Characters/Pairings: UK + Ireland; England-->Scotland, if you're desperate enough
Warnings: Incestuous longing, swearing, and guaranteed offensiveness for anyone born even remotely close to a certain group of islands northwest of the European continent.
Summary: England's admittedly arbitrary fits of rage belie his deep, festering love for Scotland. The author's extensive knowledge of Anglo-Scottish and Anglo-Irish relations, acquired by careful study of Gibson's acclaimed films and that one episode where Captain Planet saves Belfast, pervades every sentence. A treat.
“A’right, ye bloody Sassenach.” growled Scotland, lumbering through the doorway in full highland regalia. His virility washed over England like the scent of thistle. His legs were wild, unkempt ginger forests—and if only Scotland would allow it, England would gladly shear them into splendid, civilized topiaries with his magnanimous love.
“What has gotten your tartan in a bunch, dearest Celtic brother?” England snickered ironically. He feared the desire in his voice would betray his stiff upper lip, thus he bade himself stay quiet for a moment. The Scot sized up the smaller Briton, took in the gentle curves of his body.
“I ken ye’ve been gaeing tae the wor-rld meetings under the name ‘UK.’ This bothers me greatly as I am militantly nationalistic and wan’ tae represent mahself in wor-rld affair. Alba gu brath.”
It was all England could do to keep from submitting to the larger, more muscular component of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. His teacup trembled in his delicate, white hands. But, no! His darling Queen Liz, with whose namesake he had been desperately in love, would want him to keep calm!
“I daresay, you highland brute, you will know your place and you will like it!” England shouted, suddenly standing up. For a moment, he felt powerful, as he had in the years of the great British Empire, when he had raped indiscriminately and conquered many a nation in hopes of overcoming the soul-crushing, life-altering loss of his one and only America. No--England was a new man now.
Scotland bared his teeth and reached for his claymore.
“What the devil is going on yuuuuh?” It was Wales. His innocent eyes were wide and his rosy little lips pursed. His flock of sheep had followed him inside the house. They bleated cutely.
“Nothing. Piss off, Wales.” England shouted, ever the oppressor. Small beads of wetness formed in Wales’ eyes.
“Oh, England. Such a cruel way to treat your first colony!”
England shut his eyes against the metaphorical pain. Wales wasn’t his first. He wasn’t the flaxen-haired lad who had chucked out his heart like a crate of tea. Into Massachusetts Bay. Dressed like a Native American. American, England’s heart cried.
Scotland’s face turned dangerous, showing the menace of his savage race, “Feck off, ye wanker! Didnae I tell ye tae go easy on ‘im? Come here, Wales.”
The more feminine man complied, rushing over to be trapped in the bulging muscles of the larger Celt. England hated himself for not confessing his feelings to Scotland. Looking upon this affectionate scene, he realized that perhaps this was for the best. It seemed the kilted Gael had found someone much more appealing than a bristle-haired Saxon.
The glare Scotland had fixed him with was one England had seen every day since 1707, when William and Mary had ridden into Scotland on horseback beheading Jacobites left and right. That was the year England had taken Scotland as his unwilling Scotch bride, solidifying their unholy Union.
The soft bleating of Wales’ sheep brought England back to reality. Oh, there goes gravity, he lamented. Scotland had scooped Wales up in his arms, rocking him gently.
“You’ve cheered me right up,” Wales said cheerfully, not missing the chance to plant a chaste kiss on Scotland’s stubbly jaw.
England, meanwhile, was seething with jealousy. Sure, Ireland was all up on his dick (it was obvious, no matter how much she had once tried to hide it with talk of “independence” and “ending abuses”) and that was fine, but what he truly wanted besides a chance to fuck America, Canada, India, France, Singapore, the Philippines, Norway, Sri Lanka, and the author’s OC of Uruguay, was Scotland.
Scotland set Wales down just as the doorbell rang. The cheerful Taffy skipped off to answer the door.
“It’s Northern Ireland and Southern Ireland!” he shouted from the other room. England vaguely recalled something about a "republic" but immediately realized that he, and the majority of this story’s audience, didn’t care enough to look into it.
Two Irish-looking persons entered the room.
“What brings the pair of ye here?” asked Scotland, rather good-naturedly.
Ireland beamed, “Faith and Begorrah, Scotland. It’s time for our weekly visit!”
Wales’ blushed adorably, “Good heavens, boyo! How did I forget? What day is it?”
“Sunday, bloody Sunday.” answered Stroke Country.
Wales shrugged and offered them seats. The English gentleman studied them silently, for he knew them to be trouble. Especially Ireland. He’d never answer any of her questions again.
He tried his best to sound relaxed. “So, Ulster, Ireland. What did you have in mind for today?”
“Well, I tought we —and by ‘we’ I mean Wales, Scotland, The Occupied Six Counties, and I— could all go out for a pint. Of Guinness.”
England tried his best to hide his crestfallenness. This constant neglect, as his therapist had pointed out, spawned and completely excused his megalomaniacal behavioral patterns. Because of his brothers, he was a broken bird.
“That sounds like a smashing good time!” chirped Wales. “I’ve been dying to go to the cinema.”
Scotland nodded emphatically, “Aye, aye! Not in the mood for a comedy, though. Any suggestions?”
“Zombie, zombie…” said the Province.
“Horror it is!”
And with that, they filed out of the room.
All except England. As if symbolically, one of Wales’ sheep, a deeply black specimen, moseyed over to his side. He stroked its head while softly singing a song of Jingo and Russians, for a moment feeling whole.
Notes: If my allusions sort of fly over your head, dear Yanks in the audience, feel free to ask. My years as an unabashed Anglophile have made me something of an infallible authority on Britons.
Welsh people really like being called Taffies. It's got something to do with their predilection for salt water taffy. I think they used to stuff some in their pockets before battle in defiance of the English.
I've never been to Scotland, but I noticed some common traits in paperback fiction of the erotic variety that helped me fill in the gaps in my knowledge.
Still not sure why Northern Ireland isn't part of Southern Ireland, but I'm guessing it has something to do with Bono.