(no subject)

[mirradin]

She can't get enough friction. Canada whimpers through her gag, rubbing herself mindlessly against the blanket. The material is too soft, it doesn't put enough pressure on her tingling nipples -- not like Taiwan's clever fingers would, they'd pinch and roll the skin and Canada would love it, but she can't press herself down hard enough!

The ache between her legs is even worse, but she can't stimulate herself there with her hands tied the way they are. She can rub herself against the bed, and does, and gets another tiny tingle that isn't anywhere near enough, but makes her throb even more, and she's so wet already that it only adds to the sticky trickle she can feel seeping down her thighs. She shoves herself forwards again, but with her knees on the floor it's too hard, and she can only get a little bit of friction and then the ache gets stronger...

Canada forgets about her hands, forgets about everything, and grinds her hips down desperately in an effort to find something, anything! Her chin rests on the blanket and she doesn't care. She comes down hard and something presses through the fabric and yes, yes! Canada rubs against it frantically.

That's how Taiwan finds her, what feels like hours later -- kneeling beside the bed, tears on her face, a dark stain showing on her skirt, sobbing impotently as she rubs against her sandaled heel in a futile search from release.

The first Canada knows of Taiwan's return is the strong, sure hands suddenly latching around her upper arms and hauling her up onto the bed. She lands on her back. Canada whines in protest, trying to bring her foot up to rub herself again, and receives a sharp slap against one of her too-sensitive breasts. It hurts!

She whines again, and looks up to see -- Taiwan, her hair loose, her eyes bright and her face intent.

Canada arches hopefully, showing off her breasts and her belly, spreading her legs for Taiwan. Maybe now that Taiwan is here the other Nation will finally touch her!

"Bad girl," Taiwan says. "You couldn't even wait for me to come back, naughty thing!"

Canada squirms, humiliation briefly breaking through the fog of lust that pervades her mind. She couldn't wait, she was just rutting against her shoe in an effort to get off, and she didn't even care who saw. What must Taiwan think of her? She moans around the mouthful of damp fabric, trying to show contrition.

Taiwan laughs. "Don't give me that look. You're not sorry at all, are you?" She idly palms the breast she just slapped.

The tingle between her legs surges, and Canada's hips lift off the bed, her mind momentarily wiped blank by need. She arches her back, pressing herself into Taiwan's palm, desperate for sensation --

Taiwan slaps her again, harder. If Canada's mouth wasn't full of cloth, she would yelp.

"Behave yourself," Taiwan sing-songs. She gets back off the bed and starts to strip. First she takes off her jacket, draping it over the back of a nearby chair. Her shirt follows next, revealing a pair of small, perfect breasts in a plain black bra that looks beautiful against her skin. Canada can't look away.

She can look away even less when Taiwan steps out of her trousers, revealing a matching pair of black underpants. Canada stifles a whine.

"Now then," Taiwan says briskly. "What shall we do with you?" She comes back of the side of the bed, surveying Canada's bound form with a cool, intent gaze.

Touch me! Canada begs internally. Touch me, take me, anything, just make me come!

Taiwan smiles. "I know..." She reaches out and brushes stray strands of hair from Canada's sweaty face.

"Let's start with you apologising, shall we?"

Comments

[mirradin]

Romano tipped the sedative into a glass of wine before supper, and then left it untouched while he ate. France understood. Romano would probably have been surprised to find out just how well France understood the way he didn't say things. France refrained from snorting into his own wine; as though observation was not an integral part of love! In deference to Romano's wishes, however, he avoided the topic of their planned activities, and instead made polite small-talk about the weather, the wine crops, and where Romano had found such wonderful onions for the carbonara. Romano relaxed during the meal, his originally terse answers giving way to detailed rejoinders, until by the time they finished the ice cream, he seemed almost to have forgotten why France was there.

"That's because you don't know crap about --" Romano's eyes flicked over the wine glass and he stuttered. "I mean," he looked back to France, "um."

France smiled, licking the last trace of sugar from his spoon, and watched Romano swallow. He set the spoon delicately back in the bowl. "I believe you mean," he said, leaning forwards, "that this meal has been exquisite." Romano's face reddened. France winked. "And I believe that it is time for you to drink that wine, non?"

Romano's nervousness vanished into a scowl. For a moment France thought that his partner was going to explode into invective. He was wrong.

Romano snatched the glass up and threw back the contents in one long swallow, making France's pulse ripple in a spark of desire. It was such a terrible way to drink good wine, of course, but ah, the impulse! Burning impatience did have something to recommend it...

Gasping a breath, Romano all but slammed the glass down on the table and glared again. The last dregs of the wine jumped. "Che! You coming?"

[mirradin]

"Sweden?" Finland's worried voice called from behind her. She must have startled him, running out like that, and he'd got worried and come to make sure she wasn't in trouble. He was sweet like that.

"'M here!" she called back.

"Ah-!" She heard him coming down the path, his footsteps quieter than usual -- pattering, almost, without the heavy noise boots made. Had he forgotten to put his shoes on in the hurry to follow her?

Sweden became acutely aware of the cold seeping up into her toes. She'd come out without shoes on. Stupid. She shifted her feet under her and frowned at the mud smearing her dress -- well, dirt was a part of life. She'd had worse stains. Blood, both her own and others', and the other stains that came from battle.

"Are you sick?" Finland took her arm, and Sweden leaned on him as she got to her feet. He shot a glance at the ground where she'd knelt, and Sweden shook her head silently. "Here --"

Sweden gently tugged her arm out of his hands and stooped to wash her hands in the stream.

"Sweden." He reached out briefly, his fingers fluttering next to her arm, and then his hand fell back to his side. "What's wrong?"

Sweden's stomach twisted again, and she focused on the cold water sluicing over her hands, between her fingers, carrying swirling wisps of dirt away.

What was wrong wasn't the kiss. It was that she knew what kissing led to. Denmark had liked to kiss her too, no matter that she bit at his lips. He'd laughed at it, even, laughed through bloody teeth, and after that it would be a short and violent time before Sweden could walk (or mostly limp, or crawl, one time) away again.

She was shaking. Still, it was cold out here, she could pretend that was it.

"Nothin's wrong," she said. Buying time. She'd never wanted to think of this and Finland, never.

"I'm sorry."

Sweden looked up in surprise. Finland's voice was small and a little hoarse.

He reached out and tugged her hands out of the stream, folding his palms around her freezing fingers. His thumbs, rough with callouses from knife and axe-haft, traced carefully down the back of her hands.

"I'm sorry," he repeated. "For kissing you, I mean -- I thought you wanted me to, but I won't -- I mean, I didn't want to upset you." He peered up into her face. "If you don't want me to, I won't do it again."

Sweden let out a choked laugh that tangled with a sob.

"No." She shook her head. "'s not... Y'didn't do 'nything wrong."

Finland huffed. "You ran away."

"Mm." Her stomach churned again. She focused on Finland's hands, smaller than hers, folded around her fingers. Not large enough to pin her wrists; she was still taller than him.

"Need to talk," she said roughly; better to get the words out before she could falter.

Finland nodded. "Inside?"

Back inside the house, Sweden fed the fire carefully while Finland finished cleaning the bowls. A familiar tingle of pain spread through her hands as the skin warmed. Sweden ignored it. It was just a part of living up here, in her beloved, frozen lands.

Her lands. She concentrated on that, while her hands went through the motions of laying the fire by themselves. Her lands. Here where she was at her safest and her strongest.

"I'm sorry," Finland said again. Sweden blinked and dragged her eyes away from the fire to look at him. Finland wasn't looking at her. He seemed intent on the inside of the bowl he was scrubbing.

"Don't be," she repeated. She glanced back down at the fire, now flaring up merrily, and told it, "Didn't mind."

Finland made a sound like a cat throwing up a fish-bone. Sweden looked up in alarm, coming to her feet, only to find him staring at her with confusion written all over his face.

"If you didn't mind," he said slowly, "then why --"

She could feel heat spreading up her neck, and not just from the fire. She'd never been good at lying. Never had to. "Didn't mind you," she mumbled, and then, before she could stop herself, "Minded Dan."

Finland didn't say anything, and Sweden didn't dare look at him. If she looked at him now, no matter how he reacted, she would never be able to go on. She stared at her fingers, interlaced in front of her, the reddening skin smudged black with soot.

Part of her, the part that made her giggle foolishly when Finland did something silly and sweet, and had made her clean herself up so that nothing showed in Denmark's house, was trying to panic. She shoved it down. No more secrets.

"Dan used to," she said into the silence of the kitchen. "Kiss me, that's. When we started gettin' bigger. And then more'n kissing." She looked into the crackling fire. It was better than looking anywhere else. "Hurt a lot," she added emptily.

Finland's voice came out wounded, raw. "Sweden."

She wasn't going to look at him. She wasn't going to look at him or she'd break. Look at the fire. You're not freezing over, not while the fire's there.

"Couldn't get away," she said. It took an effort to get the words out, dragging memories behind them. "'Nd it hurt a lot. Couldn't walk after, sometimes." She twitched a shoulder up. "It was...bad."

Meaningless flaming figures danced over the logs in the hearth. Once, she'd have seen faces in them. At least that had passed. That and the dreams.

A hand touched her elbow and she flinched, drawing herself tightly to her bones. Even here...but everything was sore today, and words had just taken the scabs off the old wounds. The hand withdrew at once, but the body warmth didn't.

"I'm sorry." Finland's voice was soft. "I didn't know."

Sweden attempted another shrug. "Didn't want you to." She still wasn't sure if she did. Pretending it wasn't real had been simpler, if maybe not easier.

"Still." Finland laid his hand on her arm again, the touch feather-light. Sweden let him.

Well. This wasn't so bad. He was still here, and so was she, and if it still hurt then it could have been worse.

She reached out, awkwardly, and tugged Finland into a hug. He wrapped his arm around her waist, not as tightly as she wanted him to, but she could get out of it if she wanted to and he had to know that. Dear Fin. She hugged him tighter.

"I'll kill him," Finland whispered into her shoulder, words tight with anger.

"Don't you dare," Sweden replied, muffling herself in his hair. "'s mine."

Finland's arm tightened briefly. "That's fair."

"Mm."

The fire crackled on.