Glaring at the train indicator board in Charing Cross station as though it had personally offended him, England wondered if perhaps he could will the departure and arrival times to change by sheer strength of will. It wasn't so much the timings, mind you, but rather the aggravating sight of the word "cancelled" featuring, nice and lucent, next to any possible line he could take home.
He let his shoulders slump, feeling downright beguiled. Somewhere along the 49-minute commute from Tonbridge to his current location, he had been contacted by the plummy-voiced, fuckup of a handshaker, MP who was not only disagreeable at the best of times but had been giving him Hell for months. He'd been informed, in the most pleasant of ways, of course, that the usual week provided as a reasonable time frame for the construction of an efficient event report after international meetings had been cut down to a mere three days, as it was deemed too gratuitous, as well as asked to thoroughly elaborate on the finer points, as his previous reports had been "too vague in the relevance of the apotheoses cited". Not only that, but his presence was required at Downing Street tomorrow at midday, at latest, to pick up a fresh load of paperwork and a list of new, lavish demands to be met as of yesterday, as well as to deliver the signed, revised copy of the three electoral manuscripts pertaining the coming general election for the 56th Parliament of the United Kingdom, two of which were not even remotely finished., let alone edited by anyone other than himself.
And tonight, of all nights, after a hustling day, and an unnecessarily tedious journey back to England (because he could have, could have, taken the direct train from Paris to London had the bloody thing not been accursedly booked), he was stuck in Charing Cross.
Holding on to unfounded hope, he pulled out his mobile from the inner pocket of his mac coat. Slight as it may be, there was a chance that, perhaps, some poor soul would be inclined to come to his aid, late as it was (the clock on the board had blinked green-yellow and now marked the hour as 11:20), and that he wouldn't have to brave the dark streets of London to find yet another cab and pay yet another fare for the day. When the screen remained dark after several attempts turning it on, he felt overjoyed.
Lovely. Fucking brilliant.
His prospects just kept improving by the minute.
"Stop sulking, I brought the car" a gruff voice interrupted his more dire thoughts.
England felt his lips curl at the edges into a discreet smile as he became aware of the sturdy footsteps coming up behind him and the solid presence that came to a standstill by his side.
"I didn't know you were in London."
"Surprise."
Without another word, Scotland turned and made way towards the exit; England couldn't help but smile wider (if only ever so slightly) as he followed swiftly behind.
Scotland's SUV was an older Jeep model (a great bulk of a car that had been parked next to England's much smaller Chevy since the last time the broad-shouldered redhead had stayed over, much like the small flask of cologne left behind in Arthur's bathroom) that he drove with practiced ease through any given terrain. Although his turns were sharp in nature, it was unusual for him to go anywhere over the speed limit, proving himself a responsible driver far more reliable than others could ever claim to be.
Some short distance away from England's home in the outskirts, curiosity put an end the silence.
"Why did you come?" thoughtful as the gesture had been, it was much too unlikely for Scotland to have come all this way south just to collect his desponding kin.
"Wales called" the Scotsman replied as he made a turn and accelerated down a straight stretch of road. "Darling lassie's been roped in to finish up some document revisions fer that MP of yers. The bampot had her half drowned with work afair noon and her National Assembly needed her at hand; a-wiz-nae busy so I came down from Embra tae take over" his look turned smug although he kept his eyes trained on the road. "Figured I'd cut some slack fer yer bonnie self while I was available" at that, England scoffed and Scotland positively beamed.
The remainder of the journey was spent in quiet conversation. When they pulled up to England's driveway they were cordially bickering over one thing or another (the argument ignited by England's broken down heating system), tossing half hearted taunts around out of habit, but gradually easing into a pleasant closeness. As they shrugged off their coats in the entrance, Arthur placed a gentle hand on the Scotsman's arm, who in time went out of his way to brush the younger's lower back as they went up the stairs.
Late as it was they forwent showers; Scotland headed for the drawers in the reach-in closet of England's room (a disarray of clothes left behind when he shuffled through fabrics until aha! I knew I was missing this pair of trousers, cunning wee bastard, and he was pulling old, grey jogging bottoms from where they had been hidden, underneath a hideous jumper, courtesy of Wales), while England brushed his teeth in the adjacent bathroom (silently mourning the discovery of the sweat pants as they were loose, and warm, and it was winter) still suited but considerably less tense than he had been a few hours prior. As the later was done and returned to the bedroom, the Scotsman stepped forwards, clad in his re-stolen goods, and ruffled the younger's hair fondly before entering the still lit bathroom.
It is strange, the way things often fall together smoothly when they are long overdue.
Arthur worked off his suit jacket and tie with deft fingers, folding them over the back of an antique chair in the room, and kicked off his shoes, nudging them to the side without much of a care of where they went. He had started on the buckle of his belt when he heard the water faucet in the bathroom turn off and Scotland's muffled shuffling as he returned to the master bedroom.
Once again, a large hand came to tousle his hair but this time trailed down the back of his neck instead of retreating, came to rest on his right shoulder, nudging him slightly to turn around. Arthur complied, turning around and coming closer. He brought his hands to the sides of Scotland's neck, tracing the shadow of his dark, auburn stubble and feeling particularly lenient under the familiar green of his eyes.
"Alasdair."
Scotland's free hand came to rest low on England's hip and pulled him closer, the other coming to join soon after.
"Aye?"
"Thank you."
Alasdair smiled in a way that was three parts rough and one part affectionate, and Arthur felt an urge to wipe the bloody smirk off his face so he leaned forwards to press a chaste kiss to the corner of Scotland's mouth, lingering there to feel the brush of the elder's breath on his cheek and the way his features softened into something less guarded. Calloused fingers slipped past the band of Arthur's trousers and began working on the button and zipper, every movement kept deliberately slow. With a little assistance from the Englishman, they were soon pooling on the floor around his feet and kicked to the side to be found tomorrow. (And then Scotland's fingers were firmly locked into England's hair, tugging and fisting strands of golden tan, as England wrapped strong arms around Scotland's well built back. They stumbled back towards the bed in a flurry of kisses, bites, and caresses. The mattress protested loudly when they fell onto it unceremoniously in a heap of limbs and wayward fabrics, Arthur pressed down into the bed under Alasdair's greater frame and weight.)
Slowing down to a stop, they broke apart to breathe but kept close enough for their noses to brush (Alasdair had freckles, sparse and light all through the year and darker during the summer months, same as Arthur; a Kirkland family trait). Even when he was being gentle, there was always a lingering undertone of roughness to Scotland's touch, but never had he ever hurt England before; not in moments like this. The way he stroked his sides was reassuring, almost comforting in nature, his weight sturdy and safe.
England reached up to kiss Scotland deep and sweet, and letting his eyes slip close. Bucking up, he heard Alasdair groan and took great pleasure in repeating the action once, twice, and then thrice again. Scotland's roaming hands came to a halt in order to grasp England's thighs firmly and use them as leverage when he ground his hips down hard.
Scotland felt a pang of heat coil low on his abdomen when he heard Arthur hiss beneath him. Removing his lips from the other's, he began trailing soft nips down the side of England's face, moving down to the side of his neck to bite an d suck at every spot he could find. He felt, more than heard, Arthur's sigh as the younger's fingers carded lovingly through tangled auburn hair.
It took a while for Alasdair to notice when the carding stopped and England's breathe slowed down. Alarmed, he'd looked up to find the serene expression of a man asleep.
"Oh, laddie" leaning his head down on Arthur's chest, Alasdair groaned in disappointment and caring exasperation. However, as much as it pained him, he understood both of them were tired and so he was quick to gather himself, working to ignore his now dispersing arousal. "To bed with you, then."
Softly unwinding England's arms from around him, Scotland took a moment to get Arthur underneath the covers and flick out the lights before settling down on the other side of the bed. He was out cold as soon as his head hit the pillow.
.
.
.
The first set of heavy knocks stirred Scotland awake but were quickly ignored in favour of pulling the sheets tighter around his broad frame and turning on his side. England's old Tudor home was fairly isolated and the possibility of anyone knocking at the middle of the night was narrowed down to a select number of people, most of which were most certainly at least a country away. When the knocking resumed, this time with alarming urgency, Alasdair threw the covers to the side and bolted out of bed, straggling down the stairs, and to the front door.
(It was more than slightly unsettling to hear such insistent rapping during the early hours of the morning and it worried Scotland, memories of times of crisis and late night callings running through his mind.)
Now, Alasdair considered himself to be a reasonable man; coarse around the edges, but just; so when he unlocked the door to find America standing on the doormat, giddy with unfounded excitement after having imprudently rattled the entire house with the force of his knocking, and disturbing Alasdair's much needed sleep, not to mention risking to wake up England, Scotland did what came most natural to him.
"Fuck ye dain, bairn? "
And without waiting for an answer, shut the heavy wood on the boy's deflating smile.
Irritation hot in his veins, he turned around to head back up the stairs when Alfred's booming voice called for him to wait and the incessant knocking picked up. Growling, he threw the door open with a bang to a rush of hasty explanations.
"Scotland! Hey man! Did I wake you up? I'd no idea you were staying over at your brother's. Speaking of which, is England home? Think he's awake? 'Cause I really gotta see him. Think I could step inside for a bit? It's freezing out here! You should throw on a shirt or something."
It took the bleary eyed Scot a moment to make sense of America's jabber but was quick to block the entrance when the youth almost leapt past him.
"Wee one's sleeping" Alasdair gnarled, heavy tongued, and went to close the door again.
"Wait! What? Who?" Alfred's hand shut out to stop him.
Taking a deep breath, Scotland spoke slowly, taking care to soften his accent for the sake of good relations.
"Arthur's sleeping. Lad's run down from work and I'm here tae cut him slack" he scowled, America was really starting to push limits. "Yer out of line coming here at this hour."
America seemed to flinch at that and his demeanour changed into something graver. Looking up at the taller man, Alfred thought to try once more.
"Scotland, please" he hoped to convey what he wanted to say in the tone of his voice. "I want to see him. I need to see him, please."
It seemed to work, as Scotland gauged him curiously for a long time. Although uncomfortable under the scrutiny, America made an effort to hold his stare.
The silent exchange continued for continued for a minute before Scotland's eyes widened slightly at whatever he saw in America's, any trace of curiosity gone and replaced with steely determination.
Scotland was livid.
"Fuck. Aff."
When the door was slammed shut, America was certain it would not open up again. Defeated (but hoping for a tomorrow), he turned down the driveway and walked away to find a motel.
Stomping up the stairs to the second floor and into the master bedroom, Alasdair silently fumed.
England was thankfully still asleep, facing away from him at the moment and towards his former spot on the bed. Sitting besides the sleeping man, Scotland felt his temper cool.
At some point during the short couple of hours that they had been sleeping, Arthur gave the impression of having kicked off the blankets and lay barely covered in the chilled night air. Alastair remained pensive for a moment, placing a hand on England's arm to find it frigid, and feeling his heart tighten. Pulling the sheets over Arthur's curled figure, he rubbed lightly over the covers as he had done many nights before through the centuries.
"Ye'r freezing lad."
England's voice startled him as said lad turned to face him.
"You stole the blankets"
Scotland responded with a noncommittal grunt, buggered to have been caught, but his hand didn't budge as it would have just about three months ago, merely readjusting. It still felt odd, to be able to act on more intimate thoughts, former platonic gestures heavier with a newfound tenderness neither knew how to accept fully just yet.
So Alasdair took it as his duty to ease the heavy silence, too tired to think about the deeper feelings pooling in both of their eyes.
"Scoot lad, I'm cold" Scotland jabbed Arthur's side offensively.
England frowned deeply, remints of sleep fading, gladly rising up to the challenge.
"I have been sleeping on this side of my bed for over 100 years, and I'll be damned if a hackit bastard like you will change that."
Alasdair smirked widely but stood up from the edge of the bed, stretching until his back popped.
"Very well, ye lazy shit" and what a delightful sneer that got him from Arthur. "I won't make you move."
For a blissful moment, England allowed himself to coddle the thought that maybe for once, for once, that would be it.
When Scotland let himself fall on the bed (right on top of England, mind you), all bulk, muscle, and Scottish pride, he felt all possible air leave his lungs with a huff.
"Get off, you fat shitface!" Arthur's voice came out muffled and breathless as he pushed at Alasdair's shoulders. "Haggis shagging bigyin!"
Scotland laughed raucously and nonchalantly got comfortable with England pinned beneath him., shutting his eyes and breathing in England's scent, fresh and light like rain, underneath his cologne. And it was his cologne, truly, which only made him laugh longer (albeit lower now that he had his face nestled on the juncture of the sook's neck).
"Wheesht, and stop yer squirming. I'm trying to sleep."
"Piss off, you big oaf" Arthur muttered, but wrapped the one leg that wasn't crushed under Alasdair or covered by the sheets around the Scot.
"Yer foot is baltic. Stop rubbing it on my back."
"You stole the blankets."
"Ye stole my joggers, scunner."
Any trace of smugness on Scotland's part, however, was cut short when England flipped them over, using the leg he'd thrown over the scot to his advantage.
"And I plan on keeping them" Arthur assured him as menacingly serious as one could be half-naked and straddling someone's lap.
Well built and of average height, England was still smaller than Alasdair, who's entire figure was more akin to that of a seasoned rugby player's, and who, at the physical age of 30, measured 6'2 in height (by far the tallest amongst his brothers and sister). Neither were pretty, as far as looks were concerned, but rather handsome in their own particular way. In the dim light that filtered through the drapes, however, Scotland fancied the other something close to beautiful.
Bringing up a hand to cup England's face, he smoothed his thumb over the soft skin of Arthur's cheekbone, marvelling at the softening of the lad's gaze and the way he dropped his eyes.
"Yer a right bonnie thing" Scotland gruff voice was pleasant in the quiet of the room.
Instead of gracing the other with an answer right away, England swooped down to steal a long kiss from half parted lips, supporting himself on the bare chest beneath him. Scotland hummed pleasantly and they remained like that for a while, England's hands roaming up and down and Scotland's static on the brit's waist, until the dovetailing of lips gave way to the slipping past of tongues and the measured sharpness of teeth, and both were half-hard for the second time that evening.
As his hands began to roam lower, Arthur's mouth followed, pressing nips and open mouthed kisses to Alasdair's collarbone. He looked at ease, settled there, thoroughly planning on kissing Scotland silly. And Scotland was quite content to lay back and let him, were it not for the fact that they were yet to get even.
He snored loudly, and when England's eyes shot up in concern he had to hold back a laugh and settled for a grin, because the lad looked ready to bite him when he realised the eldest was awake and mocking him. Arthur retaliated by rolling his hips, and was pleased when Alasdair's grin slipped away into a moan. Arching an eyebrow, he repeated the motion. Scotland's hips tittered and England was quick to steady him, pressing down on the dips of his pelvis.
Tracing his lips even lower, Arthur pressed long, wet kisses to Scotland's lower abdomen but stayed clear from were Alasdair really wanted him. When a hand sneaked down to palm him through the softened, grey fabric, Scotland thrust up with a low sigh. On this occasion, England's hands let him, pulling on the trousers and slipping them off halfway down Alasdair's shins for him to kick off easily.
Scotland grumbled, suddenly exposed, but settled when one of Arthur's hands wrapped around him and began pumping softly, coaxing him harder; the other slipping lower between strong thighs to nudge them further apart. Alasdair obliged and the Englishman was soon lodged between them, kissing the base of Scotland cock, and tracing his tongue up the underside. Taking the head in his mouth, he sucked hard, and Scotland had to groan, wanting more of the tightness of England's lips, and coming to tangle his fingers in fair blonde hair. Arthur pulled back for a moment, continuing to pump the hardened flesh in his hands, and working on relaxing his throat. When he took in almost all of Scotland in one go, Alasdair cried out and dug his other hand into the mussed mess of England's hair, making an effort to not force himself any deeper in fear of choking Arthur.
Kneading the soft strands of gold encouragingly, Scotland felt himself flush under England's ministrations, soft grunts slipping past his lips as he slowly lost himself in the soft pleasure, closer to the edge with each talented twist of Arthur's tongue and every tug on his balls. Alasdair grunted, thrusting with restraint, when England sucked hard and hummed softly; when he looked down to find England's nose brushing the coarse hairs low on his abdomen and felt his arousal coil tight at the dusted blush of Arthur's cheeks.
"Arthur, laddie" he tightened his grip on England's hair in warning, words breathless.
Arthur tightened his throat and lips as Scotland went taut and then slack, swallowing as best as he could and sucking softly until the broad hands buried in his hair tugged him upwards to meet Scotland's lips and then pushed him down and on his side, Alasdair's arms coming to wrap around his waist and drawing him back into a lightly heaving chest.
England's short briefs were soon discarded, and he leaned back into Scotland, responding to the scot's roving of hands with soft pleased noises, and easing his head to the side as Alasdair grazed his teeth over the nape of his neck. When a hand began to quickly stroke Arthur's shaft, he gasped, hard and dripping.
"That's it, laddie" Scotland squeezed and England made an almost pained sound and blushed bright red. "My braw hen."
With a sustained moan, Arthur spilled himself onto Scotland's hand, clutching at the sheets as he shuddered whole. Alastair secured his limbs around the him and they remained in that close embrace until the heated skin of their bodies began to cool and their breathing steadied.
The sky outside was beginning to clear when Arthur shrugged off his dress shirt and wiped down the stickiness off both of their bodies and hands, tossing the dirtied oxford to the pile of clothes next to the antique chair, and laying back down next to Scotland. They drifted off to sleep draped over each other and buried underneath the blankets, paperwork and American unrest forgotten.
I must admit that I had a wee bit of trouble deciding on what to name Scotland. I ended up settling for Alasdair more than ahything because I find it has a very pleasing resonance.
I want to write more about England's and Scotland's interactions soon; I've already started on a oneshot for the Acts of Union in 1707, and a multi-chapter featuring all of the Kirklands, but it might have to wait (as I'll be busy with work for a couple of weeks still). The next update might take a little longer, so I'll try and make it up to you guys with some sort of drabble, maybe. I'm not too happy with how that little sexy scene turned out, I definitely need some practice, as it's the first time I've ever written smut.
Should anyone have any trouble with terminologies, I'd be delighted to clear up any confusion.
Cheers!
-HyfrydCymru
PD; Next chapter: introducing Wales and America fuking up.