Canada-Centric
Title: Canadian Pride
Fandom: Hetalia
Pairing: Canada/Hockey Stick/Maple Syrup
Rating: R-18
Warnings: Explicit Self-cest with inanimate objects
Summary: Canada feels depressed, but it's nothing a little patriotism can't cure.
Matthew Williams, also known as the personification of Canada, was the epitome of his home culture. This fact, however, did not save him from being constantly mistaken for his neighbor to the south. After a particularly rough day of being tormented by Cuba, Matthew fell face forward onto his bed, clutching his pillow angrily. “Alfred F. Jones,” Canada mumbled, gripping his pillow with even more disdain. The American was the source of his misfortune, despite being one of the few nations that recognized Canada as a separate country. Of course, being known as “America’s Hat” was not a favored distinction.
Matt felt his head throb and, out of anger directed primarily at Alfred, he threw the pillow towards his bedroom door. It veered to the left, causing a clattering noise as the pillow hit his desk, knocking over several objects. Matthew turned his attention to the mess with frustration. He scrambled off the bed, grumbling slightly until he paused and lifted a hockey stick from the floor. The hockey stick in question was old and handmade. Matt traced his hands along shaft, feeling the scratches in the willow before reaching down to the blade. It had been wrapped in tape long after it had begun its life, but that didn’t stop Matthew from pricking his finger on a splinter. He gasped, placing his fingertip in his mouth and sucking to ease the pain. Despite the age, Matthew was still fond of his old stick. He had since perfected not only the design of the stick, but also the material. He fondly remembered his ash sticks, praised the durability of his aluminums, and even appreciated the modern composite. But there was nothing more beloved than his first stick, his willow, which had often made mockeries of anyone who dared challenge him to his most prided sport, including Alfred F. Jones.
Matthew, still clutching the stick, looked over at the rest of the mess. There wasn’t too much aside from paperwork and his lamp, but he did immediately throw down his hockey stick rush to a bottle that was starting to drip a sticky brown substance on his carpet. He turned a jar of homemade maple syrup back upright, and began to clean the small stain it left. After tedious scrubbing that made Matthew’s arms sore, he lifted himself by grabbing onto the edge of the table. He recoiled as more of the cool, sticky syrup touched his fingers. He moved to wipe it off, but instead, he raised his hand to his lips and tentatively licked the liquid from his fingertips. It was soft on his tongue and so sweet it stung his taste buds. Matthew blushed, realizing what he was doing. He couldn’t help it; the taste was simply intoxicating.
Matthew wiped the table and his fingers clean before splaying himself across his bed with the jar of syrup in his hands. He untwisted the lid and stuck one finger into the liquid. He extracted his finger and lapped at the syrup. He felt liberated and comforted by the taste. He felt Canadian. He felt so patriotic and wanted to prove to America - no, to the world - that he was Canadian and damned proud. He stopped, mid-lick, realizing that he had become aroused by his motivation. Matthew felt hot and sticky in his clothes, and blushed an even deeper crimson at that fact. He was alone though, with no one who could barge in on anything he would do.
Timidly, Canada began to unbutton his white shirt, fingers shaking and slipping from saliva and traces of syrup as he pushed each small button through its respective hole. He shrugged the white shirt off and dipped his fingertips in the syrup jar. Slowly, began by caressing his face with butterfly touches, moving from the curve of his jaw down his throat and ran his fingers over his pale chest. His movements were sheepish and shaken at first, but his confidence grew and he began to knead his nipples until they were pert, sticky, and rubbed red. He began to pinch and pull on the nubs, sending tremors up his spine. Canada’s breaths were shaky, and he moaned and writhed on his red bedspread. He splayed his fingers, running them down his chest, along the slight curve of his waist and hips to the waistband of his pants. Matthew began to fumble over the button of his jeans before sliding them down slowly. He could feel the pressure on his aching arousal lift slightly, his breath hitching. Once again, traced maple syrup, this time over his thighs, and timidly began to reach to remove his final piece of clothing. His fingers froze, wanting to take the final step, but being embarrassed. He had… pleasured himself before, but this was more than that. It was Canadian devotion. Canada felt sick putting a symbol of his culture to such a vulgar use, but in a sense, it strengthened him.
In a quick movement, Canada removed his underwear, allowing his erection to fully spring to life. He tenderly catered to it, once again dipping his hands in the maple and leaving cool, sticky trails along his length. Matt pumped several times, moaning with satisfaction until he felt himself grow limp and pre-come ooze from the tip; however, he refused to give up his cultural endeavor. He slid down his shaft and traced his fingers to his tight hole. Matthew tensed. He had never tried entering himself, and the thought scared him. What if it hurt? What if he got stuck and had to ask Alfred for help? What if he liked it?
Of course, he knew what to do. He wasn’t completely shut in, although he had never actually had sex before. That didn’t mean he wasn’t curious. Matthew liberally coated his fingers in maple syrup, wondering if it would be an effective lube, and pressed a finger against tight hole. He winced before inserting one finger. At the entrance of the sole finger, Canada screeched. The pain was overwhelming and Canada gripped his bedspread with his free hand. Biting his lip, Matthew adjusted his finger, finding a more comfortable access, and plunged in again, knuckle-deep. The nation hiccupped, biting his lip until tears began to form at the corner of his eyes. He extracted his finger, once again prepping it with syrup. This time, he only entered himself to his joint, making sure not to bend his digit. The passage was less painful, and after a couple more rhythmic entrances, Canada buried his finger in himself once again. Feeling more confident, he added his second finger. He winced, but skillfully recreated his previous rhythm. Once he was satisfied, Matt began to scissor. The feeling on the first try stung, and Matthew audibly cried. One of his previous tears rolled down his cheeks. The Canadian removed his glasses to rub his eyes and placed them on his bedside table carefully.
The world a blur, Canada returned to his scissoring, but stopped. He was now half-hard, but had no one to pleasure him and was far too embarrassed to buy a toy of some sort. His fingers would only satisfy him so much. Matt wondered if he had something that could pleasure him and his mind immediately reached a conclusion. His old willow hockey stick lay ignored on the floor, and Matthew breathed heavily. He couldn’t believe what he was thinking of using his beloved stick to do, but he couldn’t think of anything more fitting. He shuddered before climbing off his bed and scrambling with little vision to find the stick. After bumping his toe and stepping on some less-than-desired objects, Canada finally found the stick and returned to his bed. Nervous once again, Matt began to gingerly coat the shaft of the stick with the maple syrup and then, once he positioned himself at the end, he slid the stick into his prepped hole. Canada screamed as the lubricated wood entered his body and began to cry, but the burst of pleasure as the long shaft entered overruled the pain. Canada moaned and inserted the stick once more, crying almost sadistically. Matt guided the stick up and down along his passage, still in pain. He cringed at the sight of a dark blur along the handle. Was it blood? He feared that he was seeing red, but breathed reassurances that bleeding on the first time was perfectly normal. Or was that only for women? The train of thought caused Matt to fear splinters or worse, tearing. The thoughts were instantly thrown from his mind as he felt a blinding sensation behind his eyes that sent him into pure ecstasy - he had found his spot. The bundle of nerves tensed, sending Canada into sheer pleasure. The nation picked up his rhythm, hitting that same spot again and again until finally, he couldn’t take it and spilled over his bedspread. Breathing heavily, Matthew scuttled to rest his head at the headboard where his pillow should have been. He fumbled with his glasses and surveyed the scene. His red bedspread was stained with seed as well as a small, darker red stain that Canada presumed was his blood. He choked, tearing up at what he had just done. Embarrassed, Matthew began to clean, wiping his bodily fluids from the bed and his body. His muscles were still sore, and the cleaning ended haphazardly. Matthew, drenched in the smell of sweat and sex, needed a shower. He scrambled into a fresh pair of boxers and buttoned his shirt to hide his come-splattered stomach. Not that he would run into anyone on the way to the shower, but he still felt horribly embarrassed as though he had committed some kind of sin. He timidly sprinted to the shower, freezing as he heard a soft pound of footsteps. Canada trembled and turned fearfully, breathing a sigh of relief when he realized to whom the footsteps belonged. “O-oh. Kumacharo! I f-forgot you were here.”
The statement was in all honesty. The Canadian often forgot about the bear. The polar bear rocked back falling to sit and stare at the flustered Canadian. It bluntly asked, “Who are you?”
Matthew placed his hand on the doorknob to his bathroom. He sighed and smiled before opening the door, his answer on his lips with defiance.
“I’m Canada.”