#[ yeets this and runs away ]

[sugoi-writes]

Scent Kink - Featuring Alastor x GN! Reader

A/N: HEAVILY inspired (and partially written for) @hazelfoureyes... UNO VERSE, DEER! I hope this is alright, as I feel you do him SOOO much more justice. Your thirsts have made me cave in. I will need to go to confessional after this one.

Includes: scent kink (Alastor has it for reader), GN! Reader, some implications, mentions of violence/carnal desires, and of course, some m*sturbation. Yippee~

Honest to Satan, it took him by surprise. Rarely was Alastor motivated by anything "innate" or "carnal" (past his violent urges against ne'er-do-wells). That is... until you came into the picture.

Alastor's always had a great nose: all the better to spot bad meat with! ...But now? Now he can't help the way he drifts and looks your way. Now, he has to hide the perk in his ears and the subtle nostril twitches and flails. Now, he often stands closer to you when engaged in group activities. Hell, the seat to his right will always be reserved for you. Anything to get closer and catch just a momentary, minute whiff to take in your scent...

When you arrive back to the hotel, he's at the door, helping to take your coat. It's always on the coat rack by the door when you need it most... but when you weren't paying attention? Alastor had it all to himself.

There had even been times where Niffty was doing laundry, and he had half the mind to volunteer to help... it'd much less suspicious of him to handle your things this way, right? But alas, that was maybe a touch obvious... and Alastor is not known for his charity.

When you're fresh from a shower and coming down for dinner, he always seemed out-of-sorts. Little did you know that the Radio Demon was sad that your natural scent was muted by flowery, excessive fragrance. No, he much preferred seeing you worked up, disheveled, maybe even a bit... unkempt? A normally tidy, avoidant, do-NOT-touch-me man was reduced to this? It unnerved him to no end; his blood was boiling.

He had his normal mask, that damned smile, working overtime. Anything to distact you from his eye twitching. Anything so you wouldn't notice how he shifted his weight next to you. He would curse himself, his back straightening and even arching when you leaned over him on the couch, straining to grab the TV remote. He made grand, almost cartoonishly bold gestures now... just so you would miss how much he needed to adjust himself around you. How much his eyes would dialate when you were close to him, for any reason...

But the more he tried to hide it... the more craved it; the more he needed the real deal.

---

You were adjusting yourself after a recent scuffle, loan sharks having come looking for Mimzy again... You winced, clutching your side from a harsh blow you received. You would definitely need some help taking care of that...

You could barely make it two steps before Alastor has you by the wrist, pulling your arm taunt. You panic, wriggling and squirming as Alastor's eyes roamed over you. You had a delectable little nick on your cheek, weeping blood. Alastor leans down, breath ghosting your cheek as you shuddered. You felt a jolt of electricity race up your spine as he spoke:

"Dear, you should really be more careful...," a thumb grazes your flushed flesh, before his taloned digit is licked clean. You found yourself struggling to swallow the lump in your throat as a toothy, sultry grin is sent your way.

"You're getting sloppy...~"

You can't help but notice how obsessively attentive he was. How he managed to pull you inside, and forced you to sit on his bed. He asked you to strip down to the basics, and tended to your wounds, no matter how little. You could hear every time that Alastor's breath shook and hitched, absolutely enthralled by you. You were in his sights, in his hands, and you invaded his sense of smell.... he was so close, yet he felt miles away...

The only way he didn't have you was with his tongue, lapping at your sweet, sweet sweat... Maybe, he would consider licking a little lower... did you taste as good as you smelled?

He would inhale deeply as he spied fresh blood or helped remove old clothing/bandages. This routine of yours would continue, even as your wounds became more manageable.

One would assume he was concentrating when he held his breath... but NO. He was memorizing this. He would remember this map-out of your musk and body like the back of his hand... He felt like a mut in heat with how hungrily he regarded you.

You had missed the way that Alastor's eyes gleamed when he offered to wash your dirty, bloodied clothing for you. Embarrassed but appreciative, you took him up on his offer. As he gave you one of his blouses as a temporary cover up, sending you on your way... Alastor locked the door, practically salivating.

Never had he been brought to his knees so quickly, doubled over and panting. Never had he practically torn his pants off, seams frayed and barely hanging on.

He frantically fisted his cock, pumping hard and fast as his precum glided down his warm, agitated tip. The desperate mewls and blissful sighes that escaped with every pant was almost musical, bouncing off the walls of his room in a grotesque cacophany. The staticy filter cloaking his voice had vanished, leaving him nothing but a bare, hungry, frenzied sinner.

As he balled up your shirt, inhaling sharply, he fumbled through curses and praises... You. You. You. This was your fault.

And even as his mind demanded more, his body sought its release, making a mess of his hand and the carpet. He grimaced at the warm fluids, realizing he'd have to deal with that sooner, rather than later. Alastor would fall back onto his haunches, shirt still gripped tightly in his left hand. Shakily, he held it up to his face again, nuzzling into it as he took in more of your musk. His own had started to cling to the shirt, his sweat and drool starting to dampen your smell.

You were driving him to madness. To his dismay, he realized that this would not be enough... not anymore.

He let his hands fall lazily in front of him, cock still throbbing absentmindedly.

First, a quick wash and preening. Then... he'd be looking for you to answer for his desires.

[disastersteps]

someones really like her so much-!!

meme/reference here:

[ravensmadreads]

The Mess of Us

A/N: i have no excuse honestly. I've imprinted on David York for reasons unfathomable to my own brain. This is my attempt at giving him a redemption arc? A softer backstory? My heart and soul? Who knows.

Warnings: uhhhh lots of angst (i mean i tried), almost entirely canon compliant, vague-ish attempt at smut, mild cursing, insane use of italics. (Also: english is not my first language and im faking being a writer but i think this came out okay??? Pls be kind he's my lil babie!!)

Summary: I gave david york my heart and then proceeded to bash it with a sledgehammer - forgive me :p this is the same universe as What Love Means

Taglist: @fuckyeahdindjarin cause i wouldn't be writing without you; @chronically-ghosted thank u to listening to me cry about Dave, and my writing, and myself - i owe u my life; @wannab-urs you absolute maniac i adore u; @timelordfreya u were so kind on the accompanying piece for this i hope you like this too <3

David York

You've known that name for a long time. Stayed with the man that inhabits it even longer. He goes by Dave now. Lives in a suburban home. Has two daughters. An "office job". A respectable man. A good man. A little misguided perhaps. A little bit more jaded than he used to be. More broken than you remember. The light in his eyes all but snuffed out. But a good man.

He was always a good man.

Even when he was no longer yours.

Even when he was no longer David.

****

David York and his sunshine. Neighbours. Best friends. Light of each others lives.

You're two halves of one whole in a way that makes no sense from the outside, but when you tread close enough you can pinpoint the exact strands that join your soul to his. The way his heart is an exact mirror to yours. The way your smile reflects the sun in his eyes and his warmth leaves you feeling more loved than any being in the entire universe. You'd stumbled across him, buried between the pages of a book twice the size of his head, and you thought: Oh God. It's you. It's going to be you. And you decided you'd never let him go.

Until he decided to leave.

He's so excited when he gets the call. When he makes his plans and packs his bags. When he tells you all about the good he's going to do, the hero he's going to become.

"I'll be back soon sunshine. You won't even know I'm gone."

You try to convince him to stay. With everything you've got in you. All your jokes, all your warmth, all your schemes. When that fails you give him your heart. Your tears. Explain that you can't live without him. That he can't expect you to live without him and not fall apart at the seams because he's the thread that holds you together. And when you see the anguish on his face at your confession, you revel a little because you think you've won. He's going to stay for you because of course he is. He's your David. He cups your cheeks in his hands. Lips meet your forehead as his words break your heart:

"I'm sorry sunshine. You know I have to go. I have to do this. You know."

So you wipe off your tears and you smile. Because that's what you're supposed to do for a friend and that's what you do for him. Give him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Tell him to be safe.

"Don't get your butt kicked too much David. I need you back in one piece."

And that's the first time David York turns his back on your smile.

****

You wait for him. Like the inexplicable fool you are. Wander aimlessly in the streets around your childhood home like a spirit too tired to haunt anyone but itself. Waiting for him to come back and spark you alive again. Awakening for the few weeks of leave he has before reverting to your state of nothingness the minute the door closes behind him. Flitting like a ghost of yourself, nothing tethering you to this place, but still incapable of moving on without him.

Because he was David York. Your best friend.

Your good man. Your solid rock.

Until he wasn't.

Until he left.

****

You learn to make your way without him. Stumble, fall and scrape your knees more than once, without him by your side clucking and fussing like the mother hen he was. Without him to hold you up and bring you close:

"You’ve got to be careful honey. I can't be losing my sunshine."

You find a purpose and make your stand into the big bad world but all of it feels hollow without him by your side. You learn to stitch people up, bandage their wounds, hold bleeding skin in place and snap broken bones back together again. He laughs when he finds out, equal parts amused and proud.

"Looks like you became the anti-Dave sunshine."

And you smile for him, because of course you do. You don't tell him that everything you're learning, you're learning because of him. Because of the sheer wall of terror that's settled in your spine since the moment he walked away. Because of the David that comes to you in your dreams. The one that crumbles in front of you; broken and damaged and begging for help. The one you're trying so hard to save.

You may be his sunshine, but he was always your sun, and you'll protect him, even if he doesn't want you to.

****

The David that comes to you now is not yours. He's an off brand version of himself. A cheap copy. An imposter that calls himself Dave and smirks in a way that makes your skin crawl. He wears Davids skin but has none of his warmth. The sunshine in his smile is replaced by an ice cold sharpness and you hate that shivers it sends down your spine. His eyes have lost most of the humour they used to have, and when he hugs you he lets go a little too soon. A little too fractured, a little too cold. You hold on; assessing, caring, and wondering. Go to ask but he shakes his head; the look in his eyes silencing your questions before the words can form on your lips. The worry in your heart worsens.

When he walks you home you try again but he anticipates it. Like the predator he is now, he sees your strike coming, and retaliates in the one way he knows will force your silence. He kisses you. Hot and deep. Steals the air from your lungs and the words from your brain. Renders you shocked. When you open your eyes it's your David staring back again and your relieved smile has him pushing into you again. He kisses you until you're breathless. Again, and again, and again, until all your worries are dripping unvoiced at your feet and all your questions have been sucked into the air in his lungs.

You don't fall into each other as much as you attack. The culmination of years of circling each other and it all comes down to this. Mouths open, teeth clashing like you're trying to make your way into each others souls. His hands grab you so desperately, so fervently, that you wonder how he hasn't moulded you into his own chest yet. Your nails scratching at him like you're trying to carve a home in his bones. You’re trying to tear pieces of each other apart. Him, so he may take you with him and you, so you never have to watch him leave again. You devour every inch of him so reverently that the taste of him may remain embedded in your tongue forever. And he carves his way into you, soothing an emptiness that only ever craved him. Pounding in like he's trying to break you open and consume the light within. You cling to each other in the aftermath, breathless, sated and smiling, and you remember placing a kiss on his heart right before you drift off in his embrace.

You should've known, in retrospect, that that was as good as it was ever going to get.

He leaves you in an empty bed. Runs away before the dawn breaks like the consequences of what you both did are too ugly to be faced in the light of day. You turn the apartment upside down looking for one note, one glimpse, one hint of him that's not mottled on your skin and going to be torn away by the cruel hands of time.

You take the dismissal for what it is when you don't find one.

****

He comes back broken. Purple shadows under his eyes, a split lip and a wince that breaks you when you go to hug him. The storm breaks and you lunge. Too strung out to keep going like this any longer and too frazzled by thoughts of "what if it was worse" to think about the consequences of breaking your silence.

Your fists pound against the rock hard of his chest. The place that used to be your solace, your comfort, your home. Where you'd set your head too many times to count and where all your dreams ever went to rest. And they've turned it to stone, moulded him into a machine, changed him into something he's not.

"You're not a fucking hero David. You're not. And I'm asking you to stop trying to be one. I'm asking you to stop this self sacrificial bullshit and come back. Come home. You don't need to be a hero. You just need to be alive. I need you alive dammit! Why can't you see how much I need you?"

Your voice falters and cracks. It's out there now, the pieces of your heart; ugly, tattered and split open in front of him. Waiting for his judgement, for his grace. His face twists into a grimace, and you turn your head before he can see the tears fall. You don't need his apologies. His empty words and false promises of how nothing will ever happen to him, because it will, you know it will. So you hold up a hand before he can begin.

"It's okay. I get it. This is your life now, right? So will you forgive me then, if I can't stand around watching you try to kill yourself and wait for the day you inevitably succeed?"

Something in his eyes breaks at your words, and something in your heart does when he gathers you in his arms. The kiss on your temple feels like a goodbye. To your one solace, your one crutch and the only friend you ever had. And you know this goodbye will haunt you forever.

That's the one time you turn your back on David York.

****

He comes back with an extra sparkle in his eyes. Pleads and begs his way into your good graces and you indulge him because that's what you do for David. His smile has never been brighter. He may call you sunshine but he has always been your shining light, your beacon, the lighthouse you turn to.

But then he turns away. And in a split second, your world tilts on it's axis.

Carol.

Her name is Carol. Perfectly normal. Perfectly sweet. Perfectly perfect. He's got his hand in her hand and you don't understand. You can't. You refuse. Except.... David. He looks so happy. So content. Looks at her with all the devotion you've only ever given him, and all the love you wish he could've given you.

"What do think sunshine? I think she may be the one."

You smile. Because that's what you always do for David. You smile. It's an ugly thing. Fractured. Broken. He notices because of course he does. You've never been able to hide from him, ingrained as he is into your very soul. His smile falters and his eyes fill with sorrow and regret. Apologies for all he could never be and all the regret he has about it.

"You did good York. You'll be great together."

He flinches. He has only ever been David to you. He knows he has broken something irreparable. Opens his mouth to fix it. To swallow something back, say something else instead. Change the words, the letters, the combinations of decisions that led you both to this very moment. Something to keep you whole but the parts he shattered, however unwittingly, are already crumbling to dust in front of him. He closes his mouth. Swallows whatever lingered at the back of his throat. You smile at each other as you walk away. Him with her hand in his. You with the cloud of pain that comes from finally accepting the bitter truth for what it is.

He's not yours. Not anymore. Never will be again.

You never call him David again.

***

You miss him. Of course you do. Running from him was like running from a part of yourself; impossible, regretful and pointless. You were intwined into each other too thoroughly for there to ever be a clean cut through. You couldn't really walk away from him completely no matter what the distance on a map points out.

You know he'll call when he comes back again. He does. Shows up at the threshold of your sanity and the hardest thing you've ever done is ignore his voice when it calls to you. Voicemail, after voicemail, after voicemail. You listen to every single one but you can't call him back. His voice is your kryptonite. You'd walk back the distance if only you could but some tattered remnants of your self esteem hold you back. The last one comes with a letter in the mail. The glossy embellished card reminds you of the reason you walked away. The reason you could never go back. He pleads over static and tinny phone lines:

"Come on sunshine. I need you there. I'm sorry. I'm so s-. Please. I- "

Silence for a few minutes before the line cuts off. Typical of you both. To never say what you want and yet be assured the other knows exactly what you mean. He probably knows too. That you can't bear to see someone else's name next to his. The thought makes you nauseous; angry in a way that scares you, an evil coiling restless being inside of you, threatening to do as he asks. Go over there and scream in his face. The audactiy of this man to say he needs you when all you ever wanted was for him to pick you. Over the chip on his shoulder, the gun in his hand, the name on that card. Choose you. Love you. But you can't do any of that. You can't stand by his side and smile as he walks away with another either.

His only mercy is that he doesn't show up at your doorstep when you both know he could and you wouldn't be able to close the door in his face. Not him. Never him.

You throw the card away without opening it.

He forgives you.

But he never calls again.

***

Months turn to years and David York turns from a stabbing ache into a memory and then a ghost. He haunts you initially, at every turn, but slowly, over the years, the voice in your head softens down. He vanishes into the fog that lingers at the back of your mind and you stop looking over your shoulder for him to come back. You left him so suddenly, so abruptly, that you'd torn off pieces of yourself too. But time heals those wounds and you gradually learn to carry on as half of your bleeding heart slowly scabs and scars over.

You carve out a content little place for yourself, in a tiny corner of the world as you finally learn to love the reflection in your mirror. There's grey in your hair now. Wrinkles in your skin and hands hardened over from a life lived serving others. Saving who you can, when you can. A melody on your lips as you collect the parcels from your mailbox. Cocoa and bitter coffee long since mask the taste of his name on your breath.

There's a knock at your door and you flit to open it. Your smile, a pale imitation of what it used to be, plastered on, as you brace yourself to greet a well meaning neighbour or two. It falls quicker than lightning at the sight that greets you instead.

A man wavers at your doorstep. Unfamiliar in his familiarity. The ghost of a memory of a love never forgotten. Dripping crimson over the smiley face on your welcome mat. A haphazard bandage concealing half his face. One hand clearly broken. Arm bent at an angle too sharp to be natural. Angry streaks of purple and blue dancing around all visible patches of skin and he's trying to be nonchalant about the way he's favouring his right leg but failing miserably. Wheezing a breath that you know speaks of atleast one, if not several, broken ribs. And yet, despite all the damage and destruction and sheer agonizing pain he's no doubt in, the man smiles. Full and bright and warm.

"Hey sunshine."

And you reply.

A gasp. A plea. A promise.

David.

****

[thirteendaysintaunton]

the concern on edelgard’s face when byleth passes out is driving me maybe just a bit insane actually

[another-random-goose]

may i interest you in an SBK au?

This is Cassi (from Latin meaning approximately "of the empty things"), otherwise known as Not!Summertime. They showed up in Dark Oak one day and they have absolutely zero clue what is going on, and they are trying as hard as they can to pretend to be the guy in the bucket hat who's supposed to be living in the tube.

What happened to Summertime Viking? Who knows! He's not here and this guy has to make up excuses for every weird thing surrounding their appearance. "Did you always have pointy ears?" Was Avid always a monkey?

Does Cassi know what a reasonable trade is? Absolutely not. They do not know what a reasonable amount to pay for fairly mundane items is and multiple kingdoms have gotten an entire hotbar's worth of dark oak because of it. They have also traded so many things for apples. It turns out the void is hungry, not for human life, but for tree fruit.

Who's the first to figure it out? Does anyone help cover for them with increasingly ridiculous yes-and-ing of excuses? What happens when the actual Summertime returns? All this and more wacky doppelganger shenanigans in the Not!Summertime AU (i don't know why i wrote that like it's a promotion for a special movie event on disney channel)

Anyway Spiderman meme

[captainseamech]

Secret Lore Drop: Genetics

Most of you guys noticed already, but in the past few days I mentioned having a secret lore of sorts that was connected to High Tide’s genes, some of my mutuals getting early access on this beforehand.

Hopefully this post answers some questions like: why does HT have retractable teeth? Why does he physically roar? Why does he have claws? Why he acts normal around other beastformers? And last, but certainly not least... If his father/sire was a space sailor, who was his mother/carrier?

Be in mind that... this is a bit self-indulgent and entirely made up sooo djfksjfsk I'm posting this because I got the brainrot while still being hesitant so pls don’t hate too hard on this <3

High Tide’s father used to travel across other planets as well, to either gather resources requested by others or to simply explore on his own, and it was in one of his little expeditions that he met HT’s mother and fell in love with her, of course, keeping their relationship a secret when coming back to Cybertron.

To cut to the big reveal already.... His mother was a predacon, an ancient dragon-like predatory race once living in Cybertron, that resided in Eukaris in order to keep herself, as well as the other predacons that lived there, alive before they were wiped out of their existence due to the Great Cataclysm.

Since the Predacons were the predatory ancestors from Cybertronians, it was quite of obvious why they had to keep their relationship a secret: she was, quite literally, a living fossil and had a high risk of being taken away to be studied by others. Despite that, they were a very happy couple, being even happier when High Tide was born.

Though he looked more like his father, he had the genes from his mother; being presented in form of claws, fangs/retractable teeth, his... optics sometimes imitating one of a dragon (but that’s on very rare occasions) and his ability to growl and roar. And since his father worked hard for both of them, HT spent more time at home with his mom, thus respecting any other predacon/beastformer due to being born from one.

He was also generally taller than the other younglings and that’s thanks to his mother’s genes. Although his father was also tall, predacons in nature are absolutely huge with his mother being taller than his father due to that. He had growth spurts through his life as an adult too, being 23ft tall in the arenas and eventually growing to 26ft during war.

He was supposed to reach around 30ft before old age hit him and he was also supposed to grow wings, but they weren’t able to properly start developing due to his back getting constantly hurt during the arenas and... due to an accident in the middle of war, he had permanent damage which caused him to stop growing all together.

[sighonaraa]

🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹

i am. having thee absolute time of my life working on the s3 fix it fic rn so. HERE IT IS. THE BEGINNING.

No one talked about Wembley, after. When Jamie thinks on it now, months later, his brain accesses some strange empty space, where there’s no sound and no taste and no touch. Just him and the raw, trembling cage of his body, knuckles bruised and tender to the bone. He tries to call out, and his voice doesn’t obey. He tries to close his eyes, and they remain open. He tries to leave, and he can’t, he can’t, he can’t. And he should be alone, right, except there’s a shadow falling across the floor in front of him and he knows it’s coming and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. He supposes that’s how it felt, in those absent days he’d spent wandering through his life like a ghost, like maybe he’d been killed back in that locker room and no one had thought to tell him. He can’t remember if anybody had said anything to him at the time; he can’t be certain that he would’ve been nice to them if they had. Probably he wouldn’t’ve been. There are some things that don’t let you go, no matter how much you fight them. There are some things that are part of you forever. So Jamie’d tucked Wembley away. Guts are meant to stay inside, ain’t they? Don’t want them spilled on the ground, staining your dirty, sweat-damp socks through, seeping into your palms till you can’t be sure where they end and you begin. He’d pictured Wembley like that, a blood-soaked cloth, and then he’d put it into his pocket where he can still feel it, sometimes, but nobody else has to look at it.

y'all are gonna be hearing about this one for a long long time. APOLOGIES IN ADVANCE.

[mabaki]

iykyk

[hollowsart]

Joke’s on you, I drew both

My baby on his way to a promotion <3

[2nd pic]

[scammysmileroksuu]

I don’t wanna be here. I want to forget everything and live in nameless one and be a proud member of YHW group. I’ll make poor quality portraits and write some fics and articles about the heroes of the western continent. Maybe beg the bakery (the one Cale brought bread for the indestructible shield from) to hire me there. Life would be good.

[annelesbonny]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 长月烬明 | Till the End of the Moon (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Li Susu/Tantai Jin Characters: Li Susu, Tantai Jin, Zhao You (Till the End of the Moon) Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode 35 missing scene, Fix-It of Sorts, in my mind nothing bad happens after this the end Summary:

Li Susu wakes to a world that has discovered Tantai Jin's connection to the Devil God. She rushes to his rescue.

“Cang Jiumin will never become the Devil God.” Her words ring out clearly; she will not be misunderstood. Although she speaks to the cultivators behind her, she looks into Tantai Jin’s eyes.

I told you I believed in you. Let me prove it.

[disastersteps]

You remembered thinking there must have been something you could have done to stop them. Something. Anything. But that time you did not have a plan; you were not one step ahead.

[ravensmadreads]

Positive Reinforcement

Rating: T? (for me being a Tease) 18+ !

Pairing: Jack "Whiskey" Daniels x f!reader

Summary: oh god don't make me do this. This is a Tattoo Artist Jack Daniels AU that @fuckyeahdindjarin lovingly coaxed me to write and now here we are.

Warnings: cursing. bad writing? People being idiots? Yearn? Idk fam I'm new to this let me know

A/N: lots of love to @barbiewritesstuff for listening to me panic about this and for reading this and for letting me be a disaster about pedro despite not even being in the pedro fandom ! ily 💙 also this is my first fic AND first time writing fiction AND English isn't my first language AND I know nothing about tattoo artists or tattoos in general so I ask you to forgive the multitude of sins I'm about to commit.

Tagging: @fuckyeahdindjarin (you're the master and this is my humble offering) @barbiewritesstuff (i gotta be a menace) @chronic-ghost (all the italics for you bby) @sherala007 @oscar-wilde-thing @perennialdoll247

P.S the gif isn't related to the fic but damn guys its a gorgeous gif?!!

Oh.

Oh God.

This was a bad idea.

This was a no good, top of the line, terribly stupid idea; and that was saying something coming from someone who'd once pulled a double shift on nothing but 7 cups of espresso and half a chocolate bar.

So maybe your track record for making sensible decisions wasn't stellar, and somebody should've talked you out of getting a tattoo. But it was far too late for that now.

The needle was buzzing away happily; stabbing tiny pinpricks into your skin and your heart was trying to beat itself clean out of your chest. Although, the very handsome man, with the very wonderful biceps, and the inexplicably sexy Stetson, currently leaning over your arm might have something to do with that. Might have several somethings to do with that in fact since he's the entire reason you're in this predicament in the first place. 

****

Jack "Whiskey" Daniels.

Proud owner of the tattoo parlor right across from the quaint little diner you co-owned and worked at. He'd given you a grin and taken your breath clean away with a "thank you darlin', that's mighty sweet of you"  the day you'd welcomed him to the block with a box of cookies. Sufficient to say, you'd been a goner since then.

After four months of long distance pining, smiles exchanged across windows, (you'd dropped a fork the first time he'd grinned at you from across the street but that was nobody's business but your own), the very rare small talk, and borderline bullying from your bestie Ginger, you had summoned the courage to go ask him out. And promptly panicked at his front door.

Because how were you supposed to talk to one of the most perfect specimens of the male species you'd ever seen? When you knew next to nothing about him!?

Except for his coffee order from when he'd walked into the diner one fateful day.

It had been a slow day and you had been lamenting your lack of love life with Ginger when the front door bell had jingled to announce a new customer. 

You'd twirled on your spot in front of the cashier and had been well in the middle of your welcome spiel before glancing up. Jack, in his infamous leather jacket, had been giving you a warm smile and you'd made a strangled squeak, to Gingers great amusement, before closing your eyes and trying to disappear into the Earth.

When that had failed, you'd taken a deep breath, counted to 5, before opening your eyes and regaining the ability to speak. He'd watched the entire thing with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes but graciously hadn't called you out on it. His parting smile and "you have a great day, honey" had been soft and you had caught yourself grinning about that smile, and that stupidly adorable pet name, throughout the entire next week.

Still, one coffee order and gentle smile didn't mean you could walk up to him and ask him out! He could be in a relationship! He could be married! He could turn out to be a total prick hiding behind a charmingly soft Southern accent!

Although, in that case, this little crush would be over and you could tell Ginger to suck it. Your mental spiral into the abyss had been interrupted by the door opening and the man of the hour himself poking his head out; his brows knit in concern. 

"Everythin' okay, sugar?"

The sight of his brown eyes so close to you had thrown you for a loop. You'd gaped at him for half a minute before blurting out the first excuse that came to mind. You vaguely remember convincing him that you were here for a tattoo and rambling about always wanting one and him opening up shop right in front of you, seeming like a sign from the universe. (A sign that you were losing it? Maybe. A sign to get a tattoo. Probably not.)

He had taken your weird behavior as first time jitters and had led you in for a consult. He'd eased you into the shop, a hand on the small of your back, while recounting the story about how a drunk tattoo had earned him his infamous nickname. You'd been giggling too hard to notice that he'd already sat you down on a couch in the back and pulled out a sketchpad.

He had been all soft smiles and twinkling eyes and thoughtful ideas. While you had been a bundle of nervous energy; trying and failing to not stare at his pretty eyes, long fingers and sharp jaw. You're pretty sure he'd caught you checking gaping at his hands several times. But nothing in his demeanor had changed, apart from the appearance of a mischievous little sparkle in his eyes. Which had only made it harder to resist the urge to jump his bones right then.

You ended up agreeing to a small design (that you had totally fallen in love with), and he had given you an appointment for the very next day. Your protests had failed at his insistence and you'd just been able to nod around the lump in your throat when he squeezed your arm in reassurance.

"Trust me darlin', you're in safe hands. I know what I'm doin'.

A furtive glance at said hands and another nod from you had sealed the deal. (Best keep your mouth shut until you were sure that words were going to make it out instead of embarrassing whimpers.) He'd smiled at you as he walked you out with a particularly devious look in his eyes. Like he knew. Like he knew exactly why you were here and insisting on getting a tattoo. And you couldn't decide if that would be the best or worst thing to ever happen to you. 

****

It was too late to do anything but reminisce now. The tattoo is halfway done and you're not one to brag but you'd made it through without too much fuss. A particularly vicious stab has you hitching a deep breath as you try not to flinch and suddenly, Jack's locking those soft eyes with you. 

"You gotta stay still now, sweetheart okay?” he rumbles, his voice low and throaty. 

Oh God.

That voice.

He could tell you to jump in front of a train with that voice and you wouldn't even blink. Your gaze drops to his mouth as his tongue peaks out to dart across those plush lips. You're caught up in the images of that tongue flicking out and tangling with yours. Figuring he'd be sweet at first; gentle and soft, with just the tiniest bit of pressure. Before licking hard and playfully biting your lower lip as he pulls away. Grinning that mischievous half smirk that makes you want to grab fistfuls of his hair and yank-  

He clears his throat and you fall back to Earth. Gulping, your eyes meet his amused stare and you nod cheerfully in response, trying not to be completely transparent. Apparently you fail miserably, because Jack just sends a knowing smirk your way before carrying on.

"That's a good girl."

Oh.

Oh God.

This was such a bad idea.

You were going to explode right in this seat.

The hum of the needle starts again and you try to shift your focus. Your gaze draws, as always, to the man bent over you; his broad fingers encircling your arm and gently holding it in place. His eyes laser focused on the design. Your gaze moves to ogle his broad shoulders and the way the muscles ripple under the leather jacket covering him. He tilts his neck and you trace the skin trying to pinpoint the exact point you'd like to sink your teeth in. Okay enough! Suffice it to say, you definitely wouldn't mind being under him in a different context.

You nearly squirm at the thought of his broad body on top of yours, but catch yourself just in time. Wouldn't be out of character for you to mess up your first tattoo right near the finish line. That would be quite the story. 'O hey, nice tattoo, what's that squiggle at the bottom?' 'Oh. Yea I was just picturing getting cracked like a glow stick by my tattoo artist when he had a needle on my skin.'

You hold back a flinch and wriggle in the seat when Jack raises the needle from your skin to start a different line. Those caramel tinted eyes rise from the half etched pattern on your bicep and fix onto you as he looks over with a raised eyebrow. 

“Behave darlin’,” he coos. “We're nearly there. You’ve been doin’ so well for me. Let’s not get carried away now.” 

Oh. 

Oh fuck.

This was a really bad idea.

You gulp and grit your teeth and nod for him to continue. You're thinking of kittens taking baths, ice cream in the park, that absolutely terrible but totally worth it for the eye candy vampire movie you'd seen last weekend, and how bad your issues with yourself had to be for you to get something permanently etched into your skin than tell a handsome man that you might like him. Mentally shaking your head at yourself, you glance over to see how much of the tattoo was left. Which turned out to be a mistake. 

"Ack!" You cry out.

Fist clenching and arm twitching immediately, as you watch the needle touch a sensitive part of your skin, and you flinch badly. Jack lifts the needle and fixes you with a stern half glare. But there's a twinkle in his eye that has you giving him a sheepish grin. 

"Whoops?"

You pout at him, with a teasing tilt of your head. He chuckles and your eyes flicker to his lips for a beat too long. When you look up, Jack's smirk has turned roguish as he catches you shamelessly checking him out. Again. 

Oh no. 

"Maybe you just need some positive reinforcement sweetheart, hm?"

Before you can even process the statement, he has already shut the needle off.

"Such misbehavin', darlin'."

He tuts at you before leaning down and pressing his lips against the corner of your mouth. He smells like leather. And a soft cologne. Both of which assault your senses; hints of pine mixed with sandalwood and something inexplicably him wraps around you, and it is dangerously delicious. His tongue darts out to have the tiniest taste as his mustache tickles the corner of your lips. Before you can restore the brain power needed to tilt your head, and maybe pull him on top of you by the lapels of his jacket, tattoo be damned, he's already pulling away. 

"Fuck me."

The whimper that leaves you is entirely involuntary.

He grins at your flustered face as the needle starts again. His grip on your arm tightens and you squirm for entirely different reasons as he winks at you.

"Absolutely. But only if you're good and hold still now sugar."

Your jaw drops. There's nothing but static in your brain.

Wait.

Did he just- ?

Oh God.

"Be good for me now honey. 'M almost done. And then we can see about rewardin' good behavior." 

Fuck.

This was the best idea you'd ever had.

.

.

.

.

****

[highlifeboat]

No, Hortensia was in the Newt scene, you remember right. (As well as Bruce, who seems to in different grade too?)

New one establishes only Matilda, Lavender, Amanda (girl with pigtails) and Bruce as a friend group. And they are shown to be part of the same class, so that makes more sense :p

Is Bruce the fat kid who's forced to eat a whole ass cake?

Cause my God that scene is wild to me. Even as a kid. Like what a weird punishment.

Then again what else should I expect from a woman who has a literal midevil torture device in her office.

To be fair, it isn't as if kids can't be friends with other kids in different age groups, either. Apparently Hortensia is only 10, so I don't think her hanging out with a 7 (Well "6 and a half") year old is really that weird.

[fortes-fortuna-iogurtum]

look I'm sorry, I really am. but if you watch The Husbands of River Song and interpret that as being a definitive picture of what River is like as a person... you're wrong. and you've missed the point.

[kradogsrats]

In which:

Local power couple Harrow and Sarai seduce sad divorced dad Viren into their polycule(???)

Sarai deserves to say "fuck" because she's carrying the massive emotional intelligence deficit of these two grown-ass men on her goddamn back

I make Lissa sound really bad but I promise it's because everyone is only getting Viren's side of the story, Lissa is my QUEEN and has done literally nothing wrong ever in her entire life

Lingerie is a category of garments that people of all genders wear, rather than having the feminizing connotations it usually does here in patriarchy-ville

All the explicit sex happens in the next chapter, so this chapter's rating is more like a spicy T or soft M

Honestly it’s more an exploration of the emotional aftermath of Viren’s divorce than anything else

--

I feel less bad about how long this took to write having noticed that the first chapter is longer as any two of my previous fics put together. Whoops.

ANYWAY, this is ostensibly for Harrow’s birthday, but Viren is the one who gets a gift??? Or is he?????