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