~It's me, Cap'n. I disclaim all right to characters and claim rights to mine ideas. Just a warning for this chapter and all the way through. The main pairings are the Isle siblings and DenmarkxPrussiaxEngland. Heavy incest, abuse, GAY SEX, magic, sex, swearing, strange accents, GAY SEX, human names, dragons, GAY SEX and most of all a large heaping of GAY GAY GAY GAY SEX. I mean, there's some bondage and capture and weird stuff going on, but if you're a complete homophobe, don't say I didn't warn you. VERY VERY GAY. (With like, a single straight pairing that involves INCEST.) You have been warned. Seriously. Now have fun reading~

"Who d' th'y think th'y 're?" Wales, youngest of the British Isle sibling, winced as Scotland slammed a fist down on the table. The eldest scowled like a summer storm, face so red with anger it nearly matched his hair. Ireland was fingering the handle of her hammer with one hand, eyes misty and narrowed as she gazed into her crystal ball. The images flashed across the smooth surface under her fingertips. Her northern twin had both hands on the globe, his own grass green eyes misty and far away.

The image the twins were focused on did not seem particularly harmful. Prussia and Denmark were napping, their heads on England's lap as the short blonde read a large novel, reading glasses perched on his nose. The tall countries' legs went off the ends of the couch, but they all appeared comfortable. Extremely comfortable, as all three were in boxers and England was wearing an unbuttoned shirt, while the other two sported plain white tank tops.

Britain turned the page and got a crick out of his neck, glancing down at the two on his lap fondly. He closed his book, folded up his glasses and put them on the coffee table, running his hand through the messy tangle of blonde hair and the colourless tresses of the other.

The angle changed smoothly, North wincing as it did so, as if they were seeing out of the TV. Britain and the two figures were easily visible from this angle as he stroked their hair and then leaned down, kissing each of their foreheads and then sitting back and relaxing, eyes closed for a moment.

Scotland growled at each kiss. The youngest in the room swallowed uneasily, and clutched the table, almost unhappy not to be breathing in the signature cigar smoke. All four tensed in the small dusty room as the subject of their scrying opened his eyes curiously, glancing around; his piercing eyes finding them, blinking, squinting. He said one word and Wales recognized it; but only because he'd heard it for his entire existence; Ireland?

The twins shuddered at their collective name, closing their eyes and lifted their hands from the globe as if burned. Wales blinked, sinking lower in his seat, almost unsure what was going on, and he glimpsed the same curiously bothered expression lividly obvious on Scotland's face across from him. Then, North and South Ireland were in a tangle, North clutching at South and murmuring in Gaelic. She held him fast, in turn, their foreheads pressed against each other as they repeated a recalling phrase in slightly differing accents. Eventually, Wales recovered from his confusion to understand what they were saying, though its significance was lost on him.

"T'e wind, t'e tide and back… back… back…"

The Irish pair repeated the mantra, holding each other tightly, their freckled fingers twisting into strawberry blonde locks. The images had fled the surface of the globe the moment they had lost contact with it. Finally, their strange saying changed and they both sounded a little less far off.

"T'e wind, t'e tide and in… in… in…"

Both stiffened and then relaxed into an Irish heap, almost as if they had come. Carlin kissed her brother's forehead, he kissed her neck and then both opened grassy green eyes, looking at Scotland. The eldest glared back, his mossy eyes defiant. "W'll?"

Their minds must still have been working as one, as they spoke in a harmonic unison. "He g't in, as he dos, and he knows. He pushed us 'ut, found out why we were scrying and th'n let us reel ourselves ba'k in… and he left us a litt'e somethin'." The two of them licked their lips and gave Scotland identical lazy grins. "Yeh know 'ow he is."

Alistor growled and stood, pacing the room. Wales sunk into his seat as the male Ireland pulled himself from his sister's embrace and slid deftly across the table, taking his seat again. Both twins were blushing as they realized what they had been doing, slightly embarrassed as they came back to their senses. Scotland's fist landed on the table again.

He put both large hands on the table, flattening them. "Th's 's wh't we'r goin' t' do. We'r goin' t' steal our brother back." Wales blinked.

A long time ago, they had all lived in a big house, both when Albion was alive, and after she died. Scotland, whose virginity had been taken by invaders, made an executive decision. His siblings would find it better if they were to lose theirs to family. And as the strongest and most willful, he made it so. Not as if any of them would have been bothered to stop him; incest wasn't a word that would matter for several hundred more years; and even now it didn't.

However, the twins had had each other, and South had no interest in her Northern-most brother. So Scotland made do with North Ireland for a bit. England was next, and Wales could remember feeling slightly guilty that night, and every night for the next week. He walked in on them three times before locking himself in his barn with some of his dragons at the time and summoning food from the kitchen. He would never get the images of England; cheeks flushed as he was pounded into the counter until it broke; of Scotland with his thick fingers wound through England's blonde hair as his battered younger brother sucked him off; or of England yet again, strung up in his own room like a pig for slaughter, his eldest brother smirking as he teased him to the point of pain; out of his head. He was pretty sure England had already lost his virginity, but he would never ever tell Scotland such a thing.

As youngest, Wales had been last, and it had almost been a family bonding experience. He could remember North's tongue, his mouth on his neck, England's bright eyes and how his older brother had filled him, and Scotland's reassuring murmurs, their soft touches and reassurances, the cigar smoke that followed Scotland like his personal cloud, the way his Irish brother had yielded easily below him…

Back then, they had had Arthur. Back then, he was theirs. Now he was Prussia's and Denmark's; and he knew the Nordic and German would enjoy and treat his brother well. They probably took better care of him than he could himself. But Dylan had a niggling feeling he was going to help Scotland. He was the boss after all…

"We'r goin' t' remind 'im who his family is." Wales swallowed at the words, wondering where his mind had been for all of five seconds, because the words translated into: We're going to fuck his brains out and he's going to like it.

South shifted and the twins made eye contact over the table, probably sharing a telepathic message before looking back into the green fiery depths of Scotland's eyes. Mossy green fire.

"An' when thos' two com' fer 'im, we make sure we aren't welcomin'. Got it?" All of his siblings gave curt nods, not particularly pleased with his assignment. They had all done worse of course…

Being part of the Irish Mafia made these things every day… but that was, again, a long time ago…

Wales sighed.