Yep, I'm starting a new story. I know, I know. I'm in the middle of Don't Be Jealous and I really should finish that one first.. but.. eh. I was inspired after reading Stockholm Syndrome by weeaboo-sensei. (I suggest you go find it and read it.) I -adore- the concept of evil Russia forcing himself onto poor little Canada. This has been swimming in my brain for a few days now.
Anyone who's read my other fics knows I like a very uke Canada. Sorry if that's not your thing, but.. I'm the one writing. ^^;;
Also, please don't be bothered when I write 'tho' instead of 'though'. It's an old habit that wont die, sorry. I like good spelling and grammar otherwise, so excuse that one little bit of laziness.
This story has nothing to do with Alone With Him or Don't Be Jealous! It's not a sequel or a prequel or anything. It's just another excuse for me to write Ruscan abuse smut. Yummy, yummy Ruscan. :p~~
On to the show!
Oh no oh no oh no oh no!
I'm late I'm late I'm late I'm late!
Canada tipped the taxi driver without really knowing if it was customary to do so here. He tipped allot. Because he'd learned two words from a translation dictionary on the flight over. Two very important words. Go fast. And the taxi driver had obeyed his request. He was still late, but thanks to the driver he wasn't delayed even further.
He was always late. But he would never admit that the lateness was often his own fault. No. It was traffic congestion due to bad, snowy weather. It was a delayed Air Canada flight. It was a mixup with his luggage upon his arrival at various host airports. It was any number of reasons.. but never his fault. Matthew Williams - Canada - wasn't one for leaving everything - like flight preparations, packing, translation dictionary buying - till the last minute. Not him. No.
The taxi had parked in front of a large, beautifully sculpted, red-bricked building, with eight flags hanging from it's facade. Japan, Germany, America, China, Italy, Russia, France, England.. and Canada at the end. Each flapped freely in a chilly northern breeze that Matthew barely noticed as he hauled his suitcase from the trunk of the car. He waved goodbye to the taxi driver and hurried to the door. There hadn't even been time to stop at his hotel first to drop his things off.
He was late. But it wasn't his fault. He wanted to be here. Really.
Canada liked the G8 meetings. Honest. It was nice to see everyone. It was nice to hear everyone talking and discussing and deciding world affairs. It was great when France and England started arguing. When America started laughing. When Japan haunched over with yet another stomachache. When China reminded everyone that they all owed him money. Germany would yell. Italy would say something about pasta. Russia would sit back quietly and look pleased with the chaos that everything always devolved into.. every.. single.. time.
Canada would say nothing. Most of the time. Sometimes he tried to say something, but someone else would speak over him. Or he was laughed at. Usually by America.
He liked the G8 meetings.
Matthew tried to smile at the guards as he rushed past them. The architecture inside the building was just as rich and bold as the outside. The decor was lavish. The walls made of marble and historical paintings awash in glorious colours hung every few feet down the red-carpeted hallway that the Canadian hurried down, pulling his suitcase along behind.
Yes. It was better to be here. Here at the annual G8 meeting where he, Canada, could make a real difference in the world. A million miles away from the comforts of home. Hockey, parliament, maple syrup, vast forests, wildlife, Ottawa, Toronto, Vancouver, donuts, Tim Horton's, his beloved polar bear, snow..
Well, ok. At least snow was here too.
Matthew pulled a little slip of paper from his jacket pocket to read the instructions he'd scribbled there. Meeting room at end of grand hall. Well.. this hallway looked pretty grand. Matthew hurried towards the double doors at the end.
This was the first time he'd attended a G8 meeting here. This was the fist time this nation had held a G8 meeting since it joined in 1998. England had loudly voiced his opposition to the decision to hold a summit here, but fair was fair. All members should host at least once. And all members had to attend. It was mandatory. You had to be there for the yelling, the name calling, the largely wasting of time that could be spent doing something else.. like peacefully spending time out in nature..
Oh hell. Who was he kidding? Matthew hated these meetings. He was always late because he didn't want to be there.
He stopped at the double doors, his hand resting on one of the handles. He leaned his forehead against the cool wood and closed his eyes. It was awfully quiet. No yelling, no arguing. But the little blond assumed the room beyond was just sound proofed. No doubt the meeting was already well underway. Seven seats were filled, and someone would most likely be giving a speech. Not Italy.. he'd be asleep by now. Maybe Germany, or Japan. America might be munching on a hamburger. France might be blowing kisses at England to piss him off.
In a minute Canada would walk in and quietly take his seat. If the host nation had remembered to give him a seat. The Canadian flag was hanging outside tho, so yes, he most likely had a seat. He would walk in, and sit, and no one would notice. No big deal.
Matthew inhaled deeply, then slowly exhaled. Here we go.
He opened the door and stepped into the room.
His suitcase thunked against the door as it closed behind him. Oops. He hoped no one had heard, but seriously doubted anyone did. ...Mostly because the room was empty.
Eh?
The room was empty. As in.. devoid of other nations.
There was a large, round table in the centre of the room. There were eight chairs, and eight computer screens with keyboards. There was a lovely sunflower floral centrepiece in the middle of the table. There was a large screen on the wall and a projector hanging over the table where slides or videos could be played. There was a small snack table off to the side stacked with clean, empty dishes. Everything that was normally present for G8 meetings was there in the room. But the G8 themselves, save for Canada, were not.
Matthew blinked in confusion. And then the doors locked behind him.
"Hey!"
He dropped the handle of his suitcase and ran to the doors. He rattled the handles but they were locked tight.
"What's going on? Let me out!" He banged on the door. There was no response. He banged again, but then thought he heard a faint laugh somewhere behind him.
Matthew whirled around to see someone impossibly tall stepping out from behind a curtain. He felt his stomach drop into his shoes. Little pin prick sensations crawled up and down the skin of his back and arms. Sort of the same feeling he got when he was watching one of America's frightening horror movies... but worse.
"Hello, Matvey."
It was Russia.
Canada felt the hairs on the back of his neck start to raise, standing on end.
Russia was dressed casually, as he would be if there was a meeting he was attending. Comfortable green pants, a yellow knitted sweater and a light grey blazer to make the ensemble somewhat formal. It brought the violet of his eyes out, and the ash silver of his hair.
Matthew swallowed. His mouth was dry. Like.. bone dry.
"I thought there was a meeting?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. He reached behind him to jiggle the door handle again. Still locked.
"There was." Russia smiled.
Was he really THAT late?
Matthew frowned. No. He'd double checked the invitation email he'd received a month prior and knew he'd written down the time of meeting correctly. He was careful to translate it to Moscow's timezone. He was late, but only by twenty minutes. G8 meetings lasted hours. Even all day.
"Where is everyone?"
Why is the door locked behind me? Why are you looking at me like you're a predator and I'm your prey?
Russia was moving towards him, slow and careful. Canada had given up on the door and was edging away, easing himself along the wall. Predator and prey indeed. If the huge man made any sudden movements he would bolt like a deer. But to where? This room had no other exits.
He wondered if he'd have time to smash a window with a chair.
"Meeting was yesterday."
Yesterday?
"But the email I got said it was today!" Matthew retreated further along the wall. Russia followed. He was starting to get the feeling that he was being corralled. Herded. He was nearing the snack tray. A quick glance showed him a single glass of what he assumed was water. Damn, his mouth was dry. He was thirsty. But it could be vodka for all he knew.
"I lied." Russia smiled.
The colour drained from Canada's already pale face. There was no mistaking it now. He was in danger. Allot of danger.
Russia was fast. Matthew didn't have time to even think of how such a large man could move so quickly. A clenched fist connected with his stomach, exploding the air from his lungs. He doubled over and sunk to his knees. He wrapped his arms around his middle and squeezed his eyes shut in pain. He heard Russia chuckling softly. He peeked an eye open to see the mans boots. Russia was looming over him, then he crouched and set his hand atop the little blonds head.
"Why?" Canada choked out, pulling away from the Russian's hand. Fingers buried themselves in his hair and kept him in place.
"Because, little Matvey," Russia chuckled, "You are like this. Soft and quiet."
Matthew frowned. Soft and quiet? I'll show you soft and quiet! He braced himself to lunge at the Russian. He was smaller, and not nearly as strong as his brother America, but he could fight. He'd checked Russia out of his way on the rink more than once when they played hockey together. He'd check him now, as hard as he could, then try throwing a chair at the window.
Russia backhanded him across the face.
Stars danced in the corners of his now-blurry vision. His glasses had been sent flying halfway across the room. Matthew's head swam, and his idea of escaping the hand still buried in his hair was abandoned. Russia stood up and dragged the little blond with him. Matthew winced in pain, struggling to get both his feet beneath his body. He clawed at Russia's grip, and a trail of red dribbled down his chin. At least his mouth wasn't dry anymore. Instead it tasted coppery and thick with his own blood.
"Please, Russia.. don't do this.."
Russia chuckled again. He yanked Matthew's head back, admiring his handiwork. Matthew did his best to stay on his feet. He glared into purple eyes so much like his own, but he knew as well as Russia did that the bravery was feigned. Canada was terrified.
Russia dragged him two steps towards the snack tray, close enough to grab the glass of water.. or vodka. Whatever it was. His head was wrenched back even further, causing his bloody mouth to fall open. The liquid was poured down his throat. Matthew choked, coughed and sputtered. Russia was relentless and Canada did his best to swallow quickly so he'd be able to breathe again. Thankfully it WAS just water. When the glass was drained, Matthew was released. He tripped backwards towards the meeting table, coughing. He managed to keep himself on his feet, holding himself up against one of the chairs. Russia stalked at him again.
"You are such a pretty little thing." The Russian cooed, and Matthew threw an angry glare at him. Both of him.
...Both?
What.. what was in that water?
Canada saw the objects in the room around him begin to multiply. He was starting to feel dizzy. Then Russia was there, before him, above him, pushing him back, easing him down on the table.
"So pretty." That disturbing smile was all around him. That gentle, sweet voice echoed as if it came from far, far away. A hand was in his hair again, this time petting him softly.
"I have been watching you, little Matvey. I have been waiting. And now you're all mine."
Matthew's eyes slid closed. The heavily drugged water he'd swallowed down mere minutes ago quickly made work of his senses. The world was black and filled only with the Russian's echoed, accented words and his soft chuckle.