"The socially awkward penguin scares me."
Tomorrow, I get to talk to my boss about working part time again. ♥ Really looking forward to having the time to actually write and work on a professional portfolio again, and get ready for grad school in the way I'm supposed to.
Meantime, have some really awful fanfic. /fails
Fandom: Hetalia
Rating: PG
Pairing: Germany/Italy implied
Summary: [Drabble for kanisi_kokoro] A snapshot in time wherein Germany still hasn't given up, Italy is closer than he appears, and you should never be afraid to ask for something you want.
On the Subject of Waiting
By Kay
Germany’s staying in Naumberg for the Hussite Cherry Festival; he has a little house overlooking the outskirts of the city, though he hasn’t used it since the early 1900s. I wish I’d come sooner, he thinks, watching the fireflies trail over the tips of long grass. There’s just always so much work that no one else seems to be doing.
It’s perhaps the first time in years he’s had plenty of time and space to himself. At first, he enjoys the solitude. By the end of the third night, Germany is veering toward the edge of madness.
“I didn’t think I’d hear from you so soon!” Italy cries out in surprise when he picks up the line. He doesn’t even ask who it is, and Germany wonders how he could have possibly known (unless he believes he’s someone else right-).
“I had. That is. The training program,” says Germany.
“Ve…”
“You completely forgot!” The infuriation falters as quickly as it had come; he himself had forgotten until floundering for a reason behind no reason. Germany clears his throat awkwardly. “The-tactical training for air forces in Decimomannu and Sardinia. If we’re going to jointly run it, we need to discuss the details at length.”
“Oh, right,” agrees Italy, and he sounds bright and cheery and it’s so easy to picture him, lounging half-naked on some balcony overlooking the Florence cathedral. Maybe he’s eating pasta. Maybe he’s watching women.
Germany closes his eyes and, because he’s alone, lets the longing rest naked on his cheekbones.
“I suppose if you’re not ready,” he says, “it can wait a while longer.”
Italy protests, but he gives up the ghost easily enough. Work will always be abhorrent to him. Instead, he chats to Germany about the kitchen he’s remodeling, the troubles he’s found himself in because of his brother, the weather (the humidity never changes), and how much he’s missed eating Germany’s potatoes and wurst. Germany listens to him-he has been known to do so, to sit and catch on the syllables of Italy’s strange and ridiculous words, the tilt of a sigh-and remembers a Buon San Valentino from many decades ago, a small book he’s kept at the bottom of his closet (more hidden than the magazines he’s ashamed to own), and a memory that is born of scent and color more than sound.
He thinks of these things more often than he’d admit to anyone.
(In time, he’s even learned to accept them as they are: truth, diluted with futility. Germany knows-and this makes it bearable-that his persistent longing will never go anywhere far. He won’t let it. Italy’s already said no.)
“Germany,” Italy implores him now, stupid and loyal and troublesome Italy, “Germany, tell me what you’ve been doing? I’ve missed you so much! I feel like I can’t imagine you at a festival.”
“I’ve been organizing things.”
“You’re very good at that.”
“Hm.” A wry smile. “I try.”
“Germany?”
“What?” he asks, patiently.
Italy whines a little and then lets out a huff. “Won’t you ask me?”
He hates himself, just enough to be proportional, when heat climbs up into his neck and his heart drowns out his misgivings. “Ask what?”
“If I can come stay with you.”
“Why would I-”
“Because that’s what I would do!”
Oh. Germany folds his fingers over the wrinkles in his forehead, sighing. “I don’t-” and yet, there’s a part of him that’s- “Will you?”
A firefly lands on the window sill, its glow fading in and out like it must take deep breaths. “Then I’m so glad,” Italy tells him, voice laughing in his ear, “that I’m on this train.”
end
Fandom: Hetalia
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: France/England
Summary: [Drabble for kanisi_kokoro] In time, England comes to associate the taste of France’s food with destruction. A story built in stages.
Also, watch Kay fail at history.
In Bad Taste
By Kay
In time, England comes to associate the taste of France’s food with destruction.
Too early to remember (or maybe he doesn’t want to try), a muddied field overlooking the bluffs and a house filled with netting. France is cooking, barely tall enough to reach the pot over the fire, but the smell is delicious and mouthwatering and tempting England inside from the window. It’s not as if the idiot is armed; his ring mail’s been shed and the shield used to ground the table.
The storms are bad out. He can hear his people howling into them. England wants to be out with them, but he’s still too small for battle-instead, he drifts ever-closer to the warm butter-yellow lamp hung over the door.
“Stop being noisy and just come in!” France laughs at him.
(By Christmas day, he is under Normandy rule. It is years before England takes food directly from France’s hands again.)
1431, and France will not speak to him.
England watches him pace the poorly lit room, wondering if he went to watch her burn. Though he strains, he can’t catch the scent of ashes or scorched human flesh; but that doesn’t mean France hadn’t observed from a distance. They know each other too well, but sometimes not enough at all.
There’s sweat on France’s forehead. He wipes it away with his sleeve and continues to stir the broth, fingertips absentmindedly kneading the spoon. Then he paces again. Every so often, he pauses to drop a few more vegetables into the mix. It will be, England sullenly thinks, a masterpiece even in the midst of this drudgery.
It may very well be the hunger that makes him say, “They gave her the cross she begged for, in the end.”
They are at war, and England has sent his lady in flames, so he doesn’t flinch when France hauls him out of his seat and backhands him hard across the face. A ring catches across England’s lower lip and tears at the dried, cracked skin. He spits blood onto the floor. Some keeps dribbling down his face.
He does flinch when France sets the bowl in front of him: perfect, lovely, and clear save for a single dollop of red ever-growing.
1762, and England’s come for Canada.
He doesn’t expect what he finds. When he steps into the neatly decorated house, there’s the sound of shy laughter from the kitchen. England feels his heart sink. He does, at least, take off his uniformed coat and roll up his sleeves before intruding. He knows better than to think France will fight at dinner time.
Canada looks at him when he enters (wide-eyed, still so young, young like England’s little brother is) and tries to sink into the chair. At the stove, France barely even turns.
“You may as well sit down, too, rosbif.”
-and by nightfall, he is gone from the Americas.
There is a time when France is mad.
He is very, very mad. In the head. Split like a load of bread.
England eats a dinner of Cornish hen and potatoes, frowning at his window; he could swear France is standing just beyond in the dark, but he can never tell for sure. When he goes around the house afterward, there’s nothing, and he thinks he’s just imagined it. Why it should matter what’s happening to the bloody frog-after his part in the Revolution, after all that he’s done-is beyond England.
Still. When he eats, he thinks of France and decay.
1916, a small town in Northern France, a church without a name-its whitewashed front blistered by smoke and gunpowder and black flares of soot-blood. There is a row that winds all the way around it of bodies, all ages, all faces, and what’s left of them creates a lump-sack wall to the sanctuary: you can go no further than you have.
He finds France in a ransacked house, redressing his women and covering their eyes for burial. His features are gaunt, the blue of his eyes like quicksilver; he needs a shave, and a meal, and a victory. He doesn’t speak to England, but when the door clatters open, France goes to the kitchen and pulls out a fine wine. “There is no flour,” he says, rasping. “I think I miss bread the most of all.”
“When you come back through London,” says England, feeling awkward, “I’ll make you some scones, frog. It’s better than your shitty, buttered excuse for pastry.”
“I could eat sawdust here, you tea-addled bastard.”
They drink the wine the Germans were too careless to leave. England doesn’t break his nose for insulting his food, which is telling enough. The liquor tastes foul, like someone’s watered-down puss (a land that isn’t healing), and France sobs into the bottle until there’s nothing left but glass to break.
1945, and the war is over.
(This is another war. We’ve started to number them, thinks England in resentment; he’s not sure how he’ll ever keep up in time.)
Still, there’s reason enough to celebrate, despite the shadow of the Soviet Union seeping into nooks and crannies in its wake. France is positively jolly. He cooks a feast that-well, England hasn’t seen this much food in forever and a day, it feels like. He shifts uneasily, but stays put. His own supper’s likely to be burnt and inedible if he goes (like a proper British supper should be).
They dine on herb-rubbed fowl and fresh, oven-hot pastries and aged cheeses. Things England can’t pronounce and doesn’t care to. Rich, fine whites and reds for wine. Then rum, so much he can barely stomach it, and they’re both laughing into their glasses and drunken and stupid old fools.
“I always wonder when our luck will run out,” France gasps at last, head pooled in his arms and hair out like a curtain. He scratches his stubble and looks at England, eyes bright. “How much longer do you think we have?”
England touches the wounds left by the Blitz and shrugs. “Long enough.”
2007, and France starts to bring him treats at meetings.
“Just because your boss is head over for mine,” England snaps at him, “doesn’t mean a bloody thing!”
France raises an eyebrow and smirks. “Head over?”
“Not like that!”
“It’s an apple tart,” is what France tells him, sliding the bundle over. He winks and disappears, and damn it to buggery, the tart is amazing.
2009, and the world is being eaten by commercialism and economic ruin. Some fare better than others-no one is spared. Still, there are plenty of pleasures to be had and ignorance to be feigned. France certainly has no intention of keeping things at a modest, dignified level; when he insists England join him for dinner to look over the latest trade statistics (a thinly veiled excuse at best), the table is decked out in gleaming kitchenware and a roast duck that could make the most delicate palette cry in delight. England isn’t impressed, of course. Not even a little.
Still, he finishes half the bird himself.
“It’s amazing,” France remarks mildly, tipping a bit more wine into their glasses, “how good food changes you. I would swear you’re almost smiling.”
“Sod off,” says England, feeling lazy. He watches the way the candlelight touches the edges of the plates, the clasp at France’s collar.
France smiles, secret and slow.
It’s about that time that England realizes he needs to leave, now. He makes his excuses and rushes to get his coat. He doesn’t get halfway to the rack when France traps him in the entrance hall, arms on either side of his head and wine-sour chuckle resounding against his ear. “Is that all the thanks I get?” he asks, lighthearted.
England swallows hard. He thinks about a lamp hanging inside a house in the middle of a starving storm. As he’s thinking so, France’s expression goes (just a touch) soft; he leans in and his mouth is open over England’s, the kiss absurdly unpracticed considering how long they’ve danced around it. Without thinking, without reasoning, England lashes out with his tongue and forces his way inside, finding the damp heat reminiscent of home.
He closes his eyes and lets the world go to hell.
end
Fandom: Hetalia
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: America/Canada
Summary: [Drabble for kanisi_kokoro] Over breakfast, America has a request and Canada finds himself yielding, as usual. Also, there are sausage links.
Outing
By Kay
America says, “Let’s go camping.”
“In this weather?”
“A little rain never hurt anybody. You’re the guy that sloughs his way through eight feet of snow four times a week in the winter.”
“Well…” says Canada, and then he finds he doesn’t have much else to protest. He actually doesn’t mind the rain. Most days, he’ll make a cup of hot tea and curl up on the sofa by the fireplace, reading Ernest Hemingway, each page a languid exploration. But there have been times, too, when he’s felt the rush of exhilaration from tramping around in the woods in the center of a downpour, clothes soggy and sticking. He frowns, puts the breakfast plate down in front of America, and reconsiders his hesitance.
America takes him by the wrist and nips his fingertips. “We could have sex in a sleeping bag, okay?”
“Uh.”
“Lay out under the stars.”
“In the rain,” Canada points out, but he leans in to take a kiss regardless. America tastes like morning breath and orange juice; he chases the tang deep into the pocket of his cheek, lapping at the inside of his brother’s mouth without shame. When America makes a muffled, interested noise, Canada lifts himself away and laughs at the disappointment he can see in his brother’s face.
“But I mean it.” America glances sullenly at his breakfast. The sullenness doesn’t last long against it. “Ooh, sausage links.”
“I know you mean it. You always mean it when you say something ridiculous.”
“Whatever.” Waving his fork, America tosses him a wink. “Could be you, me, the campfire, some s’mores… Tightly wound up together in the tent, the water pounding in around us, me pounding into you…”
“Oh, that’s nice.”
“What? Okay, you can do me Brokeback Mountain style.”
“If all you want is sex-”
“I feel you so much more,” America tells him, “when I’m surrounded by your land. Your sky. Your grass. Your trees. Your bugs. Your night noises, your breathing, your fucking-I don’t even know, your everything.”
Canada sits down across from him. He can feel the heat across the bridge of his nose, and hopes he isn’t going red.
Making a defensive face at him, America jabs his silverware into the stack of pancakes.
“Okay,” Canada says at last.
“What?”
“Okay, let’s go camping.”
“You’re makin’ fun of me now. It’s pouring cats and dogs outside.”
He’s going to murder his brother. “You were the one that-”
America pushes himself over the kitchen table and kisses Canada: too rushed, sticky-lipped, like a freight train. It can hardly be named a kiss. But all the same, something in Canada sighs and untangles. He cups America’s jaw and tilts him just so, easing the movement into something gentler, more natural. Corrects his attempt at expressing himself.
He thinks, Hemingway would have approved, anyway.
end
Fandom: Hetalia
Rating: Mature
Pairing: Canada/America
Summary: [birthday fic for best friend] Canada makes the mistake of vacationing in Las Vegas during a heat wave. He suffers for it, America is not sympathetic, and there is sex that can't possibly be called good.
(This was my first Canada/America fic. You can tell.)
Death Trap
By Kay
“You know,” America said, “most nations love Las Vegas. Most nations think it’s the most awesome vacation spot in all the vacation spots of the world, including the Great Barrier Reef, and that’s also kind of cool. It has blue fishies.”
“I wish you would shut up,” moaned Canada in misery. He figured it was safe, since most of his mouth was occupied by fluffy hotel pillow (and it wasn’t likely that America was even listening to him at all, really). The words were the most he’d been able to muster in the past hour, beyond a weak plea for his brother to shut the windows and curtains because the room was boiling. Not just by Canadian standards-by human standards, even nation standards. The coffee table would be a good place to fry some eggs later, when Canada’s stomach stopped churning.
But America had to keep talking. It was all he seemed able to do (after he’d cranked up the air conditioning and had gotten Canada a cold cloth, some cheap sports drinks, and a bottle of aspirin). He sat on the mattress, ignoring Canada’s agony, and seemed determined to relate the entire history of Sin City in one sitting. “The thing is, you went totally wrong at the casino. I mean, the free booze is great. Don’t get me wrong. But you should’ve gone for the candy apples like I did. Now you’re gonna be sick and miss the best parts.”
He was pouting. Canada wished reverently for the economic collapse of Nevada.
“America…”
His brother shifted on the mattress, peering down with bright blue eyes. “Yeah?”
“S’not the booze. It’s the heat.”
“If it’s the heat, you shouldn’t have taken that aspirin.”
Canada closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to the pillow. His hair was plastered to his cheeks with sweat, and he thought, for a brief moment, that maybe he could bribe America into filling the bath tub with frozen cubes from the ice machine outside. His mouth was so dry. His lips were chapping, little ridges sharp under his tongue. It wasn’t right, this feeling-like being put into a stifling hot oven with no hope of the door opening again.
Sprawled facedown on the bed, his sneakers dangling over the bottom edge, Canada reflected that it was very possible America might kill him entirely on accident.
Not very surprising, in hindsight.
America was silent, which was usually bad. Then, his fingers gently swept Canada’s curls, damply clumped at the back of his neck, away. A corner of the sheet, blessedly cool, dabbed at the skin revealed. It was a simple gesture and it was heaven.
Canada sighed with his entire body. “That feels good…”
“Yeah?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Good.” The cotton brushed against the flesh behind Canada’s ear, careful in its administrations. “You should take a shower.”
Tempting, but… “I’ll only have to take one again.”
“But you’ll feel better,” pointed out America.
“I hate this state,” Canada mumbled.
“Don’t make me turn off the A.C.”
“You can, ‘cause m’getting out of here soon as possible…” God, his head hurt. He wondered if his blood was bubbling inside of him. Cooking Canada.
America made an impatient noise. “You just gotta stop thinking about it. Find a good distraction. This is the city of distractions.”
“Means gettin’ up…”
“Canada!” Ah, it was already time for the grousing. America had a particular habit he’d never gotten rid of from childhood, wherein when Canada had done something he deemed particularly “stupid,” he’d say Canada’s name in a petulant whine. It was very childish. It also meant America wasn’t getting his way for once.
Canada kind of liked it.
It made him smile a little, anyway, even as America got off the bed and stomped to the bathroom. Boots that went thump, thump, thump on the 80s-colored carpeting. Maybe America would get him some ice now. That’d be good.
The return of footsteps. Canada turned on his side so that he could look up.
That was about when the water hit him in the face.
Oh.
Oh, that felt good but America was so dead.
He could hear America’s booming laughter, a rich belly noise that never seemed to rust, far before the shock of the cold hit him. When it did, Canada cursed, swiping a hand through his dripping hair and squirming as the droplets ran quickly down his back. Well, that was fantastic. Just fantastic. The bed was wet, too. Why didn’t his brother think about these things? And this t-shirt was just going to get even more uncomfortable-
The mattress dipped. Strong fingertips guided his shoulders. Canada went down on his back.
“Um,” he said.
“That was a distraction that will let me properly distract you,” said America solemnly. He swung a leg over Canada’s hip, straddling him in a way that made the heat just that much more unbearable. “And when you’ve stopped bitching, and you’ve gotten a blowjob, and you’ve taken a shower, we are gonna go out on the town and have fun. You know, that three-letter word? F-U-N?”
Canada couldn’t have spelled it for the life of him. He was still stuck on the word B-L-O-W-J-O-B.
“Those are my terms, and I’m stickin’ to ‘em. Unless you gotta better idea-”
There were other f-words that drifted through Canada’s mind, but now wasn’t the best time. Later. He fisted America’s t-shirt and brought him down, taking his mouth and whatever words were still trying to filter through it as his own. Yes. That was better. America always tasted like peppermint bubble gum and that was nice for once, that coolness, the startled jump that Canada could feel through America’s thighs against his own.
For all of his suddenness, Canada kept the kiss slow and languid. He never liked rushing, not like America; he drew out their encounters as far as he could, until his brother was incoherent and as malleable as river clay. America accused him of being a passive-aggressive control freak. Canada liked to think of it as “living in the moment.”
And whatever he complained, America was enjoying it, too. It was evident in his body language: the lazy nip at Canada’s bottom lip, the way he squirmed in Canada’s lap (too heavy, getting love handles, but then again America always seemed to make a come back that left him as sculpted as ever). His knuckles were kneading into Canada’s soaked t-shirt as if trying to determine the shape beneath him, even though it was as familiar as his own.
Canada felt a water droplet roll down his earlobe. He flicked his tongue against the roof of America’s mouth and drew away, enjoying the way his brother leaned forward slightly as if to follow him. They stared at each other, eyes half-mast. But it was America that spoke first. His voice was low and rough-worn.
“Sure it won’t give you heat stroke?”
He knew he was flushing. He could feel it in his face. “Shut up.”
“Yessir,” agreed America, in that easy-going manner that was at once similar to Canada’s and yet a thousand times more irritating. He straightened, settling back on Canada’s legs, and began to pull off his shirt.
No love handles yet, thought Canada. Give it time, eh, he’ll get them and panic just as always.
No, America neared closer to the Greek aesthetic every day-healthy, boyish muscles that didn’t detract from the natural dips and curves and angles of his body, not to mention that amazing stomach, too flat to be real most days and attractively soft the rest. And it wasn’t very fair, thought Canada sourly, that America looked so good like this, with only a light sheen of moisture on his shoulders and just enough sensitivity to humidity to give his hair a slightly wild look. Wasn’t fair, when Canada, who was always very careful with his appearance, ended up looking like a blotchy, drenched mouse.
It was still too often that Canada couldn’t remember how or why they were like this. It didn’t make sense in any meaning of the word; they shared a border, and so their bodies were at their most relaxed when pressed line to line. But it wasn’t strictly necessary. It wasn’t exactly-
“Hey, pay attention to me,” America demanded.
Canada thought about upending him, but the urge was squashed when America took his hand. “Lame brain,” America muttered, pressing Canada’s fingertips against the tight plane of his belly.
The skin beneath his touch shifted. Canada felt a sharp tug of arousal awaken inside of him. He smoothed both of his palms up the surface of America’s chest and then back down, taking firm hold of those hips and pinning his thumbs into the hollows created by bone and flesh. It was easy to tell, despite the jeans he wore, that America was already hard.
His gaze then slid upward, tracking the length of his brother up to bright, turbulent blue eyes. The cotton underneath him was wet. He watched America take a few deep breaths and relax under his hands.
Touching, such little touching, shouldn’t drive them mad.
Canada tried not to think about what that meant.
“You look hot…” mumbled America.
“I’m not.”
“You’re okay?”
Canada smiled. “Yeah.”
“Good.” America lifted himself up enough to move down further on the bed, knowing-just knowing, Canada marveled-that Canada would release his grip to let him do so. “Be prepared to be blown away. Heh. Get it?”
He laughed, because he had to. Because it was America.
My crazy, stupid, troublesome brother, he thought, breath catching as America popped the button on his jeans. I love you in spite of it all.
As if he’d heard him, America flashed a sweet grin and ducked. He tugged on Canada’s jeans and plaid boxers until they were low on his hips, and then, with a familiarity and confidence that Canada envied, took his brother’s half-soft erection in hand. Rubbed the tender skin just beneath his head. Pressed his thumb into the slit at the top. Canada let his head fall back against the damp pillow, inhaling deep and releasing-once, then twice, and he would’ve gone for a third but America licked him from base to tip and it must’ve gotten lost somewhere.
Half-soft wasn’t going to be a problem anymore.
“That’s it. Told you it’d work out,” mumbled America, right before he took Canada in between his lips and made a long, obscene sucking noise. Canada would’ve kicked him in the ear for that, unnecessary as it was. But god, the inside of America’s mouth was hot, hotter than the cloying air in the hotel room, hotter than Canada’s face felt as he stifled a groan.
He felt America’s throat flex as he brought Canada deeper, teeth just barely scraping the sensitive flesh. It was difficult not to press forward, slide the last few inches where they belonged, but Canada had the better self-restraint of the two. He concentrated on the line of sweat that was beading down the side of his temple, calming. Somewhat controlled, he let America take his time adjusting as he sucked steadily at Canada’s erection until it filled him.
Then, he got started in earnest.
Canada’s heart was pounding so fast. Too fast. The bed was going to swallow him, all this heat. He gave a hoarse moan. He felt dizzy, but he didn’t know if it was because he was close to passing out or if America was making good on his promise to blow Canada’s mind. The ceiling was too close.
America’s muffled gasp told him that his brother was doing more than just pleasuring Canada. Impatient, selfish America. Canada shivered, imagining him rubbing himself through his pants as he brought Canada off.
Of course, something about that wasn’t right. Canada spread his knees further apart and struggled to get up on his elbows. Better. Much better. The view was unparalleled-from here, Canada could see his brother’s head bobbing over his lap, the curl of a pink tongue flicking against his sensitive head every time America let up for air. The hand that brushed teasingly at the taut skin behind Canada’s balls was equally as arresting as the one that stroked the seam line beside the zipper of America’s jeans, too light to be anything but anticipation. Not quite what his imagination foretold, but getting there.
America must’ve known he was watching. His gaze flicked up, lazy and amused. Unbidden, Canada reached and wound his fingers in America’s tousled mess of hair, pushing his brother down further onto-
Vindictively, America hummed low in the back of his throat, little more than a drone. It changed everything; somewhere in the corner pocket of his head, Canada remembered lessons of physics, things he’d little use for, motion and particles and vibration.
He rasped: “Oh, oh fuck, that’s good.”
Canada felt America’s smile before he saw it.
Then the sensation was gone, and America lifted his head completely, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Sorry,” he said, more than a little out of breath. “Was just gonna finish you off, but-”
“C’mere,” said Canada.
His face bright and eager, America did just that.
“Jeans,” Canada whispered, fighting the words out of his mouth. He was burning. Nevertheless, his fingers scrambled at the button of America’s denims, taking too long to right themselves; by the time he’d figured it out, America was already rocking against his hip like a teenager, ear tips pink.
Canada kissed him, more careless this time; their teeth clicked. He tugged at America’s belt loops until, with a reluctant noise of disagreement, America got off of him long enough to shuck the pants and a pair of truly obnoxious boxer shorts off. “If we’re in Vegas,” he said, “you really oughta pay for this kinda show.”
It was too miserably sweltering to laugh. But Canada did put his arms around America and pull him back onto the mattress, resisting a grin when the springs grated beneath them at the sudden movement. He took advantage of America’s momentary, sputtering flail to haul himself up. It made his head spin, but Canada didn’t need the room to stay still. Not for this.
“Whoops,” he cheered, letting his deadweight settle on America. His brother could take it, after all. He kicked off his own shoes and jeans and underthings, wiggling his ankle until the boxers fell to the carpet.
Back to the mattress, America huffed in irritation and tangled his fingers in Canada’s hair. “Kiss me,” he demanded.
“Hold on, and I will.”
“Hold on, he says,” America sulked, but Canada ignored him. Instead, he lashed out blindly and found the bedside drawers, opening the first he came to and hoping it was the right one. He fished in its contents. Found the oil.
“Told you it’d come in handy,” said America. He arched into Canada, skin on skin and oh, that was nice, the flat of America’s stomach rubbing against his groin, the slide of their thighs together creating some friction. There was a line of golden hair dusting down America’s bellybutton and it was distracting. All of this was distracting. Wasn’t that what his brother called this? A distraction?
“Kiss me,” America said again, begging.
I like you when you’re like this, thought Canada, acquiescing at the same moment he spilt the oil into his hand. Blotchy red like me and needy. You and your open borders and your obsession with being full, with filling whatever it is inside of you that seems empty. Somehow, despite yourself, because of yourself, I like you, America.
Even your Las Vegas.
Your death trap.
“Ah hell,” mumbled America into Canada’s shoulder as the first slicked finger pressed inside of him up to the knuckle. He shifted, framed Canada’s hips with his knees, and lapped at the soft point at the base of Canada’s neck.
Canada let out a shaky breath, stroking with his finger. The heat… how could he ever survive this kind of heat? “Easy,” he said. “Easy.” He wasn’t sure to whom he was speaking to.
America rolled his eyes, though the effect was ruined by the uneasy squirm of his body. But on the second finger, he sighed contentedly, and the third he looked at Canada with the kind of hunger that precluded a starving man who knew he was getting his first meal in a long time. There was a spot deep somewhere… yes, there it was. Canada scraped the edge of his blunted nails across the nerves.
Teeth clamped down on his neck. America keened around them.
Arousal lit up Canada’s cheeks, embossing them in red. He pressed his cheek to America’s temple, damp skin to damp skin, and murmured something in French that was more for himself than for the person he gave it to. It was with increased fervor that he worked his brother open, brought a desperate edge to his voice and brightness to his eyes. Time and familiarity had shown Canada that you couldn’t have America without having all of him raw and laid out before you. From fingertips to toes, from beginning to end, from sea to shining sea. The good and the bad and the things that made him easy to hate and easier to love.
But Canada was the only one that got that pleasure. The thought suffused him with something indescribable and tender-not soft, but like a bruise, something that might hurt if prodded too hard. That kind of thinking was dangerous with America. Dangerous for Canada.
But still, nothing felt safer than America’s hands cupping his face and bringing him back for a long, satisfying kiss.
He was loathe to break it, but he wasn’t sure how long he’d last with this malaise otherwise. “Ready or not,” whispered Canada against America’s lips, only between the two of them.
America laughed and it nearly moved the bed. He asked, “Here I come? Promises, promises.”
“And when have I ever broken one?”
America’s mouth was shaping the word “never,” but it seemed like there wasn’t enough time between the bubbling heat filling Canada’s lungs and the need that he endured almost painfully. Canada kissed him once, for silence. His fingers left his brother, and they trailed up a strong knee all the way to his belly, which remained stubbornly perfect as it moved up and down underneath his touch. Canada stroked it as he pressed into America in a slow, steady motion: easy easy now yes we’re fine it’s fine isn’t it takitish, and his nails digging in, oh oh god easythereyes this you America America America-
America was utterly quiet, but he drew Canada in by the shoulders, thighs stretching to accommodate his brother’s hips as they settled. It said more than words. More than anything. The kind of thing Canada could put aside for later. Later, when he’d take it out again from its safe place and examine every inch.
He thought America might not say anything at all, but then he stopped and there was a quick intake of breath. “You can go more,” gasped America, his arm falling heavy across Canada’s shoulders and tugging him closer. His erection dug into Canada’s belly button. “C’mon, really-”
I really don’t think I can, Canada wanted to say. But it was tight inside of his brother, and he could feel sweat trickling down the dip of his spine in his back, and all he managed was to mouth noiselessly against America’s jaw. God, it’s broiling in here, he thought. It’s making me dizzy. Not you. I think. Maybe you.
“Come on,” and America wasn’t holding his words close anymore, they came rushing like a torrent from a blocked gutter, “come on, come on, do it-”
Idiot. Canada took his lips, want warring with exasperation, and forced the demands into the back of his brother’s throat. He would do this his way, and that was that (because America’s way was fast and reckless, and with this pressured heat, it might kill him). When America was properly distracted, sucking eagerly on Canada’s tongue, that was when Canada at last gently rocked into his body. Languid and lingering, each thrust taking its time to stretch out what his fingers had not.
The kiss was lost, America’s inability to multitask making itself apparent. Canada made a sound that was both laugh and moan, resting his weight forward on his palms, framing the face below his that was so similar and so different. Watched his brother watching him. Watched his brother watching him as Canada fucked him in thorough, heavy strokes.
“Oh fuck,” said America in a small voice. He had a perfect expression of surprise; he always did, like every time they made love it was something unexpectedly good. “That’s… awesome, that’s…”
“Feels good, eh?” breathed Canada against his cheek.
“Yeah, yeah…”
Canada felt some relief (he didn’t put it past America to get surly and demanding during sex, and on some level expected it). This was a pace he could manage for a while, even with the room swimming slightly in the corner of his eyes. He wasn’t sure what that meant beyond the fact that he’d heard about mirages-the shimmer and twist of air to make pictures that weren’t there. He’d heard enough stories in his family about them.
“Canada,” America was moaning, his name, his name like something amazing out of that mouth, “Canada, right there… Canada.” America, who seemed to be the only one besides France that could remember it. America, who made it his own in the way he said it.
Canada closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to the pillow beside America’s ear. He breathed. One, two, three. In and out. The stretch of America’s body changing, the intonations of his name on that tongue. The smear of precum between their bellies getting rubbed into their flesh. Jesus, it was hot. The room was. The room was hot.
He let his mind wander.
At first, he didn’t realize when he nearly stilled, his hips sluggishly moving but remaining buried deep in America, perpetuating a gentle grind against his brother’s prostate. He wasn’t sure how long America took the constant stimulation, but he knew when it went too far. There was a strange, lilting buzz in his head, and then-
Then America gave a frantic, trapped whine.
It was a rare enough sound that Canada’s mind gave pause and took stock of the situation. He’d… lost track of something there, hadn’t he? He pulled back a bit and felt his heart skitter at the flushed, over-sensitized pleasure that made itself at home in America’s face. America’s breaths shook in the air, his hands clenching the headboard like an anchor despite the fact he was painfully hard and more than ready to help himself along. His eyes were very wide and lost.
Canada felt his stomach tug, but he wasn’t sure if the spike was one of guilt or arousal. He didn’t mind taking America to the edges of the world and back, but that was something that required care, constant attention. They’d played their games, but they never pushed each other over, never fell anywhere unless it was together. He stroked America’s cheek in apology and slipped out of him.
America let out a stuttered sigh as he did. When he finally said something, though, it was with laughter. “God… I was ten seconds from flipping us and riding you hard until you cried like a little girl.”
Canada smiled. “Sure you were.”
“I don’t kid.”
He wiped the sweat off of his brow with the back of his hand, wishing he had the stability of America’s body and the mattress underneath him again. “It’s this heat, you know. It’s killing me.”
“We could take it to the shower…”
Canada shook his head and was about to veto that idea, but thought twice. Actually, it wasn’t a bad one. He had the feeling he’d pass out if he tried moving any further with this. “You don’t mind?”
America reached out and gripped Canada’s erection in response. He squeezed it playfully and pulled a few times, grinning, presumably at the way Canada’s mouth dropped open in need. “Nah,” he said, “I think it’s awesome.”
Then he rolled out of bed and padded to the bathroom.
For a moment, Canada wasn’t sure his legs would support him, seeing as how they’d decided to turn into rubber without any provocation. But he heard the shower turn on and dared to give it a try. The water was calling. Water and America, slick and wet under the spray. Yeah, he could handle that.
The room went helter-skelter when he stood, but then it righted itself. The bathroom door was open. Canada slipped inside and was grateful there wasn’t a tub to climb into; he wasn’t sure he’d have the coordination. America was already inside, flicking droplets against the plastic shower curtain and leaning against the back wall. When Canada ducked under the shower head, he smiled at him.
Oh. That. That was heaven.
“Your face says you just orgasmed,” complained America. At least, that’s what Canada thought he heard above his own moan of pleasure. Water. Lukewarm, perfectly fantastic water. His head was already clearing of its clouds and spider webs and dust clods, finding each of the five senses and reviving them for another go. It was almost worth standing under there for the rest of the night, but Canada was still hard, and he couldn’t be comfortable until that was resolved.
“Come closer,” Canada encouraged, holding out his hands.
America eyed him dubiously, but took them. When Canada kissed him, he relaxed easy enough; he pressed forward into the kiss until they were tangled once more, limbs slippery and patched with pink. Now that he was coherent enough, Canada could appreciate the little things: the wetness he sucked off of America’s bottom lip, the push of America’s groin against his hip, the pebble of a nipple caught against a thumbnail.
The shower might have been an awesome idea after all.
Canada’s fingers drifted down the line of America’s spine, dipping into the small of his back and then the cleft of his ass. He kissed his naked shoulder, the essence of America, all else washed away. “Turn around,” he murmured.
“Slave driver,” America said, but he twisted in Canada’s embrace. As he put his hands flat against the wall, head bowed between his shoulders, Canada admired the flex of his muscles. His own touch moved to part America’s legs, his smile widening when the shift came with no resistance and he found America’s opening still slick and stretched.
He took a little time to massage the muscles, anyway, if only to hear America curse and bite back a groan. He thought he heard a muttered “sadist,” but it might have been anything under the patter of the shower. Canada was pretty sure it wasn’t exactly wrong, anyway.
He rested against America, curling his fingers over his brother’s against the red tiles, and licked the knob at the back of America’s skull. “Mmm,” sighed America, pushing back into the contact, into the hardness that only glanced against his thigh. “Make it fast this time, and later I’ll show you what I learned about handcuffs in this city, huh?”
Canada laughed. “I’ll anticipate it.”
“You do tha-ahh-ah-” America slid his heels further apart, welcoming Canada’s easy slide back into his body. “Oh fuck,” he moaned, “touch me, this is killin’ me…”
“Shh-shh. I got you.”
“N-no shit, hngh…”
Canada rubbed his thumb over America’s knuckles, the other hand sneaking down to wrap around his brother’s waist, to steady him on the tiles. His teeth grazed the muscle along the top of America’s shoulder. He tasted clean, like water and sky. Some things never changed, even with the nation that spurred it so wantonly. He hoped it always remained that way.
Always like this, America in his arms.
“C-Canada…” came his name, shaky but so right, that need and trust evident in every timber of his voice. Canada’s breath hitched. Pushing back on his heels, he drove harder into America, pressing his open mouth to his brother’s neck and breathing hot and damp with every thrust. America cried out, fingers convulsing on the wall as he pushed back against Canada; the shower floor was slippery, helping him and hindering him at the same time.
“Uhh, uhh!”
“Okay, okay! There, there, ohhfffuck,” babbled America, hunching his shoulders forward. He moved with Canada’s movements, sliding down heavy back onto his hips. “You’re so-mmn!”
“Come,” gasped Canada. “Come, an’ we can go out-”
“M’not gonna-” and then a strangled protest as Canada shoved America against the wall and buried himself balls-deep.
Canada gritted his teeth, jerked his hips twice, and stilled.
They panted, the water splattering around them.
Cheek pressed to the tiles, America closed his eyes. Canada watched him, drained of energy. He kissed America’s cheek and dug his hand between America’s torso and the wall, finding the base of his brother’s erection and rubbing hard at the skin at the base. Even though he was already softening, Canada lolled his hips up, moving inside of him as he teased America’s swollen sac.
When America orgasmed, it was with a full-body shudder.
“Perfect,” Canada murmured into his shoulder. He felt wonderful, and cool, and sated. Las Vegas might not be so bad, after all. He told his brother as much.
“S’gonna be 126 degrees tomorrow,” America muttered after a moment.
Canada pulled back, incredulous.
Rubbing his forehead, America gave him a strange look. Which, really, considering he was standing in the shower with Canada’s seed trailing down his thigh, wasn’t within his right to give. “What? Don’t you ever check the forecast ahead of time before you travel?”
“I thought you’d say something!”
“I liked you better when you could barely talk.” America stuck out his tongue.
“I don’t like you at all.”
“Liar.” America reached behind him to shut off the spray. He offered Canada a wicked smirk that was all Sin City. “Y’know, if you’re that worried about the heat, we could stay in tomorrow. I could order room service. And fuck you with ice cubes over the bathroom sink.”
Canada stared at him.
“Oh shut up. You’re just sorry you didn’t think of it first.”
(And actually, yeah. He was.)
end
Takitish - slang in southern Ontario for “take it easy.”
... Such bad offerings tonight. XD;; I-I'm just gonna go take a shower and get ready for bed. Eheh.
(Oh, and I've got one last Gulf Aid Now item left - I'll be posting the CooTS Screencap Theatres this weekend! ♥
Meantime, have some really awful fanfic. /fails
Fandom: Hetalia
Rating: PG
Pairing: Germany/Italy implied
Summary: [Drabble for kanisi_kokoro] A snapshot in time wherein Germany still hasn't given up, Italy is closer than he appears, and you should never be afraid to ask for something you want.
On the Subject of Waiting
By Kay
Germany’s staying in Naumberg for the Hussite Cherry Festival; he has a little house overlooking the outskirts of the city, though he hasn’t used it since the early 1900s. I wish I’d come sooner, he thinks, watching the fireflies trail over the tips of long grass. There’s just always so much work that no one else seems to be doing.
It’s perhaps the first time in years he’s had plenty of time and space to himself. At first, he enjoys the solitude. By the end of the third night, Germany is veering toward the edge of madness.
“I didn’t think I’d hear from you so soon!” Italy cries out in surprise when he picks up the line. He doesn’t even ask who it is, and Germany wonders how he could have possibly known (unless he believes he’s someone else right-).
“I had. That is. The training program,” says Germany.
“Ve…”
“You completely forgot!” The infuriation falters as quickly as it had come; he himself had forgotten until floundering for a reason behind no reason. Germany clears his throat awkwardly. “The-tactical training for air forces in Decimomannu and Sardinia. If we’re going to jointly run it, we need to discuss the details at length.”
“Oh, right,” agrees Italy, and he sounds bright and cheery and it’s so easy to picture him, lounging half-naked on some balcony overlooking the Florence cathedral. Maybe he’s eating pasta. Maybe he’s watching women.
Germany closes his eyes and, because he’s alone, lets the longing rest naked on his cheekbones.
“I suppose if you’re not ready,” he says, “it can wait a while longer.”
Italy protests, but he gives up the ghost easily enough. Work will always be abhorrent to him. Instead, he chats to Germany about the kitchen he’s remodeling, the troubles he’s found himself in because of his brother, the weather (the humidity never changes), and how much he’s missed eating Germany’s potatoes and wurst. Germany listens to him-he has been known to do so, to sit and catch on the syllables of Italy’s strange and ridiculous words, the tilt of a sigh-and remembers a Buon San Valentino from many decades ago, a small book he’s kept at the bottom of his closet (more hidden than the magazines he’s ashamed to own), and a memory that is born of scent and color more than sound.
He thinks of these things more often than he’d admit to anyone.
(In time, he’s even learned to accept them as they are: truth, diluted with futility. Germany knows-and this makes it bearable-that his persistent longing will never go anywhere far. He won’t let it. Italy’s already said no.)
“Germany,” Italy implores him now, stupid and loyal and troublesome Italy, “Germany, tell me what you’ve been doing? I’ve missed you so much! I feel like I can’t imagine you at a festival.”
“I’ve been organizing things.”
“You’re very good at that.”
“Hm.” A wry smile. “I try.”
“Germany?”
“What?” he asks, patiently.
Italy whines a little and then lets out a huff. “Won’t you ask me?”
He hates himself, just enough to be proportional, when heat climbs up into his neck and his heart drowns out his misgivings. “Ask what?”
“If I can come stay with you.”
“Why would I-”
“Because that’s what I would do!”
Oh. Germany folds his fingers over the wrinkles in his forehead, sighing. “I don’t-” and yet, there’s a part of him that’s- “Will you?”
A firefly lands on the window sill, its glow fading in and out like it must take deep breaths. “Then I’m so glad,” Italy tells him, voice laughing in his ear, “that I’m on this train.”
end
Fandom: Hetalia
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: France/England
Summary: [Drabble for kanisi_kokoro] In time, England comes to associate the taste of France’s food with destruction. A story built in stages.
Also, watch Kay fail at history.
In Bad Taste
By Kay
In time, England comes to associate the taste of France’s food with destruction.
Too early to remember (or maybe he doesn’t want to try), a muddied field overlooking the bluffs and a house filled with netting. France is cooking, barely tall enough to reach the pot over the fire, but the smell is delicious and mouthwatering and tempting England inside from the window. It’s not as if the idiot is armed; his ring mail’s been shed and the shield used to ground the table.
The storms are bad out. He can hear his people howling into them. England wants to be out with them, but he’s still too small for battle-instead, he drifts ever-closer to the warm butter-yellow lamp hung over the door.
“Stop being noisy and just come in!” France laughs at him.
(By Christmas day, he is under Normandy rule. It is years before England takes food directly from France’s hands again.)
1431, and France will not speak to him.
England watches him pace the poorly lit room, wondering if he went to watch her burn. Though he strains, he can’t catch the scent of ashes or scorched human flesh; but that doesn’t mean France hadn’t observed from a distance. They know each other too well, but sometimes not enough at all.
There’s sweat on France’s forehead. He wipes it away with his sleeve and continues to stir the broth, fingertips absentmindedly kneading the spoon. Then he paces again. Every so often, he pauses to drop a few more vegetables into the mix. It will be, England sullenly thinks, a masterpiece even in the midst of this drudgery.
It may very well be the hunger that makes him say, “They gave her the cross she begged for, in the end.”
They are at war, and England has sent his lady in flames, so he doesn’t flinch when France hauls him out of his seat and backhands him hard across the face. A ring catches across England’s lower lip and tears at the dried, cracked skin. He spits blood onto the floor. Some keeps dribbling down his face.
He does flinch when France sets the bowl in front of him: perfect, lovely, and clear save for a single dollop of red ever-growing.
1762, and England’s come for Canada.
He doesn’t expect what he finds. When he steps into the neatly decorated house, there’s the sound of shy laughter from the kitchen. England feels his heart sink. He does, at least, take off his uniformed coat and roll up his sleeves before intruding. He knows better than to think France will fight at dinner time.
Canada looks at him when he enters (wide-eyed, still so young, young like England’s little brother is) and tries to sink into the chair. At the stove, France barely even turns.
“You may as well sit down, too, rosbif.”
-and by nightfall, he is gone from the Americas.
There is a time when France is mad.
He is very, very mad. In the head. Split like a load of bread.
England eats a dinner of Cornish hen and potatoes, frowning at his window; he could swear France is standing just beyond in the dark, but he can never tell for sure. When he goes around the house afterward, there’s nothing, and he thinks he’s just imagined it. Why it should matter what’s happening to the bloody frog-after his part in the Revolution, after all that he’s done-is beyond England.
Still. When he eats, he thinks of France and decay.
1916, a small town in Northern France, a church without a name-its whitewashed front blistered by smoke and gunpowder and black flares of soot-blood. There is a row that winds all the way around it of bodies, all ages, all faces, and what’s left of them creates a lump-sack wall to the sanctuary: you can go no further than you have.
He finds France in a ransacked house, redressing his women and covering their eyes for burial. His features are gaunt, the blue of his eyes like quicksilver; he needs a shave, and a meal, and a victory. He doesn’t speak to England, but when the door clatters open, France goes to the kitchen and pulls out a fine wine. “There is no flour,” he says, rasping. “I think I miss bread the most of all.”
“When you come back through London,” says England, feeling awkward, “I’ll make you some scones, frog. It’s better than your shitty, buttered excuse for pastry.”
“I could eat sawdust here, you tea-addled bastard.”
They drink the wine the Germans were too careless to leave. England doesn’t break his nose for insulting his food, which is telling enough. The liquor tastes foul, like someone’s watered-down puss (a land that isn’t healing), and France sobs into the bottle until there’s nothing left but glass to break.
1945, and the war is over.
(This is another war. We’ve started to number them, thinks England in resentment; he’s not sure how he’ll ever keep up in time.)
Still, there’s reason enough to celebrate, despite the shadow of the Soviet Union seeping into nooks and crannies in its wake. France is positively jolly. He cooks a feast that-well, England hasn’t seen this much food in forever and a day, it feels like. He shifts uneasily, but stays put. His own supper’s likely to be burnt and inedible if he goes (like a proper British supper should be).
They dine on herb-rubbed fowl and fresh, oven-hot pastries and aged cheeses. Things England can’t pronounce and doesn’t care to. Rich, fine whites and reds for wine. Then rum, so much he can barely stomach it, and they’re both laughing into their glasses and drunken and stupid old fools.
“I always wonder when our luck will run out,” France gasps at last, head pooled in his arms and hair out like a curtain. He scratches his stubble and looks at England, eyes bright. “How much longer do you think we have?”
England touches the wounds left by the Blitz and shrugs. “Long enough.”
2007, and France starts to bring him treats at meetings.
“Just because your boss is head over for mine,” England snaps at him, “doesn’t mean a bloody thing!”
France raises an eyebrow and smirks. “Head over?”
“Not like that!”
“It’s an apple tart,” is what France tells him, sliding the bundle over. He winks and disappears, and damn it to buggery, the tart is amazing.
2009, and the world is being eaten by commercialism and economic ruin. Some fare better than others-no one is spared. Still, there are plenty of pleasures to be had and ignorance to be feigned. France certainly has no intention of keeping things at a modest, dignified level; when he insists England join him for dinner to look over the latest trade statistics (a thinly veiled excuse at best), the table is decked out in gleaming kitchenware and a roast duck that could make the most delicate palette cry in delight. England isn’t impressed, of course. Not even a little.
Still, he finishes half the bird himself.
“It’s amazing,” France remarks mildly, tipping a bit more wine into their glasses, “how good food changes you. I would swear you’re almost smiling.”
“Sod off,” says England, feeling lazy. He watches the way the candlelight touches the edges of the plates, the clasp at France’s collar.
France smiles, secret and slow.
It’s about that time that England realizes he needs to leave, now. He makes his excuses and rushes to get his coat. He doesn’t get halfway to the rack when France traps him in the entrance hall, arms on either side of his head and wine-sour chuckle resounding against his ear. “Is that all the thanks I get?” he asks, lighthearted.
England swallows hard. He thinks about a lamp hanging inside a house in the middle of a starving storm. As he’s thinking so, France’s expression goes (just a touch) soft; he leans in and his mouth is open over England’s, the kiss absurdly unpracticed considering how long they’ve danced around it. Without thinking, without reasoning, England lashes out with his tongue and forces his way inside, finding the damp heat reminiscent of home.
He closes his eyes and lets the world go to hell.
end
Fandom: Hetalia
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: America/Canada
Summary: [Drabble for kanisi_kokoro] Over breakfast, America has a request and Canada finds himself yielding, as usual. Also, there are sausage links.
Outing
By Kay
America says, “Let’s go camping.”
“In this weather?”
“A little rain never hurt anybody. You’re the guy that sloughs his way through eight feet of snow four times a week in the winter.”
“Well…” says Canada, and then he finds he doesn’t have much else to protest. He actually doesn’t mind the rain. Most days, he’ll make a cup of hot tea and curl up on the sofa by the fireplace, reading Ernest Hemingway, each page a languid exploration. But there have been times, too, when he’s felt the rush of exhilaration from tramping around in the woods in the center of a downpour, clothes soggy and sticking. He frowns, puts the breakfast plate down in front of America, and reconsiders his hesitance.
America takes him by the wrist and nips his fingertips. “We could have sex in a sleeping bag, okay?”
“Uh.”
“Lay out under the stars.”
“In the rain,” Canada points out, but he leans in to take a kiss regardless. America tastes like morning breath and orange juice; he chases the tang deep into the pocket of his cheek, lapping at the inside of his brother’s mouth without shame. When America makes a muffled, interested noise, Canada lifts himself away and laughs at the disappointment he can see in his brother’s face.
“But I mean it.” America glances sullenly at his breakfast. The sullenness doesn’t last long against it. “Ooh, sausage links.”
“I know you mean it. You always mean it when you say something ridiculous.”
“Whatever.” Waving his fork, America tosses him a wink. “Could be you, me, the campfire, some s’mores… Tightly wound up together in the tent, the water pounding in around us, me pounding into you…”
“Oh, that’s nice.”
“What? Okay, you can do me Brokeback Mountain style.”
“If all you want is sex-”
“I feel you so much more,” America tells him, “when I’m surrounded by your land. Your sky. Your grass. Your trees. Your bugs. Your night noises, your breathing, your fucking-I don’t even know, your everything.”
Canada sits down across from him. He can feel the heat across the bridge of his nose, and hopes he isn’t going red.
Making a defensive face at him, America jabs his silverware into the stack of pancakes.
“Okay,” Canada says at last.
“What?”
“Okay, let’s go camping.”
“You’re makin’ fun of me now. It’s pouring cats and dogs outside.”
He’s going to murder his brother. “You were the one that-”
America pushes himself over the kitchen table and kisses Canada: too rushed, sticky-lipped, like a freight train. It can hardly be named a kiss. But all the same, something in Canada sighs and untangles. He cups America’s jaw and tilts him just so, easing the movement into something gentler, more natural. Corrects his attempt at expressing himself.
He thinks, Hemingway would have approved, anyway.
end
Fandom: Hetalia
Rating: Mature
Pairing: Canada/America
Summary: [birthday fic for best friend] Canada makes the mistake of vacationing in Las Vegas during a heat wave. He suffers for it, America is not sympathetic, and there is sex that can't possibly be called good.
(This was my first Canada/America fic. You can tell.)
Death Trap
By Kay
“You know,” America said, “most nations love Las Vegas. Most nations think it’s the most awesome vacation spot in all the vacation spots of the world, including the Great Barrier Reef, and that’s also kind of cool. It has blue fishies.”
“I wish you would shut up,” moaned Canada in misery. He figured it was safe, since most of his mouth was occupied by fluffy hotel pillow (and it wasn’t likely that America was even listening to him at all, really). The words were the most he’d been able to muster in the past hour, beyond a weak plea for his brother to shut the windows and curtains because the room was boiling. Not just by Canadian standards-by human standards, even nation standards. The coffee table would be a good place to fry some eggs later, when Canada’s stomach stopped churning.
But America had to keep talking. It was all he seemed able to do (after he’d cranked up the air conditioning and had gotten Canada a cold cloth, some cheap sports drinks, and a bottle of aspirin). He sat on the mattress, ignoring Canada’s agony, and seemed determined to relate the entire history of Sin City in one sitting. “The thing is, you went totally wrong at the casino. I mean, the free booze is great. Don’t get me wrong. But you should’ve gone for the candy apples like I did. Now you’re gonna be sick and miss the best parts.”
He was pouting. Canada wished reverently for the economic collapse of Nevada.
“America…”
His brother shifted on the mattress, peering down with bright blue eyes. “Yeah?”
“S’not the booze. It’s the heat.”
“If it’s the heat, you shouldn’t have taken that aspirin.”
Canada closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to the pillow. His hair was plastered to his cheeks with sweat, and he thought, for a brief moment, that maybe he could bribe America into filling the bath tub with frozen cubes from the ice machine outside. His mouth was so dry. His lips were chapping, little ridges sharp under his tongue. It wasn’t right, this feeling-like being put into a stifling hot oven with no hope of the door opening again.
Sprawled facedown on the bed, his sneakers dangling over the bottom edge, Canada reflected that it was very possible America might kill him entirely on accident.
Not very surprising, in hindsight.
America was silent, which was usually bad. Then, his fingers gently swept Canada’s curls, damply clumped at the back of his neck, away. A corner of the sheet, blessedly cool, dabbed at the skin revealed. It was a simple gesture and it was heaven.
Canada sighed with his entire body. “That feels good…”
“Yeah?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Good.” The cotton brushed against the flesh behind Canada’s ear, careful in its administrations. “You should take a shower.”
Tempting, but… “I’ll only have to take one again.”
“But you’ll feel better,” pointed out America.
“I hate this state,” Canada mumbled.
“Don’t make me turn off the A.C.”
“You can, ‘cause m’getting out of here soon as possible…” God, his head hurt. He wondered if his blood was bubbling inside of him. Cooking Canada.
America made an impatient noise. “You just gotta stop thinking about it. Find a good distraction. This is the city of distractions.”
“Means gettin’ up…”
“Canada!” Ah, it was already time for the grousing. America had a particular habit he’d never gotten rid of from childhood, wherein when Canada had done something he deemed particularly “stupid,” he’d say Canada’s name in a petulant whine. It was very childish. It also meant America wasn’t getting his way for once.
Canada kind of liked it.
It made him smile a little, anyway, even as America got off the bed and stomped to the bathroom. Boots that went thump, thump, thump on the 80s-colored carpeting. Maybe America would get him some ice now. That’d be good.
The return of footsteps. Canada turned on his side so that he could look up.
That was about when the water hit him in the face.
Oh.
Oh, that felt good but America was so dead.
He could hear America’s booming laughter, a rich belly noise that never seemed to rust, far before the shock of the cold hit him. When it did, Canada cursed, swiping a hand through his dripping hair and squirming as the droplets ran quickly down his back. Well, that was fantastic. Just fantastic. The bed was wet, too. Why didn’t his brother think about these things? And this t-shirt was just going to get even more uncomfortable-
The mattress dipped. Strong fingertips guided his shoulders. Canada went down on his back.
“Um,” he said.
“That was a distraction that will let me properly distract you,” said America solemnly. He swung a leg over Canada’s hip, straddling him in a way that made the heat just that much more unbearable. “And when you’ve stopped bitching, and you’ve gotten a blowjob, and you’ve taken a shower, we are gonna go out on the town and have fun. You know, that three-letter word? F-U-N?”
Canada couldn’t have spelled it for the life of him. He was still stuck on the word B-L-O-W-J-O-B.
“Those are my terms, and I’m stickin’ to ‘em. Unless you gotta better idea-”
There were other f-words that drifted through Canada’s mind, but now wasn’t the best time. Later. He fisted America’s t-shirt and brought him down, taking his mouth and whatever words were still trying to filter through it as his own. Yes. That was better. America always tasted like peppermint bubble gum and that was nice for once, that coolness, the startled jump that Canada could feel through America’s thighs against his own.
For all of his suddenness, Canada kept the kiss slow and languid. He never liked rushing, not like America; he drew out their encounters as far as he could, until his brother was incoherent and as malleable as river clay. America accused him of being a passive-aggressive control freak. Canada liked to think of it as “living in the moment.”
And whatever he complained, America was enjoying it, too. It was evident in his body language: the lazy nip at Canada’s bottom lip, the way he squirmed in Canada’s lap (too heavy, getting love handles, but then again America always seemed to make a come back that left him as sculpted as ever). His knuckles were kneading into Canada’s soaked t-shirt as if trying to determine the shape beneath him, even though it was as familiar as his own.
Canada felt a water droplet roll down his earlobe. He flicked his tongue against the roof of America’s mouth and drew away, enjoying the way his brother leaned forward slightly as if to follow him. They stared at each other, eyes half-mast. But it was America that spoke first. His voice was low and rough-worn.
“Sure it won’t give you heat stroke?”
He knew he was flushing. He could feel it in his face. “Shut up.”
“Yessir,” agreed America, in that easy-going manner that was at once similar to Canada’s and yet a thousand times more irritating. He straightened, settling back on Canada’s legs, and began to pull off his shirt.
No love handles yet, thought Canada. Give it time, eh, he’ll get them and panic just as always.
No, America neared closer to the Greek aesthetic every day-healthy, boyish muscles that didn’t detract from the natural dips and curves and angles of his body, not to mention that amazing stomach, too flat to be real most days and attractively soft the rest. And it wasn’t very fair, thought Canada sourly, that America looked so good like this, with only a light sheen of moisture on his shoulders and just enough sensitivity to humidity to give his hair a slightly wild look. Wasn’t fair, when Canada, who was always very careful with his appearance, ended up looking like a blotchy, drenched mouse.
It was still too often that Canada couldn’t remember how or why they were like this. It didn’t make sense in any meaning of the word; they shared a border, and so their bodies were at their most relaxed when pressed line to line. But it wasn’t strictly necessary. It wasn’t exactly-
“Hey, pay attention to me,” America demanded.
Canada thought about upending him, but the urge was squashed when America took his hand. “Lame brain,” America muttered, pressing Canada’s fingertips against the tight plane of his belly.
The skin beneath his touch shifted. Canada felt a sharp tug of arousal awaken inside of him. He smoothed both of his palms up the surface of America’s chest and then back down, taking firm hold of those hips and pinning his thumbs into the hollows created by bone and flesh. It was easy to tell, despite the jeans he wore, that America was already hard.
His gaze then slid upward, tracking the length of his brother up to bright, turbulent blue eyes. The cotton underneath him was wet. He watched America take a few deep breaths and relax under his hands.
Touching, such little touching, shouldn’t drive them mad.
Canada tried not to think about what that meant.
“You look hot…” mumbled America.
“I’m not.”
“You’re okay?”
Canada smiled. “Yeah.”
“Good.” America lifted himself up enough to move down further on the bed, knowing-just knowing, Canada marveled-that Canada would release his grip to let him do so. “Be prepared to be blown away. Heh. Get it?”
He laughed, because he had to. Because it was America.
My crazy, stupid, troublesome brother, he thought, breath catching as America popped the button on his jeans. I love you in spite of it all.
As if he’d heard him, America flashed a sweet grin and ducked. He tugged on Canada’s jeans and plaid boxers until they were low on his hips, and then, with a familiarity and confidence that Canada envied, took his brother’s half-soft erection in hand. Rubbed the tender skin just beneath his head. Pressed his thumb into the slit at the top. Canada let his head fall back against the damp pillow, inhaling deep and releasing-once, then twice, and he would’ve gone for a third but America licked him from base to tip and it must’ve gotten lost somewhere.
Half-soft wasn’t going to be a problem anymore.
“That’s it. Told you it’d work out,” mumbled America, right before he took Canada in between his lips and made a long, obscene sucking noise. Canada would’ve kicked him in the ear for that, unnecessary as it was. But god, the inside of America’s mouth was hot, hotter than the cloying air in the hotel room, hotter than Canada’s face felt as he stifled a groan.
He felt America’s throat flex as he brought Canada deeper, teeth just barely scraping the sensitive flesh. It was difficult not to press forward, slide the last few inches where they belonged, but Canada had the better self-restraint of the two. He concentrated on the line of sweat that was beading down the side of his temple, calming. Somewhat controlled, he let America take his time adjusting as he sucked steadily at Canada’s erection until it filled him.
Then, he got started in earnest.
Canada’s heart was pounding so fast. Too fast. The bed was going to swallow him, all this heat. He gave a hoarse moan. He felt dizzy, but he didn’t know if it was because he was close to passing out or if America was making good on his promise to blow Canada’s mind. The ceiling was too close.
America’s muffled gasp told him that his brother was doing more than just pleasuring Canada. Impatient, selfish America. Canada shivered, imagining him rubbing himself through his pants as he brought Canada off.
Of course, something about that wasn’t right. Canada spread his knees further apart and struggled to get up on his elbows. Better. Much better. The view was unparalleled-from here, Canada could see his brother’s head bobbing over his lap, the curl of a pink tongue flicking against his sensitive head every time America let up for air. The hand that brushed teasingly at the taut skin behind Canada’s balls was equally as arresting as the one that stroked the seam line beside the zipper of America’s jeans, too light to be anything but anticipation. Not quite what his imagination foretold, but getting there.
America must’ve known he was watching. His gaze flicked up, lazy and amused. Unbidden, Canada reached and wound his fingers in America’s tousled mess of hair, pushing his brother down further onto-
Vindictively, America hummed low in the back of his throat, little more than a drone. It changed everything; somewhere in the corner pocket of his head, Canada remembered lessons of physics, things he’d little use for, motion and particles and vibration.
He rasped: “Oh, oh fuck, that’s good.”
Canada felt America’s smile before he saw it.
Then the sensation was gone, and America lifted his head completely, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Sorry,” he said, more than a little out of breath. “Was just gonna finish you off, but-”
“C’mere,” said Canada.
His face bright and eager, America did just that.
“Jeans,” Canada whispered, fighting the words out of his mouth. He was burning. Nevertheless, his fingers scrambled at the button of America’s denims, taking too long to right themselves; by the time he’d figured it out, America was already rocking against his hip like a teenager, ear tips pink.
Canada kissed him, more careless this time; their teeth clicked. He tugged at America’s belt loops until, with a reluctant noise of disagreement, America got off of him long enough to shuck the pants and a pair of truly obnoxious boxer shorts off. “If we’re in Vegas,” he said, “you really oughta pay for this kinda show.”
It was too miserably sweltering to laugh. But Canada did put his arms around America and pull him back onto the mattress, resisting a grin when the springs grated beneath them at the sudden movement. He took advantage of America’s momentary, sputtering flail to haul himself up. It made his head spin, but Canada didn’t need the room to stay still. Not for this.
“Whoops,” he cheered, letting his deadweight settle on America. His brother could take it, after all. He kicked off his own shoes and jeans and underthings, wiggling his ankle until the boxers fell to the carpet.
Back to the mattress, America huffed in irritation and tangled his fingers in Canada’s hair. “Kiss me,” he demanded.
“Hold on, and I will.”
“Hold on, he says,” America sulked, but Canada ignored him. Instead, he lashed out blindly and found the bedside drawers, opening the first he came to and hoping it was the right one. He fished in its contents. Found the oil.
“Told you it’d come in handy,” said America. He arched into Canada, skin on skin and oh, that was nice, the flat of America’s stomach rubbing against his groin, the slide of their thighs together creating some friction. There was a line of golden hair dusting down America’s bellybutton and it was distracting. All of this was distracting. Wasn’t that what his brother called this? A distraction?
“Kiss me,” America said again, begging.
I like you when you’re like this, thought Canada, acquiescing at the same moment he spilt the oil into his hand. Blotchy red like me and needy. You and your open borders and your obsession with being full, with filling whatever it is inside of you that seems empty. Somehow, despite yourself, because of yourself, I like you, America.
Even your Las Vegas.
Your death trap.
“Ah hell,” mumbled America into Canada’s shoulder as the first slicked finger pressed inside of him up to the knuckle. He shifted, framed Canada’s hips with his knees, and lapped at the soft point at the base of Canada’s neck.
Canada let out a shaky breath, stroking with his finger. The heat… how could he ever survive this kind of heat? “Easy,” he said. “Easy.” He wasn’t sure to whom he was speaking to.
America rolled his eyes, though the effect was ruined by the uneasy squirm of his body. But on the second finger, he sighed contentedly, and the third he looked at Canada with the kind of hunger that precluded a starving man who knew he was getting his first meal in a long time. There was a spot deep somewhere… yes, there it was. Canada scraped the edge of his blunted nails across the nerves.
Teeth clamped down on his neck. America keened around them.
Arousal lit up Canada’s cheeks, embossing them in red. He pressed his cheek to America’s temple, damp skin to damp skin, and murmured something in French that was more for himself than for the person he gave it to. It was with increased fervor that he worked his brother open, brought a desperate edge to his voice and brightness to his eyes. Time and familiarity had shown Canada that you couldn’t have America without having all of him raw and laid out before you. From fingertips to toes, from beginning to end, from sea to shining sea. The good and the bad and the things that made him easy to hate and easier to love.
But Canada was the only one that got that pleasure. The thought suffused him with something indescribable and tender-not soft, but like a bruise, something that might hurt if prodded too hard. That kind of thinking was dangerous with America. Dangerous for Canada.
But still, nothing felt safer than America’s hands cupping his face and bringing him back for a long, satisfying kiss.
He was loathe to break it, but he wasn’t sure how long he’d last with this malaise otherwise. “Ready or not,” whispered Canada against America’s lips, only between the two of them.
America laughed and it nearly moved the bed. He asked, “Here I come? Promises, promises.”
“And when have I ever broken one?”
America’s mouth was shaping the word “never,” but it seemed like there wasn’t enough time between the bubbling heat filling Canada’s lungs and the need that he endured almost painfully. Canada kissed him once, for silence. His fingers left his brother, and they trailed up a strong knee all the way to his belly, which remained stubbornly perfect as it moved up and down underneath his touch. Canada stroked it as he pressed into America in a slow, steady motion: easy easy now yes we’re fine it’s fine isn’t it takitish, and his nails digging in, oh oh god easythereyes this you America America America-
America was utterly quiet, but he drew Canada in by the shoulders, thighs stretching to accommodate his brother’s hips as they settled. It said more than words. More than anything. The kind of thing Canada could put aside for later. Later, when he’d take it out again from its safe place and examine every inch.
He thought America might not say anything at all, but then he stopped and there was a quick intake of breath. “You can go more,” gasped America, his arm falling heavy across Canada’s shoulders and tugging him closer. His erection dug into Canada’s belly button. “C’mon, really-”
I really don’t think I can, Canada wanted to say. But it was tight inside of his brother, and he could feel sweat trickling down the dip of his spine in his back, and all he managed was to mouth noiselessly against America’s jaw. God, it’s broiling in here, he thought. It’s making me dizzy. Not you. I think. Maybe you.
“Come on,” and America wasn’t holding his words close anymore, they came rushing like a torrent from a blocked gutter, “come on, come on, do it-”
Idiot. Canada took his lips, want warring with exasperation, and forced the demands into the back of his brother’s throat. He would do this his way, and that was that (because America’s way was fast and reckless, and with this pressured heat, it might kill him). When America was properly distracted, sucking eagerly on Canada’s tongue, that was when Canada at last gently rocked into his body. Languid and lingering, each thrust taking its time to stretch out what his fingers had not.
The kiss was lost, America’s inability to multitask making itself apparent. Canada made a sound that was both laugh and moan, resting his weight forward on his palms, framing the face below his that was so similar and so different. Watched his brother watching him. Watched his brother watching him as Canada fucked him in thorough, heavy strokes.
“Oh fuck,” said America in a small voice. He had a perfect expression of surprise; he always did, like every time they made love it was something unexpectedly good. “That’s… awesome, that’s…”
“Feels good, eh?” breathed Canada against his cheek.
“Yeah, yeah…”
Canada felt some relief (he didn’t put it past America to get surly and demanding during sex, and on some level expected it). This was a pace he could manage for a while, even with the room swimming slightly in the corner of his eyes. He wasn’t sure what that meant beyond the fact that he’d heard about mirages-the shimmer and twist of air to make pictures that weren’t there. He’d heard enough stories in his family about them.
“Canada,” America was moaning, his name, his name like something amazing out of that mouth, “Canada, right there… Canada.” America, who seemed to be the only one besides France that could remember it. America, who made it his own in the way he said it.
Canada closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to the pillow beside America’s ear. He breathed. One, two, three. In and out. The stretch of America’s body changing, the intonations of his name on that tongue. The smear of precum between their bellies getting rubbed into their flesh. Jesus, it was hot. The room was. The room was hot.
He let his mind wander.
At first, he didn’t realize when he nearly stilled, his hips sluggishly moving but remaining buried deep in America, perpetuating a gentle grind against his brother’s prostate. He wasn’t sure how long America took the constant stimulation, but he knew when it went too far. There was a strange, lilting buzz in his head, and then-
Then America gave a frantic, trapped whine.
It was a rare enough sound that Canada’s mind gave pause and took stock of the situation. He’d… lost track of something there, hadn’t he? He pulled back a bit and felt his heart skitter at the flushed, over-sensitized pleasure that made itself at home in America’s face. America’s breaths shook in the air, his hands clenching the headboard like an anchor despite the fact he was painfully hard and more than ready to help himself along. His eyes were very wide and lost.
Canada felt his stomach tug, but he wasn’t sure if the spike was one of guilt or arousal. He didn’t mind taking America to the edges of the world and back, but that was something that required care, constant attention. They’d played their games, but they never pushed each other over, never fell anywhere unless it was together. He stroked America’s cheek in apology and slipped out of him.
America let out a stuttered sigh as he did. When he finally said something, though, it was with laughter. “God… I was ten seconds from flipping us and riding you hard until you cried like a little girl.”
Canada smiled. “Sure you were.”
“I don’t kid.”
He wiped the sweat off of his brow with the back of his hand, wishing he had the stability of America’s body and the mattress underneath him again. “It’s this heat, you know. It’s killing me.”
“We could take it to the shower…”
Canada shook his head and was about to veto that idea, but thought twice. Actually, it wasn’t a bad one. He had the feeling he’d pass out if he tried moving any further with this. “You don’t mind?”
America reached out and gripped Canada’s erection in response. He squeezed it playfully and pulled a few times, grinning, presumably at the way Canada’s mouth dropped open in need. “Nah,” he said, “I think it’s awesome.”
Then he rolled out of bed and padded to the bathroom.
For a moment, Canada wasn’t sure his legs would support him, seeing as how they’d decided to turn into rubber without any provocation. But he heard the shower turn on and dared to give it a try. The water was calling. Water and America, slick and wet under the spray. Yeah, he could handle that.
The room went helter-skelter when he stood, but then it righted itself. The bathroom door was open. Canada slipped inside and was grateful there wasn’t a tub to climb into; he wasn’t sure he’d have the coordination. America was already inside, flicking droplets against the plastic shower curtain and leaning against the back wall. When Canada ducked under the shower head, he smiled at him.
Oh. That. That was heaven.
“Your face says you just orgasmed,” complained America. At least, that’s what Canada thought he heard above his own moan of pleasure. Water. Lukewarm, perfectly fantastic water. His head was already clearing of its clouds and spider webs and dust clods, finding each of the five senses and reviving them for another go. It was almost worth standing under there for the rest of the night, but Canada was still hard, and he couldn’t be comfortable until that was resolved.
“Come closer,” Canada encouraged, holding out his hands.
America eyed him dubiously, but took them. When Canada kissed him, he relaxed easy enough; he pressed forward into the kiss until they were tangled once more, limbs slippery and patched with pink. Now that he was coherent enough, Canada could appreciate the little things: the wetness he sucked off of America’s bottom lip, the push of America’s groin against his hip, the pebble of a nipple caught against a thumbnail.
The shower might have been an awesome idea after all.
Canada’s fingers drifted down the line of America’s spine, dipping into the small of his back and then the cleft of his ass. He kissed his naked shoulder, the essence of America, all else washed away. “Turn around,” he murmured.
“Slave driver,” America said, but he twisted in Canada’s embrace. As he put his hands flat against the wall, head bowed between his shoulders, Canada admired the flex of his muscles. His own touch moved to part America’s legs, his smile widening when the shift came with no resistance and he found America’s opening still slick and stretched.
He took a little time to massage the muscles, anyway, if only to hear America curse and bite back a groan. He thought he heard a muttered “sadist,” but it might have been anything under the patter of the shower. Canada was pretty sure it wasn’t exactly wrong, anyway.
He rested against America, curling his fingers over his brother’s against the red tiles, and licked the knob at the back of America’s skull. “Mmm,” sighed America, pushing back into the contact, into the hardness that only glanced against his thigh. “Make it fast this time, and later I’ll show you what I learned about handcuffs in this city, huh?”
Canada laughed. “I’ll anticipate it.”
“You do tha-ahh-ah-” America slid his heels further apart, welcoming Canada’s easy slide back into his body. “Oh fuck,” he moaned, “touch me, this is killin’ me…”
“Shh-shh. I got you.”
“N-no shit, hngh…”
Canada rubbed his thumb over America’s knuckles, the other hand sneaking down to wrap around his brother’s waist, to steady him on the tiles. His teeth grazed the muscle along the top of America’s shoulder. He tasted clean, like water and sky. Some things never changed, even with the nation that spurred it so wantonly. He hoped it always remained that way.
Always like this, America in his arms.
“C-Canada…” came his name, shaky but so right, that need and trust evident in every timber of his voice. Canada’s breath hitched. Pushing back on his heels, he drove harder into America, pressing his open mouth to his brother’s neck and breathing hot and damp with every thrust. America cried out, fingers convulsing on the wall as he pushed back against Canada; the shower floor was slippery, helping him and hindering him at the same time.
“Uhh, uhh!”
“Okay, okay! There, there, ohhfffuck,” babbled America, hunching his shoulders forward. He moved with Canada’s movements, sliding down heavy back onto his hips. “You’re so-mmn!”
“Come,” gasped Canada. “Come, an’ we can go out-”
“M’not gonna-” and then a strangled protest as Canada shoved America against the wall and buried himself balls-deep.
Canada gritted his teeth, jerked his hips twice, and stilled.
They panted, the water splattering around them.
Cheek pressed to the tiles, America closed his eyes. Canada watched him, drained of energy. He kissed America’s cheek and dug his hand between America’s torso and the wall, finding the base of his brother’s erection and rubbing hard at the skin at the base. Even though he was already softening, Canada lolled his hips up, moving inside of him as he teased America’s swollen sac.
When America orgasmed, it was with a full-body shudder.
“Perfect,” Canada murmured into his shoulder. He felt wonderful, and cool, and sated. Las Vegas might not be so bad, after all. He told his brother as much.
“S’gonna be 126 degrees tomorrow,” America muttered after a moment.
Canada pulled back, incredulous.
Rubbing his forehead, America gave him a strange look. Which, really, considering he was standing in the shower with Canada’s seed trailing down his thigh, wasn’t within his right to give. “What? Don’t you ever check the forecast ahead of time before you travel?”
“I thought you’d say something!”
“I liked you better when you could barely talk.” America stuck out his tongue.
“I don’t like you at all.”
“Liar.” America reached behind him to shut off the spray. He offered Canada a wicked smirk that was all Sin City. “Y’know, if you’re that worried about the heat, we could stay in tomorrow. I could order room service. And fuck you with ice cubes over the bathroom sink.”
Canada stared at him.
“Oh shut up. You’re just sorry you didn’t think of it first.”
(And actually, yeah. He was.)
end
Takitish - slang in southern Ontario for “take it easy.”
... Such bad offerings tonight. XD;; I-I'm just gonna go take a shower and get ready for bed. Eheh.
(Oh, and I've got one last Gulf Aid Now item left - I'll be posting the CooTS Screencap Theatres this weekend! ♥