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.