Improving International Relations

I don't own Hetalia.

It's eleven forty-five. Finland knows this because he just looked at his watch for what seems like the hundredth time. It's not that the world meeting isn't important. It is. It's not like Finland doesn't understand just how important all the issues are. He knows the advantages and benefits of world meetings.

It's just hard to pay attention when the meeting always dissolves into pure chaos. It always does. It's just a question of how quickly America will bring up "heroes," and as soon as he does England goes crazy and France joins in and Germany starts yelling which upsets North Italy which irritates South Italy which makes Spain start talking about cute tomatoes which makes Hungary squeal for joy which makes Austria roll his eyes and blush which makes Prussia cackle which only encourages Hungary to keep squealing which pisses Switzerland off and Liechtenstein tries to soothe him but can't because her soft voice can't be heard over Korea's pop music which makes China and Japan a bit jealous because why isn't their music as popular and Taiwan just ignores everyone in favor of playing words with friends on her phone against Estonia while Latvia just cowers as quietly as possible so no one, especially not Russia, will notice him and Lithuania tries not to react at Poland poking him continuously in the side with his pink glitter gel pen.

Finland sighs, realizing their meeting has once again devolved into a playground. A noisy playground. He glances around at the people sitting nearby: Norway is ignoring Denmark and Netherlands' discussion about… bongs and beer… and Iceland is doodling on his copy of the meeting agenda. Finland can't blame him.

And although he's tried to avoid it, Finland can't help but look down at his wrist to check his watch. Again.

It's now eleven forty-seven. Finland releases a heavy sigh and sits back in his chair.

No one is paying him any mind, as everyone seems to be entertaining one another in some sort of fashion, and Finland wonders what he should do with his forty-three minutes until lunchtime. Should he draw? Should he take a nap? He supposes he could bother Sweden, but Sweden usually brings a book along or something of the sort because he's smart like that.

Finland glances to his left and unsurprisingly Sweden is engrossed in his beloved, well-worn copy of "The Girl Who Played With Fire." Finland smiles gently at the sight, noting how ragged the book is. Sweden has read the series a bajillion times, Finland knows, but somehow never tires of reading it again and again.

Finland guesses it's kind of like watching Moomins episodes; even though he has seen them all hundreds of times, he still loves to re-watch them. Just a cute little quirk.

Of course, cute trolls are slightly more humane than a trilogy of murder mysteries, but who is Finland to make that kind of judgment? Sweden likes what he likes, and Finland just wants him to be happy.

Finland hums happily to himself and turns his attention to his copy of the meeting agenda. Taking a cue from Iceland, he decides to draw.

He hasn't even finished his first star when he feels Sweden's hand on his thigh. Finland tries his hardest not to react, but he knows he twitched at the touch. He knows. So he glances up from his picture—not at Sweden, but just to gage the reactions of those around him. To his relief, no one seems to have noticed.

Finland returns his thoughts to his picture, but his gaze is focused further down on the hand massaging his thigh.

It feels good. It always feels good when Sve touches him, and it's just a little—well, it's just a little kinky when Sve touches him in public. Finland maybe shouldn't be so turned on by things like that, but Sweden doesn't care. In fact, Finland thinks that maybe Sweden has a bit of an in-public touching kink, too.

So Finland risks a glance at his partner and is extremely amused to see Sweden still with his nose in his book. He has it propped in front of his face with his left hand, and uses his fingers to deftly turn the pages.

Sve's right hand, however, is just as deftly teasing the zipper of Finland's trousers.

Finland tries not to blush. He averts his gaze—back to the drawing, back to the drawing. His grip on the pen may be a bit stronger than usual, but no one seems to notice. Finland knows, though. And so does Sweden.

Sweden's fingers have yet to touch bare skin. Finland enjoys the light press of fingers, and maybe he shifts his body so that he's subtly arching into Sve's hand. He hears Sve huff—amused, Finland can now recognize, and Finland hopes that maybe Sweden will get down to business.

Finland checks his watch. It's eleven fifty-two. Sweden will be done with him before lunch for sure.

But Finland quickly realizes that Sweden knows it's only eleven fifty-two. His hand is too teasing. There's not enough pressure. Sweden is winding him up on purpose. Finland wants to glare, wants to demand, but they're in public and when they're in public they play by Sve's rules.

Finland likes feeling a little helpless. He's at Sve's mercy right now. Sve's fingers are dancing against the fabric of his boxer briefs, not unpleasant by any means but not satisfying, either. Just there. So intoxicatingly there.

It's a cruel tease, but Finland likes it. Loves it, maybe.

They've done this before. Sve has tested just how far he can tease and just how much pressure it takes before Finland is literally gagging for it.

Finland sometimes thinks it's unfair that he's always the recipient of their little game, but Sweden likes being in control. Finland knows he does, and the risk involved and the situation just makes the stakes even higher. Finland knows that Sweden gets off on getting Finland off.

Finland's not complaining. It's tantalizing: Sweden's fingers are not yet around him—they still aren't even touching his skin. They're just pressing against him, lightly trailing from his balls to where he's straining against the fabric.

Sweden finally tugs on Finland's balls and Finland has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from moaning. How can so little be so good, but Sweden has told him about sensitization and that sort of biological reaction and honesty Finland does not give a flying fuck because Sweden's fingers are the best.

Finland sighs, slouching in his seat and sending the bottom of his torso under the conference table. Finland knows Sweden can still reach him, and he is rewarded with actual skin contact.

Finland stretches, sending his arms above his head with a yawn in hopes of disguising his head falling back as something natural.

Sweden huffs again, amused and aroused himself, and then his grip tightens and Sweden gets to work and Finland can feel the hand slide up and down and up and down and stop to maddeningly run over his slit and Finland has no idea how he is so slick without lube. He doesn't care, but realizes that's probably the reason why Sweden is always so maddeningly slow to start touching. But once he does… oh.

Finland feels it coming, the sudden tightening his abdominal muscles and his thighs are quivering and he's always terrified he's going to moan and give them away and then Sweden swoops in; the taller nation sets down his book, looking all casual, and leans over and gives Finland a kiss.

It's not even a good kiss—it's not a bad kiss, but it's a kiss to disguise Finland's release. To the world it looks like a chaste peck, but it's a gag preventing Finland's cries as he coats Sweden's fingers with his come.

Finland sighs, pulling back from the kiss with a definite flush on his face and Sweden sends him a smug smirk, caressing Finland's face with his left hand while wiping his right hand clean on Finland's briefs.

Finland resumes his doodle as Sweden zips his trousers back up and fastens the button. The hand stays on his thigh with an innocent squeeze as if that's where it had been all along.

Finland checks his watch. Twelve twenty. He can make it until lunch. He moves on to drawing Moomin characters, happily entranced with perfecting Moominpapa's hat.

When America decides that it's twelve thirty and time for McDonald's, Germany grouches about the loss of productive time.

"No, no, I think there were some ongoing activities improving international relations." France corrects, with a subtle wink towards the two Nordics. Finland hides his blush in Sweden's chest.

A/N: Tee hee, world meeting smut!