The next time I saw Canada wasn't as awkward as I feared it would be. For one, we weren't quite alone at first – Germany and his little toy were there with us when he came – coming to visit me this time around instead of vice versa. For another, America wasn't there. Despite the amiable company we had split with back in Ontario, I still remembered the feeling of being between a rock and America far too much for my liking, and I hadn't decided yet whether that was a good thing or not.

By now, however, we were, by anyone's measures, alone. We were curled up on his couch in Germany's basement, who had long since sent Italy home and gone to sleep. Canada was curled up so close to me he was basically on my lap, head tucked under my chin as we watched the only decent thing on television at one thirty in the morning (some badly dubbed Russian war movie). I traced small circles on the skin of his lower back idly where his shirt didn't quite reach his jeans, staring at the movie but not taking in anything. Russians were boring anyway. All snow and no bite. My brain kept supplying me with images of America, eyes turned bright purple by the sun, threatening, maddening, furious, resembling- guh.

"Something wrong?" Canada asked me, straining to look up at my face. I realized I was gripping the waistband of his jeans tight enough to make my hand shiver, and I let go quickly, although I didn't withdraw. I liked having my thumb just barely under his underwear and my fingers brushing his ass.

"Just thinking, that's all," I said dismissively, trying to stamp out images of an overprotective powerful Canada from my mind. Damn America and his twin attractiveness.

He sat up a little, which had the benefit of forcing my hand farther into the back of his pants, so he could frown at me properly. "You never 'just think'," he pointed out. "What's really wrong?"

"What makes you angry?"I blurted out before I could stop myself.

Blink blink. Just like his brother. "Eh?"

"What makes you angry?" I repeated. "I mean, you know I hate Russians and jazz music and when people get your name wrong-" that made him smile, as I knew it would- "but I don't really know what makes you angry."

"Oh." His eyebrows furrowed as he thought, and I used his moment of inattention to stick my other hand in mirror position and pull him completely on my lap. He made a small yelping sound, but didn't protest as he settled into the straddle and let his wrists fall onto my shoulder. Angry or not, he looked delicious.

"I really don't like hamburgers," he said, slightly more timid than usual. I chuckled and pulled his hips closer to me, him biting his lip to keep from gasping.

"I didn't ask you what you didn't like," I murmured, craning my neck a little to slide my face over his slightly exposed collarbone. "I asked what made you angry." I felt his breathing quicken under my check and smiled. He was definitely cute enough to eat.

I tilted my head back a little so I could taste the area I had just marked, humming. His fingernails clutched at the back of my neck as his breathing sped up again. He leaned forward to let me keep going, but I backed away and smirked up at his glazed eyes.

"I'm waiting."

He whined and tried to press himself against me to try and distract me, and although he made my head spin I wasn't going to let him overpower my awesome senses. Not yet.

"The playoffs," he gasped. "Hockey playoffs. They always make me frustrated," he said quietly. I bent forward to kiss his neck. God, the sounds he made were wonderful.

"Anything else?" I whispered against his skin.

"I hate it when people call me America," he grumbled, passion starting to filter into his tone. I grinned against his throat and kissed the underside of his jaw, which made him tilt his head back with a sigh. "And I don't hate America himself, but he just… riles me up sometimes," he admitted, his head falling back down to look at me, eyes beginning to take on the anger tone.

I disguised my sharp inhale by saying, "Imagine that." He smirked – he should definitely do that more often – and reached down himself to kiss my mouth, already open, pulling me closer by my neck. My hands were in his back pockets by now, and I clenched my fingers as he worked over my mouth slowly. My eyes were half-lidded as I watched his face as he kissed me; I couldn't help myself, he was fascinating.

"Anything else?" I breathed into his mouth. He groaned against my tongue, so I released my grip on his ass and made to withdraw my hands completely. His hands quickly shot back to my wrists and held them in place. If he had been any less aroused I'm sure he would have blushed at being caught enjoying my shameless feeling up.

As it was, he forced out, "When the garbage men in Toronto go on strike in July," before dropping down to my neck and biting it. My eyes widened and my smile spread even as my mind went blank. I liked this.

I stared absently at the ceiling as he continued to bite and suck at my neck (what was it with the Americas and necks?), every part of me hypersensitive to where he touched me. What he said finally clicked in my head, and I chuckled. "Really?"

He growled at me and pulled back so he could glare. "You try living in a crowded city in the dead of summer with garbage piled up on the sides of the streets." A bark of laughter escaped me, and he smirked again. "I hate it when hockey sticks break on slap shots," he whispered, and I shivered as if he was talking about something far more risque than hockey. His hands finally released my wrists and worked their way under my shirt, feeling my stomach up as shameless as me. He leaned forward again and kissed me, prying my mouth open with a degree of bluntness that was refreshing and invigorating - I couldn't remember feeling that with him before. I responded in kind, pulling him as close as possible without osmosis. I felt like I would melt up into him anyway.

He bit down onto my lip and the back of my mind noticed a deliberate nature to his movement, but I didn't care until I suddenly flopped over and found myself on my back with Canada crouched above me. He grinned, his glasses flickering blue in the light of the TV.

It was my turn to growl as I pulled him down to me, eating his face more than kissing but I didn't care, they were both the same to me at this point in the foreplay.

"My Parliament has always bothered me," he said after he pulled away, his hands on my chest and my shirt halfway off. "They seem to care more about scandal than actually fucking getting things done." He had to know just how sexy he looked just then.

"Do you have any idea how sexy you look right now?" I asked him, sliding my hands out of his back pockets slowly so I could grip the underside of his thighs for better leverage.

He slid his hands all the way up and pulled my shirt over my head, throwing it to the side. "Hmm. Maybe now I do." He was constantly smirking now as his hands slid down my stomach, gripping my sides before he started to pepper kisses on my shoulders and chest. "Should I go on?"

"Yes," my throat strangled out, fingers digging into jeans as he hummed his way down my torso. He was making me unable to do anything but breathe, and sigh, and moan oh right there yes-

"I hate baseball," he said, his voice a rumbling purr against my skin. Good God, his voice could seduce a tree.

"Fascinating." I hadn't absorbed anything of what he said, I just wanted him to keep talking, whatever it was, he could insult me for all I cared, just keep the sounds, the words flowing like clouds-

He reached my hips and traced my hipbones with his tongue. My own jeans had long since grown tight and my hands had relaxed to rest loosely in the curves of the back of his knees. "It's America's sport, so maybe that's the reason I dislike it so much," he continued, tracing his fingers just underneath the top seams of my jeans, each touch making my spine shiver like touching poorly made velvet. "It's boring, too. Too much waiting, not enough fighting," he rambled softly, playing with the button on my jeans, twirling a nail around the metal.

I opened my mouth to tell him that there would be fighting if he didn't get the fuck on with it when he stopped playing with me and unbuttoned my jeans, sliding the zipper down and my jeans as well, taking my underwear with it in a sloppy motion like letting down Venetian blinds. Even with his unusual self confidence he wasn't used to topping. It was so endearing.

"Ah, come here, you," I laughed, using my hands that were still hooked into the cavities behind his knees to pull him up closer so I could kiss him. He squeaked at the sudden movement, but caved and melted into my mouth, tongue pressing softly against mine, hands still working at my lower abdomen blindly. I let my hands wander up the outside of his thighs lightly, tracing four-lined patterns through the denim as I slowly worked my own way to his fly. I lazily pulled my leg up to prop my foot up on the couch, my thigh barely grazing his rear.

He gasped loudly as one of my hands finally worked their way underneath his pants to his erection, gripping it lightly. "I can't stand when people call me 'polite'," he breathed, arching his back and tilting his head to rest between his shoulders, his hands scrabbling for purchase against my stomach. I laughed again, rocking my hips up to bump against him and my hand and everything. His head fell back down to stare at me, eyes alight and mouth twitching. "You should know I'm anything but polite."

"Show me, ple-" I begged, cut off by an angry kiss, a bite to the neck, the shoulder, and then he was back down and shoving my bent leg to the side and God where did he learn to do that with his tongue-

-And then he pulled away suddenly, patting me like a dog, the blow job only lasting a second and I whined, long and loud. He chuckled in his throat, continuing to pet me, but nothing else. I bucked up into his hand, but he brought his knees together to pin my legs together and to the couch. "Not tonight, love," he murmured, glasses foggy and dusty blue. "Tonight we're at my pace." Words could not express how excited that sentence made me.

"Bring it."

A truly feral grin twirled up the corners of his mouth and he turned his head sharply, looking around the room for something. Before I could pull words together to ask what it was, though, he had vanished from my lap, then reappeared with a bounce that made me hurt vaguely, but not unpleasantly. He held up his find – a roll of shiny black tape I recognized as hockey, brought over on a cold day when he was attempting and failing to teach me how to play it – and I gulped in anxiety and anticipation.

Moving with his brother's speed, he twisted my hands together over my head and wrapped tape around them randomly but securely, climbing up to tear the tape with his teeth close enough to my skin that I could feel his lips. I closed my eyes and smiled languidly, the heat of his stomach hovering over my face. I could work with bondage.

More ripping sounded above my head and extra pressure was added than I expected; I opened my eyes to find Canada's toothy grin above me now. I tried to move my hands and found them taped directly to the couch. "You're a sneaky bastard," I told him, lifting my upper body as far as my bound arms would let me to try and touch him. He pulled away just enough that there was half an inch beyond my maximum range and where his lips were.

"I know." He quickly pulled his own shirt over his head by the hem, his glasses lost in the folds somewhere and his hair scattered but he didn't pause to fix either error, but just went back to the problem of teasing me as much as I had teased him. He licked upwards in a slow spiral, and my eyes closed again as I pressed my shoulders and head into the couch and pushed my hips up, not caring if I choked him, he needed to stop fucking teasing. Dammit. "You know what else makes me angry?" he said quietly, voice vibrating and breath heating and how did he expect me to answer when he talked like that? "When people suggest that it's cold and wintry all the time at home," he mumbled right before he finally, finally stopped teasing and swallowed me whole.

I screamed; there was nothing else I could do when he pounced like that. I bucked and strained as he petted the underside of my erection with his tongue slowly. Good goddamn, that tongue. (The back of my mind said that America taught him that, as much as his brother used his mouth, but it was just a dirty little rumor between the voices in my head so I did my best to ignore it.)

He started humming and my scream choked off in favor of trying to keep breathing. He laughed at me and my eyes fluttered, indecisive between open and closed and ending up somewhere in the middle, sightless but cracked, all of my senses completely concentrated on the feeling of Canada between my legs, twisting and turning and fuck it all.

Just before I could climax, though, Canada withdrew, leaving me cold and wet and painfully aching. My resulting groan covered several octaves, but he just laughed at me, reaching down to finish the job I had started before on his pants. He pushed them down roughly over his socks, shoes long since vanished (probably upstairs), and pressed hard against me, not pulling any punches as he fiercely attacked my neck and gripped the sides of my ribcage. I kissed him back hungrily, twisting into his touch as best I could, sloppily gripping his waist with my legs for better leverage. He smirked into my mouth and one of his hands disappeared for a moment, digging under the couch cushions before he found what he was looking for and pulled out my secret bottle of lube.

"I obviously know you too well," he whispered into my mouth, and I moaned, bucking my hips up to rub our erections together to hint at my painful desire. He was almost as hard as I was, so no time was wasted in slick fingers sliding inside me. Stars of pain crossed my closed eyelids; it had been far, far too long since I had been on the bottom.

Judging from the success of this little venture, I didn't see that being a problem in the future.

His fingers curled and scissored, and I lost all control of myself, moaning and whining and arching and how could this feel this good, why didn't I do this before-

After a moment of incredible loosening, his fingers left me empty and I whimpered. He leaned forward, my erection in one of his hands and his in the other, to whisper in my ear, "You know what else makes me angry?"

My entire body shivered, and since I could barely string two thoughts together, much less words, I made a questioning whine, continuing to push my hips up at him.

He positioned himself, then continued, "When people suggest that the Arctic isn't fucking mine," slamming into me on the last word.

I shrieked. I couldn't help it. My hands tore at each other, at the air, the ridiculous tape still clinging to the fabric of the couch as my heels pressed into his spine and my toes curled, my entire body convulsing from the sudden pain. It had been far, far too long.

He waited a moment, but not long enough, before he set up a rhythm, a somehow wet hand on my lower back to aid with our movements, and I was still bucking up, I had never stopped, even when it was hurting too badly for me to think straight-

He was still murmuring in my ear, but I was beyond even coming up with a meaning for his words anymore, I just wanted the sound of his voice, good goddamn why hadn't I come yet, there was no way I hadn't, it was too much, too much

Canada's hand was firmly wrapped around my base, keeping me from coming before he was ready. I panted in time with our pattern, unable to do anything but respond and breathe and buck and respond. He growled like a bear and slid his hand down my erection and I screamed again as I came, spilling out and staining everything white, including my vision, and I vaguely registered Canada's teeth digging into my shoulder before he spent himself inside me as well, sighing and licking the salt away from where his mouth was resting on my skin.

When my thoughts came back to something like normalcy, he had pulled out and was in the process of untaping my hands from the couch. "That," I breathed, heart still racing, "was the hottest thing you've ever done."

He laughed, no longer in the maniacal way of before but still awesome. "Thank you." My hands were released and I reached up to pull him against me, twisting onto my side with him in front of me. I rested my nose on his shoulder, delighting in the scent of him, something unnameable but sticky sweet. The blanket draped over the back of the couch was pulled down over us by one of our hands – I had ceased to notice which one – and I loved him as I felt him soften in my grip.

"You know, I didn't exactly come here thinking we were going to have sex," he mumbled as his eyes closed softly, reaching out to the remote on the coffee table to turn off the television, which was still on the Russian war movie.

"If it makes you feel any better, neither did I."

{A/N: Sorry this took longer to get out than I told you. It got a lot longer than I expected.}