hetalia_kink | Past-Part Fills Part 7

Past-Part Fills Part 7

Past-Part Fills Part Seven

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Past-Part Fills 1 | Past-Part Fills 2 | Past-Part Fills 3 | Past-Part Fills 4 | Past-Part Fills 5 | Past-Part Fills 6

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http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/19013.html?thread=67030597

So, one day England decides he wants to apologize to his big brothers Wales and Scotland for all the crap he's given them in the past. He offers to let them do whatever they want to him for one 24-hour span of time.

They decide they want to have sex with him. Doing whatever they want to him. As many times as they can fit in within 24 hours.

--

When England wakes up, his head is still spinning. He takes a quick inventory. Clothes present, except jacket and tie. A blurry memory of knotting the tie arond a lamppost presents itself. No doubt it made sense at the time. Ceiling, familiar. Not his own, though. His was redone with that lovely wood paneling, wheras this - he squints until the patterns in the plaster resolve themselves - is Scotland's.

Oh dear.

Oh bloody hell if he's being honest, which he might as well be. It's a Saturday morning - still early, by the light - and his memories of last night run up to a point where he'd - oh dear - begun offering tearful apologies to his brothers, which was a pecuiliar kind of maudlin he only got when he'd had far too much red wine. He should know better by now, he really should. Ale or whiskey or port, for long nights; any of those were safe.

But he's still dressed, and he's alone.

He takes a few deep breaths, and hauls himself out of the rumpled double bed.

Half an hour later he staggers downstairs, bathed and dressed in fresh clothes and feeling almost civilised. He smells frying bacon, which leaves his hangover-ridden stomach a little topsy-turvy but at least suggests Scotland made it home alright. And sure enough, when he makes it to the kitchen, his brothers are sitting on either side of the table, dividing up their rations, and there is a teapot. Blessed, blessed tea. He settles himself down - they've left a plate out for him, he notes with a warm sentimental feeling - and goes about pouring himself some.

"Good morning," Wales remarks, in that slightly agrieved, strongly accented voice that seems to be his primary communication method these days.

England glowers briefly - now he's expected to make polite communication at a very rude hour on a Saturday morning? - until he considers that it's probably a perfectly polite hour, to anyone not afflicted with hangovers. His brothers, for example. They both seem utterly immune. "Good morning," he manages, and loojs intently at his tea. "Could you pass the milk?"

Scotland passes him the milk. He looks up from his intese concentration on his plate to exchange a Look with Wales, but they're always doing that sort of thing. England pays it no mind.

He drinks the tea, slowly and carefully. It soothes his headache. He doesn't notice anything amiss, until he asks Wales for the teapot. There's another Look then - he does notice that - and then Scotland says, "Make us some more."

Almost before the words have hit his brain he's rising from his seat. Making his way to the stove. The kettle is in his hand before it occurs to him to wonder why, and even as he takes a breath to ask, he feels the prickling sensation of magic on his soul.

His own magic.

"You bastards," he says instead, as he carefully carries the kettle back. "What did you do to me?"

Scotland grins - sonehow the effect is more unsettling dor his three-day beard - and raises his teacup in a mock toast. "Think about it, lad," he says. "Ye did it all to yourself. A day from the first command, am I right?"

And at that, the memories start flooding back. The teary apologies. The eager, pathetic offer for reconciliation. Scotland's idle nasty comment, delivered to his ale. England tugging them outside and tracing the circles and symbols in the air.

That bit about the tea was the start, wasn't it. From the first command. Until eight-twenty on Sunday morning.

"You bastards," England repeats, as he measures out the tea, his limbs moving numbly under the control of nothing but muscle memory. He probably does deserve it, but some sort of protest must be made.

"No more than you," Scotland says. "Now, take off your shirt."

He unbuttons it, fingers moving without his concious intervention, and stands there shivering in his undershirt, trembling with surpressed rage.

--

...o-oh my. Author!anon, this is beautiful - and hitting kinks that I didn't even know I had. Seriously, I'm blushing already.

Bookmarked and can't wait for more!

I got the notification about the prompt being filled this morning but couldn't read it until late evening, which served for a very very intense day of anticipation. This is a quite old prompt that I never could quite forget because I wanted to read it so badly I nearly cried in desperation.

And now this.

Brilliant brilliant start, love the premise, love the snark, love England's helplessness in face of his own deepest emotions. Love the magic involved because of course it makes sense, love the underlined tone of something ceremonial and sacred and the starting shiver of all the good things that will follow. Surely.

No words to express how much I wanted this and how much my wish is now coming true and how I'm looking forward to more.

Would I be very mistaken if assuming you are you the wonderful person spoiling us KM readers with yet another UK brothers fic.

--

He's naked when they reach his bedroom. His bedroom. England can't remember the last time he felt so humiliated. They could at least have let him fold the clothes, instead of leaving them in crumpled heaps in the hall. He shivers as Scotland directs him to kneel on the rug. He can't remember the last time he felt so turned on, either, if he's being strictly honest with himself.

If he were drunk enough not to have meant it, he reasons, he would have been too drunk to cast the spell.

"Right handsome, that is," Scotland says, somewhere behind him, with far too much relish.

"Mm. Is the spell keyed to both of us, or just you, d'you think?"

"Try it."

"Right. Hands behind your back," Wales says.

Engiand's hands lift and clasp behind the small of his back. His knuckles rub against his knobby spine. "This is ridiculous," he says, and tries to think of something unsexy. The Prime Minister, that's - damn it, it won't do right now, Heath's almost handsome, in that distinguished sort of way. He settles for the American president. Shifty fellow, almost slimy, if he puts his mind to it. It nearly keeps his breathing steady.

Wales, he observes with somthing like dread, is peering under his bed, with the air of a housekeeper checking for bad dusting. What he comes up with, with a satisfied noise, is a wooden box, plain and polished and bound with brass. "That is private," England snaps.

"Oh, good. Where do you keep the key?"

He answers helplessly, "Nightstand."

Scotlsnd, amazingly and annoyingly enugh, ruffles England's hair. "We know it's private. Else it wouldn't be locked."

"Well, I wouldn't want North - " He breaks off. The embarassment and anger and helpless arousal churning in his stoumach are joined by a thick dread. His hands clench. "Scotland. Where is Northern Ireland?"

"A ways west of the Isle of Man," Scotland answers, and when England starts to growl, goes on: "But in the sense ye meant, out with friends. The lass does have friends, ye ken. She'll be back sevenish."

"When we will break for supper," Wales adds. He has the box open on the nightstand, having moved England's lovely Art Deco reading lamp to the floor to make room, and is looking through it with a critical eye. He lifts a thing that had been a present from France, shakes his head sadly, and sets it back. "After which, well, we'll simply have to be silent, won't we. That's all the important questions, I think. Don't speak again without permission."

England opens his mouth to protest, but of course he can't.

Scotland comes into view - his shirt undone, but trousers thankfully still in place - and pokes at the box. He's just as flushed as England. It can't possibly be for the same reason. Hf pulls out some rather nice prints his brother had acquired in Tokyo, goes pale, and puts them back. Then he pulls out the riding crop. That seems to satisfy him. Or maybe not, because his next words are, "Why is there a riding crop in with his toys?"

"Because England has alarmly public-school tastes for someone who's only ever been to university," Wales answers. England feels his shoulders tense in anticipation. "Go on, give him a good thrashing. He'll stiffen up at last, he must have been imagining Harold Wilson naked or the like." He's been paying attention? "Oh, don't look at me like that, you're no virgin."

"No," Scotland says, "but mostly I like people screaming in pleasure, ye ken. What've ye two been doing?"

"Nothing whatsoever, I'm afraid. Give it a go." He must be getting annoyed, Wales always goes polysyllabic when he's annoyed. England allows himsef a very brief feeling of victory.

It lasts until Scotland, with a shrug, brings the crop down on his shoulders.

The sting of the first dozen isn't much, he's used to worse, Scotland is going easy on him for someone so strong. But it's enough to bring every nerve to attention. And other things. He finds himself leaning forward, trying to curl up and hide his stiffenng cock. He whimpers; they didn't say he couldn't make noise.

"Well," says Scotland, sounding presently surprised. Then he does it again, harder.

When he stops, England is panting and moaning, and Wales is holding out a flail with a dreadful smirk.

--

If he were drunk enough not to have meant it, he reasons, he would have been too drunk to cast the spell. favourite line.

But this one made me snort loudly: "Because England has alarmly public-school tastes for someone who's only ever been to university,"

Wales as the kinkier one? Hell yes. Also Scotland being shy. And going easy on England. Yes yes yes.

This is pushing all the right buttons and everything is perfect. Not sure if I now want greedily all at once or if I'd prefer to enjoy every bit with slow updates.

^ I second everything the above anon said

Seriously this is fucking amazing. More please :)

Re: "Red Shall Thy Petals Be" (2/10?)

(Anonymous) - 2012-04-30 02:14 (UTC) - Expand

England is on his hands and knees - with permission, of course, they let him when they noticed the strain in his back - by the time they get tired of the flail and move onto the cane.

There is at least one important question that he didn't get a chance to ask; it's nagging at him now, beneath the shivery mix of feelings that have left him short of breath. Why this? Humiliation, yes, but this is a very private sort of humiliation. Why not, oh, dress him in women's clothing and send him to his favourite pub, so he can never show his face there again? Make him phone that new education secretary, what's her name, how far gone is he he's forgotten it, Thatcher, and beg her to leave her husband and elope with him to Bermuda? It'd only be even funnier if she said yes. Or actually awful things? Make him take a hammer to his china figurines, rip the pages from his first editions. Make him fly to Paris and offer to let the Frog do all those things he keeps insinuating, smiling.

No good thinking about it now. But he'll have plenty of questions, come eight-twenty Sunday morning.

England doesn't notice the beating has stopped, at first. It was so steady and even, he keeps tensing away from the blows that never fall.

"Lovely," Scotland says, and it sounds heaartfelt. The large hand that runs down England's back, rubbing soothingly over the red marks and purpling bruises, must be his as well. "He took that well."

"Oh, quite."

They're talking about him, like he couldn't have anything to say. Like a pet, or a doll. It shouldn't be so reassuring. He closes his eyes.

"Right. We need a plan," Scotland declares.

"True." There's a rustling noise, and then he feels Wales's long fingers in his hair. "You wait here, alright? Lie down on your side, and don't move."

He lies down, carefully, to make sure there's no pressure on his bruises. The rug scrapes against his too-sensitive skin. He's starting to regret not getting that shag carpet America thought was so totally rad, man. England does his best to give his brothers a poisinous glare as they walk out.

--

England has completely lost track of time when they come back. The room's gone darker, like it does when the sky is loudly threatening rain but every Londoner knows it's a bluff, and between the dull throbbing pain in his back and his increaseningly maddening arousal, which he can't even give himself a few strokes to take the edge off, he's going quite out of his head, floating.

He hears noises, and then Scotland says, "Up." England doesn't register it as a command until it's repeated, and his brother grabs his hand and tugs. A few more barked imperatives leave him kneeling again, on his bed, hands tight on the headboard. Gratefully, he notes they took away the quilt. He's fond of the quilt, and it would have been quite annoying to clean.

Scotland starts to stroke his back again. England doesn't know whether to relax or tense up under the touch. Then Scotland whispers, "Relax," and the choice is gone. He lets his head drop, eyes closed, and waits for the next torment.

He waits. Breathes carefully.

Scotland asks, "Did you remember the lube?"

"Erm."

"Or do I need - "

"No, wait," Wales answers. There's a rustling noise. "I think he had some." England begins to laugh helplessly. They never said he couldn't laugh. He breaks off when he hears a triumphant exclamation. "Aha! Here, there was some rose-scented oil in the bag of dildos."

Which is, England thinks, not the sort of sentence that should ever be uttered by someone wearing a cardigan sweater.

"Give it here," Scotland says.

There are a series of wet noises, fabric noises; the bed shifts as Scotlands climbs onto it, breath warm on the back of England's neck.

Then England loses his train of thought completely. He knew that Scotland has absurdly large hands; he's listened to enough rants on the topic of Wee Little Gloves, Alarming Prevalence Of, to know that, and he's felt the oversized fists on his skin. But now he has a, er, rather more intimate knowledge. He moans as he feels two fingers slipping inside, and trembles as they feel around, and when they jab at his prostate he comes, abruptly, with a dreadful wail.

Scotland laughs, and keeps going.

--

Give me a moment to remember how to breathe because DEARLORD Scotland's large hands are like the biggest turn-on ever, ever.

But! Back to this amazing little bundle of Everything my dirty little mind ever dreamed of, I can't get enough of the slightly absurd situation you created, where England perceives everything that is happening to him as an onlooker and is completely surrendering to his fate, adding the hateful glares only as a sort of tradition, and where both brothers are incredibly kind to him, given what's going on. This made me (predictably) melt:

"Lovely," Scotland says, and it sounds heaartfelt. The large hand that runs down England's back, rubbing soothingly over the red marks and purpling bruises, must be his as well. "He took that well."

Also the moment when England is thinking about his brother's reason, I too wondered already what their motives will be and I'm looking forward to the solution/end of this fic just as much as to the um, let's call it, more action-filled parts.

And England laughing. And Which is, England thinks, not the sort of sentence that should ever be uttered by someone wearing a cardigan sweater.

And Wee Little Gloves, Alarming Prevalence Of

And Scotland's hands. Cough.

I think I loved all of this, but mostly England in subspace. YES.

[Thanks to everyone who's commented; glad you're enjoying it! And since I'm not running right up to 4300 characters this time, curious-anon, I am the same person who wrote 'green and pleasant'; nicking lines from patriotic songs is probably not how I should be titling threesome fics, but hey, why not stick with a theme . . . ]

--

"We should stop for lunch," Wales says, after a while. Thankfully for England's sanity, he's removed the cardigan. Also the rest of his clothes, but for some reason he fetched his bathrobe when he went to get more lube. "He's worn out."

England, who is sprawled against Scotland's chest in a thouroghly undignified way, can't help but agree. He nods, as firmly as he can in his state of exhaustion. His muscles feel strained and langorous at once. He doesn't want to think about what a mess he looks. The worst of it is, Scotland's barely breathing hard, and he was doing just as much work. More, really.

"I could go another round," Scotland offers, damn him.

Wales lifts England's foot into his lap and goes back to rubbing a particularly maddening spot between his toes. "We need him normal-looking by seven, remember."

Scotland sighs heavily, and gently detatches England's fingers from his shoulders. "Fine. I'm getting my trousers."

"Oh, why bother?"

"Wales, if it strikes your fancy tae dine in robes like some Japanese potentate, I've no complaint. But I'm nae dining in the nude." He glares as if this should be perfectly obvious.

The robe in question is an ancient terrycloth thing no potentate would be caught dead in, but Wales doesn't point this out. He rises elegantly from the bed, once his legs are untangled. "Fine. I'll start on the sandwiches. Clean him up and bring him along."

Scotland dumps him uncerimoniously on the bed. The moveement jostles his sore muscles, and he whimpers at the sudden pain in his arse. His brother sighs. "Clean him up. Really. Who's takin' orders here?" But he fetches the towel, and rubs the worst of the sweat from England's skin, giving him no more direction than to move a few limbs.

England is the only one still naked when they gather at the kitchen table again, but he's feeling almost human. It doesn't really surprise him, therefore, when his brothers do another Look, and then Scotland tells him to go on all fours.

"Good boy," Wales says, as if he'd had a choice in the matter. Straining against commands would only hurt. He agreed to this.

They let him sit beside the table, and pass him scraps of their sandwiches. They even put a water dish on a chair, where he can reach it without making a complete idiot of himself. He listens to their conversation with only half an ear. Most of it is about the weather in any case. Maybe they don't want to say anything interesting where he can overhear.

Would he forget, if they told him to?

He begs on command. He balances a crisp on his nose. When Scotland carelessly suggests, "Speak, boy!", he manages twenty seconds of vicious profanity and abuse before they manage to order him back to silence.

--

Wales and worn-out terrycloth robes: new headcanon.

This is getting better and better! Can't wait for the moment when Scotland and Wales will have to make their brother look presentable for Northern Ireland.

I really love your Wales. You keep reminding us that he speaks differently (though it's hard to imagine his high-pitchedness). And his cardigan, XD

I don't think they'd order England to forget, unless they screw up big.
And Scotland probably regretted the "speak" order. Of course Artie would swear~

I wonder if they'd doll him up just to show off to North XD

Re: "Red Shall Thy Petals Be" (4/?)

(Anonymous) - 2012-05-03 00:33 (UTC) - Expand

Re: "Red Shall Thy Petals Be" (4/?)

(Anonymous) - 2012-05-03 10:05 (UTC) - Expand

--

"Go on, take a turn," Scotland urges. "He's plenty ready."

England groans, and wishes he could let his legs down. Lying on his back's no problem, the sting has faded, but he's nearly folded in half here. Breathing takes effort.

Wales accepts the crop and starts working up the backs of his thighs. He's softer with it, and sloppier; once or twice he lands a stray blow on England's hands, and England almost loses his grip on his knees in shock and pain. The second time, Scotland tensely tells him to let go, and grabs his ankles. His hands hold firm as manacles.

It's absurd to be grateful to someone for holding your legs up so you can get a more thourogh whipping, but England is far past caring. He scrabbles at the sheets instead, grabs the edge of the pillow shoved under his hips.

The rain of strokes trails off to a gentle drizzle up his calves, and stops. England does his best to take a few deep breaths.

His next clear sensation is a cock nudging at his arse. Again. He'd complain about cliche, if it wasn't such a nice feeling. If they didn't alternate it with beating him and dripping hot wax on his skin and just making him kneel and play footrest while they took a breather. If he were allowed to speak. He's come three times, and it's not even teatime. It would have been more, except that his brothers are terrible teases.

Scotland's hands lift, and he feels his legs slip down, before they hit something nubbly. Wales's shoulders, still covered by the bathrobe, although it's hanging open now, brushing his ribs. It tickles. "Head back," his brother whispers, and when England complies, nuzzles his neck. They could almost be a normal couple, making love on a lazy afternoon, except for the crop marks.

He tries to lose himself in the slow, lazy thrusts, the warm breath on his neck and careful nips at his chest. It's easy enough. He even enjoyed the humiliation; enjoying the gentleness is simple.

There's a familiar click.

England's eyes snap open. Then he narrows them. He can't quite see from this angle, but he knows if he culd, Scotland would be standing there, clutching that Polaroid Swinger that England, in a misplaced fit of generosity, got him for Christmas five years back, and grinning.

Wales leans back, and begins, "Look you, I never said -"

"Out of that robe."

"What?"

"It's ruinin' my shot. Dunno why you han't lost it yet."

"I was cold," Wales snaps, and pulls out. England grabs at his knees again, with a pitiful whimpring that goes completely ignored. "I don't know why you put up with living in an icebox."

There's something to be said for spectating an argument between his brothers; they happen so rarely. Right now he'd really rather get back to getting buggered, but at least this should be diverting. A rare topic, since it's one of the few on which he and Scotland agree. Mostly, arguments are between the two of them while Wales sulks.

"Because," Scotland rumbles, "living in a furnace is too expensive."

"It doesn't mean you shouldn't light a damn fire every once in a while, you know."

England lifts his head. Wales is kneeling on the bed, arms crossed and scowling. Scotland is still holding up the camera; he hasn't bothered taking the picture out yet. It would be a lot more dignified if he weren't naked. "D'ye think firewood grows on trees?"

"Well, yes. That's why it's called firewood, isn't it." They could probably go on in this vein for hours, but apparently Wales, as usual, feels as if short-circuiting the argument would be the best thing, because he declares, "Why don't you come take over and I'll take the photos?"

"I do want some of you," Scotland says.

"When I finish this roll. You do have more film?"

They finish the roll. England groans and tries to appreciate Scotland's weight on top of him and those oversize hands holding him in various exposed positions, and knows that hee'll never manage to find and destroy the result - from Wales's pleased noises as he pulls the negatives free, the quite pretty result.

Or the next roll, where Wales does deign to take off the robe and then they lay England out alone to document his bruises.

He should have known better, than to think they'd let him keep any dignity. He wonders what blackmail they're planning.

--

gah! i am loving this fill so much!

Just when I think this fill has hit all my kinks, it hits some more. I'm loving this, A!A. You're really making me realize the potential of the British bros.

Seconding anon from above, this is hitting so many kinks I stopped counting. That position combined with the crop is so rare yet gets me like few other things in fics.

OMG, I love you, writer!anon, and your take on Scotland. His big hands, and endearing, teasing, big-brotherness. And Wales of course. I like how they treat England with carelessness and intent to humiliate, but still showing their considerateness in the smallest things. UK bros for the win!!

That said, I was pretty sad when the first time Scotland or Wales put his dick in England's anus, it wasn't described in details. Just saying. I still love the fill so much my teeth hurt, and I'm hoping like mad that the DP will be described in incredible details.

Can't wait for the dolling up and pretending once North is back as well! And the conversation on Sunday 8 something am. Hopefully England could let his big bros dominate him again in the future *waggle brows and hope like mad*

[Warning: Do not try this at home, kids! You can seriously injure someone's shoulders if you donn't know what you're doing.]

--

England lies panting on the floor. It must be late afternoon by now, but the alarm clock on the nightstand vanished at some point. He hopes they're keeping track of time. Thrilling, in the secret pit of his stoumach, as it is to let him brothers take him to bits, North is still a child and doesn't need to know. About any of it.

There's a discussion going on above him. He can't really follow it; he's only kept himself from floating away again with very careful breathing. One sentence does come clear, in Wales's voice. "I do want to hear him screaming," it says. There are more whispers, a thump.

"England," Scotland says somewhere above him. "Where's your rope?"

What rope, he wants to say, but they did think to tell him to answer questions honestly. "In the wardrobe, in the green shoebox." What do they want it for? It's not as if he can move if they tell him not to.

At their clipped orders he hauls himself upright. Kneeling on the rug, hands behind his back. He hopes, briefly, they just want to tie him up and take some more pictures while the light lasts. He should have splurged, he thinks bitterly. He should have got Scotland one of those giant cameras that use film you have to get in special shops, and Scotland could have fiddled to his heart's content, and he'd have been too cheap to take so many pictures.

Not that just two or three would necessarily have been an improvement.

He feels them rearrange his hands until he's touching his elbows, and then start wrapping rope around his forearms, over and over again. Why do it like that? The only answer the shreds of his mind can come up with is 'easier access', and surely they're tired of that by now. He tries to stay quiet, but the tension flickering through his body, the rough feeling of rope as thy tug it into place, conspire to drag little whimpers from him.

"Don't open your eyes," Wales tells him. England gasps, trying not to think of anything at all.

Then he screams.

Later, England will conclude that they must have hooked the rope over his ceiling light somehow. Now, there is nothing but the sudden pain, as he's jerked up, arms wrenched at an unnatural angle. He screams until he runs out of breath. His shoulders burn, and his chest aches, and those broken little noises can't be his -

"A wee bit lower, I think," Scotland says, back in the real world somewhere.

The rope slips down. England almost sobs in relief. It's still not comfortable. He scrapes his knees over the rug until they're a little closer together, arches his back just right. It leaves the muscles all the way up his body tense and trembling, mouth open, pitiful whimpers every time time a motion renews the ache. Helpless and in pain, just how they like him.

There's an undefined length of time. Then he finally feels a finger prodding between his cheeks. They can't mean to give him another rogering, can they? The angle is all wrong.

But when he does feel something slipping inside, it's cold and firm and familiar. Something from his own toybox. He moans. "Puir wee thing," says a voice in his ear, not sounding very sorry, and he can almost feel Scotland's looming presence at his side. Someone ruffles his hair.

Then there's a hand on his cock, and he almost sobs with relief, despite the pain.

It's a big hand. Scotland's, probably. It closes about him with firm strokes, and someone is thrusting into him with the toy, and he trembles. He chokes off whimpers when firm fingers pinch at his nipples, and then someone says, "Don't hold back," so he doesn't. It's a relief to scream again, even if it makes his throat hurt. Everything else hurts, so why not? What must he look like by now? What would his boss think? How the Frog would laugh, to see him now. A whimperng mess, kneeling and bound, and loving every second of it -

The big hand on his cock moves just so, and he climaxes again. His throat closes off, and he can't even scream. Four, he thinks madly, this makes four. There might be arms around his shoulders, but he can't really feel anything right now but the aching in his muscles and the toy still prodding him deep inside.

--

I would enjoy this fic just for the kinks and the characters, but the fact England is fully enjoying this whole situation, despite probably never admitting it, makes it into a rare treat with thoroughly christmas-y feel, were it only possible to get favourite smut fics as Christmas presents.

I have been loving every single update, anon, and this one was as sexy as ever! Keep up the fantastic work!

England screams again, but quietly, when the hands move away. He trails off to whimpers when he feels a damp towel on his body. Then there are retreating footsteps, two sets. The door opens.

They can't just be leaving him like this, can they?

He strains to hear anything, and whimpers when the only thing he can hear is water gushing through a pipe. They must be in the shower. In other circumstances it would be an enticing mental image, but right now he doesn't have the concentration.

Every breath comes out a whimper, and the strain in his back and thighs is no lesser. Even when they let him down, he knows, he'll still hurt, he'll still feel this. They just left him. Didn't bother putting their doll away. They said not to hold back; he lets himself sob from the insistent thought. The tears roll down unimpeded. Somehow it makes it worse that he can't wipe his eyes.

He feels cold, in a way that has nothing to do with the air. The air is fine, whatever Wales thinks. He's sweating. But he can't quite pull himself together, can't fade into the pain. Something wrong. He gasps, trying to force himself back, but the extra breath only makes him wail.

They must be sorry they're missing this.

He doesn't know how long it is until he runs out of breath, and hangs there shuddering, tears dripping off his chin.

The door creaks. More footsteps, and suddenly the rope goes loose.

England collapses, curling in on himself. He can't fall down; they never said he could. But he falls to the floor, thighs pressed against calves heedless of the pressure on his bruises, head hanging down.

A rough, heavy sigh, and hands start tugging his bound forearms free, not touching any other part of him. For some reason that wrenches at him worse than anything else has, and he opens up a fresh round of sobbing. The rope falls free, and he grabs at his wrists to keep his hands from falling to his sides.

Something heavy settles over his shoulders, and it startles him enough to interrupt his sobs. It's soft and familiar. His own dressing gown. "Arms in sleeves," Scotland's voice commands. He takes a deep breath, and tries to comply. His hands get tangled in the fabric; in the end Scotland has to help him with the sleeves, and knot the sash for him when his shaky fingers can't quite manage it. "C'mere," his brother says when that's done, and tugs him close.

It's such a relief to be close to another body right now, to be allowed to hold onto something. England takes deep breaths and wraps his arms around Scotland's waist, and Scotland's hands rub at his shoulders, pressing hard to loosen the muscles. Maybe he'll be able to use a knife and fork tonight without his arms screaming in protest.

He comes down slowly. The fuzziness in his limbs retreats into simple aching; the pounding blood in his head goes quiet, until he can hear running water somewhere, feel the solid warmth of his brother's chest and the scratchy tangle of hair down its middle, the awkward way his legs are splayed across the floor.

"Open your eyes," Scotland says. He does. The light is the same dreary cloud-filtered mess it's been all day; he can't guess how much time they have left. He tries to glower, and fails.

From somewhere on the other side of the room Wales says, "You can speak now, if you want."

England lifts his head; Wales is leaning in the door, wrapped in his worn-out robe, with that maddening little smug smile. "You two," England says, "are the most insufferable, vicious, overbearing creatures I've ever known."

"Why, thank you. You'll be wanting these when you've had a wash, I think."

Wales is holding up the clothes England discarded in the hallway that morning, he realises. He squints. He sputters and manages to sit up, to a horrible little chuckle from Scotland. "I can't wear those! They're all over wrinkles."

"Oh, well, find different ones."

"And why not just iron those?"

"Because," Wales tells him calmly, "last time I tried to use your iron I set the tablecloth on fire and you swore never to let me near it again, and you're shaking too hard to use a hot metal instrument. There's a hot bath ready. Can you stand on your own, or do you need us to carry you to it?"

He can stand on his own, it turns out. A hand on the wall doesn't count.

--

I love how every violent scene gets immediately outweighed by a fluffy comforting moment, it keeps the fic wonderfully balanced.

Well actually I love absolutely everything about this fic but I'm sadly running out of compliments.

Also talking about ironing in a moment like this, how much more domestic can it go.

I think that England's headspace while he's alone is both one of my favorite pieces of writing and a wonderful contrast to the comforting.

This fic is not only hitting all of my kink buttons but also all of my emotional ones as well. So wonderful.

England has stopped shaking by the time he gets out of the bath; once all three of them are dressed he's doing an excellent imitation of normal. Even the red eyes are gone. He allows his necktie to be knotted for him - they picked out a green one with a paisely pattern, which he bought becuse the girl at the shop said it brought out his eyes, and then stopped wearing because Scotland said it made him look like a shrubbery.

"I hate you more than words can say," he informs them, hands neatly folded in his lap.

"Aye, we ken that noo," Scotland says, and ruffles the hair he just combed.

Now that he's not so distracted it occurs to England that he's hungry, desperately hungry, and also desperately in need of a smoke. He wonders if they'd let him slip out for one. He hasn't smoked in the house - even though it's his house, dammit - since a particularly nasty argument with his brothers a few years back. Of course, they don't decide what he does, in the usual way of things, but it's not worth the shouting match.

Probably they wouldn't.

"Here," Wales says, reappearing in the door with England's shoes hanging from one hand. "England, why were your shoes in the icebox?"

He considers this. "I honestly don't know."

"Fair enough, I suppose, we weren't back until one." He kneels to slip the chilly shoes onto England's feet.

England gasps at the cold, but it's a minor annoyance admidst the pain. "Where were we? I don't remember anything past eleven."

"Hyde Park. Mostly." Wales tugs the laces tight and smiles. "Perhaps it's just as well that you forgot."

Scotland chuckles, deep in his throat. England glares, and decides he'll get the story out of them. Later. At some point when he they couldn't make him beg on his knees for it for their own sick amusement.

The dining room clock says six-thirty. They've been at this ten hours. Which means, England realises with a shudder, that they have fourteen to go.

Well. Say - two hours at least, for North to come home, supper foreveryone, getting her to bed, perhaps closer to three. Eleven hours. And they can't make him scream any longer. It would invite awkward questions.

Which doesn't mean they can't make him want to scream.

Is he going to be allowed any sleep tonight? He'll be an absolute wreck in the morning. He would take some comfort in knowing they need sleep as well, but there's two of them. They could taake shifts. Or just power through on tea; how often, after all, does a chance like this come around?

--

They leave him in the study to relax with Enid Blyton, pausing only long enough to bend him over his desk for another half-dozen strokes of the cane. On top of all the rest of the pain it's a small thing, just a little reminder, a fresh humiliation. Wales hands him the book once he pulls his trousers back up. "If the topic comes up," he murmurs, "you spent the day reading and doing embroidery, and you've no idea where we went after breakfast. We're going out for supper, by the way. Suggest it yourself. Act normally."

He doesn't manage to actually read anything. But without his brothers there, in his nice quiet study, he does breathe deeply until he almost feels normal again.

Northern Ireland is back at seven on the dot. England greets her with a hug and is vauge about his boring day at home, listening with much more appreciation to her eager description of her day at the zoo. She's a sweet girl, and he hopes desperately she doesn't turn moody and bitter when she gets older. Soon, if England is any judge.

When she inevitably starts to complain about food, having apparently not eaten since tea - at the distant epoch of four that afternoon - he suggests they go out.

Scotland orders lobster, a pound and six shillings in old money, with the calm self-assurance of someone who knows he won't be paying. England seethes silently, wonders if starting an argument with Scotland would be an inevitable enough result of eating in a restaurant with him to count as 'acting normally', then decides it's not worth it and orders three bottles of wine instead.

This is more the sort of thing he would have expected. If he'd thought it through.

North eats as much as two of them, as always, not counting pudding.

--

Part 17 - British brothers enforced threesome - "Red Shall Thy Petals Be" (1/?)

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