Me Bonny English Lad
Jun. 14th, 2013 01:34 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
madra_liathSummary: England and Scotland, drunken fluff. Written for the Axis Powers Hetalia Kink Meme.
***
England wasn’t entirely sure how they’d gotten back to the hotel room. The evening had become decidedly fuzzy at some point. He remembered the Republic of Ireland breaking out the accordion, and Northern Ireland flipping her off with a grin when she played the first few bars of Kelly of Killane. He remembered the Isle of Man sitting there with her rally gear still on, apparently mystified by human food. He remembered Wales slumping on the bar next to him, and nodding along to the incomprehensible stream of slurred Welsh that came out of his mouth. And then, after a lot of beer, there was Scotland. Scotland with his arm around him, gently beating time on his head while he sang a song about the Queen. England couldn’t understand half of it – a combination of drunkenness and Scotland’s ridiculous accent – but he knew it was supposed to be insulting. And yet there was a fondness to it, almost…gentle ribbing, not outright hatred.
It was nice, Scotland acting like a real big brother.
And he’d continued to act that way, apparently, because his arm was still around England, guiding him into the suite.
“Hold on,” Scotland grunted, and England stumbled a little as the older nation bent his knees and leaned away from him. As he steadied himself, England realised Scotland had been carrying an unconscious Wales on his shoulder, and was rolling him onto the couch. Task complete, Scotland put his arm around England again.
“Come on, lad, time for bed,” he murmured, both of them lurching towards the very large bed in the middle of the room. It was a welcome sight – England was very drowsy and his legs didn’t want to work properly – but there was something missing, something that would make the evening complete.
“Want a cup of tea,” he slurred petulantly.
Scotland straightened up and looked at him.
“You’ll piss yoursel’,” he replied, poking England in the belly, but he let go of him and weaved over to the kettle on the dresser.
“Will not,” England replied grumpily, tottering over to the bed. He’d had that great big one all over Germany’s car. He giggled – right up on the back window it went! England sat down heavily on the bed and allowed himself to fall back, sinking into the soft mattress. He could see Wales fast asleep on the cream-coloured couch, a big dirty mark on the upholstery from his coal-stained face. England giggled again.
“Here’s yer tea.”
It was hard to sit up, so Scotland grasped his hand and pulled him into a sitting position. England found himself staring at Scotland’s hand. It was large and rough, with fine ginger hairs sprouting just above his knuckles. Funny…he’d learned over the centuries to view those hands as lethal weapons. He’d never thought they could be…gentle.
Scotland released his grip and pressed the warm cup into England’s hands, not letting go until he was sure England wasn’t going to drop it. He staggered around to the other side of the bed and sat down. England watched him working at his trousers while he sipped his tea. Scotland had nice hair. Auburn, like a sunset. He had a nice strong back too, England thought as Scotland fumbled with his shirt and tie. He tried to remember if Scotland had ever given him a piggyback ride, and felt tears sting his eyes when he realised he couldn’t.
Stripped down to his Y-fronts, Scotland rolled onto the bed and began to get comfortable. England turned away and finished his tea in a few gulps.
“Are ye no’ gonna get undressed for bed?” Scotland asked, tugging the blankets from under him.
England hiccupped violently and lay down on the bed, too upset to answer.
The bedclothes rustled as Scotland inched closer, and began to unbuckle England’s belt.
“At least take yer troosers off,” he murmured gently, “you wee English bastard.”
England rolled over, his head landing against Scotland’s chest as the older nation helped him to wriggle out of his slacks.
“Bloody Scottish wanker,” he mumbled into the ginger fuzz on Scotland’s chest. He sniffled loudly. “Why can’t we always be like this?”
Scotland looked down at him in surprise, then curled his arms around him.
“Ach, well…maybe we can,” he murmured. He tousled England’s hair and pulled the blankets up over them both. “Or at least most of the time.”
“Mm.” England snuggled tightly against him. He couldn’t remember doing this with Scotland when they were children, either – but better late than never. “I’d like that.”
He felt Scotland place a soft kiss on his hair.
“Just don’t piss in this bed, or else it’s all off.”
***
England wasn’t entirely sure how they’d gotten back to the hotel room. The evening had become decidedly fuzzy at some point. He remembered the Republic of Ireland breaking out the accordion, and Northern Ireland flipping her off with a grin when she played the first few bars of Kelly of Killane. He remembered the Isle of Man sitting there with her rally gear still on, apparently mystified by human food. He remembered Wales slumping on the bar next to him, and nodding along to the incomprehensible stream of slurred Welsh that came out of his mouth. And then, after a lot of beer, there was Scotland. Scotland with his arm around him, gently beating time on his head while he sang a song about the Queen. England couldn’t understand half of it – a combination of drunkenness and Scotland’s ridiculous accent – but he knew it was supposed to be insulting. And yet there was a fondness to it, almost…gentle ribbing, not outright hatred.
It was nice, Scotland acting like a real big brother.
And he’d continued to act that way, apparently, because his arm was still around England, guiding him into the suite.
“Hold on,” Scotland grunted, and England stumbled a little as the older nation bent his knees and leaned away from him. As he steadied himself, England realised Scotland had been carrying an unconscious Wales on his shoulder, and was rolling him onto the couch. Task complete, Scotland put his arm around England again.
“Come on, lad, time for bed,” he murmured, both of them lurching towards the very large bed in the middle of the room. It was a welcome sight – England was very drowsy and his legs didn’t want to work properly – but there was something missing, something that would make the evening complete.
“Want a cup of tea,” he slurred petulantly.
Scotland straightened up and looked at him.
“You’ll piss yoursel’,” he replied, poking England in the belly, but he let go of him and weaved over to the kettle on the dresser.
“Will not,” England replied grumpily, tottering over to the bed. He’d had that great big one all over Germany’s car. He giggled – right up on the back window it went! England sat down heavily on the bed and allowed himself to fall back, sinking into the soft mattress. He could see Wales fast asleep on the cream-coloured couch, a big dirty mark on the upholstery from his coal-stained face. England giggled again.
“Here’s yer tea.”
It was hard to sit up, so Scotland grasped his hand and pulled him into a sitting position. England found himself staring at Scotland’s hand. It was large and rough, with fine ginger hairs sprouting just above his knuckles. Funny…he’d learned over the centuries to view those hands as lethal weapons. He’d never thought they could be…gentle.
Scotland released his grip and pressed the warm cup into England’s hands, not letting go until he was sure England wasn’t going to drop it. He staggered around to the other side of the bed and sat down. England watched him working at his trousers while he sipped his tea. Scotland had nice hair. Auburn, like a sunset. He had a nice strong back too, England thought as Scotland fumbled with his shirt and tie. He tried to remember if Scotland had ever given him a piggyback ride, and felt tears sting his eyes when he realised he couldn’t.
Stripped down to his Y-fronts, Scotland rolled onto the bed and began to get comfortable. England turned away and finished his tea in a few gulps.
“Are ye no’ gonna get undressed for bed?” Scotland asked, tugging the blankets from under him.
England hiccupped violently and lay down on the bed, too upset to answer.
The bedclothes rustled as Scotland inched closer, and began to unbuckle England’s belt.
“At least take yer troosers off,” he murmured gently, “you wee English bastard.”
England rolled over, his head landing against Scotland’s chest as the older nation helped him to wriggle out of his slacks.
“Bloody Scottish wanker,” he mumbled into the ginger fuzz on Scotland’s chest. He sniffled loudly. “Why can’t we always be like this?”
Scotland looked down at him in surprise, then curled his arms around him.
“Ach, well…maybe we can,” he murmured. He tousled England’s hair and pulled the blankets up over them both. “Or at least most of the time.”
“Mm.” England snuggled tightly against him. He couldn’t remember doing this with Scotland when they were children, either – but better late than never. “I’d like that.”
He felt Scotland place a soft kiss on his hair.
“Just don’t piss in this bed, or else it’s all off.”
