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Summary
Rarely does Britain make rational choices while drunk. He owes that to Scotland.
And tonight there's another mischievous impulse; he took the much rougher and larger hand into his own.
"What are you-"
Britain doesn't know, well- he does. He's pulling the Union's hands up to his mouth, and licking the small red trails that have stained into his skin.
Soviet doesn't move. Hell, Britain's not even sure he's breathing.
OR: my late Christmas gift to the Sovbrit tag that no one asked for nor wanted.