kay_cricketed (kay_cricketed) wrote,
kay_cricketed
kay_cricketed

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"I'm reading a book about WWI right now, and lemme tell you: PRUSSIA SUCKED IT HARD."

Okay, so not bed. Not yet. /fail

I really am reading a book about WWI. And highlighting things that are... useful to my purposes. And... god, I am a dork for history now. How did that happen?

Seriously considering going back to school just to get into history. XD;;

Fandom: TMNT
Rating: PG
Pairing: None
Summary: a_big_apple wanted to see Mikey in a dress. I totally had to oblige.



Pretty Woman

By Kay



“What I don’t get,” Mikey said, “is why I’m always in the dress.”

It took a second for the earpiece to crackle, tucked neatly under the wig that was itching something fierce against Mikey’s skull. “You’re always saying you’re the cute one,” Don pointed out, voice tinny over the radio. “You’ve never complained before. Well. Not like you meant it.”

Before, I wasn’t wearing tights.”

Raph’s snicker carried over the airwaves.

“You’re just nervous because this is the first time we’ve done it deliberately and not last minute,” Leo said with more calm than Mikey had probably ever felt in his entire life. He could imagine his brother watching from the shadows that dominated the rooftops of the city, alert and attentive to any change in the street below. Which was where Mikey was, so he’d damned well better be watching it. “If we’re right about our guy, it won’t take too much longer.”

“Maybe I should call out. You know,” Mikey adopted a falsetto that he was actually really proud of, “pretty woman walking down the street! Pretty woman, the kind you’d like to meet, and then bludgeon over the head and do terrible, nasty things to—”

“I hate that song,” Raph muttered.

“Better not,” was Don’s advice. “We don’t want to scare him away.”

“Oh please. Mikey’s gonna scare ‘im away the second he actually gets a look at his ugly mug under that make-up gunk.”

“Hardy har, dude.”

“Guys…” Leo sighed.

“No sign of him yet. Doesn’t he know better than to keep a gorgeous girl waiting?” Mikey scanned the empty city block, squinting at the dark alleys he knew better than the sidewalk he walked on. It wasn’t like he’d never strolled down the road before, but he’d never exactly done it in a dress, either.

The dress.

Actually, even though he wouldn’t admit it on pain of death (or noogie), Mikey really liked the dress. Most of the time, if he ended up in drag for some weird reason or another to save their lives, they just worked with what they had on hand. Which meant really fugly stuff. Like, grandma-style stuff. Lots of big flower print or brown colors or even rhinestones, and rhinestones were just tacky. But this was a mission, and Leo never did anything half-assed, so they’d roped April into grabbing some stuff from the plus-size thrift shop, and…

And it was pretty nice. Sure, Mikey wasn’t built for dresses—it was hard to find something his size plus shell. Also, he clashed. Like, a lot. But the dark crimson detracted from his skin tone and the darkness did the rest of the work—it was off-shoulder, embracing his arms and just below the collarbone, enough to hide the plastron, and the thick black shawl did the rest. He felt a little like a saloon girl, and that was wicked awesome. He just needed a feather for his wig and a garter. Yeah. And thigh-high boots, but you couldn’t really see his legs in the skirt, anyway; it swirled gently around his ankles, and jeez, it was soft. He kept wanting to pet himself. He had a kitty-soft dress.

‘Course, it was also really cold. Mikey sulked and buried his face in the shawl. “Y’know, one of you could do this one in a while.”

“Mikey, imagine Raph in a dress.”

Don needed to stop being gross. “Yeah, well duh. Not Raph.”

“Got that right,” Raph said darkly.

“My bo wouldn’t fit under a bodice.”

“You can use other weapons, bro.”

“Also, I’m the guy that fixes all of the household appliances and the television when Raph breaks it,” Don continued, his voice leaving no doubts as to the grin on his face. “Do you really want to humiliate that guy?”

Raph added, “Whereas you don’t contribute a frickin’ thing.”

It was cold. “Says you!” He still had one avenue, however dubious. “Leo,” Mikey whined in his best ‘you love me, really’ voice, “you’d be able to pull this off and knock the guy out!”

“Sorry, Mikey,” said Leo with gentle humor. “But I’m kinda busy up here, playing the protective older brother ready to save your virtue.”

And that made Raph start to guffaw over the radio link, but there was so much sincerity in what Leo said, however ridiculous it should’ve been, that Mikey was surprised into silence.

Of course, the kidnapper took that moment to strike from behind.

Mikey acted.






Later, exasperated, Leo said to him, “Ninja don’t use mace.”

“April bought it for me!”

Ninja don’t use mace, Mikey.”

Mikey sighed and decided not to tell him that Raph had already confiscated it with a really mean expression. Let his brother find out the hard way.



end



And no post is ever complete without me deanoning from the Hetalia Kink Meme. XD

Fandom: Hetalia
Rating: M/NC-17
Pairing: Canada/America, Other Nations + America
Summary: [Prompt: possessive!Canada, geography kink] Canada trusts America. It's the rest of the world that can't keep their hands to themselves.



Over the Line



I



He can pinpoint the exact moment it starts.

It isn’t a special night in any way. Canada’s evening routine hasn’t changed in over a hundred years; it fits like a comfortable, worn boot that he can’t force himself to exchange for something new. He takes a warm shower and, a little carelessly, doesn’t bother drying—he likes to let the air take care of his damp ringlets. And even though it’s only October, he puts on the fire. Canada enjoys watching the flames, sitting on the sofa in his still-damp robe, drinking tea from his favorite mug. The bear makes a nest at his feet and cleans its eyebrows. It’s a very nice night for not being special. Full of small pleasures.

The knock at the door is an unexpected phenomenon.

Hell, thinks Canada. There’s only one person who actually remembers where he lives.

His brother’s a miserable apparition on the doorstep: clutching himself and shivering, jaw set stubbornly, unhappy eyes.

“Can I come in?” America asks, and that’s when Canada knows there’s something wrong. America hasn’t asked to enter the house since around 1918, when they both realized there’d be no getting away from each other, and really, all history aside and yet taken into account, they didn’t want to.

So Canada lets him in. There’s nothing else to do about it, honestly.



II.



Canada’s theory about something being wrong is confirmed when America drinks the tea that’s given to him without a single word of protest. In fact, he’s pretty sure America might be dying, and that’s the only reason he doesn’t kick him out when the moon gets too high and it’s past Canada’s normal bedtime. “Are you going to be okay to get home?” he asks, because America hasn’t said more than seven words the whole time. Most of those words had run together, so the actual count is more like three.

America looks up quickly. “Can I stay with you tonight?” he blurts out.

Canada frowns at him.

He expects, too, that he’ll need to make up the couch. Apparently that’s not the case. When Canada comes back from the linen closet with a few extra blankets folded in his arms, his own bedroom door is open and he can hear America thumping around in his drawers for something to wear. Canada sighs at the blankets. Puts them on the sofa, neatly stacked.

“My bed’s not really big enough for the two of us,” he tells America, settling against the doorframe to his room. He watches America yank out a pair of pajama pants and a hockey jersey that’s seen better days.

“Sure it is! We’ll just have to be friendly.”

“Friendly.”

“Yeah, warm and fuzzy.” America’s voice is muffled through his sweater as he pulls it over his head. He’s getting love handles again, and Canada purses his lips; either it means his brother’s being careless about his weight or he’s eating hard for comfort.

I’m such a pushover, he thinks, going to turn down the sheets.



III.



The room is dark, and Canada’s wondering how he’s supposed to sleep when his body’s tottering on the edge of the mattress, ready to plummet at any time. He’s pretty sure America, who rolled over to face the window the second he slipped under the covers, is having the same problem. He’s just too mulish to admit it. But that’s what Canada’s thinking about, when it finally happens.

“You never forget being a colony.”

Canada shifts, gazing at his brother’s back under the moonlight. America hasn’t moved, but his voice is quiet. Like he’s talking to himself, not anyone else. He’s silent for a little bit again, and then he whispers, “It’s the worst and best thing in the world. You don’t have any power. You can’t protect your people or your land the way you want to. The entire world ignores you. You…”

A deep breath. In and out.

“You never get blamed for shit you can’t handle. No one ever attacks you for being… you. Someone’s always got your back.” America pauses again, pressing his head into the pillow, and god, Canada wishes he could see his face right this moment. He wants to touch him, wants to feel that current of hurt that makes his brother’s voice shake. “But even that doesn’t last long, see? Nations have to think only about themselves. I know that. It’s how we survive, ‘cause no one else will do it for us. I just wish… I don’t…”

Oh. Oh, thinks Canada.

“How’ve they done it so long,” America despairs, “a-and I’m already, I can’t stand it—”

The two of them have always been creatures of instinct. They’re still so, so young compared to the rest. And Canada follows that instinct wherever it may lead him, and tonight, it leads him to destroy that foot of open air between them. He rolls on his side, presses against America’s back—fits against him perfectly, like they’re made for it, and they are made for it—and wraps his arms tight around America’s hips, right under the extra weight that’s endearing and soft. His fingers fix themselves over America’s stomach, sliding against the worn fabric. America’s stiff and unresponsive in his arms. But he doesn’t move, either, when Canada pulls him close as close can be and tangles their legs together.

America’s hair smells like children’s bubblegum shampoo.

This is the moment Canada knows they’ll change forever. But he doesn’t think about that—his freefall goes unnoticed, and maybe it’s always been coming, but it still feels new.



IV.



They wait there in the dark.

It’s warm, so warm, wrapped around America like this. Canada can feel his brother’s heartbeat under his hands and it’s erratic, breaking loose like an angry bird. But they don’t move. They wait. And slowly, precluded by the smallest hitch of breath, America’s tension drains and he becomes boneless in Canada’s arms.

There’s nothing to say.

And Canada knows there is no other nation on the planet that America would trust enough to say those words to. No one who has ever held him exactly like this. No one who ever will, because Canada’s special to him. They’re unique in all the world to each other.

He understands, somehow.

(In the morning, America wiggles out of his embrace when he thinks Canada’s still sleeping. But he kisses Canada’s mouth clumsily before going, and that means he understands, too.)



V.



Years pass. They never put the understanding on paper, because that’s for nations and politics and binding laws. They barely manage to put it into words, beyond a few fevered whispers when they’re having sex or the occasional admission when soft-drunk on joy. But they keep it safe, private between the two of them. And most of the time, that works out really well.

But sometimes, Canada really wishes they’d just own up to it already. Because he’s sick of hearing every democracy, republic, territory, union, socialist state, monarchy, and island country in existence talking about America like he’s fair game and open for service.

Which isn’t nearly as much of an exaggeration as Canada wants it to be.

It’s not fair. And he knows he’s being ridiculous, so he never tells America how he feels about it. It’s not like everyone’s after America like a pack of salivating wolves or whatever. No, Canada can appreciate that it’s normal for the nations to occasionally seek out the company of others like them—an evening drink, a night on the town, a few stolen kisses and well-appreciated screwing in hotel rooms. Sometimes it’s even harmless and everyone has a good chat over wine and beer before heading home. These things happen.

But America’s a superpower. He travels often. These offers happen a lot more than Canada would like.

“It was super hilarious,” America tells him once, hugging the pillow as they bask in the aftermath of a vigorous bout of ‘welcome home’ lovemaking. “You should’ve seen his face when I called the cab and booked it.”

He’s laughing, so Canada laughs, too. And pretends that he isn’t two seconds from ripping the telephone off the cradle and dialing Australia, whom he’s always gotten along really well with, to chew his ass out.

America’s in my bed, he tells himself every single time. That’s what matters, right?

Right.



VI.



Wrong.

Canada is kind of worried his face is going to crack any minute now. I like you, France, and you did a really good job raising me until England came around. But if you don’t take your hand off very soon, I’m going to feed it to you. Smothered in gravy.

God, he needs help. A lot of help.

“You must accompany me to dinner,” France is cooing to America, ushering him toward the door. His fingers fold over the small of America’s back to guide him. Canada knows exactly how that spot feels—the strong muscle and the oddly graceful curve. He’d kissed that spot just this morning before they had to get ready for the meeting.

He tells himself jealousy is really not one of those appreciated qualities in a partner. In fact, it makes him feel kind of like a hoser.

Then America glances back over his shoulder. “Actually, I was going to…”

Oh. That’s his cue.

“We’ve already planned dinner together,” says Canada. It comes out embarrassed and shy, but it does the trick. France pouts at him and releases his captive.

America wraps a friendly arm around Canada’s shoulders. The grin he flashes France is nothing less than a playful swat. “Sorry—better luck next time.”



VII.



Just for that, Canada fucks America in the backseat of the car before they go into the restaurant.

“Ohhffuck,” America moans, face jammed against the car door. His hair’s damp and messy, his dress shirt clumping against his skin and riding up his back. Every time Canada surges into him, his thighs spread wider, until he’s almost about to fall straight off the seat.

Canada pays a lot of attention to the small of his back. Rubbing it, kneading the flesh above America’s ass as he takes him from behind. Thinking, They can touch you, but not like this. Not like I can.

A couple giggles loudly into the empty parking lot as they wheel out of the restaurant door. Working his erection frantically, America comes with a hoarse cry all over the leather interior.

(He tells Canada afterward, panting, “And they say I’m the impulsive guy. Yikes, Canada.” And they both laugh, but deep down Canada’s warm and satisfied—because for the rest of the night, America’s going to have his come inside of him and no one else knows.)



VIII.



It becomes a pretty steady pattern.

Russia puts his hand on America’s shoulder. Canada rides him hard in the conference room after it empties out, the chair squeaking under them, face to face so that America has no choice but to look at nothing but him.

China gets too familiar and starts poking America’s stomach, scolding him for eating so much junk food. That makes America squawk in protest, which is nice. But it still means Canada feeds him extra servings that night and makes love to him, every inch of him, even the parts that could use a diet.

Korea gets grabby. So does Canada.

France thinks it’s a great idea to slap America across the seat of his pants when he’s leaning over to pick up his fallen folders. America cheerfully knocks him halfway across the room and into a wall. Canada smiles, and later, he bites the curve of America’s ass just before he fingerfucks him into senseless, writhing orgasm.

Sweden ruffles America’s hair because he tries to translate for him during a particularly stellar argument. The shy but steady smiles they exchange make Finland go odd shades of puce and white. Canada looks at Finland, then at America, and then sorts it so that they spend the next lunch break sucking each other off. America can’t smile at anyone the rest of the day, his mouth is so sore.

England—he’s by far the worst. A perfectly distant and respectable gentlemen most of the time, but a touchy and clingy drunk. When America puts him to bed and comes back to Canada ruffled and pink-faced, his tie missing and hair well-yanked, Canada counts to ten. Then thirty. Then, feeling particularly miserable, he makes sure America looks even more messed up.

And when he’s done, America’s begging for him.

Him.



IX.



Just like how the night it’d started hadn’t been memorable, the morning it ends isn’t, either.

“I’m such an asshole,” Canada tells his reflection in the mirror, feeling completely wretched. He watches his unhappy face and feels even more unhappy. “Y’know, most people in nice relationships trust their significant others.”

Actually, that’s not exactly wrong. Canada does trust America. It’s the rest of the world he’s not sure can keep their sneaky hands to themselves, and while their attempts are never going to go anywhere, Canada likes having this all to himself. Having America to himself. If he’s honest, he safeguards America’s trust and comfort like something precious; he never wants to believe anyone else can have them. Canada wants to be the only one, the singular, the nation who’s special to America.

It’s not enough to share a border with him, to exchange mountains and rivers and lakes. To have him every Christmas, tracking Santa Claus on high-tech military equipment. They are each other’s biggest trading partners. They know all of each other’s secrets—okay, most of them.

But still, Canada wants more.

“But if you ask too much, you’ll lose it all,” he says to his reflection. He tries not to cry, but he wants to. “You just—it’s all right, eh, because this is giving him what he wants. Because this is something you can do for him, not for yourself.”

And so begins Canada’s era of tolerance.



X.



It’s hard.

It’s really, really hard.

Actually, it’s one of the more difficult tasks of Canada’s life, and he finds the first two weeks of it almost unbearable. There’s a definite hitch on how he and America operate. No longer does Canada step in when America’s being stolen for an impromptu dinner date or badgered into joining a pub run. At first, America’s confused face when Canada fails to perform is painful. But it’s worse when America finally gives in and accepts the invitations.

But Canada manages. For America.

He’s still in my bed, and my arms, at night. That’s what matters.

Still, maybe he’s imagining it, but Canada swears it’s getting even worse than usual. America’s line of potential buddies and suitors and one-night stands just gets longer and longer. And it’s got to be Canada’s stupid complex, but he honest-to-god wonders if America isn’t letting Russia’s meaty fingers settle on him a little too long. If it’s really necessary to agree to all of France’s advances. If he needs to let England ruffle him up quite that much, thank you.

And every time, America comes back to Canada and looks at him like he’s expecting something.

After a while, they’re both totally miserable and Canada wishes he could figure out where it went wrong.



XI.



The final straw is Egypt.

They’re in Berlin on some business and a lot of new faces are milling around the banquet hall. Canada can barely keep the names straight, but he manages. America’s not so lucky, because he’s called the last two people he’s met by their neighboring country’s names. The entire room can hear his embarrassed laugh when he figures it out.

Everything’s going nicely, and then Canada looks around to see where his brother’s gone. He hasn’t heard him mess anything up for a while.

It takes a little milling. He looks around in the crowd and wanders toward the front of the enormous room. America’s always been easy to see (and hear) in a group of people, but his search proves fruitless. Canada’s just about to give up and ring him up on the cell when he notices the coat closet door hanging open a little. There’s movement inside.

He pushes the door open and oh, there’s America.

Wow.

Egypt is the first to look up. “Canada,” he says, very softly. His eyes are warm and tawny like the desert he comes from. If he weren’t pinning America to the floor on top of a pile of shedded jackets, Canada would think they might become friends in the midst of the rowdy crowd outside.

America squirms, pushing against Egypt with his palms. He squints at Canada, blanches, and says, “It ain’t what it looks like.”

“Right,” agrees Canada.

Egypt looks down at America and then at Canada. He blinks slowly. Shuffles off of Canada’s partner and adds, in a sort of quiet amusement, “It really isn’t.”

“That’s fine, I understand.” Canada’s smile must be doing something strange, because Egypt’s brow furrows. He excuses himself politely, moving out of the coat closet as mysteriously as he’d been found in it.

Canada closes the door behind him.



XII.



America props himself up on his elbows, watching Canada move. His eyes are very bright against the somber black of his suit. Unlike Egypt, he must find something he likes very much in Canada’s face, because he grins.

“You’re lucky I know you’d be too nervous to have an affair with someone as politically conflicted as Egypt,” Canada tells him, starting to undo the wrappings of the dinner jacket. He pulls it off and flicks open the buttons to his shirt next, steady and methodical: one, two, three, four.

“Am I?”

“You’d better be.”

“You should remind me of that,” and the bastard actually has the gall to spread his knees wide, arching his head back so that his neck catches shadows of the dim light of the closet. Outside, conversation rises and falls in minor fluctuation; inside, Canada unzips his pants and fits himself between his brother’s legs on the floor, which probably hasn’t been properly cleaned for weeks.

There’s something not exactly right about this, but all Canada can think about is how America looks, color high in his cheeks and impish grin all teeth and lips ready to suck. About how all of that is his, should always have been his, and he’s sick of pretending otherwise. It isn’t an ugly possession; he simply owns America in his heart, and he intends to collect it now.

“I didn’t lock the door,” he tells America, voice low.

America’s gaze darts toward it, eyes widening.

“You’ll just have to hope no one comes in,” says Canada, right before he pulls his brother’s growing erection out of his pants and swallows it whole.



XIII.



He sucks him off. The floor is hard, the coats smell like a mix of peppermint and mothballs, and America squirms underneath him, desperately trying to push up into Canada’s throat. The harsh panting is all Canada can hear above the damp sounds as he pushes the head of America’s penis into his cheek, over and over again. He thinks about how good America tastes, and how he’s going to leave imprints in him that’ll stay for days.

“Oh god, oh shit,” America chants, kneading the coats under them. “Uhh! S’good and you’re… nngh, there, there…”

Canada disengages and rubs his saliva roughly into the skin. “Lube?”

“Pocket.”

“Planned this, eh?” asks Canada, rummaging in America’s pocket and plucking the tube from its resting place. He sounds a little bitterer than he means to. So he’s surprised when America laughs, breathless and loving.

“God, you’re hot when you’re possessive and shit. That twenty Euros was worth every bill.”

That’s enough to give Canada pause. “What?”

“I paid him. Egypt. To pin me down.”

Canada stares at him.

“What?” America asks defensively, bucking into Canada’s grip. “We had to wait almost fifteen minutes for you to find us! You’re too slow!” He pauses, scanning Canada’s face, and when he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobs up and down. “It’s hot. Okay? When you get all ‘grrr, my sexy awesome hero.’ I love that. I mean, I’m not yours, but we’re each other’s, and so—like, I don’t know—it’s okay if we’re each other’s. And yeah, so it’s hot. And then you stopped, and I thought if maybe I worked a little harder to… y’know, provoke you…”

Canada’s mouth works, but nothing comes out. The gears crunch slowly, but it comes together well enough. “You knew.”

“I knew.”

“You knew how I felt, and you… you encouraged it.”

In answer, America impatiently rips the tube of lube from Canada’s grasp and snaps it open. He squeezes a generous amount on Canada’s fingers. “Show me,” he demands, and it’s like something hot and heavy has settled in Canada, something stumbling and raw and wanting, so wanting.

So he does.



XIII.



Ten minutes later and he’s wondering why he didn’t just come out with it all ages ago.

“Hhnn! Oh, oh fuck yeah. U-uh, uh, mmn!”

“Don’t be so loud,” pants Canada, rutting America into the pile of coats without mercy. He hasn’t bothered to take off his trousers; instead, he makes love to America furiously, fabric scratching against bare thighs, sending America scraping against the floor. He can’t think well, not with America’s body gripping him so tight, the natural slide and push and way their hips fit like jigsaw puzzle pieces against each other (the way everything they are flows into each other). “Don’t wan’ everyone to hear, yeah? Just—ughh—outside, remember?”

“Don’t care,” America strains to say, and he doesn’t really seem to. “Don’t, please, please. Feels so fucking good!” He groans deep in his belly, one hand fisted in Canada’s open shirt, the other squeezing his groin so hard it looks like it hurts.

“Y-you… hah, sound like a cheap porno.”

“Love you,” gasps America.

Oh. Oh.

“Love you, love you, Canada, Canada—”

He kisses America then, covering him with his whole body, as seamless as their lands from sea to sea. Pushes his tongue deep into the wet heat, into those words, hoping the answer is as crystal clear as America’s question.

It is.



The Epilogue



“Um, are you okay?” Finland asks, brow furrowed and expression utterly mystified. It’s a very cute look on him, though no one’s willing to tell him so.

Sweden swallows and nods. He wishes he had something to say.

“Okay, then… Can I get my coat?”

Sweden shakes his head frantically.

To his credit, Finland is very patient. “And is there a reason I can’t get my coat?” He puts his hand on Sweden’s arm, understanding and accepting even though he obviously doesn’t understand or accept. And even though Sweden is weak to his warmth, he still has enough sense to shake his head again.

“B’ng used.”

“Used,” echoes Finland.

With an awkward nod, Sweden situates his feet again, leaning against the coat closet door and willing his face not to heat up. The banquet’s wrapping up, so he really, really hopes that things come to finish in there soon. He hasn’t actively “guarded” something for a while, and he'd like to go home.




end



laksjs. Now bed.
Tags: hetalia fic, tmnt fic
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