The Matfred Chronicles: Milk
The Matfred Chronicles
Chapter 5: Milk
Rating: T (for sexual implications)
“That’s milk?” America eyed the plastic bag held against Canada’s chest with suspicion.
“Yes, it’s milk.” Canada rolled his eyes at America’s stupidity. “That’s why it was in the dairy section.” He stressed “dairy section” when he said it, as if he were attempting to get a newborn baby to comprehend the concept of a milk bag.
America still squinted at the bag with scrutiny, as if he expected the sack to burst into a white bomb in Canada’s arms. “So…how do you pour the milk? I don’t see a spout anywhere…” America asked absently, observing the milk like cutting-edge technology.
“…Do I really need to answer that?” Canada inquired, setting the milk on the conveyor belt accompanied by several other groceries America wished to purchase.
After the items were paid for, America collected the plastic bag, hung it from the crook of his elbow and waited for Canada at the automatic doors. As the couple exited the supermarket and crossed the parking lot to Canada’s red convertible, America whipped out a pint-sized carton of milk, opened the spout and popped a straw into its white depths.
“I would’ve thought you’d get soda.” Canada remarked as America slurped away.
America’s shoulders shifted in a sign of indifference. “I still don’t understand why you bother with milk bags…” he remarked between slurps.
Canada applied more pressure to the arms holding the bag in place. “They’re just like plastic jugs!”
“The only practical use I would think those have…” America dismissed Canada’s rebuttal argument, “…would be to toss it from a 10-story building onto some guy you hate as a practical joke.”
Canada gritted his teeth, crushing the bag even harder until-
KAPLOOSH!!!!!
The bag emptied its fluid onto the ground, unable to retain its shape under the force of Canada’s arms. The aforementioned man gasped in horror as the pearly liquid poured onto the ground, pooling on the blacktop as tendrils of milk slithered in between the cracks in the asphalt. Add that to the major helping of dairy product soaking into his thin shirt and Canada’s mood had gone sour.
America snorted into his own carton of milk. The action was adorable and America nodded in approval of how the damp cloth of Canada’s attire adhered to his form in a way that stirred an arousal in him.
Canada’s eyes bore into his chortling brother. “You did that on purpose!!” he yelled, bottom lip jutting forward and nose crinkling in a grimace.
America didn’t respond. He shook the milk carton, deciding the amount of liquid lay on its bottom. When the only sound heard was the plastic straw rattling against the cardboard, he aimed a pro-basketball shot at a garbage can a few feet away. The trash made it in with a muffled thunk.
Canada, ignoring his brother ‘s arrogant show-off of his athletic abilities, discarded the bedraggled bag into the same can the old-fashioned way, returning with a none-too-pleased look on his visage.
“You’re going to have to pay me back,” he snarled through gritted teeth.
A mischievous glint shimmered in America’s eyes. Casually, he approached Canada until the northern brother was cornered with the rear of the car at his back. America clamped Canada’s wrist in his grip and smashed his back harder onto the trunk. He littered Canada’s neck with kisses before he spoke: “I’ll pay you back, Canada, but in my own currency.” His wiry smile contradicted the supposed innocent softness to his eyes.
Canada gulped, suddenly acutely aware of the other shoppers in the parking lot. “I-I don’t-“
“Don’t you want to be repaid?” Fingers teased the rim of Canada’s jeans.
The loud crash of several groceries being dropped gave the intimation that one unfortunate passerby had witnessed the couple at the wrong time.
Canada shoved America away from him, his eyes flaring with a temporary animosity. “Not NOW!” he protested indignantly. Without another word, he dragged America to the passenger seat, shoved the American in, and walked around to the driver’s side.
A few seconds later, Canada backed out of the parking space and drove to the main road. “You are erratic, you know that?” Canada commented, breaking an awkward silence.
America flicked his gaze from the window to the driver. “Thanks for the compliment,” he responded, shrewdly. He would’ve said more, but if he had, there wouldn’t have been any time to become completely mesmerized once again at Canada’s sinuous body outlined by the damp fabric covering it.
My editor, MeowChan16, once mentioned to me one time or another, that Canadians had milk bags instead of the cartons I’m used to. Add that to one of her many pieces of fan art depicting Canada spilling the milk, and ta-dahhh!!!!!
Next keyword: Cupcakes (suggested by puppytwoface)
~Curlee1029
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