#c. thomas

[kittym]

FAMINE CLASS OF ‘21.

[lokibannerpool]

@musenssang​ said: 

Freeman is Ajex' legal name

“Francis Freeman sounds like a better name for a bad guy than Ajax.”

[kittym]

+ THOMAS ( @thomasriv​ )

SATURDAY 6TH FEBRUARY. THE FEMENIAS ESTATE. The room smells of bleach and disinfectant. Wires race along the hardwood floor like snakes, writhing motionlessly towards an assortment of machines: a pulse monitor ( not in use -- she assumes Thomas pulled off the device for some peace and quiet ); a surgical light ( set to dim, daylight filtering in through the curtains to join its artificial fluorescence ); something she couldn’t name even if held at gunpoint but had probably been vital in saving Thomas’ life. Kitty drops down heavily into an armchair that someone had evidently moved from the edge of the room to sit alongside the bed, watching its occupant ensnared in slumber. He doesn’t look too different to how he had a few hours ago, sprawled on cobblestones, eyes closed and breathing slow. At least now his life wasn’t seeping out of him. 

Expelling a tired sigh, she wonders how long it will take for him to wake up. He’s been in and out of sleep all morning, the on-call nurse had advised with a flash of a warning glinting through their eyes: do not wake him up. Kitty’s good at following orders but only when it suits her. Stretching to reach a bowl of grapes ( predictably boring ) left on the end table, she snatches up a bunch and picks one off the vine, popping it into her mouth before plucking another. This one is rolled between finger and thumb, cool to the touch, before she throws it lazily at Thomas’ face. The fleshy fruit missile bounces off his cheek and onto the bed. A second follows, ricocheting off his forehead. A third hits his other cheek and, finally, Kitty senses him stirring. “Rise and shine sleeping beauty. You have some questions to answer.” She launches another grape at him, this time with added force. “That’s for getting fucking shot.”

One more falls in its wake. “And that’s for getting fucking shot by a Warden and making our crew look like we can be used for target practice.”

[kittym]

+ THOMAS ( @riversthomas​​​​​​ )

SUNDAY 1ST DECEMBER 2019. THE PALE STALLION. She wakes up to bad news: three voicemails and seventeen texts, to be precise, including one from her uncle that announces a temporary freeze on all betting activities, and three different links to news outlet websites that picked up on the early morning police raid. Slow dawning awareness sinks through her like a lead anchor to settle as nervous energy in the pit of her stomach. With a press of her thumb, she clears all of the notifications and sends a single message to Thomas. Want to meet later?

Kitty times her travel -- a thirty-minute drive from her home to the pub; twenty minutes from HQ -- and ensures she gets to the Pale Stallion before her Virtue ( ex-Virtue she supposes but hates to acknowledge, well aware that the repercussions for this mistake would not be light ). She knows his drink order by heart and sits in the back of the daytime-quiet venue beside the furnace-like heat of a crackling woodsmoke fireplace, watching the lone bartender restock peanuts with a bored expression on their face. The door opens and closes, Thomas’ familiar stature catching the corner of her eye. She stands in one swift motion, a concerned look on her face as she studies his own harrowed expression and attempts to gauge the thoughts that lie behind his darkened gaze in the wake of his meeting with Rafael Snr. “Thomas.” Sympathy lines the hush of her voice, reaching to rest a hand against his upper arm with a small reassuring squeeze. There’s something strangely eye-opening about the man she’s looked up to her entire Famine career having the rug pulled out from under his feet. A reminder that even the mighty can fall. She won’t admit it, not even to him, but it scares her.

“Here, sit down, I got you a drink.” Kitty returns to her chair, watching Thomas. She waits for him to speak, anticipation hovering in the hollow of her mouth, but she’s never been any good at holding her tongue and re-breaks the quiet herself. “It had to be one of the Angels. I mean, come on, the police had a fucking warrant which--” she laughs, a single bark of a loveless sound, “--means they’d been tipped off well in advance. There’s no way this wasn’t orchestrated. Honest to fuck, if it was Harry of all people. We can make his life hell, Thomas. Or whoever it was that did this. They won’t get away with it.” 

[lokibannerpool]

@musenssang liked for a Thomas Starter

Working in an ER definitely had it’s ups and downs, even for someone who was still technically a med student. Today was more chaotic than usual due to whatever superhero and villain antics were going on in the city. Thomas couldn’t get to home fast enough. He just wanted to eat some leftovers, shower, and pass out on his couch, but those desires disappeared when he noticed there was someone else in his apartment.

“How the hell did you get in here?”

[lokibannerpool]

we're married - seraphina at Thomas

Send “We’re married.” for my muse to wake up in a future or alternate reality where our muses are married.

Thomas took one more drag of his cigarette before putting it out on the bottom step, then he approached their front door. He had swore never to smoke in the house, and so far he was sticking to it. Honestly, he knew he shouldn’t smoke at all, but the stress of being an on-call for the hospital for 24 hours had encourage the habit.

Stepping into the house, he tried to open and shut the door slowly, unsure whether his wife would be up this late. He got his answer when she greeted him with a hug and a kiss (on the cheek because he turned his head). He didn’t want her to have to inhale his bad habits more than necessary. “Hey, beautiful,” he greeted her with a smile and a wink. “What are you doing up so late? Is the baby keeping you up again?”

[hippography]

Hunter Gelding, “WHITE SOCKS,” First Prize in the Three-year-old Class at the Salisbury Show. Breeder and exhibitor, Mr. C. Thomas, Salisbury. 

The Agricultural Gazette and Modern Farming, 18 June 1920.

[lokibannerpool]

“don’t touch me.” (Kayla @ Thomas)

“Okay. Stay on the ground then.” Thomas rolled his eyes as he backed away from the woman, no longer interested in helping her. “I have doughnuts to eat anyway.”