#scoteng

[scotengweek]

[year81]

for @scotengweek - day 3/4 (cigarettes + longing). i could only find time to do something super rough but i wanted to contribute anyway ♥

[a-luran]

please talk about scoteng toño my crops are dying and my tea grows cold

Astro noo ;A; yer tea!!! your crops... I am sorry it has been so long. Please take some historical thoughts with my contrition:

---

After the Battle of Otterburn, 1388 AD

-

It is worth less than its waning weight in gold; a waxing sun held in the palm of Alasdair's hand.

"Here," he says and means go. Go south, go home.

Arthur does not move to take it, hands lying limp between his thighs, shoulders splintered under the weight of his coat. He is ash-stained and ashen, the beds of his nails torn and packed with dirt. His knuckles are bruised and split, the wheat-gold of his hair lying limp and muddy, weighed down with sweat and another man's blood. Alasdair is not bearing up much better but at least he is on his feet.

The stench of shit and fear is so thick in the air he'll smell it with every step he takes from here to Stirling.

Arthur stands slowly, like it costs him. For a moment Alasdair thinks his left knee might give, bring him low again, but it holds. He forgets, sometimes, how young Arthur is in the eyes of men. He wonders what they might see in him; if it is anything like the child Alasdair knew before the compulsion to the wills of others made them cruel.

Arthur takes a step, finds his footing, and spits blood on the ground between his feet. Alasdair thinks he might have been aiming for his hand but he can't be sure. Arthur's eyes are dim and slow and it might figure that some of the blood dripping down from his temple is his.

He tries to knock past Alasdair and trips over his own feet when their shoulders meet. Alasdair grabs him by the arm to right him and shoves him forward before Arthur can shake him off. Arthur catches himself against a the ruins of a wall and Alasdair does not know what is worse, the tang of iron in the air or the pit in his chest.

Arthur is sick against the stones, shoulders heaving with the effort, and Alasdair fights the surge of pity in his gut. Arthur pants, coughs, spits again. Alasdair waits it out before reaching for him again, fisting Arthur's cloak with one hand thumping the other against his chest.

Arthur's chin drops to his sternum, an unreadable look on his face. Alasdair hates him, and loves him, and wants to see him gone from this place.

"Arthur." His voice is ragged, hoarse, and barely above a whisper. Speaking Arthur's name is the closest he will ever come to pleading.

He will never know what chit he bargains against Arthur's pride that day but finally, awkwardly, Arthur reaches up to brush his fingers against the back of the fist on his sternum.

Alasdair palms him he coin with halting fingers, hands brushing skin-warm and coarse, and only lets go of Arthur's shoulder when he is sure that he's tucked it away safely. Then he steps away.

Arthur goes without a word, heading south and away. Alasdair lingers, looks west, chasing after the sun and away from the embers that still burn to the east.

It is only long after Arthur has gone and he turns north that he thinks he would have liked to hear the sound of his voice.

[trealamh]

Something short and sweet for Spring.

[bigein]

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.

[secret-waleseng-stash]

Hmm... I don't think any of them would sleep naked. At least not sober.

We've all seen how Arthur gets at least semi naked when drunk. Wouldn't be surprised if he's gotten fully naked at least on occasion.

Not necessarily, sleepwalking, but I think Arthur often ends up in one of his brother's beds after a drunken night. I have the headcanon that Arthur likes to hold onto/cuddle something or someone when sleeping. So drunk and without a filter he seeks the affection he craves.

And sometimes yes, this leads to sex, especially if he goes to Alastair and they're both drunk. Usually Dylan, even if he's tipsy himself would rather care for and cuddle Arthur instead of have sex. And Conner, usually Conner is conked out and doesn't realize Arthur is there until the next morning (though Arthur usually goes to Dylan and Alastair since they're older and just make him feel more secure).

[myrddin-wylt]

compilation of my Arthur ships

Arthur/Mathias: Mathias is a big proponent of safe sex but Arthur wants only the Danger Sex. toxic trashfire. in the modern day, Arthur drags Mathias down to his level; in historical settings, Mathias is the one dragging down Arthur. this ship is about nostalgia and change, or not changing.

Arthur/Kiku: lonely ♡ hearts ♡ club! ♡ do you want to be with somebody like me? ♡ also if you look to your left you'll see Arthur's family life absolutely imploding on itself.

Arthur/Francis: you know me better than literally any other person on the planet. you make me feel more loved than anyone else. I wish we didn't fight so much.

Arthur/Port (nyo or not): finally, some fucking stability. childhood sweethearts. fell head over heels for the knight in shining armor except they're both the knight for the other. classic chivalric romance.

Arthur/Feliciano: self-aware shallow whirlwind romance that could never survive any actual conflict, but it's not supposed to. pure escapism for both involved. luxury brand everything, exclusive high society, the works. it's honestly just straight hedonism.

Arthur/Gilbert: they're so fucking tired. there's an intimate camaraderie in being able to be old and tired in front of someone who feels the same. they've played the game of power, won more than their fair share of victories, and now they've lost. but it was fun while it lasted, wasn't it?

Arthur/Antonio: they're actively trying to sabotage or outright kill each other the whole time. the only actual ship content here involves piracy.

Arthur/Nor (nyo or not): magic club meets every other Thursday during the witching hour to cast spells and also kiss.

Arthur/Duncan: the least functional ship here somehow. they're two dumpster fires that combine to create the ultimate dumpster fire. unfortunately, this is how they like to live.

[olympeline]

You ever get struck with an idea for a multi-chapter, 100k+ word fic out of nowhere and you’re just: Damn, son, if only I had the free time to devote to bringing this word child into the world. It would be glorious

I was going about real life and I suddenly thought: #ScotFrUK #Enemies to Lovers #medieval kings and princes AU #Slow Burn #Angst With A Happy Ending. It would be so mmm *chef’s kiss* So good

Like, imagine it’s the early days of the Auld Alliance but it was much more of a big deal than in our world. To the extent that the king of France sends one of his sons to wed the Scottish king, Alasdair, to cement their pact against the English. Francis is reluctant, but obeys. Happily, he and Alasdair turn out to have what TV Tropes would call a Perfectly Arranged Marriage. A real opposites attract deal. They had to marry out of necessity, but soon neither would be with anyone else.

So, there’s the lovers. Where’s the enemy?

Arthur: 🫡

There we go. Arthur is a prince too. But, unlike Francis, he’s both an only child and the heir. Meanwhile Francis is a second or third son. Hence why he was sent away to wed sexy scotsmen instead of staying home to rule. Anyway, Arthur’s father is still alive, but old and sick and noone expects him to live much longer. Arthur comes back from leading England’s army on the continent and his Evil Uncle™ (who has been de facto king thanks to Arthur’s dad’s illness) immediately sends him north to Scotland. Deliberately misleading Arthur about the strength of Alasdair’s forces in the hopes of getting his nephew killed. Then Evil Uncle™ just has to wait for the old king to die and presto: England’s throne is his

So, Arthur and his men get fed some story about Scottish barbarians pillaging northern English villages and cross the border to try and break up this ragtag bandit hoard. Only to be met with the full force of the highlands army, led by the dreaded King Alasdair himself (gee, I wonder who could have tipped them off? Oh Evil Uncle™ you incorrigible scamp, you).

The English troops are badly outnumbered and are soon crushed and scattered. Those that aren’t killed are sent fleeing desperately for the border, Arthur among them. But he’s captured before he can get to safety and dragged before Alasdair. Arthur is smart enough not to reveal his true identity and manages to pass as a knight. Alasdair takes him back to his castle as a “gift” for his beloved Francis

See, despite their instant connection, Alasdair still worries life in the highlands isn’t enough for Francis. That his love will eventually tire of a life that’s more rugged and spartan than he’s used to. Tire and long to return to the rich splendour of France. Spoiler: he won’t. But Alasdair still worries and so gives his king consort a captive English manservant to torment. Hoping it will distract Francis from his (imagined) homesickness. Oh Alasdair, you silly soft headed twit. Francis doesn’t need distracting. Not when he has you ❤️

Either way, Arthur - still hiding his true identity - is presented to Francis. After that it’s the slow burn, enemies to lovers between all three of them. With plenty of ups and downs, and tension and drama (relationship and political) mixed in. Francis, still so in love with Alasdair, but sweating bullets over how attracted he is to Arthur. Alasdair, trying to quash his own attraction to their “guest” while also drowning in longheld feelings of inadequacy that are only getting worse. And Arthur wrestling with the guilt and self-loathing over the fact that he is indeed falling for his captors: the enemies of his people. Give me all that angst and drama and other good stuff! Pretty please

And pretty please also give me the eventual first sexy time. With royal husbands Alasdair and Francis seducing Arthur together, Arthur getting the full 👉👌👈 losing all his inhibitions, and loving every minute of it

Urggh. I want to write it. I really do. I shouldn’t, but I really, really want to

[yolandelisa]

Scotland Yard.

Some brothers have a disagreement and end up in a street fight in the middle of the day and are taken away by Scotland Yard.

 Original image at p3p4

[snowashl-blog]

England rolled his eyes, "Like you haven't slept with half of Europe."

"That's different," Scotland defended himself, trailing kisses down England's neck. "They were all strategic alliances."

England moaned as Scotland's lips found a sensitive spot just below his ear. "Right, and I suppose my alliances were just for shits and giggles."

"Nothing wrong with enjoying the perks of diplomacy," Scotland mused, pushing England's shirt up to expose a well-muscled chest.

"Perks being the operative word," England couldn't help but tease, arching into Scotland's touch.

Scotland smirked, "Glad you know your place, love."

England rolled his eyes again, but couldn't help the laughter bubbling up in his chest as Scotland bit down lightly on his collarbone. It was true, they both had their fair share of exploits with other countries, but there was something different between them, a deeper connection that went beyond just physical attraction.

As Scotland's hands wandered lower, setting England's nerves ablaze, he couldn't help but feel grateful for this connection, this partnership that had survived wars and treaties and centuries of history. And as he surrendered to Scotland's touch, he knew there was nowhere else he'd rather be.

[fireandiceland]

And just like that they became strangers and all that's left of what they had is the all-consuming pain of their loss and an ashtray filled with cigarette butts.

ScotEng week. Day 3. Tragedy.

[spicykat9]

England Ai really likes rope. And chairs. And tying people to them. And rendering his brothers to flustered messes.

Ah yes...Sounds like Arthur. He loves tying up his partners.

Again though, I really think Arthur is the bratty sub to doms Dylan and Allie.

[kacakacafall]

Kiss me.

More Soppy 18th-century scot♂eng♀ stuff. Apparently, there were fan languages in the 18th century, and putting the tip of the fan on lips means kiss me.

[a-luran]

3 for Arthur?? would love to hear your thoughts on nationverse and humanverse

Of course! I'll keep this sfw-ish but I can elaborate under a cut some other time.

3. When did they lose their virginity?

I have a lot of ideas of how it might have happened in nationverse, most of them far from romantic, and very few of them good. There is one I always come back to and it's the idea that he'd be rather pragmatic about it and just approach either Francis or Alasdair and make a pass. Francis would be kinder, and in many ways the safer choice. I think he would see right through him but would spare Arthur's pride just this once. Eventually (and begrudgingly) Arthur would be thankful that it was him.

His next best bet would be Alasdair, and it'd be good with him in a different way; a rougher way. Where approaching Francis might feel like a dress rehearsal, with Alasdair it would be like tripping in the dark and falling somewhere soft and bruising. The thing that would rankle Arthur most about Francis is that he borders on patronising (and i am using the term borders here kindly, Francis is nothing if not effortlessly patronising). Even when he sees right through Arthur's frankly clumsy manoeuvring, Alasdair knows him. Maybe better than anyone. He knows what would be too far and what's far enough. Arthur would prefer that, I think. Another thing I consider a lot is that if fucking Francis for the first time would be a relief, fucking Alasdair would make something inevitable fall into place between them. It changes their relationship in a way that's very unique to them. Sex doesn't change Francis' relationships the way it does Arthur's and Alasdair's.

In human AUs i do see Arthur falling firmly into two categories: he either stumbles into sex young and messy and possibly with very little regard for himself or it doesn't really happen for him until he's well into his 30s. It really depends on the AU, though. I never follow a set idea, it's more like I enjoy seeing how a circumstance might shape him or push him to behave one way or another.

[trealamh]

The Glasgow Scale

For day three of ScotEng week!

Tragedy // loss, strangers, cigarettes // “We always see it too late.”

[Two strangers meet in the waiting room of the A&E. cw assumed/referenced suicide and medical settings.

Here is some more information about the Glasgow Coma Scale]

-------

The back of Arthur’s neck feels clammy.

He is not sure how his hands feel other than numb. Most of him is, all but for the way his skin feels stretched out and tight over the canvas of his bones. Someone had told him once that shock felt like falling feet first into freezing water; a seizing of the body and a sensation like asphyxia. Arthur can breathe though, so he does. In and out, he is, if anything, overly aware of the rise and fall of his chest. His lungs are the only real part of him left.

The waiting area hums with the quiet chatter, a steady flow of patients and staff coming and going in the background. Phones ring at intervals, voices over the intercom drone in codes, and the linoleum floors betray the material of people’s shoes. Every so often a voice is raised or a siren wails but in the end it is all drowned out into white noise. Arthur makes no effort to move or listen, caught listless and alone and beyond any help.

Time dilates; he isn’t sure how long it has been when a man sits next to him. Arthur barely notices him there until their arms brush and the stranger speaks.

“Do you have a filter?”

Arthur does, and slowly, blinking away the sore dryness in his eyes, he comes back to himself. Wordlessly he reaches into the inner lining of his coat and pulls out a beaten pack of filter tips. The man takes it and the first thing Arthur really notices about him are his hands. The second are his shoes.

A lone woman sits across from them, empty seats at either side of her, one of them a small table-width apart. It does not occur to Arthur that the stranger could have sat there instead of cramming himself into the narrow joint seat to Arthur’s left. He is broad all over and deceptively thick around the knuckles for how carefully he handles the rolling paper and tobacco between his fingers. There is a faint residue of ink in the whorls of his fingerprints, like he’s been booked although you would not think so by the look of him, not at first glance. The brogues on his feet are worn-in but freshly polished and the wool of his kilt is pressed into perfect pleats. His shirt is the only thing that looks worse for wear with the sleeves shoved up his forearms instead of folded and stained with something that soaked in and dried out in blotchy patterns. Whiskey, maybe, or rum; even vaguely concussed still Arthur can smell it on him. Stale alcohol and sweat.

His thoughts blur again and he feels vaguely nauseous. The thought that he might throw up is a muted concern but his face feels hot. He shuts his eyes against the sudden inertia he feels becoming aware of how stiffly he is holding his body. He should find a bathroom and wash his face. He should gulp down a bottle of water even if he cannot keep it down. 

Something knocks gently against his arm and even if the nausea does not abate the feeling like freefall does for long enough that he can turn his head without feeling dizzy. His eyes fall on a hand-rolled cigarette and a beaten carton of filters, held towards him between two fingers. 

“For the filter,” the stranger explains. 

Arthur takes it without thanking him and the next thing he knows they are standing in the cold, the light of a streetlight pooling under their feet. The hospital from a distance is only concrete and glass. The harsh fluorescent lights are blurred by a drizzle so light that it sits on the exposed skin of his wrists and on his cheekbones like mist. The stranger who chose to sit beside Arthur only looks at him from the corner of his eye and the rim of his eyelashes by turns, taciturn and unobtrusive. 

“Alasdair.” He offers his name without a lead and promptly focused on the fag between his lips, cupping the flame of his lighter and breathing in the first drag like it’s water and he’s parched.

Arthur takes the lighter when it’s offered and fiddles with the flint for long enough that Alasdair reaches out to light his cigarette for him. He breathes in the smoke and lets it sit in his mouth long enough for Alasdair to step back before exhaling.

“Arthur.”

He sounds rough. On his next drag he tries to swallow the smoke and exhales in a coughing fit.

Alasdair waits it out, taking slow drags and letting the smoke slip from his lips and nose with practiced ease.

“You're not a smoker.” His voice is low and rolls deep with the tilt of his accent.

Arthur’s eyes water.

“No,” he agrees with one last hitch before his breathing settles.  

He brings the filter back to his lips.

The cherry’s gone out. Alasdair relights the ashen tip and levels a quiet instruction. Slow and deep. When Arthur exhales it is good and steady despite the itch in his throat. 

They smoke in silence until the minutes are ash on the ground and they toss the butt ends into a metal-grid bin. 

“I’m trying to quit.”

It is an empty confession. It bears no weight on his opinion on the man or Arthur’s choices. Looking at him, though, Arthur can believe it. 

He should say something. Thank you, at the least, but his mouth is wet and tastes like newspaper curling in the fireplace. His face and hands feel foreign and some part of him asks what the man standing with him sees; if he can tell that Arthur is only half-present, some part of him gone and lost in the halls of the hospital looming at their backs. Even now he cannot tell whether he is losing time and awareness of space again or if they have really been standing outside for as long as he feels they have. At least here he feels cold and he shivers with it the way only a living thing can. 

Alasdair feels comfortable enough in his shirtsleeves and he is close again, only a pace away from Arthur. He reaches up to touch his own stubbled jaw with a knuckle.

“You have blood, here.” His eyes are very intent. Arthur can’t tell their colour in the half-light. 

He reaches up to mirror Alasdair’s reach and feels for the spot in the dark. His hand comes away wet and lightly stained. There is not a lot of it. It must have dried in the hours he has spent sitting in the waiting room with no one to point it out to him. The rain and his fingers smear it away. The collar of his shirt must be stained.

“Who are you waiting for?”

It is not the kind of question you ask of a stranger.

“No one,” Arthur answers with the kind of honesty you spare a stranger. “He is dead.”

“Family?”

“My brother.”

Alasdair hums. 

“You should go home.”

“I live in Kent.” Arthur blinks hard and tries to refocus his eyes when his vision mists over. He is not crying, it is only that his eyes are so very sore.

“That’s six hours by train,” Arthur explains like it means anything.

“Visiting, then?”

“Yeah.”

“He wasn’t expecting you.”

“No.” Arthur tries to remember what Rhys had said to him over the phone the last time they spoke. Whether he sounded angry or sad. He can’t recall, suddenly, and he thinks that will haunt him for the rest of his life. “No he wasn’t expecting me.” 

“Do you need to make arrangements?”

Arthur shakes his head. 

Dai left instructions.

Alasdair shifts his jaw like he is carefully considering his next words but in the end all he does is nod. “Ok.” 

He looks like he wants another cigarette. Dai used to rub his thumb against his pointer finger whenever he got a craving, the same way Alasdair is doing now. Arthur wonders if this is the kind of thing the people who love you notice and see mirrored in strangers once you are gone. He thinks he will be seeing Dai again but only in these small gestures, done by strangers, and his chest feels hollow.

“I’m…” Alasdair glances away. “I need to get home. If you need somewhere to spend the night…” He leaves the thought unfinished and shakes his head absent-mindedly. He does not strike Arthur as someone used to uncertainty. ”You shouldn’t stay here.”

Arthur would have to be completely out of his mind to accept his offer and he is, so he does. “Ok.”

Arthur packed some clothes and a book into a rucksack before riding north. He had also dallied by the closet before leaving for the station, second-guessing whether he should bring his winter coat or a parka with him, knowing Scotland would be all rain and high winds. Now his clothes and his coat lie on the floor of Dai’s hallway, dropped carelessly after he let himself in with the spare set of keys his brother had left with him the last time he’d come to see him in Kent. All he has are his wallet and his brother’s denim jacket, snatched from the coat rack at the last possible second as he rushed as he rushed to catch up with the emergency team trying to stabilise his brother on the landing. It is fleece-lined and worn in, and it smells like coffee. Dai had been working as a barista. Arthur will have to call his workplace in the morning and let them know that he is not coming in to work.

Alasdair tells him to wait by the door and comes back some indeterminate amount of time later with a sheath of paper and a coat Arthur had not noticed on him. He nods towards the parking lot and Arthur follows after him, calm and dazed and feeling more awake now. It is not until they are sitting in Alasdair’s car, a mud-splattered Mazda, that he asks. “Who were you there for?”

Alasdair’s mirrors are set for someone else’s height. He has to twist his waist, elbow against the backrest of his seat, to back up from the narrow parking spot.

“My brother,” he says, and offers nothing more. Arthur looks at the blurring light through the passenger window and does not pry. 

The drive through the city is quiet and winds down as they cross from well-lit streets into the stillness of Leith. Alasdair’s flat is a sandstone tenement with weathered walls. He parks a street away and lets Arthur climb up the stairs ahead of him, silent and steady. There is one bedroom and a bathtub built into the wall of the bathroom. The lightbulb in the living room is missing and there is a pile of folded laundry on the living room couch, some more hung to dry by the cold radiator. It does not smell like Alasdair smokes indoors and the kitchen is clean aside from the dishes stacked in the sink. Alasdair pours them both tea, dark and hot, despite the lateness of the hour and offers Arthur a pair of sweatpants from the laundry pile and the first shower. When Arthur comes out of the bathroom twenty minutes later, damp and red-eyed, he finds Alasdair sitting listless on the couch, staring at the ceiling like there is an answer in the empty socket and the light he hasn’t gotten around to replacing. 

The couch is not wide enough to host a sleeping adult for the night and they are both too tired for pretense. Arthur takes the left side of Alasdair’s bed and falls asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow, lulled by the breathing of the stranger beside him and the unassuming warmth of his body. 

They sleep in past midday and wake up comfortable in each other’s space, aware that the other is awake but unwilling to leave the bed and its comforts. Alasdair sighs tiredly into his pillow; Arthur cannot see his face but they are so close that he can feel the way his body seizes, like he is bracing himself for the day or balancing on a knife’s edge. Men like Alasdair, Arthur has learnt, are deceptively strong. It makes them seem prone to anger and incapable of sorrow. 

Pressing himself to Alasdair’s back is no more inappropriate than inviting a stranger into your bed in a daze of grief. They are past the discomfort of overt over-familiarity. The tip of Arthur’s nose is cold and fits neatly into the crook of his shoulder. Alasdair’s sobs are silent and bitten-back. He breathes through his nose like he is not used to crying and only seems to catch his breath when Arthur’s hand finds the soft curve of his stomach over the cotton of his shirt. Arthur holds him without judgment and takes comfort in his heartbeat as it slows and steadies to match his. He keeps holding him long after that.

There is no awkward pause when Alasdair finally slips free from his hold to sit up in bed. Arthur just shifts to join him and then sits across from him in the kitchen to share burnt toast and tea like they have known each other for longer than a night. The ink has washed off of Alasdair’s hands and Arthur’s feel warm wrapped around the ceramic of a kitschy mug. They drive to the hospital and Arthur listens from the corner of the room as the story of Alasdair’s family unfolds in raised voices and accusations. Curious eyes in now familiar shades of hazel fall on him but his presence goes unexplained. Alasdair stands at arm’s reach from him when the shouting is done and offers no apologies or justifications. Arthur does not expect them and simply keeps him company, waiting in the hallway while Alasdair makes his peace with a man who shares his nose and the set of his brow and might never wake again. They find coffee and food in the late afternoon, and idle by a park until Arthur rallies the wherewithal to walk up the street to his brother’s flat to face the aftermath of his loss. He does not trade in his brother’s jacket for his own despite the early morning chill when they are finally ready to leave, Arthur’s rucksack in tow; he’s warm enough with Alasdair’s jumper tucked under the denim.

On his third morning imposing Arthur offers to leave which Alasdair dismisses with a grunt and a half-cooked argument under his breath. After that, Arthur does not bring it up again and for the rest of the week, while he settles Dai’s affairs, he shares his bed and does his share of the work around the house despite Alasdair's coarse insistence that he doesn’t have to. Arthur does not try to argue and just carries the laundry into the bedroom rather than leaving it to pile up in the living room. He cooks them at least two square meals when he has a mind to and lets himself sink into Alasdair’s bed in the early afternoon when the grief bears on him so heavy that he feels like he’ll never be able to breathe normally again. Alasdair comes home early once and finds him like that. Wordlessly, he sits on the edge of the bed and only after Arthur shifts does he reach down to bury his fingers in his hair. Some evenings they watch movies, others they spend apart. Alasdair rolls cigarettes out of habit, to scratch the itch, and leaves them by the windowsill to grow stale.

Life carries on. Slowly, unremarkably. Arthur hides his smiles and is slow to laugh until something settles in him and he can think of Dai without feeling the ground sway beneath his feet. Alasdair’s brother wakes up in gradual starts and in a year’s time relearns the words he needs to credit himself for his brother’s ease. Arthur graduates and chases jobs and slots his favourite books into Alasdair’s shelves. Alasdair makes space for them and space for his clothes in the closet and keeps him close at night in the bed they share.

Life carries on.

[bigein]

... trick or treat?

treat ;)

His toes of his boots drag on the ground and he's so high it almost feels like flying. Body warm and loose and easy, he bounces off the mattress and gasps enough breath into his lungs that he knows it will burn when Alasdair wraps his hand around his throat.

"All night." Alasdair sounds angry; sounds delighted. "All. Fucking. Night."

His hand tightens. Arthur grabs onto his wrist and smiles.

Alasdair's knees shove his thighs apart and it feels almost gentle, muffled by the heat between his legs and the smoke behind his eyes. Alasdair lets go of his throat and kisses him hard. Arthur gets a hand deep in his hair and moans softly against his lips, easing into the rhythm of Alasdair's breathing like an anchor. He gets his trousers down and off in a haze, the fabric catching on his boots. It leaves him bare, skin pale against the pale green of his underwear, dappled darker where it sticks wet to his lips. Alasdair groans slips two fingers under the lace, following the curve of his hip to the dark curls near his groin, stopping before he gets where Arthur really wants him.

"Come on." He gets his knees higher, hiking them over Alasdair's hips to press him closer. "Come on."

All it earns him is a a hand fisted in his hair, pulling his head back until his throat is bared. Alasdair chases the faint of of his Adam's apple and the faint marks where he'll have bruises come dawn with his nose. He pauses there for a moment. Kisses his throat gently, like a lover, before he leans away.

Arthur is about to plead, hazy and wet enough to beg, when a slap falls hard and unforgiving over the sensitive lips of his cunt. His thighs try to snap shut, kept pinned apart by Alasdair's bulk. His hands fist into the bedsheets, hips bucking as he lets the sting work through him, Alasdair's eyes heavy on him. He kept his hand where it landed, fingers rubbing gently now, thumb finding the perfect crease of fabric to notch against his cock.

"Good," he praises, rolls his hips against the seat of Arthur's arse like a reward. It would feel like more of one if he didn't take his hand away to lick the dew off his fingers like a dog. Arthur wants to insult him, call him just that. But they have been out all day and in other people's company all night, and he'd been riling Alasdair up from across the room with the edible still melting on his tongue thinking of his cock and his hands and the taste of his cum.

"I want to suck you. Fuck! I want you down my throat." he has to close his eyes again, the room spinning gently, a minute sinking him deeper into a headspace like treacle. Alasdair's clean (thank god) hand is still in his hair, combing through the tangles with clumsy fingers that are trying to be gentle. His other hand is back between his thighs, slipping past the lace and finally, finally...

"I want you like this," his voice is low and deep and Arthur could cum and fall asleep like this, just like this, but there is still an itch at the nape of his neck. Hunger behind his teeth. "I want to fuck you. I want you coming on my cock before you take another breath."

"Yes." Arthur shivers and smiles again and knows Alasdair won't see it because he is kissing his sternum and the dip of his collarbone. "Yes."

The hand Alasdair wraps around his throat is wet with spit and slick and he does not stretch him; just teases the head of his cock between his lips with smooth rolls of his hips before he thrusts in to the hilt. Arthur's moan is cut short in a vice grip. He is on a knife's edge, a line pulled taught through him at odds with the urge to slip deeper and let go. There is no room inside him for anything but the body rocking into his. In the seconds of respite where the pressure on his throat ebbs he catches glimpses of Alasdair; his chest, his jaw, the muscles on his shoulders and the bow of his upper lip. Arthur thinks deliriously that he loves him and thank god he cannot say it because he would never live it down. It is still impossible not to think it again, again, again, when Alasdair's rhythm slows and he puts what feels like his entire weight in every thrust. Arthur tilts his hips and and grips Alasdair's wrist harder and feels it when he cums, fucking straight through Arthur's orgasm, ruthless and still so thick and fucking wet.

His first exhale feels like a sob and rattles into one, shaken from the hot haze of sex by the clean, cold air in his lungs. Alasdair is good to him though, slipping gently from between his bruised thighs but keeping his weight a solid reassurance for Arthur to cling onto, fists clawing into the cotton of his shirt. He is still praising him, low and easy, postcoital. It is easy to fall into him and relearn how to breathe when he is like that, relaxed in a bedroom that smells like them. Arthur swallows and knows he'll be sore, wearing lovebites and Alasdair's fingerprints like a collar for days. It settles something in his chest and threads his thoughts into something slower, mind slowing down to catch up with the exhausted ache of his body.

He is resting on his back, still catching his breath when Alasdair stretches besides him, rolling over to flop half his weight onto Arthur who is for once too tired and sated to complain. He finds a good handful of auburn curls to tug on instead.

"Happy Halloween," he says, more to the ceiling than the man who is liable to start snoring into his chest any moment now. He tells himself he is scratching Alasdair's back gently now because he is too comfortable now to tell him to shove off.

Alasdair snorts and if Arthur can tell he is smiling it is because he can feel it pressed against his skin.