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" (15/17?)

[(Anonymous)]

His sobs are cut off by the hand on his throat once more, and even then he can't stop trying to sob, let out his pain and misery and confusion. They're still moving, slow irregular thrusts, and he doesn't want them to go away, and at the same time it's horrible, he hates letting them see, hates himself for letting so many feelings out.

Loves them, somehow, for slitting open his armour so well and letting him. He could think more clearly if he could breathe. Perhaps it's for the best.

The gentle thrusts are beginning to feel absurd, but the darkness is beckoning again and this time it seems like the better option. He pitches himself into it, with a sigh in the back of his mind that does not, cannot, reach his lips.

It can't last very long, but the disconnect is soothing. When he floats back up his brothers are pulling out of his body, with a gentleness that seems at odds with everything else they've done today. Yesterday? Is it tomrrow by now?

England lets himself go limp. There's still one organ that's very much not limp, but it's only a faint nagging at his awareness. He breathes deep, reveling in the feeling of air rushing into his lungs, even the thick, sweaty smell. He keeps his eyes closed, to hold the tears in. There are limits to the humiliation he can take.

Slowly, Scotland rolls him away onto the mattress, so he's clinging to his brother's side instead. He swallows convulsively as Wales presses against his back, licks the bruised side of his neck. He feels a hand brushing at his chest. Then it moves down, splayed out against his trembling stoumach, and closes on his prick.

The easy strokes are in time with his breaths. He doesn't have to move; he floats on it. His orgasm feels like an afterthought in the exhaustion. It doesn't interrupt the strokes, and he moans, low and long. Wales chuckles against his collarbone, and then turns his head to plant a soft kiss at the corner of his jaw.

It's the first proper kiss he's gotten all day, England thinks. The contented thought of it blossoms, nudging aside the remnants of misery.

When he opens his eyes only the faint glow of the moon suffuses the room. Scotland is snoring, of course, and sprawled over rather more of the bed than even his size should require. England has somehow wound up flat on his back. Wales is curled on the edge of the bed, one leg over England's knees.

England feels sticky and awful. Cold, too, because off course all the blankets are in a heap on Scotland's side.

He must look a mess. He'll just have to grit his teeth and wash his hair in the morning. It will hurt, but he can handle pain. As soon as it's past eight, right, can't forget that. He's still under orders. But they fell asleep, so maybe they've had enough.

Now that he's a little more awake all his aches and pains are coming back too. They'd better not ask for more. They never actually ordered him not to slap them.

Scotland makes a pecuiliar whuffling noise and rolls over, throwing an arm across England's chest. England lifts a hand and gingerly tries to push him back, but it's like trying to push away a boulder.

--

There's one more time, as it turns out. England half-wakes in the predawn light to Scotland nudging his shoulder. He blinks, and at a tug rolls closer to the warmth. Somewhere behind him Wales sighs in his sleep.

He barely registers what he's pressing against, and when he does there's nothing but a bleary sense of satisfaction. Scotland guides England's hand between them, rubbing them together, and England, still barely aware of what he's doing, takes them both in hand, thrusting slowly. By the time the haze of sleep has peeled back he's too close to want to stop. He finishes his brother off, with a gasp, and then it only takes a little longer for himself, with a grateful sigh.

Scotland lets him lie still for a little bit, enjoying the hazy afterglow. Then he sits up, and ruffles England's hair. "Now there's a fine wake-up call," he rumbles. "C'mon, let's get cleaned up. Rise and shine."

England groans. but he goes along with it. They manage somehow to climb out of the bed without tipping Wales off the edge. He rolls over with a sigh, showing no sign of waking, and England absently flips him two fingers as he pulls on his dressing gown.

--

Re: "Red Shall Thy Petals Be" (15/17?)

[(Anonymous)]

Perfect contrast to the violent start. This fic has such an emotional depth as I rarely ever saw in fiction altogether. England holding in his tears, the first kiss of the day from Wales, all three brothers' sleeping habits, and most of all the tranquility of mood that this story achieved together with England's own thoughts make this story really exceptional.

Loves them, somehow, for slitting open his armour so well and letting him. He could think more clearly if he could breathe. Perhaps it's for the best.

- that really got me.