#hes a little charred up but he found his vest <3

[fazgoo-connoiseur-1987]

a little tiny scraptrap for your troubles

#the brug <3 #i love drawing him #hes a little charred up but he found his vest <3 #fnaf #william afton #fazgoodles #five nights at freddy's #ffps #freddy fazbear pizzeria simulator #springtrap #scraptrap #i loveee scraptrap actually the weirdlookin love of my life #gore #body horror

[queensofthekastle]

For the dialogue prompt -- how's about 42?? :]

HOLY SHIT OK IT TOOK ME A MONTH BUT I'VE DONE IT. FINALLY. Life was just happening everywhere, thanks for waiting me out. 🙏

TW: descriptions and references to racist police violence.

The prompt was "I'm only here to establish an alibi." I was totally stuck--what could be blamed on Frank that he wouldn't have actually done? Canonically to the comics (though I commend the show for not giving a flying fuck about whether Frank went after glorified DHS cops who were dirty) the only things Frank won't touch are bystanders, cops, and active duty military.

And then I had it. Because 2020 has been A Year and I'm still processing some shit. So, here we go.

-Stellar

************************************

The door rattles under a succinct knock at 2:45 am—just when Karen had been so close to falling asleep, caught in that limbo of vague consciousness and wandering thoughts just on the cusp of falling into dreams. So, it’s with more irritation than concern that she drags herself out of bed after the second round of door-bludgeoning. It being post-closing time on a Friday—well, Saturday now—she's fairly confident what she’ll find through the peephole will be a drunk neighbor with the wrong apartment. It wouldn’t be the first time, nor, probably, the last.

A cautious look through the peephole does not reveal one of her gregarious bar-hopping neighbors though, but a still figure; hood pulled close around his face to shadow shifting eyes that look black as ink in the low, shit light of the apartment hallway. Frank has a lovely mouth, but it’s set now in a tense line. Karen’s heart picks up speed, a fullness in her chest and a pressure in her veins—middle of the night, tense Frank is never a good sign. Though he doesn’t seem to be bleeding from anywhere, which is more than can be said for some of his other visits.

She undoes the door chain, and she’s quietly but earnestly asking “what’s going on?” before she even has the door open wide enough for him to see her face.

“Nothing.” He says, voice rough and low, but calm. “I just need someone to know it’s nothing.”

He looks askance, looks at her. She allows herself a sigh.

“What does that even mean, Frank?”

He shifts his weight and looks at her from under the shadow of his hood. 

“I’m only here to establish an alibi.”

“Because you didn’t do something, or because you did?”

“Didn’t,” he says, and she believes him. She always does. It’s one piece of why he’s so dear to her: Frank never lies to her, and she never lies to him.

“This should be interesting,” she says, and opens the door far enough for him to step through. When she’s closed it behind him she asks if he’d like a drink. He answers without looking her in the eye, mind working on something else far away from her little apartment—he asks for his usual, of course. Only Frank would suggest coffee this near to 3:00 am.

“Not sleeping tonight?” she asks. He shrugs one shoulder.

“Guess not.”

“Uh-huh. So you didn’t do anything, but you’re pulling an all-nighter in my apartment? I’m going to need an explanation here soon, Frank.”

He hovers beside the hutch that acts as her kitchen island without looking any more settled than he had out in the hall. His jaw works for a moment before he answers.

“I don’t know how much you want to know. Let's just say I ran into someone with a mission about like mine and I’m giving her space to work.”

“Oh. God. A Punisher copycat? Jesus, Frank. The law turns a blind eye to one of you, I doubt you’ll get away with two.”

“Nah,” he says, “nothing like that. I’m it. This is a one-time thing—lady's got some things to get out of her system. I only found out because she was after the same supply chain I was.”

“Supply chain?”

“Ammo,” he says flatly. Karen holds her next blink a little too hard and a little too long. But he is what he is—she accepts that again every time she opens her door to him—and she doesn’t comment except to ask:

“Who is this person after that you aren’t?”

“It’s probably better you don't ask. If someone comes sniffing after me about it you should be able to say you didn’t know anything.”

“So if one of your Homeland ‘friends' shows up to see if you’re testing their good graces what do I tell them, then? That you just showed up at three in the morning for a chat? No one is going to buy that.”

He shifts, not quite shrugging, looking off into space with the raised eyebrows of feigned innocence.

“Just say I saw your light on, came to say hi.”

“Right. And you were walking around Hell’s Kitchen to see my light on in the first place because . . .?”

“Couldn’t sleep. Hoping maybe if I tried my luck with a walk I’d find you up.”

Karen sighs, turning away to pour his coffee. She’s made it thick as hot asphalt for him, in part because she knows he likes that, in part because she’s so damn tired she’d lost track of how many grounds she was piling into the coffeemaker. Frank takes the mug she offers him with a low “thank you.” And sure enough, after a sip, he smiles.

“You always make my kind of coffee,” he says.

“It’s an easy recipe,” she says, leaning over the counter opposite him, “just make it so no sane person would drink it.”

He laughs, a very short, low sound that rumbles in his chest and rasps in his throat. 

“Dare I ask what you were actually in the neighborhood for?” She asks. “If insomnia is your alibi?”

“Probably shouldn't. Let’s just say I had a meeting.”

Karen quirks an eyebrow, conveying as much skepticism with the look as she can.

“Meeting as in you’re probably accessory to whatever it is this friend of yours is doing?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

Karen fixes him with her best piercing journalist stare. He drinks his coffee. They stalemate that way in silence for a minute or so before he meets her eyes and speaks.

“There are some things I don’t touch,” he says. “People doing their jobs, following shit orders and shit training and fucking up in the process—shit I’ve done, Afghanistan . . . I wouldn’t have a leg to stand on. Would be a hypocrite. It’s not my place. And I guess you could call it self-preservation, too. Doesn’t mean I don’t think about it, though.”

“Think about…?”

He takes a long drink, eyeing her over the top of the mug, making some calculation she can’t guess at.

“You know any Latin?” he says finally. “Quis custodiet ipsos custodes mean anything to you?”

It does, and for a moment, she’s sure her heart has stopped.

“Oh, no,” she says. “Who watches the watchmen. Tell me this is what I think it is.”

“I’m not telling you anything, don’t worry.”

“Frank,” she hisses. She doesn’t need his sarcasm right now. She thinks she knows what it could be that he won’t touch and still endorse: with Frank it’s always either war or justice, and every headline for the last month has been about the absence of justice on a battlefield where he could never hope to win. Cops in the city conveniently overlook Frank. He gets the ones they can’t, they have no vested interest in handing him over so long as he doesn’t mess with them. It’s an unspoken arrangement that lets Frank do what he does—and what he does lets him stand to live. Karen knows that. They’ve been over it enough. The police let Frank slip through their fingers and he doesn’t pick a fight in exchange.

But it’s been a long summer, and every day of it has been a fight with police for the thousands of protesters gathering over and over throughout the city. In early June a beat cop—White, of course—used a kind of handheld Taser repeatedly on an unarmed Black man “resisting arrest" for a crime he didn’t commit. Cell phone footage from witnesses made it online despite the NYPD's best efforts, and all anyone saw when watching it wasn’t a criminal resisting, but a victim on his knees, clutching his chest, begging please, please, I have a heart condition, I have a pacemaker, before the cop shocked him again. And again. Until he wasn’t on his knees but prone on the ground, gone still and silent.

The officer was reinstated after a paid leave six days ago. The DA declined to prosecute. 

And yesterday, the innocent man, having spent weeks in a coma induced by heart failure, was declared dead.

Frank looks Karen hard in the eye, an unflinching stare that says he knows she understands. She puts her face in her hands.

“There’s shitstorm coming, isn’t there?” she says.

“Probably.”

She shakes her head, drops it into her hands again. She can feel him watching her. A minute ticks by. Maybe two.

“Karen.”

She lifts her eyes just enough to meet his.

“You feel you gotta do something with this?” he asks. It neither a judgement nor a threat. She worries her lip for a moment before answering.

“This person you know of,” she says slowly, “they won’t implicate you?”

“No.”

“And do you know enough of their plan that you could stop them? Tip someone off?”

He takes a long drink, holding her with those deep inkdark eyes, and for the first time, he lies to her.

“No. Nothing.”

She knows it’s a lie. She knows he wants her to know. She could call him on it and he wouldn’t deny it. But she doesn’t. 

All she says is “then I guess there’s nothing we could do,” holding his eyes while she speaks, making sure he understands what’s happening here.

Frank nods. It’s enough.

Karen looks away, stares at her hands folded in front of her, tracing the patterns of veins under pale skin.

After a moment she asks, “would you like anything stronger?”

Frank looks at her with cool appraisal that says what he won’t out loud—that somehow, on some level, he helped with what’s to come. And he knows she’s letting him get away with it.

“No thanks,” he says. “But you go ahead.”

And she does. She falls asleep beside him on the couch, drunk with her head resting on his shoulder, sometime after 4:30, an economy bottle of wine that started full and is now half gone still out on the coffee table.

On Monday, Ellison will ask her to look into the story of a body found charred beyond recognition in an NYPD patrol car.

She’ll tell him there was nothing she could dig up, and never mention it again. 

#kastle #kastle fic #BLM motherfuckers #queensfic #someday someone at Marvel will have the guts to put Frank up against a precinct of horrible cops #and on that day my only request is they let Garth Ennis write it

[petri808]

Awaken the Sleeping Dragon Within

Nalu Canon divergent, would take place after ft 100.  Here you go, I hope you like it!  :)  Lol it ended up longer than I’d expected.

Natsu moves with an extra spring in his step that morning.  The job was a mission complete with no damages and full payment given.  He’d found the perfect gift for Lucy that he’d been searching for and was now on his way back home to Magnolia.  The perfect weather was like a bonus treat that made his travel by foot a pleasant one.

Things had been progressing in their change of relationship status.  Through the whole 100-year quest, the shining revelation was not only that their bond could never be broken, but one that transcends the lines of simple friendship.  When he’d said ‘together forever’ it was a phrase uttered from the heart towards a person he knew he’d always want to be around.  But now he fully understood what it had meant, and it was time to solidify that phrase.  To take it from mere words to action and the gift he held in his pocket would do just that.

It would be another half-day’s journey to Magnolia, which meant he’d have to sleep under the stars one more evening.  Natsu didn’t mind so much.  As long as he could see them, they reminded him of Lucy, and that made him feel less lonely without her at his side.  The roads were quiet considering the holidays were so close in time.  Natsu remembers passing very few travelers, and in the last several hours, none at all.  Yet it was strange that he’d felt eyes watching him on a few occasions.

Just before nightfall, Natsu makes camp just off the side of the road in the first clear area he could find.  He sets up his bedroll, a small campfire, and eats dinner before lying down to get some rest.  The sooner he falls asleep, the faster the morning will come, and it doesn’t take long for mister sandman to come a calling.

There was little warning than a downward draft of air from above bringing with it…

‘What the hell?!’

Natsu jumps to his feet, awoken from a sound sleep by the scent of his brother blasting his senses.  He barely has a chance to dive away and block as a stream of fire burns his belongings to a charred pile and blackens the ground where he had just been occupying.

“Ignia!!!” He screams at the dragon hovering above. “What the fuck is your problem?!”  He was tired of these surprise attacks.  Four times now, but he was glad this time Lucy wasn’t around to be caught in the middle.  The last one… she’d almost been burned.

But Ignia simply bellows a guttural laugh and sends another blast of fire at Natsu in response.

The slayer dodges stream after stream of fire sent his way, lobbing blasts of his own the few chances he gets.  Ignia keeps up the volley at breakneck speed causing Natsu to endure a few near misses and a couple of singes.  Oh, this is ridiculous!  What kind of game was Ignia playing with him?!

As soon as Ignia pauses to change his flight pattern, Natsu takes advantage and lights up his feet.  He rockets himself toward his brother, sending his own crackling of flames to overwhelm Ignia long enough to compromise the dragon’s vision.  Then he uses a flame whip to lasso its neck.  Ignia thrashes at the binding, but it’s too late.  It gave Natsu just enough time to pull himself up and grab on to his brothers back, gripping tightly to the scales.  “Dad… and.. uncle Atlas… would be… so.. pissed… at you!”  He scoots up slowly, inching his way to the base of the dragon’s neck.

His brother bucks harder to get him off, free diving and suddenly banking one way or the other, doing anything and everything to throw Natsu off him.  “Fuck them, as if I care!”  He growls. “They did nothing for me and now they’re all dead!”

That pisses Natsu off!  How dare Ignia speak ill of their family!  “And you tarnish all they fought for by fighting me!  Spare me your sob story, I will not let you talk badly about Igneel like that, you selfish asshole!”  He lobs a ball of fire at Ignia’s head.  “Or Atlas!”  Another ball.  “Even he recognized me as Igneel’s son!”

Several more blasts are levied at Ignia’s head.  From this close proximity, the dragon can’t strain his neck far enough to retaliate or get a good hit on his brother, instead taking each one.  His skin may be immune to fire, but it’s effectively irritating.  There’s only one way he can think of to attack back.

He flames up his entire body.

At first Natsu’s screams pierce the dragon’s ears and he grins wide, assuming his brother still couldn’t handle his flames.  Several seconds tick on, but something changes.  Natsu’s screams die out.  Did he kill his brother?  That brings a wider-brimmed smile to his snout.  He grins and cranes his neck as far as it could go, but the sight that greets him quickly sullies his demeanor.

“It won’t work on me anymore… brother.”  Natsu’s own grin brings a great roar from Ignia.  The dragon bucks, but this time Natsu stands firm, holding tight to his flame whip now blue in color.  The slayer was covered in his brothers flames from head to toe!  The initial flame on had surprised him, hence the scream, but Natsu was able to slurp it up and take it in.

“You’ve learned to control it?!”  Ignia screams.  “I am a dragon god!  How can a mere human handle my flame?!”

Their last fight had hardened Natsu’s resolve to beat his brother once and for all.  It wasn’t a matter of choice, he needed to gain control over the flames to protect his loved ones.  Ignia didn’t need to know all the pain he’d endured to master this ability, but he will see the results.    

The longer he continues to soak up his brother’s flames, the more changes morph along his body.  Scales over his extremities and around his face.  Sharper claw-like nails and elongated canines.  Leathery wings with horn spiked joints and finally, serpentine pupils.  He was still humanoid, a hybrid of both worlds.  “Because I am no mere human.”  Natsu’s voice is low and full of pride.  “I’m a demon and the son of the Fire Dragon King!  For the sake of our father’s honor, I do not wish to fight you, but I will if you continue to threaten me or those I love!”

Ignia wanted to defeat his brother, but he wasn’t a fool either.  He could sense the gathering strength flowing through Natsu and the threat was not baseless.  This slayer or whatever he was, was not only on par with him power for power, but possibly even more so.  There was a strange feeling to Natsu’s energy…  ‘Tch, it’s that stupid love shit again!’  Ignia vaguely remembers his brother spouting nonsense about strength from family, friends, or something like that.  

“Well, brother?” Natsu narrows his eyes and concentrates his flames towards his hands, pooling, and growing balls of fire around them.  “Fight or live?”

“You’re bluff!”

Before Ignia finishes his retort, Natsu sends one ball, hitting his brother in the eye.  His fire, combined with his brothers explodes like white-hot shrapnel, burning through scale.  If Ignia hadn’t closed his eye soon enough, he would have been blinded.  

The dragon shrieks in pain, tossing his head from side to side to shake off the burning sensation.  It was unbelievable to Ignia that any fire could burn a fire dragon!  And one from this damn slayer!    

“I’ve come a long way,” Natsu reiterates, “there is nothing I won’t endure to protect.”

“Get off of me!” Ignia screams.  “Alright!  I’ll leave and go back to Guiltina!”

Natsu takes flight, hovering above and to the side of his brother.  “Don’t come back to Fiore, Ignia or I will not hold back!  I will slay you as we were originally conscripted to do!”  

The dragon blows out a puff of steam and without another word takes off towards the clouds.  Whether Ignia keeps his word or not will remain unseen, but for now, it was over.  Natsu looks down at the area he was sleeping in and remembers that his bedroll and backpack were destroyed, leaving him nothing to rest on.  He groans.  It was still a few hours till dawn, but with the wings, he could make it back to his cottage by morning.  He didn’t like staying in this form for so long because it drained his energy, but it might be better than sleeping on the hard ground.  ‘I’ll just sleep when I get home…’

It was a loud banging on his front door that rouses Natsu from another dead sleep.  “Come… coming…” He stumbles off the couch, wiping at the crusted drool on his cheek and chin.  His body ached all over, not painful, just sore, like every muscle was on strike and his vision was foggy.  His side bumps into the counter while trying to steady his wobbling gait.  “Oww!” Natsu grabs his side.  He looks down at where the pain was coming from and sees a large healing burn.  It was only then that his mind snaps together enough to focus and starts to inspect the rest of his body.  The burn was the worst injury he could see, but his top and vest were ripped or torn and barely hanging on his body, pants singed and tattered in a couple areas.    

Another loud bang on the door followed by a woman’s voice.  “Natsu?!  Are you in there?!!”  “He was supposed to be back by now,” the woman speaks in a lower tone as if turned away to another person.

Natsu shakes his head, even his hearing was fogged up, and his sense of smell.  That fight, nay, the transformation and holding it for hours is what zapped his reserves.  He could barely remember making it home.  The voice sure sounded like Lucy’s.  

Now a male voice.  “Are you sure?  Maybe the job ran late.”  

“But tomorrow is Christmas,” the woman replies, “he promised to be home by then.”

Wait a minute!  Natsu whips his head towards the door.  “Christmas?” he mumbles.  That means he’s been asleep for 3 days!  “Christmas?!”  He pushes away from the counter, trips over his own feet, but manages to grab hold of the doorknob, yanking it open.  “Lucy?!”

“Natsu?!”  She rushes up, throwing herself into his body, wrapping her arms tightly around him.  “Where the hell have you been?!  I’ve been so worried!”

“I…”

She pushes off to take a better look.  Immediately, Lucy’s joy at seeing her partner turns to a new range of emotions, going from happiness to sadness to anger in the span of nanoseconds.  “Oh, my Mavis!  What the hell happened to you?!!”

“Aannd, this is where I take my leave,” Gray takes a few steps back.  Natsu was confirmed alive, but now was in another level of trouble.  “See ya guys later.”  He makes a swift exit, leaving the rest to Lucy to deal with.  A lover’s quarrel was not something he was going to get in the middle of.

“Was it the mission?  Did something go wrong?  Who did this to you?!”  Lucy fires question after question in rapid succession, matching the speed at which her mind was flying in that moment.  Natsu was a total mess.  His singed and torn clothing was one thing but the large wound on his side was of a bigger concern.  She should run to get Wendy, but first, demanded answers!  Just as Lucy was about to lay into him with more questions, Natsu swoons on his feet.  His legs were buckling from exhaustion.  Lucy swings his arm over her shoulder to steady him and drags him back to his couch.  She brings him a glass of water, then when he finishes the drink, kneels in front of him.

Lucy takes a deep breath.  She was furious over being worried half to death but knew a fight wouldn’t accomplish anything.  Instead she places her hand upon his knee, looks up, and in a softened tone, “Spill it Natsu.  Tell me what happened.”

So, he does, starting from when Ignia attacked to flying all the way home after the fight, leaving out no details.  “I barely remember getting home or even passing out on the couch three days ago.  The dragon mode took a toll on my body.  I’m so sorry Luce, I never meant to worry you!  All I had wanted to do was…”  Natsu’s eyes widen, the gift!  He’d forgotten all about it!  Did it survive the flames?!  He reaches into his pocket and pulls the small box out.  Its packaging seemed okay, but as he opens it, Natsu’s heart sinks.  The metal ring of the band was melted and warped.  “Fuck!” He closes the cover and lifts his arm to throw it.

“Wait!” Lucy stops him, grabbing his arm and reaching for the box.  “Don’t!  What is that?”

“It was your Christmas gift,” Natsu’s head sinks, and his eyes fall to the floor.  “But it’s ruined.”

She was still trying to process the fight with Ignia and now this gift added another element to the mix.  Lucy wasn’t sure if she should be upset, or just happy that he’d become so powerful, because that growth had saved his life.  How about both?  “Next time Natsu, when there’s something important like this, you should talk to me about it.  I shouldn’t have to find out by surprise that you had trained to wield his fire or that you can control your dragon form.”

“I know…” he sighs.

Lucy sighs too, squeezing his knee.  “I’m annoyed… but I’m also excited that you’re home now and safe.”  She smiles, “I’ll help you get cleaned up, and go get Wendy to heal your wound, okay?”

“Gah!  I feel so bad, I don’t even have a Christmas gift for you now.”

She chuckles and waves her hand, “I don’t need a gift.  It’s the thought that counts, and besides, maybe it’s still repairable.”

Natsu grabs her hand, “it’s not… just a ring.  Lucy, I…. I was planning on proposing to you tomorrow.”

“Wait, what?”  Lucy pauses in shock, but quickly regains her thought process.  She starts to laugh, bringing a look of confusion to Natsu’s face, like his girlfriend has just lost her mind.  “I’m sorry for laughing,” she chuckles again, “Natsu a ring isn’t important.”  Her eyes crinkle in a smile.  “If you want to ask me, then just ask me.  You can fix the ring later if you still want to.”

“Really?!” That brings a wide-brimmed smile back to Natsu’s face.  “Wait,” he tilts his head, “is this a trick question?”  

That sends Lucy into another round of hysterics.  “No!” she laughs, “I’m serious!”

He pouts, “but I wanted to do the whole show, get down on one knee and stuff like they do in your books.”

Lucy smiles from his cute gesture and caresses his cheek, “then I shall wait as well to say yes…”

#nalu #nalu fanfic #endlu #Natsu dragneel #Lucy heartfilia #end natsu #nalu fanfiction #fairytail #canon divergent #takes place after 100 yr quest #Natsu x lucy

[lady-divine-writes]

Husband, Guardian, Muse - Chapter 3/3 (Rated NC17)

Summary: After the untimely death of his husband and muse, Crowley tries to find the simplest, most foolproof way to join him. But in the days that follow, he discovers that sometimes what looks like an ending can turn out to be a beginning, and that no one is ever really gone if we find a way to remember them.

Notes: Human au. Warning for character death, thoughts of suicide, alcohol abuse, and sexual content.

Read on AO3.

The voice told him to paint what he wanted. Now, Crowley had to decide what that was.

The answer was simple.

Crowley wanted an ending.

That’s what he had thought right before he heard that silent command.

He wanted it all to end – the pain, the sadness, the hallucinations. But mostly, his life without Aziraphale.

So that was the secret then. He would paint an ending to it all – his ending. How this all plays out starting with Aziraphale dying, these days of torture, and then … well, however Crowley thought to do himself in. He hadn’t given it any thought. It was a simple thing to say that he wanted to end his own life, but the logistics of it were another monster entirely. He’d spent the past few days feeling like his days were numbered, that his body would tear itself to pieces, but he was slowly getting better.

So the task fell on him.

Crowley returned to his easel. He tossed the ruined canvas aside and replaced it with a longer one, one with enough room to paint a multi-paneled work. He collected up his pallet, satisfied with the acrylics that were left and not giving a second thought to the puddle of paint he was standing in. He picked up a brush, not particularly concerned with whether it was camel hair or synthetic, medium tip or broad, and held it over the churning sea of tacky paint. He needed to choose his first color, one that would tie together the overall theme.

That should be relatively simple. He was painting a triptych of his own death. He would start with black or red.

But when he tried to dip the bristles into one of those two colors, he found the brush called somewhere else. He clenched his teeth and tried again with the same frustrating result – he’d reach for the red, but the brush was pulled to the blue.

“Fine,” he growled. “Fine, fine, fine, fucking fine!” He pulled up a huge dollop of blue and hurled it at the canvas, letting the paint land carelessly with an obscene sploitch, the hulking mass grotesquely crawling south.

“Well that’s mature . ” Aziraphale watched  as Crowley put the finishing touches on his latest painting. “I don’t think the gallery is going to want that one.”

“I don’t care,” Crowley returned, not bothering to look at his husband standing by his side. “Paintings are about emotion, how they make you feel, and this one’s making me feel better.”

“A painting of us barbecuing the neighbor’s dog?” Aziraphale tilted his head to the side to take in the vivid imagery of a smug Crowley, dressed in a toque and a gingham apron that read ‘Kiss the Cook’ across the front, tongs raised triumphantly, and in their metal grip, the charred leg of Roy and Sylvia Harding’s Airedale Terrier, Mitzy.

“You know, I ’ d think you would have more sympathy. The little jerk bit me ! ” Crowley griped, indicating his bandaged hand.

“You bit him back!” Aziraphale chuckled. “I think that makes you even.”

“I don’t,” Crowley mumbled.

Aziraphale inched closer to the painting, quietly appreciating the detail Crowley had put in – the grain in the wood of the red - washed picnic table; the springy hair on the carcass of the dead dog; even Aziraphale’s own ensemble – his favorite khaki pants and blue button down, his soft velvet vest , his light grey coat. Crowley watched his husband’s eyes as they traveled over his work, lip pinched between his teeth, his brow furrowed in concentration. Aziraphale turned his head suddenly, blushing at getting caught admiring his husband’s handiwork on such a gruesome subject.

Owing to love, knowledge, and familiarity, added with a dash of the fact that, after so many years of sharing the same heart and the same mind, they often thought alike, both men moved in at the exact same time for the kiss that seemed to linger in the air, waiting for them to experience it.

Aziraphale gave a sidelong look at the painting and chuckled when he noticed how close his face was to a screaming and horrified Sylvia Harding, rending her clothes in an expression of her grief.

“Okay, I’ve got to get away from this thing.” Aziraphale ducked his head and caught a glimpse of Crowley’s bandaged hand, a spot of red blossoming on the wrapping. “Oh, my dear boy !” He took Crowley’s hand in his and started to undo the gauze. “We have to re - wrap this so it doesn’t get infected.” Aziraphale tutted disapprovingly. “I wish you would let me take you to the hospital.”

“Why? When I’ve got you here to play my nurse?” Crowley put his pallet down and wrapped an arm around Aziraphale’s waist, dragging him close.   Crowley wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. Aziraphale pulled a face of mock horror.

“Come on, Aziraphale,” Crowley whispered. “I think I need to undress so you can take my temperature.”

Aziraphale threw his head back and laughed. Then he kissed Crowley on the mouth, chuckling when his husband released him to undo the buttons of his shirt one-handed.

“You know,” Aziraphale whispered against Crowley’s lips, grimacing at the confession he was about to make, “charred dog notwithstanding, it really is an excellent painting.”

Crowley stepped back to view his work, but once again, what had started out as one thing had developed into another. He had painted several paintings within a painting – an image of himself standing and staring at a painting with Aziraphale by his side, staring at a painting of Crowley staring at the same painting with Aziraphale by his side, standing and staring at the same painting on and on for infinity. In the painting, Crowley wore the same clothes he did now, his untidy hair plastered flat on one side of his head, his pallet dangling from his hand with the paint swirled together in a blotchy mess. Crowley regarded the painting closely, his heart racing. If Aziraphale was standing a bit behind him and to the right in all these paintings, could that possibly mean …

Crowley jumped when a hand touched his shoulder.

He turned, and a face closed in on his - cool lips pressing gently against his mouth. Crowley’s heart stopped when the face pulled away and he saw those blue eyes that he missed more with every passing day.

Aziraphale looked perfect, his ethereal beauty completely intact, the way Crowley remembered him. Aziraphale smiled at his husband, sorrow shifting his features.

“It really is an excellent painting,” he said, motioning to Crowley’s artwork with a nod of his chin.

Crowley didn’t want to look away, but he felt compelled to look back at the painting when Aziraphale mentioned it. Crowley had painted forever - the two of them together, stretching on into the future for an eternity. If he had to be honest with himself, that’s what he wanted.

He didn’t want to die.

He wanted his husband.

He turned back to Aziraphale, to ask him how he could make that happen, but Aziraphale was gone.

***

Crowley spent the following three days straight at his easel, the words paint what you want repeating in his ears. He didn’t eat, didn’t sleep. All he did was paint. He wanted his life with his husband back, so he started from the beginning, when he and Aziraphale first met. Crowley painted Aziraphale standing by the pond in St. James Park, watching the ducks swim by, the sun shining behind him creating a halo effect around his soft, blonde hair. He’d looked like an angel in his long white coat, so much so Crowley had been afraid to talk to him. Crowley painted the way Aziraphale’s eyes held his the first time they spoke to one another, when Crowley remarked about the current state of affairs and it took Aziraphale a whole half-minute to realize someone had addressed him. He painted the blush that had risen to Aziraphale’s cheeks when Crowley made a particularly randy joke (in a failed attempt at flirting), and his admiration when he told Aziraphale what he did for a living.

He painted Aziraphale opening his bookshop, Crowley rushing through the door in the background with a bouquet of flowers and a box of chocolates to celebrate. He painted Aziraphale walking the rows and stacks for hours, reading each novel as if they were a part of his own private library, which they might well have been since he consistently avoided selling anything.

He painted every lunch they shared at The Ritz on a wall-size canvas in multiple panels, changing their features as they aged, and on their respective ring fingers - faint at first, but becoming darker as time passed and they fell deeper in love - a single red thread that connected them.

During the course of those days, Crowley burned through his acrylics and had to call in a favor to another local artist to get more. While he waited for his shipment to arrive, he sketched. He went through sketch pad after sketch pad, finally resorting to paper from his printer, and after that, the newspapers stacked by the front door, never read but waiting to be recycled. He painted and sketched his and Aziraphale’s entire life together, and when he was done, when the final painting was set aside to dry, he waited for something to happen. A voice. A giggle. Another kiss.

Anything.

Crowley climbed into bed, his muscles sore, eyes crossed from exhaustion. He fell asleep waiting and awoke the next morning to the sun warm on his face, his skin and clothes thoroughly stained, and his husband nowhere to be seen.

He felt like a fool. A grief stricken fool which made his actions understandable, but still a fool. He had made it all up in his mind, indulged in this fantasy for far too long, missed his deadlines and pushed aside his plans.

Well, not any more.

Crowley knew what he needed to do, and he had the adrenaline coursing through his body to do it. In his stash, he had a bottle of Xanax, a bottle of Halcion, and two bottles of vodka.

If he took them together, with any luck, it would be quick and painless.

He hurried into a living room littered floor to ceiling with pictures of Aziraphale, paintings of Aziraphale, charcoal sketches on every possible surface of Aziraphale, moving to the walls when he ran out of paper and his replacement paints and canvases had not yet arrived. There were so many images of Aziraphale throughout the room that Crowley almost missed him, wandering through the paintings, fingers hovering over, tracing outlines of his own face. Crowley came within inches of him on his way to the kitchen, stopping short at the intense look in his eyes.

Aziraphale still looked ethereal, but he also looked real.

“They’re beautiful!” he gasped. “Every single one is just … beautiful! They may be your finest work!”

Crowley choked. This had to be a dream because the reality was too fantastic to believe. But Aziraphale’s eyes looked sad, and Crowley didn’t understand why.

“Are you really here?” Crowley asked. “Or are you going to haunt me forever?”

Aziraphale quirked an eyebrow. “Do you want me to?”

“I want you here! I need you, Aziraphale! I need you to come back to me!”

Aziraphale looked at the paintings, the drawings. “You painted my past, Crowley.” He reached out to caress an image of the two of them locked in an embrace, eyes closed as they kissed, caught up in their own little world as parents with children and park vendors raced by, eager to get out of the sudden downpour. Even Crowley had to admit it looked so real, he could almost see the people move, the children struggle to break free and splash in the puddles, Aziraphale’s lips against his.

It was their first kiss.

An epic kiss.

“I need you to paint my future,” Aziraphale explained, beginning to fade. “Then, you can have me.”

Crowley shook his head, exhaustion turning desperation to anger. He had painted for three days straight to have Aziraphale. Now he was disappearing again because Crowley hadn’t done enough!?

“What future, Aziraphale!? You didn’t get a future! You didn’t get a future because of me! Because I fucked up!” Crowley was screaming even though he didn’t mean to. He was lost, lonely, felt like he was going bonkers. He was standing in the center of what could easily be labeled the creepiest memorial to his dead husband ever, arguing with a ghost. But none of that mattered because Crowley was tired of waiting, tired of being tested. He had a future planned for him and Aziraphale, and he was ready to get back to it.

“You’re here now! I don’t care if I never paint again! I don’t want to paint! All I want is you!”

Aziraphale shook his head, backing away, his body becoming more and more faint with every step. Crowley panicked. He rushed at Aziraphale, determination in his blood-shot eyes, ready to re-claim his life and his husband. But as Crowley reached Aziraphale, he dissolved into thin air. Crowley stood alone in the mid-morning light, listening as the rest of the world sprang to life outside – birds singing, insects chirping. Crowley hadn’t realized that while Aziraphale was there everything had gone quiet, like time had stopped. But now it marched on with absolutely no respect at all for Crowley’s frustration and pain.

“Fine,” Crowley scowled. “If that’s the way you’re going to be about it, we’ll play this game your way!”

Crowley put a blank canvas on his easel and grabbed a pallet containing oils – a medium he wasn’t fond of, but he didn’t want to waste time rummaging through his acrylics for the colors he needed when this one was available.

Besides, Crowley considered oils a bitch to work with.

Seemed fitting.

Crowley didn’t take a moment to regard the canvas, search out the painting within. He knew what he wanted. He wanted Aziraphale, naked in bed, panting with want, skin flushed, writhing against the sheets as he dreamed of Crowley joining him and relieving him of his agony.

Crowley attacked the canvas, and not just with his brush. He moved through the paint with his fingers as he defined the lines of Aziraphale’s arms. He cut through the oil with his pallet knife, giving depth and dimension to the comforter on the bed. He sliced and manipulated, the colors blending till what he had intended to be a simple portrait of his husband lying in bed became the culmination of all his passion, bleeding through his pores and coursing from his fingertips. Unlike his other paintings, which only took a matter of hours, this one he worked on all day. He didn’t notice when the sun began to sink into the horizon and the room went black.

He knew Aziraphale’s body so well he could paint it with his eyes closed.

And the image was perfect – Aziraphale’s skin glowing against a frame of red satin sheets, plump lips parted, eyes searching, arm outstretched, pointing to where Crowley stood beside his masterpiece.

Crowley stared at the painting. And the more he stared, the more he could swear he saw Aziraphale breathing.

Crowley set his pallet down and ran a grungy hand through his hair, spreading paint along the strands. He was worn out, breathless, almost completely spent, but one word from Aziraphale would have sent him running to their bed.

If Aziraphale were there.

If Aziraphale was still alive.

He touched the frame of the canvas as a breeze spiraled through the room, carrying with it the most incredible sound.

“Crow-ley! When are you coming to bed?”

Crowley sucked in a breath and held it. He couldn’t let it go. A single noise, a single movement, and the voice might go away.

But he needed to know.

“A-Aziraphale?” Crowley stammered, sure that only the silence of the cottage would answer him.

“Crowley …” The voice - so light, so fair, so enticing and heartbreaking and miraculous - answered instead. “Please, stop painting and come to bed. You have all day to paint. We only have the night to spend together.”

Crowley backed away from the painting, gazing in reverence, expecting it to do something other-worldly … or maybe disappear. But it didn’t. The painting remained, and so did Aziraphale.

“Crowley! I am going to count to five and if you don’t …”

Crowley made it to him in three seconds flat.

That night, while making love to the man he thought he’d never see again, Crowley realized something so incredible, so indefinable, he felt no reason to try and explain it.

What good would it do?

He could spend the rest of his life with his husband, as long as he painted it that way.

***

“Oh, Crowley!” Aziraphale whispered, clutching his husband’s arm. “They’re gorgeous! Every single one of them your best work, hands down!”

“Is that because you’re in every single one?” Crowley walked Aziraphale from painting to painting, stopping long enough in between so that his husband could examine the details at his leisure.

“I do lend a certain, how do you say, sophistication to your art. I won’t lie.”

“Of course not.”

Aziraphale didn’t go out in public often – at least, not where anyone knew them. But being photographed by the paparazzi couldn’t be avoided. Crowley had shot from semi-famous to super stardom in a few short months, all thanks to his muse.

Crowley tried his hardest to make Aziraphale as inconspicuous as possible so he could accompany him to the gallery and see his artwork hung and lit properly. That was a magical moment, Aziraphale said - wandering through the paintings the night before the public got the chance to see them, knowing that he was one of the first people to lay eyes on them.

Crowley had dressed Aziraphale to go out in head to toe black by way of a simple suit, with leather gloves, top hat, and glasses to match. Aziraphale had never been a big fan of black, but it was a necessary evil.

Whoever he was to prying eyes, he had to appear in mourning.

Speculation spread like wildfire when Crowley emerged from his cottage after months of isolation with a stack of new paintings in the back seat of his Bentley that he had found himself a new muse.

That he was no longer the grieving widower.

At first, the art community criticized him harshly, but they quickly forgave him, falling completely in love with his latest work – an homage to the brief but brilliant life of his husband, bookshop owner Aziraphale Fell.

Only their closest friends knew the truth.

And they didn’t care, as long as they got Aziraphale back.

Tracy said she wouldn’t care if Aziraphale were the devil himself. She was ecstatic to have her best friend, in whatever form, back on earth.

“How many are there?” Aziraphale gazed down the line of paintings, trying to take them all in at once, including the one that made this trip possible – a painting of him and Crowley strolling through the gallery, dressed the way they were now, admiring Crowley’s art. It was the painting that greeted visitors on their way in, and was titled (appropriately) “An Afternoon at the Gallery with Aziraphale”.

“Right now … about one-hundred and fifty.”

Aziraphale snapped his head left to look into his husband’s proud face, jaw dropped in disbelief.

“One-hundred and fifty? That’s almost …” He did some calculations in his head, coming up with an answer that boggled his mind “… five months we get to spend together!”

“Try two-and-a-half years,” Crowley corrected, preening with delight at the wide-eyed stare his revelation earned him.

“Two and a half …?” Aziraphale gasped. “But … but how?”

“This is how.” Crowley escorted Aziraphale through a set of double doors to a larger room, the walls re-painted white to better display the art. The room held easily eighteen wall-sized murals, each with a multitude of different panels depicting Crowley and Aziraphale vacationing in Paris, sitting in a gondola in Venice, exploring the Grand Canyon, or just ‘living’ – washing dishes, walking a dog, shopping at the supermarket … and quite a few of them making love.

Aziraphale stayed quiet for a long time, staring at the next few years of his life as Crowley had planned them.

Crowley felt an unnerving weight settle in his chest. For a moment, he feared this wasn’t what Aziraphale wanted. He didn’t want to lose Aziraphale. Not again. But what had he forgotten? What was missing?

“Aziraphale? For the love of God, Aziraphale! Tell me …”

“I love them!” Aziraphale threw himself into Crowley’s arms. “I love it! All of it! Our life together! It’s wonderful!”

“You really like it?” Crowley asked, overwhelmed by Aziraphale in his arms.

“I do!”

Crowley wasn’t done holding him, but Aziraphale pulled away, eagerly leading his husband farther in the room to examine those paintings as well. “But now we have to start planning ahead. I expect you to make me age gracefully - no premature balding or pot belly. I mean, my normal belly is fine. Just nothing too extreme. Father Christmas belly. That’s fine.”

“Good to know.”

“And my bookshop. I have every intention of going back.”

Crowley’s eyes grew wide. “But … but how?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Aziraphale said, waving a dismissive hand. “I’m sure Tracy can help me figure something out.”

Crowley rolled his eyes but listened carefully, setting Aziraphale’s notes to memory. “I’m sure she can.” He placed a kiss to the top of Aziraphale’s head. “What would you like to do now? The show doesn’t open till tomorrow. We have the whole day to ourselves.”

“The whole day, hmm?” Aziraphale’s lips curled. He walked straight to a painting done in muted, neutral shades of the two of them in bed, Crowley hovering over Aziraphale’s body, looking down at his husband with lust blown eyes, occasional highlights of black and red suggesting exactly what moment of desire it portrayed. “This one.” Aziraphale’s voice turned silky, a wash of seduction that made Crowley burn to take him right there. “I want this one.”

“You just want to snog,” Crowley teased, offering Aziraphale an arm.

Aziraphale’s eyes twinkled as he pulled Crowley towards the door. “There’s nothing wrong with that,” he said, biting his lower lip and giving Crowley inspiration for his next painting.

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #ineffable lovers #anthony j crowley #aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley #crowley x aziraphale

[let-it-raines]

Betting on the Bullseye (Part 9)

Summary: Emma Swan loses a bet that means she has to ask her celebrity crush to be her date to her office’s annual fundraising gala. Killian Jones is that celebrity crush. She expects all kinds of humiliation and for her dignity to be completely lost. What she doesn’t expect is for him to say yes.

Rating: Mature

A/N: Hope everyone has been having a good weekend! If not, I hope it gets better soon!

Found on AO3: Beginning | Current

Found on Tumblr: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9

Tag list: @nikkiemms @resident-of-storybrooke @wellhellotragic​ @bmbbcs4evr @onceuponaprincessworld @jennjenn615 @mayquita @captainsjedi @teamhook @skyewardolicitycloisdelena91@branlovesouat @dreadpirateemma @kmomof4 @ekr032-blog-blog @galaxyzxstark @lifeinahole27 @andiirivera @ultimiflos

“Well, yes Mr. Jackson, I totally get what you’re saying – ”

“ – I don’t think you do, Ms. Swan. You said that our funding would go toward something high profile.”

She pinches the bridge of her nose, taking a deep breath to keep herself from breaking down in the middle of her office while on an important phone call. Or to keep from yelling every damn obscenity she knows at this man.  “I understand, sir. You donated your money, which is something we are eternally grateful for and has helped us and the children more than you know, and you have a right to request how you want your funds used. But we consider upgrading our counseling offices to be high profile. There’s a plaque with your name on it just inside the door.”

“A plaque,” Mr. Jackson spits, his voice dripping with disdain. “I did not donate over a million dollars for a plaque. I was under the impression that I would also get some sort of publicity from you and Killian Jones.”

If she wouldn’t get fired, she’d tell Mr. Jackson to fuck off. She knows that there are people in the world who only “do good” for their own benefit, but calls like this make her feel like her blood is actually curdling within her veins. Seriously. What did he expect? Some sort of worldwide clap on the back for donating to an underfunded children’s shelter. What the actual hell?

“Mr. Jackson, Mr. Jones was only at the gala as a favor. He was promoting our shelter out of the kindness of his heart. He does not have any legal ties to us. But I promise you that I will look into your complaint, and I will see what we can do to make you happier with your donation, okay?”

He huffs, probably wondering if he can take back the money he’s donated even though it’s been months, but she knows that he can’t. If the money hadn’t been such a great thing, she’d suggest they give it back so as not to have any association with him. But what’s done is done, and they’re not exactly in the business of returning funds.

“Fine, but I’d like to talk to the head of your department next time to let him know how difficult it’s been dealing with you.”

“I’m sure she’d be glad to speak to you. Have a good afternoon.”

She hangs up the phone and throws her head back before rubbing her hands up and down her face, fingers massaging her temples from that headache of a call. She’d pass along Mr. Jackson to Mrs. Ramirez any day of the week. He’s got to be the biggest asshole she’s dealt with all week, and she really hopes he won’t call again.

He will, but a girl can hope.

She listens to the rest of the messages she missed at lunch, the cupcake she bought for herself going uneaten on the corner of her desk, before returning as many calls as she can. No one calls all day, but she takes an hour to go out and buy a salad that’s not stale and suddenly everyone calls. Seriously, don’t these people take lunch breaks too?

Maybe Mr. Jackson has just soured her mood, but she’s ready for today to be over. The last week has been not-so-great. She’s not expecting everything to be sunshine and roses all of the time, but she’d like for work to not be a hell hole and for kids she once mentored to not end up in jail. There’s apparently been a few, more so than just Alex, and she had no idea. But everyone is right when they tell her it’s not her fault. She does the best she can, and these kids probably do too. Even when they’re placed in good homes, they’ve been through so much that they just don’t trust adults or authority figures. And as sad as it is, the many outweigh the few. She’s doing good work and trying her best to help kids who were once like her.

She came out of the system, damaged by not broken, and that’s honestly what she wants for others. A realistic happy ending.

That’s totally a thing. It’s like ballet flats instead of glass slippers even if both will probably make your ankles bleed. So maybe sneakers would be better. Who doesn’t love sneakers? She’d like a happy ending with sneakers.

Her cell buzzes on her desk, and she reaches over to grab her phone, remembering her cupcake (because that’s totally what goes with a salad) and swiping a bit of icing before swiping open her home screen.

David: I’m grilling out tonight if you want to come over.

“Yes,” she moans, her lips stretching into a smile for the first time since before lunch. She loves when David grills, and she could go for a few beers and whatever it is he’s grilling. And she went to the gym this morning, so she doesn’t have to suffer through that before eating.

Her day is looking up.

She should probably stop getting so excited over food, but her cupcake and food cooked outside on a grill are infinitely better than her salad.

Emma: I’ll be there.

She uses her key to walk in David and Mary Margaret’s front door, the smell of the grill permeating throughout the house even though she knows they’re cooking it in the backyard. She picks up shoes and toys on her way into the kitchen, dumping them in the basket they keep next to the staircase, before heading out back.

Mary Margaret is chasing after Leo who is chasing after Wilby. The dog almost seems to know what’s happening, stopping his running when Leo gets too far away and speeding up when Leo’s toddler legs get a little too close. It’s some kind of weird, perfectly domestic game, and when she looks to her left, there’s David standing at the grill wearing an apron that say Kiss the Cook.

Yeah, sometimes the Nolans are a little too much.

But she loves them and the way that they feed her, so she walks over to David and kisses him on the cheek (it’s what the apron commands after all) before lifting the grill’s lid and seeing that he’s simply cooking hamburgers and hot dogs.

“Why the hell did I smell barbeque when I walked in if it’s just hamburgers and hot dogs?”

“Nice to see you too, Emma,” David laughs before clapping her on her shoulder. “And it’s because we had the stuff for pulled pork sandwiches, but when I lit the grill for the first time, the fire got a little too enthusiastic and charred it. So Wilby is eating it now.”

“Ahh, yeah. The dog probably did that on purpose. We don’t call him Wiley Wilby for nothing.”

“I don’t think the dog knows how to mess with a propane tank. And no one has ever called him that.”

“Yes, but people…and dogs go to serious lengths for a pulled pork barbeque sandwich.”

“Emmy,” Leo screams when he spots her, and she immediately turns to see him running toward her instead of after the dog, the hood of his vest flopping behind him while his sandy blonde hair does the same thing.

“Hey, kid,” she greets, squatting down and opening her arms so that he can run directly into her. She loves her little buddy – and loves being his favorite person outside of his parents if she does say so herself – and she gets a little thrill with the way he gets excited to see her. It makes a girl feel good. Leo reaches her, and she immediately scoops him up in her arms, smothering kisses all over his face while he giggles against her.

“E-emmy. Emmeeeey,” he laughs, the sounds coming out on stuttered breaths while he squirms in her arms until she lets him rest. When he does, he cups her face and plants a kiss on her cheek like he does with his parents. “You tickle, Emmy.”

“Whaaat?” she overexaggerates, recoiling her head and raising her eyebrows. “Am I tickling you? I don’t think so. I’m not silly, am I?”

“Silly goose,” Leo giggles while his fingers find her earrings and mess with the dangling tassels.

Mary Margaret finally catches up with them, her normally perfect hair curling around the edges while she catches her breath. “Hey, Emma,” she breathes, stepping up and giving her a side hug all while Leo babbles on. “I’m so glad you captured this one because I am so done with kids today. At work and at home, my God. I can’t believe I’m having another one. I must be crazy.”

Emma’s mouth falls open at Mary Margaret’s words and the way she just let them slip. She must have had an usually bad day if she’s being loose lipped like that. It’s not that Mary Margaret is great at keeping secrets, but she’s been great at keeping this one.

At least verbally. Physically, not so much.

“Finally,” she groans, thankfulness at not having to hold her tongue on the subject anymore outweighing her happiness for Mary Margaret and David. She’s been happy for them for weeks. Now she wants to celebrate.

“Finally what?”

“Marg, you’re having another baby. You just let it slip even though I totally already knew.”

Mary Margaret’s jaw drops while her eyelids flutter like she’s trying to process how Emma could possibly know that she’s pregnant. “Did I…oh, shit, I did.”

“Language,” David laughs, looking over at them and shaking his head back and forth. “We can screw Leo up. He’s the first. The new one gets us as experienced parents, so we have to work on the language.”

“Nice, David. That’s totally how to be a good parent.” “You’re the one who cursed in front of the kid when he’s in the repeating stage.”

“Mommy and Daddy are so silly, kid,” she sighs to Leo who’s watching his parents talk with hyper focus.

“Yeah,” he sighs, sounding like the most mature toddler in the world. “Put down, Emmy. I go play.”

She listens, knowing that Leo is the boss, and places him on the ground. He takes off immediately, running out into their small backyard and entertaining himself by running in circles. Weird, but you do you, kid. It’s then that she embraces Mary Margaret, squeezing tightly and holding her arms around her shoulder while rubbing up and down her back.

“Congratulations, Momma. How happy are you?”

“So happy,” she sighs into Emma’s neck, her voice sounding light and airy, before pulling back. “How long have you known? How did you know?”

Emma shrugs, not really sure of an exact time, but that doesn’t matter here. “A couple of weeks. You stopped drinking. You were taking naps. Your boobs are huge.”

“They’re glorious,” David adds in, and she and Mary Margaret both scrunch up their noses.

“How far along are you?”

“Fourteen weeks. I’m due in the middle of September.”

“Speaking of buns in the oven, dinner is served.”

“That’s a grill, David. Not an oven, but I applaud your dad jokes.”

It takes some corralling, but they all make it inside the eat, the early evening air still too chilled for them to sit outside. Even if David ruined the actual barbeque, her cheeseburger is still good. Of course, she doesn’t have super high standards for those even if they are her favorite food. The only ones she won’t eat are McDonald’s because, come on, it’s stale bread and processed cheese. At least their fries are good.

She’s really got to stop eating junk food. Maybe that should be her New Year’s Resolution…in the second week of April. Yeah, she’s totally not late. It’ll be, like, a spring resolution or something.

David regales them with stories from work even if she’s not sure homicide investigations can really be fun stories, but she kind of finds them interesting. In another life she might have been a detective. Maybe not for homicide, but she’s sure she could find something she’s interested in…and maybe not talk about in front of a two-year-old so he’s not going to daycare babbling about blood and gunshot wounds.

That would be quite the thing to hear from the kid.

Killian texts her throughout the dinner and even though she wants to answer as it’ll likely be the only time he’s free with his insane filming schedule as he wraps the show up, she tries to stay in the moment with her friends. She’s sure they wouldn’t mind, would probably encourage her to talk to him, but she’s making a conscious effort to balance her life here and her relationship that stretches out over the country. She thinks she’s handling it pretty well, her few breakdowns to Mary Margaret and Ruby as well as Killian put aside, but as time slowly inches by, she can’t wait until Killian is here next Monday.

It’s so different being with someone without really being with them, and as many nights as she goes to bed wishing Killian were here with her, she honestly thinks it’s helped her a hell of a lot. She knows that she’s bad at relationships, that things haven’t really worked out for her in the past, but she’s learning that those weren’t all her fault. She’s dated a hell of a lot of assholes. Really, she’s pretty sure all of the jerks in the world have some kind of communication network, and her number is at the top of their list.

But she’s trying. She’s willing to open herself up to vulnerability even if that scares the hell out of her. It helps that she’s in deeper than she has been in years, and even then, something about this one feels different.

Maybe it’s because how they met is so ridiculous, but this seems destined to either end up in flames or as that realistic happy ending she was thinking of earlier.

Killian can help her wear her sneakers.

That sounds weird, but it works for her…in her own head. She’s definitely not saying things like that out loud.

“So how’s work going, Ems?”

“Ugh,” she groans, throwing her head back and rolling her eyes, “don’t even get me started.”

“Hey, KJ,” she begins after the sound of his voice message ends, “I’m sorry I missed your calls today. It’s been a week, but it’s Friday so yay, I guess. Um, anyways, call me back when you can. Hope you’re having a good day of shooting. Only three days left, babe.”

She hangs up the phone, putting it down on her kitchen counter and shuffling through her cabinets for something to snack on. It’s as she’s moving empty box after empty box, a few mismatched Tupperware containers in between as well as other random items that should not be in her kitchen cabinets (hello random nail polish that was definitely not this color when she bought it), she realizes that she has to clean her apartment. Like, really clean it. And wash her sheets. Definitely that. And probably wash some of her nicer bras…after digging them out of the bottom of her drawer.

Shit. She has so much to do, and she really doesn’t feel like doing it.

She should also probably buy some food Killian likes. He did that for her. It’s only right. And maybe she doesn’t really have any food in her apartment after not going to the grocery store this week, so she kind of needs the food for herself too. Nourishment and all that.

Is she nervous? Is that what this mixture of excitement and anxiety and stopped up throat with a bubbling stomach is? Is that nerves or excitement or anticipation? Maybe it’s a sign she should go to the hospital. The stomach bubbling thing sounds bad. She should probably go to the hospital for that.

Taking a deep breath, she calms herself down. She is excited for Killian to be here and anxious with how slowly time seems to be passing. It’s…something in the back of her mind is telling her that them being in the same place after five weeks apart will mess things up, but she knows that’s not true. Killian is different. This is different. And she wants it.

She wants it so much.

The proximity and nearness of him coming back to Boston has just freaked her out a little in what is definitely nervous anticipation.

He’s somehow made his way under her skin in the past five and a half months, and as terrifying as it is to think that he could up and leave any time he wants, she’s still convinced that this is a good one. He’s a good one, and she wants to keep trying.

So channeling her inner neat freak Killian, she cranks up the music on her phone before emptying out her cabinets, throwing away every bit of trash or stale cereal that she can find. She organizes her mugs and cups as well as her Tupperware, and after all of that is done, she moves onto wiping absolutely every surface in her apartment down. It’s not necessarily messy, but there’s definitely dust in a few places and the throw pillows on her couch scattered across the floor. But after two hours she has most everything wiped down, put back in its rightful place, and she has two bags of laundry to take to the laundromat sometime tomorrow.

Her phone buzzes in her back pocket, and she reaches for it, finding Ruby’s name on her screen.

Ruby: Do you want to come over tomorrow night?

Emma: To go out or stay in?

Ruby: Stay in. I’m having a killer period, and I want to watch movies and eat chocolate.

Emma: I’m not on my period, but I totally agree.

Ruby: Soul sisters for life, Emma Swan.

She’s in the middle of texting Ruby back when her phone starts ringing, a picture of she and Killian on the beach popping up before she slides her finger across the phone and can hear his voice.

“So KJ and babe in one message, Swan. Don’t I feel special?”

Wait. What? What is he talking about? Has he officially lost all of his marbles? Is he experiencing some kind of sleep deprivation? Is she? Are all of the cleaning fumes going to her head?

“W-what are you talking about?”

“Hey, KJ,” Killian says, using the voice she’s learned he uses when learning a new script, “I’m sorry I missed your calls…blah, blah, blah then some other words…then you said that ‘there are only three days left, babe’. I got two nicknames from you in one message. I feel special.”

She feels the heat rise in her cheeks, embarrassment beginning to sink in. She had no idea that she even called him that. She doesn’t hate it. It’s just not something that she was expecting. It happened so…naturally. Her bubbling stomach starts up again before calming, something warm and comforting settling there instead.

Good. That’s probably less medically concerning than a bubbling stomach.

“I…shit. Did I really call you babe?”

“You did, my sweet cheeks.”

She snorts, shaking her head back and forth as she walks down the hall to her bedroom, opening the door and plopping down on her bed. “Okay, sweet cheeks is out. I will break up with you if you call me sweet cheeks.”

“Why, love? You do have such a delectable arse. I’d think sweet cheeks was appropriate.”

“And April nineteenth is the day that Emma Swan breaks up with Killian Jones for his use of awful nicknames.”

“A day that will live in my mind forever, sugar mama.”

“A sugar mama is something totally different.”

Killian laughs, something deep and low, and her body physically aches for him to be here. Two and a half days. It’s not long in the slightest. Nervous anticipation. Nervous longing. It’s all the same thing.

“Alright then, babe,” Killian drawls out, and she can practically imagine the smirk he has on his face. “In all seriousness, I’m sorry I missed your call. And that you missed mine. Was today any better than the rest of your week at work? I’m still willing to publicly embarrass Mr. Jackson since he seems to want to be associated with me.”

“I don’t want to get fired and live on the streets, so that doesn’t seem like our best option.”

“You make a good point, love. But seriously, you have any other work stuff you want to talk about? I’m always here for your venting pleasure.” “Venting pleasure sounds like some kind of hella creepy sex act.”

“Did you just say hella?”

“Maybe.”

“You totally did.”

“You have no proof of that.”

“My bloody brilliant mind remembers all.” “Your bloody brilliant mind is full of itself.”

Killian barks out a laugh, the sound loud in the speaker, and she wishes she could see him. “God, I fucking miss you, Swan.”

“I miss you, KJ, but in less than three days, you’re going to be crashing in my bed for an undetermined amount of days.” “Speaking of that, we’ve got to talk about this plan.”

“What about it?”

She spies her clothes sticking out of her small closet, jackets and sweaters falling off their hangers, and she puts the phone on speaker before getting up and beginning to straighten her clothes. This cleaning adrenaline is definitely going to wear off at some point, and she just knows it’s going to be when she’s emptied out her entire closet and has her clothes scattered across her bedroom.

“So, I’ve looked at my schedule, and I can definitely stay until the fifth. That’s nearly two weeks, and I was wondering if you wanted me to get a hotel.” “Why the hell would you get a hotel?”

She stops moving her clothes so she can hear him better, trying not to let him wanting to stay in a hotel get to her.

“Because I wouldn’t want you to get sick of me after us bunking together for two weeks.”

Oh. That’s not at all what she thought. He’s a good guy, she reminds herself, wishing she didn’t have to do that. The inner voice should not be in her head at all, and she knows that. “Killian, that’s ridiculous. I haven’t seen you in over a month, and our last goodbye wasn’t exactly great. If you want to stay in my apartment for two weeks, you can stay in my apartment.”

There she goes. That’s more Emma than whatever weird Jiminy Cricket inner voice she has going on. “Yeah?”

“Absolutely. We’ve got things to do.” “Oh really? Like what?”

His voice is deep, salacious, and she almost says the dirty joke he’s reaching for. But she doesn’t, instead she says what comes to mind next. “Oh, you have to meet the firing squad. There’s no way they’re going to let you come here and not interrogate you. I told them not to, a lot actually with all of the Liam shit, but they don’t listen to me.”

“I shall wear my bullet proof vest then. But seriously, Swan, I’m excited to meet the rest of your friends. Bloody terrified but excited. And I imagine it’ll go much better than you meeting Liam.”

“You’re really weird if you’re excited to meet them.”

“Weird with a giant crush on you.” “Aw babe, you have a crush on me. That’s so embarrassing.”

“I appreciate and applaud your Parks and Rec knowledge. It makes you so much hotter.”

“Good. I have a lot of it.” She really does. She makes as many pop culture references as the Gilmore Girls. Hell, she just made a pop culture reference while talking about making pop culture references. “So what are you doing? Are you not on set?”

“I am, but I’m in between scenes. I’m technically supposed to be reviewing my lines, but I’m talking to you instead.”

“Rebel.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“It’s probably why you wear a leather jacket when you live somewhere that’s constantly sunny.”

“Oi,” Killian bellows, his voice taken aback at her insult to his precious jacket, “you’re one to talk.”

“I live in Boston. It’s cold all of the time.”

“And your jacket doesn’t do a thing for you. It does a few things for me, but it doesn’t do anything to keep you warm.”

“Kinky, KJ,” she laughs, thumbing at said red leather jacket in her closet.

“You may be the first person to ever call me kinky.”

“Well, you never forget your first.”

“Hey, that’s my line, Swan.”

She hears a loud banging in the background, the sound she’s come to associate with Killian having to go back to set. Disappointment settles in her stomach while the laugh lines on her face begin to fade. But she gets it. He has to work, and she definitely can’t begrudge him for that. “You gotta go?”

“I have to go, love,” Killian sighs. “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay. Bye, KJ.”

“Bye, Swan.”

Like she knew it would, her desire to clean fades after their phone call ends, and she’s left with clothes strewn across the floor and on her bed. So she spends the night cuddled up in bed even with the clothes keeping her from sleeping in her usual position, and when she wakes up on Saturday, she lazily starts putting things away, spending so long at getting her apartment back to normal that she completely forgets to go grocery shopping and go to the laundromat before heading over to Ruby’s.

So she sets several reminders on her phone, making sure that there’s no way for her to forget, and heads over to Ruby’s to curl up under blankets with chocolates and popcorn and whatever Ruby wants while she’s having a bad period. It turns out that it’s watching bad action movies with even worse romantic plots and CGI, but Ruby can make anything entertaining, making up her own commentary and mercilessly talking about how Tom Cruise’s front teeth aren’t aligned with his face. She’d never noticed it before, but now she can never unsee that.

Victor comes over with Tai takeout around ten, dropping it on the coffee table in front of she and Ruby, kissing Ruby’s forehead, and then settling down in Ruby’s armchair while they stay on the couch. Eventually Ruby does get up to go sit with Victor, settling down on his lap and curling herself into him while his arm wraps around her shoulder and rubs up and down her skin. They’re sweet, which is not something Emma would have ever really described Victor as before. He’s always been a little odd, sometimes a little too out there, but he’s good for Ruby, and she’s thrilled that her friend is so damn happy.

Oh God. Is she officially turning into Mary Margaret? She thinks she might be. Though there is a little jealousy over the fact that she doesn’t get to do that quite yet, but she continues to think to herself, two more days. That’s all. So maybe not Mary Margaret levels quite yet.

When Ruby starts snoring, she takes that as her cue to leave, making her way back to her apartment and promptly falling asleep too, that warm feeling that’s beginning to feel familiar settling in her stomach again.

Emma’s got a bounce in her step all Monday. She loves her job, even with how rough it’s been lately, but she’s never quite this happy walking the hallways after updating Mrs. Ramirez on their financials and upcoming projects. But today is different. There’s no one yelling at her on the phone, and she’s not getting any updates on kids she once helped out ending up in jail or in more bad homes. Mostly, though, it’s because she knows that Killian is on a flight somewhere over Arizona making his way to the east coast.

Yeah, something like that will definitely make her feel a little lighter.

“Your grin is freaking me out, Ems,” Ruby groans when she stops in her office after finishing counseling a kid. “You look like you’ve inhaled laughing gas or something.”

She shrugs, trying to downplay her eagerness. “I’m having a good day.”

“Yeah, that’s because you’re going to get laid tonight, and you know it.”

“I don’t know it.” Ruby raises an eyebrow, her gaze never straying from Emma’s. “Okay, so maybe I know it.”

“Exactly.” Ruby picks up the picture frame Emma has of she and the Nolans on her desk. “Use protection, though. I can only handle one pregnant friend at a time.”

“You say this to the girl who doubles up on birth control and condoms. Also, Marg is not an annoying pregnant woman.”

“Ems, I know this. I’m talking about for my bank account. I can’t afford two baby blenders.”

“I know what you’re saying, but I really feel like you should rephrase calling a small blender for baby food a baby blender.”

Ruby shrugs, shaking her head back and forth before putting the frame back down. “You know what I mean. I’ve got back to back appointments for the rest of the day, but tell Killian I can’t wait to see him after you guys finish doing the horizontal tango until you can barely walk at work tomorrow.”

“I can’t believe you counsel troubled children.”

“I am damn good at my job, Emma Swan, but we can talk about that later.” Ruby walks out of the room blowing her an overexaggerated air kiss and waggling her eyebrows in a way that’s so similar to Killian that she can’t help but giggle into her hand.

The rest of her afternoon passes at a snail’s pace, but eventually the workday does end and she’s able to go running on the treadmill at the gym, making quick work of everything before sprinting the few blocks home and showering, knowing that Killian should be landing soon. She offered to pick him up at the airport like he did to her, but he told her he’d take a cab, not wanting her to bother with the traffic or interrupting too much of her day to deal with him.

She’s brushing her hair out, already dressed in leggings and a t-shirt, when there are three knocks at her front door. She practically flies out of her bedroom, tripping over a pair of shoes that didn’t make it in her cleanup of the apartment, and quickly walks down the hallway before unlocking the latches and swinging the door open to see Killian standing there with a smile on his face and her swan mug in his hand. He holds it up, sticking it out between them.  

“Did you forget something in California?”

#betting on the bullseye #cs fic #cs ff #captain swan fic

[smolbeandrabbles]

Out of Nowhere Girl Pt.2 - Director Keller / Talos (Captain Marvel)

Part 1

Author’s Note: Did anyone else temporarily forget what this was supposed to be? Because I did. Short. Was the answer. What has developed in my head is a LOT longer. So, I hope you enjoy the ride with Mr.Keller this time around... Pretty much had a brain explosion over the last week due to those deleted scenes and then everyone throwing GIFs around. So here we are!  This is also the first time I really get to introduce you to my Keller. As he’s almost entirely a blank slate... I hope you like him! We are following 3 Time Stamps: 1993-1995, allowing us to focus on Keller/Maliyah’s relationship. 1995, in the aftermath of the events of Captain Marvel Present/10 Years Later (c.2005, I suppose), To follow the real story line.

I hope this doesn’t get confusing as hell... Disclaimer: MCU Characters not mine. I stick by Jonathan Richard Keller. No “Canon” is changing that. I’m certainly NOT sorry.

#ComicCanon Premise: Keller had always wondered what was out in space. Naturally he never expected the answer to be ‘the girl of his dreams’; and now he has to let her go...? Talos and Maliyah figure out where they need to get - and it ain’t all good...  Words: 3877 Warnings: Zip!

                                                    ____________

There were no stars in sight Then the planets all aligned When I saw her eyes One look that's all it took To send me to another galaxy She said, she was on her way to Mars Then she ran into a star and she fell into my arms Thank you gravity, never let her go I'll hide her U.F.O., she'll never have to know She's my space girl and she's outta this world ...She looked kinda bored Said she'd seen it all before Made me wonder even more Which universe was hers? What galaxy did she call home? Like a meteor I'm fallin’ From the first time I saw her It was heaven on earth

--- Circa 1993 Getting called to any incident was likely a bad thing. Except this one. This one, Keller couldn't refuse. The course, rough, ugly streaks through the salt left harsh black scars where the ship had hit before coming to a complete stop. Keller tried to stop himself from getting too giddy. He'd long been a geek when it came to space - if you got him started on science and astronomy, he was off like a proverbial rocket. (To be honest, any flying craft was likely to get him talking like that; as the model planes in his offices and his apartment would prove… But space was his real muse.) And this didn't look like it had come from Earth. Which is of course, why Keller and his S.H.I.E.L.D agents had been called in. He had to be professional about this situation though. He had a team of good, good people. And he couldn't risk their lives. He was the leader and he had a responsibility. Even if he was slightly freaking out about the prospect of meeting an alien life form. "Sir, have you ever seen anything like this?" Keller shook his head. Not as an agent, nor director had he ever been called to a UFO sighting or similar. He'd dreamed it, plenty of times. But he'd never actually been. "No..." he was quiet, but his voice no less authoritative. When he spoke, they listened. No questions. "Team, proceed with caution. We don't know what we're dealing with..." The structure of the ship was weird in itself. The blue and yellow painted metal twisted, but not completely broken. It was shaped a little bit like an 8 point star - or would have been - there was definitely nothing like that on Earth. Keller’s heart jumped in his chest and he had to check himself a few times. "Life signs?" "Negative, sir." He wasn’t disappointed, that didn't mean there weren't any. "Keep on your toes. All your wits about you, we are a little out of our depth here..." and Keller couldn't shake the feeling he was being watched either.  As his crew searched amongst the wreckage Keller surveyed the scene again. He'd have to call it in. Of course, he would. But what do you even write on a report like this? No doubt the board - the creators of S.H.I.E.L.D themselves - would want this as down low and classified as possible. And these marks all over Utah’s salt flats would need to be explained away somehow. Now he had to think on a cover story AND get this ship out of here without Joe public finding out a thing. He'd done similar before. He wasn't worried. That was when he spotted her. Standing a little way away but not trying to look inconspicuous. Keller visibly startled and his heart leapt again. He looked back to his preoccupied team and then touched his right side. His pistol was there. Keller was a quick draw... He proceeded. She didn't, almost like she was waiting for him to come to her. But she eyed the team around the ship with some interest. Keller all at once realised he didn't know what he was going to say. This was his first ever in counter with an alien lifeform and he couldn't screw it up! But what to say!? She was silent herself and looked relaxed about the situation. Dressed in black flight pants and a black-and-tan vest top that cut just above her stomach, what looked like a weapon on her right hip, where her hands sat relaxed (should he ask her to remove her weapon? Was that a dumb thing to ask?), her clothing was a little ripped and charred but, she looked miraculously intact. The star shaped necklace that hung from her neck on a fine chain was eerily reminiscent of the ship now buried in the dried-up lake behind them. Her shoulder length hair ran pink and purple and she almost looked human. But he was transfixed by her eyes. Deep blue, purple. No they were certainly purple. And they looked like they held stars - cosmic. Keller felt lightheaded. Have mercy-! He took a deep breath; "Is the ship yours?" Dumb-! Dumb, Keller-! That's your first sentence!?! Really!?! You've dreamed of this moment since you were about 3 and that's the first thing you say!?! She gave a smile, then a slight laugh. "Yeah." then with a raised eyebrow; "What are you doing to it?" English. She spoke English. And her voice... Good lord. Keller found he had to check himself AGAIN. "Guess I'm on Earth." She kept talking "You’re human. Obviously." He had a nice accent. It was different to Peter’s, for sure, the twang, but... American. Had she landed in America? Maliyah Saal couldn’t keep the smile from her face; it was nice to be around a human again even if accidentally. She could feel his emotion so clearly; the internal fighting with himself was like reading a book. A very interesting book, mind you. How he seemed to switch between excitement and fear. Constantly. How she could feel him fighting to choose every word he said. She was positive that she was the first extra terrestrial race he’d ever encountered. "We were sent to investigate the crash. Yeah, you're... On Earth... Utah." She didn't need to know that. Why was he saying this!? Was he nervous? Was he babbling because he was nervous!?! "Where are you from...?" She tipped her head, trying to decide if she trusted him or not. But Maliyah decided she did; "I came from Xandar. But... I'm from Aauraa. That's my race. Auron.” That's two places that had life out there. Now he was certain there were many more. He held out his hand, she didn't seem dangerous. Hell. She seemed like everything he'd ever wanted. Think of what she could tell him. "I'm Jonathan Keller. I'm the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D." he had a warm smile and she liked that "I guess I'm between LA and Atlanta..." He didn't know why he was telling her about two places she didn't know. But he'd been raised right, and he politely matched the information she was giving him.  Jonathan, she almost had to laugh again. Jonathan Keller and Peter Quill... Two human males that clearly couldn't be further apart. For one, the male in front of her was a lot older; a man and not a boy. He was wearing a suit that edged professional, but she was willing to bet, from the fact he was here, it was not a kind of... Corporate role. The team was significant. And she had observed enough to know that he was both the leader and had their respect and trust. That was important. His hair was once dark but had faded to grey overtime. Still, the black that showed up in places let her know Keller was not nearly as old as it made him look. And his eyes. She'd not seen a blue quite that spectacular in all her years of travel. And she'd been more than her fair share of places. He watched as she backed up slightly, eyes wide and turned to his team. All at once they had noticed what was going on, stood in a neat row that flanked him. They all had their guns drawn, but all were pointed to the ground. Good. He didn’t want to screw this one up. They were a good team. They probably knew he wasn’t in trouble, but they were ready to spring into action if she tried anything. He motioned for them to lower their weapons; “It’s Okay…” Keller’s voice was suddenly vastly different from how he was speaking to her. And she noticed it instantly. How calm he was. “…She’s Okay… It’s alright…” This was a man who had been in charge a long time. Who had seen a lot. And knew exactly how to handle a situation. These other humans were not loyal to him because of his title. They were loyal to him because he had earned it. Jonathan Keller had proven he was worthy of it. And that made Maliyah smile even more, she knew that ship would be out of action for a while until she fixed it. And if she had to find and trust someone on this planet… there wouldn’t have been a better man to encounter than him. Keller turned back to her as his agents did as he asked. Her eyes were trained on his face, and her lips were slightly parted. He wanted to call it awe. But that was impossible. Why would something so beautiful be in awe of him? When she had come from way out there in the stars? He inhaled, and then exhaled – and this time it worked. And they both felt the way his nerves calmed – though he didn’t know it. He extended his hand to her; a customary professional Earth greeting when meeting for the first time; “Is this.. your first time on earth?" Maliyah reached out and took his hand and he felt himself go lightheaded again. Gosh-! Now he was touching her..?!! He wondered if she knew how excited he was. That this was possibly better than every alien encounter dream he'd ever had. He hoped his professionalism was intact. "Maliyah, Saal. Treasure hunter... Member of the Nova Corp." Director sounded important. She wanted to match that herself "And yes." He had to smile then, properly. Maliyah Saal sounded like she came from the stars. "Well..." Keller glanced around him and then met those eyes again; "Welcome to Earth."

She inclined her head in thanks. But Keller needed to think quick. It wasn’t just a girl he was dealing with. But that ship too. Maliyah let his hand go, because it was clear he wasn’t going to do the same. She was glad that her skin would only ignite if they were together. Not that she would dwell on that, she knew she wasn’t supposed to be here and that Earth was about the one place in the galaxy that didn’t know about the races that lived in the rest. She would not stay long enough to form any kind of friendship with him, simply an arrangement of coincidence. Still – when his skin touched hers, she couldn’t help but feel all his emotion. She wanted desperately to calm him down – to tell him not to be as terrified as he was. Because there was no denying under his exterior he WAS. But she couldn’t reveal exactly what she was just yet – which meant she couldn’t exert influence on him either. At least not here. “…Maliyah, I’m afraid we will have to move your ship. As you may well imagine we are not used to coming into contact with…” He hesitated, aliens? Could he say that to her? Was that offensive..? “…Other races.” “I understand.” Although she couldn’t see his teeth she could tell they were sinking into his bottom lip – solemn “…I also need to ask you to come with me.” He didn’t want to say it. Keller didn’t want to sound like he would have to take her by force – but knew he would if necessary. She understood that too; but was curious enough; “Where?” “There is a facility not too far from here.” The lip bite turned into a smile, it was a warm smile. He was smiling at her because he wanted to, not because he had to. It had nothing to do with reassurance, “I promise you, you will be safe there.” ** 1995

 The drive to Utah was long, slow and quiet. In fact, Keller thought that if he didn't turn the radio up he would go insane. It had taken another couple of months for him to convince her to even get in his car to go and he knew that she would not want to fix her ship in a hurry. He'd taken the liberty of getting a close-knit band of engineer's together to give himself a head start. She'd probably get mad about that. But he knew what he was doing was for the best. Maliyah would come ‘round to that. She'd got in the car, hadn't she?

He looked across to her, the road was empty and seemed to stretch endlessly. Mile markers aside he felt he was a million lightyears from Utah.

Today she was wearing biker boots and slim fit jeans, shirt over figure hugging vest top she actually looked human. But, far from happy. Arms crossed, looking out the window, feet up on his dash, legs crossed. Even though he'd told her multiple times to take them down. She was pouty too, which was unfortunate because it just made her look cute. The only thing about her that was inhuman was the vibrant colours (because she'd damn well let her emotions show at this point!!) that streaked across her arms. This time they reminded him of the warning lights of deep-sea creatures. She was just mad... And dealing with a lot she didn't understand: or pretended she didn't understand. Jonathan knew he could never fathom which. For all she had opened up to him, he knew there were still many secrets she held back.

“Maliyah…” She shifted in her seat but said nothing “Maliyah look at me…” She heard it in his voice – he was hurting because she was intent on ignoring him, he was hurting because he felt he had to let her go, he was hurting because she was hurting him. “Supernova... Please...” She would have looked to him anyway, but that nickname... he’d use that nickname. So she turned. “Jonathan, I… Don’t want to talk about it.” “…But you know we have to get you off planet… Right? I couldn’t bare to think about whatever these Skrulls might have got out of my head. And now that more people know about what’s really out there, your file will not stay lock-and-key classified for long I can assure you…” Keller put his eyes back on the road, because they smarted when they were locked on hers. Pushing the rolled-up sleeves of his light-blue-purple checked shirt up even further. He noticed her eyes follow the motions and land on his wrist watch with its too many dials. She remembered the inscription on the back and the NASA symbol. NASA – yet another organisation that should know about her and didn’t. Yet another ode to his great love for the stars. Keller knew already how many times he would have to testify on her presence on Earth. Luckily, as his first report had been straight to the board of S.H.I.E.L.D he wouldn’t lose his job for keeping Maliyah to himself – but he might be heavily reprimanded once all the advisory boards and committees started popping up. She finally answered him, also looking ahead, “I do… But I am worried about leaving you.” “I can take care of myself.” “I know you can. But you don’t think I will be worried every time I feel pain?” He tipped his head with a hmm to dodge the question. But realised he couldn’t swerve it like it was a pot-hole in this endless stretch of highway; “…If I make my desk job a desk job, would that make you happier?” “…You tried that already.” “What if I really did it this time?” She shook her head. “That wouldn’t make YOU happy. And I care about that more.” He removed his right hand from a wheel and held it out for her to take. She did, between both of hers. At once her skin ignited; but the colours were soft. She pressed her lips into his palm and he felt that rush of joy, not too much – it was kept toned down. She was doing it again – picking him up. He encased one of her hands in his. It said all he needed too. Though sometimes when she did this Keller couldn’t help but wonder exactly what else Maliyah could influence on a person. She used it for good things… But he had always been fairly positive that if she wanted to see the world in despair, she could do that without a second thought. She was incredible. She would be incredible without being with him; the fact that she was still sometimes made him feel like he was dreaming. …Could he really let her go? For her own good. To protect her. I would do anything…

The reason he had even mentioned keeping himself at his desk was if he got hit too hard (it had to be pretty hard. If she didn’t know anything about his escapade with the shapeshifters), if he bled at all; be it a papercut or a medical check-up pinprick, she would feel that too. Some things Keller just wouldn’t be able to protect her from. He wasn’t always willing to accept this. But she had bonded with him and it had been her choice. Her acknowledgement of the consequences of their union showed nothing but how much she loved him. And God, if he didn’t love her just as much. ** He took his foot off the gas and the car ticked up another mile as a crop of buildings began to creep up on the horizon line. It was all too much too soon. And even her happy influence couldn’t stop him from biting his lip so hard. It was all he could do to stem any tears he could feel coming. No matter how long it took Maliyah to get her ship into order, she wouldn’t leave this facility now until she was ready to break Earth’s atmosphere. His hand shook as he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose – don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry… God. Jonathan Richard Keller be STRONG for her. He couldn’t. And he let out a sob; he was shocked that he had, and instantly covered his mouth. She was looking at him now with wide eyes, her lips parted for words she couldn’t say. She knew. Maliyah could feel his sorrow bubbling up inside him but it still shocked her when it broke the surface. Her eyes flicked to the buildings, enlarging by the second, and back to him. They were still a few miles away. But to Keller, it would never be far enough. And he’d insisted on this. He squinted slightly – he could hold those tears back all he wanted; she knew emotionally they were already flowing down his face “I’m sorry…” It was muffled by his hand. “I’m so sorry.” 15 minutes and no tears later he rolled the car to the security gates. He hesitated as his hand hovered over his pass. He had until the guard strolled over to change his mind. To take her back home, because she belonged here with him and he knew that. But how long would that last? How big of a risk was it to keep her here? It wouldn’t just be her home that were looking for her in reality, or the Skrulls if that was even something they would do, but the home she had left. Her older brother, her adoptive parents. Keller knew all about them, and if he was any of those three, he’d want her back. He’d be worried about her. Even that didn’t stop him from wanting to turn back. Maliyah placed her hand gently over his, she may not know his exact thoughts, but she knew how to read his face. She swallowed; it was time for her to be the strong one. “We can do this.” He glanced across to her as she pushed his hand down to enclose around his S.H.I.E.L.D ID card. She was smiling. And this was one of reassurance. “Together. We can do this.” ***

Present 

 “How exactly do you propose we find them?” Talos looked around, it was built small for a Ravager vessel; he knew that by the fire like emblem emblazoned on the wing of the ship. Inside it was decked out for no more than one or two people; But the tech, all of it new and polished, Talos guessed must have been Xandarian. “…This isn’t just any Milano.” Maliyah indicated to what he had already noticed, “The amount of tinkering I’ve done to this thing over the years… Doesn’t even bare thinking about. The computer system can do just about anything. There’s tech from my home world, tech I’ve lifted with the help of, or from, Ravagers. Earth – obviously! - things I’ve transferred from the Nova Corps vessels, my own crews’ Vessels - They’re pretty much grounded until further notice - But, It’s a Xandarian system. I’m connected to all databases I can get my hands on, most of them I have actual access to – a bit of hacking never hurt anyone…” She sat on the arm of her pilots’ seat and tapped a few things into her computer “…Essentially, every race has a different kind of ship and different fuel elements for each ship. These are good indicators of the who and where, the ship gives out a lot of different signatures of its own, but the fuel particles. That’s what we’re gonna go follow. I don’t always trust ship radars bouncing off of things in space… Very sketchy at times.” “How do you know how to do half these things?” The computer set to work, so she slid into the seat and indicated to a chair; “Buckle up-!” Igniting the fuel of her own ship, the Milano hummed into life. “That human you simed.” She turned to him with a grin “He’s a lot damn smarter than me. I have the tech, I can engineer the tech. He is every single piece of code and every mathematical algorithm behind that tech.” 

The Milano’s ship computer beeped enthusiastically as it located the trail left by the Kree ship – running its own diagnostic it came up with a probable location. Making Maliyah grimace; “UGH!”  “What?” Talos tilted his head and squinted at the flashing coordinates and corresponding planet name - he didn’t recognize either. “We don’t want to go THERE. Geez, that’s like, half way over the other-other side of the Kree’s sector of the Galaxy…”  “…Meaning what?” He turned to her, but Maliyah had that determined look on her face he almost couldn’t help but smile at. “Don’t you worry about it. I’ll get you there. It’s once we’re there… I’ll just need some crew back up.” “…Thought you just said your crew was grounded.” She shrugged “Pfft! They were a bunch of trigger-happy treasure hunters before I got them organised into an efficient crew. They’ll just be doing that again-! I’m not dumb enough to think they’d actually listen to a WORD I said.” She pulled another smile and lightly punched the top of his arm; “You’re gonna be glad for that when we get over there.”  “Trigger happy sounds just what we need.” It was clear sarcasm.  Maliyah grinned, she liked him already. This was going to work out; hell it had to work out. “That planet is deceptively tricky. They’re not going to like me very much, they’re CERTAINLY not gonna like you.” 

---

I’m not partial to believing Keller fell in love with her at first sight. But it IS possible that he has a crush on a girl that comes from Space. 

GIF Credit: @winterswake @dennismitchell  - Omgosh, I have a brain like a sive! But I remembered to tag you this time, sweetie! 😘😘 @morganadarkladyofall 

#Keller x OC #Director Keller #Keller #Talos #Captain Marvel #Shes my supernova #She's HIS supernova!!! #Same damn nickname but of course it is #Keller is SO super important to me... #He's just... #I love him. and i LOVE him with her #She deserves him. But I don't think she think SHE deserves him #genuinely the worst piece of posting editing ever #I can’t even look! #45 #Maliyah #so embarrassed I can’t even tag Ben...

[larissaloki]

Come what may.

So i got a prompt from @lolsparklingstuff and the prompt word was- pillage. Requested details was Dom/Alpha Thor or DMC characters. In the end the muse that took control was Thor. This is a Alpha Thor with pre-serum Omega Steve. This is a one shot I’m afraid but if you would like to commission me for more or your own prompt message me. Unbetad as well as my grammar app kept spazzing out lately so I’ve had to uninstall it and keep forgetting to reinstall.

Enjoy!

~ ~ ~ ~. ~. ~ ~

“What do you think happened here?..” Valkyrie, a beautiful female Alphas with long gently curling brunette hair, bright wickedly curious eyes with a smirk to match more often than not; pulled her horse to a stop as the small travelling group surveyed the smoking village below. Today her mouth was pulled down into a frown.

The village below down the hill was in ruins, smouldering fires still dotted the destroyed buildings, billowing smoke rising thickly from the place. This particular group often came by this village on their travels, the taverns knew them by name and would usually welcome them with an open door, as despite their intimidating appearance they are a pretty friendly group. Provided that no one disrupts them while drinking.

“From the looks of thing, nothing good” Loki, an Alpha Prince and brother to Thor who was the groups lead Alpha. Loki was tall, trim and handsome with long slicked back black hair that stopped at his shoulders. He dresses head to toe in black, green and gold leather armour that looks like normal every day wear so as to fool their enemies.

Thor, the head Alpha, was the complete opposite of his brother. Blond hair left to freely fall and curl a bit around his head, some pulled back into a pony tail to keep it out of his face, he was even taller than Loki though with a much more muscular body.

The last of their entourage, a shorter Beta called Bruce who was by far the weakest looking one. Wiry frame and shorter than even Valkyrie by an inch. He wears a tunic over his trousers and cloak, all loose and thin clothes that would loo out of place in this colder season.

“Come, lets take a look and see if any one is still alive down there…” clicking his tongue, Thor urged his stallion forwards and down the hill towards the most likely pillaged village.

Pulling up scarfs to keep it the smoke as they dismounted just outside the village, the group cautiously make their way towards, swords and knifes drawn in case anyone not friendly was still around. Carefully they picked their way through fallen debris and cleared a path as they went. Calling softly into buildings to see if anyone responded, occasionally if they could, Loki would navigate the fragile buildings to see if anyone was still alive but unable to call out.

Unfortunately, not many buildings were safe to do this or even had enough of a structure left to do so. At least ¾ of the village was nothing but massive piles of ashes, with the scent of burning flesh in the air.

Every few metres they came across a burnt corpse, Thor could hear those behind him whispering prayers for those they found and the ones the couldn’t see.

They eventually reached the square, where most the villagers where found. Pausing as he looks around what was once a wonderful village, Thor felt great sadness well up inside of him, if only they had been quicker they may have been able to prevent this.

“I’m… I’m going to check out that way,” Thor gestures to one direction, his body only halfway turned to his group.

“Do you think being alone is wise right now brother?”

“I doubt the murders are here anymore brother,”

No one commented that that wasn’t what Loki meant. Everyone knew that Thor insisted on visiting this village each time they left their home Village and again on the way back, that Thor had begun courting a certain Omega that had lived in this village.

With determined step, Thor picked his way across the village, even with the destroyed buildings his feet still remembered the way. Slowly Thor climbs over charred barrels and carts, fallen walls and roofs; until eventually he reached one specific house.

Little guy Inn.

The Inn they always visited for good food and to take shelter in, the first place that Thor first met his beloved Omega. Steve Rogers.

A tiny Omega that had a massive heart, always willing to shelter those who needed it regardless if they had the money or not, because Steve believed no one should have to sleep out on the dangerous streets.

The Inn was listing dangerously to the right, half of the roof caved in and the wall on the far right was practically torn half way off the other walls. Cracking through partly the building next to it. The Inn sign was hanging on barely to the iron bracket by the front door, the doors themselves were hanging off their hinges and strewn around the entrance.

Taking a deep breath, Thor carefully moved the burnt doors so that they were propped up outside an out of the way. The scent of burnt wood and Cotten and food reached his nose; glad for once that Steve had refused to have alcohol in his Inn.

Carefully as he could, Thor worked his way into the centre off the room, the reception desk in front and a door leading to the dining room an lounge to the left. To the right was what left of the stairs that led up to the bedrooms. Behind the desk is another door that led to Steve’s private part of the building.

Deciding to just take one last look, to see if anything was salvageable, Thor goes through the door. To his surprise and great delight, the room back here weren’t as damaged. It must of helped that this build was near the edge of the village and seems furthest from where the fire started.

Steve was always careful as to what he had in his home, worried about fires starting accidentally. Keeping to the walls where it was safer, Thor scanned the room for anything, for what exactly he was looking for he wasn’t sure.

Still looking back at the front room, Thor opens the door to Steve’s bedroom slowly, just as he turns his head to look into the room a bit of charred wood smacks him in the face. With a yelp, Thor jerks his head back and clutches at his nose that he’s positive is now bleeding.

“What the- stop I’m a friend!” Raising his free hand as he backs up, Thor calls out, hoping that whoever is in that bedroom is a friend not foe. “It’s ok, it safe to come out now…”

“Thor?” A small voice calls back, a short Omega steps out from behind the door, causing Thor to freeze, stupefied. He had expected a child perhaps taking shelter in the mostly safe room. Not this.

“Steve?” Steve is a blond 5”3 Omega, his body frail looking and thin to the point that a slight breeze could possibly blow him away. A cream button up shirt hung loosely over Steve’s frame and hi trousers were rolled up so that they didn’t drag. Others had mocked Thor for his infatuation with the small Omega. Asking him why would he want such a weak ill Omega when he could have a much prettier and stronger one. Thor would always respond, that Steve had the strongest and most beautiful heart that he has ever seen, that he would always pick Steve over literally any other Omega in the world.

Surging forwards before Thor even registers his own body moving, Thor pulls the Omega into his chest, relief floods his body and mind like a drug. “You’re alive! Oh Omega min I’m so glad you’re ok, when I saw the village i..” trailing off, unsure what else he could say, Thor pulls Steve back enough to see his face. Looking over the soft yet stubborn features he’s come to adore.

Steve himself was crying with joy at seeing the Alpha, he was terrified that Thor would never find him, simply bypass the destroyed village. With his injured leg causing Steve to limp, he wouldn’t be able to get very far on the road, his weakened body would likely fail to illness before any bandits found him.

“You came, oh god me and Tony were worried that it was the pirates coming back around when we heard you!” Trying to calm his breathing before he started wheezing, Steve lays his head on Thor’s chest. Listening to his heart and taking comfort from it’s stead rhythm, allowing it to ground and calm him.

“Tony? He is in the room as well? Did anyone else survive?” Worried for Steve’s breathing, he scooped the Omega up and carried him in, seeing Tony sat in the corner behind the door cradling a young teen.

Protectively, Tony hunched over the teen as he initially sees Thor, upon seeing the familiar Alpha he relaxes. Tony was a dark brunette Omega, hair curled around his ears and on his forehead, he wore a vest with trousers and a black smith apron over the top and thick gloves. He must have been in the forge when the attack came.

The teen under him looked like a carbon copy of Tony, except for slightly lighter brown hair that was a tad straighter. The teen himself was more curious than scared but was still wary of this new-comer. Thor hadn’t seen this kid before and wondered if it was a child of Tony’s, judging by how protective he was over the teen.

“Only us that we know of survived, a few others made a break for the wood but who knows how many are still alive.” Tony spoke quietly as he stroked the back of the quivering Omega in his arms, possibly still in shock. Tony was an Omega that defied society’s expectations of what Omegas should be like, he was brash and just as strong and capable as any Alpha. The dark haired Omega was a forge smith by trade, usually dabbling in household items as it was what the village mainly needed.

Tony also happened to be the Omega that Loki had started to take an interest in, last time they had come through the village. The both of them trading witty quips and snarking at each other.

“We need to get you all out of here, you’re all coming back home with me and my group. Can you two walk?”

“We can walk big guy, it’s Steve that has the injured limb.” Tony assured the Alpha as he urged the teen to stand. “Up you get Peter, keep close to me ok?”

The teen, now known as Peter, nodded at the older Omega and kept close to Tony’s side. Later when they were all safe, Thor would ask more about their connection or maybe leave that for Loki to ask. Nodding in acknowledgment, Thor heft’s up Steve into his arms getting a better grip so that he won’t accidentally drop him and heads out of the room, making sure the other two follow as well.

“Then lets go home,”

#larissaloki #come what ma #cwm #alpha thor #alpha loki #alpha valkyrie #beta bruce #bruce banner #thor odinson #thor #loki #valkyrie #omega steve #steve rogers #tony stark #omega tony #peter parker #omega peter #a/b/o au

[greetingsfromrivain]

Witching Hour, part 1/3

It’s 9:27 Dragon, and Carver Hawke is sneaking off in the middle of the night.  And his older sister is very curious as to where he’s going...

Content Warnings: rated T (canon typical violence, occasional sexual innuendo*) 

The first night it happened, Hawke merely thought Carver was going to the privy and didn’t make much of his extended time there.  Perhaps he was ill, or well....he was a young man now.  It wasn’t important.  Probably.

The second night (or maybe, just the second time she noticed), was when floor on the stairs creaked in that loud way it did whenever you needed it to be quiet, but when she looked outside of the door and down the steps after being roused out of her sleep, there was no sneaking younger brother to be found.  When she went to his room to check, it was likewise empty.  

But when she went back to sleep and woke at sunrise, as she always did to start farm chores, Carver was already awake, albeit cranky, and ready to start the day.  So it was nothing again.  Most likely.

The third time he was clearly getting sloppy.  A strong autumn wind blew through Lothering, making the tree branches scratch against the windows.  It also helped slam usually quiet doors.  She scrambled to the window to catch him and saw him going in the exact opposite direction of the privy.  He looked more like he was going toward town.  Curious.

Hawke put on her nearest pants, shirt, and socks, threw her patched up cloak over her shoulders and snuck down the stairs without making them creak ( “Amateur.” she whispered to herself, thinking of her brother).  At the door, where all the boots were lined up, there was one pair missing next to hers.  She quickly put her boots on, and looked over to the largest pair, still crusted with farm dirt and each boot holding a dying assortment of wildflowers.  She’d need to replace the flowers again soon.  “Always something to do.” she muttered, shaking her head fondly.

She laced up her boots and smiled at the largest pair, “Don’t worry, father.  I’ll sort it all out.”

Hawke tried her best to keep to the shadows, but Lothering wasn’t known for it’s cover.  As she got closer to town it was easier to hide behind barrels and around corners, but also became more difficult to track him.  He only looked over his shoulder twice before getting to the imperial highway (“Father taught him better than that.” she tsked).  He climbed up the ramp to the old crumbling roads, and she waited.  For a moment she could see part of him on the highway, but he moved toward the other side of the highway, as if to climb over the other side.

“What are you doing, Carver?” she muttered to herself.  After counting to 30 in her head, she thought it safe to climb up the ramp and onto the highway on here knees.  When she peaked over the railing on the other side, she saw him running toward the old abandoned farmhouse, still charred black with wooden planks in its windows from all those years ago. “Three silvers he’s meeting a girl,” she muttered, not thinking about how little sense it made to bet against herself.

She looked to see if there was a part of the highway with a little more shadow to it, and eventually (as in, approximately two moments) decided it was better to just climb down quickly.  She climbed about halfway down, until she became bored and jumped, landing in a way that pained her knees.  She dropped to the ground; the farmhouse was still a ways off, but she didn’t want to take any chances.  To her surprise, Carver didn’t go to the house proper.  Instead, there was a cellar door just next to it, with another, very tall and very broad man standing there.  They seemed to speak a few words, and Carver was let in. 

Hawke stood up and, no longer needing to worry about hiding, ran through the tall grass toward the cellar.  The man stood at the door with a crate at his feet.  He glared down at her.

“From the Fade I crafted you...” He said, giving her a skeptical once over.  

She blinked, “Uhh.....and...to the fade you shall return?”

He nodded.  Then he gave her another once over.  “A twice over,” she thought.  “Weapons?” he asked.

She patted at her weaponless hip and her hiltless back, and remembered her dagger in her boot.  He motioned to the crate, and she placed the dagger in.  The man opened the cellar door for her.  “Don’t get many women,” he muttered, though she wasn’t sure if he was actually talking to her.  

She made her way down the dark stairway, the door closing behind her, making it darker.  But there were too many voices, many yelling out in excitement, to make her afraid.  When she got to the bottom of the steps, there were torches lit all around the room, with a few casks opened in a corner. Most of the people in the room were men, for the most part younger men but a few older, and the vast majority of them men she recognized.  A small group of young women not much older than Carver stood together in a group, giggling and drinking.  The room was not round, but most of the people stood in a circle of sorts, with a couple of people in the middle of the circle...

....beating the Void out of each other.  

The two men fought with knuckles wrapped in bandages, and she realized she recognized them: Gregory, the McCall’s son, and one of the Russell boys (whose name she could never remember).  The crowd seemed split in half when it came to cheering, though maybe slightly more in favor of McCall, who was bigger but not quite so fast.  Hawke took in the whole scene and grinned, until she felt a hand grab her upper arm.

“Kiera!” Carver said sharply.  “What are you doing here?  Can’t a man have one thing to himself?”

“Well, maybe a man can” she drawled, “But a boy should let his mother know where he’s going off to at night.”

“I’m not a boy.” He rubbed his temples, “I knew you were following me, but I was hoping you’d turn back after a while-”

“You knew?”

He raised an exasperated eyebrow, “Kiera, you’re the worst at being stealthy.”

There was a loud symphony of gasps, and both Hawke and Carver looked to see Gregory McCall on the floor in the middle of the circle.  “Winner!” A young man with an impressive beard yelled out, holding up the Russell boy’s arm and handing him some silvers.

“Who knew Harrold was such an entertainer?” She said, looking to the bearded man and then to Gregory as he was ushered to the side by Harrold’s sister Poppy, with healing supplies of in an empty corner.  “Alas, poor Gregory.” Hawke muttered, taking off an imaginary hat and holding to her chest.

“Alright, you’ve had your fun,” Carver said, crossing his arms, “Will you go now?  It’s almost-”

“Caaaarver Haaaawke!” Harrold yelled, and the people in the crowd cheered.  Carver winced at the sound of his name.  “Just don’t be too embarrassing.” Carver muttered.

Hawke grinned.  “I wouldn’t dream of it!” 

Carver groaned, and with a shake of his head, made his way to the center of the circle.  The Russell’s boy gave Carver a cocky grin.  Carver didn’t return the smile.  

“Threeeeeee, Twoooooo, Ooooooone!” Harrold yelled, and the two boys began.

The Russell boy made a show of his movement by using quick feet to circle around Carver.  Carver, however, only followed to make sure his back was never to his opponent.  He kept his fists up near his face, expression full of grim determination.  Hawke smiled at the form.  He really had learned a lot from father.

The Russell boy’s feet kept moving, but his arms did not move as quickly.  “Honestly, boy, keep your fists up!” Hawke yelled.  Carver, to her relief, didn’t look over to her, like the Russell boy thought he might as he went in for a punch.  Carver dodged with what seemed like little effort, and took his moment to throw a punch to the side of the Russell boy’s head.  The young man staggered, but got back into his rhythm.  

Hawke looked around at her fellow members of the audience, many of them calling out her brother’s name.  She couldn’t help but grin.  “Keep it up Carver!” she shouted, holding up her own arms in an offensive stance.  Carver didn’t look her way, but she saw him smile.

He took more steps forward, toward the Russell boy, as if to throw a punch, but the boy dodged, his cocky expression faltering.  “Good!” she said, as she knew what was coming next.

Carver kept the young man on the run, despite his slower footwork, faking the throwing of punches and making the Russell boy wince defensively until he finally tried to throw another, weak-armed punch.  Carver ducked his head under, came back up as quickly as he’d gone down, and gave a one-two punch to his opponent’s stomach.  The room erupted in shouts, Carver taking just the slightest moment the grin as the Russell boy swayed but didn’t fall.  His cockiness was all but gone, instead replaced with frustration.

The Russell boy ran at Carver, and then seemed ready to kick him in the crotch.  But Carver moved faster as the formerly quick-footed boy moved slower, and he stepped from the kick’s path, grabbed the boy’s leg, and gave it a wrench that made the young man flip over and land face-first on the floor.  

“What!” Hawke shouted, unable to contain both excitement and pride, but she could barely hear herself over the others cheering for him too.  Harrold began to count as the Russell boy mumbled and attempted to stand up.  

Just as Harrold got to “two,” one of the bigger Russell boys got into the circle, grabbing the younger by the back of his vest and throwing him back up.  “Come on!” he snapped, causing outraged yells from the crowd, and a very nervous Harrold watching from just a short distance.

“He’s supposed to get up on his own.” Carver said with a glower, and the elder Russell boy rounded on him.  Hawke tore off her cloak and threw it behind her, “Hold this!” she yelled to whoever might have caught it and made her way in between the two men.

“Now now, I don’t think this is fighting fair, do you?” She said, grinning up at the older Russell boy (whose name she did remember, only because his first name was also Russell and who does that to a child?).  “Come now, we’re all here to watch people beat the maker’s love out of each other, and isn’t that an  honorable way to spend time?”

Russell gave her a shove,  “You want to involve yourself, Kiera?” He looked her up and down coldly, “You dress like a man, let’s see if you can fight like one.”

“Oh, I fight much better than a man.” She grinned, getting into form.  She looked over at her brother, who was still glaring at Russell.  “Are you ready?” She said to him, adrenaline rushing through her.  He looked at her out of the corner of his eye.  His smile was very small, but determined.  He got into form too, fists in protective stance, the two of the side by side, their forms mirror imaged.

The Russell boys waited for no counting, which seemed for the best, as Harrold had shuffled off nervously to the side.  All form and finesse was gone from the younger brother, who seemed content with simply tearing Carver limb from limb, and the eldest brother moved in a way that implied that his only experience with fighting was “be bigger than others.”

Hawke and Carver dodged their opponents, ducking under limbs and in between, switching opponents to confuse the Russell boys, getting in jabs where they least expected it.  Russell tried to grab for Hawke, but she dipped under his grasp, ended up behind him, and gave him a forceful kick to his rear.  She cackled as the group young women cheered her name.

Meanwhile Carver kept his more grim, more controlled style.  He looked over to Hawke, and she nodded.  They began to circle the two, using quick jabs to keep them in a small place, the young men standing back to back.  Russell practically growled, and lashed out at Hawke, just as she thought he might.  With a loud crack, her fist hit his nose.  He stumbled, his nose bleeding profusely, unable to notice that his younger brother was on the ground, having been laid low by Carver.  He tripped over the small body, and like a felled tree, hit the ground with majestic thud.

Hawke casually walked over to the older brother, sat on his back as he held his nose, and dug in her feet to the dirt floor of the room’s center.  “Do you yield?” she said with a jolly grin. He groaned and muttered something unintelligible, but the younger brother piped up “We yield!  We yield!”

The crowd erupted in a cheer that Hawke would have sworn could be heard from the town proper.  Carver walked over to her and offered his hand.  She jumped up, grabbing him in a hug that practically lifted her much taller brother off the ground.  Harrold seemed to reclaim his nerve, and grabbed the wrists of each sibling.

“Winner!” he yelled, and the crowd cheered again.  In the back Russell got up, shrugging of Poppy as she tried to look at his nose.  He picked his brother up by the vest once again.  “Let’s go, Collin.” he muttered, holding his nose and cutting through the crowd like he was made of stone.  His younger brother ran after him, albeit with a small limp.

“Collin! That was his name.” Hawke said as she began to walk out of the circle, putting her five silvers in the pocket of her pants.

“You’ll forget it again by the time we get home.” Carver said dryly, but he was smiling. 

“I can’t believe it’s already over, it seems like we just got here!”

“It’s not over.” He shook his head, “but they only allow two wins per fighter.  Guess they figured the fight with the two of us counted as a second one.”  He held up his small punch, jingling with 10 silver pieces with satisfaction.

“Well, we can get you another ten next time!” Hawke said, “Now where did my cloak go....”

Carver stopped in his tracks. “Next time?”

“Yes!” She put her hands on her hips, exhilarated, “Can’t you see it?  The Hawkes, back to back!  Birds of Prey!”  She heard him groan.

“Kiera, like I said, I’d rather do it alon-”

“Kiera?” the group of young girls pushed through as another fight started behind them, but the four girls were focused only on Hawke and Carver.  “The two of you were amazing!”  The young girl with reddish hair and freckles held out a cloak.  “I saw it on the ground, I wanted to make sure you got it back!”

“Thank you, Peaches!” Hawke said, brushing the dirt and dust from the cloak, “the nerve of some people!”

“That’s what happens when you treat them like coat racks,” Carver deadpanned, and Peaches giggled at him.  In the low torchlight of the cellar Hawke could have sworn he blushed.  

“Well, thank you again ladies!” Hawke said with a sweeping bow, “But the Hawkes must be going.  Until next time!” She elbowed her brother gently, and he gave an awkward bow, making the girls giggle again.

As Hawke and Carver made their way up the steps, Carver looked behind him.  “Maybe....maybe we could do this together.  If you really meant it.”

She threw her arm around his neck to bring his head to her level, and ruffled his hair.  “Now that’s the spirit!”  

“Careful!” he snapped, pulling away from her, “You’re going to make us fall down the steps, and then where will we be?”

“Well,” she said thoughtfully, opening the cellar door and allowing him out first, “You’d be closer to Peaches.”

He made an awkward choking sound, and though they were out in the still darkness of night, she knew he was blushing again.

The broad man gestured toward the crate, and Hawke grabbed her dagger.  “See you soon!” she said over her shoulder as she walked side by side with Carver through the tall grass, knowing that the sun would be up in only a few hours, but feeling more awake than she had in months.

DA100 #7, Siblings

Notes:

1) *”Occassional Sexual Innuendo” would be a great name for a punk band

2) I realized I was six in the da100 and hadn’t written about my Hawke, which is a tragedy.  Picture that “I abandoned my boy” McElroy gif, but with “boy” crossed out and replaced with “girl.”

3) Also, there are, let’s say, conflicting accounts to Malcolm’s death (in the banter, Beth says he dies during the blight, but in world of thedas they say he died 3 years before the blight).  Even though, technically, info in canon should probably take precedent over anything else, I liked the idea of Hawke having had a little time to adjust to being “head of the household,” so to speak, rather than being just thrown into it right before everything goes to shit

Also, this is fanfic and I can do what I want *hair toss*

4) I’ve never written a fight scene before! So that’s fun

#da100 #fanfic #da2 #carver hawke #hawke #f!hawke #kiera hawke #custom hawke #my writing #a place by the fire #the kids are alright tag #lol this was originally gonna be a one shot but well #to be continued............

[shadowsmystic-blog]

Blue Bolt and the Birth of The Warlock Chapter 3: Blue Bolt

(Also Available to read on Ao3)

Superhero AU

Shadowhunters

Relationships~ Malec ~others to be added

 The city of Idris is corrupted by gangs and power hungry tyrants.

After ten years of absence Alec Lightwood has returned to fulfil his destiny.

By day he's stinking rich and running the family business. Trying to juggle competitors and a meddling Journalist.

By night he's The Blue Bolt. A crime fighter armed with ancient gifts and the heart of a warrior.

This will be a multi-chapter, multi-part series!

Heros/Villains both positively psychotic and downright ridiculous!

(Loosely based on existing Superhero characters with plenty of references!)

Magnus scrubbed his body for the second time that day, this time in the showers at work. They were filthy and run down but he didn’t have a choice against the potential germs. The Daily Angel was the leading tabloid paper in Idris, Magnus was one of their top journalists and worked harder than most to get facts without twisting the truth. The warehouse had been a key lead into the Lightwood corruption and he’d be heading straight back over after removing all the sparkles that had stuck to his skin after another glittery mass burst out of his palm when he opened the package with his new stationary in a little too quickly, not leaving him in the good books with those around him.

Now he was pacing around drying himself off debating whether he should be going to the hospital with this. It was clear his body was having some kind of reaction. He was allergic to bees...peanuts...seafood...he didn’t remember consuming ANY of these ingredients in the last couple of days. Not bothering to dry his shoulder length hair he tied it back into it’s usual messy bun on the back of his head, dressing and grabbing his rucksack.

“Bane!” a voice bellowed out from his office door causing the journalist to skid to a halt by the door in.

“Victor!” He grinned round and gave him a peace sign. “Can’t stop! Story to chase!” Leaving his boss where he stood to boil over like a full kettle he threw himself out the door and down towards the subway. In a sudden burst of curiosity he stopped at the top of the steps, deciding he would see how far he could run. Put his new found body to the test.

Around two blocks later he decided glitter-bombs were clearly more his thing...Panting and grasping his knees he slumped down to the subway once more. He’d be at the docks and home with plenty of time for his date with the Golden Girls.

---

Alec was sat in the drawing room with Sebastian, watching amused as his sister was pulling various strange looking pieces of clothing out. Isabelle was the definition of elegance, class and sophistication. One of her 5 inch designer kitten heels currently up in the air as she was leaning almost fully into the box she’d dragged round. It was only when she pulled out something that looked like a boot that the penny dropped.

Alec leapt up and grabbed the edges of the box, peering in starting to help unload. Flashes of black and blue were coming into sight before his eyes landed on a bag of blue liquid.

“What’s this?” He jiggled it, only to have it snatched off him.

“Don’t you’ll burst it…” Her painted red lips curled as her eyes sparkled in excitement.

“It’s all very much like Christmas Sir...but when’s the floor show?” Sebastian smirked from where he was leaning on the back of the armchair where Alec had been previously.

“Right now” Isabelle stood up and grabbed a handful of the clothes, pushing them into his arms and dragging him behind the Japanese silk screen.

A few grumbles and irritated voices later and Isabelle came out, sitting in the chair and grinning up at Sebastian.

“Come on big bro!” She called out hands together, Sebastian’s eyes widened and a small gasp escaped his lips as Alec stepped out.

His arm and leg muscles showing prominently beneath the black bodysuit, black knee boots with blue trim and sole that matched the black gloves. His upper body a figure hugging blue tunic, a short black cape on the right hand side that hung just to his elbow. Finally his face was covered with his trademark bandanna, this time fixed round his neck and head, held in place with a black band over the top and another round the back.

“Well?” He stood holding his hands out.

Sebastian smirked and looked at Izzy who looked nothing but giddy.

“It’s very...tight…”

Alec growled and pulled the bandanna down.

“I told you”

“It fits you perfectly so just stop being such a brat...you look every bit the super sexy hero now...you can still wear your holster, belt and body belt so…” She shrugged getting up and opening the liquid bag taking two fingers into it before moving closer to him. “Duck down” He leant towards her as she ran the fingers to make a blue coated quiff at the front of his hair coming down his forehead a little. “There...the little things make all the difference! Plus this stuffs bullet proof…” She gave his chest a pat. “Wasn’t cheap either...” She winked and gathered up bits into the boxes. “No more cheap joggers and holey sweaters for this guy”

Sebastian rolled his eyes and walked around Alec a little, looking him up and down. “I guess she’s right...it’s definitely ‘hot’” He smirked as Alec shook his head. “Which means no one will ever guess it’s you”

Alec gasped and gave him a shove.

“Fucking jerk” He grumbled going back behind the screen to change. “Need somewhere to hang it up..”

“Plus it rolls up to fit in your briefcase no problem” Isabelle quipped from where she was pushing the box back out the door.

“I’ll do a test run later on” Alec called out. “Have my weapons ready for tonight”

“Of course Sir” Sebastian turned to head towards the armoury, pulling the bust of Robert Lightwood and causing two cabinets to flip over, revealing a line up of blue and black batons in varying sizes, as well as a few little things such as rope, netting. A mini arsenal for catching the ‘bad guys’. Running his hands down each one, Sebastian was in his own private awe of them. Much like he was of the man who they belonged to.

Alec had returned from Europe with these ancient and rare gifts that only his powers within could activate. Picking up the baton he ran his hands around the ends and smiled fondly. This was the weapon which gave him his alter ego. The Blue Bolt. Defender of the Defenseless, fighter of justice in Idris. The first time he was shown this power was what made Sebastian leave his grief for his father, his family. He knew he had to be by the side of this man and help in any way he could.

----

Magnus pushed back the door to the warehouse once more, it was considerably easier than it had been last time. It must be the biceps he now had practically ripping his t shirt beneath his sweater vest and blazer, he needed new clothes that fit his new size.

Adjusting his glasses as he pushed through the gap, jumping with a cry as something dropped on the other side. Just a plank of wood. The echo that it made was enough to set off the disappointment. He was too late. The whole area cleared, empty. In just one night and day? How was that even possible? Walking to the centre, he knelt down to where there was the only evidence. The shining liquid. Touching it he felt a shudder run through his body, the small puddle slipped up his arm laying it into a film as he gasped and pulled up his blazer turning his forearm as it seeped into his skin, absorbed into his veins.

Magnus had no idea what was happening to him. He only hoped his end goal with this story would provide the answers. A loud crash travelled through the room causing Magnus to jump and cry out in surprise before loud bangs shot out of both his palms, cascades of glitter burst out in gold and purple. Stumbling back Magnus panted and held his hands on the floor pushing back as it kept coming, he tried to close his palms, do something but it didn’t stop. Feeling his body draining his eyes slipped shut.

----

Guns. If there’s one thing Alec hated. It was guns. Especially when they were aimed at him.  His sister promised him the material of his suit was bulletproof, but up against a fair few pistols and the odd machine gun he didn’t want to try that out just yet.

Jumping from lamp-post to lamp-post he threw himself into a rolling landing through a nearby window, the barrage of bullets shattering the neighbouring windows. This was the only time he was thankful that the East Side was so run down and derelict. No civilian casualties.

Unhooking his baton from the thigh holster he held the centre before flicking it out, two shots of blue electricity burst out either side, creating a bow. Holding his hands to the bow he pulled his fingers back and a blue static arrow point came out from beneath. Lying on his back he aimed the electric arrow through the gap in the stones from where the building was close to collapsing and closed his eyes.

As soon as they opened his eyes shone with a blue to match his weapons, his mind buzzing with the noise, singling out the armed men one by one, fingers dancings against the arrowhead as if mapping out their positions. He drew his arm back, letting the arrow go with a breath he’d been holding. Throwing himself up as the bright light shot down to the centre of the men. The arrow piercing the ground and setting off static shots around them, in effect it was like using a taser, just a hell of a lot more fabulous as Alec. No. The Blue Bolt landed gracefully from the upper levels, walking over to run his fingers over the arrow still sparking, not causing any effect to it’s creator. The arrow vanished, putting the now reduced down baton away he moved swiftly to the leader of the group, grabbing him by the collar hoisting him up. His glowing eyes looking straight into the man’s who was groaning with small charred marks around his cheeks where the static had whipped at his skin.

“What brought you to the East Side” He gave him a little shake to get his attention. Alec’s height proving an advantage as the man’s feet were barely grazing the floor.

“W-who are you?!”

“I asked first” He growled and waiting for the man to stop whimpering.

“B-Business…”

“Downworld Business?”

“You don’t know who you’re messing with freak” He breathed out.

“Neither do you...clearly…” He felt a sharp jab to his spine jutting forward a little before another whoosh and a bullet going straight between the man’s eyes, dropping him like hot coal and looking round Alec held his hands out, fingers dancing in the air as he focused on the source. The silhouette of a fleeing assassin. The sound of sirens put a frustrating stop to his pursuit as he scrambled up and scaled the side of the building, looking down at the man whose body lay amongst his colleagues, eyes extinguished of their glow. Sighing and heading home.

----

Throwing off his bandanna and letting his gear drop, Alec let out an angry cry, kicking his arm chair over.

“Rough night?” Sebastian walked over in his dressing gown, pressing a finger to a slight scorch mark on Alec’s suit. “So..It is bulletproof after all” He whistled to show how impressed his was. Picking up the items Alec had dropped so carelessly.

“Fucking shit night Seb…A man was killed” Sebastian was about to speak when he was cut of. “Not by me...the man knew something...something big enough to be assassinated to keep his mouth shut...This isn’t just petty crimes...it can’t be” He sighed and rubbed his temples once his gloves were removed. This was the first time someone had died in front of him. It wasn’t a sight he wanted to see again but it wasn’t one that would scare him away from his end goal. He’d just have to work that extra bit to make sure his actions made a difference, both as the head of the most powerful company in the state by day, and at night as The Blue Bolt. He was given his powers for a reason. This had to be it.

---

Magnus shot up from the ground panting, looking around as he was lying on what seemed to be three inches of glitter, the warehouse floor was covered. Checking his palms he sighed and dropped back onto the metallic bed he’d made. The ground began to rumble and soon the glitter began to slip back into his body, sitting up again with surprising speed he ran his hands over the ground, watching as it all fluttered and went back into him. Closing his palms and taking a deep breath he stopped the action. Opening his palm again and letting go, the ‘hoovering’ continued until he was now standing, holding his hands out and drawing it all in at speed, his eyes in awe starting to laugh and tears formed in the corners of his eyes.

Whatever happened to him was like some bizarre otherworldly dream. His eyesight began to blur as he winced feeling a little sick, taking off his glasses he realised that they had been causing the problem! Gasping and pushing them off and on he confirmed it to be true. Pocketing them quickly as he rolled up his sleeves wondering if this worked in reverse.

Closing his eyes and un clenching his palms he felt the sharp popping sensation at his palms and gasped as a small burst shot out of the glitter, closing his palms and stopping it almost instantaneously. This was controllable after all.

---

An hour later after releasing and consuming the glitter in his veins he felt a little...different. No he felt very different. Taking off his blazer and sweater vest he ripped the sleeves from his shirt. Biting his lip and walking to the edge of the warehouse, looking over his reflection in the dirty glass, placing two fingers to his eyebrow he smirked as the glitter coated it, shaking his head to dust it off once more he ran his hands through his long hair and watched it light up with the street lamps outside, gold shimmering through the black.

A purr escaped his throat which seemed to snap him out of his trance, leaving him panting confused and shaking his head to get rid of the glitter in his hair he looked at his ripped top and blushed brightly. He didn’t have any recollection of doing this. Checking the time on his phone he swore and grabbed his things and barging out the door onto the docks and away. His Mum was going to kill him.

#malec fanfiction #shadowhunters fanfiction #superhero au #ao3fic