Summary: Now that he's conquered Wales, England isn't content with ruling him - he also helps himself to Wales, sexually. Scotland is furious...but Wales can't help feeling like his anger isn't genuine. Written for the Axis Powers Hetalia Kink Meme.
Warnings: Rape, reproductive coercion.
***
Scotland knowing makes everything worse.
“It’s no’ right what he’s doin’ to ye.”
Wales ignores him as he washes himself, hating every minute Scotland’s eyes are on him, taking in the bruises on his paunch where England grabbed and squeezed, the cut on his lip where he bit down hard, angry at something – someone – else.
At least his arse isn’t bleeding any more.
“It’s nee way to treat yer brother.”
No, it bloody isn’t, but it doesn’t offend Scotland enough to turn on England completely. Yes, half the time they’re at each other’s throats, but the other half they’re thick as thieves, they are. All this so-called concern on Scotland’s part is nothing but glorified handwringing, if pacing up and down and occasionally punching the furniture can be described as handwringing.
And lately he’s caught Scotland looking at him with what’s suspiciously like disgust on his face, and it only makes Wales angrier. It isn’t happening to Scotland, it’s happening to him, and if he chooses not to struggle and let England take what he wants then that’s his decision. Scotland wouldn’t understand, because he can’t. He still has his independence. He doesn’t know what it’s like to have another nation tell you I can make you do whatever I want and know already, even as you resist, that you will not win. It isn’t wrong to bow his head to the ground for the sake of his language and culture, to spare his people from England’s wrath. Cornwall is doing the same thing.
Wales tries not to wonder if England forces himself into her bed, too.
“Don’t ye ever try to fight him off?”
Well excuse him for being cynical, but this talk of fighting back only ever comes up when Scotland and England have had a falling out. Wales wants to ask Scotland what good he thinks it would do. Ireland fights back all the time. Where has it got her? The two of them beat the living hell out of each other, until eventually she’s exhausted and England takes what he wants anyway. What’s it done, only turn her practically feral?
He tried to comfort her once, tried to tell her he does it to me too. The snarl that came out of her mouth wasn’t even human. Him, Scotland, England, they’re all the same to her now. Inside her something horrible is growing, something vengeful and bloodthirsty. If any of them ever kill England, it will be Ireland.
In the end, she suffered the worst fate any of them could, short of disappearing entirely.
Scotland is stomping up and down the kitchen when Wales goes to make some tea. He’s all red in the face and it clashes with his ginger hair and beard. Well, that explains why England was so rough last night. Wales lowers himself into a hard wooden chair, and can’t quite mask his grimace.
Scotland stops his pacing and glares at him.
“Sometimes I think ye like what he does tae ye,” he spits.
Wales glares back, whole body growing cold with fury. Yes, yes sometimes he does. Not the rough stuff – he hates England for making him his punching bag, for taking out on him what he can’t do to France or Spain or whoever’s pissed him off that day. But there are times, yes, when England sinks his hands into the excess flesh of his belly and showers him with kisses and murmurs you’re so beautiful that Wales can almost believe this isn’t about conquest or control, that maybe between Ireland’s violent hatred and Scotland playing Let’s Be Friends/Now Fuck Off all the time that Wales is the only stable thing in his baby brother’s life. And how dare Scotland pronounce on him from on high, when he’s been content to look the other way except when it suits him.
Wales looks away for a few moments. He’s always been able to cut his brothers to the quick, and it’s the only weapon he’s got left.
“I see Ireland’s had a baby,” he remarks. He looks back at Scotland, slowly, deliberately. “Spitting image of you, he is.”
All the colour drains out of Scotland’s face. His Adam’s apple bobs as he searches for something to say.
Wales leans forward slightly, twisting the knife.
“Is that any way to treat your sister?”
There’s a crack and pain as Scotland backhands him, but there’s no real strength in it. Scotland stumbles backwards, one hand up to his mouth. Wales feels a sick sense of pleasure at seeing tears in those green eyes. He stands up, ignoring the throb of his face, and leaves the room.
Scotland and England are the same to him now, too.