[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 . . . ]
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"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.
"Red Shall Thy Petals Be" (4/?)
[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 . . . ]
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"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.
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