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bigein · 20 days

Text

Burgundy

((pre-negotiated kink caveat))

The night is warm. Arthur snorts into his wineglass and drinks deeply from it. He��s always been comfortable in Francis' house; more so when Francis is looking at him like that. Dragging out the moment, lingering in something that isn’t quite foreplay and edges too closely on well-worn affection.

Francis says something else and Arthur laughs a little too loud, raises his glass to have another sip... but stops before he can press the lip to his mouth, suddenly dizzy. Has to lean more of his weight on the counter to steady himself. Thinks he hears something shattering but the wineglass is still in his hand. Then Francis is there, slipping the stem away from his nerveless fingers and placing it to the side while taking a hold of his waist. Coaxing him closer, pushing him back. Arthur closes his eyes for a moment and the world spins, and when he opens them again he’s on his back on a soft bed. Sinking into the mattress as nimble hands undo the buttons of his shirt like every inch of skin they reveal is something to savour.

It’s Francis’ fantasy—in this scenario at least. A thought he indulges in (sometimes while he makes Arthur cum over and over, edging himself with the clenching of his body, sometimes while he folds laundry). Arthur can be stubborn, rough. Has little patience for the kind of love making that Francis prefers, and even less for praise. He’ll service Francis with a kind of eager determination but can’t bear to have the same attention turned on him. Something about deep-rooted insecurities, something that is simply Arthur—who would call it practicality, or something equally trite to deflect away from the fact that it might be something that he wants, and Francis wants to give him, but he won’t let himself have.

Francis brings it up the way only Francis can: whispers the thought into the back of Arthur’s neck as he slips his hands under the waistband of his trousers, coaxing a sigh from him. Does it a few times more, played up for effect, tongue dripping honey. Then again more frankly, over coffee, while Arthur looks skeptical at best.

(A few weeks later though—it’s Arthur who places a vial on Francis’ kitchen table. Herbs he’s mixed himself and clear instructions on the dosage. How much Francis would need to make him just a little hazy. How much to push it just a little further. How much to knock him out cold. Francis listens carefully as Arthur lays down the limits and offers his tacit agreement; kisses his knuckles like an oath that he’ll abide and then gets down on his knees right then and there to show his appreciation. Who knew compromise could be so fun?)

Part of the game is that by handing the tincture over Arthur goes into the scene blind which brings us back to: the comfortable evening. The wine glass. Arthur blinking up drowsily at the ceiling as Francis finally parts his shirt and sighs in appreciation as he runs both of his hands up Arthur’s waist.

Arthur is soft like this; and easy. Listless as Francis lets his hands linger in a way Arthur wouldn’t usually allow, in the sensitive crease of his inner thighs, the backs of his knees, the slope of his breast. Nuzzles his neck, and his clavicles. Laves his tongue over Arthur’s nipples before sucking on them in a way that would have Arthur’s back arching if his body wasn’t melting back into the sheets. Francis doesn’t leave an inch of him untouched. Eats him out like a man starving and kisses his lax lips with the taste of him still on his tongue. Fucks him every way he can think of. Arthur is awake for all of it but barely, at times. Twitches and shakes and moans, too hazy to be mortified by the way he can’t bite back a single sound the way he usually would. Francis drinks up each and every one; re-learns the different patterns of Arthur’s heartbeat and his breathing with every intimate liberty he takes with his body.

The night is as much about power as it is about trust, and Francis feels almost high on it.

Eventually, he exhausts them both. He can feel the moment the tincture starts clearing in the way Arthur starts to slowly regain control of his limbs. The twitch of his thighs here, the bend of his fingers there. A hand clumsily reaching back to hold onto his hip as he spends himself in Arthur one last time.

They sleep in the next day, well into noon, and Arthur wakes up clean sheets and Francis’ lips on his shoulder. Fucked out and lazy, and sore.

It’s a thrill, leaving another vial on Francis’ desk. Aware he’ll never quite know when he’ll savour the sweet aftertaste of it in his tongue next.

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bigein · 29 days

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I hope you do write the explicit scoteng omegaverse because I for one would love to read it!

sorry anon, as befitting my age I was out at the pub this weekend but happy easter and here you go (it ended up more one-shot than pwp and is in need of a proofread but today is my last day off, Godspeed).

---

Alasdair's shoulders are hot under his vest, the grass damp under his knees. He'd shed every layer he could and by mid-morning he was left in his boots, the thick denim he wears in the garden, and the fraying cotton that stretches tight across his chest. The belt at his hips is strapped tight and he tries to focus on that instead of the way his thighs tense and his gloved hands dig into the earth with a shudder like he is cold. It comes in waves, the heat that has him bent and huffing like a beast in the garden, tearing at roots like he wants to tear at himself.

At least the air out here clears his head, away from the unsettled scents of the house and the sharp smell of wood polish. Alasdair would have chosen beeswax but it was Dai charged with the floors and he'd come back from town with a tin can, new brushes and rags. Compromise. They are trying their hands at compromise, and Alasdair is trying, damn the devil, but he is already at his wit's end and today--

He tears harder at the ground and grits his teeth; sweat pools at his back. The grass crushed beneath his weight smells fresh and young; the weeds sharp and the soil rich and clean. The plot behind the house (their house) is little more than a tangle of briars and unkept rows of mint and meadowsweet. It is better than the polish, better than Sean's cider-and-turf and Daffyd's muted amber. They are not so far from the coast that he can't imagine the salt-tang of sea-spray in the air, metallic on his tongue. Today it makes him want to spit on the ground and pant, bite into something sweet until the juice drips down his throat.

He clenches his eyes shut and exhales like it hurts, and, to his great, fucking displeasure, he knows it's Arthur coming down to the garden before he even calls down. "Are those my gloves?"

Damn the devil and damn them all with it.

"Oi!" Arthur's steps stomp down like he is still walking on ship-boards. "I said, are those--"

"They don't fit you right." Alasdair tears at a tangle of roots and feels like a beast.

Arthur had good instincts once, and enough sense to know when to turn tail, but the last century has made him stupid. Stupid and presumptuous. He'd left a lad and came back reckless with it, scenting sweet under the bite of his temper.

"They're mine." He stops where Alasdair dropped his shirt earlier and toes it with his stupid, polished work shoes. Stupid, stubborn, reckless eejit. "What are you doing out here, anyway? You said--"

"--Fuck off back into the house and let me be." Alasdair does not know if it is by grace of his own idiocy or the damp earth that Arthur seems oblivious to the stench of him. He can see the shape of him out of the corner of his eye; the light corduroy of his trousers. Alasdair's left hand twitches where it is buried in the ground, tempted by the give of his thighs and the heat between them.

"What bit your arse today?" Arthur sounds almost too surprised to be angry and Alasdair knows he should have just stalked off himself when the bottom of Arthur's shoe finds his hip, trying to unbalance him from his crouch in retaliation.

He is not being serious with it and some part of Alasdair knows that he must be out here out of some misplaced sense of concern. Otherwise he would have fucked off at the first bark and if he'd been trying to pick up a fight proper he would have come down hollering. Instead he is here, eyebrows furrowed and mouth pursed, hands relaxed by his sides instead of clenched into fists. He has been biting at his nails again, and taking his pick from the laundry hamper like a nesting magpie and Alasdair cannot stand the sight of him, and his scent... He lingers by in the evenings when Alasdair has his whiskey like an old friend. Prattles on about his plans for the garden and what he'll be growing by next spring. Gets underfoot and in the way and on Alasdair's nerves like he means to. His scent is in every corner of the house, strongest in the living room and the kitchen, and the threshold to his room; pressed into the clean bedding because he holds the sheets under his chin when he folds them.

He can tell the moment Arthur catches the scent of rut on him, a flash of shock and sudden heat across his cheekbones. Alasdair already has him by the calf and it only takes a push to get him on the ground.

They grapple. Arthur claws at his vest until he catches skin and then softens, the bite of his nails easing into a tight grip instead. He doesn't want to draw blood, Alasdair thinks, and it makes him feel light-headed to consider why.

He has his full weight on Arthur, one of his knees heavy on the inside of his thigh. He eases up, nudging Arthur's leg around his waist and raising up on his forearms to get a good look at him.

The blush across his cheeks is darker, bleeding down his neck into the high collar of the shirt under the stripped plaid he is wearing. He is breathing hard through his nose, chin tipped back to catch Alasdair's eyes, waiting. Clever thing.

Alasdair is still wearing his gloves, the suede rough and stained. He pulls them off, tossing them carelessly to the side and reaching down to edge up his shirt. He is bare beneath it, ribs rising in time with his breathing. His skin is warm, flushing under his gaze and softest under the swell of his chest, where Alasdair can feel his heartbeat. He flinches when Alasdair thumbs nipple, scenting anxious and aroused.

"You're a sight, like this," Alasdair says and means it. He wants to put him mouth on him, make him sigh.

"And you are..." Arthur squints his eyes, huffs and swallows and lets his head drop back. "I thought you smelled off."

Alasdair thinks of rot and dirt and iron. "Like?"

"Hot," Arthur's throat bobs, the movement strained with his neck stretched out like that. His thighs twitch against Alasdair's sides, like he can't decide whether he'd like to close them. Alasdair can smell the heat of him, stronger now. Maybe he's just squirming. "Yourself or, not yourself just... hot. I thought maybe sick but I didn't think--"

Alasdair shuts him up by pressing his lips to his sternum, has to reach down to fist himself at the first brush of skin against his lips. Arthur doesn't sigh so much as he just hold his breath, holding very still like he's still waiting to see what Alasdair will do next.

He drags it out to see how long he'll last, brushing his lips slowly down, then up again. He breathes warm against Arthur's chest like he is tempting the burn in his lungs until he can't help it himself and his lips leave a path of sucking kisses everywhere he can reach. Arthur bites back a gasp and twitches hard against the press of Alasdair's teeth, hands flying to find his shoulders. He keeps his hands there, like he might throw Alasdair off and knocks his knees against his hips. Alasdair lets go of himself and crowds closer, a hand on Arthur's thigh now, the other on his neck. The shift in weight seems to do something for him and he shivers falling limp again where he'd been tense. Or maybe it is Alasdair lips which find his neck, his jaw, leaving bruises where he can reach.

His hands get rougher and his hips roll down, against the inside of Arthur's thigh who sighs, finally, or maybe moans, the sound drowned out by the grunt of relief deep from Alasdair's chest when he finally gets the friction he needs. His hands find a purchase in Arthur's hair, his thighs, his waist, seemingly unable to hold still and hungry for the give of his flesh. It's Arthur who finally reaches out, first to tear off Alasdair's vest and then tugging at his belt, hissing until Alasdair gives in and helps him undo the buckle.

They both groan, Alasdair in relief and Arthur with a hitch, getting a good look at the thickness of him and thinking there is no way, there is no way--

Alasdair has him on his knees, bare chest to the ground before he can breathe a word, tearing his trousers and getting them halfway down his thighs before he crowds in close again. Arthur's calves are tangled between his and he reaches out with one hand instinctively to scruff him down against the ground. Arthur whines, low and aroused, and holds still.

He's small, Alasdair thinks, blinking stupidly down at the right bonnie sight between his thighs. Alasdair wants to lick him, suck him, finger him loose. He spreads him open with a rough grip and settles for sucking the taste of him off his fingers instead. They'll have time for that later, for all of it. Alasdair will make him sob on his fist before the week is out, will fuck him sore and full and his. Put a bite on him, where everyone will see. He doesn't have the patience now to take his time and he can't, he won't, his knot would--

I'll tear him, Alasdair thinks and he shudders, aroused and balking at the thought at once.

He reaches for his belt instead.

The tail of it whips against the tender edge of Arthur's thigh when he rips it off and he would have apologised if Arthur hadn't pressed his thighs together with a tight moan. If it leaves a mark he'll kiss it better and leave another later, later. He's panting like he's been running miles and needs both hands to do what he's planning, looping his belt around Arthur's tights and pulling the cinch tight enough that it will catch his cock between them like he needs. Arthur gasps and reaches back like it shocks him but he is shaking, wet and aroused and pliable when Alasdair drapes his chest against his back and reaches around to keep his head up with a fist in his hair. His jaw would be too low otherwise and Alasdair wants to kiss him, wants to mouth against his neck and his lips if he can reach them while he thrusts like a beast between his thighs.

"Good, be good," he mouths his praise against his jaw and slaps his thighs against the swell of Arthur's arse. Arthur sobs and fists the grass with one hand, reaching between his legs with the other to rub against Alasdair's cockhead and his, cupping them so they'll rub together and begging like the clever thing he is, already so good for him. Alasdair rewards him with his teeth, wants to eat him whole.

When he comes it's with a shout, one hand desperately reaching down to cinch his belt tighter and milk his knot. They are a mess of cum and slick; they stink of each other and the garden, rubbed filthy with sweat and grass. Arthur comes with a shiver and a sigh, tired and shaking and held up only by the grace of Alasdair's strength. His thighs will bruise.

It is a good thing that it is a warm spring; or warm enough at least that they won't catch their deaths sprawled out in the garden like this, lazy and sated. Alasdair's fingers find Arthur's hair again, kinder this time. He wonders about summer, and whether they can have the plot cleared and tilled before the weather turns.

He's dozing off, thinking about strawberries and counting the weeks till July when a shrill cry from the house startles him bad enough he's almost on his feet, cock wet and trousers stained at the knees, before he recognises Sean's voice.

"Is that me fecking shirt, you goddamned degenerate?!"

Next to him, loose and breathless, Arthur laughs.

#scoteng #have a merry spring everyone #i should title this one and the kitchen one shot the spring series #i'm in a mood for gardens in the spring #this is set in an AU where they haven't been living together too long #alasdair when arthur is annoying him: eedjiteedjiteedjiteedjit #alasdair when arthur is beneath him: clever thing #i'll edit it before it goes on ao3 it's fine for now

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