When Summer Slipped Us (Underneath Her Tongue) {Thomastair}

Sleeping Lover and Orange Scarf

Alastair stepped inside his shitty dorm room with his whole body aching for the shitty twin-sized dorm bed.

The afternoon was melting hot. The heavy air was choking him, his back was drenched in sweat and his shower after the training was rendered pointless. He was determined to take another one in the comfort of his own bathroom before he stumbled upon the most alluring sight his eyes had ever been blessed with. 

Thomas Lightwood was sleeping on his bed, laid out like he was a lamenting hero. One arm thrown above his head, one foot planted on the bed,  another leg laid flat against the bedsheet. But the part that caught Alastair's eye was the orange cotton scarf Thomas had chosen to cover his face with from the sunlight offending his eyes. The orange hue of the scarf glowed in the light which scattered across Thomas's body. 

The unbearable heat disappeared to a chill running down his spine. The orange scarf. The one he took from his mother's wardrobe. The one he loved the feeling of against his face, the soft worn-down cotton felt like his mother's affectionate touches. It was his home in this foreign land. A piece of his heart was woven in those threads. Now here was Thomas, spread out under warm honey sunlight, warped up in Alastair's home.  He looked like a piece of heaven on earth and a vice at the same time. 

He tried to memorize the view. The golden rays lit up their room in an absurd warmth. Alastair could catalogue the colours. Buy a big canvas with the little money he had saved aside. 

Tiger orange for the scarf.

Apricot for Thomas's arms. 

Peach for his knuckles and his fingertips.

Mocha for his hair, peaking out from under the scarf.

Bumblebee yellow for the sunlight pouring through. 

Spruce blue for his denim trousers-

"Are you just going to stand and stare?" 

The sleepy voice yanked Alastair out of his fantasy shopping list. Thomas was awake, the scarf revealing his puffy face, there were marks on his cheek, the imprint from the wrinkles of the pillow. His eyes weren't fully opened yet. Alastair wished they were. He missed them terribly. 

As if in a trance, Alastair walked to his bed and moved one of Thomas's legs to situate himself between them. 

They fit like two pieces of a puzzle, he is right at home with Thomas's thighs around his waist, pulling him down and discarding the scarf. The warm sunlight falls directly on Alastair's back, a little bit of it escapes and falls on Thomas's eyes.

If God could see Thomas Lightwood's eyes against sunlight, he wouldn't be able to say Alastair drinking him down would be a sin. 

The heat of the sun melted with Thomas's. He felt like he was intoxicated with how much his body felt like it was swimming through warm pools of honey. Each touch burned through his skin. And he felt it bone deep. 

Thomas pulled him inside his newfound big arms. Even a few months ago Alastair towered over the other boy. One bloody summer vacation to Spain with his family, Thomas returns looking like Michelangelo's David. The boy used to weigh a few grapes to Alastair when he used to pick him up to pin him against the wall and kiss him until they were both panting like dogs in a desert. Now the boy was well over six feet, arms as strong as Atlas.

But Alastair found out that the weight of this new Thomas was perfect in his lap, He pressed down all the right spots. He enveloped Alastair in a blanket just the right amount of tight. Thomas's hands were bigger than his. But not longer. Thomas still needed his slender calloused fingers to be satiated. 

Thomas Lightwood was beautiful before, but now he was drop-dead gorgeous. The tan and the more prominent freckles scattered all over his body like constellations were a Spanish summer fling, Alastair wanted to kiss every one of them.

The way he drove Alastair insane with just a glance.He grew into someone who used purposeful touches designed to make Alastair's eyes roll to the back of his head with pleasure. 

A hand travels up Alastair's t-shirt to fondle his pecs and then grabs his trapezius muscles, fingers digging into it hard. Thomas grinds his hips and rubs against Alastair in lazy, slow and deliberate movements. 

His lips parted in silent moans. Alastair wants to bite them. How could he not when they look so soft and red? In his trance, Alastair leans in and drinks in the moans pouring out of Thomas like it was Nectar.