"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.
"Red Shall Thy Petals Be" (5/?)
"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.
--