[fan fic] 0-4% Arable Land
Title: 0-4% Arable Land
Characters/Parings: fem!Canada, fem!America, New Zealand, Jamaica, Australia, South Africa, Rwanda, and Tanzania.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Lots and lots of talk about breasts.
Summary: Canada actually has itty-bitty A-cups, and her sister America finds out at a Commonwealth of Nations party.
There was absolutely no way Canada could get out of this one. No way. The event had been arranged by England himself, and Canada’s spectacular weakness when it came to England (“Daddy’s little girl,” America constantly teased) was well-known amongst members of the Commonwealth and the rest of her family. It was rare that even a few of them would get together to celebrate in a formal setting, let alone all fifty-four (plus some) of them.
So, no, there was no way Canada would be able to escape this. And since the event was formal, she would not be allowed to wear her hoodie. And if she couldn’t wear her hoodie it was probably because she had to wear a dress. And if she was wearing a dress, there would be a good chance that little, shy Canada would finally have all that arable land visible for the world to see. And admittedly, America was sort of looking forward to it. Not because she really wanted to see her sister’s massive breasts, although that would sort of be nice, but so she could convince Canada she looked damn good with boobs to match Ukraine and India.
When Canada finally arrived, she was being escorted by New Zealand. But America hardly noticed the Kiwi, she was fixated on Canada. At least, she thought it was Canada. She looked exactly like Canada, silly glasses and long hair and her too-long limbs. What baffled America was her twin’s sister’s complete lack of bosom. Her breasts could only be an A cup at best, perhaps a size larger if she wore a bra for a really small person, which Canada was not.
“Why’re you staring at my boobs?” she asked dryly, releasing New Zealand’s arm so she could cross her own.
“They’re… tiny…” America said in awe.
Canada flushed self-consciously, crossing an arm over her chest. “I’m not lucky like India or Barbados.”
“It’s not about luck,” America said, baffled that her own twin would forget that. “It’s about arable land, and you’ve got Saskatchewan and Alberta and the Okanogan…”
“And all those arctic islands I bought from Daddy,” she added, turning dark red. “No arable land there…” She glanced to the side, only to see India in a glamorous sari coming closer and glancing at Canada and the arm crossed over her chest. She blushed and looked down at her feet, starting to hunch over as if that would somehow make her go invisible.
“I thought you were hiding a huge rack under that hoodie you wear,” America protested.
“I wear a bunny hug because it’s comfy,” Canada retorted.
“And because you have no boobs,” America added softly. India burst in to save the day.
“Canada, Jamaica wants to have a word with you,” she said briskly.
“Why didn’t she come over here?” Canada asked, disbelieving.
“Didn’t feel like it,” India replied with a shrug. She lead Canada away, while America stayed behind, gaping.
“You think you know your sister, and then she tells you she’s got a smaller cup size than you,” she said. New Zealand chuckled.
“What’s so funny, Kiwi?” America asked, snapping back to him.
“Nothing,” he dismissed lightly, hiding a smile behind his hand.
----
Canada, meanwhile, was being hassled by Jamaica in the best of ways. “You have to set me up with some bobsledding tickets,” she said, trying to coax Canada into giving her Olympic tickets.
“I thought you’d already gotten tickets,” Canada replied, raising an eyebrow sceptically.
“Yeah, but not to the bobsledding races,” she replied.
“Why the fixation on bobsledding?” Canada asked. “We don’t even know if you’ve qualified yet.”
“I know,” Jamaica replied, her expression making a turn towards frustrated. “But I want to go anyways.” Canada sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose.
“Fine, I’ll see what I can dig up,” she said. At which point Rwanda appeared, being escorted by South Africa on one side and Australia on the other.
“Hey, Jamaica,” Australia said, “we’re just makin’ sure Wanda here--”
“Rwanda.”
“--gets acquainted with her new extended family.” He smiled brightly and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. Rwanda was small, exceedingly so, and very beautiful. She was also well-endowed, at the same level as India and Barbados. No wonder Australia and South Africa liked her so much.
Not to be beaten, South Africa took Rwanda’s arm and began introducing each of the Commonwealth members in turn. When he reached Canada, Rwanda seemed astounded.
“I’m sorry, I thought you were America,” she said. Canada sighed but brushed it off, it was a remark she heard a lot (particularly when America was somewhere nearby). Then Rwanda added softly, “I thought you had a lot of farmland…” This time Canada blushed dark red. She did not feel like explaining this. She was rescued by New Zealand while America took her place.
“Why does everyone seem to know about Canada’s boobs before me?” she asked, trying to be subtle and failing.
“Because she belongs to the Commonwealth of Nations and you don’t. Just look at Egypt, he seems pretty surprised, too.” Indeed, he did looked stunned to see the woman who’d helped him with the Suez Crisis in a dress, apparently trying to dance with New Zealand, with shockingly small breasts. He turned his gaze away very quickly, though, regaining his composure as he and Tanzania traded advice on cooking.
America turned on Jamaica, who seemed completely relaxed. “How does being in the Commonwealth of Nations mean you know about her breasts before I do?”
“Because Canada always pretties herself up for the meetings, including wearing blouses instead of her pullovers. She’s ‘Daddy’s little girl’, after all.” America smirked at her mocking tone. For all Jamaica’s drug trafficking and other bothersome habits, her sarcastic wit and sheer coolness made up for it when America wasn’t dealing with politics. “Don’t look now, but I think Tanzania wants to talk to you,” she added.
Tanzania skipped up to them and took America’s hand. “You’ve been a real sweetie for me, thanks,” she said sincerely. America smiled and nodded.
“No trouble, Tanzie. So, did you know that Canada was an A cup before today?” she asked bluntly. Might as well get to the point.
“Oh, she’s an A cup? I thought for sure she was a double-A,” Tanzania pondered.
“You’re kidding,” America said. Tanzania replied that no, she wasn’t, and tried to pull America into a jovial dance.
Characters/Parings: fem!Canada, fem!America, New Zealand, Jamaica, Australia, South Africa, Rwanda, and Tanzania.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Lots and lots of talk about breasts.
Summary: Canada actually has itty-bitty A-cups, and her sister America finds out at a Commonwealth of Nations party.
There was absolutely no way Canada could get out of this one. No way. The event had been arranged by England himself, and Canada’s spectacular weakness when it came to England (“Daddy’s little girl,” America constantly teased) was well-known amongst members of the Commonwealth and the rest of her family. It was rare that even a few of them would get together to celebrate in a formal setting, let alone all fifty-four (plus some) of them.
So, no, there was no way Canada would be able to escape this. And since the event was formal, she would not be allowed to wear her hoodie. And if she couldn’t wear her hoodie it was probably because she had to wear a dress. And if she was wearing a dress, there would be a good chance that little, shy Canada would finally have all that arable land visible for the world to see. And admittedly, America was sort of looking forward to it. Not because she really wanted to see her sister’s massive breasts, although that would sort of be nice, but so she could convince Canada she looked damn good with boobs to match Ukraine and India.
When Canada finally arrived, she was being escorted by New Zealand. But America hardly noticed the Kiwi, she was fixated on Canada. At least, she thought it was Canada. She looked exactly like Canada, silly glasses and long hair and her too-long limbs. What baffled America was her twin’s sister’s complete lack of bosom. Her breasts could only be an A cup at best, perhaps a size larger if she wore a bra for a really small person, which Canada was not.
“Why’re you staring at my boobs?” she asked dryly, releasing New Zealand’s arm so she could cross her own.
“They’re… tiny…” America said in awe.
Canada flushed self-consciously, crossing an arm over her chest. “I’m not lucky like India or Barbados.”
“It’s not about luck,” America said, baffled that her own twin would forget that. “It’s about arable land, and you’ve got Saskatchewan and Alberta and the Okanogan…”
“And all those arctic islands I bought from Daddy,” she added, turning dark red. “No arable land there…” She glanced to the side, only to see India in a glamorous sari coming closer and glancing at Canada and the arm crossed over her chest. She blushed and looked down at her feet, starting to hunch over as if that would somehow make her go invisible.
“I thought you were hiding a huge rack under that hoodie you wear,” America protested.
“I wear a bunny hug because it’s comfy,” Canada retorted.
“And because you have no boobs,” America added softly. India burst in to save the day.
“Canada, Jamaica wants to have a word with you,” she said briskly.
“Why didn’t she come over here?” Canada asked, disbelieving.
“Didn’t feel like it,” India replied with a shrug. She lead Canada away, while America stayed behind, gaping.
“You think you know your sister, and then she tells you she’s got a smaller cup size than you,” she said. New Zealand chuckled.
“What’s so funny, Kiwi?” America asked, snapping back to him.
“Nothing,” he dismissed lightly, hiding a smile behind his hand.
----
Canada, meanwhile, was being hassled by Jamaica in the best of ways. “You have to set me up with some bobsledding tickets,” she said, trying to coax Canada into giving her Olympic tickets.
“I thought you’d already gotten tickets,” Canada replied, raising an eyebrow sceptically.
“Yeah, but not to the bobsledding races,” she replied.
“Why the fixation on bobsledding?” Canada asked. “We don’t even know if you’ve qualified yet.”
“I know,” Jamaica replied, her expression making a turn towards frustrated. “But I want to go anyways.” Canada sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose.
“Fine, I’ll see what I can dig up,” she said. At which point Rwanda appeared, being escorted by South Africa on one side and Australia on the other.
“Hey, Jamaica,” Australia said, “we’re just makin’ sure Wanda here--”
“Rwanda.”
“--gets acquainted with her new extended family.” He smiled brightly and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. Rwanda was small, exceedingly so, and very beautiful. She was also well-endowed, at the same level as India and Barbados. No wonder Australia and South Africa liked her so much.
Not to be beaten, South Africa took Rwanda’s arm and began introducing each of the Commonwealth members in turn. When he reached Canada, Rwanda seemed astounded.
“I’m sorry, I thought you were America,” she said. Canada sighed but brushed it off, it was a remark she heard a lot (particularly when America was somewhere nearby). Then Rwanda added softly, “I thought you had a lot of farmland…” This time Canada blushed dark red. She did not feel like explaining this. She was rescued by New Zealand while America took her place.
“Why does everyone seem to know about Canada’s boobs before me?” she asked, trying to be subtle and failing.
“Because she belongs to the Commonwealth of Nations and you don’t. Just look at Egypt, he seems pretty surprised, too.” Indeed, he did looked stunned to see the woman who’d helped him with the Suez Crisis in a dress, apparently trying to dance with New Zealand, with shockingly small breasts. He turned his gaze away very quickly, though, regaining his composure as he and Tanzania traded advice on cooking.
America turned on Jamaica, who seemed completely relaxed. “How does being in the Commonwealth of Nations mean you know about her breasts before I do?”
“Because Canada always pretties herself up for the meetings, including wearing blouses instead of her pullovers. She’s ‘Daddy’s little girl’, after all.” America smirked at her mocking tone. For all Jamaica’s drug trafficking and other bothersome habits, her sarcastic wit and sheer coolness made up for it when America wasn’t dealing with politics. “Don’t look now, but I think Tanzania wants to talk to you,” she added.
Tanzania skipped up to them and took America’s hand. “You’ve been a real sweetie for me, thanks,” she said sincerely. America smiled and nodded.
“No trouble, Tanzie. So, did you know that Canada was an A cup before today?” she asked bluntly. Might as well get to the point.
“Oh, she’s an A cup? I thought for sure she was a double-A,” Tanzania pondered.
“You’re kidding,” America said. Tanzania replied that no, she wasn’t, and tried to pull America into a jovial dance.