"The fact that you have the rules of Zombieland taped to your bathroom mirror says enough, dude."
Posting some long overdue fanfic. ♥ It's been ages, sorry!
Life right now is... hmmm. Interesting. Busy. ^^;; I'm waiting to hear back from graduate schools, and planning to move in the summer regardless, so there's a lot of me being overly anxious and thinking I need to run out at 2 a.m. to buy towels. I DON'T EVEN KNOW.
But yeah, still writing! Here's some random, no-good stuff.
Fandom: Hetalia
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Canada/America
Summary: Written for the following prompt: "I’ll be awake if he finds us; needless to say, I’ll stand in your way. I will protect you.”
Nation Eater
America sleeps as the storm clouds gather outside on the prairie.
Any minute now, thinks Canada. He watches from the only window that remains uncovered, silent as the coming tempest, the shotgun slung across his lap. The radio went out about an hour ago; he hasn’t been able to raise it again. Beneath the floorboards, the small patch of Nebraska they now co-inhabit is rumbling like an animal about to snap, and Canada can feel it in his bones, feel the serrated edge before the drop. You think you know who you’ll be fighting, but you have no idea.
There is a presence just beyond the border. It’s moving fast.
Canada’s ready for it.
Curled up on the sofa with their moth-eaten blankets, America sighs in his dreams. There are black, raccoon-bold circles under his eyes because he hasn’t let himself rest for over seventy hours (it should have killed him, almost did). Even now, his fingers twitch and breath shudders-he can feel the invasion of what’s left of his land, just like Canada can, perhaps more keenly. In all the time they’ve been hiding, the pain has never been this close to crippling. But he sleeps now, deep and solid (because Canada drugged him, whispered into his matted hair you need this close your eyes those eyes need closing and I will keep the watch).
Every so often, Canada reaches over and touches his face. Only touches it, fingertips to cheek, missing his smile. His life. Though it’s gone, Canada feels like that’s what he’s protecting, somehow.
Some things belong only to them.
“C’mon,” murmurs Canada, gaze fixed on the flashes of lightening as they light up the sky in the far west and north. “You aren’t scared of me, eh?” Closer-not near enough to hear the boom of thunder, but within minutes yet-and a bit welcome. They’ve been biding their time so long. Canada has heard of the names of nations that no longer exist in the world, and he’s tired, he’s sore for a fight, he’s ready to shake off the rust. America used to be that way until the first clash and now he shakes too often, eats too little, kisses Canada like it’s his most desperate and last moment. He has this dog-kicked fear, and Canada has his anger.
(Some things only belong to-)
“Oh God,” cries America, muted and lost in the black beneath Canada’s hand. Canada combs his hair, says soft things. Quiets him down again.
They are only pieces of what they used to be. They are hiding out in a ruined landscape with nothing more than a few guns and a hunting knife almost too dull to be of any use. They are at their weakest.
“Shh,” says Canada, cupping his brother’s jaw. “It’s just a little rain.”
He hides a kiss in the corner of America’s mouth.
(And in his mind, there is no concept, no prospect of defeat. If he doesn’t entertain the idea, it isn’t possible. There is only a single ending that he can allow. The storm becomes at last a dull roar coming in fast, and Canada stands to meet the Eater of Nations with his muddy boots, his taped glasses, his grim smile, and a pair of dog tags wrapped around his knuckles.)
You think you know who you’re fighting-
end
Fandom: Hetalia
Rating: R/Mature
Pairing: England/America
Summary: For a short while, he believes America can be his again. But marks made to the body still can't touch the soul.
You have made it very clear, England thinks as he strokes the fine handwriting of America’s hair, that you were mine only once, and never again.
In his sleep, America barely stirs at his touch. He always surrenders to his dreams hard, to the point where sometimes England wonders if he understands the difference between them and reality, so he won’t wake until morning. This time is England’s-his time to touch the defined curve of America’s cheekbones, relearn the development of his body, push the come trickling down America’s thighs back inside where England put it. He has no qualms about doing what he pleases, because these few hours are the only ones in which America is his, only his.
Even this is an illusion.
(Some things change.)
“Sometimes I don’t like the way you hold onto me,” America tells him. His voice is sex-sweet hoarse and like gravel, like something England can rub and find a pattern to. He looks at America as they twine together in the hotel bed, and he thinks about whether he should be angry.
“What, just now?”
“During. And after.” America curls up on top of the pillow, cheeks bunching like a child’s as he pouts. “It’s kind of creepy. Like you’re not looking at me me at all.”
“At you you,” scoffs England. “Are you trying to be bloody difficult?”
“And you should cut your nails. Fucking stings.”
But England likes the marks. They make America seem younger, like something that can still be impressed upon.
They don’t exactly mean to sleep together, but they do. The incident involves some alcohol, a nasty brawl in the back alley, and America’s tears against England’s palms (he’d never believed he could bring them out, and so England had kissed him, kissed his boy, his always and forever boy). Somehow it had ended twisted in England’s sheets, the old springs of his mattress squeaking as he rutted into (his colony) the nation deep, deep enough to make America lose his faculties, his rhythm of words-staccato, hitched, beautiful.
The next world conference, America had hovered like an anxious, overgrown raccoon. He’d almost asked the same question so many times, England grew sick of it, sick of him, and gave him a furious tirade that should’ve rung his ears deaf. Instead, they had sex again, and again in the morning when the soreness was still prevalent.
The mistake has become a repeated incident.
It’s unpleasantly like an addiction, one that disturbs England but also keeps him in line; it reminds him of how he’ll reach for a cup of tea that isn’t even there as he watches the telly. Unsettling. Routine. Slightly more dangerous than tea.
America, when asked, will say: “It sure beats preparing my speech notes for tomorrow.”
England wants to hate him. He’s reasonably sure he can, once he stops loving him. But it’s not the kind of love America sometimes talks about, just before sleep drags him under (sometimes I can’t wait to see you again, even if you’re kinda still like a jerk). It’s cloying, and restless, and ugly. He wants to put America on a shelf.
The first sight of it crumbling is when America ignores his advice during a meeting.
More than ignores, he goes against every single syllable. His reckless disregard and ignorance is enough to raise England’s hackles-but worse, he feels a tumble of burnt, overly digested emotion in his stomach. He wants to reach across the table and yank America down by his ridiculous, color-mismatched tie. His hands are shaking under the table, clenched against his thighs.
(how dare you how dare never put me aside like that always ignoring me but you’re mine you disgusting child you’re nothing but-)
England breathes.
“Please don’t do that,” he whispers, only to himself.
He is a twisted, miserable old bastard.
England’s well aware of this. He just prefers to be the one pointing it out to himself. For two weeks after, he tries to be the person he wants to be-buys America dinner, tries to listen to his exasperating tales of heroic glory, kisses the love handles without mocking them. For a while, America is skeptical but glowing. He laughs more around England, lets him grab on however he pleases.
But he still isn’t England’s.
(Nothing will extinguish the gleam of independence in him. It smolders like a brand behind his eyes; it’s in everything he says and does. England could only claw it out of him in bloody gouges, and that might leave nothing behind at all.)
“England,” America chants in half-broken moans, “England, there, that’s it, that’s-”
“Shut up,” he says, hoarse. He drags his fingers through America’s hair and yanks back his head, forces his throat to bare. It’s perfect. England runs his teeth over it and resists the urge to bite. Contemplates it, anyway, as he shoves America’s erection against his stomach and keeps it there, trapped, out of the way, stored like something pretty.
“Nnk! Uh! O-oh fuck, fuck-”
I could make him mine, thinks England. He loves me again. He loves me.
And then America twists in his hold and looks at him, hair still caught between England’s talons, looks at him with those blue eyes like a lightning storm on the prairie, like the sky against the sails that brought him there-
Once, England had lowered his gun.
Tonight, he buries himself in America one last time, comes until he feels like he’s lost part of himself, and cries.
(Some things never change.)
end
Fandom: Hetalia
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Canada/America
Summary: Written for a prompt. America is starting to get concerned about his weight again and Canada takes it upon himself to reassure him that it's all good. Naturally, his motivations are entirely selfless. Entirely.
“I’m the size of a space whale,” America mourned, looking down at the numbers that were peeking out from above his toes on the scales.
There was a moment where Canada wasn’t sure if he should comment or not, even though he was standing right next to America in the bathroom, trying to roll the toothpaste tube up from the bottom so it wasn’t all malformed. He hesitated, let his gaze pass over America’s body-the well-defined muscle tempered by soft pudge at his waistline, the strong arc of his spine and the roundness of his hips where his pajama pants were getting snug-and decided to be brave. “You don’t need to worry about it yet, but maybe cut back on the fast food again.”
“Oh fuck,” moaned America. “You think I’m getting fat, too.”
Actually, Canada didn’t think it was that big of a deal; he kind of liked seeing his brother well-fed and happy. Usually because it was his food that was making him happy. “Stop shoving words into my mouth. I just figure, fast food isn’t good for you. At least not so much of it.”
America stared down the scales with a grim ferocity that Canada hadn’t seen since Vietnam. “If I work out more, it’ll go away.”
“Okay.”
“It will. It has before.”
“That’s true,” Canada agreed. He put the toothpaste away and shut the medicine cabinet with a precise click. “Do you want me to help you work out a diet plan, too?”
America looked at him unhappily.
Oh. Maybe that wasn’t the right thing to say. Canada scratched beneath one of his ears and bit his lip. Sometimes it was impossible to upset America and other times, all it took was a single word-even decades later, he couldn’t get the science down perfectly. “Though, I kinda like you like this.”
“What, fat?”
Canada slid around him from behind, molding to America’s back and folding his palms over the slightly pronounced tummy. He pressed a kiss to the subtle well between America’s shoulder and neck, feeling the pulse jump beneath his lips, the way America tried to suck in his gut in a hurry. Oh-no, that wasn’t going to do at all. He squeezed tight and murmured, “It happens like clockwork, you know. Every coming winter, eh? You start eating anything you can fit in you, because every one of your 300,000,000 people are stocking their pantries and buying out the last of the harvest. The children are burrowing in winter coats, the slow cookers are puttering away in the kitchens.”
America’s breath hitched. He pressed back against Canada, their cheeks brushing together. “Like clockwork…?”
“Mm-hmm. And just like every single time before, you’ll hide out the worst of the cold days, and we’ll have amazing sex in front of my fireplace because I don’t turn the heat on high enough for you. You’ll let the extra weight keep you from shivering and then you’ll lose it come spring. So what’s it matter?” Canada kissed the line of his jaw, where bone met the flesh beneath. “The only person that’ll see you until then is me.”
“Yeah…”
“And I love you like this. Something to hold onto.”
“Oh,” said America.
“Mm,” Canada agreed, cupping his hips. He hummed a bit against America’s throat.
They stood there like that in silence a while, with Canada’s fingertips gently petting America’s navel and America gradually relaxing and encouraging him with quiet, content noises. After a bit, America stepped off the scale and kissed him again-languid, hot and damp and wanting. He kissed him like Canada was the focal point to his universe; he kissed him like an invitation for more.
Canada thought briefly about coaxing America up on the bathroom sink, sinking between his thighs, and making love to him. Just like that, right here. But then he glanced at the mirror and decided maybe he should keep America away from that for a few days, at least until he wasn’t so weirdly self-conscious-and a bed would be nice, anyway. Canada liked having sex in bed. He was a little vanilla like that.
“You’re sure m’not a space whale?” America mumbled against his mouth.
Canada smiled.
“There are no whales in space,” he said.
“There are in Torchwood.”
“Yes. In the television show.”
“Stop being condescending,” America ordered.
“I’m not!”
“Dork,” said America, and when he pushed up against Canada again, he didn’t bother sucking in his stomach at all.
end
Life right now is... hmmm. Interesting. Busy. ^^;; I'm waiting to hear back from graduate schools, and planning to move in the summer regardless, so there's a lot of me being overly anxious and thinking I need to run out at 2 a.m. to buy towels. I DON'T EVEN KNOW.
But yeah, still writing! Here's some random, no-good stuff.
Fandom: Hetalia
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Canada/America
Summary: Written for the following prompt: "I’ll be awake if he finds us; needless to say, I’ll stand in your way. I will protect you.”
Nation Eater
America sleeps as the storm clouds gather outside on the prairie.
Any minute now, thinks Canada. He watches from the only window that remains uncovered, silent as the coming tempest, the shotgun slung across his lap. The radio went out about an hour ago; he hasn’t been able to raise it again. Beneath the floorboards, the small patch of Nebraska they now co-inhabit is rumbling like an animal about to snap, and Canada can feel it in his bones, feel the serrated edge before the drop. You think you know who you’ll be fighting, but you have no idea.
There is a presence just beyond the border. It’s moving fast.
Canada’s ready for it.
Curled up on the sofa with their moth-eaten blankets, America sighs in his dreams. There are black, raccoon-bold circles under his eyes because he hasn’t let himself rest for over seventy hours (it should have killed him, almost did). Even now, his fingers twitch and breath shudders-he can feel the invasion of what’s left of his land, just like Canada can, perhaps more keenly. In all the time they’ve been hiding, the pain has never been this close to crippling. But he sleeps now, deep and solid (because Canada drugged him, whispered into his matted hair you need this close your eyes those eyes need closing and I will keep the watch).
Every so often, Canada reaches over and touches his face. Only touches it, fingertips to cheek, missing his smile. His life. Though it’s gone, Canada feels like that’s what he’s protecting, somehow.
Some things belong only to them.
“C’mon,” murmurs Canada, gaze fixed on the flashes of lightening as they light up the sky in the far west and north. “You aren’t scared of me, eh?” Closer-not near enough to hear the boom of thunder, but within minutes yet-and a bit welcome. They’ve been biding their time so long. Canada has heard of the names of nations that no longer exist in the world, and he’s tired, he’s sore for a fight, he’s ready to shake off the rust. America used to be that way until the first clash and now he shakes too often, eats too little, kisses Canada like it’s his most desperate and last moment. He has this dog-kicked fear, and Canada has his anger.
(Some things only belong to-)
“Oh God,” cries America, muted and lost in the black beneath Canada’s hand. Canada combs his hair, says soft things. Quiets him down again.
They are only pieces of what they used to be. They are hiding out in a ruined landscape with nothing more than a few guns and a hunting knife almost too dull to be of any use. They are at their weakest.
“Shh,” says Canada, cupping his brother’s jaw. “It’s just a little rain.”
He hides a kiss in the corner of America’s mouth.
(And in his mind, there is no concept, no prospect of defeat. If he doesn’t entertain the idea, it isn’t possible. There is only a single ending that he can allow. The storm becomes at last a dull roar coming in fast, and Canada stands to meet the Eater of Nations with his muddy boots, his taped glasses, his grim smile, and a pair of dog tags wrapped around his knuckles.)
You think you know who you’re fighting-
end
Fandom: Hetalia
Rating: R/Mature
Pairing: England/America
Summary: For a short while, he believes America can be his again. But marks made to the body still can't touch the soul.
You have made it very clear, England thinks as he strokes the fine handwriting of America’s hair, that you were mine only once, and never again.
In his sleep, America barely stirs at his touch. He always surrenders to his dreams hard, to the point where sometimes England wonders if he understands the difference between them and reality, so he won’t wake until morning. This time is England’s-his time to touch the defined curve of America’s cheekbones, relearn the development of his body, push the come trickling down America’s thighs back inside where England put it. He has no qualms about doing what he pleases, because these few hours are the only ones in which America is his, only his.
Even this is an illusion.
(Some things change.)
“Sometimes I don’t like the way you hold onto me,” America tells him. His voice is sex-sweet hoarse and like gravel, like something England can rub and find a pattern to. He looks at America as they twine together in the hotel bed, and he thinks about whether he should be angry.
“What, just now?”
“During. And after.” America curls up on top of the pillow, cheeks bunching like a child’s as he pouts. “It’s kind of creepy. Like you’re not looking at me me at all.”
“At you you,” scoffs England. “Are you trying to be bloody difficult?”
“And you should cut your nails. Fucking stings.”
But England likes the marks. They make America seem younger, like something that can still be impressed upon.
They don’t exactly mean to sleep together, but they do. The incident involves some alcohol, a nasty brawl in the back alley, and America’s tears against England’s palms (he’d never believed he could bring them out, and so England had kissed him, kissed his boy, his always and forever boy). Somehow it had ended twisted in England’s sheets, the old springs of his mattress squeaking as he rutted into (his colony) the nation deep, deep enough to make America lose his faculties, his rhythm of words-staccato, hitched, beautiful.
The next world conference, America had hovered like an anxious, overgrown raccoon. He’d almost asked the same question so many times, England grew sick of it, sick of him, and gave him a furious tirade that should’ve rung his ears deaf. Instead, they had sex again, and again in the morning when the soreness was still prevalent.
The mistake has become a repeated incident.
It’s unpleasantly like an addiction, one that disturbs England but also keeps him in line; it reminds him of how he’ll reach for a cup of tea that isn’t even there as he watches the telly. Unsettling. Routine. Slightly more dangerous than tea.
America, when asked, will say: “It sure beats preparing my speech notes for tomorrow.”
England wants to hate him. He’s reasonably sure he can, once he stops loving him. But it’s not the kind of love America sometimes talks about, just before sleep drags him under (sometimes I can’t wait to see you again, even if you’re kinda still like a jerk). It’s cloying, and restless, and ugly. He wants to put America on a shelf.
The first sight of it crumbling is when America ignores his advice during a meeting.
More than ignores, he goes against every single syllable. His reckless disregard and ignorance is enough to raise England’s hackles-but worse, he feels a tumble of burnt, overly digested emotion in his stomach. He wants to reach across the table and yank America down by his ridiculous, color-mismatched tie. His hands are shaking under the table, clenched against his thighs.
(how dare you how dare never put me aside like that always ignoring me but you’re mine you disgusting child you’re nothing but-)
England breathes.
“Please don’t do that,” he whispers, only to himself.
He is a twisted, miserable old bastard.
England’s well aware of this. He just prefers to be the one pointing it out to himself. For two weeks after, he tries to be the person he wants to be-buys America dinner, tries to listen to his exasperating tales of heroic glory, kisses the love handles without mocking them. For a while, America is skeptical but glowing. He laughs more around England, lets him grab on however he pleases.
But he still isn’t England’s.
(Nothing will extinguish the gleam of independence in him. It smolders like a brand behind his eyes; it’s in everything he says and does. England could only claw it out of him in bloody gouges, and that might leave nothing behind at all.)
“England,” America chants in half-broken moans, “England, there, that’s it, that’s-”
“Shut up,” he says, hoarse. He drags his fingers through America’s hair and yanks back his head, forces his throat to bare. It’s perfect. England runs his teeth over it and resists the urge to bite. Contemplates it, anyway, as he shoves America’s erection against his stomach and keeps it there, trapped, out of the way, stored like something pretty.
“Nnk! Uh! O-oh fuck, fuck-”
I could make him mine, thinks England. He loves me again. He loves me.
And then America twists in his hold and looks at him, hair still caught between England’s talons, looks at him with those blue eyes like a lightning storm on the prairie, like the sky against the sails that brought him there-
Once, England had lowered his gun.
Tonight, he buries himself in America one last time, comes until he feels like he’s lost part of himself, and cries.
(Some things never change.)
end
Fandom: Hetalia
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Canada/America
Summary: Written for a prompt. America is starting to get concerned about his weight again and Canada takes it upon himself to reassure him that it's all good. Naturally, his motivations are entirely selfless. Entirely.
“I’m the size of a space whale,” America mourned, looking down at the numbers that were peeking out from above his toes on the scales.
There was a moment where Canada wasn’t sure if he should comment or not, even though he was standing right next to America in the bathroom, trying to roll the toothpaste tube up from the bottom so it wasn’t all malformed. He hesitated, let his gaze pass over America’s body-the well-defined muscle tempered by soft pudge at his waistline, the strong arc of his spine and the roundness of his hips where his pajama pants were getting snug-and decided to be brave. “You don’t need to worry about it yet, but maybe cut back on the fast food again.”
“Oh fuck,” moaned America. “You think I’m getting fat, too.”
Actually, Canada didn’t think it was that big of a deal; he kind of liked seeing his brother well-fed and happy. Usually because it was his food that was making him happy. “Stop shoving words into my mouth. I just figure, fast food isn’t good for you. At least not so much of it.”
America stared down the scales with a grim ferocity that Canada hadn’t seen since Vietnam. “If I work out more, it’ll go away.”
“Okay.”
“It will. It has before.”
“That’s true,” Canada agreed. He put the toothpaste away and shut the medicine cabinet with a precise click. “Do you want me to help you work out a diet plan, too?”
America looked at him unhappily.
Oh. Maybe that wasn’t the right thing to say. Canada scratched beneath one of his ears and bit his lip. Sometimes it was impossible to upset America and other times, all it took was a single word-even decades later, he couldn’t get the science down perfectly. “Though, I kinda like you like this.”
“What, fat?”
Canada slid around him from behind, molding to America’s back and folding his palms over the slightly pronounced tummy. He pressed a kiss to the subtle well between America’s shoulder and neck, feeling the pulse jump beneath his lips, the way America tried to suck in his gut in a hurry. Oh-no, that wasn’t going to do at all. He squeezed tight and murmured, “It happens like clockwork, you know. Every coming winter, eh? You start eating anything you can fit in you, because every one of your 300,000,000 people are stocking their pantries and buying out the last of the harvest. The children are burrowing in winter coats, the slow cookers are puttering away in the kitchens.”
America’s breath hitched. He pressed back against Canada, their cheeks brushing together. “Like clockwork…?”
“Mm-hmm. And just like every single time before, you’ll hide out the worst of the cold days, and we’ll have amazing sex in front of my fireplace because I don’t turn the heat on high enough for you. You’ll let the extra weight keep you from shivering and then you’ll lose it come spring. So what’s it matter?” Canada kissed the line of his jaw, where bone met the flesh beneath. “The only person that’ll see you until then is me.”
“Yeah…”
“And I love you like this. Something to hold onto.”
“Oh,” said America.
“Mm,” Canada agreed, cupping his hips. He hummed a bit against America’s throat.
They stood there like that in silence a while, with Canada’s fingertips gently petting America’s navel and America gradually relaxing and encouraging him with quiet, content noises. After a bit, America stepped off the scale and kissed him again-languid, hot and damp and wanting. He kissed him like Canada was the focal point to his universe; he kissed him like an invitation for more.
Canada thought briefly about coaxing America up on the bathroom sink, sinking between his thighs, and making love to him. Just like that, right here. But then he glanced at the mirror and decided maybe he should keep America away from that for a few days, at least until he wasn’t so weirdly self-conscious-and a bed would be nice, anyway. Canada liked having sex in bed. He was a little vanilla like that.
“You’re sure m’not a space whale?” America mumbled against his mouth.
Canada smiled.
“There are no whales in space,” he said.
“There are in Torchwood.”
“Yes. In the television show.”
“Stop being condescending,” America ordered.
“I’m not!”
“Dork,” said America, and when he pushed up against Canada again, he didn’t bother sucking in his stomach at all.
end