England/colonial!US, noncon shota, I'm going to hell
anonymous
February 16 2010, 04:33:57 UTC
Hope this isn't too specific.
I've seen a lot of consensual shota between America and England, but I crave horrible psychological trauma. I want America to be confused and afraid, I want England to feel endless guilt but still try to rationalize his actions, I want America to feel irrational guilt. Basically I want gut-wrenching agony on both parts and to have the urge to punch England in the dick.
If it's not too much to ask, I also have a few specifications: 1) America grows up to be how he is in canon (cocky, exuberant, has a hero complex, fairly good relationship with England, etc). Whether he chooses to suppress the abuse or simply have the most fucked up outlook on his relationship with England ever is up to you. Perhaps he convinces himself it's not abuse because he's a nation? 2) Canada knew about it. Sometimes it's good to go unnoticed in a household with a child molester, eh? 3) France finds out. Chaos ensues. If you involve Finland or Holland in this I'll love you forever. 4) Bonus if England breaks down at any point. 5) Double bonus if it affects their standings as nations or if they have to continue on as they were before revelations because they're nations.
Sing Sung Songs [1/?]
anonymous
February 23 2010, 22:20:42 UTC
Screw this, have some now. Those details above to be added in at some point.
Sing Sung Songs
--
In a field of flowers, Canada follows his brother America.
America hadn’t much of an interest in him at first, but as Canada had visited more often America couldn’t help but pay attention to him. And now, they were fine, laughed, ran, played, together. Like on most sunny days when it’s not too bright either will be blinded or come back red faced from sun but rather lack of breath, a game of tag. Canada thinks at times like these when America is not ignoring him or calling him boring they’re actually friends. Brothers. You can’t help but love your brother after all.
Yet there is a line.
Canada is aware of this line, it separates the love he has for America and the love he has for England and the love he has for France. He loves them all in very different ways. Once he’d even asked France about it, these differences and patting the top of his head, gently France had softly looked at him, told him yes. Many kinds of love exist.
When he’d told America this they’d gotten into an argument. Out of anger Canada had physically drawn this line in the mud with a stick, between him and America; he’d still been riled up quiet in his anger. Besides, America hadn’t even known he’d been upset to begin with and Canada remembers the cross look America had had with his folded arms, pouting by the wood shed as he looked down over at the line between them.
Canada had expected America, who is always usually sharp, and quick to learn at everything to inform him he doesn’t need a line, he sees these differences, he knows. England teaches him everything he needs to know alright?
But instead he’d started to blur it out with his foot, getting his boot horrendously dirty. Canada knows he’ll forget to wash them up and will trail mud in the house and England will become angry and clean it up and then take America to his room to scold him and what else Canada doesn’t really know. England does that often, take America to his room whenever he has something to say, just to America, Canada thinks, because he can never say it in front of Canada. Canada had tried asking a few times if England only took America to his room to speak with him when he was around, America had replied something like, a long pauses, a hitch in his shoulders, yes. Otherwise England would just tell him in the room they were in alone.
As America had blurred that line he brought back what they’d been fighting about- “There’s only one kind of love in this world!”
Which is why when America holds his hands and pulls him close, or shares his apple with Canada, or pokes him with his elbow, laughs, a stupid joke and wants Canada to laugh with him- that’s why once when Canada had said, “I love you brother,” America had replied, brow tangled, confused, “You’re mistaken, you like me! I like you too!”
As if that made any sense.
Once, Canada thinks.
To America love was a word not lightly used.
--
When they come in from playing, as always the more explorative America has dirtier knees, hands, face- everything in comparison to Canada is dirtier; England shaking his head had told America he’ll need more water than the one they keep in the wash basin and tugs America along to the well that’s out around the house. America protests, the well water will be cold, and England tells him the day is warm enough he won’t catch sick, he’d never allow that.
Sing Sung Songs [2/?]
anonymous
February 23 2010, 22:22:49 UTC
All this he does before turning to Canada and tells him that he’s made dinner and to go on ahead and start eating without them.
Canada does so reluctantly, picking at his meal and wondering what is taking them long. A towel? Hadn’t England forgotten one? He goes to the linen closet to pick one up, but ah- the one that had been by the basin is gone. England must have nabbed that, goes back to his chair.
Turns his head and instead sees in some haste the door forgotten to be shut.
He moves from the chair he’d seated himself on, before the burnt charred remains of dinner and set to close it.
What is taking them so long?
Canada can’t help but walk quietly, that is a mark of his nature. People don’t even know he’s there, don’t even know he even exists sometimes because he’s very quiet. It’s with this, that France tells him is an ‘unfortunate skill’ at times, it’s with this skill that he moves round the side of the house to ask. To see.
But as he nears the corner he can’t help the bout of shyness that creeps up, England and America were always getting along well even without him, and while he both enjoyed and agonized over these visits (“He’ll just tease me as always!”) often he felt like he was a bother, an intrusion. Especially when he noticed England’s hand at America’s elbow, knee, the look in his eyes- different than how he looked at Canada. Both found the slightest twinge of envy (depth, depth, Canada finds such a depth in England’s eyes when he looks at America and it is both intriguing and frightening) and unknown anxiety, but because America always happily accepts it, always smiles up at England when he makes has this look, any look he gives America, America accepts that Canada can’t help but think it’s is fine, it is normal. It’s a look of adoration, the word America does not take lightly- love.
What Canada quickly learns (from France’s hand at his chin, scratching at his beard, that adult look- concern, one second and two over his features- “There’s no helping him.” Knowing the word Franc e had wanted to say was ‘depraved’; but only figures this out when he’s older and England is crying in his room in that red redcoat “I’ve lost him!” and torn apart whatever his hands could touch-) what he learns is that this look, is all those things he thought, and more, something else, something that later makes America crawl into his bed (“Just for tonight, so he won’t mind.”) and shiver far more violently into the mattress than he ever had, even at the most scariest ghost stories.
Learns.
Because instead of rushing to turn round that corner he stops there and peeks in upon them.
England has America’s shirt in his lap, the towel damp on the wet ground.
Re: Sing Sung Songs [2/?] - Quick concrit
anonymous
July 7 2010, 02:09:26 UTC
This sentence needs to become a fully-developed paragraph. Parenthesis are meant to contain single words or short phrases that add an extra little something to the sentence (oomph) and not fully developed sentences or ideas. Sometimes it can work with longer ideas but in this case by the time I got to the end of the parenthesis I forgot where I started. I also found Canada's mixed past-present-future POV confusing; it needs more development for clarification.
Aside from that, I love how you've characterized little!Canada here. I can't wait for France to find out and kick England's ass!
reCaptcha: volcano trustees (Captcha thinks Iceland should help Finland if he gets involved later)
<<< What Canada quickly learns (from France’s hand at his chin, scratching at his beard, that adult look- concern, one second and two over his features- “There’s no helping him.” Knowing the word France had wanted to say was ‘depraved’; but only figures this out when he’s older and England is crying in his room in that red redcoat “I’ve lost him!” and torn apart whatever his hands could touch-) what he learns is that this look, is all those things he thought, and more, something else, something that later makes America crawl into his bed (“Just for tonight, so he won’t mind.”) and shiver far more violently into the mattress than he ever had, even at the most scariest ghost stories. >>>
Sing Sung Songs [3/?]
anonymous
February 23 2010, 22:24:57 UTC
His hands are clasped over America’s little arms, he looks like he’s pleading, crouched to America’s level. Canada can’t see America’s expression only his bare back, water drops still clinging to his skin. He shivers but not from the cold. England’s grip is insistent.
“Last night you slept in Canada’s bed. Why? Did you… have a scary dream? Why didn’t you come to me? Hmm, America?”
He sounds like he has something more to say on the matter, but Canada can almost see, the sharp clarity of how England’s eyes take in America’s- reflects this gaze he quickly searches through and had hoped to catch all this while.
But America doesn’t say much anything, just shakes his head, “I-”
England knows he’s won, that gaze downcast no longer in his eyes- a hand no longer at an arm but cupping over America’s rip cage instead, gentle, an artist knows when to paint on the white canvas- knows when it’s not the time, for now draws out the lines in soot, lead- England makes shapes with his fingers this way even as America sways, the tiniest of sways. Unsure of whether to lean to the touch or not.
“Then- you’ll come to bed with me tonight won’t you?”
America hesitates, mouth forming the words he’d not want to say earlier, and so forms new ones.
“Can’t- can’t Canada sleep with us too?”
England shakes his head, almost angry- “That’s not how it works America… are you saying you love both me and Canada?”
Gaping, that fish mouth sort, America shakes his head distressed, clasps his hands over England’s shoulders just another of the many places England always likes them. Leans in close, if he really wants, eyelashes might brush a cheek, turn of the nose, lips.
“No.”
And then-
“Prove to me. Prove to me you love only me, America.”
Canada has to cover his mouth or that gasp will escape. His legs feel weak when he sees England cup the back of America’s head and press down for a kiss. Not one on the head. The cheek. But first on the lips, the neck, throat- to his lips again, with smacking sounds (sucking the lip, tongue, the kind of adult kissing France tells him he’s far from old enough to do) that other hand finally leaving the other arm to creep down the small of America’s trembling back to dip into his shorts and fingers grope around, further, further until America gasps, England’s fingers pressing into-
But then he withdraws, rocks back on the balls of his feet as he draws up America’s shirt, overjoyed- “Don’t forget.”
Canada running back to the house just as England starts to pull America’s shirt over his bare torso, stroking the shoulders, the collarbone, with his very eyes it seemed.
America places his hands at England’s wrists when he starts to do up the buttons.
“I can do it myself.”
But England insists.
And when he does-
Canada is staring down at his food as they come in. England quickly pulling out America’s chair for him as he hobbles on it, complains over how famished he is, in the shirt where England had had to done up the buttons for him and England only smiles, laughs, that there will always be plenty for his boy to eat as long as he’s around.
Holy shit. Holy shit. I'm speechless. Must attempt to articulate my love through a means other than capslock.
You've got a beautiful writing style. And taking it from Canada's perspective, seeing it through his eyes and remembering all the things France had said... guh. The third part put a lump in my throat because holy God everything England is saying and America's desperation to prove his love dfjsakl;trhewagwear
As America had blurred that line he brought back what they’d been fighting about- “There’s only one kind of love in this world!”
I literally felt my heart drop. Bravo, author!anon ♥ I can't wait for more!
captcha: allege Briton's. HAHAHA LJ KNOWS WHAT YOU'RE UP TO, ENGLAND.
Re: Sing Sung Songs [3/?]
anonymous
February 25 2010, 03:37:00 UTC
I think my heart stopped a little while reading this. I absolutely adore it all; England's manipulation, Canada just watching and his absolute horror, and GOD. America! He's just so desperate and adorable and twisted, and I loved it.
Sing Sung Songs [4/?]
anonymous
February 26 2010, 04:12:57 UTC
Canada trails after America in the conference hall, America is shouting after someone, hands cupped over his mouth-
“I’M IN LOVE WITH YOU!”
But that figure he yells this to is already far gone down the hall, has ignored him. And Canada stills behind America, who though looking rejected now, will get over it.
America falls in love easily. The girl from the pizza shop, the elderly tailor who picked out a red tie he particularly liked, the barista at the coffee place who always puts in extra whip cream, the guy who jogs every morning with his dog down some 5th street, a pilot who always wore crooked goggles, a college student who smokes yet smells like cucumbers instead of tobacco.
Anyone can catch America’s fancy and when they do he loves them like no other. But like a comet, a bright comet that streaks through the sky afire until it burns out - it never lasts. It’s not that he isn’t serious- he is, but one day it’ll be Shirley and the next day Karl, and every so often someone will know it’s not going to last, leaves. And it doesn’t really matter, America might break it off himself, might meet someone new, the old gets replaced, love returned, love denied.
And Canada watches, watches and always says-
“Oh not again America, what number is this one?”
“I’ve lost count,” America might say cheekily.
He doesn’t fall in love with nations, Canada knows.
Canada knows because America had told him, they’re just countries, the will of their people move them, and any love they conjure for another nation is false. Business, treaties, it’s to be expected, it’s a nation who can withstand that. Holding a hand of the enemy turned lover, one day, and burning a friend now intruder with scorn the next.
They have to be strong.
I’m a hero after all.
Another thing America would say.
Though the concept ‘what is a hero’ had never existed when America had shown up at his doorstep in the drab blue, stomach empty, and fists full of the scent of gun powder and smoke. Revolution rising from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet.
(Join me!)
Canada hadn’t.
Like at the end of the day, you might come to regret previous actions that have happened- maybe not even committed on that day, but a week ago, a year. Check and balance, something America liked and knew well, and so when he rebelled Canada had not, even though, down, down, down low in his gut where he did agree he also knew ‘in case you need a safety net’ it’d be best if he’d stay and watch England. Someone, someone had to hold him back for once-
But that is long past.
As is America’s original concept of love.
The one now, and the one before.
Neither are right.
--
America always refuses him.
Always pushes his head away when England cannot help but press his lips against that soft neck, a palm, a shoulder, wrist, ankle- only if England’s lips touch his brow does America look even remotely at peace, because that is where they had originally started and any other place is merely foreign, forbidden territory.
England remembers how America had screamed the first night- screamed when England’s fingers had refused to leave him, when England couldn’t bear to have America anywhere but under him as he’d hitched up America’s legs and forced them to clench over his hips, touch bruising (he’s already apologised though, he had been a bit rough), but then- England just couldn’t take it anymore. Not with the way America would look at him (that almost shy adoration, happy to be anywhere near his brother-something), or how on that night had pressed so very close that England like a sailor to a siren’s call could no longer ignore America’s tiny arms wrapped over his neck, nor the soft sounds he made as he’d try to slip into slumber, tempting lips near his throat, that warm breath, the scent of his hair- all in his arms- had drove him mad and then-
Sing Sung Songs [5/?]
anonymous
February 26 2010, 04:16:09 UTC
But America doesn’t scream now, because Canada is here.
England feels guilty, more guilty that that is why he brings Canada over more than he feels guilty about what he’s doing because it was alright wasn’t it, in the end- America does love him, and when you love someone you want to have sex with them right? Against relation, against age, against gender- those were all just barriers that needed to be brought down- torn. The look in America’s eyes is always torn, up within that sky blue that makes England’s breath catch and his cock harden even more, when America’s lips part, the moisture of tears rapidly falling, over flowing- when America asks him to stop and England knows he doesn’t, surely cannot mean it, for had it not been from those same lips that endearingly America had told England he loves him?
England leans over America who’s curled up on his bed, it looks like he’d forgotten after all, so England had to come to him and be here in America’s room with the many toys and books he’d given America. The many gifts that made America cheer up when England finally returned to him, weary from his trip, a trip he’d repeat countless times just for the brushing of their hands, fingers when America accepted whatever wrapped parcel or bow topped trinket England had brought him, smiling, laughing- he doesn’t smile as much, or laugh as much at these regular gifts ever since that first night, but he still always accepts them and might even press a kiss to England’s cheek should England bend down for one. England is happy to have whatever America is willing to offer.
(And hates himself for it, what was wrong with him what is wrong with him, on that- after that first night when he’d come inside him- his little darling- his little angel- America had curled up on the bed as he does now, eyes hollowed and frightened and England murmuring every reassurance he could muster until they resolved back into touches, kisses, America’s skin red and blue- and when gaining no response England had had him again until he cried- eyes swollen mouth swollen- thrusting hard and fast and- how England only wants to love him, to keep him forever-)
A hand strokes at the side of his face, a face England can never tire of, the first face that had peered up at him and chose him from all the others- adoringly. (“Can I call you big brother?”)
England won’t- can’t forget this face. The face of his sweet child that brings him such agony, pleasure. What is he now? Is he not just a monster? Isn’t what he does, what he does to his America- are they not just acts of violence- for why else would America shudder- why else would he cry and beg and scream and look at England regretfully (why do I let you do this) and (do I even want this) and that is always enough, enough to make England push aside this loathing, this hatred, this need to destroy himself (maybe I should stop) and rationalise, because he fears more than anything more than what is right and what is wrong he fears that America will leave him. As long as you never leave me- it’ll be enough. But it never is. To clear away doubt, England teaches him, cares for him, touches him-
“Remember? It’s all for your own good. I told you before.”
America quietly looks up at him, where England has now propped his head up on a hand, the boy’s brow at England’s elbow. That other hand never leaves his skin.
“This will make you stronger. Love makes you stronger! And you do love me don’t you?”
(I don’t know-)
“Yes,” America replies, remembers the first time they met, the first gift of toy soldiers, the first time England had made him tea and added just a little milk and chokes down the memory of that first night.
Sing Sung Songs [6/?]
anonymous
February 26 2010, 04:18:08 UTC
Every night something more ceases to be and every day they start anew.
“I know, I-I know you’re doing this for my own good- because you love me.” America thinks England does these things to make him stronger, because that is what people who love each other do for the other. No pain, no-
But he’s looking back down, eyes on his pillow, he’d turned onto his stomach.
“If you don’t feel like doing anything tonight, we don’t have to.”
England tells him, even as he draws America close, and slides under the covers with him. Can’t help folding America into his arms and combs his fingers through America’s golden hair, soft- always so soft-
“Okay,” America says but he is not relieved.
Because England always likes to say these things that might make America happy even if they are lies. America thinks England doesn’t realise it himself sometimes, how these lies are actually broken promises, and how every time he breaks a promise it is becoming harder and harder to take his words to heart (but just at night, these nights when-)
England breaks his promise again as America starts to doze off, it is very late and he’d been playing all day with Canada (Canada, who he’ll never tell, he’ll never tell anyone, England knows this, knows that more than anything America is ashamed to put into words what he does with England what he lets England do to him, ashamed because England will ask him why, why does he feel that way if this is love, and love is-)
I don’t-
“No, no, no, no, no, no-” America starts, whispers, as England can’t help- can’t help ever- coming closer to his boy, his America, his- all his- his everything- “America-” he moans, pressing down on to America and kisses wherever America has not stretched from his reach. Rolls him over onto his back.
Kisses until-
“Don’t you think it’s unfair?”
America is whispering, his hands at England’s shoulders, small child- “Don’t you think you shouldn’t do this?”
Those tears again, England towering over America, cups his face and thumbs those tears away from each side, a burning in his chest, mulled. “Don’t you mean we? How many times are you going to make me worry?”
“I wait so long for you.”
America tells him, a hiccupped breath, his chest rises against England’s chest, the most willing touch England’ll ever receive.
“I wait for you and you can’t wait for me. I’ll grow big and strong soon, I’ll become older soon, so until then-”
England sighs against America’s chest and plops down over him, not really heavy since half of his body is on the mattress; America is still short, still small. England looks like he’s thinking, contemplating what America has said, but do you try to reason with a wolf when you are its prey? America feels England’s head shaking, it can stop now, he can stop here. End this. But desire (always) gets the better of him, there are countless times he’s wanted to take America way from here, and have him constantly be with him. Because, here on his lonesome, any one could come along and steal America away. England touching him, kissing him, fucking him- all were just to convince America see I love you, don’t leave me don’t go anywhere I don’t want you go.
But America wants to go everywhere.
See everything, he’d thought.
With England-
No.
There was a time this small box that was his home, the fences England built to keep him safe (keep him his) was all he needed, but like England (perhaps this is what he’s really learned) he is greedy and it is no longer enough. But that is not an excuse for this, that is not an excuse for England to pull his clothes from him and peel off his own, that is no excuse for him to now take America’s legs and place them over his shoulders, no excuse to spread the cheeks of America’s buttocks and force his cock inside, one thrust, two until he’s lost count and all he’s aware of is this tight heat and America biting his lip to hold in another cry as England holds his wrists above him with one hand and keeps an aching grip along a hip.
Sing Sung Songs [7/?]
anonymous
February 26 2010, 04:19:39 UTC
“Besides,” England tells him almost apologetic, yet accusingly, “I can’t help it.”
Can’t help loving you.
But America already knows this, knows this when England kisses him and forces a tongue inside, urges America to kiss him back with slight nips, with tongue and teeth dragging over his jaw, at an earlobe, throat, just some of the many places England has been tempted to touch forever before- when all he thought he should do was look- all he could do. Watch with need and envy the line of the back of America’s neck disappearing beneath a starch white collar (who gave you those clothes?), the curve of his ankle when England helped him put on a blue stocking, slip a foot in a shoe, when the sleeve reached far past his fingertips and for now England had had to roll it up to his boy’s wrist, small and slight in his hand when the job began and when it ended- America still small in his arms but growing- growing too slow, too fast- because all England ever wants to do is press him down and over the surface that is closest and make America his as many times as needed to get the message across- you belong to me.
Because America pushes him away, and doesn’t quite seem to understand yet. England must make him understand then.
Anything to convince himself it’s not too horrible that America’s tears are warm, are tears (pressed against his chest, America still depends on him for comfort even if it is he who is causing the pain- but there it is inconceivable, surely America is just a little afraid, he is still a child- but there again- America is a child and he should not do this no-) not too horrible that his heart races as if it will burn out form his chest when he pulls out his cock and cum smears all over and out beautifully on America’s skin- (“It’s warm isn’t it?”) not too horrible that those hands do not cling to him but cringe from him. Not too horrible that England’s body can completely shield America’s from view, from anyone else’s existence because that is the way England wants it.
Re: Sing Sung Songs [7/?]
anonymous
February 26 2010, 05:39:33 UTC
Captcha says: "mourned about". Captcha is quite accurate. You have made me feel sorry for everyone. But especially America, with his big grin and his heart on his sleeve and his tendency to fall in love over and over again - it suits him so well. It's sort of heartbreaking seeing Canada watch all this and know what's going on and still not be able to help it.
I even feel sorry for England, dammit, because it's so painfully obvious that he really does love America, even as he's hurting him.
The scary thing is, I can see all this having happened in Hetalia canon. So easily I'll find it hard not to use as backstory.
Re: Sing Sung Songs [7/?]
anonymous
February 26 2010, 07:55:05 UTC
OP again. Totally didn't reread the first parts like ten times today because I like this story so much. Nope.
Seconding the person above that I can actually see this as plausible canon. It's all sorts of twisted on both sides, but oh man poor America. Poor Canada, having to bear that burden and have such an awful purpose for visiting. And England's accusing America and perpetuating the poor kid's guilt! My heart hurts for all of them, but that especially drove his depravity home. I think this is the first time a fanfic has made me so intensely angry.
GOD I LOVE YOU, ANON. Stalking this thread forever.
Re: Sing Sung Songs [7/?]
anonymous
February 26 2010, 08:01:28 UTC
I am adoring this fill as if there is no tomorrow. I love that England isn't hurting America on purpose, only trying keep him close and get America to understand who he belongs to. Everything is so beautiful and also heart wrenching in this fill, you are definitely hitting this one out of the park. Keep up the fantastic work!
I've seen a lot of consensual shota between America and England, but I crave horrible psychological trauma. I want America to be confused and afraid, I want England to feel endless guilt but still try to rationalize his actions, I want America to feel irrational guilt. Basically I want gut-wrenching agony on both parts and to have the urge to punch England in the dick.
If it's not too much to ask, I also have a few specifications:
1) America grows up to be how he is in canon (cocky, exuberant, has a hero complex, fairly good relationship with England, etc). Whether he chooses to suppress the abuse or simply have the most fucked up outlook on his relationship with England ever is up to you. Perhaps he convinces himself it's not abuse because he's a nation?
2) Canada knew about it. Sometimes it's good to go unnoticed in a household with a child molester, eh?
3) France finds out. Chaos ensues. If you involve Finland or Holland in this I'll love you forever.
4) Bonus if England breaks down at any point.
5) Double bonus if it affects their standings as nations or if they have to continue on as they were before revelations because they're nations.
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Sing Sung Songs
--
In a field of flowers, Canada follows his brother America.
America hadn’t much of an interest in him at first, but as Canada had visited more often America couldn’t help but pay attention to him. And now, they were fine, laughed, ran, played, together. Like on most sunny days when it’s not too bright either will be blinded or come back red faced from sun but rather lack of breath, a game of tag. Canada thinks at times like these when America is not ignoring him or calling him boring they’re actually friends. Brothers. You can’t help but love your brother after all.
Yet there is a line.
Canada is aware of this line, it separates the love he has for America and the love he has for England and the love he has for France. He loves them all in very different ways. Once he’d even asked France about it, these differences and patting the top of his head, gently France had softly looked at him, told him yes. Many kinds of love exist.
When he’d told America this they’d gotten into an argument. Out of anger Canada had physically drawn this line in the mud with a stick, between him and America; he’d still been riled up quiet in his anger. Besides, America hadn’t even known he’d been upset to begin with and Canada remembers the cross look America had had with his folded arms, pouting by the wood shed as he looked down over at the line between them.
Canada had expected America, who is always usually sharp, and quick to learn at everything to inform him he doesn’t need a line, he sees these differences, he knows. England teaches him everything he needs to know alright?
But instead he’d started to blur it out with his foot, getting his boot horrendously dirty. Canada knows he’ll forget to wash them up and will trail mud in the house and England will become angry and clean it up and then take America to his room to scold him and what else Canada doesn’t really know. England does that often, take America to his room whenever he has something to say, just to America, Canada thinks, because he can never say it in front of Canada. Canada had tried asking a few times if England only took America to his room to speak with him when he was around, America had replied something like, a long pauses, a hitch in his shoulders, yes. Otherwise England would just tell him in the room they were in alone.
As America had blurred that line he brought back what they’d been fighting about- “There’s only one kind of love in this world!”
Which is why when America holds his hands and pulls him close, or shares his apple with Canada, or pokes him with his elbow, laughs, a stupid joke and wants Canada to laugh with him- that’s why once when Canada had said, “I love you brother,” America had replied, brow tangled, confused, “You’re mistaken, you like me! I like you too!”
As if that made any sense.
Once, Canada thinks.
To America love was a word not lightly used.
--
When they come in from playing, as always the more explorative America has dirtier knees, hands, face- everything in comparison to Canada is dirtier; England shaking his head had told America he’ll need more water than the one they keep in the wash basin and tugs America along to the well that’s out around the house. America protests, the well water will be cold, and England tells him the day is warm enough he won’t catch sick, he’d never allow that.
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Canada does so reluctantly, picking at his meal and wondering what is taking them long. A towel? Hadn’t England forgotten one? He goes to the linen closet to pick one up, but ah- the one that had been by the basin is gone. England must have nabbed that, goes back to his chair.
Turns his head and instead sees in some haste the door forgotten to be shut.
He moves from the chair he’d seated himself on, before the burnt charred remains of dinner and set to close it.
What is taking them so long?
Canada can’t help but walk quietly, that is a mark of his nature. People don’t even know he’s there, don’t even know he even exists sometimes because he’s very quiet. It’s with this, that France tells him is an ‘unfortunate skill’ at times, it’s with this skill that he moves round the side of the house to ask. To see.
But as he nears the corner he can’t help the bout of shyness that creeps up, England and America were always getting along well even without him, and while he both enjoyed and agonized over these visits (“He’ll just tease me as always!”) often he felt like he was a bother, an intrusion. Especially when he noticed England’s hand at America’s elbow, knee, the look in his eyes- different than how he looked at Canada. Both found the slightest twinge of envy (depth, depth, Canada finds such a depth in England’s eyes when he looks at America and it is both intriguing and frightening) and unknown anxiety, but because America always happily accepts it, always smiles up at England when he makes has this look, any look he gives America, America accepts that Canada can’t help but think it’s is fine, it is normal. It’s a look of adoration, the word America does not take lightly- love.
What Canada quickly learns (from France’s hand at his chin, scratching at his beard, that adult look- concern, one second and two over his features- “There’s no helping him.” Knowing the word Franc e had wanted to say was ‘depraved’; but only figures this out when he’s older and England is crying in his room in that red redcoat “I’ve lost him!” and torn apart whatever his hands could touch-) what he learns is that this look, is all those things he thought, and more, something else, something that later makes America crawl into his bed (“Just for tonight, so he won’t mind.”) and shiver far more violently into the mattress than he ever had, even at the most scariest ghost stories.
Learns.
Because instead of rushing to turn round that corner he stops there and peeks in upon them.
England has America’s shirt in his lap, the towel damp on the wet ground.
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Aside from that, I love how you've characterized little!Canada here. I can't wait for France to find out and kick England's ass!
reCaptcha: volcano trustees (Captcha thinks Iceland should help Finland if he gets involved later)
<<< What Canada quickly learns (from France’s hand at his chin, scratching at his beard, that adult look- concern, one second and two over his features- “There’s no helping him.” Knowing the word France had wanted to say was ‘depraved’; but only figures this out when he’s older and England is crying in his room in that red redcoat “I’ve lost him!” and torn apart whatever his hands could touch-) what he learns is that this look, is all those things he thought, and more, something else, something that later makes America crawl into his bed (“Just for tonight, so he won’t mind.”) and shiver far more violently into the mattress than he ever had, even at the most scariest ghost stories. >>>
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“Last night you slept in Canada’s bed. Why? Did you… have a scary dream? Why didn’t you come to me? Hmm, America?”
He sounds like he has something more to say on the matter, but Canada can almost see, the sharp clarity of how England’s eyes take in America’s- reflects this gaze he quickly searches through and had hoped to catch all this while.
But America doesn’t say much anything, just shakes his head, “I-”
England knows he’s won, that gaze downcast no longer in his eyes- a hand no longer at an arm but cupping over America’s rip cage instead, gentle, an artist knows when to paint on the white canvas- knows when it’s not the time, for now draws out the lines in soot, lead- England makes shapes with his fingers this way even as America sways, the tiniest of sways. Unsure of whether to lean to the touch or not.
“Then- you’ll come to bed with me tonight won’t you?”
America hesitates, mouth forming the words he’d not want to say earlier, and so forms new ones.
“Can’t- can’t Canada sleep with us too?”
England shakes his head, almost angry- “That’s not how it works America… are you saying you love both me and Canada?”
Gaping, that fish mouth sort, America shakes his head distressed, clasps his hands over England’s shoulders just another of the many places England always likes them. Leans in close, if he really wants, eyelashes might brush a cheek, turn of the nose, lips.
“No.”
And then-
“Prove to me. Prove to me you love only me, America.”
Canada has to cover his mouth or that gasp will escape. His legs feel weak when he sees England cup the back of America’s head and press down for a kiss. Not one on the head. The cheek. But first on the lips, the neck, throat- to his lips again, with smacking sounds (sucking the lip, tongue, the kind of adult kissing France tells him he’s far from old enough to do) that other hand finally leaving the other arm to creep down the small of America’s trembling back to dip into his shorts and fingers grope around, further, further until America gasps, England’s fingers pressing into-
But then he withdraws, rocks back on the balls of his feet as he draws up America’s shirt, overjoyed- “Don’t forget.”
Canada running back to the house just as England starts to pull America’s shirt over his bare torso, stroking the shoulders, the collarbone, with his very eyes it seemed.
America places his hands at England’s wrists when he starts to do up the buttons.
“I can do it myself.”
But England insists.
And when he does-
Canada is staring down at his food as they come in. England quickly pulling out America’s chair for him as he hobbles on it, complains over how famished he is, in the shirt where England had had to done up the buttons for him and England only smiles, laughs, that there will always be plenty for his boy to eat as long as he’s around.
And Canada hates that look.
Now knowing that it means,
-he always gets what he wants.
--
TBC.
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You've got a beautiful writing style. And taking it from Canada's perspective, seeing it through his eyes and remembering all the things France had said... guh. The third part put a lump in my throat because holy God everything England is saying and America's desperation to prove his love dfjsakl;trhewagwear
As America had blurred that line he brought back what they’d been fighting about- “There’s only one kind of love in this world!”
I literally felt my heart drop. Bravo, author!anon ♥ I can't wait for more!
captcha: allege Briton's. HAHAHA LJ KNOWS WHAT YOU'RE UP TO, ENGLAND.
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I eagerly await the next part!
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“I’M IN LOVE WITH YOU!”
But that figure he yells this to is already far gone down the hall, has ignored him. And Canada stills behind America, who though looking rejected now, will get over it.
America falls in love easily. The girl from the pizza shop, the elderly tailor who picked out a red tie he particularly liked, the barista at the coffee place who always puts in extra whip cream, the guy who jogs every morning with his dog down some 5th street, a pilot who always wore crooked goggles, a college student who smokes yet smells like cucumbers instead of tobacco.
Anyone can catch America’s fancy and when they do he loves them like no other. But like a comet, a bright comet that streaks through the sky afire until it burns out - it never lasts. It’s not that he isn’t serious- he is, but one day it’ll be Shirley and the next day Karl, and every so often someone will know it’s not going to last, leaves. And it doesn’t really matter, America might break it off himself, might meet someone new, the old gets replaced, love returned, love denied.
And Canada watches, watches and always says-
“Oh not again America, what number is this one?”
“I’ve lost count,” America might say cheekily.
He doesn’t fall in love with nations, Canada knows.
Canada knows because America had told him, they’re just countries, the will of their people move them, and any love they conjure for another nation is false. Business, treaties, it’s to be expected, it’s a nation who can withstand that. Holding a hand of the enemy turned lover, one day, and burning a friend now intruder with scorn the next.
They have to be strong.
I’m a hero after all.
Another thing America would say.
Though the concept ‘what is a hero’ had never existed when America had shown up at his doorstep in the drab blue, stomach empty, and fists full of the scent of gun powder and smoke. Revolution rising from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet.
(Join me!)
Canada hadn’t.
Like at the end of the day, you might come to regret previous actions that have happened- maybe not even committed on that day, but a week ago, a year. Check and balance, something America liked and knew well, and so when he rebelled Canada had not, even though, down, down, down low in his gut where he did agree he also knew ‘in case you need a safety net’ it’d be best if he’d stay and watch England. Someone, someone had to hold him back for once-
But that is long past.
As is America’s original concept of love.
The one now, and the one before.
Neither are right.
--
America always refuses him.
Always pushes his head away when England cannot help but press his lips against that soft neck, a palm, a shoulder, wrist, ankle- only if England’s lips touch his brow does America look even remotely at peace, because that is where they had originally started and any other place is merely foreign, forbidden territory.
England remembers how America had screamed the first night- screamed when England’s fingers had refused to leave him, when England couldn’t bear to have America anywhere but under him as he’d hitched up America’s legs and forced them to clench over his hips, touch bruising (he’s already apologised though, he had been a bit rough), but then- England just couldn’t take it anymore. Not with the way America would look at him (that almost shy adoration, happy to be anywhere near his brother-something), or how on that night had pressed so very close that England like a sailor to a siren’s call could no longer ignore America’s tiny arms wrapped over his neck, nor the soft sounds he made as he’d try to slip into slumber, tempting lips near his throat, that warm breath, the scent of his hair- all in his arms- had drove him mad and then-
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England feels guilty, more guilty that that is why he brings Canada over more than he feels guilty about what he’s doing because it was alright wasn’t it, in the end- America does love him, and when you love someone you want to have sex with them right? Against relation, against age, against gender- those were all just barriers that needed to be brought down- torn. The look in America’s eyes is always torn, up within that sky blue that makes England’s breath catch and his cock harden even more, when America’s lips part, the moisture of tears rapidly falling, over flowing- when America asks him to stop and England knows he doesn’t, surely cannot mean it, for had it not been from those same lips that endearingly America had told England he loves him?
England leans over America who’s curled up on his bed, it looks like he’d forgotten after all, so England had to come to him and be here in America’s room with the many toys and books he’d given America. The many gifts that made America cheer up when England finally returned to him, weary from his trip, a trip he’d repeat countless times just for the brushing of their hands, fingers when America accepted whatever wrapped parcel or bow topped trinket England had brought him, smiling, laughing- he doesn’t smile as much, or laugh as much at these regular gifts ever since that first night, but he still always accepts them and might even press a kiss to England’s cheek should England bend down for one. England is happy to have whatever America is willing to offer.
(And hates himself for it, what was wrong with him what is wrong with him, on that- after that first night when he’d come inside him- his little darling- his little angel- America had curled up on the bed as he does now, eyes hollowed and frightened and England murmuring every reassurance he could muster until they resolved back into touches, kisses, America’s skin red and blue- and when gaining no response England had had him again until he cried- eyes swollen mouth swollen- thrusting hard and fast and- how England only wants to love him, to keep him forever-)
A hand strokes at the side of his face, a face England can never tire of, the first face that had peered up at him and chose him from all the others- adoringly. (“Can I call you big brother?”)
England won’t- can’t forget this face. The face of his sweet child that brings him such agony, pleasure. What is he now? Is he not just a monster? Isn’t what he does, what he does to his America- are they not just acts of violence- for why else would America shudder- why else would he cry and beg and scream and look at England regretfully (why do I let you do this) and (do I even want this) and that is always enough, enough to make England push aside this loathing, this hatred, this need to destroy himself (maybe I should stop) and rationalise, because he fears more than anything more than what is right and what is wrong he fears that America will leave him. As long as you never leave me- it’ll be enough. But it never is. To clear away doubt, England teaches him, cares for him, touches him-
“Remember? It’s all for your own good. I told you before.”
America quietly looks up at him, where England has now propped his head up on a hand, the boy’s brow at England’s elbow. That other hand never leaves his skin.
“This will make you stronger. Love makes you stronger! And you do love me don’t you?”
(I don’t know-)
“Yes,” America replies, remembers the first time they met, the first gift of toy soldiers, the first time England had made him tea and added just a little milk and chokes down the memory of that first night.
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“I know, I-I know you’re doing this for my own good- because you love me.”
America thinks England does these things to make him stronger, because that is what people who love each other do for the other. No pain, no-
But he’s looking back down, eyes on his pillow, he’d turned onto his stomach.
“If you don’t feel like doing anything tonight, we don’t have to.”
England tells him, even as he draws America close, and slides under the covers with him. Can’t help folding America into his arms and combs his fingers through America’s golden hair, soft- always so soft-
“Okay,” America says but he is not relieved.
Because England always likes to say these things that might make America happy even if they are lies. America thinks England doesn’t realise it himself sometimes, how these lies are actually broken promises, and how every time he breaks a promise it is becoming harder and harder to take his words to heart (but just at night, these nights when-)
England breaks his promise again as America starts to doze off, it is very late and he’d been playing all day with Canada (Canada, who he’ll never tell, he’ll never tell anyone, England knows this, knows that more than anything America is ashamed to put into words what he does with England what he lets England do to him, ashamed because England will ask him why, why does he feel that way if this is love, and love is-)
I don’t-
“No, no, no, no, no, no-” America starts, whispers, as England can’t help- can’t help ever- coming closer to his boy, his America, his- all his- his everything- “America-” he moans, pressing down on to America and kisses wherever America has not stretched from his reach. Rolls him over onto his back.
Kisses until-
“Don’t you think it’s unfair?”
America is whispering, his hands at England’s shoulders, small child- “Don’t you think you shouldn’t do this?”
Those tears again, England towering over America, cups his face and thumbs those tears away from each side, a burning in his chest, mulled. “Don’t you mean we? How many times are you going to make me worry?”
“I wait so long for you.”
America tells him, a hiccupped breath, his chest rises against England’s chest, the most willing touch England’ll ever receive.
“I wait for you and you can’t wait for me. I’ll grow big and strong soon, I’ll become older soon, so until then-”
England sighs against America’s chest and plops down over him, not really heavy since half of his body is on the mattress; America is still short, still small. England looks like he’s thinking, contemplating what America has said, but do you try to reason with a wolf when you are its prey?
America feels England’s head shaking, it can stop now, he can stop here. End this. But desire (always) gets the better of him, there are countless times he’s wanted to take America way from here, and have him constantly be with him. Because, here on his lonesome, any one could come along and steal America away. England touching him, kissing him, fucking him- all were just to convince America see I love you, don’t leave me don’t go anywhere I don’t want you go.
But America wants to go everywhere.
See everything, he’d thought.
With England-
No.
There was a time this small box that was his home, the fences England built to keep him safe (keep him his) was all he needed, but like England (perhaps this is what he’s really learned) he is greedy and it is no longer enough. But that is not an excuse for this, that is not an excuse for England to pull his clothes from him and peel off his own, that is no excuse for him to now take America’s legs and place them over his shoulders, no excuse to spread the cheeks of America’s buttocks and force his cock inside, one thrust, two until he’s lost count and all he’s aware of is this tight heat and America biting his lip to hold in another cry as England holds his wrists above him with one hand and keeps an aching grip along a hip.
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Can’t help loving you.
But America already knows this, knows this when England kisses him and forces a tongue inside, urges America to kiss him back with slight nips, with tongue and teeth dragging over his jaw, at an earlobe, throat, just some of the many places England has been tempted to touch forever before- when all he thought he should do was look- all he could do. Watch with need and envy the line of the back of America’s neck disappearing beneath a starch white collar (who gave you those clothes?), the curve of his ankle when England helped him put on a blue stocking, slip a foot in a shoe, when the sleeve reached far past his fingertips and for now England had had to roll it up to his boy’s wrist, small and slight in his hand when the job began and when it ended- America still small in his arms but growing- growing too slow, too fast- because all England ever wants to do is press him down and over the surface that is closest and make America his as many times as needed to get the message across- you belong to me.
Because America pushes him away, and doesn’t quite seem to understand yet.
England must make him understand then.
Anything to convince himself it’s not too horrible that America’s tears are warm, are tears (pressed against his chest, America still depends on him for comfort even if it is he who is causing the pain- but there it is inconceivable, surely America is just a little afraid, he is still a child- but there again- America is a child and he should not do this no-) not too horrible that his heart races as if it will burn out form his chest when he pulls out his cock and cum smears all over and out beautifully on America’s skin- (“It’s warm isn’t it?”) not too horrible that those hands do not cling to him but cringe from him. Not too horrible that England’s body can completely shield America’s from view, from anyone else’s existence because that is the way England wants it.
Surely the way America wants it too.
Since, they love each other don’t they?
--
TBC.
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I even feel sorry for England, dammit, because it's so painfully obvious that he really does love America, even as he's hurting him.
The scary thing is, I can see all this having happened in Hetalia canon. So easily I'll find it hard not to use as backstory.
Please continue soon.
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Seconding the person above that I can actually see this as plausible canon. It's all sorts of twisted on both sides, but oh man poor America. Poor Canada, having to bear that burden and have such an awful purpose for visiting. And England's accusing America and perpetuating the poor kid's guilt! My heart hurts for all of them, but that especially drove his depravity home. I think this is the first time a fanfic has made me so intensely angry.
GOD I LOVE YOU, ANON. Stalking this thread forever.
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Despite the sad-facing, I'm glad I stumbled on this fill just now; I never saw it on the fills list.
... Way to ruin the moment, ReCaptcha: "Mr. guzzler"
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