trealamh
From the depth to the shallows
fàilte gu fearann! welcome ashore 18+ | he/him (e/esan) | HyfrydCymru (AO3) scoteng ⚬ fruk ⚬ scotfra ⚬ etc!
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probably the most insanity inducing line in modern literature
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hhhh yes to tintin au, do you have any idea as to who red rackham/sakarine would be? and would francis/castafiore also constantly forget ali's name, but in his case it's more to be a little bitch than anything else?
you are asking the Most Correct Questions hhh
I feel like Ivan is an easy choice to cast as Ivan Ivanovich Sakharine (especially kept as he was pre-movie, just a model ship collector. Ludwig would also be a class choice for that I feel. Yao or India too, and I'd love an excuse to write more of them.)
As an antagonist though, hmmm I'd like to bring the Bird Brothers back maybe and cast Alfred and Matthew as the antagonists. Be it a light-hearted AU, or as genuinely complex and dangerous, uncompromising villains, they have the range!
For Red Rackham, Sean (Ireland) maybe. I would love to bring historical parallels and Celtic naval warfare is not oft explored in fic (tensions between Ireland and Scotland in general, really).
Francis absolutely pretends to forget his name every single time, to the point of absurdity. Whenever Alasdair grits out his name though, Francis will correct himself... only it's always a different variation of Ali's name (Alistair, Alistor, Allystair, Alexander). Always with a wink and a cheeky grin. He would be a capricious, incorrigible flirt and a hedonist of the highest class. I'm talking ostrich feathers, fine dining, dripping in jewelry and the finest fashions, gifts from his many ahem, admirers. What an absolute, infuriating delight he would be. A delicious dessert of a man.
Alasdair wants to dunk him in a barrel and roll him down a hill.
(Arthur, of course, sees their little back and forth as a will-they-won't-they, daft lad.)
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if you're still thinking about the tintin au, do arthur and alisatir have a nestor? and is he getting increasingly frustrated by the idiots misinterpretations of the other's actions? and maybe, maybe trying to play matchmaker?
I'm absolutely still thinking about it xx
I think that Wales would make for a great meddling Nestor. Long-suffering and eternally begging the heavens for patience; counting to three in sets every time he's in the same room with the two clueless, infuriating idiots but unfailingly proper and sharp-witted (as all Nestor-stand ins should be!)
Alasdair and Arthur are not home for long enough, at first (or at least not home at the same time, it's a while before Arthur moves in proper despite how he starts spending longer and longer in the grand old halls of the Campbell home) for it to really start getting on his nerves. But for all that Wales might have the patience of a saint these two idiots are too much. Constantly. If he has to witness one more tender brush of hands, one more aching, longing look as they part for the night......
There would come a point where he'd go from playing matchmaker to waging a legitimate war of petty wills. Oh, they're still not sharing a bed??? All the linens are being washed at the exact same time now, no matter that no one's been sleeping in any of the empty guest bedrooms. Oh, Arthur is willing to use the god damned towels in lieu of bedding just to be a stubborn prick? Oops, there goes a pitcher of water poured on his mattress. Then it's just a matter of cracking open every window in the middle of the night, just enough for the house to get baltic. Dampening the firewood just enough that it would be a pain to keep more than one small room warm. See how long they hold off after that (Alasdair especially. Dai has known him since he was a wean. How long could he hold off the impulse to bundle Arthur close to himself, kept warm and comfortable in his arms.? The answer is: not very long.)
The more he can inconvenience them to get them together, the better.
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do you have any more thoughts about scoteng in the tintin au? i remembered cuthbert calculus, who is fantastic at provoking both of them, but couldn't really make him fit - feliciano perhaps? or even a oddly absent-minded matthew/alfred
I think of the Tintin AU often and dearly!
An absent-minded professor, staunchly insisting that he is not hard of hearing but it is simply that his right ear has gone you see...
Truth be told I had it in my head that I would very much like to write India into this AU, and I thought he would make a fantastic Cuthbert Calculus with only a few alterations to the original character. But it didn't take me long to shift gears and realise that Yao is right there.
Where the original professor is naturally inclined to hm distraction and whimsy shall we say, I feel like Yao would be a delightful mix of the absorbed-to-a-fault academic and somewhat of a purposefully 'forgetful and inattentive' sophist. In the sense that he canNOT be bothered with the shenanigans that Alasdair and Arthur get up to. He is a professional, and an academic (and one with an extremely generous stipend courtesy of the Campbell estate). Fleshing out his character a bit more, I would like him to be hard of hearing (not through an accident but congenitally) and about as old as Cuthbert is depicted as being (if not older). With Daffyd playing the straight man and enabler to Arthur and Alasdair's shambled attempts at courting, I'd like Yao to carry the underlying plot forwards, having some personal involvement with the affair du jour as the shadows of his youth come back to haunt him.
As for Matthew and Alfred, they're well-established in my mind as the villains in this AU. A force to reckon with when they are working together and a legitimate threat to our heroes...
but not, perhaps, the men pulling the strings from above as all our players fall into place.
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god I’m sorry but hhhhhh scoteng Tintin AU
Arthur, a scrappy young journalist with a run-down flat and a lot of grit (and a hellion of a cat that sticks staunchly by his side). Uncovering the secrets to a long-lost treasure and dragging along a has-been sailor—
Captain Campbell (a McDonald on his mother's side, talk about conflict) once a dashing figure, now resigned to his family's misfortune. Equal parts infuriated and begrudgingly admiring of the young man who turns his life upside down and forces him to face his demons head-on.
(A young man with his own demons, his own secrets. Who will brand himself an orphan but receives a stipend on top of his humble salary; just enough to keep a roof over his head. A young man who seems unusually private with himself for all his pride. Who is in some ways responsible for his affairs to the point of paranoia despite all of the personal risks he takes; Alasdair has never known him to have a sweetheart, does not know him to keep but a single childhood picture on an early education diploma that seems somewhat forged.
Alasdair is keenly observant; was sharp even when he was swimming three bottles in. He will know, but never ask. The staunchest ally Arthur never asked for.
But even that aside, it's precarious living paycheck-to-uncertain-paycheck. And Alasdair has inherited what is essentially a fortress thanks to him. It would only be right then, to open his home to him, away from scrutiny. A home with high ceilings, in every corner a mystery, and a stunning library besides. A lush garden and an out-of-tune piano, Alasdair's worse-for-wear fiddle resting on the side. No leaks in the bathroom and a kitchen neither of them knows how to use save for making tea.)
Consider too, for my endless delight: Francis in place of Bianca Castafiore. The most outrageously fashionable opera singer and nuisance in the continent.
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by Mihaylov
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Cathy Linh Che, from Go Forget your father//Friedrich Nietzsche// Richey Edwards// // Moss Angel, Girldirt Angelfog// Rainer Maria Rilke, Fragment of an Elegy,// Leila Miccolis, till death do us part.
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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.
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'In the name of revolution'
During the 2nd Intifada it was a popular slogan, that women embroidered on their dresses 🫒✌🏽
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Something short and sweet for Spring.
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“there is no moral. the wolf eats you one day and until it does, the forest is beautiful.”
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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 first 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 high 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.
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Hi! I just wanted to tell you that I think you're amazing at writing and I have loved your stories so much!
I was going through your writing asks, (because I consider you a huge inspiration), and wanted to ask how you manage your descriptions with your story's flow? I'm pretty descriptive when I write, overly descriptive really, and I can never seem to keep the story moving how I'd like it to. Your works just seem so effortless in keeping the pace and relevancy of the details. It feels like a moving story. Mine are just too choppy and it leaves me rewriting my sentences over and over again, never being able to move on and only making it to around 100 words a day. Just super blocked up with my own perfectionism.
Thanks for your time and sorry for the long rambling. And don't feel pressured at all to answer this! If you are to take anything from this long and drawn out enquiry, I just sincerely want you to know that I admire you very much and consider you one of the better if not the best writer I follow. I will always be excited to read what you put out there!
Hello anon! I'm sorry it took me so long to reply. You are very kind and if you ever want to come chat about writing please do! I don't think your words are a long rambling, they made me think consciously of something I usually do intuitively so i am very grateful.
Since you are, dear anon, anonymous, I could not say whether you writing is choppy but I doubt it. I really doubt it! I know a lot of people throw digs at descriptive writing but I like how the style and detail of a writer's descriptions give you a glimpse of how they look at the world. The way I use description, for example, is based on what I notice when I walk into a room depending on what I am feeling at one particular moment or another. I'll write a few examples from my perspective, which your question made me think about, and I hope it might help break down some of my process for you.
Anger blurs a space and calls to recklessness. Grief-shock also blurs a space the effect it has on the body and the way it focuses your attention is different. When writing a scene, the first thing I do is think about what is at the core of a character's focus. I think that Sean (Ire) is someone who judges character and intention by reading cues other might overlook: the cuff's of a person's shirt or coat, the tilt of their speech patterns, their body language. I also don't think he does this as a step-by-step process, he's a character that reads intentions and backgrounds intuitively. This all leads to the following (this is a bit of a spoiler for a chapter of one of my wips but bear with me):
In and the love that i hold for him , Sean is the first person Arthur calls when his husband is in hospital, and the first to arrive. He is laden with some guilt about leaving Arthur without much support when they were younger, feels out of place coming back into his life, but is also a doctor in this AU and a good one at that. He's coming into the scene as an estranged brother as much as he is a professional, so when he meets Arthur in the hospital, what does he notice first? The state of him; the wear of age and stress on his face, the torn edges of his nails where he has been picking at them (a habit from their shared youth). He notices Arthur hasn't changed his clothes and they look lived in and worn, but he is also aware that he's walking into a private hospital. Despite the tension in the scene, Sean inevitably will wonder how Arthur or his husband are able to afford this, whether they have a private medical insurance, if the reason they invested in it is because Arthur's husband is older, with a medical history that reflects the life he led before he married Arthur. Who is this man, really, that he is here to see? Who is Arthur now after all of these years?
The conversation they have in this scene does not allude to any of these questions. Sean immediately jumps into asking Arthur about the situation, not his life. And Arthur is just as awkward, if tinged with desperation. Sean's curiosity latches onto the seemingly minor details Arthur shares about his husband's accident, his health circumstances, and quickly starts drawing conclusions. That makes for a very busy scene, in terms of exposition (Sean's introduction, his perception of Arthur, his feelings about the situation they're in) so I break up the paragraphs on thoughts and the dialogue with action prompts. If I feel like the reader might need a break, i slow down the exposition and focus on their body language, bringing the scene to a pause. And when I introduce these pauses I add in covert exposition-- I'll write about the ring on Arthur's finger and the way he plays with it. I write about the way Sean puts his hands in his pockets. By this point, I don't feel like i need to explain to the reader that Arthur is already coming to realise that he is about to lose his husband, or that playing with his wedding band is something that comforts him. I don't need to tell the reader that Sean ten years ago would have grasped Arthur's shoulder, and that he feels out of place the moment they stop talking about medical charts and expectations. The actions are doing that for me, and he small details about their body language give the scene an emotional texture different than what I could accomplish if I spelled out their thoughts. These are two men with a complicated past, who have never been emotionally close. In this scene, Arthur made a stilted call and Sean rearranged his life and schedule to be there. They both know this, and the scene which starts sharply, almost anxiously, uses different kinds of descriptive language and tools to wind it down into this final, awkward scene. What's helping me structure it from beginning to end is the way Sean interacts with the world and what his priorities and focus is.
I don't know if this makes sense! I wish i could take a published scene and use coloured markings to break it down. i think that would be a more effective way of explaining what i mean. But if this is of any use at all please let me know and come talk about writing any time! I love it.
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