Prompt/Idea: Continuation in the same universe as my kinkmeme fill of UK(England+Scotland+Wales)/US - going off of a commenter's "Also really hot, imagining the brothers sharing the bed and the lover but not each other, so they wait their turn". On the Isles nicknames: Cam, Cal, Tan = Cambria, Caledonia, Britannia = Wales, Scotland, England. Eire = Ireland.
An unfinished drabble, but hopefully you all enjoy it nonetheless. It's mostly sexytimes, I'll admit.
.o.O.o.
Rounding the corner in the wake of Ireland's swishing skirts, America ground to a sudden halt, staring at the sight before him. There was England, as expected, but Alfred had to shake his head and blink a few times before assuring himself that yes, he was seeing triple.
"Cam, Cal, Tan! Blast it, I knew I'd find you three off plotting something. Come now, the meeting's in an hour and one of you - I really don't care which - is buying me lunch." Ireland tapped her foot impatiently, America still slack-jawed and mind-boggled twenty feet behind, as three disconcertingly identical gazes snapped their way.
"Hullo, Eire. Quite nice of you to join us. We were wondering if you'd be along soon," the black-haired England said. The normal, tawny-blond England's eyes flicked over her shoulder, noting America standing there behind her.
"Are you joining us as well, America? Mind, I won't be paying to feed your bottomless pit." A beetle-black brow arched. "And we're certainly not heading to McDonald's. I trust you know where the closest one is; you don't need me to lead you there."
The last England-image, the one with reddish-brown hair and a beard, chuckled. "'e looks like 'e's seen a ghost. C'mon now lad, don't you remember us?"
And the thing was, he could. America could remember these other two, the England-not-Englands, though he had always thought at the time that it really was the island Empire, who was merely indulging on a whim to change his hair color. It wasn't unheard of, and America could remember a few times when he himself had done just that to go undercover on a job or two for his government. Even the beard wasn't really an odd thing - England sported one often enough that America wasn't surprised by it. Maybe just a little jealous, since all I can get, even after all this time, is only a step above peach fuzz...
Lacking any real answer, he merely let out a strangled sound.
To his embarrassment, they all laughed, even Ireland, her alto voice rising above the men's deeper baritone chorus. The bearded one walked over and clapped a hand on America's shoulder, smiling broadly. "Och, don' despair now, boyo. What d'you say to lunch with us, then after the meeting we can all go out for a round or two, eh?"
This shook America out of his confused slump. After all, it was lunchtime, and he hadn't eaten anything since breakfast; his stomach felt like it had a deathgrip on his spine, and decided then and there to voice its opinion loudly. The continental Nation winced at the audible rumble and caved. "Sure, why not. Where are you all headed then?"
.o.O.o.
(at the bar later)
It was a common misconception that England couldn't hold his alcohol. England could hold his alcohol very well, and those Nations that had ever gone with him to a pub or bar were under no illusions to the contrary. Hold his alcohol he could do; it was getting him to stop drinking that was the problem. Whiskey, gin, rum, or beer would all be downed and immediately replaced with another glass of that night's preference until the island Nation was left a weaving, slurring, drunken mess, assured of a massive hangover for the coming morning. America was hoping this wouldn't be the case with the rest of the Isles siblings, but was left nursing his lager in quiet dismay as England, Scotland, and Ireland all started up yet another drinking game, pulling over Prussia, Germany, Belgium, Netherlands, and - though Scotland eyed him warily - Denmark. Wales sat beside him, looking on at the proceedings in utter amusement, the only other one of their group besides the North American that had managed to stay sober.
America shot the far-older Nation a look of mute despair, and the black-haired man just shook his head with a small smile.
.o.O.o.
A short bark of laughter, not at all amused. "Why do you think I hesitate to court you, America?" The mask of England's face was strained, and he could almost tell how hard it was for the former Empire to keep it up. Green eyes, those eyes that America loved - now learning to love on two others, the same but not - fixed him in an unrelenting stare. "We are the United Kingdom. Three Nations as a single Nation - I cannot keep anything from them. And you must realise, America, what I share with them and they with me." The gaze that bored into him slanted downwards, settling on the teacup and its russet-coloured contents. "A relationship started with Wales, Scotland or I alone would have to grow to include the rest of Britain, for unless we share we would tear asunder. I admit much of that is my own fault - our history together has not been without its wars and periods of subjugation - but now we exist together, yet apart." Verdant tones flicked up to watch America again. "Could you handle that, America?"
The young superpower leaned back, his chair balancing on two legs alone as he gave England his best heroic grin. "You bet your britches, old-timer."
.o.O.o.
He hadn't realized.
It made sense, once he thought about it - he and Canada would share a bed in complete innocence still, despite both of them being several centuries old, and they would laugh off any insinuations of intimacy other Nations, or even humans on occasion, would throw their way. They would occasionally ask for a single hotel room during meetings and though people generally wouldn't think twice about the twins sharing a room, some of the Nations would subtly quip about open borders or close international relations. He knew the Italian brothers suffered much the same, and though North would laugh it off much as he and his own brother did - they should know by now that he's far too attached to Germany anyway - South Italy would turn a lovely shade of red and begin sputtering at the offender.
Upon meeting the Isles brothers and seeing the easy intimacy between the three - backclaps and hugs in public when normally the British were reserved about that sort of thing, an arm around the shoulder, foreheads resting together, or sitting close enough to constantly touch when in private or with trusted company - America had automatically assumed that they were all sleeping together as well.
Wrong.
At least, in the sexual sense of sleeping together. Still, it wasn't that hard to assume when one 'accidentally' - 'accidentally'in that they were all sleeping late and I wanted to take them out to show them the awesomeness that is my San Francisco and the surrounding area - marched into their shared hotel room to find three bodies curled together on one large bed, hands and arms and legs practically unidentifiable as to whom they belonged from where they were visible above the covers. Well, needless to say, America had left the room in a hurry, chased by three different accents, all in a rage, and one well-aimed briefcase. Perhaps a pillow had followed, but he hadn't felt it through the hastily-closed door.
So it was a surprise when he found out that no, sharing a bed and sharing a lover did not mean sharing each other. They were brothers, each touch between them as loving but chaste as his and Canada's. Perhaps it came from, as England had said, "now we exist together, yet apart". One land, more than one Nation, much as he and Canada had been before the Europeans had come and given them dividing lines. Had the Isles been the same before Rome invaded and drew the provincial borders of Britannia, Cambria, and Caledonia? Some more physical than others, he remembered, thinking of Hadrian's Wall starkly black on the old, hand-drawn maps.
It would explain why they were so similar, though not completely identical - Wales was more slender than his brothers, Scotland slightly more bulky in the chest, shoulders, and hips, England more densely muscled throughout. Evidence of a broken nose on Scotland, bowstring calluses on Wales' hands, faint manacle-scars on England's neck and wrists. There were subtle differences between all of them, the only immediately noticeable one being their hair colour. Someday, America vowed, someday I'll be able to tell them apart by feel alone. Of course, activities such as they were involved in now certainly helped him toward that goal.
Eyes falling closed with pleasure behind the dark curtains of the blindfold, America arched upwards, trying to get more pressure from the hand that stroked lightly, teasingly, down the inside of his thigh, followed by a peppering of kisses in its wake. Another hand - different person or the same? - juggled and fondled his testicles, a finger sometimes stretching back to caress the delicate, sensitive skin behind the scrotum, sometimes with the pad, now and again with the slight scrape of the nail. Someone's face was buried in his neck, breathing heavily and leaving pinching little nips that were then laved with a soothing, damp tongue; he could feel the man's erection pressing insistently against his hip. Scotland, I can feel the beard, and England doesn't have one right now. The third, whichever he was, was behind him, with America laid so that the young superpower's head was on the elder Nation's chest. That one, he could feel, had his arm slung around on the opposite side from his neck's assailant and was alternately playing with America's pebbled nipple and raking his nails up, down, across the young man's chest and belly, feathery strokes and hard furrows - the red streaks should be faded by morning, hopefully.
A touch to his entrance had him twitch and gasp, tensing. Soothing shushes came from the man behind him and the one at his side with no words to give their accents away, their more forceful caresses softening. America tried not to clench as a lubed finger prodded the tight muscle and slipped inside, pushing at his inner walls. A second finger was added, slick and only slightly uncomfortable, and they twisted and scissored as he canted his hips up, trying to get the angle that would make stars burst behind his eyelids. His hands clenched at the bedsheets, digging into the firm mattress. One more finger, just one more, c'mon you bastard, don't make me wait...
Glancing pressure on his prostate had him moaning as the fingers inside him slid out, only to return re-lubed and with a third digit, the ring finger it seemed. In they went, pushing until the broad base near the knuckles was rubbing at the tender flesh of his sphincter, and then they curled, searching for the - yes yes yes THERE - and America bucked his hips, partly from reflex and partly to try to jostle those fingers into pressing harder. At his side, there was a low laugh from Scotland, whose hand drifted down to stroke along the ridge of America's hipbone with light, feathery touches that he knew would slowly drive him mad. The Nation behind him let out a half-chuckle half-groan at his squirming, the man's hot breath blowing atop the crown of his head, and America could feel the insistent erection pressing into his back harden even further.
A hand brushed across America's cheekbone just under where flesh met the dark fabric of the blindfold, and the Nation in front of him made a wordless questioning sound. The younger man leaned up slightly, trying to press his face into the gentle, soft touch, and the owner of the hand obliged for a moment, letting America nuzzle his palm. In his head the superpower exulted. No rope calluses, but maybe the rough patches on the fingers are from bow- or harpstrings... He smiled secretively into the warm palm and kissed it. When he spoke, his voice was rough with arousal.
"Wales in front of me, Scotland beside, and England behind. Am I right?"
A laugh in his ear. "I'm too easy to guess, aren't I? Maybe Tan'll grow in a beard again soon; let's see you guess then, lad."
"Then I would be far too obvious." The voice grumbled from some place above his hips, laced with amused irritation. "We should just force you to shave sometime, or perhaps knock you out and do it ourselves." A whump of flesh hitting flesh meant that Scotland had landed a good-natured punch to Wales, but the blow moved Wales and consequently torqued the fingers still lodged in America's ass. The resulting noise was completely unmanly, undignified, and something America would never admit to being able to produce. Ever.
When the keen and trembling subsided - how have I not come yet from all this - England nosed the upper curve of America's ear, a hand gently kneading his bicep as the other pressed reassuringly at his waist. "Still with us, luv?"
America snarled incoherently, canting his hips upward as Wales tapped his thumb erratically on the velvety skin behind his balls, the fingers within him expanding and contracting with a measured pulse. "Goddamn it, I guessed already, and I guessed right, so one of you better hurry up and get in me already, and I don't give a flying fuck if you have to play rock-paper-scissors for it as long as you do it fa-AAAASTohdearGodyesyesyesmove..."
Wales had quickly slipped his hand away and rolled out over America's leg, replaced lightning-quick by Scotland who plunged in without hesitation, thrusting deep and quick. Thank God for all the prep. America squeezed his knees tight around trim hips, his coordination not good enough at the moment to lock his ankles together behind the elder Nation's back while said Nation pounded America into the unyielding mass of England behind him. Scotland grabbed his thighs, helping to hold him steady as England's knees rose, bracketing America between steel-corded legs as the young Nation scrabbled at them and at the sheets, trying to thrust back against Scotland as the older man stepped up his rhythm.
America could feel the wave of his climax building, a hot, bright point that sparked and burned, expanding like a dying sun - the foreplay was too much, I can't I can't... His spine arched, head pressing back against England's chest as he rode out his completion, Scotland still moving in him as his inner walls clenched and convulsed, tightening around the intruder until he too came, moaning as he tensed, spilling into America before collapsing on him, forcing a whuff of air from England. Bleary-eyed and blinking away the blue-white specks that swam through his vision, America reached back, untying the blindfold before turning his head and reaching out to Wales who was kneeling on the sheets beside the pile of bodies, offering assistance. The dark-haired Nation let out a low, throbbing laugh and reached his own hand forward to brush against America's, fingers cum-sticky from where he had brought himself off while watching. Oh, that's good, already taken care of...
England's voice rumbled from near the headboard. "As lovely as this all is, I must entreat that you both get off of me. You're damn heavy together and I am positively squashed. Mind moving, would you? - there's a good chap." And Scotland rose with a lazy, contented grin, slipping his soft length carefully out of America as he rocked back on his heels, offering a hand to pull the superpower to a sitting position. Stickiness clung to the skin of America's back as he sat up; the pressure, movement, and friction of the two above him had apparently been enough to bring England to climax at some point.
Wales, closest to the edge of the bed, swung his feet off and padded over to the bathroom, returning after a moment of cleaning himself to hand a wet rag to America. The younger Nation accepted it gratefully and leaned forward to wipe Scotland down. As he finished, England scooted around to his side, leaning down to lick away the splotches of white staining America's belly, tongue laving the skin gently. America blushed but didn't look away. He may have been steadily falling more and more in love with the other two Isles brothers, but England would always be his first love, and the sight of him bent over America, lapping at the pale sticky strands, was practically enough to make America's spent penis twitch in longing. Instead he reached over with the rag to clean England, then relinquished it to allow himself to be administered to.
None of them bothered with pyjamas that night, but new, clean sheets were scrounged, and the four collapsed onto the massive bed together in the warm, haphazard pile of bodies to which they had all had become fondly accustomed. Legs and arms splayed everywhere, and there was a lot of shifting before everyone managed to get comfortable.
America wouldn't trade it for the world.
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