[FIC FILL] PET
TITLE: Pet
AUTHOR/ARTIST: vexinglilium
RECIPIENT: darklordavy
CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: The Netherlands/Canada
RATING: MA / NC-17
NOTES: This fic contains original characters, drug use, sex, D/s elements, some dub-con, and steampunk sex toys. Yes, you heard that right.
SUMMARY: Steampunk AU. Canada unknowingly finds his way aboard a smuggling airship crewed by the Netherlands and his cities.
To the recipient: I apologize for not having time to expand upon this story. I've been dealing with illness and the beginning of school recently. (Though not to worry--I've nearly entirely healed and the new professors I've met so far seem awesome.)
Canada doesn’t like how similar Kumajirou’s cries sound to metal parts scraping against each other. It’s a horrible sound, honestly. That’s why Canada is so quick to investigate the source of them, even if it’s a, ‘Come here-I found something interesting’ noise rather than a, ‘Help-I’m in pain’ one.
Canada ascends the unknown ramp with a thought to get out of whosever vehicle this is as soon as he finds Kumajirou. The reason for the bear’s excited discovery would be a stray piece of beef jerky, he soon discovers.
“C’mon, Kuma. Stop stealing. We’ve got to go.” With that, he attempts to lift his pet, but he’s quite a bit heavier than he looks. The struggling also makes this into no simple task.
Eventually the bear escapes and goes darting off amongst sacks and crates of all sorts. Mostly food, as Canada can tell from the shapes and labels. Rice; flour; potatoes. Containers of jerky, fruit preserves, and jarred vegetables. Enough food to last whoever was aboard this thing for quite a long time. Canada stops pondering this and resumes his search. Kumajirou is being quiet now, so this is going to require a good portion of his attention.
The silence other than his footsteps make it easy for Canada to hear the yells of very nearby orders and soon, the sounds of more sacks being thrown onto the floor. With a mental curseword, he freezes. It’s only when the yelling seems not quite so close that he dares resume his search, hissing for Kumajirou to come. He ceases these only when he hears the slam of a large metal hatch and the fiddling of a lock being attached.
Canada sits to think. Not much else he can do here. Banging on the door would be near-useless. Even if he were heard, he’d have a hell of a time explaining that his pet polar bear had snuck aboard to eat from their food stores if he couldn’t even find the creature. They’d think he were some street rat looking for some easy dinner. Canada was proud of his honest living. Typesetting paid him enough to get by, and meant that he was never short of reading material.
Canada waits. Somewhere among hearing the hissing of steam, shifting of pistons, and rattling of old gears turning, Kumajirou finds his way back to Canada’s side. The sounds are awfully loud. The boiler room must be next door.
It must be because of him working all day at the printing press that he doesn’t mind the sound. Soothing to him, even. Soothing enough to, within an hour, coax Canada into sleep.
Somebody is shaking his shoulder. Canada wakes with a start to find himself face-to-face with a boy a good seven or eight years younger than himself. Purple shirt, tan pants. Blond curly hair. Canada’s too busy adjusting his glasses to get a better look that he nearly misses the question about what in the hell he’s doing here.
“I’m Canada,” he mumbles. A downwards glance to Kumajirou curled up in slumber reassures him that it’s okay to tell the truth. “My bear snuck aboard to eat some food. And… And I was chasing him, but before I knew it, the door shut. I-I don’t even know where I am.”
“Oh, the boss is gonna be pissed…” The boy takes a moment to grab a sack of potatoes nearly half his size and sling it over his shoulder. “Come with me. Let the bear sleep.”
The boy’s got an unnaturally high voice, Canada notices. Along with a peculiar inflection on his words that he isn’t used to. Not the same as an accent. Simply odd.
Rubbing his eyes and stretching, Canada rises to his feet and prepares to follow. Not like he’s got any other option. If he looks really sorry and tells the truth, maybe he’ll be let off easy. Canada hates confrontations. He sulks whenever his supervisors tell him he’s messed up small things, for god’s sake.
The state of this place, he notices, is neither quite in good shape nor decay. Rather, it seems that pieces of his surroundings that had grown so old to be problematic had been replaced with new components, but anything carrying rust or stains that did not interfere would remain. The bridge, when he arrives there, appears no different. There is a world map pinned to a broad table, a steering wheel, and couches scattered throughout the room for relaxation. The entire room is elliptical.
Upon one of the couches, a man sits reading a book of some sort. His hair is the most curious thing about him. Pale brown and spiked straight upwards to make a peak upon the centre of his head. He wears a leather coat that extends below his knees, and looks thick and extremely heavy. Sticking out of pockets, around his neck, and around his waist are all manner of strange devices and accessories. Things like the rings on his hands were ornamental, as was the chain that looked to be braided out of old pocketwatch ones which hung around his neck. In that place there are also a pair of goggles, more complex in apparent function than Canada had ever seen. The strength it must take to shoulder all of these things, as well as the size of the man, makes him imposing. As does the critical look he’s giving to Canada and his young companion.
“Cap’n, we’ve got a stowaway here,” the boy explains. “Said his pet bear came on board to steal food and got stuck inside. Saw the thing.”
“What kind of bear?” The captain asks. He may as well get all the details in this messed up story.
“A-A polar bear, sir.” Saying ‘Captain’ wouldn’t be fitting until he knows the man’s name, Canada thinks. A ‘sir’ is safe. “A polar bear cub. His name is Kumajirou.”
“Hm.” The captain pulls from his pocket and puts between his lips something that looks like a cigarette, but is thinner and pure white. The lighter he pulls out to start it with is copper and etched with a picture of a cityscape. As he begins to smoke, going over to the window to look upon the sky, the bridge fills with a sweet, intoxicating smell that had been hanging faintly around the area previously.
“We can’t just drop him off,” the captain thinks aloud. “Long voyage. But we can’t let him stay either. Could always toss him outta the ship.”
Fearing for his life, Canada speaks with haste and less hesitance than normal. “I can make myself useful, sir. Anything that you need doing.”
“Can you fix machines?” Asks the captain.
“No, sir.” Not even the printing press, when it stalls. He’s tried before with no success.
“Can you cook?”
“W-Well enough.”
The captain makes a noise of conditional approval. “Then that’s what you’ll be doing.” He turns around and strides over. Canada doesn’t at all recognize the smell of whatever he’s smoking. “Welcome to my ship. I’m the Netherlands. Before you ask or Amsterdam offers some to you, yes, this is a smuggling ship. Mostly opium.”
That warning looks tells Canada clearly that he is not to mention the activities on this ship to any authorities, lest the Netherlands change his mind about letting him stay. “I-I will try my best… Captain.” Having to say the title is so alien to him.
“Til, take him down to the kitchen. He’ll help you do errands, too.”
Practically beaming at the prospect to not have to slave away in the kitchen or with a washcloth, the boy beckons Canada to come. “Sure thing, Cap’n.”
Canada doesn’t risk another glance at the Netherlands’ face when he is leaving. No such issue about doing the same to the boy, who is now introducing himself.
“Tilburg,” he says, a hand on his chest. “And yeah, don’t take any drugs from Amsterdam. I tried some once. Don’t do it.”
Canada nods his understanding. “What kind of person is Amsterdam?” This is making him curious. That person certainly seemed to be the questionable sort.
Tilburg grins. Ah, how to describe him? “Special, how ‘bout that. He’ll prob’ly try ‘n’ sleep with you. Up to you if you let him.”
That gets a shudder out of Canada. He doesn’t like the thought of that. Premarital sex was a morally corrupting thing-or at least, that was the opinion he had gathered from all the people he had known to engage in it. “I sincerely doubt I will.”
“Then don’t take his drugs.” Tilburg kicks open the door to a noisy room without knocking. It appears to be a workshop. “Hey, there!” He calls to the two busy workers to be heard over the machines.
The man, large and hunched over a lathe, pulls his file away from the brass disc he’d been shaping. He wipes his brow with the corner of a filthy rag. When he turns around it’s clear he’s young. Only slightly older than Canada, probably. The man looks in confusion at the new crew member.
“Utrecht, this is Canada. Found him as a stowaway. He’s gonna be helping me and working in the kitchen.”
“Meaning we don’t have to cook?” Utrecht goes searching through his workbench drawers for more tools. Something he’d been meaning to do in a minute anyway.
“I suppose not,” says Canada with a shrug.
Upon hearing how soft Canada’s voice is, Utrecht glances over his shoulder. “You’re sort of cute,” is his verdict.
The craftswoman in the room looks up from her table to see if she agrees. Her look says she doesn’t understand how he can think that. “Name’s Eindhoven,” she says with an inclination of her head. Can’t curtsy if she’s sitting. “Utrecht’s sister.”
What she’s working on seems far more interesting than what her brother is. Canada comes to stand over the table and watch her apply varnish to a smooth, curved length of wood. The purpose of it evades Canada, which Eindhoven notices and explains.
“This gets attached to that engine,” she says, and points to a metal cylinder containing the smallest steam engine Canada has ever seen, “and the whole thing vibrates.”
“Why?”
“’Cause Amsterdam requested it. Saw I bought that tiny engine didn’t have a use for it. So he said having something vibrating would be interesting.”
“But what is it for?” Canada has a feeling he will soon regret asking.
“Wooden bit gets shoved up inside yourself-made of wood so you won’t get burned. And then you turn it on and enjoy it.”
Canada knew there was a reason the piece of wood looked vaguely phallic. He’s regretting having asked. Eindhoven is smiling knowingly at him, which he returns with an awkward and tiny smile of his own. Then he turns around and sees that Tilburg is asking Utrecht if there’s a spare mattress around that Canada can sleep on. Much easier of a conversation topic to deal with.
Turns out that there is one around. Admittedly it is too old to be serving practical purpose any longer, but it will do. Tilburg spares a blanket of his own for Canada. His pillow is a decorative one stolen from Amsterdam’s couch. Canada had kindly volunteered to stay behind when Tilburg had gone to get it. He will be sleeping in a corner of the storage room. Not the most comfortable place, but there was no room in any of the bedrooms for an extra bed. With the exceptions of Amsterdam and the Netherlands, he’d been told, but Canada sincerely doubted that either of them would want to share space.
Canada spends the rest of his day becoming acquainted with the kitchen and the storage room. Everything is surprisingly well-organized, in contrast to the state that the workshop had been. Canada is shown which crates were the cargo they were delivering and clearly warned to stay away from them. As for food, he has free access to everything, save for a few specialty items. Those were for the captain.
Preparing dinner is tiring, as he expected. Canada was left to do this without assistance. Kumajirou is his only company as he cooks for seven. In the end he had settled for a type of vegetable stew. Simple to make, but it required much preparation. By the time his stomach is full, he is longing for bed. As soon as he is done with the dishes, he retires to the storage room with Kumajirou curled up next to him.
Today is a cleaning day. Armed with a mop and a washcloth for dusting, Canada sets off to conquer his tasks. As he works through the boiler room, he becomes enamored with the mechanical equipment. Having never been closely exposed to advanced technology like this in his lifetime allows him to look upon it with childlike curiosity. Canada isn’t sure which fascinates him more-the sounds from the machinery, of work and wear; or the aesthetics of interlocking cogs and the colour variations of different metals and other materials.
When Utrecht comes in to make sure that everything is functioning as it should, he has the kindness to explain to Canada what the functions of some of these machine parts are. This runs the propellers; this pumps the water. Utrecht walks him through the transfer of energy, from the boiler to the gears to the end and function of the device. All throughout explaining, Utrecht stokes the fire with Canada’s assistance. He discovers that coal is far heavier than it appears.
The bedrooms come next on Canada’s agenda. Tilburg’s is a messy affair, full of food containers and assorted trinkets, as most childrens’ are. He is surprised to discover that Utrecht and Eindhoven share a room. Mixed-gender living was far from common amongst grown unmarried people. He does remember being told that they were siblings, which made it somewhat acceptable in Canada’s mind. The cleanliness of the room to begin with gives him less incentive to contemplate and judge it.
The next bedroom he comes by has not a door, but a curtain of red brocade. When pushed aside, he finds that it’s the same colour which dominates the living space. Red and dark browns, with gold accents on the edges of furniture and the stitching on throw pillows. For all appearances, this looks to be the lair of some ancient dragon with good taste in decoration.
On a fainting couch reclines a figure in a bodice and skirt. The skirt does not extend to floor-length as Canada typically sees, but goes past knee-length with a richly ornamented hem. Likewise, the bodice is decorated with frills and ribbons. The figure’s hair was long and auburn, curled and left to flow freely over their chest. If he hadn’t been clued into the male gender pronouns, Canada would have automatically assumed that this beauty was a woman. Even so, he has his doubts.
“Come here, pet,” the beauty says with an inviting gesture of the hand. Canada is nervous about obeying, but does. What makes him more nervous are the eyes raking up and down his frame; surveying him. “So you’re the stowaway boy, aren’t you? Cute. Very cute.” The smile the stranger offers is intrigued in the same way that a snake is about a mouse. “May I offer you a drink?”
“N-No thank you.” Canada hurries to look elsewhere in this room. Fortunately the rich ornamentation makes this easy.
“No? Hmm.” The supposed man sits up and begins to prepare himself another drink. It is a curious process, involving an ornate spoon delicately balanced upon the glass, a cube of sugar, and some green drink that Canada cannot, for the life of him, identify. “Canada, I am Amsterdam. Very pleasant to meet you.”
“And the same to you,” Canada automatically answers. The way in which Amsterdam continues to stare through half-lidded eyes, he finds, is nothing short of intimidating. He feels as though his value on the slave market is being estimated.
“D’you-” Canada scowls in embarrassment as he remembers his purpose for coming here. “Do you need anything cleaned?”
“No thank you, dear.” After a sip of that mysterious drink comes an enigmatic lip-curl. “Though do feel free to visit my chamber whenever you… feel the need for company.”
Needless to say, Canada is quick to leave and take his cleaning supplies elsewhere.
Canada’s been robbed of his ability to see. It is the middle of the night and he can hear somebody in the room with him. He tries to move his hands; remove the obstruction from his eyes-but they are bound behind his back with some kind of restraints made of cool leather and cooler metal. Canada makes a protesting noise for automatic fear of kidnapping, but silences himself when told to hush.
Then there are hands peeling away his underwear, which gets him to really start to panic. Those same hands pin down his attempts at groggy struggling. Canada realizes in less than a minute that they’re damned strong. He stops, after that. The hands withdraw and resume their task of disrobing him.
Canada will not sit idly by when he those hands begin to fondle his nether regions. The most protest he can offer is a kick that doesn’t connect and a hissing, “Stop.” Again he’s told to hush, and again he stops. The hands continue. “What are you-”
There is no answer. Only the sound and slight vibration of the floor as somebody lowers themselves to their knees. Canada tries to edge away as much he can from those wicked hands’ contact as he finds himself growing hard against his will. Self-pleasure was not new to him, but activity of that sort with a partner most certainly was. It’s uncomfortable. Foreign.
And overwhelming, as soon as Canada feels something slick and warm and good envelop the tip of his prick. A mouth? It had to be. Canada is reduced to shaking and gasping between parted lips as that probable mouth begins to move.
“Stop,” repeats his common sense aloud. The half-hearted command goes ignored.
Canada finds out that it truly is a mouth around him when it begins to moan. The vibrations upon his engorged flesh are a phenomenon unto themselves. Canada hears himself echoing it before he can help himself. Wishes he could have a hand to quieten the louder sounds that are threatening to escape, he does. There are tears beading in the corners of his eyes as he keeps his whimpers as soft as possible. The prospect of somebody walking in on him and seeing him in this obscene position would be horrifying.
This utterly new, utterly fantastic type of stimulation brings him quickly to orgasm. It hits him with all the force of a locomotive. Canada is seeing sparks behind his dampened eyes as he bends over almost double. Nearly surreal, this feeling.
Whomever the visitor servicing him was does not wait around for Canada to recover. His cuffs are unlocked and the footsteps he hears long overtaken by mechanical resonance by the time he removes his blindfold.
Canada does not at all blame himself for his ensuing paranoia on the following day. In his sleepy state, he had not been able to find any indication as to who had been responsible. Amsterdam was the obvious choice. He thought he remembered some off sort of scent hanging in the air. But from what little he had seen of the man, he assumed that Amsterdam would be much more of the direct and talkative sort.
It wouldn’t be Tilburg or Eindhoven. The voice he’d heard hints of was too low to be either of theirs. That left him with four people to be suspicious about, including the one he had yet to meet but had seen at the dinner table.
Watching Kumajirou notice and interact with a rabbit unexpectedly inhabiting the ship’s bridge was a good enough distraction. Odd. He hadn’t seen any pets around the ship at all. Canada kneels down beside the creature to extend a friendly hand with the intention of petting it. The rabbit responds well to this, turning to nuzzle curiously at his fingers.
“Her name is Nijntje.”
Startled, Canada turns around. The constant noise made it sometimes difficult to hear anybody approaching. He tries out the sound of the name on his tongue just as he’s coming face-to-face with the captain. “Is she yours, sir?”
The Netherlands nods. “Yes. She is. Pet her if you want to.”
Canada takes him up on this suggestion. He quickly discovers that her fur is far less coarse than Kumajirou’s. “She seems to be a sweet rabbit, sir.”
“Drop the honorifics, kid. This ain’t a military ship-you know that.” The Netherlands has a hint of a laugh about him, with the intent to put Canada at ease. It works. “Where’d you get your bear?”
“I found Kumajirou when I was visiting family overseas. He was hanging around the cottage for days. I brought him some food, and then I could never get rid of him. So I brought him back with me.” Much to the bewilderment of the airship’s other passengers, he does recall.
“Ah. Bit more interesting a story than being a gift from my sister, that.” The Netherlands squats down to tickle behind Nijntje’s ears. “Seems to like you, doesn’t she. Wanna take care of her?”
Canada is surprised by this. Caring for the captain’s pet, of all things? He can’t exactly refuse. And Nijntje does seem to be an independent rabbit. “Sure. Of course I can.”
The Netherlands smiles broadly. “Good. Let her wander wherever, just make sure she doesn’t get into the boiler room or outside. And feed her twice a day. There’s hay in the storage, and a bit of whatever vegetables you have laying around.”
That sounds simple enough. “I will.”
“Should come down to my room tomorrow night to see you’re doing. Not giving you too much to do, am I?”
Canada shakes his head. Though the work was plentiful, it was a pleasant change from the doldrums of his normal job.
“Tomorrow night, then.” With a backwards wave, the Netherlands departs.
Later on tomorrow, Canada realizes that he doesn’t know where the Netherlands’ room is. He’d assumed that ‘down’ meant on the same level as the storage room, but to this moment, he’d had no success in finding it. He’ll have to find somebody to help him. He doesn’t know where any of the people he’d met are, and he has no desire to have another run-in with Amsterdam. Cradling the rabbit in his arms, he knocks and enters the nearest lamp-lit room when invited to do so.
Canada finds himself looking upon the one man he had seen only at dinnertime. He was far more formally dressed than any other of the ships’ crew, and staring at a ledger through a pair of thick-rimmed circular glasses. Thick brown hair made up the short-cropped haircut, the mustache, and the stubble of a beard. “May I help you?”
Finally. One sane person amongst the ship’s questionable crew. “Yes, I’m looking for the captain’s room. He invited me, but I’m not sure where it is.”
The man pauses to press buttons on some strange device next to him. The buttons clack; the wheels inside whirr. The man copies something down with his dip pen. “In the bridge, there is a door to the left of the entranceway. Descend the stairs and his room is there.”
“Oh. Thank you very much.” Canada pauses to make sure that Nijntje is doing okay in his arms. “I am Canada, by the way.”
“And I, Rotterdam. Take care.”
A grateful inclination of the head, and Canada leaves. “He was an awfully nice man, wasn’t he?” He quietly says to the rabbit, stroking her ears. If an answer came he’d be extremely surprised, but his usual confidante Kumajirou was sleeping.
Canada continues on through the hallways of the airship. These are becoming increasingly familiar to him. Up the steps to the bridge, a turn, and yes, there’s the door. Canada finds that it is unlocked. The doorframe at the end of the hall is made of glass in bright copper-framed panels. It isn’t smooth glass, either-it has a textured quality that distorts the flickering light within. Canada knocks on the door and waits.
“Come,” says the Netherlands.
Canada finds him sitting upon his bed, tinkering with his pocketwatch. The chain extending from his waistcoat to his pocket tells him that he has another, and so he mentally questions the purpose of this. It is odd to see the Netherlands without his heavy jacket. But there’s a fire burning in the grate which keeps out the altitude chill. The fire is not the sole source of light in the room-all upon the walls there is a row of cylindrical glass bulbs with glowing wires within. These do not glow evenly but pulse every few moments, which accounted for the flickering. Everywhere there are edges of brass and polished wood for them to highlight. The Netherlands’ room is full not of riches and jewels, but new technology. Canada finds himself in awe.
“Sit.” The Netherlands indicates the foot of the bed. If Canada doesn’t move much, then his work will not be interrupted. He pauses to allow his visitor to follow the order, and to examine how his pet is doing. “Nijntje looks fine. Good job.”
Canada is pleased to hear it. “Thank you.”
“So how’re you doing?” The Netherlands pulls out a brush to clean out the interior of the watch. “Adjusting?”
“Yes. I have been.”
“Different from your normal life, isn’t it. What’d you do before?”
“I was a typesetter. I worked at a printing press.” Not nearly as impressive as the captain of an airship, Canada’s thinking.
The captain seems to disagree. “’S neat. What kinda stuff’d you do?”
“Newspapers, mostly. Some posters.”
A nod of approval. The Netherlands attaches the back of the pocketwatch and stows it away in his pocket. From his other one, he takes out one of his slender white cigarettes. “Pass me those matches, will you?” Canada gets him the box from the table he was indicated and hands them over. It takes his third try for him to light it. Then it’s inhaling sweet smoke and relaxing into his pillows.
Finding it impolite to observe the Captain when he was trying to relax, Canada occupies himself with stroking Nijntje’s fur.
“Was it good? I can’t for the life of me remember.”
Canada stares with a look of confusion. “I’m not sure what you are talking about.”
The Netherlands is smirking. Not in the same feral way that Amsterdam wore one, but one of superiority nonetheless. “When I came to visit you the other night.”
His face grows pale as Canada comes to this realization. It had been the Netherlands that night. It had been the Netherlands who had restrained him and blindfolded him and… done those things to him. Things he hadn’t wanted, but his body had enjoyed. He doesn’t know what he wants to do first-tell him off or simply leave. For the moment he does nothing.
The Netherlands’ smile fades away, replaced by stoicism. “You’re a virgin, aren’t you.”
Canada had thought that had been obvious. He nods, pointedly staring at the wooden floor.
“Oh. I’m sorry.” The Netherlands’ voice is similarly emotionless, but that in itself makes it sound genuine. “I was high at the time-I didn’t realize.”
Canada has to wonder if he always plays these mind games when up to sexual activity. What a degenerate.
“I’m normally nice about it.” Nijntje has hopped away from Canada, and so the Netherlands takes her into his arms. “But… wasn’t horrible, was it?”
Canada needs to think about this. God above, he doesn’t want to answer. But he’s just been asked a question by a superior and cannot, for the sake of his values, avoid it. “No. Not horrible,” he says in a very small voice.
“Tell you what. You wanna try that again, come see me and we’ll do it properly. Whenever. Again, I’m sorry. Thanks for taking care of Nijntje.”
A week ago he doubted he would even think about indulging the Netherlands’ offer. But a week ago he hadn’t been tormented constantly, sleeping and waking, with memories and possibilities. If the Netherlands could do so well when not in his conscious mind, then how well could he do that if he were focused on it? Canada was frustrated-a fact that he made clearly known to Kumajirou. Why did the Netherlands have to go and get under his skin like this? He’d thought himself nearly incorruptible, and now he was tormented by temptations he didn’t even know the nature of.
Canada lasts another two days. Two days of trying his best to put all of the attention that he could into his assigned tasks. Then, when he’s cleaning the windowpanes of the bridge with the Netherlands sitting there reading, he gives up.
“C-Captain?” He’s all the way across the room and Canada doubts that he can even hear him.
Apparently he does, when he marks the place in his book with a thumb. “What is it?”
Incredibly wary of being overheard, Canada approaches within a few feet of the Netherlands and keeps his voice low. He focused on the goggles instead of at the face of the person he is speaking to. “That offer of yours… Does it still stand?”
The Netherlands looks nothing short of victorious. I knew you would ask. “In a couple hours, it can. Meet me in my room for then.”
Canada squeaks out a, “Yes, sir,” and scurries off.
The next couple of hours are, predictably, torturous. Especially the ten minutes or so he spends in the captain’s room awaiting his arrival. When the captain finally does enter, Canada follows his instruction to sit upon the bed. Canada had thought it an invasion of space to do so right away, and so had been passing time in an armchair.
The Netherlands’ orders to Canada to undress and lie down come in a manner that’s almost businesslike. His coat is thrown on top of the armchair with a loud flop. Looks like it had been just as heavy as Canada had thought. The chain and the goggles go on top of this. Then it’s the waistcoat and the shirt. Naked to his waist, the Netherlands climbs on top of Canada’s fully exposed body. To tease, one of his knees slides up between Canada’s legs to touch. “So. What exactly do you feel like doing?”
Canada already likes having visuals this time around. That knee, though, is an uncomfortable annoyance that Canada tries to wriggle away from. “Wha-Whatever you were doing to me that first time.”
With an anticipatory grin, the Netherlands straightens up to take all of the rings off his left hand. Wouldn’t want to scratch Canada with them. “Can do. You, relax. It’ll suck if you’re all nervous.”
Canada can’t help being nervous. It’s in his nature. But the Netherlands fondling him with a touch that is both familiar and altogether new does take some of that away. It takes a couple of minutes, but slowly, he’s adjusting. Then the Netherlands shoves his mouth down upon his erection, and it’s so tight that it makes Canada cry out in something that is far from pain. It defies logical sense for a person to smile with their mouth full in that way, but he’s seeing it.
The Netherlands is far from gentle or lazy this time. His goal is to overwhelm Canada so much that he simply isn’t able to be anxious. But not to have him orgasm-no, the Netherlands wants to leave him panting and desiring more by the time he is finished with him.
The Netherlands’ strength is an asset with the way Canada cannot stop his hips from moving. Too much-this is too much. This time, too, Canada whispers for him to stop, but this time not really meaning it. He believes that this is equally as agonizing as the frustration at having nothing. It makes the pleasure almost painful, from the way he progresses to thrashing about and clutching at his wavy hair. “G-God damn it…” Canada chokes out between breaths.
With a final, long lick up his cock, the Netherlands pauses. His efforts have been nothing but successful. There is the wonderful sight of young Canada splayed out, skin flushed and trembling, gasping for air. How lovely. “Do you want more?” The Netherlands asks, all low seduction.
Canada can only nod. He wishes for nothing else than that.
The Netherlands climbs off the bed to reach into a bag he had set down beside it. What he withdraws and sets on the bedside table are a small jar of something near-colourless and viscous, accompanied by a long wooden box. The Netherlands invites Canada to climb off the bed for a moment so that he can remove the quilt. Then he unscrews the lid of the jar and opens the box. In it are a series of four small conical shapes with flanged bases, made from steel. The smallest of them, he hands to Canada.
“Put some of that liquid on it,” he points, “and ease it into your arse.”
“My what?” Canada doesn’t know if he looks more or less shocked than when he found out that the Netherlands had been the one responsible for molesting him. He had no idea how two males could sexually interact. This wasn’t anything he’d ever fathomed.
“Into your arse. Trust me. It will be good. I know it sounds strange, but believe me, try it.”
Understandably, Canada is extremely skeptical. “You do it.”
The Netherlands helps out by scooping up some of the thick liquid with his fingers and spreading it on the cone, wiping them clean on the sheets afterward. “But it’s better if you do. It’s going to hurt, so you need to do it really slowly.”
The purpose of this activity eludes Canada. As does thinking up the best position in which to attempt this. He settles for kneeling with using one hand as support in front of himself and inserting the cone with the other. “It’s cold,” he comments when it touches his entrance.
“It’ll warm up.” The Netherlands pays close attention to Canada’s face to watch his reactions. “When you’re finished with the first one and it stops hurting, move to the second. Keep doing that until you can fit the biggest one inside.”
Canada doesn’t know why he trusts the captain, but he does. On an exhale, he begins to push on the tip of the cone. There is a lot of resistance, which results in a lot of discomfort. His face shows it. The calming words of the Netherlands do help, and he tries pushing it in further. A wince results, accompanied by a grunt of pain.
“Careful. I said slowly.” The Netherlands gets up off the bed. Grabs a wine bottle and glass; sits down in a chair. “It’s going to take you a while. You can do it.” And while he waits, he’s going to relax with a pleasant drink.
Determination is something of which Canada has plenty. It’s what allows him to bear with the pain all throughout the next while. The Netherlands was right when he said that it would take a long time. But Canada suspects that he may not be entirely wrong about this being pleasurable. When it stopped hurting on the third one and he forced it in a slight bit far, he’d felt a flicker of something good. It makes him curious about what else may follow, and so he asks. “What is this for?”
The Netherlands pauses mid-sip and sets down his nearly-empty glass. Canada was putting on such a good show that he supposes he ought to explain. True to what fantasies he’s currently entertaining in his head, he is vulgar with his phrasing. “I am going to put my prick in there next and penetrate you as if you were a woman.”
Canada isn’t keen on the sound of that. Everything he’d heard about sex, it wasn’t enjoyable for the woman at all. “Will it feel good?”
“Very.” A fond smile from the Netherlands, and he drains his glass. “I’ve been in your spot before. I know.”
For the moment, Canada will trust him. He goes right on trusting him until he can fit in the fourth cone without pain. Then, at the captain’s encouragement, he lays back while the Netherlands removes the cone, strips, and coats his prick with a large portion of the liquid. Canada knows by now that it feels oily to the touch and makes the penetration smoother. Even so, when he feels his legs being lifted and the Netherlands begin to enter him, there is a lot of friction. Canada hisses in response to it, and he is accordingly penetrated more slowly. Adjusting to this is easier than it had been to the metal cones. Being filled with a length of flesh instead was both warmer and softer. It’s not so bad, but Canada fails to see what may be good about this.
“Am I doing okay? Not hurting you?” The Netherlands blinks down at him concernedly.
Canada shakes his head. “No. I am fine.”
The results of Utrecht’s practice with the lathe one day had helped. That was good-the Netherlands had thought so. A virgin needed all of the assistance he could get. Including a warning before the Netherlands begins to move. God in Heaven, the boy was tight. After rolling his hips back and forth for a few moments, he remembers his courtesy and takes Canada’s prick in hand to slide his fingers along.
Better, much better. Now it’s beginning to feel nice. For a minute, Canada closes his eyes and breathes. Living in the moment. “You can move more,” he tells the captain. He thinks he’s ready to take it.
The Netherlands obliges. Once he’s had his fill of savoring the tightness with slow motions, he lifts Canada’s hips up further to change the angle. He forces in deeper-as deep as he can go. Canada rewards him with a startled gasp. “See, it is good.”
Canada does see. He’d had no idea what that was, but being touched deep inside had felt spectacular. “Can… Can you do that again?”
“’Course.” And the Netherlands does, more sharply than before. Ah, he sees that Canada likes this even better. “Can I move faster?”
Canada’s nod is enthusiastic. That enthusiasm is not misplaced when the brisker movements he’s presented with draw moans from his throat and pleased whimpers from his lips. Canada’s arms grab hold of the man’s biceps and squeeze to channel some of the tension afflicting his body. He forgets embarrassment; forgets propriety. His world is heat and taut muscles and a haze in his mind like exposure to those cigarettes had started to cause after a while. Canada alternates between calmness and agitation as the Netherlands continues. He begs, eventually. Begs for his lover to move deeper and faster, and when he does, cries out a release and spills all over his stomach.
The Netherlands takes a couple minutes more to work himself to completion. Canada’s slack muscles, he continues to support as he has his way with the boy. When he’s finishing his vigor causes Canada to wince, but it must not be too bad, for he does not protest it. Now tired himself, the Netherlands withdraws from the boy’s body and lays himself down on the bed.
With their breath intermingling, there is a minute of silence. The Netherlands is the one to break it. “Now was it good?”
Canada could laugh if he weren’t out of breath. The vocally unexpressed mirth extends instead to his eyes. “Yeah. That was good.”
The voyage lasts for weeks. Fortunately, Canada does not have to spend all of this time sleeping in the storage room. The day after they had slept together, the Netherlands had offered him a place to put his mattress on the floor beyond his footboard and, occasionally, would share with him his bed.
The Netherlands had won himself a great deal of admiration after that night. Canada felt far more motivated to serve him and his crew these days. From the hard work in the kitchen to relaxing with them on their social nights, Canada put his heart into it all. He did miss his old life sometimes, however. His own room; his own paying job.
But when they pull back into port in his home city and the Netherlands calls for him and tells him that if he’s going to leave, he cannot say anything about the purpose of this airship to anybody.
Canada says he isn’t. Even if that means serving as a thing like a captain’s pet, curled up at the foot of his bed, to keep him and his crew company in exchange for nothing but food and water, he doesn’t care. Pets were given an abundance of affection, weren’t they.
AUTHOR/ARTIST: vexinglilium
RECIPIENT: darklordavy
CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: The Netherlands/Canada
RATING: MA / NC-17
NOTES: This fic contains original characters, drug use, sex, D/s elements, some dub-con, and steampunk sex toys. Yes, you heard that right.
SUMMARY: Steampunk AU. Canada unknowingly finds his way aboard a smuggling airship crewed by the Netherlands and his cities.
To the recipient: I apologize for not having time to expand upon this story. I've been dealing with illness and the beginning of school recently. (Though not to worry--I've nearly entirely healed and the new professors I've met so far seem awesome.)
Canada doesn’t like how similar Kumajirou’s cries sound to metal parts scraping against each other. It’s a horrible sound, honestly. That’s why Canada is so quick to investigate the source of them, even if it’s a, ‘Come here-I found something interesting’ noise rather than a, ‘Help-I’m in pain’ one.
Canada ascends the unknown ramp with a thought to get out of whosever vehicle this is as soon as he finds Kumajirou. The reason for the bear’s excited discovery would be a stray piece of beef jerky, he soon discovers.
“C’mon, Kuma. Stop stealing. We’ve got to go.” With that, he attempts to lift his pet, but he’s quite a bit heavier than he looks. The struggling also makes this into no simple task.
Eventually the bear escapes and goes darting off amongst sacks and crates of all sorts. Mostly food, as Canada can tell from the shapes and labels. Rice; flour; potatoes. Containers of jerky, fruit preserves, and jarred vegetables. Enough food to last whoever was aboard this thing for quite a long time. Canada stops pondering this and resumes his search. Kumajirou is being quiet now, so this is going to require a good portion of his attention.
The silence other than his footsteps make it easy for Canada to hear the yells of very nearby orders and soon, the sounds of more sacks being thrown onto the floor. With a mental curseword, he freezes. It’s only when the yelling seems not quite so close that he dares resume his search, hissing for Kumajirou to come. He ceases these only when he hears the slam of a large metal hatch and the fiddling of a lock being attached.
Canada sits to think. Not much else he can do here. Banging on the door would be near-useless. Even if he were heard, he’d have a hell of a time explaining that his pet polar bear had snuck aboard to eat from their food stores if he couldn’t even find the creature. They’d think he were some street rat looking for some easy dinner. Canada was proud of his honest living. Typesetting paid him enough to get by, and meant that he was never short of reading material.
Canada waits. Somewhere among hearing the hissing of steam, shifting of pistons, and rattling of old gears turning, Kumajirou finds his way back to Canada’s side. The sounds are awfully loud. The boiler room must be next door.
It must be because of him working all day at the printing press that he doesn’t mind the sound. Soothing to him, even. Soothing enough to, within an hour, coax Canada into sleep.
Somebody is shaking his shoulder. Canada wakes with a start to find himself face-to-face with a boy a good seven or eight years younger than himself. Purple shirt, tan pants. Blond curly hair. Canada’s too busy adjusting his glasses to get a better look that he nearly misses the question about what in the hell he’s doing here.
“I’m Canada,” he mumbles. A downwards glance to Kumajirou curled up in slumber reassures him that it’s okay to tell the truth. “My bear snuck aboard to eat some food. And… And I was chasing him, but before I knew it, the door shut. I-I don’t even know where I am.”
“Oh, the boss is gonna be pissed…” The boy takes a moment to grab a sack of potatoes nearly half his size and sling it over his shoulder. “Come with me. Let the bear sleep.”
The boy’s got an unnaturally high voice, Canada notices. Along with a peculiar inflection on his words that he isn’t used to. Not the same as an accent. Simply odd.
Rubbing his eyes and stretching, Canada rises to his feet and prepares to follow. Not like he’s got any other option. If he looks really sorry and tells the truth, maybe he’ll be let off easy. Canada hates confrontations. He sulks whenever his supervisors tell him he’s messed up small things, for god’s sake.
The state of this place, he notices, is neither quite in good shape nor decay. Rather, it seems that pieces of his surroundings that had grown so old to be problematic had been replaced with new components, but anything carrying rust or stains that did not interfere would remain. The bridge, when he arrives there, appears no different. There is a world map pinned to a broad table, a steering wheel, and couches scattered throughout the room for relaxation. The entire room is elliptical.
Upon one of the couches, a man sits reading a book of some sort. His hair is the most curious thing about him. Pale brown and spiked straight upwards to make a peak upon the centre of his head. He wears a leather coat that extends below his knees, and looks thick and extremely heavy. Sticking out of pockets, around his neck, and around his waist are all manner of strange devices and accessories. Things like the rings on his hands were ornamental, as was the chain that looked to be braided out of old pocketwatch ones which hung around his neck. In that place there are also a pair of goggles, more complex in apparent function than Canada had ever seen. The strength it must take to shoulder all of these things, as well as the size of the man, makes him imposing. As does the critical look he’s giving to Canada and his young companion.
“Cap’n, we’ve got a stowaway here,” the boy explains. “Said his pet bear came on board to steal food and got stuck inside. Saw the thing.”
“What kind of bear?” The captain asks. He may as well get all the details in this messed up story.
“A-A polar bear, sir.” Saying ‘Captain’ wouldn’t be fitting until he knows the man’s name, Canada thinks. A ‘sir’ is safe. “A polar bear cub. His name is Kumajirou.”
“Hm.” The captain pulls from his pocket and puts between his lips something that looks like a cigarette, but is thinner and pure white. The lighter he pulls out to start it with is copper and etched with a picture of a cityscape. As he begins to smoke, going over to the window to look upon the sky, the bridge fills with a sweet, intoxicating smell that had been hanging faintly around the area previously.
“We can’t just drop him off,” the captain thinks aloud. “Long voyage. But we can’t let him stay either. Could always toss him outta the ship.”
Fearing for his life, Canada speaks with haste and less hesitance than normal. “I can make myself useful, sir. Anything that you need doing.”
“Can you fix machines?” Asks the captain.
“No, sir.” Not even the printing press, when it stalls. He’s tried before with no success.
“Can you cook?”
“W-Well enough.”
The captain makes a noise of conditional approval. “Then that’s what you’ll be doing.” He turns around and strides over. Canada doesn’t at all recognize the smell of whatever he’s smoking. “Welcome to my ship. I’m the Netherlands. Before you ask or Amsterdam offers some to you, yes, this is a smuggling ship. Mostly opium.”
That warning looks tells Canada clearly that he is not to mention the activities on this ship to any authorities, lest the Netherlands change his mind about letting him stay. “I-I will try my best… Captain.” Having to say the title is so alien to him.
“Til, take him down to the kitchen. He’ll help you do errands, too.”
Practically beaming at the prospect to not have to slave away in the kitchen or with a washcloth, the boy beckons Canada to come. “Sure thing, Cap’n.”
Canada doesn’t risk another glance at the Netherlands’ face when he is leaving. No such issue about doing the same to the boy, who is now introducing himself.
“Tilburg,” he says, a hand on his chest. “And yeah, don’t take any drugs from Amsterdam. I tried some once. Don’t do it.”
Canada nods his understanding. “What kind of person is Amsterdam?” This is making him curious. That person certainly seemed to be the questionable sort.
Tilburg grins. Ah, how to describe him? “Special, how ‘bout that. He’ll prob’ly try ‘n’ sleep with you. Up to you if you let him.”
That gets a shudder out of Canada. He doesn’t like the thought of that. Premarital sex was a morally corrupting thing-or at least, that was the opinion he had gathered from all the people he had known to engage in it. “I sincerely doubt I will.”
“Then don’t take his drugs.” Tilburg kicks open the door to a noisy room without knocking. It appears to be a workshop. “Hey, there!” He calls to the two busy workers to be heard over the machines.
The man, large and hunched over a lathe, pulls his file away from the brass disc he’d been shaping. He wipes his brow with the corner of a filthy rag. When he turns around it’s clear he’s young. Only slightly older than Canada, probably. The man looks in confusion at the new crew member.
“Utrecht, this is Canada. Found him as a stowaway. He’s gonna be helping me and working in the kitchen.”
“Meaning we don’t have to cook?” Utrecht goes searching through his workbench drawers for more tools. Something he’d been meaning to do in a minute anyway.
“I suppose not,” says Canada with a shrug.
Upon hearing how soft Canada’s voice is, Utrecht glances over his shoulder. “You’re sort of cute,” is his verdict.
The craftswoman in the room looks up from her table to see if she agrees. Her look says she doesn’t understand how he can think that. “Name’s Eindhoven,” she says with an inclination of her head. Can’t curtsy if she’s sitting. “Utrecht’s sister.”
What she’s working on seems far more interesting than what her brother is. Canada comes to stand over the table and watch her apply varnish to a smooth, curved length of wood. The purpose of it evades Canada, which Eindhoven notices and explains.
“This gets attached to that engine,” she says, and points to a metal cylinder containing the smallest steam engine Canada has ever seen, “and the whole thing vibrates.”
“Why?”
“’Cause Amsterdam requested it. Saw I bought that tiny engine didn’t have a use for it. So he said having something vibrating would be interesting.”
“But what is it for?” Canada has a feeling he will soon regret asking.
“Wooden bit gets shoved up inside yourself-made of wood so you won’t get burned. And then you turn it on and enjoy it.”
Canada knew there was a reason the piece of wood looked vaguely phallic. He’s regretting having asked. Eindhoven is smiling knowingly at him, which he returns with an awkward and tiny smile of his own. Then he turns around and sees that Tilburg is asking Utrecht if there’s a spare mattress around that Canada can sleep on. Much easier of a conversation topic to deal with.
Turns out that there is one around. Admittedly it is too old to be serving practical purpose any longer, but it will do. Tilburg spares a blanket of his own for Canada. His pillow is a decorative one stolen from Amsterdam’s couch. Canada had kindly volunteered to stay behind when Tilburg had gone to get it. He will be sleeping in a corner of the storage room. Not the most comfortable place, but there was no room in any of the bedrooms for an extra bed. With the exceptions of Amsterdam and the Netherlands, he’d been told, but Canada sincerely doubted that either of them would want to share space.
Canada spends the rest of his day becoming acquainted with the kitchen and the storage room. Everything is surprisingly well-organized, in contrast to the state that the workshop had been. Canada is shown which crates were the cargo they were delivering and clearly warned to stay away from them. As for food, he has free access to everything, save for a few specialty items. Those were for the captain.
Preparing dinner is tiring, as he expected. Canada was left to do this without assistance. Kumajirou is his only company as he cooks for seven. In the end he had settled for a type of vegetable stew. Simple to make, but it required much preparation. By the time his stomach is full, he is longing for bed. As soon as he is done with the dishes, he retires to the storage room with Kumajirou curled up next to him.
Today is a cleaning day. Armed with a mop and a washcloth for dusting, Canada sets off to conquer his tasks. As he works through the boiler room, he becomes enamored with the mechanical equipment. Having never been closely exposed to advanced technology like this in his lifetime allows him to look upon it with childlike curiosity. Canada isn’t sure which fascinates him more-the sounds from the machinery, of work and wear; or the aesthetics of interlocking cogs and the colour variations of different metals and other materials.
When Utrecht comes in to make sure that everything is functioning as it should, he has the kindness to explain to Canada what the functions of some of these machine parts are. This runs the propellers; this pumps the water. Utrecht walks him through the transfer of energy, from the boiler to the gears to the end and function of the device. All throughout explaining, Utrecht stokes the fire with Canada’s assistance. He discovers that coal is far heavier than it appears.
The bedrooms come next on Canada’s agenda. Tilburg’s is a messy affair, full of food containers and assorted trinkets, as most childrens’ are. He is surprised to discover that Utrecht and Eindhoven share a room. Mixed-gender living was far from common amongst grown unmarried people. He does remember being told that they were siblings, which made it somewhat acceptable in Canada’s mind. The cleanliness of the room to begin with gives him less incentive to contemplate and judge it.
The next bedroom he comes by has not a door, but a curtain of red brocade. When pushed aside, he finds that it’s the same colour which dominates the living space. Red and dark browns, with gold accents on the edges of furniture and the stitching on throw pillows. For all appearances, this looks to be the lair of some ancient dragon with good taste in decoration.
On a fainting couch reclines a figure in a bodice and skirt. The skirt does not extend to floor-length as Canada typically sees, but goes past knee-length with a richly ornamented hem. Likewise, the bodice is decorated with frills and ribbons. The figure’s hair was long and auburn, curled and left to flow freely over their chest. If he hadn’t been clued into the male gender pronouns, Canada would have automatically assumed that this beauty was a woman. Even so, he has his doubts.
“Come here, pet,” the beauty says with an inviting gesture of the hand. Canada is nervous about obeying, but does. What makes him more nervous are the eyes raking up and down his frame; surveying him. “So you’re the stowaway boy, aren’t you? Cute. Very cute.” The smile the stranger offers is intrigued in the same way that a snake is about a mouse. “May I offer you a drink?”
“N-No thank you.” Canada hurries to look elsewhere in this room. Fortunately the rich ornamentation makes this easy.
“No? Hmm.” The supposed man sits up and begins to prepare himself another drink. It is a curious process, involving an ornate spoon delicately balanced upon the glass, a cube of sugar, and some green drink that Canada cannot, for the life of him, identify. “Canada, I am Amsterdam. Very pleasant to meet you.”
“And the same to you,” Canada automatically answers. The way in which Amsterdam continues to stare through half-lidded eyes, he finds, is nothing short of intimidating. He feels as though his value on the slave market is being estimated.
“D’you-” Canada scowls in embarrassment as he remembers his purpose for coming here. “Do you need anything cleaned?”
“No thank you, dear.” After a sip of that mysterious drink comes an enigmatic lip-curl. “Though do feel free to visit my chamber whenever you… feel the need for company.”
Needless to say, Canada is quick to leave and take his cleaning supplies elsewhere.
Canada’s been robbed of his ability to see. It is the middle of the night and he can hear somebody in the room with him. He tries to move his hands; remove the obstruction from his eyes-but they are bound behind his back with some kind of restraints made of cool leather and cooler metal. Canada makes a protesting noise for automatic fear of kidnapping, but silences himself when told to hush.
Then there are hands peeling away his underwear, which gets him to really start to panic. Those same hands pin down his attempts at groggy struggling. Canada realizes in less than a minute that they’re damned strong. He stops, after that. The hands withdraw and resume their task of disrobing him.
Canada will not sit idly by when he those hands begin to fondle his nether regions. The most protest he can offer is a kick that doesn’t connect and a hissing, “Stop.” Again he’s told to hush, and again he stops. The hands continue. “What are you-”
There is no answer. Only the sound and slight vibration of the floor as somebody lowers themselves to their knees. Canada tries to edge away as much he can from those wicked hands’ contact as he finds himself growing hard against his will. Self-pleasure was not new to him, but activity of that sort with a partner most certainly was. It’s uncomfortable. Foreign.
And overwhelming, as soon as Canada feels something slick and warm and good envelop the tip of his prick. A mouth? It had to be. Canada is reduced to shaking and gasping between parted lips as that probable mouth begins to move.
“Stop,” repeats his common sense aloud. The half-hearted command goes ignored.
Canada finds out that it truly is a mouth around him when it begins to moan. The vibrations upon his engorged flesh are a phenomenon unto themselves. Canada hears himself echoing it before he can help himself. Wishes he could have a hand to quieten the louder sounds that are threatening to escape, he does. There are tears beading in the corners of his eyes as he keeps his whimpers as soft as possible. The prospect of somebody walking in on him and seeing him in this obscene position would be horrifying.
This utterly new, utterly fantastic type of stimulation brings him quickly to orgasm. It hits him with all the force of a locomotive. Canada is seeing sparks behind his dampened eyes as he bends over almost double. Nearly surreal, this feeling.
Whomever the visitor servicing him was does not wait around for Canada to recover. His cuffs are unlocked and the footsteps he hears long overtaken by mechanical resonance by the time he removes his blindfold.
Canada does not at all blame himself for his ensuing paranoia on the following day. In his sleepy state, he had not been able to find any indication as to who had been responsible. Amsterdam was the obvious choice. He thought he remembered some off sort of scent hanging in the air. But from what little he had seen of the man, he assumed that Amsterdam would be much more of the direct and talkative sort.
It wouldn’t be Tilburg or Eindhoven. The voice he’d heard hints of was too low to be either of theirs. That left him with four people to be suspicious about, including the one he had yet to meet but had seen at the dinner table.
Watching Kumajirou notice and interact with a rabbit unexpectedly inhabiting the ship’s bridge was a good enough distraction. Odd. He hadn’t seen any pets around the ship at all. Canada kneels down beside the creature to extend a friendly hand with the intention of petting it. The rabbit responds well to this, turning to nuzzle curiously at his fingers.
“Her name is Nijntje.”
Startled, Canada turns around. The constant noise made it sometimes difficult to hear anybody approaching. He tries out the sound of the name on his tongue just as he’s coming face-to-face with the captain. “Is she yours, sir?”
The Netherlands nods. “Yes. She is. Pet her if you want to.”
Canada takes him up on this suggestion. He quickly discovers that her fur is far less coarse than Kumajirou’s. “She seems to be a sweet rabbit, sir.”
“Drop the honorifics, kid. This ain’t a military ship-you know that.” The Netherlands has a hint of a laugh about him, with the intent to put Canada at ease. It works. “Where’d you get your bear?”
“I found Kumajirou when I was visiting family overseas. He was hanging around the cottage for days. I brought him some food, and then I could never get rid of him. So I brought him back with me.” Much to the bewilderment of the airship’s other passengers, he does recall.
“Ah. Bit more interesting a story than being a gift from my sister, that.” The Netherlands squats down to tickle behind Nijntje’s ears. “Seems to like you, doesn’t she. Wanna take care of her?”
Canada is surprised by this. Caring for the captain’s pet, of all things? He can’t exactly refuse. And Nijntje does seem to be an independent rabbit. “Sure. Of course I can.”
The Netherlands smiles broadly. “Good. Let her wander wherever, just make sure she doesn’t get into the boiler room or outside. And feed her twice a day. There’s hay in the storage, and a bit of whatever vegetables you have laying around.”
That sounds simple enough. “I will.”
“Should come down to my room tomorrow night to see you’re doing. Not giving you too much to do, am I?”
Canada shakes his head. Though the work was plentiful, it was a pleasant change from the doldrums of his normal job.
“Tomorrow night, then.” With a backwards wave, the Netherlands departs.
Later on tomorrow, Canada realizes that he doesn’t know where the Netherlands’ room is. He’d assumed that ‘down’ meant on the same level as the storage room, but to this moment, he’d had no success in finding it. He’ll have to find somebody to help him. He doesn’t know where any of the people he’d met are, and he has no desire to have another run-in with Amsterdam. Cradling the rabbit in his arms, he knocks and enters the nearest lamp-lit room when invited to do so.
Canada finds himself looking upon the one man he had seen only at dinnertime. He was far more formally dressed than any other of the ships’ crew, and staring at a ledger through a pair of thick-rimmed circular glasses. Thick brown hair made up the short-cropped haircut, the mustache, and the stubble of a beard. “May I help you?”
Finally. One sane person amongst the ship’s questionable crew. “Yes, I’m looking for the captain’s room. He invited me, but I’m not sure where it is.”
The man pauses to press buttons on some strange device next to him. The buttons clack; the wheels inside whirr. The man copies something down with his dip pen. “In the bridge, there is a door to the left of the entranceway. Descend the stairs and his room is there.”
“Oh. Thank you very much.” Canada pauses to make sure that Nijntje is doing okay in his arms. “I am Canada, by the way.”
“And I, Rotterdam. Take care.”
A grateful inclination of the head, and Canada leaves. “He was an awfully nice man, wasn’t he?” He quietly says to the rabbit, stroking her ears. If an answer came he’d be extremely surprised, but his usual confidante Kumajirou was sleeping.
Canada continues on through the hallways of the airship. These are becoming increasingly familiar to him. Up the steps to the bridge, a turn, and yes, there’s the door. Canada finds that it is unlocked. The doorframe at the end of the hall is made of glass in bright copper-framed panels. It isn’t smooth glass, either-it has a textured quality that distorts the flickering light within. Canada knocks on the door and waits.
“Come,” says the Netherlands.
Canada finds him sitting upon his bed, tinkering with his pocketwatch. The chain extending from his waistcoat to his pocket tells him that he has another, and so he mentally questions the purpose of this. It is odd to see the Netherlands without his heavy jacket. But there’s a fire burning in the grate which keeps out the altitude chill. The fire is not the sole source of light in the room-all upon the walls there is a row of cylindrical glass bulbs with glowing wires within. These do not glow evenly but pulse every few moments, which accounted for the flickering. Everywhere there are edges of brass and polished wood for them to highlight. The Netherlands’ room is full not of riches and jewels, but new technology. Canada finds himself in awe.
“Sit.” The Netherlands indicates the foot of the bed. If Canada doesn’t move much, then his work will not be interrupted. He pauses to allow his visitor to follow the order, and to examine how his pet is doing. “Nijntje looks fine. Good job.”
Canada is pleased to hear it. “Thank you.”
“So how’re you doing?” The Netherlands pulls out a brush to clean out the interior of the watch. “Adjusting?”
“Yes. I have been.”
“Different from your normal life, isn’t it. What’d you do before?”
“I was a typesetter. I worked at a printing press.” Not nearly as impressive as the captain of an airship, Canada’s thinking.
The captain seems to disagree. “’S neat. What kinda stuff’d you do?”
“Newspapers, mostly. Some posters.”
A nod of approval. The Netherlands attaches the back of the pocketwatch and stows it away in his pocket. From his other one, he takes out one of his slender white cigarettes. “Pass me those matches, will you?” Canada gets him the box from the table he was indicated and hands them over. It takes his third try for him to light it. Then it’s inhaling sweet smoke and relaxing into his pillows.
Finding it impolite to observe the Captain when he was trying to relax, Canada occupies himself with stroking Nijntje’s fur.
“Was it good? I can’t for the life of me remember.”
Canada stares with a look of confusion. “I’m not sure what you are talking about.”
The Netherlands is smirking. Not in the same feral way that Amsterdam wore one, but one of superiority nonetheless. “When I came to visit you the other night.”
His face grows pale as Canada comes to this realization. It had been the Netherlands that night. It had been the Netherlands who had restrained him and blindfolded him and… done those things to him. Things he hadn’t wanted, but his body had enjoyed. He doesn’t know what he wants to do first-tell him off or simply leave. For the moment he does nothing.
The Netherlands’ smile fades away, replaced by stoicism. “You’re a virgin, aren’t you.”
Canada had thought that had been obvious. He nods, pointedly staring at the wooden floor.
“Oh. I’m sorry.” The Netherlands’ voice is similarly emotionless, but that in itself makes it sound genuine. “I was high at the time-I didn’t realize.”
Canada has to wonder if he always plays these mind games when up to sexual activity. What a degenerate.
“I’m normally nice about it.” Nijntje has hopped away from Canada, and so the Netherlands takes her into his arms. “But… wasn’t horrible, was it?”
Canada needs to think about this. God above, he doesn’t want to answer. But he’s just been asked a question by a superior and cannot, for the sake of his values, avoid it. “No. Not horrible,” he says in a very small voice.
“Tell you what. You wanna try that again, come see me and we’ll do it properly. Whenever. Again, I’m sorry. Thanks for taking care of Nijntje.”
A week ago he doubted he would even think about indulging the Netherlands’ offer. But a week ago he hadn’t been tormented constantly, sleeping and waking, with memories and possibilities. If the Netherlands could do so well when not in his conscious mind, then how well could he do that if he were focused on it? Canada was frustrated-a fact that he made clearly known to Kumajirou. Why did the Netherlands have to go and get under his skin like this? He’d thought himself nearly incorruptible, and now he was tormented by temptations he didn’t even know the nature of.
Canada lasts another two days. Two days of trying his best to put all of the attention that he could into his assigned tasks. Then, when he’s cleaning the windowpanes of the bridge with the Netherlands sitting there reading, he gives up.
“C-Captain?” He’s all the way across the room and Canada doubts that he can even hear him.
Apparently he does, when he marks the place in his book with a thumb. “What is it?”
Incredibly wary of being overheard, Canada approaches within a few feet of the Netherlands and keeps his voice low. He focused on the goggles instead of at the face of the person he is speaking to. “That offer of yours… Does it still stand?”
The Netherlands looks nothing short of victorious. I knew you would ask. “In a couple hours, it can. Meet me in my room for then.”
Canada squeaks out a, “Yes, sir,” and scurries off.
The next couple of hours are, predictably, torturous. Especially the ten minutes or so he spends in the captain’s room awaiting his arrival. When the captain finally does enter, Canada follows his instruction to sit upon the bed. Canada had thought it an invasion of space to do so right away, and so had been passing time in an armchair.
The Netherlands’ orders to Canada to undress and lie down come in a manner that’s almost businesslike. His coat is thrown on top of the armchair with a loud flop. Looks like it had been just as heavy as Canada had thought. The chain and the goggles go on top of this. Then it’s the waistcoat and the shirt. Naked to his waist, the Netherlands climbs on top of Canada’s fully exposed body. To tease, one of his knees slides up between Canada’s legs to touch. “So. What exactly do you feel like doing?”
Canada already likes having visuals this time around. That knee, though, is an uncomfortable annoyance that Canada tries to wriggle away from. “Wha-Whatever you were doing to me that first time.”
With an anticipatory grin, the Netherlands straightens up to take all of the rings off his left hand. Wouldn’t want to scratch Canada with them. “Can do. You, relax. It’ll suck if you’re all nervous.”
Canada can’t help being nervous. It’s in his nature. But the Netherlands fondling him with a touch that is both familiar and altogether new does take some of that away. It takes a couple of minutes, but slowly, he’s adjusting. Then the Netherlands shoves his mouth down upon his erection, and it’s so tight that it makes Canada cry out in something that is far from pain. It defies logical sense for a person to smile with their mouth full in that way, but he’s seeing it.
The Netherlands is far from gentle or lazy this time. His goal is to overwhelm Canada so much that he simply isn’t able to be anxious. But not to have him orgasm-no, the Netherlands wants to leave him panting and desiring more by the time he is finished with him.
The Netherlands’ strength is an asset with the way Canada cannot stop his hips from moving. Too much-this is too much. This time, too, Canada whispers for him to stop, but this time not really meaning it. He believes that this is equally as agonizing as the frustration at having nothing. It makes the pleasure almost painful, from the way he progresses to thrashing about and clutching at his wavy hair. “G-God damn it…” Canada chokes out between breaths.
With a final, long lick up his cock, the Netherlands pauses. His efforts have been nothing but successful. There is the wonderful sight of young Canada splayed out, skin flushed and trembling, gasping for air. How lovely. “Do you want more?” The Netherlands asks, all low seduction.
Canada can only nod. He wishes for nothing else than that.
The Netherlands climbs off the bed to reach into a bag he had set down beside it. What he withdraws and sets on the bedside table are a small jar of something near-colourless and viscous, accompanied by a long wooden box. The Netherlands invites Canada to climb off the bed for a moment so that he can remove the quilt. Then he unscrews the lid of the jar and opens the box. In it are a series of four small conical shapes with flanged bases, made from steel. The smallest of them, he hands to Canada.
“Put some of that liquid on it,” he points, “and ease it into your arse.”
“My what?” Canada doesn’t know if he looks more or less shocked than when he found out that the Netherlands had been the one responsible for molesting him. He had no idea how two males could sexually interact. This wasn’t anything he’d ever fathomed.
“Into your arse. Trust me. It will be good. I know it sounds strange, but believe me, try it.”
Understandably, Canada is extremely skeptical. “You do it.”
The Netherlands helps out by scooping up some of the thick liquid with his fingers and spreading it on the cone, wiping them clean on the sheets afterward. “But it’s better if you do. It’s going to hurt, so you need to do it really slowly.”
The purpose of this activity eludes Canada. As does thinking up the best position in which to attempt this. He settles for kneeling with using one hand as support in front of himself and inserting the cone with the other. “It’s cold,” he comments when it touches his entrance.
“It’ll warm up.” The Netherlands pays close attention to Canada’s face to watch his reactions. “When you’re finished with the first one and it stops hurting, move to the second. Keep doing that until you can fit the biggest one inside.”
Canada doesn’t know why he trusts the captain, but he does. On an exhale, he begins to push on the tip of the cone. There is a lot of resistance, which results in a lot of discomfort. His face shows it. The calming words of the Netherlands do help, and he tries pushing it in further. A wince results, accompanied by a grunt of pain.
“Careful. I said slowly.” The Netherlands gets up off the bed. Grabs a wine bottle and glass; sits down in a chair. “It’s going to take you a while. You can do it.” And while he waits, he’s going to relax with a pleasant drink.
Determination is something of which Canada has plenty. It’s what allows him to bear with the pain all throughout the next while. The Netherlands was right when he said that it would take a long time. But Canada suspects that he may not be entirely wrong about this being pleasurable. When it stopped hurting on the third one and he forced it in a slight bit far, he’d felt a flicker of something good. It makes him curious about what else may follow, and so he asks. “What is this for?”
The Netherlands pauses mid-sip and sets down his nearly-empty glass. Canada was putting on such a good show that he supposes he ought to explain. True to what fantasies he’s currently entertaining in his head, he is vulgar with his phrasing. “I am going to put my prick in there next and penetrate you as if you were a woman.”
Canada isn’t keen on the sound of that. Everything he’d heard about sex, it wasn’t enjoyable for the woman at all. “Will it feel good?”
“Very.” A fond smile from the Netherlands, and he drains his glass. “I’ve been in your spot before. I know.”
For the moment, Canada will trust him. He goes right on trusting him until he can fit in the fourth cone without pain. Then, at the captain’s encouragement, he lays back while the Netherlands removes the cone, strips, and coats his prick with a large portion of the liquid. Canada knows by now that it feels oily to the touch and makes the penetration smoother. Even so, when he feels his legs being lifted and the Netherlands begin to enter him, there is a lot of friction. Canada hisses in response to it, and he is accordingly penetrated more slowly. Adjusting to this is easier than it had been to the metal cones. Being filled with a length of flesh instead was both warmer and softer. It’s not so bad, but Canada fails to see what may be good about this.
“Am I doing okay? Not hurting you?” The Netherlands blinks down at him concernedly.
Canada shakes his head. “No. I am fine.”
The results of Utrecht’s practice with the lathe one day had helped. That was good-the Netherlands had thought so. A virgin needed all of the assistance he could get. Including a warning before the Netherlands begins to move. God in Heaven, the boy was tight. After rolling his hips back and forth for a few moments, he remembers his courtesy and takes Canada’s prick in hand to slide his fingers along.
Better, much better. Now it’s beginning to feel nice. For a minute, Canada closes his eyes and breathes. Living in the moment. “You can move more,” he tells the captain. He thinks he’s ready to take it.
The Netherlands obliges. Once he’s had his fill of savoring the tightness with slow motions, he lifts Canada’s hips up further to change the angle. He forces in deeper-as deep as he can go. Canada rewards him with a startled gasp. “See, it is good.”
Canada does see. He’d had no idea what that was, but being touched deep inside had felt spectacular. “Can… Can you do that again?”
“’Course.” And the Netherlands does, more sharply than before. Ah, he sees that Canada likes this even better. “Can I move faster?”
Canada’s nod is enthusiastic. That enthusiasm is not misplaced when the brisker movements he’s presented with draw moans from his throat and pleased whimpers from his lips. Canada’s arms grab hold of the man’s biceps and squeeze to channel some of the tension afflicting his body. He forgets embarrassment; forgets propriety. His world is heat and taut muscles and a haze in his mind like exposure to those cigarettes had started to cause after a while. Canada alternates between calmness and agitation as the Netherlands continues. He begs, eventually. Begs for his lover to move deeper and faster, and when he does, cries out a release and spills all over his stomach.
The Netherlands takes a couple minutes more to work himself to completion. Canada’s slack muscles, he continues to support as he has his way with the boy. When he’s finishing his vigor causes Canada to wince, but it must not be too bad, for he does not protest it. Now tired himself, the Netherlands withdraws from the boy’s body and lays himself down on the bed.
With their breath intermingling, there is a minute of silence. The Netherlands is the one to break it. “Now was it good?”
Canada could laugh if he weren’t out of breath. The vocally unexpressed mirth extends instead to his eyes. “Yeah. That was good.”
The voyage lasts for weeks. Fortunately, Canada does not have to spend all of this time sleeping in the storage room. The day after they had slept together, the Netherlands had offered him a place to put his mattress on the floor beyond his footboard and, occasionally, would share with him his bed.
The Netherlands had won himself a great deal of admiration after that night. Canada felt far more motivated to serve him and his crew these days. From the hard work in the kitchen to relaxing with them on their social nights, Canada put his heart into it all. He did miss his old life sometimes, however. His own room; his own paying job.
But when they pull back into port in his home city and the Netherlands calls for him and tells him that if he’s going to leave, he cannot say anything about the purpose of this airship to anybody.
Canada says he isn’t. Even if that means serving as a thing like a captain’s pet, curled up at the foot of his bed, to keep him and his crew company in exchange for nothing but food and water, he doesn’t care. Pets were given an abundance of affection, weren’t they.