even remember where everything is.”

He huffs a quiet laugh and leans in to kiss your forehead. “Still a smart mouth.”

You tug the blanket aside in silent invitation. He doesn’t hesitate—just settles in beside you and it’s almost like he never left. His arms curl around you, and your world quiets to only the steady sound of his breath, shrinks to only the warm space of his body pressed against yours.

“You smell like the outdoors,” you murmur, fingers brushing the edge of his collar.

“Calling me dirty?”

“Calling you absent,” you huff.

“Absent is harsh,” he says into your hair, kissing your head softly, “I’m always with you one way or another.”

You wrinkle your nose, fighting a grin. “That’s rather cliche.”

He chuckle against your temple. “You missed me.”

You don’t deny it—you did. You always miss him. He seems to know it, too, and pulls you in closer, tucking you fully against his chest. “I thought of you every night. I’d close my eyes and picture you.”

“That sounds raunchy.”

“Well,” he starts, and his laugh rumbles through his chest. You can feel it. “Perhaps the pictures in my head can take some turns in the wrong direction. What can I say?”

You smile, pressing your face into his shoulder. “You better not be leaving again anytime soon.

“I’m not,” he murmurs. “Not for a while—I hope that’s not too much trouble.”

“I suppose I’ll manage,” you sigh in mock exasperation, beaming when he laughs and presses another kiss to your forehead.

Ah you didn’t specify so I picked, hope you enjoy!

Prompt: “Are you flirting with me?” “You finally noticed?”

Ship: Thomastair

It was late afternoon, and all of London was bustling with energy, people heading to and from work, markets at the height of business as mothers and fathers alike gathered groceries for the week, and restaurants displaying their menus in hoped of gaining customers.

Thomas felt a smile tugging at his lips as he watched it all happen around him, feeling the slightest bit normal for once, despite the fact that no one could actually see him. 

“You don’t have to stand there and watch, Lightwood, you could join them.”

Thomas looked to his right with some surprise. Alastair and him had been asked to patrol alone since James and Cordelia were busy with wedding preparations, and Lucie had gone to the Bridgestocks to meet with someone- Ariadne, he suspected, since the only other person currently residing there was Grace- and Matthew was helping- well, babysitting- Kit at the Fairchilds’ house.

Alastair had his hands deep in his pockets, eyes on a place across the street as he spoke. His hair- the color like spilled ink, swiped across his forehead. It was... not bad. 

“Yes, and abandon patrols, I’m sure Uncle Will would be pleased to hear that.” he said, though the idea had occurred to him. It just seemed so peaceful, he thought again, to have so few worries- no Princes of Hell, no friends in fake marriages, no Shadowhunters with infuriatingly perfect hair-

“Not abandon patrols, but its the height of afternoon, and despite the previous incident, demons have never attacked under sunlight. We’ll just go grab a bite to eat.”

He said it so casually, as if the two of them going for lunch was the most normal thing in the world, as if- as if they were in Paris.

Thomas opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. He frowned.

“Are... Are you flirting with me?” he asked, stunned. The patrols were his idea. In fact, this whole week he’d been trying to get Thomas alone, and now lunch? Alastair gave him an exasperated look, dark eyes wide.

“You finally noticed?” he asked.

Thomas felt like he’d been stripped of the ability to speak. Words. What were word, anyway?

“I...” he finally got out, feeling a blush come up his cheeks. Alastair Carstairs, the boy from Paris, the boy from Persia, the boy who’d come to London in the end. Was it at all possible that despite their crooked lifestyle- despite being Shadowhunters, and despite all the responsibilities that came with that- they could have the same happiness he saw in the mundanes around him?

Thomas thought of Uncle Will and his wife Tessa, all the stories they’d told them at christmas, and his own parents that had fallen in love amidst a war. It was possible, wasn’t it? 

You think I can’t make this angsty? beT

10. (fluff): “I think I’m in love with you.”

Ship: Thomastair

prompts

“fakir mi kenum dustet darim“ Alastair murmured.

Thomas looked up with some surprise, then furrowed his dark brows together in deep thought, in a way that made Alastair’s heart do unspeakable things.

“I know fakir is think, but that last bit is new to me” he explained, looking a bit embarrassed for not having figured it out. Alastair felt the corner of his mouth twitch upward slightly.

Thomas had been learning Persian, to support James in his attempts to master the language. Or perhaps there was some other reason, but if there was, Alastair had never heard it.

“It means ‘I think you’re a great friend’” Alastair said, lying through his teeth. But how was Thomas to know that?

In English, of course, a direct translation would mean just that. Friend. I have you as a friend. But it isn’t the direct meaning of a word one looks for, but rather, the meaning given to it by the people who use it.

“Let me try,” Thomas said with some determination. He was sitting cross-legged in front of an English-Persian textbook, the light from the window filtering in and washing his features in a golden glow.

“fakir... mi kenimeted darim?” he said, and Alastair tried to ignore the way his heart stuttered as Thomas’ accent blanketed the words, swaying though them and turning them gentle, almost endearing.

He cleared his throat, straightening, “Close,” he said, looking back at the book that rested between them on the floor.

Just then, two figures walked into the small room of The Devil’s Tavern. James and his sister, newly engaged and smiling from ear to ear.

“Oh, you’ve already started,” James said, looking surprised.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, Alastair has already taught me a new phrase, Jamie,” Thomas said proudly, then repeated the phrase, though he butchered it somewhat towards the end. Alastair froze in his place. James may not recognize it, but his sister...

“Oh!” James said, beaming, “Daisy taught me that one the other night!”

No, no, no...

“It means ‘great friend’ or some such, doesn’t it, love?” James asked, turning to face Alastair’s sister with a jovial grin. Cordelia, Alastair noticed, was frozen in place, face darkened with embarrassment.

“Yes, exactly!” Thomas replied, and the two Persian siblings made eye contact.

Prompt: 14. (fluff): “They’re so cute when they’re asleep.”

Ship: Jessa (Jem x Tessa)

“Tessa?” Jem’s voice was soft, hardly a whisper, but Tessa still started, surprised. The entire house was silent, nothing save the sound of her thoughts had been occupying her for nearly an hour, and she had presumed Jem to be asleep.

Tessa set aside her book, looking up to see him standing in the doorway. As she’d expected, his dark hair was tousled from sleep, and he was squinting, his eyes still not quite adjusted to the light. The overall rumpled look made her heart swell.

“What is it, Jem?” she asked, emulating the same hushed tone he had used. Jem waved her over, a small smile playing at his lips. Curious, Tessa rose from where she had been sitting on the couch, reading, and followed Jem down the hall. At first, she thought he merely meant to get her back to their bed, and was about to make a comment about how the Herondale boy had had an effect on him, but Jem stopped at the room just beside theirs instead. Mina’s room.

He turned to her, putting a finger to his lips, then nodded inside. Tessa looked past him, craning her neck to see over his shoulder. The fluffy pink rug that had been placed in the center of the room when Mina first started to crawl was obscured by two sleeping forms. Mina, lips parted around her right thumb, where she’d fallen asleep sucking it, and Kit, who had a protective arm wrapped around his sister, even in sleep. 

Kit had been training, she knew, and had developed a more Shadowhunter-like appearance, more lean muscle, and less lanky teen, but here, in a room surrounded by children’s toys, he was merely a boy. A boy with messy blond hair and a determined protectiveness as he rested. A true Herondale boy.

“They’re so cute when they’re asleep,” Tessa said, propping her chin on Jem’s shoulder, her fingers resting on the sleeve of his shirt.

“Tóngnián de chúnzhēn” Jem said softly. The innocence of childhood. “They make me feel a hundred years younger,”

If anyone else had seen this pair, a young couple, hardly into their twenties it seemed, and heard what the handsome young man said, they might have laughed, and called it an exaggeration. But he and Tessa were not so normal a couple as that, nor were the children fast asleep on the rug so ordinary. 

So instead of laughing or making a joke, Tessa only tightened her grip on her husband’s arm, leaning further into his touch. They had watched so many lives begin and saw them through to their end, had seen so many people born and been there to bid them farewell, but here they could pretend it was all a new experience. Here, they could just be a simple family, if only for a few moments.

Prompt: 12.(Angst): “Holding everything in doesn’t help, you know.”

Ship: Thomastair

“Holding everything in doesn’t help, you know.”

Thomas started at the voice, leaping up from where he'd been he'd been sitting at the edge of a worn chair, head in his hands.

The room was small and dark, likely made for storage, but still useful for any teenagers who aren't feeling good enough to be present at their friend's wedding.

Alastair, to Thomas' surprise, had been the one to speak. He stood in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe, watching him. The way the hall's light outlined his form, almost angelically, made Thomas' heart jolt.

He was dressed in a tan waistcoat, the color was just a few shades lighter than his skin tone, and blended nicely with his new dark hair.

"I-" Thomas coughed into his fist, feeling embarrassed for having been caught off guard. "I'm not sure what you mean, Carstairs,"

He tried to emulate the way Mathew or James spoke to him now, cold and unforgiving, but his voice sounded softer, and, despite his best efforts, almost desperate.

"I mean," Alastair said, not retreating, "that you lost a family member, no one can expect you to hide your mourning behind a delighted grin simply because fate chose someone else to be kind to."

Thomas felt a pang in his chest, lost a family member. Such an easy way to phrase it. A few words to describe the emptiness in their house, the unoccupied seat he sat across from at breakfast. The way he had gotten dressed this morning then complimented Euginia's gown and asked if she and Barbra would go matching that day, as they had at the ball.

She had turned and ran to her room, eyes filled with tears. Thomas had come to the wedding alone.

"I'm fine, really," he said, lying through his teeth. Alastair raised a brow at him, as if he knew for certain that it was untrue. It must be written all over Thomas' face.

"And besides, it's your sister's wedding, you should be with her," Thomas said, glancing down at his hands and waiting for Alastair to leave.

He didn't.

Instead, he took a step into the room, leaving the light and melding into the shadows.

"It's your friend's wedding," he countered, "you should be with him."

Neither moved.

"She always thought they'd end up together, you know." Thomas said after a moment. The corner of his mouth twitched up at the memory. Barbara handing him a drink, nodding at James and Cordelia at the center of the ballroom.

"I'll bet we'll go to their wedding before Oliver decides to propose," she'd said, somewhat bitterly. She'd been right, he supposed, though the thought only made his heart ache.

"It was anyone's wager," Alastair said, though there was nothing hurtful in his tone.

Thomas was not sure why, but he kept talking, feeling the need to get the words out, to remind the world who Barbara Lightwood had been. 

"She wanted to get married in the spring," he said, his voice sounding raw and vulnerable to his own ears, "that's why she was so desperate for Oliver to propose soon."

Alastair said nothing to this, and it only encouraged Thomas to keep going, "garden wedding. That's what she liked, had always said she wanted daffodils everywhere, because the scent would only sweeten the memory."

Thomas was glad it was too dark for Alastair to see his face, as he felt tears fill his eyes. He fisted his hands at his sides, taking a deep, shaky breath.

"What else?" Alastair's voice was quiet, but he was standing close enough that Thomas would have been able to hear him breathe.

"She liked the color red," Thomas said, his breath hitching at the final syllable as he felt a light touch at his right fist. Alastair's fingers brushed along his clenched fist, easing aside his fingers until Thomas' hand hung open, barren, by his side. Then, he slid his own hand to fill it, and Thomas felt a rush of warmth from the touch, as Alastair laced their fingers together.

Thomas waited for Alastair to mention the way his breath was shaky, the way tears were so clearly rolling down his cheeks, waited for the other boy to call it unmanly, to mock him.

Instead, Alastair only said, his voice soft and low, only for Thomas' ears, "tell me more,"

Thomas found himself wanting to lean into the gentle lilt of his voice, his soft touch as his thumb brushed along Thomas' knuckles.

"She wanted to go to Paris," he said, because it was true, but also because their proximity, and this exchange reminded Thomas of Paris. Of days spent at museums, discussing art, at cafes and libraries, where the whole world seemed to melt away and leave the two of them in blessed peace.

"Paris is beautiful," Alastair said.

"It is." Thomas agreed, wondering if Alastair was also thinking of that time, if their entwined hands reminded him of the way Alastair had run his fingers along Thomas' forearm.

The sound of a band picking up a new piece echoed in from down the hall, cutting through their moment of peace.

"The ceremony is about to begin," Thomas said, his voice quiet. The tears had stopped coming, but he was in no shape to be seen by others now.

And he didn't want to leave Alastair.

"So it is," Alastair said.

For a long time, neither of them moved, allowing time to overlook them, allowing this dark room to cocoon them in a little ball of safety. In a way, Thomas thought, they had created their own little Paris, right here at James' wedding.

A girl? That was her first thought when she broke the surface, purse full of shells clanking against each other as she took her first breaths of fresh air.

The mermaid was used to the crowds that showed up every year. Men already halfway to the grave, over-ambitious boys, sometimes the same faces repeated year after year.

This time, the shore was barren save a single girl. She had deep brown skin and wild hair that seemed determined to break free of it's braid, and she was pacing.

The mermaid watched her for a moment, deeming her unusual indeed, before pulling her body up onto the rough surface of the large rocks.

It took a moment for the girl to notice her, and when she did, her face broke into a grin. The mermaid felt something in her chest pick up speed at that, and she wondered at how many shells she'd be willing to give to see a smile that bright daily.

It was a thought she'd never had before.

The girl dressed like them, the men. Humans had that distinct separation, though the mermaid could not understand it. If one had to use legs to walk, she couldn't imagine a dress would make that task simple. Still, the girl was elegant in the way she walked, stepping over the rocks carefully, not tripping the way they often did.

When she reached the mermaid, she sat down, startling her. They always stood, as though speaking down to her might give them anymore power over her. But this one sat, her dark eyes wide as she turned her attention on the mermaid.

Something in that look made her heart pick up speed, and the mermaid glanced away.

"Where are the others?" the mermaid asked, letting her eyes trail over the sea. There were often crowds, enough to fill the shore.

"I sent them off," the human girl replied.

"Why?" The mermaid glanced back with surprise, but the girl only shrugged.

"They aren't deserving of your gifts,"

"And you are?"

This she did not respond to.

The mermaid liked it when the girl responded though. So few humans actually wanted to talk to her.

Instead, the girl reached into a purse, not unlike the one the mermaid carried, but where her's was made of seaweed, this girl carried a bag of cloth. That could not withstand the tide, she found herself thinking. But humans did not have such worries to plague their minds.

"I understand there's a trade," the human girl said, "'something precious.' is awfully vague, but I have a few family gems, if you'll accept them.

The mermaid watched her retrieve the gems, one bright green, another deep blue, and a third a dim red color, this one shone, reflecting the girl's face in it.

"What use could you have of an immortal life?" The mermaid asked. She never asked. But this time, she wanted to know.

"It isn't for me, it's for my father. He's fallen ill and I hope this will heal him."

"Most people don't use it to heal," the mermaid said thoughtfully.

"Most people are selfish." the girl replied.

After a moment's hesitation, the mermaid accepted the gem, though she found herself immensely disappointed when the girl shifted and her image disappeared from it's surface. If only she could have kept it.

Still, she handed her the shell, one of only eight that appeared on the seabed once a year.

This was the first time the mermaid was glad to give it away.

The girl stood, ready to leave.

"If your father is well next year, perhaps you should bring him." she found herself saying. She never asked the humans to return.

"Will you be here?" the girl asked, and perhaps it was her imagination, or perhaps her voice had a tinge of hope in it.

"Of course."

And with that, the girl had left the shore and the mermaid dove back under the waves. But for the first time in a long time, she was looking forward to the next year, and the people faces she might see.

Thanks so much for your kind words @thefuriousmoles they mean a lot! I’m sorry this took so long, but hopefully I’ve made up for that with the pain I bring you. Enjoy! (Also @bridgestocksariadne and @nolu I think I win the angst war)

Ship: Blackdale

Prompt: “I want to touch you so bad, but I can't”

“Close your eyes, Lulu,”

The voice was soft, quiet, and in the darkness she could hardly make out the silhouette of him. But she would recognize his voice anywhere.

Lucie took in a shaky breath, “I’m not afraid of them, Jesse,” she said, with as much courage as she could muster. 

Lucie had read hundreds of stories where the heroine would face her enemies and, despite any fears she may be hiding, would bravely fight for her beliefs. But Lucie did not feel like much of a heroine, then.

A soft chuckle came from the darkness- her right? Perhaps it was her left side, she could hardly see the bars surrounding her, let alone the ghost that had accompanied her.

“Of that, Lucie, I have no doubt,” said Jesse. He did not sound bitter. He did not sound resentful, or angry, though the Angel knew he should. Lucie felt tears prick her eyes, and wished she could let them fall here, in the dark, before anyone else could see.

“I failed you,” she whispered, turning to where she assumed the voice had come from. Sure enough, the barest glimmer of green eyes, the color of their forest, met her’s.

“Lucie,” Jesse said firmly, “you did not fail me. If anything, I have failed you by bringing you here. By making you face them. But on my word, Lulu, you will not face them alone.”

“And what will you do, Jesse?” she asked, and it was her own voice that filled with resentment, despite her promises to be brave, she was already failing. Lucie let a hand wrap around one of the metal bars surrounding her, pressing her forehead to the cool metal. “What can you do, now that I’ve failed to bring you back?”

Memories, sharp as needles came at Lucie suddenly- a dark room, an abandoned space, candles burning low, the smell of demonic energy, revertetur eum, revertetur eum, revertetur eum- 

She grit her teeth, trying her best to forget. The way the shadows had shifted around Jesse, the way her chants had made the candlelight freeze in place, and like an oil painting, her knight in shining armor had been there. And then he’d been gone. 

“Lulu, I lo-” his smiling face turning to pain, combusting into ribbons of shadows with a gasp. And then Lucie was alone, her, Jaimie, and every Clave member in London.

She let her head press into the metal until it burned, tears streaming down her face- when had those started?- her hands gripping the bars until they went numb.

The barest shift in the air beside her ear made Lucie stop, her breath hitching. She knew that feeling, and when she turned her head, sure enough, Jesse was there, hardly an inch away, somehow so close and yet so many worlds away. She could see his face more clearly now. His dark hair practically blended with the darkness, face inhumanely pale, and bright eyes watchful.

But now, too, Lucie noticed the differences. In that instant, he had seemed more opaque, like a drawing come to life, his form sharpening suddenly, shadows appearing as light reclaimed him into their world. 

“Oh, Lucie,” James had whispered, his eyes soft and remorseful. She wondered now, if she had told Jaimie and Cordelia, if she had shared this with them, might it have gone differently? Might her parents not have been worried? Might James have not joined the Clave members to track the unusual demonic activity?

Might Jesse be with her now?

But that was all Lucie had been left with, a series of questions, unanswered worries, thoughts to drive her mad until they settled on her punishment.

Jesse’s eyes flicked over her face, and he lifted a hand, fingers curled as he made the motion of stroking her cheek. She tried to pretend they were someplace else, that she was a heroine in a novel, that he had been her prince, that she had not failed. That she could feel his touch.

But stories were no place for her reality.

Lights flooded the hall, and Lucie’s eyes snapped open again, meeting Jesse’s.

“Miss Lucie Herondale,” a deep, masculine voice spoke. Lucie did not look at him, her eyes still on her boy, the boy that was growing more transparent with each strike from the torch's light.

“You have been found guilty of attempting illegal necromantic practices-”

Lucie let her hand uncurl from around the bar, pulling back. She would not let herself be taken as a little girl. She was a Shadowhunter. She was a writer. She could command the dead.

“-if these allegations are found to be true, you can and will face the consequences laid out by our Inquisitor-”

Lucie lifted her chin. Jesse was watching her, face unreadable, and she could not picture him seeing the trial, and if the punishment was carried out, then her own execution.

She reached a hand out to him, just as he had all those years ago, when he’d saved her fro the pit, and entwined their lives forever. His dark brows drew together, but he reached a hand out just the same, letting it hover above Lucie’s, the barest shift in the air to let her know he was there at all.

“-will face a fair trial by the mortal sword, may the Angel be with you. Is that understood.”

Lucie gave her boy one last smile, then whispered one word. 

“Go.” only she was not an ordinary girl, as he had told her so long ago. Jesse’s eyes widened, but before he could protest, the command had been issued, and he was pulled back into the darkness.

“Miss Herondale,” the man repeated, and Lucie let her eyes slide back to him. In the flickering torch light, his red hair was slicked back, suit sharp, as though he was trying to convince the whole room that he was powerful. The overall affect was ridiculous. “Is that understood?”

Lucie had one moment to dwell on all that had happened. Jesse was gone, Jaimie could not help her now, nor Cordelia or even her parents. Aunt Charlotte would have to carry out what she saw fit for a criminal, not a girl she’d known longer than Lucie had memory to recall.

Lucie raised her chin, letting her steady gaze meet the man’s.

“Understood.”