Past-Part Fills Part 7

[hetalia_kink]

Past-Part Fills Part Seven

Fills from past parts can go here!
Fills from the current part MUST go in that part's post until it is full.

Include a link to the original request (and if an ongoing fill, any previous chapters/sections).

The 'Anything Goes' request is here if you need it.

Then, don't forget to link your new fill at the fill index and under the original request.

Keep yourself up to date: check out the news.
Comments and Suggestions go here.

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

Comments

"Red Shall Thy Petals Be" (3/?)

[(Anonymous)]

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.

--

Re: "Red Shall Thy Petals Be" (3/?)

[(Anonymous)]

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.

Re: "Red Shall Thy Petals Be" (3/?)

[(Anonymous)]

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