Ring-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling!

"No no no no not now," Canada whined quietly as the Russian broke their kiss.

The man reluctantly reached over to the bedside table and grabbed his cell phone. He flipped it open, sighing at the text message displayed. "It's my boss."

A pout formed on the blonde's lips, a small hand coming up to brush Russia's cheek. "B-But you just got home . . . please. . ."

"He says it's urgent," the white-haired man mumbled. He kissed the Canadian's palm before sitting up and climbing off the bed. He gave a glance down to the boy. "I have to get ready again." With that, he disappeared into the bathroom.

Canada felt like he was going to cry.

Two weeks, two goddamned weeks that he's been staying with Russia—and they hadn't done it at all. It's not like he wasn't enjoying his time with the man, what with them getting to know each other's homes and languages and all that, but . . .

The phone must have interrupted them for the umpteenth-fuckin'-time! If it wasn't either of their cells, it was Kumawhatshisname asking for food, or Belarus breaking in, or the other was too tired. And every time they would be close to their connection point and get interrupted, it always left him all hot and bothered.

Come on, he had even resorted to begging for maple's sake!

Now he was in the same position. Again. Damn.

Blue eyes darted to the Russian as he stepped out of the bathroom, completely clothed and groomed, scarf in hand. Canada sat up quickly, the sheets sliding down him, and met the man halfway for another kiss. He tried to drag it out, tugging on the suit jacket he was wearing, trying to entice him to stay. Please . . .

Russia groaned quietly but parted from him anyway with a small, "Sorry." He stared down at him with sympathetic violet eyes, petting his soft blonde hair. "I'll see you later, ok?"

"You don't know what you're missing," Canada murmured, glancing up at him cutely, trying to be seductive.

That earned him another breath-stealing kiss and he found himself pressed flat against the bed. Sighing happily, he hooked his arms around his lover in an attempt to keep him close. Their lips brushed against each others' fiercely for a moment before the Russian parted from him again, kissing his temple. "Da, I do. Bye, подсолнух."

The Canadian couldn't help his whimper as the man stood again with a smile and left. Just like that.

Fuuuck meeee!

"Ugh!" Canada threw his arms down on either side of him in a huff.

This sucked epically! (Great, now he sounded likes his brother.) Thoughts of what could have happened ran through his head as he laid there for awhile. Yeah. Because that helped his nerves a whole bunch. It seemed to worsen them, in fact, and his underwear felt tight.

Great. He was all hot-to-trot and Russia had already left him. It didn't help that his gut practically had a permanent knot of tension from all the weeks of denial to his lust. What was he supposed to do now?

"I think I'll take a shower," the blonde decided aloud, sitting back up. Since his shirt had already been 'relieved' from him, he ditched the rest of his clothes and glasses and went to flip on the faucet. Maybe he should set it on cold to help cool down his excited . . . hormones. Nah. He'd be fine. Once the water was warm enough, he stepped into the spacious glass and porcelain shower. The spray felt good coming down on his skin, relaxing his tense muscles.

He did his best to keep his mind off of his 'problem', and instead thought about the past couple weeks.

The morning after their first night together had been . . . well, terrible—for lack of a better word.

It had started out great, what with waking up in Russia's arms, the man petting his hair and calling him 'sunflower.' Then his brother had to ruin the moment with his overreacting and yelling. Not to mention the fact that the American had flat out started attacking Russia for no reason! It took France, England, Ukraine, and himself to pull America away from Russia and a devilish Belarus. Both his brother and his lover needed to go get stitches while England officially banished him to the conference room until the day's meeting started—astonishing since the hotel had replaced the meeting table so fast. It had been so awkward. Everyone had stared at him and tried to ask questions.

It was one of those rare times when he'd wished he'd been invisible.

Once the meeting started, though, everything went back to normal, besides the occasional side comment about him being 'brave' for being with Russia. The man in question had sat on one side of him while his brother sat on the other the entire time. It had been awful. His bear had suddenly appeared, too, muttering the usual about him being hungry.

Which he was incredibly thankful for considering Kumanuma was the whole reason why he'd been in that situation to sleep with Russia in the first place. Not that he didn't enjoy it, but that damned mysterious person had used his best friend to blackmail him into being a sex slave for one night. Talk about cruel!

As he reached for the shampoo, he shivered at the memory of when he'd gotten back to his hotel room and realized his bear wasn't with him. He'd went back and checked the conference room, the hallways, even the kitchen—anywhere that his little buddy could have been. Not only was he worried to death but when he'd gotten back to his room there was a creepy note left on his bed telling him what he had to do and if he refused then Kumamiro would be killed. While he was reading the note, though, the perpetrator had snuck up behind him and strung a black bag over his head, knocking him out with some sort of drug. Next thing he knew he was lying on someone, completely naked and blindfolded by a weird contraption.

Then he was terrified. He didn't really want to do anything to the tied up man beneath him. Whether it was rape or some wicked form of S&M, he really didn't want to be a part of it. But then the idea of someone hurting his bear popped into his head and he felt sick. It was just one bad thing after another, what with his brother going haywire, throwing things at him and yelling. Then the whole slave thing and his best friend being threatened . . . He wouldn't be able to take it if anything bad happened to Kumakichi.

So he did what he'd been told to do.

And, oh fuck, was it painful! He wasn't exactly a virgin like Russia and apparently his family had thought—he was hundreds of years old for Pete's sake—but he hadn't done it with a guy in a long while so it had hurt like a mother. Not to mention he had never had anyone as big and usually he would just hook up with girls, anyway—but he never really had a preference. Maybe it was the French in him.

But he wasn't going to say all that amidst the heat of the moment.

But when the man beneath him had broken free from the chains and flipped him on his back . . . he'd never been so frightened. All of his bravery and excuses for why he was even there left him as panic seeped into his veins.

And then the man had spoken.

"Open your eyes, Matvey."

That accent shocked him to the core and, after he did open his eyes, he couldn't help but break down. Not only had he been paralyzed with fear, but it only mounted even more as he spotted Russia—THE Russia—staring down at him with angry, lusty eyes. Then he had been scared for his life, not to mention embarrassed out of his mind. It's not like he hadn't checked the Russian out before—who hasn't?—because he was a fine, strong man and was sexy as hell with that white hair of his. But his unstable/violent reputation and the blonde's own invisibility kept him from ever making small talk outside of work.

But the man had been nothing but kind to him during that time in the hotel room, despite his daunting appearance.

And a kiss. Russia had kissed him so sweetly while he cried; he couldn't help but kiss him back, hugging the man to him. He remembered all of the anxiety pouring out of him from that kiss.

Of course he'd suspected at first that the Russian had been behind it all and was just playing innocent, but that all changed when he had told him what happened after the meeting the next day. The man had been completely livid, looking ready about to kill anyone who came too close. But . . . he'd been able to calm him down—surprising considering he was scared to death. Russia had let him soothe him, though, instantly offering that he should stay with him for a couple weeks to make sure that he was safe.

And so here he was.

A sex-less 'sex slave.'

But that didn't mean he disliked the Russian—he liked him a lot, actually. And, according to Russia, he was his. Not that he had to worry about him turning all insane and taking him over—he'd changed, right? He was a bit grateful to whoever had done this so they ended up together. Just a bit. A small, microscopic, electron sized bit.

The Canadian sighed at the memory and finished up, his nerves seeming calm enough. Turning the shower off and stepping out onto the rug, he grabbed the towel he'd put out and began to dry himself. Quickly realizing he hadn't laid out any clothes, the blonde tied the towel around his waist and stepped out into the bedroom.

He hugged himself as the chill instantly hit him, shivering as he put on his glasses. He smiled as he spotted a familiar white ball of fluff lying on the comforter of Russia's king size bed, snoring. Rummaging through the two drawers the man had let him use, he frowned. Damn. He just remembered that all of his clothes were dirty and in the washer. Maybe the Russian had a robe he could wear. He straightened and strode over to the man's closet, starting to look through all of the suits and shirts. Nope, there wasn't a robe in there.

A thought popped in his head. He thought he'd spotted another closet somewhere downstairs as he walked out of the bedroom. The Canadian's damp, warm feet padded on the cool hardwood floor as he passed Russia's home phone sitting on a decorative table in the hallway. He paused, a sudden urge to call his lover flashing through him.

Tucking the corner of his towel in the top, he slowly reached out for the phone, huffing at himself. The blonde checked the time on the receiver. The Russian had only been gone a little over an hour. This was pathetic—he couldn't even last an hour? The Canadian shook his head and continued walking towards the staircase, the floorboards creaking quietly as he made his way down. Now where was that closet?

Stepping off the bottom stair, he paused and looked around. It still amazed him how huge Russia's house was. It was pretty much about six times the size of his own house—an old, three story mansion that looked several hundred years old. The staircase he'd just walked down was close to the front door and twin staircase sat a dozen yards opposite of it. To his left was a hallway leading to the kitchen and garage, and the huge foyer to his right opened straight back into the living room, a hallway from there to the library and various other rooms. Bookshelves lined the walls everywhere, it seemed, as well as trophy, movie, and gaming cases.

He chuckled as he remembered that when he had first arrived at the Russian's house how he'd been so surprised at finding video games like Modern Warfare and Singularity on the man's shelf. Russia had simply shrugged and said they were good games.

Something caught his eye and Canada turned to look at a long, tan coat hanging on a hook beside the door. He blinked in surprise. Russia must have forgot his coat today, he thought, padding over to it. He reached out his hand to brush against the lightly colored material. It was soft, worn down from years of use. He couldn't help himself as he lifted it off of the wall hook, sliding his thin arms into the jacket and clasping the front of it. Well, it could work as a robe, however . . .

It was way too big.

A good half a foot of the coat sat upon the floor and the sleeves dangled just about as much off the tips of his fingers. Jesus! How did he manage to ever sleep with a guy who was so big? Even his clothes dwarfed him completely! And it wasn't just his arms that were big . . .

The Canadian blushed at the thought, burying his face into the collar of the jacket. That wasn't such a good idea.

He paused for a moment, sniffing the smooth fabric. He inhaled the thick scent of vodka, something smooth like vanilla, and that smell he couldn't quite place but was so distinct and warming. Ivan . . . The blonde closed his eyes, a small groan escaping him as he sat down on the stairs. He lifted the collar up more, pressing his face into it as he tried to take in all of the man's scent.

His heart dropped, and he wished his lover was there with him. I'm not lonely, it's just . . . He hugged the coat, picturing the Russian's arms around him and took another deep breath. Was it so wrong that he wanted to be touched by him again? To feel his arms around him, those strong lips against his? Wanting to experience that wonderful night over?

He felt his towel lifting up and he crossed his legs in an effort to stop it. Shit—so much for his shower.

I-I can't help it, he thought. His hand dipped down to remove the towel from around his waist, releasing the pressure beneath. His damp, hot skin stuck to the inside of jacket and he rolled his shoulders, loving the feel of the cool material against him. The blonde's muscles were tight and he moved his hand down to relieve the tension, finally giving in.

Then a loud crash sounded behind him.

Canada stopped, his body stiff. He sat still for a few minutes, his ears straining to hear anything else. It had sounded like a crash. Did Kumachako . . ? No. He was asleep upstairs on the bed, wasn't he? The blonde stood up slowly, his legs shaking slightly as he tried to repress his hormones at the moment. Was it Belarus again? God forbid if it was that insane, obsessive woman!

He stepped quietly around the railing at the bottom of the stairs, gripping the phone in his hand tightly, prepared to beat the hell out of anyone who might appear. He also felt the cold steel of a gun and Russia's water pipe hanging on the inside of the coat he was wearing, and that gave him some comfort as well. He walked as stealthily as he could into the living room where he heard the crash. He froze at a small clapping sound and a hum as he pressed his back against the wall, holding his breath. Another clapping sound, then nothing but silence met him.

The Canadian cautiously stepped forward again, his damp feet quiet against the wood. He glanced around the living room. Beige couch, glass coffee table, rug, flat screen, shelves . . .

He noticed a few of the books and movies had fallen off the shelves and he sighed a bit in relief, walking over to them. Stooping down, he began picking up the items and placing them back in their spots. Maybe gravity was just playing a trick on him. But then what was that clapping noise that he had heard? Was it a movie falling? Carefully, he dropped one of the cases onto the floor, listening to the sound. It was close, but . . . He shrugged. Whatever. He put the movie back.

Nerves easing up somewhat, he grabbed one of the fallen movies, desperate for a distraction, and flipped on the TV. I shouldn't get flustered so easily by a few falling books, the blonde scolded himself as he loaded the movie into the player.

But as he held the disk, he couldn't stop his fingers from trembling and he frowned. Well, he was in the infamous Russia's house, a feat not many other countries would even attempt. What with the older, haunted feel of the building, and the Russian's psychotic sister who broke in whenever she felt like it, who wouldn't feel a little on edge? He loaded the movie in and watched as the player ate the disc, crossing his arms tightly over his chest.

I might still just be a little freaked out about the whole ransom thing. I mean, someone managed to sneak up on me before, what's to say they couldn't do it again? I've been too laid back lately, Canada scolded himself.

The Canadian stood as the movie began to play, taking comfort in the familiar noise of the television. He sighed at himself and turned around towards the kitchen to grab something to drink. He stumbled a bit on Russia's coat and blushed—he'd forgotten he even had it on. Hiking up the long jacket respectfully, he made his way under the staircase and down a short hallway into the kitchen.

Stepping across the tile over to the fridge, he opened it and paused from the hum of the appliance. He shook off the creepy feeling once again and scanned the inside of the fridge. It was chock full of vodka bottles, aside from a gallon of milk, butter, orange juice, and a bottle of water.

He sighed, a small smile coming to his lips at the sight. Russia really needs to cut down on the alcohol, he thought, chuckling. He reached out and grabbed the bottle of water, letting the door swing shut. I don't know how he get's anything done.

Walking back to the living room as the movie he'd chosen—some Russian war flick—began to play. He unscrewed the cap of the water bottle and took a drink. The water tasted like peaches or apricots, the taste tickling his tongue. His eyebrows furrowed and he brought it away from his lips. Looking at the rapper closely, he could only make out bits and pieces of the Russian words on there but nothing indicated that it was fruit water.

A sudden heaviness fell over him, his eyelids and chest heavy. The bottle slipped from his grasp and he stumbled forward, his mind whirling. What the . . ?

His heart clenched, it all starting to make sense. The clapping noises and the hum that he'd heard . . . was it from the fridge? He glanced down at the water pooling around his feet. If so, then . . . Oh no, he thought as fear struck him. The water bottle . . . He saw more than felt his body lurch forward, his feet slipping out from beneath him as he fell to the ground.

He stopped abruptly, however, a pair of arms catching him right before he hit the hardwood floor.

…xXx…

The blonde's eyes wouldn't open and everything was still for a long time, his senses dulled. Had he fallen asleep? It sort of felt like it, but . . .

"Matvey."

Canada squirmed as an invisible hand ghosted over his stomach, his heart beating fast. "I-Ivan . . ." he breathed, the name barely able to cross his tongue. What was wrong with him?

A low, throaty laugh escaped the man touching him just as that hand dipped between his legs. The Canadian gasped and tried reaching for the Russian's wrist. But nothing happened.

I-I can't move, he thought, struggling to open his eyes.

Another laugh sounded as he felt himself being stroked. He couldn't help the moan that escaped from him, his hips bucking slightly. He couldn't control his actions, not in his weird, lethargic state anyway.

Was this another drug? Realization spiked in him again, and his heart dropped. Was the Russian really the culprit for that first time in the hotel room? Sure, he looked legitimately upset afterwards, but . . . His chest squeezed. The man did have a past marked with insanity, right?

So this was all his doing?

As Russia continued teasing him, he managed to crack open his eyes a little. He found himself lying face-down against the shaggy black and white rug, the coffee table moved off to the side a few feet away. Why didn't Ivan just take him upstairs to the bedroom? Why did he even bother to drug him again in the first place?

His hands slowly balled into fists, tightly gripping the rug as he felt multiple, thick fingers enter him. A small scream clawed its way from his throat as pain racked up his spine. At the same time, his whole body seemed to jerk as all his nerves sparked simultaneously. His skin felt sticky, his breathing erratic, vision blurry, gasping harshly as the fingers began to pump inside him.

Why was the Russian being so rough? Sure, he was needy, too, but this was just painful. "I-Ivan," he gasped, gripping the rug again, "s-slow down . . . You're h-hurting me."

Either the man didn't hear him or just didn't care because he instead picked up his pace of torture, adding yet another finger to make him scream out once more. A tongue traced the outer shell of his left ear, the man's voice whispering, "I think you like it, you little slut."

Horror spiked in him at that moment, seeping into his bones. Russia would have never called him that—not after what had happened in the hotel room, whether he was or wasn't the culprit. Not to mention that the voice wasn't quite right. It had an accent, but it wasn't thick like a Russian accent, and it sounded mechanically distorted.

Canada felt tears pricking his wide eyes.

It wasn't Russia touching him. Oh god, it wasn't Russia.

The blonde choked back a sob as his breath hitched again. How could he have doubted the Russian? He'd been nothing but sweet to him! Ivan, I'm so sorry . . .

He tried to kick at the perpetrator but found his legs unmovable. Whatever drug this man had given him, it made it hard for him to move, let alone fight back against the intrusive hands. His skin stuck to the insides of the coat he had on, all of his nerve endings way too sensitive. He was way too warm, like someone had turned the heater up all the way, making it hard for him to breath—not to mention all he could smell was that damned fruit water.

And his stomach was twisting unnaturally—every thrust of the man's fingers making him feel nauseated and high on pleasure at the same time.

Something wasn't right.

He spotted the phone lying a few inches from his hand, feeling a prick of relief in his chest. As the man continued to be preoccupied with his nether regions, he willed all of his strength into his arm and reached out towards the device. Gripping the plastic tightly, he scooted his arm back under him and prepared to dial.

He made sure to moan every time he pressed a button to hide the beeping sound, making sure to pause between every one. He slid the phone to his ear beneath his head, tears streaming down his face.

The ringing echoed slowly in his ear as he screamed out again from the pain.

…xXx…

Dammit.

The man shook the pen in his hand, scribbling the nub on sticky note. All it did was engrave circular lines into the yellow paper, no ink visible.

Russia frowned and held up the pen. He unscrewed the top of it and pulled the ink cartridge out. It was a brand new pen and it was full of ink. He put it back together and tried writing with it again.

Nothing.

Sighing in annoyance, the Russian allowed himself a small break as he tossed the pen on the table. He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head, cracking his back.

His boss had called him in because his sister, Ukraine, and her boss had finally arrived for their earlier scheduled meeting. She had already apologized multiple times for being late, sputtering something about their flight being delayed due to the snow storm. At the moment it was still raining down snow at a heavy, constant speed around them.

The timid woman was currently sitting across the meeting table from him, enjoying a cup of coffee, while their bosses spoke beside them. The Russian had nearly dozed off a few times during the boring meeting about oil. He was dead tired. His mind wouldn't—no, couldn't—focus on the meeting.

His thoughts were filled with his little Canadian.

God, he wanted to break his phone. He wanted to quit being a country for just one day. He was at his limit resisting the blonde. He had to tear himself away from him earlier, leaving him alone. On his bed. Wanting him.

If this had been a meeting with anyone besides Ukraine he would've said fuck it and stayed home.

His boss knew that Canada was visiting his house. But, despite that, he was working him to the bone anyway. He didn't know the real reason the blonde was staying at his house, he figured they were building good relations.

Good relations, indeed.

Russia allowed himself a tired smile, rubbing his eyes as he sat up straight once again. Blinking, he caught his sister staring at him. Raising an eyebrow curiously at her, the woman just gave a smirk and jumped back into the discussion.

Just then his phone decided to go off, making everyone in the room jump in surprise, including himself. A groan escaped from his throat, supported by the weeks of constant ringing, as he reached to his vibrating coat pocket. He reread the caller ID several times.

It was his home phone.

Confusion ran through him. Why was Canada calling him? Not once since he'd arrived at his house had the Canadian called him at work—probably out of respect. In that case, did something happen to make the blonde call him?

An uneasy feeling began to settle in his gut.

Excusing himself from the table, he quickly made his way to the door, ignoring his boss' glare at his back as they paused the discussion to wait for him. Stepping through, he shut the door behind him and stood in front of the meeting room window, glancing back at the others inside. He slid his phone back in his pocket as he switched the call to the Bluetooth in his ear.

He brought his finger up to the gadget, hitting talk. "Hello—"

"Ivan! Ivan, oh god!" The Canadian's voice sobbed from the other line.

The Russian instantly tensed. Aside from the crying, he could hear a voice in the background. It . . . sounded like a man, but he couldn't quite tell. His thoughts instantly returned to the blonde. "Matvey, what's wrong?"

"S-Someone's—ah! Ah . . . Ivan, please . . ." He heard what sounded like a curse and then a scream from the Canadian. "IVAN!"

The sound of a struggle rang out from the other end of the line, the phone jostling and rubbing against unknowable fabric as Canada cried out in protest. Then, suddenly, there was a loud CLACK! from the other line and the Canadian's voice sounded far away.

"Ivan! Please—someone's t-trying to—ah . . . Get away!—Ivan! Help me!"

Russia's hand slammed against the window, the glass cracking outwardly beneath his palm. His eyes were narrowed, staring unseeingly into the meeting room and anger rose up in him. His and Ukraine's boss stood up, along with his sister, her blue eyes wide with concern.

Maybe it was the expression on his face, or the look in his eyes—or the glass cracking—that made the three people inside the meeting rooming head towards him quickly, his sister the first one to reach the door.

But that didn't matter. No, it didn't matter at all. Nothing mattered but this.

The moment he'd heard the terror in Canada's voice as his name was ripped from his throat, the only thing that mattered to him was increasing his speed as his boots pounded across the carpet. He flew down the hallway and towards the staircase—completing bypassing the elevator despite the fact that he was on the 10th floor. The machine would be too slow and at this moment, he needed speed. Flying through the stairwell door, he practically skipped half the steps on that first flight of stairs.

The Canadian's desperate cries in the background of the call fueled him on, willing, urging his feet to go faster. The steps beneath him were nothing but a white blur as he swiftly descended the flights of stairs.

Someone was hurting his Matvey.

A man had dared to break into his home—his home—and attempted to dirty, to soil, to corrupt his precious little jewel.

A feral snarl erupted from his throat as he hit one landing after another.

He was going to kill him.

Ohhhh ho, how he was going to make this person suffer.

The Russian slowed on the second to last landing and launched himself over the side of the railing, grunting as he landed in front of the exit. His ankles protested as he immediately stood, pushed through the door and began running again. His body wasn't used to the strain—he'd been too relaxed lately.

"Get awa—AH! You freak! Get away from me, you—! Ah! Ivan! P-Please . . !"

But that was enough to keep him going. He could feel every frantic scream from the Canadian pushing him forward across the snow covered asphalt. He slid into his car quickly and turned it on, not giving it time to warm up as he peeled out of the parking lot.

The engine sputtered a few times before he got to the nearby highway, unprepared for the sudden take off in the freezing weather. A part of Russia's mind groaned—he would probably have to check and make sure the engine was ok later.

But the BMW easily leveled out on the highway, warming up pretty quickly as the Russian pressed the pedal down. Paying no mind to the ice and snow covered roads, he weaved in and out of evening traffic, getting plenty of honks and squealing of tires.

Yeah. Because going 169 kph (105 mph) at night during a blizzard was always such a good idea.

Then he heard a loud clanking noise on the other line, a shout from the Canadian, and then it was silent.

"Matvey?" he called, his hand going up to his earpiece in worry. The line was still live—there was no dial tone—but he couldn't hear anything. The man's heart stopped as he switched the car into the next gear, traction kicking in finally. "Matvey!"

There was a bit of fabric rustling on the other line before a voice whispered, "I'm here."

Russia thought his heart was going to fall out of his chest from the force of the relief flooding him. He slowed the car down to turn off the highway, but instantly sped up again once he was off the ramp. Zooming through a small town, he continued his fast pace down the deserted dirt road that led straight into the pine forests towards his house.

"Matvey, I'm almost home, okay?" he said, not sure which one of them he was comforting. The pedal was pushed down as far as he would let it—he wanted to get to his little Canadian as fast as possible, but if he crashed then he wouldn't be able to get to him at all.

There was some muffled panting before Canada spoke. "O-Okay . . . please hurry." Then the call cut off.

And hurry he did.

Braking heavily, his tires skidded through the snow in his driveway as he turned the car off. Jumping out of the sedan before it came to a complete halt, Russia's long legs instantly propelled him through the deep snow and darkness until he reached the front door. Finding it already opening, the man tensed, half expecting to see the culprit trying to make a run for it.

But instead it was his little jewel opening the door for him, wearing his coat, holding his pipe, and tears streaming down those rosy cheeks. Russia didn't even pause in his stride, taking one, two, three steps and scooping the blonde up into his arms, kicking the door shut behind him against the frigid air from outside.

Canada just wrapped his arms tightly around the man's neck and buried his face into the wool white scarf, sobbing.

"I-I hit him with your p-pipe and h-he took off. Oh, god, Ivan! I-I'm so s-sorry!" he cried, his arms like a vice grip on his shoulders.

"Are you alright, подсолнух?" Russia asked quickly, stroking the boy's damp blonde hair.

"H-He was touching me and—and I-I liked it and oh god all I could think of w-was you, Ivan . . . I th-thought it was you . . ." Canada just continued to cry softly, muttering apologies over and over again. "I'm sorry, I-Ivan. I'm so, s-so sorry. Oh, god, I-I'm—"

His heart thumped. "Not one more apology." The Russian pulled his head back to stare intently at the Canadian's face. His eyes were soggy and scrunched up in pain, and his wet hair was strewn across his flush face. He just shook his head and hugged the smaller snowy country to him again, closing his violet orbs in relief. "All that matters is that you're ok," he whispered.

Canada gave a groan and his body seemed to slump into him, his grip around his neck loosening. Russia just held him tighter and walked into his living room. He spotted the back door swinging open, snow blowing in harshly, and his muscles tensed. He set his little jewel down on the shag rug, murmuring for him to wait for a moment, before stalking his way towards the back door.

A growl rose up in his throat as he spotted tracks in the snow leading away and around the side of his house. He flipped on the outside light to see if he could spot the perpetrator and he thought he saw the flittering of a coat disappear around the corner. He was just about to take off after the man, fury flaring up in him, when he heard a large thump behind him.

The Canadian's legs gave out beneath him and he fell down into the thick black and white rug, dropping the Russian's pipe onto the floor. All of his adrenaline seemed to just seep from his limbs and he hunched over, panting from the strain. The drug he had taken still swam in his system and he was surprised he was able to fight off his attacker at all—let alone walk and greet his love. All his strength seemed to sap out of him then and all he could do was focus on breathing, trying to ignore his now painful problem.

He heard a door shut and footsteps coming toward him quickly, and he managed enough to sit up, the white-haired man gripping his shoulders to support him.

"Matvey? Are you alright?" Russia shook his head at his own stupid question and he returned his severe gaze to the sweating blonde in front of him. "Where did he . . . hurt you?"

The boy's sapphire eyes widened and, still panting furiously, he attempted to speak. "H-He . . . um, he to-touched me . . ."

"Where?" The question was as hard as the amethysts that stared out at him.

Tears pricked his eyes and he tried to blink them away. The Canadian's voice was barely audible as he whispered, "E-Everywhere."

Russia stiffened in surprise. "What?"

"Everywhere!" The country shouted hoarsely as more tears he'd been holding back slipped from blue pools and slid down rosy cheeks. With his last scrap of energy he grasped the Russian's shoulders tightly and fell back onto the rug, pulling the larger man on top of him.

His hot breath blew into the man's ear, "Please get him out of me."

The white-haired man's eyes widened in horror and he pulled back, staring down at his little Canadian. "How far did he go?" His voice was much quieter than he would have liked it to be.

Canada squeezed his eyelids shut for a minute before looking up at his distressed Russian lover. "J-Just his fingers."

"How many?"

Canada attempted to smile a little, tears still lingering on his cheeks. "You don't need to prepare me, if that's what you're asking."

Russia dug his fist into the shag carpet beside his jewel's head, hissing in displeasure. "This is not something to joke about, Matvey."

"I know, but," his fingers knotted themselves in the man's precious scarf, pulling him closer to try and kiss him. His heart was hammering so hard he thought it would fly out of his chest. "I-I can't calm down, Ivan, and I can b-barely move. I'm all flustered and hot and can't catch my breath . . . H-He gave me some kind of drug, and I—"

"Drug?"

The blonde barely nodded and he looked deeply up into his lover's hurt violet eyes. "I need you," he breathed forcefully, feeling his arms about to give out again.

"Prends moi."

Their lips met at last and what started soft and sweet soon turned needy and burning, the kiss deepening exponentially. Canada felt his heart squeeze and his limbs finally gave out. He sunk down into the plush rug beneath him and he let Russia take it from there.

The man broke their kiss and looked down at his weak state, his eyes squinting with an unnamable emotion as he leaned back down towards his fragile, precious jewel. "I'm going to make you feel better, подсолнух."

And so he did.

Canada didn't remember much after that point other than the glorious friction between the two of them. It felt like every inch of him was electrified and shots of lightning sparked wherever the Russian touched him—his whole body was one raw nerve, exposed to the high of lust. All he could remember was sheer fire every time the man pounded in and out of him, a bolt of searing pleasure shooting up his spine and out his throat in the form of screams and moans. And when he hit that special spot within him—

Oh god. The world went black.

His body felt as limp as a tissue and he didn't feel as if he would ever move again. That drug was really somethin', he thought lazily. The awful twisting in his stomach was finally gone and he felt his breathing begin to even out. He didn't stay out of it for long and when he did open his eyes he looked straight up into tortured mauve orbs.

That's when he noticed that the Russian was still inside of him, big and pulsing. The white-haired man just leaned down and began kissing his face softly as the boy's eyebrows furrowed. "How are you feeling?" the man asked, pulling back to look at him with a smile that wasn't there a moment ago.

The Canadian just looked up at him, terribly confused. "You . . . You didn't . . ."

"Do not worry about me," Russia continued, beginning to pull out.

"No," Canada groaned, using what little strength he could muster to wrap his legs around his lover's waist. He began to rock his hips again with relative ease, much to his surprise, as the drug had begun to subside. He went to yank the man down for a series of frantic kisses but instead flew up and sat in the man's lap, their mouths connecting roughly.

When they parted for air, the blonde began to grind against the cock inside him again, drawing moans from the both of them. "We finally get to fuck after all this time—you are going to cum inside me," he grunted firmly, tilting his head back in enjoyment.

Large hands on his hips stilled his rutting and he huffed in frustration, looking down at the Russian's conflicted face. The man's words froze him in place.

"That's all this is?"

Canada blinked. "What?"

"This is just a fuck, then?" Russia said quietly, sheltering his eyes beneath his bangs. "Just a fuck, a fling, and nothing . . ." The Canadian swallowed the lump in his throat, ignoring the pain in his chest from the man's soft tone as he held his breath and waited for his next words.

"Nothing more?"

The Russian looked up then, his purple eyes revealing the emotions he had been concealing in his voice. Canada's heart stopped in its tracks when he saw the distress in his orbs, a touch of hurt, and—dare he say it—a touch of fear was in them as well. He was baring all to the boy in his arms and the Canadian was caught up in the sincerity and the rarity of the moment.

The blonde felt his heart flutter as he stared in awe at the Russian. Does he mean he wants . . . he and I to . . ? Canada began to smile slowly and he hugged himself to the man's still clothed torso, burying his blushing face into his scarf. "You pick the weirdest times to have serious conversations," he giggled into the light fabric, thrusting his hips downward as an example and causing them both to groan in need.

The Canadian pulled back, though, and cupped the white-haired man's wanton, slightly guarded face in his palms. A thousand thoughts passed through his mind about everything that had happened between them already, what could happen if he gave this a shot, the pros, the cons, their families—that thought terrified him a little. Neither of their families would be pleased at their union, especially America on his side and Belarus on Russia's. But as his cobalt eyes looked into and melted with beautiful lavender ones, his heart swelled in his chest and told him the answer he already knew.

He smiled at the Russian and leaned in closer, his expression turning serious for a moment. "I'm willing to try if you are."

Russia's eyes got wide before they narrowed mischievously and a devilish smirk appeared on his lips. Dark lilac glinted happily before he devoured the other's mouth in a breathless, deep kiss.

"Mine."

Canada grinned as he felt his back being pressed into the shaggy rug again and they parted from the kiss. He stared blissfully up at his now 'official' lover and stroked his cheek.

"Yours."

…xXx…

Notes:

Soooo...sorry this took FOREVER to come out. My Swisstria took hold of me ;_; And school...and life...

NO! No excuses! I apologize from the bottom of my heart! ^

Can YOU guess who the newest perpetrator is? ;P

I wanted to add SO MUCH MORE to this but I guess it isn't so...Maybe I should be glad. Trust me - some heartbreaking stuff was gonna happen ^_^'' Anywho...

Oh, and Russia keeps calling Mattie 'sunflower' - that's the Russian bit there. And 'Prends moi' means take me, if Google is anything to go by...

I apologize again! *runs away*

~WhisperWeeper