#woof woof au

[charliemwrites]

1fur1 Price part 2

(Sorry if this isn’t, like, spectacular. It’s been a minute since I wrote for this au)

The house is getting an upgrade. Two wolf dogs was a cozy situation, but manageable. The addition of a third, especially one as big as Konig, was pushing it. Like, really pushing it.

Now that Skipper has adopted himself into the family…

Not that you mind, of course. Skipper has been a bit of a blessing in furry disguise. You know that “Alpha Dog” dynamics aren’t an actual Thing with wolves, but if they were, you think Skipper would be it.

He must have some sort of shepherd in his blood because he wrangles the rest of the boys masterfully. They spend too long in the yard, he’s barking and nipping and rounding them up. Johnny’s being too insistent about “sharing” your food, he’s inserting himself between you two. Ghost and Johnny get rambunctious, he’ll tolerate it for a couple minutes but then he’s breaking it up with a grumble — especially if they’re acting up inside.

You appreciate the help.

It’s not that the boys don’t listen to you. They do! With almost perfect obedience. But it can still be overwhelming to keep an eye on everyone all the time.

“Oh darling, why is it always you?” you sigh, scratching at Konig’s chin. Receive a whine in return.

Your poor sensitive guy. Stepped on a bee in the yard, it seems. The vet cooed over him, gave him some meds, and now he’s all but collapsed in an anxiety-exhausted heap by the fireplace.

Johnny is pacing behind you, making upset noises and nosing at your elbow.

“I know you’re worried, bud,” you soothe over your shoulder. “He’s alright.”

You’re working a sock over Konig’s bandages so that he doesn’t pick at them. Johnny takes that as an invitation to insert himself into the mix, bumping into your shoulder hard. Your hand pushes into konig’s paw as you catch your balance and he yelps. The noise surprises you, scares you, hands jerking back.

Skipper is on him in an instant, teeth on his scruff and yanking him away from you and Konig. For once, Johnny resists, yelping and whining crying.

“Jesus, enough!” You raise your voice a bit to be heard over all the canine yelling. Get a hand in Skipper’s scruff and give him a shake. “Release.”

He does, though not without an indignant growl, twisting around to glare at you. You didn’t even know dogs could glare with so much indignation.

“What are you gonna do, bite me?” you challenge, hand still buried in his fur. “Grow up.”

You turn to Johnny, who’s making a great show of looking pathetic, tail down and ears back.

“Got to bed,” you instruct, pointing with your other hand to the cushion Ghost is on. Those two are thick as thieves, you’re sure Johnny will feel better after some cuddles. Sure enough, Johnny drags his feet over to ghost, who grumbles as he makes room for the other dog.

You let Skipper go, who makes a big scene of shaking off. But he doesn’t go making trouble with Johnny, so you let him be. Which leaves Konig, who isn’t making eye contact with anyone.

“You alright, baby boy?” you croon. He licks your offered hand.

You manage to finish getting the sock on in peace, dropping a kiss to the scar on his forehead.

“My little trooper, good boy,” you murmur.

With him settled, you sit back with a sigh. Skipper is sitting, looking mighty offended. You groan.

“I’m sorry, honey,” you offer, extending a hand to him. “I was just stressed and all that fussing freaked me out. I know you were just trying to help.”

A long, long look at your palm. And then he sighs and sets his chin in your hand. You waste no time scritching along his jaw, coaxing him closer until you can leave kisses all over his muzzle and forehead.

“Big strong boy,” you coo, grinning into his ears when you see his tail sweeping slowly back and forth. Like he doesn’t want you to notice. “Such a good helper. Thank you, handsome.”

Peace restored, you settle onto the couch until dinner time.

So yes, four wolf-hybrids is pushing it on space.

—

You’re being minded.

It would be funnier if your dog wasn’t better at taking care of you than you are.

“You must have been in service dog training or something,” you muse, accepting the pill bottle from Skipper’s mouth. “Someone wanted you to work.”

And work he does.

If it’s not helping you keep the boys in line, it’s patrolling the yard with Ghost. Or nudging you to eat at mealtimes. Or putting you to bed. Hes a busy boy, hardly ever settles on the couch with the rest at night for snuggle time.

And when you do strong arm him into it, his ears are perked at every little noise, ready to protect.

There’s also this. The bringing you meds. (You try not to think about how he managed to get into the cabinet. Maybe you left them out on the counter?) Or sometimes he picks up things you’ve dropped, like pens or keys or even your phone.

It’s sweet, but you worry he’s bored. When you do buy him enrichment toys though, he gives them a perfunctory sniff, then leaves them for one of the others. (Johnny in particular loves the treat puzzles.) So you figure he’s stimulated enough, considering bored dogs usually tear into anything and everything.

“You know I’m supposed to take care of you right?” You tease, patting his big, sturdy side. “I take care of everyone here. You’re my boys.”

Skipper snorts and sits down, watching you, eyes pinging between your face and the pills. You huff, amused despite yourself.

“Alright, alright! Rude mutt.”

A little “boof” — agreement or offense? You amuse yourself with anthropomorphizing his noises while you chug water with your meds.

“See? Done. Ta-da!” You say when they’re done.

Another “boof” and then he’s trotting off. Pauses to give you a significant look. You check the time. Right, it’s lunchtime. Best to take meds with food anyway.

“I’m coming,” you groan, shuffling after him.

All the dogs are waiting for you in the kitchen, big eyes and perked ears.

“Look at you lot,” you laugh, dropping a scratch to Ghost’s head as you pass. “What is this, an intervention. I’m not giving you guys enough peanut butter?”

Skipper ignores you, taking his usual place at the entrance to the kitchen. A good vantage point to keep an eye on you and the rest of the house. He only accepts a little bit of shared food after everyone else gets a bite. You hum as you consider all of them, crammed into your kitchen because they’re a clingy lot.

“Might be time for a move, guys,” you sigh. “Or maybe another story.”

You glance at the ceiling with dread. Either way, you’re not looking forward to it.

[pandoraaucomic]

part 1 pg 61-70

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[ratstuckintheblender]

My bookie bear 😼

He’s such a shlut(lovingly🫶)

DTIYS -second one since ever

@itsxroxannex -second img/original

[larabar]

all silliness gone

[muckyschmuck]

outting myself as a twipie enjoyer rn

[ace--of--swords]

Meow ❤️

[dookins]

Originally, I was gonna wait awhile before posting this, but sidhdidkdod it’s out in the ether now so…. XD; yeah.

.Still apart of the BBB fic. ;). But this was him before his fall from power. Right before he went into hiding, and eventually became a bounty hunter. Also, for reference, his belt is his scrybe symbol from his monument:

He keeps the buckle and still wears it in his bounty hunter attire. Here's a clearer drawing of it since the top doodle of him in power is a little sketchy :

All clothing refs gathered by typing 'anime dictator uniform' into google XD

[xxalphaclownxx]

AleNoahvember Day 2! Au - I made a theatre au, where Noah is a stage hand and Alejandro regularly attends his best friend’s shows (Heather)

ALSO HES DRESSED UP AS SANDY FROM GREASE BC AJEHHDHWHEH YES <3

[professorcalculusstanaccount]

modern au fits! basically wanted to translate some of tintin’s most iconic looks.

From left to right, top to bottom:

- His basic day-to-day - just a crew neck sweater, white t-shirt, cargo joggers and a pair of leather trainers. The big baggy trousers Tintin famously wears are plus fours - breeches that extend four inches below the knee (hence the name!). They were introduced in the 20s and gained popularity as sportswear in the 30s as they allowed a greater range of movement. I gave Tintin cargo joggers for that sporty feel while still keeping him feeling preppy, and pockets are always useful! Snowy wears a collar now.

- A take on the Yellow Shirt and Grey Sweater Vest Look from the earlier comics, a long sleeve baseball t-shirt with the corresponding colours! isnt menswear exciting

- Thought an all blue tracksuit and plimsolls with a baseball cap and glasses to hide his face would be fun as I guess dressing in traditional Chinese clothing wouldn’t make much sense as a disguise in modern day China. Chang would wear yellow crocs.

- The spacesuit! When Herge wrote Destination Moon and Explorers on the Moon the moon landing didn’t happen yet - it was a piece of speculative science fiction. He modelled his suits very closely to actual speculative spacesuits from scientific sources. In a similar spirit I based this design off the MIT Bio-Suit, an experimental spacesuit that uses elasticity to maintain pressure on the human body rather than gas pressurisation which is used currently. The idea is to reduce bulk, which should make mobility easier. We’re probably still a long way from using spacesuits like this but hey! 

- basically looked up what modern mountaineering equipment looks like today. I imagine the bright colours help with spotting climbers out in the snow - there’s a part of Mt Everest called Rainbow Valley - it’s so-called because the colourful coats of various dead climbers dot the landscape, frozen in place because it’s too dangerous to retrieve the bodies. Sherpas often risk their lives for poor pay to the benefit of wealthy tourists wanting a bit of Everest glory - Herge made efforts to point this out in Tintin in Tibet through the character of Tharkey. Sadly things haven’t seemed to have changed much in that regard.

- A bomber jacket with a fur lined hood and snow boots. I absolutely loved his outfit in The Shooting Star, and Snowy’s little bib and pink ribbon! style icons honestly

[squidpus]

Some notes about my "Gramps Madara" au if y'all were curious.

Okay maybe this turned more into a whole collection of headcanons... :⁠^⁠)

So this started as just a silly little au where Madara Uchiha is just a skrunkly old OLD man.

He's just living his ultimate retirement and...healing?? I guess is a way to put it. But also being a pain for poor Obito.

Also the Uchiha clan is definitely not murdered.

Things of note:

Izuna still dies, I feel it's an important cornerstone of Madara's character development.

He was infatuated (maybe a little obsessed) with Hashirama ever since they first met but he never acts upon it, feeling that Hashirama has higher priorities than him. Haha RIP king u deserved better.

Madara is still "killed" by Hashirama and remains in hiding after resurrecting. Zetsu is there too! I consider him like to be a really chill houseplant.

While Hashirama and Tobirama are still alive, he stays in his hideout for years. Still researching and developing jutsus with Hashirama's DNA that he stole.

He refuses to join the Uchiha elders, thinking himself much more important than them but also not wanting to waste time in "pointless meetings".

He returns to the village when the Third Hokage begins his term. The Uchiha clan welcome him back, the rest of the village is still uneasy about him but he is allowed to live within the Uchiha compound.

He takes in Obito after the death of Obito's parents. In this case, Obito is just a baby.

Madara later takes in Mikoto who, in this au, also loses her parents when she's around 10 years old.

Oh God I've domesticated him....but I think he feels pity for them. He's lost family and seeing these orphaned kids sparks something in him. It's impulsive but now he finds himself with two kids wow!

For the first time in a long time, he looks forward to what life has to bring. Mikoto is wildly intelligent and takes her training very seriously. Obito is a strange child (in Madara's opinion) but he finds him amusing. They are a ragtag little family but Madara is proud of it.

Obito is still nearly killed during his mission at Kannabi Bridge. Madara rescues him and rehabilitates him still making use of Zetsu and Hashirama's DNA.

Mikoto eventually marries Fugaku (Madara doesn't approve of that but he won't argue with Mikoto) and moves out of the household.

As Madara gets older, Obito is responsible for him which basically means keeping him out of trouble.

When Mikoto has Itachi and Sasuke, he is very happy! Sasuke is his favorite because he reminds him of a young Izuna.

Madara has various hobbies, he's tired of war. He still likes fighting but like... sparring (still trying to find that high from when he used to fight with Hashirama).

He takes up art, falconry, *cough* collecting eyes *cough* it's for research and preventing the sharingan from falling into the wrong hands.

But yeah I think that covers the basics!

[charliemwrites]

Woof woof… whimper

(Part 10… but technically a continuation of part 9)

Content: Dub-Con/Non-Con, Knotting

It takes your cock-addled brain a second too long to process what Soap’s just said. What he’s implied. And by then he’s all ready for you to buck against him, confused and angry.

“That’s so — that’s not funny!” You shout.

But he’s got you pinned thoroughly, your chest flat against the mattress and your ass flush against his hips. His cock buried so deep you can feel the hot head of it bullying the deepest parts of you. All your struggling does is make you clench up tight around him, makes him feel that much bigger and meaner inside you. Makes him grunt low and ragged in your ear, all animal appreciation.

“I’m not laughin’,” he replies, nipping at your shoulder.

“G-get off of me, get out, get—”

His hand slides into your hair again, gets a firm hold at the roots and presses your face into the blankets, muffling your protests. Shushes you like soothing a panicked animal.

“Now, now,” he chides, “I still gotta prove I’m not compensating, don’t I?”

You suck in a breath, squeezing your eyes shut. There have to be a million explanations other than the absolutely ludicrous one he’s just presented to you. Cameras, microphones….

How did he know where you live?

How did he know where the spare key was?

How did he know where your bedroom was?

How did he find you at the bar?

Stalker, you tell yourself. He’s a creep, you’ve always known that.

Then where’s your dog?

“N-no,” you warble, bucking again. Nearly scream as his cock twitches inside you; only reason you don’t is because you can barely breathe as it is. He’s so deep inside that he’s practically in your lungs. “No way you’re my — there’s no way. You’re crazy. I’m gonna— ah!”

He draws out as you speak, gradual, and then plunges in again all at once, cutting you off. Grinds his hips in a dirty circle too, burying himself as deep as he can.

“Aww, poor thing,” he coos. “S’alright, baby, I knew this would happen. We jus’ gotta get all those big, scary feelings out first. Then I can explain it all nice and slow.”

You try to scream at him. Try to curse him out, tell him there’s no way in hell you’re listening to a word he says now; never mind letting him spend another second with his dick in you.

All that comes out is a high-pitched keen as he starts fucking you without further preamble. It aches, but you can’t tell in what way. If it hurts, if it’s the best you’ve ever had. Both? Your nerves feel haywire, brain dragged to lust-stupid depths.

“See, there we go,” he rasps, punctuating with a sharp snap of his hips on that last word. “My perfect little mate. Your cunt was made for my cock, made to be bred by me. Isn’t that right?”

You try to shake your head, but his grip keeps you from doing more than sending electricity down your spine, hair pulled taut.

“Yeah it fucking is,” he growls to his own question, canting your hips back further. His fingers grip cruelly into the flesh, sure to leave bruises. You wish you didn’t enjoy the sensation, wish it didn’t make you spasm around him helplessly.

“‘Bout time I owned you right back, don’t you think?” He continues, never stopping or even slowing. You yelp as he tugs your necklace again, arching your back at a steep angle. “Even collared yourself up for me. All it needs is my name.”

Something about that drives some awful, slutty part of your brain fucking wild. The idea of you with a tight leather choker — a collar — with his name (you don’t think about what name) hanging from your throat…

“Like that, don’t you?” He chuckles meanly. “Who’s my good little slut? Who’s my perfect, soaked little breeding whore?”

Tears spring to your eyes as you realize the “I am” is right there on the tip of your over-saturated tongue. If you had air, brain cells, any ability at all, you’d be crying it to the ceiling like the toy he’s treating you as.

He’s going to ruin you, you think. He’s going to fuck you broken. You’re crying and wailing on his cock, think you’d actually throw a tantrum if he pulled out and left you on the edge right now. Would, you realize in horror, beg for him to keep going.

And then he snakes his hand around your hip and starts rubbing your clit — fast, hard little circles. Just the way you like; the way you’d do it yourself. Relentlessly and cruel, even when you try to writhe away from how fast you can feel yourself getting to the edge. Almost frightened by it, how quickly he’s mastered your body’s pleasure.

Frightened by the extra stimulation at your entrance, too. A little extra friction at first — shocking because you’re leaving a puddle on the sheets. But then the friction becomes pressure, becomes… more.

“W-wha….?” You slur, hips wriggling.

Soap (Johnny?) snarls in your ear and that feeling at your entrance grows. Feels, you realize with alarm, like stretching.

“Gonnae take my knot so well,” he rambles, accent thick like syrup, trickling into your empty brain, filling you up with meaningless sounds. “Plug you up full of my cum, breed you right just like you need.”

Any questions or confusion are whisked away by the extra stimulation at your entrance. The sensitive nerves getting just as much brutal attention as your inner walls, your cervix, that sweet spot inside you that makes your eyes roll back.

It all becomes too much all at once and crashes through you, devastating. You clamp down around him tight and needy, lean all your weight back into his thighs. And he practically howls as he sinks into you and stays, grinding and humping without ever actually pulling out again. You feel a flood of heat that seems to go on for an absurdly long time, cock pulsing against your overstimulated walls, milked for every last drop.

You shudder as your brain tries and fails to process it all. Like trying to decipher a foreign language from white noise. It’s nothing but static to you.

You can feel a tongue against your shoulder, scraped of blunt teeth. Soap/Johnny licking the sweat from your skin and nipping bruises into the flesh. You make an annoyed noise that comes out whinier than intended, shoving at his face.

“Get off, you bastard.” Your voice is pathetic, thick with tears and fractured in a hundred places.

“Can’t, bonnie, even if I wanted to.”

You scowl, try to look at him over your shoulder. He takes that opportunity to nuzzle against your temple.

“What?” You ask. “What are you talking about?”

“Did ye hear me?” He chuckles. “Well, maybe not with the way you were screamin’. You’re all knotted up, baby. Can’t pull out — ‘less you want this pretty pussy to tear.”

You jolt, nearly yank yourself off out of pure fear, but Johnny keeps you still again, humming.

“Easy now,” he croons. “Still fussy? Need another to settle down?”

Useless as your brain may be, it recognizes what he means by “another one.” You think you might pass out.

“No,” you snap, petulant even to your own ears. “I want you to explain… explain everything.”

“Alright, hen. C’mere.”

He gently lays you out prone on the bed, then rolls you both on your sides. Hitches your leg up over his hip. You want to protest, but it helps the ache in your poor cunt.

“H-how are you still hard?” You pant, traitorous pussy twitching around him.

He growls in your ear, can feel him grinning against the lobe. “Will stay that way for a bit, lass. Don’ worry, you jus’ have to lay here all nice and still. Keep me warm while I explain things to you.”

And he does. How there are shapeshifters out there in the world, rare as they are. That he comes from a line of them. Recruited to military, as most of them are.

How he was on standard patrol when he smelled you for the first time.

“Like a wet dream, bonnie. Fertile. Spring. Smelled like mine.”

How he instantly knew you were his mate. That he just needed to make you see it. Never a good time to explain it all to you — and then there were interlopers and your silly little books and your pesky toys. How he tried to drop hints around the house, let you come to the correct conclusion on your own. But you never did.

“Honestly it’s a good thing I’m here, hen. You’re so oblivious. Lived with a man and never even knew it.”

That he tried to go about it the other way ‘round, as a man, but you’re just so stubborn. And then how it all led up to tonight. To you finally, finally realizing what you really needed: your mate.

You should be angry, furious. There’s a lot to say about… well, all of it. It’s horrifying and violating and… and…

And he hasn’t stopped bullying your clit since he started talking. Cruel, tight circles. Drawing the hood back with two fingers and stroke with a third, slow and languid and just soft enough to make your head spin. Rhythmless taps. Even pinches when you try to chew him out at one point, half turning to scowl. Instead have his tongue lapping sloppily at yours as your mouth gapes open soundlessly.

Makes you cum twice just like that without ever interrupting his own story, cock still hilted — knotted deep inside you. Honestly, you probably miss a good portion of it, some of the finger details for sure. But you get the broad strokes (among other strokes).

He licks at your overstimulated tears when he’s finished, nuzzling and kissing your cheek.

“I-I miss my dog,” you mumble finally, hands balled against your chest.

“Aww, darlin’,” he sighs, sounding genuinely apologetic. “We’re one and the same. I’m always your boy no matter what form I take.”

It would be more comforting if his dick didn’t throb calling himself your boy.

“‘Sides, I’m better than a normal mutt,” he continues, tugging you against his chest. You want to hate that is instantly makes you feel a little better. “Wolves mate for life, after all.”

[dwtdog]

ive always had a silly meme in mind thats based on that one scene in twilight except changed a little so that dream says "i know what you are.. a werewoof" all dramatically instead of vampire.

dream gets turned into a werewolf by born werewolf george and george is like okay buddy. first rule of being a werewolf is to say werewoLf. and then dream says it right like that one clip and george is like nvm say it your way

[jamesvowles]

used to think the day would never come...

[very-small-giant]

the baseball high school au is the best thing i have ever seen

[voukkake]

Another dreamling AU

[onlineviolence]

gamaliel prime // apotheosis , lamb to the slaughter