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valmoraTitle: Seann Triubhas
Fandom: Hetalia
Characters: Canada/America (in a sort of noncommittal way), cameos by Michigan-tan (for the glove only - the Yoop is shacked up with Wisconsin) and Illinois-tan.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: not suitable for readers under the age of scottish.
disclaimer: ......not mine. although i'm not sure who would want to own illinois. he'd steal all your silverware. and stare lovingly at pictures of President Obama.
Notes: This fic was originally posted here for this prompt at the kink meme, and indexed here.
Knowledge of Highland Games increases appreciation but is not necessary. Also, this is in no way my best writing.
America is already grinning when Canada meets him at the hotel’s continental breakfast. Canada inhales in preparation.
“So,” America half-dares, “what’s worn under the kilt?”
Canada sighs out the breath he was holding and recites, “Nothing. Everything is in perfect working order.”
America laughs uproariously and pounds him on the back hard enough that if Canada had been choking on his danish before, he wouldn’t have been after.
“I’ll go find us a table,” America says, striding away, camouflage utilikilt swinging stiffly. Canada searches the buffet for a glass and a pitcher of maple syrup.
When Canada’s made his way over to the corner where America is standing and waving to get his attention, America says, “What are you thinking of watching today?”
“The dancers, definitely, in the morning. Open championship.”
“Oh,” America says, wilting into his coffee. “I was gonna go, you know. The piping. Since the closed championship is tomorrow, and your dancers’re going to win all the awards today.”
Canada judiciously decides that his mouth ought to be full of danish.
“I suppose I could come watch and root for my girls,” America muses.
Canada swallows. “If they knew, I’m sure they’d appreciate it, but don’t let me tear you away from your pipers.”
America dismisses them with a wave of his hand. “They’ll do okay. The only Grade Ones are yours anyhow.”
“Or the heavy athletics,” Canada continues blithely. “You’re so good at contests of strength.”
“Or we could go look at the vendors,” America suggests. “I should get a reverse birthday present for England. Come help me.”
“I’m not sure that would be politic,” Canada begins, “and besides, the vendors won’t be open that early.” He swallows the last bite of his pastry, polishes off his glass of maple syrup, and stands. “Well, we can decide when we get there.”
America grunts his agreement through a mouthful of bagel.
Canada fishes the car keys out of his sporran and goes back to their room to fetch his pipe major’s mace.
Michigan is waiting in the dance stands when they get there; she whistles when she sees them and waves, hiking up her madras shorts as she does.
“You look like sex in plaid,” she tells Canada, wrestling him into a hug. She smells of motor oil and real fresh pine, and Canada hugs her one-armed with the one not holding the mace.
“She means ‘You look like sex and now she’s thinking of seceding,’” America sighs. “Don’t I get a hug too?”
“Darling,” she says, over Canada’s shoulder, “You just saved me from having my left boob wither away. Not only would I not leave you for a socialist in plaid – as sexy as he may be – but I think you get a hug too.”
“Score!” America says, and latches onto her from Canada’s right side. “Hug from a hot babe!”
“I can’t see,” Illinois snarls from behind them. “I didn’t drive all the way up from Springfield to watch your lovefest!” He’s wearing jeans an a bright orange University of Illinois hoodie, and his squint is made more unnerving his mismatched eyes, one red and one blue. Canada hopes he isn’t carrying a gun.
“Which reminds me,” Michigan says, abruptly dropping America and Canada and turning to Illinois, “I hope you’re buying American cars this year.”
“If you give ‘em to me so they can run on biofuels,” Illinois says.
Canada is all set to ignore the ensuing argument when America, sitting next to him, leans over and mumbles into his ear, “Looks like rain.”
“It does that here a lot.” Canada usually comes to this Games.
“No,” America says, “I mean like now. D’you have an umbrella?”
Canada shoves a hand into his bag and rummages around a bit before coming up with his Loud MacLeod-print poncho. He deliberately bought it too big so it would fit two people. He holds it out.
“Um,” America says. He takes it, but holding it with only two fingers. “That’s gross, dude.”
“It’s either that or get drenched. At least you don’t have to share; I have my Inverness cape.”
“I’ll get drenched.”
“And sick,” Canada reminds him.
Illinois and Michigan stop their argument to state flatly, in unison, “Not an option.” Illinois tags an “asshole” on the end.
America ends up watching the dancing in the drizzle, wearing a yellow-black plaid poncho. “I feel like a bumblebee,” he mumbles occasionally.
Canada, snug in his Inverness cape, hushes him by putting a hand over his mouth. “You know I hate being distracted during the sword dance –” he mumbles.
America licks his palm. Canada ignores it because one of his girls just kicked the sword and had to stop. She was dancing so well…
America pulls Canada’s hand off of his mouth and leans down to kiss Canada’s knuckles.
Canada blinks. “Stop that. They’re in the middle of a quickstep and I’m watching body angles.”
“So am I,” America says, and draws two of Canada’s fingers into his mouth so he can start fellating them.
Michigan and Illinois both groan. “Look, we know exactly what arrangement gets the great crude oil imports,” Michigan says, “but that doesn’t mean we want to see it. Can you guys get a room? Or at least visit the men’s?”
“I’m watching the sword,” Canada snarls, dragging his hand away from America’s licencious ministrations but not looking away from the competition platform. “Try me again after the reel and we’ll talk.”
“Or not talk, apparently,” Illinois snarks. Canada ignores him.
Fandom: Hetalia
Characters: Canada/America (in a sort of noncommittal way), cameos by Michigan-tan (for the glove only - the Yoop is shacked up with Wisconsin) and Illinois-tan.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: not suitable for readers under the age of scottish.
disclaimer: ......not mine. although i'm not sure who would want to own illinois. he'd steal all your silverware. and stare lovingly at pictures of President Obama.
Notes: This fic was originally posted here for this prompt at the kink meme, and indexed here.
Knowledge of Highland Games increases appreciation but is not necessary. Also, this is in no way my best writing.
America is already grinning when Canada meets him at the hotel’s continental breakfast. Canada inhales in preparation.
“So,” America half-dares, “what’s worn under the kilt?”
Canada sighs out the breath he was holding and recites, “Nothing. Everything is in perfect working order.”
America laughs uproariously and pounds him on the back hard enough that if Canada had been choking on his danish before, he wouldn’t have been after.
“I’ll go find us a table,” America says, striding away, camouflage utilikilt swinging stiffly. Canada searches the buffet for a glass and a pitcher of maple syrup.
When Canada’s made his way over to the corner where America is standing and waving to get his attention, America says, “What are you thinking of watching today?”
“The dancers, definitely, in the morning. Open championship.”
“Oh,” America says, wilting into his coffee. “I was gonna go, you know. The piping. Since the closed championship is tomorrow, and your dancers’re going to win all the awards today.”
Canada judiciously decides that his mouth ought to be full of danish.
“I suppose I could come watch and root for my girls,” America muses.
Canada swallows. “If they knew, I’m sure they’d appreciate it, but don’t let me tear you away from your pipers.”
America dismisses them with a wave of his hand. “They’ll do okay. The only Grade Ones are yours anyhow.”
“Or the heavy athletics,” Canada continues blithely. “You’re so good at contests of strength.”
“Or we could go look at the vendors,” America suggests. “I should get a reverse birthday present for England. Come help me.”
“I’m not sure that would be politic,” Canada begins, “and besides, the vendors won’t be open that early.” He swallows the last bite of his pastry, polishes off his glass of maple syrup, and stands. “Well, we can decide when we get there.”
America grunts his agreement through a mouthful of bagel.
Canada fishes the car keys out of his sporran and goes back to their room to fetch his pipe major’s mace.
Michigan is waiting in the dance stands when they get there; she whistles when she sees them and waves, hiking up her madras shorts as she does.
“You look like sex in plaid,” she tells Canada, wrestling him into a hug. She smells of motor oil and real fresh pine, and Canada hugs her one-armed with the one not holding the mace.
“She means ‘You look like sex and now she’s thinking of seceding,’” America sighs. “Don’t I get a hug too?”
“Darling,” she says, over Canada’s shoulder, “You just saved me from having my left boob wither away. Not only would I not leave you for a socialist in plaid – as sexy as he may be – but I think you get a hug too.”
“Score!” America says, and latches onto her from Canada’s right side. “Hug from a hot babe!”
“I can’t see,” Illinois snarls from behind them. “I didn’t drive all the way up from Springfield to watch your lovefest!” He’s wearing jeans an a bright orange University of Illinois hoodie, and his squint is made more unnerving his mismatched eyes, one red and one blue. Canada hopes he isn’t carrying a gun.
“Which reminds me,” Michigan says, abruptly dropping America and Canada and turning to Illinois, “I hope you’re buying American cars this year.”
“If you give ‘em to me so they can run on biofuels,” Illinois says.
Canada is all set to ignore the ensuing argument when America, sitting next to him, leans over and mumbles into his ear, “Looks like rain.”
“It does that here a lot.” Canada usually comes to this Games.
“No,” America says, “I mean like now. D’you have an umbrella?”
Canada shoves a hand into his bag and rummages around a bit before coming up with his Loud MacLeod-print poncho. He deliberately bought it too big so it would fit two people. He holds it out.
“Um,” America says. He takes it, but holding it with only two fingers. “That’s gross, dude.”
“It’s either that or get drenched. At least you don’t have to share; I have my Inverness cape.”
“I’ll get drenched.”
“And sick,” Canada reminds him.
Illinois and Michigan stop their argument to state flatly, in unison, “Not an option.” Illinois tags an “asshole” on the end.
America ends up watching the dancing in the drizzle, wearing a yellow-black plaid poncho. “I feel like a bumblebee,” he mumbles occasionally.
Canada, snug in his Inverness cape, hushes him by putting a hand over his mouth. “You know I hate being distracted during the sword dance –” he mumbles.
America licks his palm. Canada ignores it because one of his girls just kicked the sword and had to stop. She was dancing so well…
America pulls Canada’s hand off of his mouth and leans down to kiss Canada’s knuckles.
Canada blinks. “Stop that. They’re in the middle of a quickstep and I’m watching body angles.”
“So am I,” America says, and draws two of Canada’s fingers into his mouth so he can start fellating them.
Michigan and Illinois both groan. “Look, we know exactly what arrangement gets the great crude oil imports,” Michigan says, “but that doesn’t mean we want to see it. Can you guys get a room? Or at least visit the men’s?”
“I’m watching the sword,” Canada snarls, dragging his hand away from America’s licencious ministrations but not looking away from the competition platform. “Try me again after the reel and we’ll talk.”
“Or not talk, apparently,” Illinois snarks. Canada ignores him.
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no subject
Date: 2010-03-28 02:54 pm (UTC)