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voting yes turn that good shit into a pillow

Someone actually stop me please

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Do I turn her into a body pillow, yes or no?

For his birthday everyone gave him cum 🤩🍻

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**sir (my badmy bad), i am still dripping and will be awaiting your post !! make it as juicy (or dry, no judgement) as you want 😤💦

thank you for your patience! and I hope you enjoy this wee thing, meaning some 1k words of smut build up asfdfjkl

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Alasdair gets hard when he shifts.

Arthur doesn’t realise at first. Doesn’t know in truth if it’s a new phenomenon now that the wolf is starting to settle more comfortably into his brother’s bones (even if his control over it is precarious still; fraught). Alasdair pants into the ragged gag he doggedly continues to insist on, shakes and sweats and spreads his thighs trying to get comfortably in the bare corner of the basement where he is chained down… and he’s hard. Doesn’t seem to realise it, throwing back his head with a harsh spasm.

Arthur presses his thighs together tight, hoping desperately that the scent of herbs and smoke covers for him, and looks away. Looks up and is immediately caught by Alasdair’s sharp eyes on him.

They don’t talk about it until they have to. Arthur has read about a werewolf’s rut and he… he is starting to soften. To Alasdair’s pain, and his discomfort. In the quiet mornings after a full moon, when he presses a warm mug of tea into Alasdair’s hands to soothe the rasp of his voice. The evenings where Alasdair will join him in the garden and they’ll talk of all things. Spends hours talking; fighting sometimes at a shout but calling a truce on dark nights to sit together. When they are in the shop and Alasdair is being a pest like they haven’t spent the better half of their lives pretending the other didn’t exist.

He wants to be the one but can’t. Can’t bring himself to admit that there is more between them or be the first to take step closer. So Arthur offers: Francis. Alasdair has always had a softness for him; turns his head after him when he walks into the shop to poke around Arthur’s things, and who could blame him (Arthur certainly doesn’t). Francis is… eager. And, of course, says yes. He comes for dinner one night, before a full moon, to test the waters before the rut hits. See how Alasdair reacts to him while he is still mostly himself.

It goes well. Arthur watches Francis be himself in a way he couldn’t allow himself to be, lively and lovely all night. How he straddles Alasdair’s lap to kiss him deeply, like he is drinking from him. Enjoys them together too much for it to turn to any kind of jealousy. (And Francis kisses him too before he goes. Laughs against Arthur’s lips before crossing the threshold out to the quiet streets. Laughs because oh, they’re hopeless. Both of them. Francis could eat them up).

So, it should be easy. It should be safe. It occurs to them that it might not be, but then there are safeguards in place. Runes on the floor and iron as thick as Francis’ wrists pining Alasdair in place for him to enjoy. Francis straddles him like he did the night before. Letting his hips drag against the rough material of Alasdair’s jeans (half torn already, but Alasdair doesn’t like being naked before he turns. Likes to hold on to the last threads of himself to the very last). Alasdair growls, low and gravely, and Arthur tenses where he sits by the stairs. Francis rolls his hips again, feeling Alasdair hot and hard beneath him and licks a line up his throat, wanting more.

Alasdair growls again, deeper, and Arthur immediately knows.

It’s a warning.

“Francis—” he chokes out right as one of the chains snaps.

Francis is quick to jump back but trips and Arthur doesn’t have a second to think. Gets on his feet and drags Francis back up, shoves him towards the stairs and puts himself between them. Magics the cellar door closed as soon as Francis crosses the threshold in a blind panic, feet still stuck to the ground where he stands.

There are legends. Old wives’ tales without an ounce of truth, of brave souls bringing back the turned by tossing well-loved clothing at them and calling their names. Arthur is wearing one of Alasdair’s thick woollen plaid shirt like a coat—has been for weeks now, telling himself it means nothing. That he doesn’t like the way Alasdair’s eyes linger on him, or the way he brushes a hand over his shoulders when he wears it. Nothing...

It falls open when his back hits the ground, trapped under the bulk of his brother’s body. Alasdair is half-shifted, joints cracking as he bears down on Arthur, and searing hot. His fingers—his claws, dig into the soft dips of flesh between his collarbone and his shoulder, and the curve of his left breast. He almost wants to laugh, a little hysterical, at the idea that Alasdair might tear out his heart and bite into it the way he’s imagined. Only he never thought it would be so literal.

He braces for it, but Alasdair simply shudders. Tucks his jaws under Arthur’s chin… and breathes him in. Slow and deep. Then tucks himself closer, hunching over Arthur so he can press more of his oversized body into him. Arthur’s thighs were spread in the fall, now spread by Alasdair body and he can feel… he can feel…

Alasdair can’t swallow well with the gag tucked between his fangs, and every sharp exhale is wet against Arthur’s throat. The bite of his nails against Arthur’s skin eases, and even if he’s bleeding, that is how he knows that he won’t hurt him. Alasdair won’t hurt him.

Another spasm wracks his brother’s body, spine cracking under the strain of the moon and he whines, tight in his throat. Arthur brings up his hands slowly, slipping his fingers under the scruff of his neck trying to offer any kind of comfort. Freezes when Ali growls, then remembers that he’s wearing silver rings in every finger. Shucks them off as quickly as his nerveless fingers can manage before he tries again. Ali seems to sigh then, almost purring as he relaxes into Arthur’s touch.

Then he rolls his hips.

Francis is banging on the door and Arthur can barely hear him. Calls back that he’s fine, that they’re fine. Or thinks he does before Alasdair thrusts into him again and Arthur’s voice cuts off with a moan.

He lets himself be used the way he’s always wanted to, fisting the coarse hair that grows on Alasdair’s nape and rocking with every shift of his hips. Reaches between them to pull away the denim still clinging on so Alasdair can work himself against the soft fabric of his undershirt and his bare skin instead. Feels the bulge of Alasdair’s knot beneath his fingers and thinks a little faint that he couldn’t wrap a hand around it comfortably if he tried.

Morning finds them covered in cum and still tangled together. Arthur is shaking with exhaustion as much as want; thighs slick with unfulfilled desire (he’s aching to cum, hasn’t all night. Just held on and let himself be used). The scratch on his shoulder is not so deep that it hasn’t stopped bleeding but it’s starting to itch fiercely. Something in Ali’s claws maybe or his spit, from when he nuzzled against the deep grooves his claws left behind like an apology right before dawn. The door unlocks with a twitch of his fingers while he tries to get Alasdair up the stairs and then thankfully Francis is there to help them both. Alasdair passes out almost as soon as they get him on the couch, and Arthur…

He sits in a scalding hot bath, stuffs three fingers inside himself, and cums with a muffled shout as he bites into his own wrist.

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werewolf au thoughts?? if that's ok :)

of course! I’m still a little overrun with work but I’ve missed the werewolf AU so please have some thoughts on werewolves running hotter than humans and magic mushrooms <3

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It occurs to Arthur, as early as the first night that Ali knocks him on his back, that taking Ali might be… a challenge. And kitchen witch that he is (“Not a kitchen witch,” he corrects Francis through gritted teeth), he starts spending longer in his half-greenhouse-half-workshop.

It’s not a space Alasdair has felt comfortable breaching. Somehow it’s one thing to step into Arthur’s bedroom, share his bed, but standing by the threshold to the greenhouse, Alasdair feels the boundary like a physical force, almost. There are runes carves into the doorframe, redbrick and iron strewn under the single stone step, but it is more than a warding, the whisper of something that runs over Alasdair’s skin like electricity as he steps through.

Arthur’s hair smells like smoke, his fingertips like herbs, and Alasdair can smell the blend of it now; sharp and green, unnamable aside from the usual suspects. Thyme, rosemary, and sage. Mint, moss, and notes of amber.

Damp, dark earth too, and Alasdair can see why now, as the long central table comes into view. Arthur is bent over the worn, waxed wood, taking careful measures of whatever he keeps in his assortment of jars and mashing them carefully with a thin slice cut from a delicate, wide-brimmed mushroom barely bigger than his thumb.

(Francis is there just in case, Arthur… makes a little mistake. And needs air breathed back into his lungs. Alasdair doesn’t want to ask if they’ve done something like this before and incidentally gives Francis a wide berth. He smells like sweet-rot, almost imperceptibly, but when a full moon is close it itches at Alasdair’s nose. More so than incense even, the smell of death that hangs off of him.)

Alasdair very eloquently asks: “What in the fuck’s name are you doing?”

The real answer is: taking a gamble.

What Arthur is hoping is for something that will take him a little out of his own head; make it easier to tilt his hips and take it for hours, slick and loose enough to fit the thick base of Alasdair’s cock. Even just thinking about it makes him want to bend over in as much lust as apprehension. Being that he cannot spend the next fortnight locked in his room and that he couldn’t possibly discuss what’s coming with Ali himself, the next best (and most pragmatic) solution is to simply find a solution by himself.

It just so happens that in this case, the solution is psychotropic mushrooms.

While Francis and Ali are too busy bickering over something or another, he washes down a spoonful of with the bitter dregs of the cold cup of tea he’d brought into the workshop earlier. Grimaces, and opens his eyes to find Alasdair and Francis both looking at him.

A minute passes, nothing. Francis tries to take his pulse and Arthur bats his hands away.

Another, and Arthur starts feeling a little hot, undoes the first button of his shirt. Alasdair comes to stand closer to him (just in case he teeters off the high bench, he tells himself, just in case).

Another and— Arthur isn’t sure, really how many minutes pass. Only knows that Alasdair is carrying him upstairs and that his skin itches. And he needs, he needs, he needs—

He pushes Alasdair on the bed the moment he sets him down on the floor, climbs on top of him, and rips open the shirt he’s wearing with a single sharp tug. Alasdair lets him, looking a little bewildered, eyes dark, as Arthur gets rid of his own shirt, pulls at fabric until they are both mostly bare and he can finally touch him.

And that’s all he really wants, turns out. To touch Alasdair’s skin.

He runs his hands down his brother's chest, the dips of his arms. The cage of his ribs and over the softness of his stomach. Buries his nose in the thick hair on Alasdair’s chest, pressing his forehead against his collarbones. Arthur is only vaguely aware that he’s also babbling— being compulsively honest, unable to stop himself as he talks and talks of the things he has noticed. The way Alasdair’s skin burns hotter than a normal human’s now, and how it feels to have him pressed to his back when they sit out in the garden at night. How much he hates that Alasdair won’t hang his damp towel after he bathes, or how he never lines the dishes up correctly when it's his turn to wash them. How he’s gotten used to the sound of his breathing. How he excites him; how he frightens him. How much he missed him, and then mortified (when his chest clenches tight, like he could cry) Arthur confesses that he had hesitated; that he had stood on the path that led up to the group home where they grew up together and hesitated, and thought of turning around and climbing back upstairs to slip under the too-thin covers of Alasdair’s bed to whisper an apology into the nape of his neck for ever thinking that he could leave and not take him with him.

Alasdair lets himself be touched and pressed down and scratched, and listens.

And it occurs to him that some people might call the clumsy press of Arthur's lips against his jaw love.

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quick NSFW doodle for the anon that asked for more nsfw stuff (no nudity tho)

Afficher davantage

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IT'S HIS BIRTHDAY????????? FRANCKS BIRTHDAY??????????

YES

HAPPY BIRTHDAY

Sorry I didn’t respond I saw this ask and then forgot about it because I only check this blog when I post 😭

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Alphas losing their shit in rut is such a good trope though!! Like give us that want make them go feral Scot is such a good example of that

Fran has never been so horny and so scared in his entire life

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“I like this squishy bit here”

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Late night thoughts:

Francis in his sailor outfit getting banged by his whole crew in the sleeping quarters. What could be seen as a punishment to some, is a great reward to the Frenchman who can't wait to be pushed down by all the muscled men on board and pumped full of semen 🤭

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🌹🎀

Untie that red ribbon

その赤いリボンを解いて

解開那個紅色蝴蝶結

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For his birthday everyone gave him cum 🤩🍻

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Alphas losing their shit in rut is such a good trope though!! Like give us that want make them go feral Scot is such a good example of that

Fran has never been so horny and so scared in his entire life

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Missionary so I can look at what belongs to me

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Your Relationship Requires Maintenance [2/2] PORN

FrUK, omegaverse.  Arthur and Francis have only been mated for a few months, but their problems are just beginning.

Alpha!Arthur, omega!Francis.  Porn with plot.

Part 1

Afficher davantage

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Link to full image as always 💖

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You decide who is filling him with cummies ✨

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AHHHH, I’ll be honest with you anon, werewolf boyfriend is one of my all time favourite porn tropes 🤤 especially if it’s omegaverse (like mmm yes I want to see Alasdair knot that tiny little man and fill him up until he is leaking with cum and if he looks a little pregnant after well that’s just an added bonus)

LIKE OKAY as much as I love an omega in heat, one of my fave things in omegaverse is the alpha going into rut, I actually think I prefer it to the omega going into heat but that is a post for another time 👀

Like okay their pupils going huge and black and literally all they can think about is knotting their omega ! 😩 now imagine that’s Alasdair…and then imagine he’s a 12ft wolf man with a cock the size of Fran’s forearm (child’s play for a veteran like Francis) and he is just completely dazed and entranced by his lust like so overcome by horny™ that he can’t even speak in complete sentences. All he can do is grunt and the only words he can get out if any are ‘fuck’, ‘Fran,’ and ‘small’ (because Francis is so tiny 😊) he has to communicate in actions because the horny brain fog is too strong.

Thank goodness Fran is immortal because Alasdair is going to completely destroy him 🌸

And to step away from the horny side of things for a moment, I just think their dynamic as werewolf and vampire could be so wholesome 🥺 (if you look past the horrifically gruesome murder couple shit ajhsjshs) like obviously Fran can look after himself, he’s not weak by any means but STILL I don’t think he’d be particularly strong by vampire standards and Alasdair would be so protective, like his little (huge) guard dog 🥺 just ripping apart anyone who puts his lover in danger. He’s definitely much, much stronger than Fran as well as most vampires so he has no trouble with fighting them off.