#ireeng

of course! I'll have something short and sweet out that's unrelated soon, i hope, but here's a short snip from this AU, for now.

--

Arthur wakes up sore and warm, and dressed in clothes that are not his own but feel familiar and smell like...

It's his own bed, at least. With it's moss green bed linens and piled on throws. The curtains are drawn and one of the widows must be cracked open with the way the fabric billows gently on a breeze. He can feel it as well, the spring chill cooling his heated skin where it is exposed; his fingers curled on the pillow, the inside of his wrist where his sleeve's ridden up. His cheekbone. It feels almost as good as the hand that brushes away the fringe of his hair to press against his forehead.

"You're still warm." It's Sean's voice, uncharacteristically mellow.

And therefore Arthur turns his face into the pillow and groans, feeling something like mortification deep in his chest and shame flaring hot on his cheeks.

"Oh, come off it, you plank." Sean clicks his tongue in exasperation and that's more like it.

—except he slips his hand under the collar of Arthur's shirt to cup the nape of his neck and squeeze him hard the way an Alpha would, and Arthur's eyes flutter and his body goes loose.

The way an Omega would.

"Long periods of deprivation," Sean is back to speaking the way he would to Connor; and who knows where Connor has been. With some luck, away from the house,the poor bastard. "Food insecurity. Nature can be masked by hormonal fluctuations. It's a natural stress response."

"Well that's just grand, Dr O' Clery," Arthur grits out, trying and failing not to sigh in pleasure when Sean digs in his thumb into the bruised bite mark on the slope of his neck. "Some touch."

"Hush." Sean gives him a firm shake before letting go, and Arthur breathes in shakily when he cards his fingers through his hair instead. "And listen."

Sean's hair looks nearly as dark as Alasdair's when it's damp. It would curl in uneven patterns if he grew it out, and suddenly Arthur cannot remember the last time he did. The haze of heat-lust fading doesn't mean that Arthur will stop finding him lovely and that rankles more than the soreness in his lower back and the memory of who put it there.

"If you were human I'd run a blood panel." Dr O' Clery says with a pointed look. "But then you'd still be an ejit, and you'd refuse it. And I wouldn't blame you. This is..." Sean sighs and his fingers still, comfortably nestled in the root of his hair. "You're dehydrated."

"You can smell that?" Arthur asks a little abruptly.

"I can see it," Sean sounds short, but his thumb is gentle when it brushes his dry lower lip.

It's almost funny how bereft he feels when Sean draws his hand away. How he feels the loss like a phantom pulse in the imprint of his teeth. Chemistry, physiology, emotion. Arthur squeezes his eyes shut to stay their dizzying effect and hates that his first thought right then is for Alasdair.

"Oi," Sean's hand is a pleasant weight on his back, even rubbing awkward circles across his shoulder blades. Maybe especially then. There is something almost reassuring in it, the knowledge that he is not the only one thrown off kilter by the sudden upheaval of their lives.

The mattress shifting is the only tell of movement before Sean settles besides him, a solid warmth weighing down the duvet and soothing the disquiet in his chest, easy as that.

"You're fine," Sean says in his usual, clipped manner; his arm comfortably draped over Arthur's waist.

His pupils are dilated and his cheeks are faintly flushed. He's breathing slowly, measuredly, in a way that speaks of conscious control. His lips are swollen.

"You're fine," Sean repeats softly, and he is close. He is so close.

Arthur can taste his scent on his tongue and tilting his chin he catches Sean's lips with his, letting their mouths dovetail without going any further. It's Sean who sucks gently on his bottom lip before breaking off to nuzzle against his jaw.

"Fuck," he breathes the curse into Arthur's skin and shifts his weight to settle closer to him.

“Esgob annwyl,” Dai breathes into his drink with a shake of his head before putting it down.

Arthur shrugs and drains his tankard, and in truth doesn’t know what the fuss is all about. If it was Sean’s mouth on her cuntlips he might have spared them more than a cursory glance (glance, he thinks amused, as though he cannot see hem out of the corner of his eye still). Another drink and perhaps he’d even be aroused by the way her chest heaves and the hitch of Sean’s hips against her thigh. As it stands he can’t really bring himself to be much arsed because the thought of fingers drilling into him like that? Arthur’s had a go at it and all he’d gotten out of it were a sore wrist and a cramp. He’d much rather have a cock, please and thank you.

“I’d rather a cock.” He says this out loud to Wales who looks at him likes he’s suddenly spoken French. Off to the side a hard knock against the wall lets them know that their brother and his lady have finished christening this fine establishment.

“A cock,” Dai repeats like he’s parsing the word.

Arthur nods.

“I would,” he says and to himself laments that they’ve no more coin for another round. It’s hardly past midnight.

“I believe you.” Daffyd says but he looks, dare he say, nonplussed, so Arthur feels like he should explain.

“They’re not thick enough,” he starts, and when Dai is too busy chocking on his drink to interrupt him, continues. “And they’d not reach as far as a prick could.”

Daffyd is too busy cleaning his chin with the sleeve of his shirt to respond at first but when he does it’s leaning forwards over the table, eyes shifting to the sides like he’s looking to speak his confidence.

“Sean’s cock?” He asks in a poor attempt at a whisper, eyes wide.

Arthur sits back and wrinkles his nose.

“What about Sean’s cock?”

“You said—!” Dai slaps one of his hands against the table and cringes when it shakes the surface hard enough that it almost upsets his drink. “You said,” he lowers his voice again and really, if he keeps talking like that he’ll be hoarse before sunrise. “She’s faked it then, do you think? When’d you even have him?”

“Had who?”

“Had Sean.”

“Who’d have Sean?”

“You!”

Arthur twists his lips and makes a face.

“I’d sooner catch the flux.”

As though summoned, Sean chooses that moment to stumble towards them, his partner tucked close to this side. His lips are on her neck still, hands holding her waist to keep her steady as they sway, her hip coming to rest against the table until he pulls her back into his arms again.

Day 11: Post Break up Sex by the Vaccines 

To think I'd hoped you'd be okay, now I can't think of what to say. Maybe I misunderstood but I can't believe you're feeling good, from post break-up sex. That helps you forget your ex...

Song came on whilst we were out eating and the need to scribble out a Sean was there haha, not my ususal style but i just...wanted to do something different i guess

I’m sorry to hear that Nonny and i’m sorry this is late! If you ever need to talk about this, feel free to head over to my personal blog, I will answer on private is you message me off of Anon. I’ve been through similar so if you need advice i’m always here uvu!

sorry this isnt that good, ive not had much inspo for these two as of late!! haha

He’s a wolf in human clothing.

A violent temper and a vicious howl, he took to being cornered and caged as well as any wild beast would. He fought, he lashed out and when Arthur thought at last he was tamed and broken, finally quiet in his protests, the English man found him overwhelmed by the sheer force of his feral wrath.

I have many thoughts in fact 👀 about omegaverse scoteng. There are a few rough ideas half-finished in my drafts, but one of my favourites might be this one:

Arthur is a beta. Ordinary, common, unremarkable. He weaves himself in and out of the complicated affairs of others for centuries, catching glimpses of possession in the mating bites that litter the skin of nations, in the muted musk he can taste in the air, feeling only a fraction of the intoxication that others might. Or at least, he imagines they must when he wakes up in a pile of feathers and rumpled bedding, the bed half-caved in beneath the shared weight of his lovers.

(It is no easy thing, keeping pace with an Alpha's rut or an Omega's heat but leave it to him to try and hold his own. Something about the pain, the heat, the strain on his muscles. Feeling like he'll come undone locked on the stretch of a knot, clawing at the sheets and biting back his moans, begging wordlessly for something.

He doesn't let his eyes linger then. Takes a too-hot shower to feel the sting of the scratch marks running down his back and does not let himself want even as he digs his own nails into the crook where his shoulder meets his neck in a poor imitation of what it might feel like to be owned like that.)

And so it goes, decades to a century. He takes one job, then another, phasing from one human life to the next, the only constant the nations around him and as of a few lifetimes ago— a home. Filled to the brim with other people's things that are as much his as they are theirs. Crowded and loud and sturdy, and if Arthur has never known what it is like to be bonded sharing a home is his first real taste of what it feels like to belong to other people by measures. Alasdair, Dylan, and Connor; Sean when he can be arsed to be around (which is... often. Or not so rare as he would have people on the outside of their queer arrangement believe). They share a table and a roof and sleep on linens hung from the same line to dry. Fight over inconsequential things and stand together when it matters.

A home.

Arthur is not sure that he's ever slept quite so well in all his very long life, or that he's eaten so regularly as he does now. He gains weight and his edges soften. Keeps his sharpness in other ways but finds himself settling in comfortably into what is almost a routine, as much as lives like theirs could ever be.

One evening he goes to bed feeling like his head is full of cotton and wakes up sweating.

It's the flu, he reasons and stumbles downstairs dressed for work with the first three buttons of his shirt left undone. Never mind that they don't get sick. Or not often, not like this.

Alasdair is in the kitchen fixing himself something (tea? smells too strongly for tea, Arthur thinks faintly and turns his back on him before his stomach can object.)

"You're looking peaky," Sean calls, loud and caustic from where he's sat at the table and Arthur can't even focus on him long enough to grouse something back. Alasdair says something in his stead (or does he?) and Arthur really should be getting to work only that it's somewhat hard to keep track of what's going on around him. The lights are too bright and the kitchen too hot, never mind that it's late November, and Alasdair is—

"Arthur,"—saying his name like he's been trying to catch his attention and standing suddenly close, hand hovering near Arthur's hip like he's about to reach out to steady him.

"What?" Arthur asks impatiently and takes a half step away to rest both hands on the kitchen table and steady himself. Even just that makes him ache somewhere in his core and he squeezes his eyes shut, lowering his chin almost to his chest when his heart jumps unsteady in his chest. He feels like he has in the tipping point before a high becomes a comedown, pulse racketing and mind clouded, oversensitive, and overly aware of every breath he takes. Only he is sober now and overdressed and what in the blazes is that bloody smell.

"You're hot," Alasdair says, close again and holding onto him this time, one hand on Arthur's hip the other pulling his head back almost gently, pressed against his forehead like he's feeling his temperature. His nose is pressed behind Arthur's ear like he's scenting him, deep and easy and he shifts his hold, moving the hand on Arthur's hip to his front, bracing him up. It makes Arthur's mind blank out for a moment, the feeling of it hot and broad against his stomach all whilst Alasdair presses his lips to his nape. When Sean's chair scrapes against the tile and sounds to him like it's coming from far away and not across the table.

Arthur tells himself that he’s about to tell him off when Alasdair fists the front of his shirt and pulls it down, enough to uncover more of his shoulder and lick up the side of his neck.

“You’re in heat,” he says roughly, voice tight with restrained arousal but clearly shocked.

"Fuck off," Arthur snaps immediately back between unsteady pants. "Fuck off. No, I'm bloody not."

"Arthur," and it's Sean speaking this time, Alasdair's lips are back against his neck.

And oh.

I am so very glad you asked! I’d just been about tae make a long winded post about this.

Sean, I think, is someone who is ill-suited for narrow roles and demarcations so I rather like to think of him as an Alpha but one that is unique in many ways. Uniquely able to restrain himself, for one, but just as fierce if not fiercer for it. Capable and firm where Alasdair might struggle to set pace trying to restrain himself that first morning in the kitchen.

ive finally finished university so I will be taking on requests and trying to fill them in more frequently!! Some IreEng from Arthurs POV for once! GASP!

Hope you enjoy this Nonny! I wasnt sure which song you wanted me to listen to so I had this one on repeat as i wrote this ahh

Arthur had never believed himself worthy of second chances. With a history stained red with genocide, colonialism and war, the very idea that he given another opportunity would have resulted in bitter laughter some 50 years ago.

But now he is only grateful.

i am! I’ve been in a real IreEng kick recently, so I hope this is okay. It’s ireland centric and has mentions of both England and North. ovob

He flinches the first time the scissors come to a close, the noise sending a shudder through him as the first set of curls falls into the sink and Sean has to pause for a moment just to think over what he was doing before shaking hands brought up scissors once more to his dark hair. 

It was just hair, why was he acting like this?