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roesslyngTitle: Wind Whisper
Characters/Pairing: Finland/Sweden; past Estonia/Finland.
Rating: 18+ for sex and consent issues. Read with caution.
Length: 1400
Summary: Finland is reluctant to enter into this new relationship, still caught up in what he once had.
Other: Written for the Hetalia kink meme. (Original post)
Wind Whisper
No!
The cold air hit him as he ran out into the storm. The heavy door closing was a sound lost in the wind.
He ran until the frost grabbed hold of his lungs and crushed them. The cold made his teeth crack. He fell to his knees and somehow he did not feel it, numb to the storm’s freezing hands.
Wrap me in this, you wind, he thought, clinging to a shred of what light had once filled him. Wrap me in this.
The snow blocked the sky but the darkness of his closed eyes he saw burning stars, so many millions. The wind that bit his skin and whipped him with fragments of ice was to his ears a lover’s gentle whisper.
“Don’t be afraid. Beloved, I’m here.”
“Where are you?!” He screamed it out into the night and his roaring rivalled the roar of the blizzard. Struggling to his feet, he stood and walked south-east toward that voice he heard only in his head. He wrapped his arms around himself and strained to hear it again.
Fingers burning, feet aching, chest turning to fire with every breath, he was soaked through with cold but every painful step led him away.
Away from the terrible heat of the inside, away from the large hands at his waist and stony eyes and a voice that whispered words that claimed him regardless of his will. Away from that and toward the one he ached for, whose voice he heard on the wind.
“I’m here for you. Don’t worry, come closer. I’m here”
“Where?! Where are you?” He yelled it, but there was no response. Stumbling, he fell to his knees once more and did not rise again.
The voice did not call. Though he strained to hear, it did not speak. “Where are you?!” He called one last desperate time but the only answer was the wind’s howling.
It’s over, he thought. It was all over.
Resigned, he did not stir.
Something thick and heavy was draped over his shoulders. Finland’s eyes cracked open, dusted with ice at the lashes. A cloak. He looked upward.
A face hard as permafrost looked back at him. “Come inside,” Sweden said.
“No,” Finland said through his teeth.
The tall man’s expression did not change. “’s cold.”
“I said no!” He put all his rage into it but his yell was weak, lungs choked by the cold.
For a moment Sweden was still. Then he shook his head and in one fluid movement swung Finland up over his shoulder.
Shocked at first, then angry, Finland squirmed, kicked, beat at him. The wind had sapped his strength and his struggles did as good for him as they would for a fly in a web. “No!” he protested again.
“’s cold,” Sweden repeated. Then he trudged through the snow back to the cabin.
He lifted me as if I was nothing, Finland thought.
As they moved, the wind howled on.
Large hands worked at the fastenings on his clothes. He pushed them away, snarling. “Don’t touch me!”
Sweden shook his head. “’s wet,” he said, and continued.
“What?” Finland stared at him. He was tired. His chest ached. He felt ill. The heat of the hand resting on his thigh made his skin crawl.
Sweden sighed, then took Finland’s chilled hands and pressed them to the soaked cloth. “Your clothes,” he said, taking care to enunciate. “They are wet.”
“Why...?”
“Snow.”
“Oh.” Finland closed his eyes. His eyes burned. Going into the heat from the bitter cold of the outside made his head feel as if it was caught in a vice. The hands were moving again. “I can do it myself,” he growled.
“That so.”
Eyes snapping open, Finland glared. Sweden stared impassively back. He lifted me as if I was nothing, and he’ll have me if that’s what he wants, Finland thought. The knowledge made him deflate. He sighed and ducked his head.
The hands moved again.
They moved, and in his hazy, pained state Finland watched the eyes move too, as if they had a right to do it. Let it go, Finland thought. He will have it his way for now.
The thought made his stomach churn.
The strong hands stripped him, peeling away his soaked clothing, just as they had stripped everything else from him in recent years. Sweden moved as if he owned him, making good on the claims he had spoken. My. Mine. That was what he had said. Finland felt tired, he felt weak, and he felt ill.
This is it, then. Let him have it his way, because I can do nothing, Finland thought. Then a whisper in his mind added, if only it wasn’t him.
He stared at Sweden. Sensing his gaze, Sweden looked at him. He seemed to be waiting for something, some reaction.
Finland gritted his teeth. Those eyes were all wrong. That face was all wrong. Those hands were wrong. Everything about Sweden was wrong. “Get on with it,” he hissed.
“What?” Sweden’s brows furrowed, as if somehow, he couldn’t understand what Finland meant.
Curse him, Finland thought. "Damn you," he growled, grabbing the other man's wrists, fingernails digging at the veins. "If I could rip out your eyes and fill the bloody sockets with foxfire, I'd do it." Full to bursting with rage, he kissed him.
Hands and clothes flew, and in seconds the two of them were bare and Finland was trapped against the mattress. His mouth was invaded again and again, and he resisted, but only so much. Each touch burned him and he shivered beneath those oh-so-wrong hands, glared upward into those horrible eyes.
Finally, it was more than he could take. He bit down on the tongue, and Sweden withdrew with a startled sound.
“Snuff out the candle,” Finland growled.
Sweden stared at him. “What?”
“I said snuff it out!” As he barked out the order his throat raged with pain and he coughed, eyes stinging. Resting back, Finland watched as Sweden snuffed out the light and plunged the both of them into merciful dark.
Then the battle began anew.
As Sweden covered him, Finland attacked his mouth, stole his breath, bit his lips until they bled. No hands held him down; he clung to the broad shoulders, squirming, pressing, moving. Take what you want, damn you, he thought. Take what you want, be done with it.
Then the slick fingers – that was it, going where he expected, but where they had no right to be. He pressed into them, hissing at the pain but moving even so, as the sooner it began the sooner it would be over.
Then they were replaced.
Pain shot through him and he felt as if he might be torn in two. Eyes beading with fire Finland bit down on Sweden’s lip to keep from crying out. His hands scrambled, scraped, fingernails scratching madly until he felt the slick, satisfying heat that told him he had drawn blood.
They moved together, the two of them.
Finland trembled. As his body moved, he drew into himself. His throat ached. His head ached. More than anything, deep at its core, his chest ached. It felt so tight. He silenced himself with Sweden’s mouth and was glad for the darkness that obscured what was above him. His head filled with whispers, his thoughts flying, scrambling to patch the windows of his mind, blocking out the horror that was the man inside of him.
Not that different, he thought. In form, he’s not that different. Let his eyes be greener, let his hair be softer, let him be shorter, his lips less chapped. Let his hands be smaller, his fingers longer, let his touch be a scholar’s, calloused from the quill. Let his shoulders be narrower, let his waist be more slender, let him be my lover or I won’t get through this.
When he came he bit his tongue. He refused to let himself cry out because he knew it would be the wrong name. When the other one was finished they stared at each other in the blackness, their quick breaths mixing.
Finland rolled out from under him and turned to face the wall.
A long arm snaked its way around his waist. Finland shut his eyes and bit his wrist and refused to make a single sound. Let it go, he thought. It’s over. This is how it will be. Let it go.
Characters/Pairing: Finland/Sweden; past Estonia/Finland.
Rating: 18+ for sex and consent issues. Read with caution.
Length: 1400
Summary: Finland is reluctant to enter into this new relationship, still caught up in what he once had.
Other: Written for the Hetalia kink meme. (Original post)
Wind Whisper
No!
The cold air hit him as he ran out into the storm. The heavy door closing was a sound lost in the wind.
He ran until the frost grabbed hold of his lungs and crushed them. The cold made his teeth crack. He fell to his knees and somehow he did not feel it, numb to the storm’s freezing hands.
Wrap me in this, you wind, he thought, clinging to a shred of what light had once filled him. Wrap me in this.
The snow blocked the sky but the darkness of his closed eyes he saw burning stars, so many millions. The wind that bit his skin and whipped him with fragments of ice was to his ears a lover’s gentle whisper.
“Don’t be afraid. Beloved, I’m here.”
“Where are you?!” He screamed it out into the night and his roaring rivalled the roar of the blizzard. Struggling to his feet, he stood and walked south-east toward that voice he heard only in his head. He wrapped his arms around himself and strained to hear it again.
Fingers burning, feet aching, chest turning to fire with every breath, he was soaked through with cold but every painful step led him away.
Away from the terrible heat of the inside, away from the large hands at his waist and stony eyes and a voice that whispered words that claimed him regardless of his will. Away from that and toward the one he ached for, whose voice he heard on the wind.
“I’m here for you. Don’t worry, come closer. I’m here”
“Where?! Where are you?” He yelled it, but there was no response. Stumbling, he fell to his knees once more and did not rise again.
The voice did not call. Though he strained to hear, it did not speak. “Where are you?!” He called one last desperate time but the only answer was the wind’s howling.
It’s over, he thought. It was all over.
Resigned, he did not stir.
Something thick and heavy was draped over his shoulders. Finland’s eyes cracked open, dusted with ice at the lashes. A cloak. He looked upward.
A face hard as permafrost looked back at him. “Come inside,” Sweden said.
“No,” Finland said through his teeth.
The tall man’s expression did not change. “’s cold.”
“I said no!” He put all his rage into it but his yell was weak, lungs choked by the cold.
For a moment Sweden was still. Then he shook his head and in one fluid movement swung Finland up over his shoulder.
Shocked at first, then angry, Finland squirmed, kicked, beat at him. The wind had sapped his strength and his struggles did as good for him as they would for a fly in a web. “No!” he protested again.
“’s cold,” Sweden repeated. Then he trudged through the snow back to the cabin.
He lifted me as if I was nothing, Finland thought.
As they moved, the wind howled on.
Large hands worked at the fastenings on his clothes. He pushed them away, snarling. “Don’t touch me!”
Sweden shook his head. “’s wet,” he said, and continued.
“What?” Finland stared at him. He was tired. His chest ached. He felt ill. The heat of the hand resting on his thigh made his skin crawl.
Sweden sighed, then took Finland’s chilled hands and pressed them to the soaked cloth. “Your clothes,” he said, taking care to enunciate. “They are wet.”
“Why...?”
“Snow.”
“Oh.” Finland closed his eyes. His eyes burned. Going into the heat from the bitter cold of the outside made his head feel as if it was caught in a vice. The hands were moving again. “I can do it myself,” he growled.
“That so.”
Eyes snapping open, Finland glared. Sweden stared impassively back. He lifted me as if I was nothing, and he’ll have me if that’s what he wants, Finland thought. The knowledge made him deflate. He sighed and ducked his head.
The hands moved again.
They moved, and in his hazy, pained state Finland watched the eyes move too, as if they had a right to do it. Let it go, Finland thought. He will have it his way for now.
The thought made his stomach churn.
The strong hands stripped him, peeling away his soaked clothing, just as they had stripped everything else from him in recent years. Sweden moved as if he owned him, making good on the claims he had spoken. My. Mine. That was what he had said. Finland felt tired, he felt weak, and he felt ill.
This is it, then. Let him have it his way, because I can do nothing, Finland thought. Then a whisper in his mind added, if only it wasn’t him.
He stared at Sweden. Sensing his gaze, Sweden looked at him. He seemed to be waiting for something, some reaction.
Finland gritted his teeth. Those eyes were all wrong. That face was all wrong. Those hands were wrong. Everything about Sweden was wrong. “Get on with it,” he hissed.
“What?” Sweden’s brows furrowed, as if somehow, he couldn’t understand what Finland meant.
Curse him, Finland thought. "Damn you," he growled, grabbing the other man's wrists, fingernails digging at the veins. "If I could rip out your eyes and fill the bloody sockets with foxfire, I'd do it." Full to bursting with rage, he kissed him.
Hands and clothes flew, and in seconds the two of them were bare and Finland was trapped against the mattress. His mouth was invaded again and again, and he resisted, but only so much. Each touch burned him and he shivered beneath those oh-so-wrong hands, glared upward into those horrible eyes.
Finally, it was more than he could take. He bit down on the tongue, and Sweden withdrew with a startled sound.
“Snuff out the candle,” Finland growled.
Sweden stared at him. “What?”
“I said snuff it out!” As he barked out the order his throat raged with pain and he coughed, eyes stinging. Resting back, Finland watched as Sweden snuffed out the light and plunged the both of them into merciful dark.
Then the battle began anew.
As Sweden covered him, Finland attacked his mouth, stole his breath, bit his lips until they bled. No hands held him down; he clung to the broad shoulders, squirming, pressing, moving. Take what you want, damn you, he thought. Take what you want, be done with it.
Then the slick fingers – that was it, going where he expected, but where they had no right to be. He pressed into them, hissing at the pain but moving even so, as the sooner it began the sooner it would be over.
Then they were replaced.
Pain shot through him and he felt as if he might be torn in two. Eyes beading with fire Finland bit down on Sweden’s lip to keep from crying out. His hands scrambled, scraped, fingernails scratching madly until he felt the slick, satisfying heat that told him he had drawn blood.
They moved together, the two of them.
Finland trembled. As his body moved, he drew into himself. His throat ached. His head ached. More than anything, deep at its core, his chest ached. It felt so tight. He silenced himself with Sweden’s mouth and was glad for the darkness that obscured what was above him. His head filled with whispers, his thoughts flying, scrambling to patch the windows of his mind, blocking out the horror that was the man inside of him.
Not that different, he thought. In form, he’s not that different. Let his eyes be greener, let his hair be softer, let him be shorter, his lips less chapped. Let his hands be smaller, his fingers longer, let his touch be a scholar’s, calloused from the quill. Let his shoulders be narrower, let his waist be more slender, let him be my lover or I won’t get through this.
When he came he bit his tongue. He refused to let himself cry out because he knew it would be the wrong name. When the other one was finished they stared at each other in the blackness, their quick breaths mixing.
Finland rolled out from under him and turned to face the wall.
A long arm snaked its way around his waist. Finland shut his eyes and bit his wrist and refused to make a single sound. Let it go, he thought. It’s over. This is how it will be. Let it go.
