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valmoraI think I accidentally wrote another snippet for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sadlygrove. Blame it on Canada's specifically Québec's musicians.
Characters not mine, no money made, PG-13 for direct reference to sexual activity.
America's halfway through a Coors, listening to some of his Milwaukee boys and pretending that he can't feel the thrum of Ireland's pulse in his own throat, when something clicks, one-and-a, against the wooden stage.
"We learned this tune when we spent a weekend up in Cape Breton," the front woman informs the mic, "with a crew of lively Québecois folks, they call themselves L'Onde du Sud, and they're playing in an hour over at the Miller Lite Stage -"
America swallows his mouthful of beer and turns back to the argument Wisconsin and Michigan are having over the best way to cook a bratwurst.
An hour later he's leaning up against the wall in the stage for L'Onde du Sud, scanning the crowd. He's been feeling Canada's itch all day, their borders grating with their physical proximity. North Dakota and Maine are going to call him complaining of headaches tomorrow.
He spots the wave of France's hair and the loose curl of Canada's errant lock after a couple of minutes, and makes his way to slide onto the bench next to him.
"Knew you'd be here," he says.
"Sorry," Canada murmurs. His r's are deep in his throat. "Zey're so good..."
"I wouldn't know." America grins, tucks his feet back so his knees open just enough that his thigh is resting just-touching Canada's hand.
"Zen listen." Canada pushes his glasses up and gestures to the stage, where the first song has just started. America shuts up.
It's not like his music. Canada - Québec's boys, really - makes music with all the hunger that France holds, but with deliberation where France is willy-nilly. America listens to the singing about travelers, other subjects he's forgotten too much French to follow, and is breathless with want.
Though not, to his credit, speechless.
After the first song, he grabs Canada by the elbow and drags him out of the tent.
"I've got a house not too far from here," he says. "You want to stay the night?"
Canada's eyes are too blue in the overpowering sunlight. There's a sheen of sweat, from the August heat, on his cheeks and upper lip.
"What?"
"I want to feel you say faire le lanlaire around my dick, that's all."
Canada blinks, licks his lips. "Are you sure - " he begins.
"Yeah."
"Your r's are 'orrible."
"You just dropped your h. How about it?"
There's a pause while L'Onde du Sud sings the next song, something that thrums through his blood, lonesome and lively, and then Canada kisses him. America returns it, slick heat.
"I'll bring oil," Canada says.
"You better." America puts his glasses back on and goes to listen to the music again.
sadlygrove. Blame it on Canada's Characters not mine, no money made, PG-13 for direct reference to sexual activity.
America's halfway through a Coors, listening to some of his Milwaukee boys and pretending that he can't feel the thrum of Ireland's pulse in his own throat, when something clicks, one-and-a, against the wooden stage.
"We learned this tune when we spent a weekend up in Cape Breton," the front woman informs the mic, "with a crew of lively Québecois folks, they call themselves L'Onde du Sud, and they're playing in an hour over at the Miller Lite Stage -"
America swallows his mouthful of beer and turns back to the argument Wisconsin and Michigan are having over the best way to cook a bratwurst.
An hour later he's leaning up against the wall in the stage for L'Onde du Sud, scanning the crowd. He's been feeling Canada's itch all day, their borders grating with their physical proximity. North Dakota and Maine are going to call him complaining of headaches tomorrow.
He spots the wave of France's hair and the loose curl of Canada's errant lock after a couple of minutes, and makes his way to slide onto the bench next to him.
"Knew you'd be here," he says.
"Sorry," Canada murmurs. His r's are deep in his throat. "Zey're so good..."
"I wouldn't know." America grins, tucks his feet back so his knees open just enough that his thigh is resting just-touching Canada's hand.
"Zen listen." Canada pushes his glasses up and gestures to the stage, where the first song has just started. America shuts up.
It's not like his music. Canada - Québec's boys, really - makes music with all the hunger that France holds, but with deliberation where France is willy-nilly. America listens to the singing about travelers, other subjects he's forgotten too much French to follow, and is breathless with want.
Though not, to his credit, speechless.
After the first song, he grabs Canada by the elbow and drags him out of the tent.
"I've got a house not too far from here," he says. "You want to stay the night?"
Canada's eyes are too blue in the overpowering sunlight. There's a sheen of sweat, from the August heat, on his cheeks and upper lip.
"What?"
"I want to feel you say faire le lanlaire around my dick, that's all."
Canada blinks, licks his lips. "Are you sure - " he begins.
"Yeah."
"Your r's are 'orrible."
"You just dropped your h. How about it?"
There's a pause while L'Onde du Sud sings the next song, something that thrums through his blood, lonesome and lively, and then Canada kisses him. America returns it, slick heat.
"I'll bring oil," Canada says.
"You better." America puts his glasses back on and goes to listen to the music again.
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no subject
Date: 2010-01-10 12:53 am (UTC)The only exception I make to the no-pork-no-shrimp thing (I don't like shrimp, and pork is...a decision) is when my dad grills bratwurst. I'm so Midwestern. ^_^;;
maybe not such a brilliant offer
A remarkable percentage of US crude oil imports are from Canada. Like one-third or something like that (here (http://tonto.eia.doe.gov/dnav/pet/pet_move_impcus_a2_nus_ep00_im0_mbbl_m.htm))
(I mean, as long as the oil keeps going to America he doesn't have anything to worry about, you know?)