fallenking404

[fallenking404]

Saw a absolutely brilliant reblog tag a bit ago from @tinglingfuckingsensation comparing Nix to sleeping beauty and that mental image has been haunting me like the ghost of a Victorian child for the last week, so naturally I had to do something about it :O

Happy Pride Month!!

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[fallenking404]

6/13/25 Word Count Goal Fill

Happy birthday, Ed Shames. You were too powerful; they had to relegate your place in the show to about five seconds of screentime and a negative mention.

Shamecock; canon era postwar AU (1440 words)

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“What are you doing here?” is all he can think to say. It’s the biggest question on his mind, anyways, so it doesn’t matter all that much that he can’t pick anything else coherent out of his racing thoughts. Edward Shames, here, all the way from (presumably) Virginia, on Peacock’s doorstep. Did he miss a letter?

“I came to see you!” and his voice is too loud, too raw. Peacock thinks he gets it now:

“Are you drunk?”

“No, I’m not—okay, maybe a little. But not so bad that I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Peacock’s not sure he’s ever seen him so unsteady on his feet. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Tom, I’m sure! Look, I just—I just needed to see you, okay? I never got to say goodbye. It didn’t feel right. Please, let me make it right.” 

He has to be drunk. The desperation in his voice is nothing Shames would ever let slip out unless he wasn’t in complete control of himself, Peacock reasons. He’s not thinking straight; he’s being impulsive and unreasonable and ridiculous because this isn’t a foxhole in Belgium, this isn’t an abandoned high-end hotel in Austria, this isn’t fucking—

This isn’t something that happens, here. Not in this Washington college town, not in broad view of everyone and their mother on the street. It might be dark, might be raining, but anyone walking by or peering out their windows right now stands a good chance of getting a good look at their faces. A good look at which building Peacock lives in, if nothing else. 

But Shames is still standing there, hair plastered to his skull and looking up at him like he’s the one radiating light, not the bulb in the porch fixture. Peacock can’t take it. There’s too much in his chest clamoring for recognition, built-up anger and sadness and anxiety and whatever else you want to name. This is ridiculous. 

He huffs a sigh before he can stop himself, and notices the shiver that’s running through Shames’ frame as he stands straight-backed and incorrigible as always on his stairs.

“Just—come inside before you catch a cold, alright?” Peacock hisses, beckoning him through the door. He yanks it shut after him, and whirls to face him. 

He’s way too close. All at once Peacock’s a nervous replacement officer again, eyeing up the freshly-promoted lieutenant he’s billeted with and howling mentally at the brass because of all the officers here, he just had to get paired with one who looks like every late-night conjuring his hedonistic imagination has ever subjected him to. And he’s looking at him right back, eyes dark and with that challenging edge that had Peacock swallowing and steeling himself against when they’d first met, before he knew that that was just Ed’s resting face and—

Christ, he’s right here, Peacock laments as they stare at each other. Right here, and yet further from mine than anyone could ever get. He didn't think he'd ever see him again. He's had this conversation in his head nigh-on a thousand times by now, starting from the moment he stepped onto the train back to Washington, but words fail him now and all he can do is marvel at how it feels to be next to him again. 

He thought it'd fade with distance, or with time. But nope. He's just as hopelessly, stupidly smitten now as he was back when he was letting Ed kiss him silly in grossly lavish German houses and among impossibly green trees. It's like the polarity of his very blood has tuned to this man’s presence, and it could not possibly make him any more angry with himself that he let this happen.

Shames steps impossibly closer, and Peacock tears his gaze from his face in favor of tracking the path of the water droplets sliding down his neck, soaking into his collar, resting in the hollow of his throat—

No, not better, he howls at himself, and feels his face heat as he tries to find somewhere, anywhere, else to look. 

“Tommy,” Shames lows, and Peacock curses himself for how weak he is. That he’d do anything for this man in front of him, that he’s frail at the knees in a decidedly girlish way at just the way he says his name. His goddamn name. He scrabbles to get ahold of himself and yanks out of his space, shouldering past him into the hall. He doesn’t turn to see what his face looks like at the silent rejection, doesn’t want to look at the expression he’s making as he watches Peacock run from him. 

I’m not running, he insists. I’m getting him a towel, and making sure there’s enough space between us so we don’t do something we’d both regret.

Something Shames would regret, rather. He’s hanging by a thread of pride alone, just barely keeping from letting Shames do whatever the hell he wants to him. He doesn't think there's anything he could possibly regret in this moment; if nothing happens, he'll have been smart. If something does happen, he'll have one last memory to hold onto as he tries to double down on living an acceptable, normal rest of his life. And if it goes bad, well, that just ensures Shames’ll never show up on his doorstep without warning in the middle of the night again.

Now’s not the time to toss out your goddamn self respect, he chides himself as he steps back into the hall with a towel. 

“Here,” he whispers, and holds it out to him. He doesn’t look him in the eye, doesn’t want to mark his expression, but he can feel his gaze heavy on him all the same. Just like he could in Europe, even from all the way across a room, keen and level and wanting—

“Thanks,” he says, voice gruff, and takes it from him. 

“What are you doing here?” Peacock asks him again, daring to look at him as he rubs his hair dry, runs the fabric over his face and across the back of his neck. 

“I’m on leave,” he says. “It was the first train on the timetable. It felt… It felt like a sign.” 

This hesitancy is new to Peacock; the intensity is not. His words are halting like he’s casting about for them, but the look in his eye isn’t much different from the one that tipped him off at the very start that maybe he wasn’t the only one imagining someone else’s hands on him when he took what time and privacy the army afforded to himself. 

“Was this before or after you started drinking?” 

Maybe it’s an unfair thing to ask, but he has to know. Was the idea to see him brought on by intoxication, or has he been half as broken up by the whole situation as Peacock has been? Has he been missing him since he realized he got on that train without any parting words? Has he been memorizing his address, staring at the scrawl of his handwriting on the back of that scrap of some map or other he still had tucked into his ODs, the one he gave Peacock to write his address on in a spare moment while celebrating Japan’s surrender? Always two steps ahead, Peacock had mused to himself, giddy on Austrian spirits and relief and Ed’s company. 

Peacock thinks he could recite Shames’ mother’s address (“because I don’t know where I’ll be, but she’ll be the first to know,” he’d explained. “If you write there, I’ll get it.”) faster than his own serial number (now irrelevant since his discharge) at this point. He wonders if Shames had to look more than twice at his writing before he found his way to him, half-drunk and fresh off the train.

“I—” Shames starts to respond, but trails off in favor of just staring at Peacock. Deep brown eyes sparking in some intoxicated emotion, searching his face as if he’s drowning and Peacock’s some last gulp of air. He finds himself unable to break from his gaze, unable to look anywhere else but at the face of this breathtakingly headstrong man as he stands before him, dripping on his hardwood floor. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” 

Try as he might, Peacock can’t bring his voice above a whisper. He swallows, and watches Ed’s throat work just as labored.  He doesn’t respond. Just snaps his eyes back to his, unblinking, and heaves a shuddering breath. Opens his mouth as if to say something, closes it again, and lunges forward to cross that immeasurable distance between them and kisses him.

[fallenking404]

Some Tipper :D

Thank you to @lowdisk951 for being absolutely wonderful and the king of finding references even in the worst of conditions, I appreciate it so so much! Hope it came out somewhat close to what you’d imagined <3

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[fallenking404]

Can’t draw one without the other so here’s Aziraphale :D

Crowley

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[fallenking404]

Trying something new style wise and had the itch to draw Crowley :D

Aziraphale

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[fallenking404]

Just You, Just This

Fandom: Band of Brothers (TV 2001)

Rating: MA

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Donald Malarkey/Alton More

Characters: Donald Malarkey, Alton More

Additional Tags: Canon Era, Canon Compliant, Getting Together, Implied Sexual Content

Words: 3,179

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"The war is over, and Easy Company is reveling in newfound peace in Berchtesgaden. Alton More decides he's done waiting."

[fallenking404]

Here we go again!!! ✨

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[fallenking404]

Some baberoenee for the soul ✨

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[fallenking404]

Another watercolor for Morelarkey! :D

I’m working my way back into familiarity with the medium and they have been absolutely phenomenal subjects to do so with :D

I have a few pages of thumbnails and such that haven’t made their way into a completed piece and I’ve attached one such page below as I will probably never find the motivation to do anything with them 😔

The page in question :D

I’ve got a knight/medieval au stuck in my brain but I can’t get anything solid to come out of it as of now, fingers are crossed tho so we shall see if that changes lol

[fallenking404]

It’s not even funny how much of a monopoly these guys have had in my brain since watching the last episode of S2

Please please come yell at me about these idiots!!

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[fallenking404]

More morelarkey!! There’s a pun in there somewhere but I can’t find it :I

Been using this as an excuse to play around with some new brushes and pull from my over abundance of pose refs while I’ve got the momentum :D

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[fallenking404]

Morelarkey my beloved, you have fully taken over my brain and my Pinterest boards

Thank you to the spectacular @lowdisk951 for letting me once again pull from his cowboy WIP. Morelarkey isn’t endgame there but the vibes have got me entirely hooked 👀

It’s a little messy but I’m blaming that on relearning watercolors 🕺

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[fallenking404]

Got Morelarkey on the brain again, it’s becoming a reoccurring problem I fear.

Once again stealing from @lowdisk951 ‘s cowboy WIP. The way he writes their dynamic is absolutely phenomenal istfg

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[fallenking404]

Some watercolors for the A/S/M crew :D

I’ve had the reference saved with them in mind for an embarrassing amount of time so I decided to use the poll steals as an excuse to finally break it out!

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[fallenking404]

God these guys have me in a chokehold, have a comic that has resulted from said chokehold! I had a really good time working this out (this is officially the longest comic I’ve done :D)

As usual, thank you to @lowdisk951 for your endless contributions in phenomenal head-canons and motivation <3

[fallenking404]

Thank you so much for letting me draw your girl! I had a fantastic time :D

Her design is absolutely fantastic and they’re so so cute together!!

BIG HUGE MASSIVE THANK YOU TO @fallenking404 FOR THIS BEAUTIFUL COMMISSION OF MY OC ELIZABETH WOODS AND EUGENE ROE!!!

and a big yahoo! because this me talking about my bofb oc for the first time properly????

this is a scene from a story i wrote where Eugene sees Elizabeth trying on a plethora of outfits and they are very cute and in love and i love them very very dearly!!! thank you again mr fallen king i could kiss you!!

[fallenking404]

5/6/25 Word Count Goal Fill

Tabgrant; canon era soulmate AU (824 words)

His hand is what fizzles into awareness first when he comes to. There’s a pressure on his knuckles, soft and warm, and his whole palm is buzzing sweet where something presses against it on either side. 

Somebody’s holding his hand. He wants to see who, but his eyelids refuse to lift. 

There’s a soft drone of chatter around him, too. It rises in his ears as he stirs further awake, muted conversation and various bustling around. It kind of sounds like an aid station. 

Why am I in an aid station? Why was I sleeping? Why am I sleeping at an aid station?

And then he registers it. 

“What the fuck happened to my head?” 

His voice is startlingly slurred, even to his own ears. This is pretty bad, isn’t it?

He’s sleeping in an aid station because of his head, he reasons. It has to be his head. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt pain like this in his life, sharp and foggy all at once and except for the grip on his hand everything’s hopelessly muddled.

“Chuck? Hey, hey, just relax—”

He doesn’t realize he’s trying to sit up until a gentle hand guides his shoulders back down, and the grasp on his fingers squeezes just the slightest amount. He knows that voice; thinks he’d know that voice even if he were deaf. If all sound in the world were sucked out, reducing the universe to a silent vacuum, that voice would still ring in his head. He was born to know that voice. 

“Tab?” he croaks, and forces his eyes open. 

He’s sitting at his bedside, and all of the air Chuck’s managed to pull into his lungs flees him in one huge breath when he locks eyes with his soulmate. 

He looks awful. Hair disarrayed, face drawn, eyes like he’s been crying. Worst of all, there’s an angry starburst blazing across his temple, crawling up into his hairline. Chuck feels himself go cold all over. He turns on his side, reaching his free hand over to brush his fingers at the mark as he leans closer to him, and doesn’t have a clue what to say. 

He would have felt it, too. He’s hurting right now, too. If he even feels half of what I am right now—

He knows, now. He has to. 

“I’m sorry,” he rasps, and Tab takes his other hand, too. Presses it to his lips, eyes big and shining. 

“Nothing to be sorry for,” he whispers, eyebrows drawn up in such an anguished expression Chuck wants to lunge out of this goddamn hospital bed and wrap him in his arms. As it stands, though, he can barely keep his eyes from slipping back shut. 

“How long have I…”

“Since last night,” Tab lows, and pulls himself as close to the bed as he can. “Since they got you out of surgery.” 

Surgery? Christ.

Tab moves to grasp his left hand again, rubbing at it slow and sweeping as he holds it between both of his. Chuck can’t figure out if the aching in his chest is his alone, or echoed through their bond. 

“Have you been sitting here the whole time?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah,” and he says it like it’s a given. Chuck doesn’t know what to make of it. 

“Have you—” he stops himself. Have you slept, is what he means to ask, but he can tell the answer just by looking at him. “When I fall back asleep again, you should go for a walk,” he says instead, because he can read the frenetic exhaustion painted clear in the lines of his body as he sits bent over him. “Or at least find a bed to crash in.”

Tab gives a wet laugh, and kisses his knuckles again. “Not gonna leave you.”

His voice is so incredibly fragile; Chuck’s never heard it like this before. 

“I’ll be okay,” he smiles at him. Doesn’t bother to hold back the fondness sweeping through his chest, because Tab’s still got his hand pressed to his mouth. “I’ll be here when you get back. You’re gonna vibrate out of your skin.”

“I—”

“Go, Tab. It’s okay.” He tries to squeeze at his fingers, but manages only a twitch. Tab must pick up on his intention anyways, because he squeezes right back. 

“Okay,” he whispers, and sweeps his thumb over the back of his palm. Chuck doesn’t have the energy to hate the cliche of it all when his touch leaves his nerves singing and alight in its wake. “But I’m not going anywhere until I know you’re sleeping again.” 

Chuck keeps his eyes open just long enough to see the wobbly smile Tab sends his way, and hopes that the one he tries to muster in return reassures him some. 

He drifts back off with his hand warm in his soulmate’s grasp, ears tuned carefully to his gentle breathing beside him until even that fades from awareness.