kay_cricketed (kay_cricketed) wrote,

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[FANFIC] Wired Differently I

De-anoning from the Hetalia Kink Meme again. ♥ With probably the only love story in the world that involves... well. Yes.

Title: Wired Differently
Pairings: Canada/America
Rating: M
Warnings: ... Er, read the summary.
Summary: [Prompt: Canada/America and a sex machine.] In which America is hopelessly and awkwardly in love, stress threatens to give Canada ulcers, and porn gives them the answer they're looking for.

Yeah, I reckon if I'm gonna write smut, it may as well be adorable and yet extreme. /fail

Wired Differently

By Kay

It all starts because America thinks porn is hilarious.

There isn’t anything remotely sexy about it. He’s got a medium-sized collection at home, a sort of “Evolution of the Porn Industry in America Throughout the Ages” thing going on. Half of them are gifts from France. Sometimes, on a rainy day when there aren’t any new games to play and no one is answering their phone, America will pop something in the player, sit down with a tub of popcorn, and spend the afternoon in hysterics over the overdone moans and oiled bodies in motion. Some people masturbate; America giggles.

And it’s all a perfectly kept secret until he begins sleeping with Canada.

No one don’t really plans on having sex with their brother; it just kind of happens. With the aids of alcohol, economic anxiety, and good intentions. If it doesn’t mess anything up, then why not keep what feels good? That’s America’s philosophy on the matter, anyway—right up until his stomach starts somersaulting whenever Canada touches him, and he counts the days until his next trip to Ontario, and he finds himself grinning like a lunatic in the mirror because Canada, Canada, is really sort of very totally awesome. How has he never noticed that before? He decides not to mention anything to Canada because they’re still working through the whole sex thing, forget the somersaulting.

So, yeah. Most of the time, America puts his body and brain and heart on the “Ignore” shelf. It’s safer that way.

But getting back to the porn—the thing is, Canada’s more than just good at taking America apart and putting him back together with his mouth. He’s also all that other stuff. Stuff like, the guy who watches hockey with America. And makes pecan pancakes. And listens quietly to tirades about the media. And doesn’t make fun of America when using the spare key to enter the house in secret (surprise Chinese take-out!), thus interrupting America’s giggle fit over double penetration, and how that is so fucking funny.

The bubbling laughter dies pretty quick. “Oh my god,” says America, because that seems appropriate. “Uh. This is. This.”

Canada stares over the sofa at the television screen, which is doing a smash-up job of showing off just how much cock can fit into one hole. The surprise Chinese take-out is still hanging in his arms. For a second, the atmosphere is distinctly uncomfortable, and America half-frantically thinks that now would be a good time to tell his brother that he’s madly in love with him (so please don’t leave the room right now, I might cry).

Then Canada says this: “At four-thirty in the afternoon?”

America sputters, “I-it’s not like I watch it to get off!”

It all comes out in the open after that—a weird but acceptable habit, Canada notes out loud, a smile edging his lips up. He tugs on America’s hair with something regarding affection. “I’ve never really understood it, either,” he admits, gesturing toward the screen, which continues to play its lurid affairs without concern for their inattention. “Too dramatic.”

“It’s like soaps,” America agrees, too fast, pressing into Canada’s touch. “I can’t help it, they’re just funny. The noises. The music. Bow-chika-bow-wow.”

Canada laughs. Then he kisses him, a touch shy but getting more sure of himself here, like this, with America.

They lose themselves for a few minutes to fingertips drifting under t-shirts and teeth scraping against shoulders. America’s arousal stirs like something hungry and cautious in his belly, heat following the trail that Canada traces across his collarbone with his tongue. They twine together on the sofa cushions, unwilling to part. It’s a little strange, because America’s never been that interested in sex before this. Not on such a regular basis, not so greedily.

(Not with his brother, and man, there is something wrong with him and he doesn’t give a shit.)

They forget about the tape until a loud shriek startles them—America has Canada’s fingers in his mouth, sucking them until he feels dizzy, and nearly bites down in surprise. Then he realizes it’s just the porn, and Canada laughs a little breathlessly, and they both scramble for the remote at the same time. America gets it first, mostly because one of Canada’s hands is still occupied (obviously), and shuts the television off.

“Sorry,” he mumbles around Canada’s fingers. It comes out sort of ‘orreee.

“Next time,” Canada tells him, “invite me over for it, eh?”

So, this is how the fucking machine comes into their lives.

The DVD originally belonged to France, but Canada hasn’t had a chance to ship it back to his wayward father figure. He’s almost forgotten about it, right up until America fishes it out of the pile of DVD cases sitting below the player, and then Canada wants to sink into the floor. But America just laughs.

“Fucking machines,” America reads off of the back, blue eyes bright with mirth. He glances at Canada, grin stretching a little wider, and then returns to the casing. “Watch as these women are—oh wow, now that’s a kink I haven’t heard of. Did you see this?”

“A little.” The truth is usually the best course with America, no matter how embarrassing. “It didn’t really do much for me. I mean. Not that it would, anyway. Not that… oh, shut up,” he adds crossly when America starts to chuckle.

Canada thinks that’s the end of it, but then he looks over again and America is leaning forward and pushing the DVD into the player. He must make a noise, because America’s head turns, chin tucking against his shoulder—and isn’t that a sight, Canada’s inner voice murmurs, his brother’s ass in the air and knees spread, the strong small of his back made bare as his t-shirt rides up—and he quirks a smile. “What? I thought we’d watch it together.”

“Okay,” says Canada, because yeah. Yeah, he could do that.

(He’s going to combust from ulcers or something, he just knows it. His brother’s sex appeal is going to give him ulcers. It’s really not fair. It’s not fair, and Canada might be in love with the jerk, too.)

Still, because it’s polite, Canada goes to get some cookies and pretzels. He arranges them on a tray and carries them back to the living room, pausing only momentarily at the trussed up woman on the television screen. America is watching intently, his knuckles shoved against his mouth in an effort to hide its twitches; it’s kind of cute, plus enough to make Canada relax. It’s not the first time they’ve watched porn together since he’s figured out America’s hobby.

(It’s just the first time that it’s his porn, and it’s not even really his, so it doesn’t matter, right? Right.)

And for a while, it’s fun. They lean against each other on the sofa, feet tucked up on the cushions, and share the snacks as they watch. America tries to keep a straight face, but more often than not a strangled giggle escapes him. Canada has to struggle not to smile in response. When the music tracks switch, they both give into snickers. The room is warm, dark, and comfortable and there are ladies tied up on the television, getting dildos pushed into them by manmade gadgets, but it’s almost normal. There’s no one else that could make Canada feel at home doing something this intimate and stupid with company, like it’s something to be shared and enjoyed.

Canada thinks to himself: I really might be in love with him.

This thought occupies him so much that Canada almost doesn’t notice when it gets quiet.

But it does.

Occasionally, America lets out a short bark of laughter—but Canada’s known his brother long enough to hear the undercurrent of nervousness in it. He sneaks sidelong glances, noting the slight flush at the back of America’s neck, the way he’s biting his bottom lip every few minutes. The uneasy shifts. How his hands can’t stay still. On the screen, the machine drill drones below the whimpered pleas of its latest victim, and off screen, right next to Canada, America is—

Oh, Canada thinks, eyes widening. Oh.

“Hey,” says America, voice uneven, “this is kinda boring. Um, maybe we should just turn it off?”

“You’re turned on,” says Canada.

“What?” America turns, eyes wide behind his glasses, the red embossing itself in his cheeks now. “No! What? Don’t make me laugh, that’s—c’mon, you know me—”

“You like this stuff.” It does, Canada muses, make a certain sense. America’s always been the secret techie geek of the family, fawning over the newest toys and gadgets, crooning about radio waves and satellites and—and fucking machines, god, really? Of all the kinks that his brother has ignored in favor of getting stomach cramps from cackling too much, it’s a dildo on a drill that gets his attention?

And that’s when Canada actually imagines it.

Imagines it.

“I don’t—that’s not—”

“You want to be like them,” breathes Canada, heart thudding high in his ears. He thinks he’s shaking, but when he pushes his fists against his thighs he finds that he’s wrong. They’re steady. “You want to be tied down and—and splayed open like that, with that thing.”

America inhales sharply. He doesn’t say anything. His eyes are still as wide as dinner plates, his mouth slack and wet from where he’s worried his lip.

Canada knocks the food tray on the floor in favor of shoving his brother down against the cushions.

He doesn’t give America a chance to speak; his tongue twists deep, tasting the salt and sugar from their snacks and beneath that, the metallic tang of saliva. America groans and arches into his weight, fingers worming inside of Canada’s hoodie until they find warm, firm muscle and skin, the pebble of a nipple. But Canada hasn’t got the patience for it—when they part, he grabs America between the legs and pants in his ear: “Could do that, eh?”

America’s entire body shudders.

Oh God, Canada thinks, his insides clawing with want. He licks the hollow of America’s throat and then mouths at it, until it’s shiny and damp and ready for the words he’s about to imprint in it. He just never dreamed he’d be saying them.

“Could do that… Tie you down and open you up with m’fingers. Get you ready for it,” he whispers, and America scrambles against him for friction, rubbing against Canada’s jeans. “I’d take care of you. While that thing fucked you, slow and then hard, relentless, and I’d stop it if you begged…”

He sinks between America’s thighs and grinds him into the sofa, each thrust long and thorough. “Don’t want anyone to fuck you ever again,” he gasps into America’s throat, “not my brother. Mine. Oh god, you’re mine. But I’d let you do the machine, I’d—ahh, there—”

America comes before the jean buttons are undone.

Canada isn’t far behind.

(They tremble in the aftershocks, a little ashamed, and then America asks in a very tiny voice: “D’you mean it?”

Yeah, Canada means it.)

The real problem is, of course, finding a fucking machine.

“It’s not like you can pick one up at Walmart,” America points out, the porn catalogue he’d talked himself up into buying at the nearby sex shop splayed out across his stomach. He’s laying down on the couch, his head propped up on Canada’s thigh so that they can both read at the same time. “This is high-quality retail and… adult stuff.”

Canada makes a polite noise. His fingers keep pushing through America’s hair. He hasn’t stopped casually touching America since last week, when he’d more or less (kind of) claimed ownership of his brother in a single sentence. America’s decided not to think too hard about that, because maybe he misunderstood what Canada meant in the heat of the moment. They haven’t talked about it since then. They probably never will.

(But the needy, childish part of America wants to hear it again: Say you want me for yourself, say I’m driving you as crazy as you’re driving me.)

“I imagine,” Canada tells him instead, completely missing his nonverbal cue, “that you have to order it online.”

“Huh? Why?”

Canada shrugs. “Can’t see many stores actually having a storage room full of, er…”

“Sybians,” America reads from the catalogue.


“Oh, forget it. That’s definitely one for girls.”

“Do they have ones just for, um, boys?”

“Girls always get the coolest sex toys,” mourns America, feeling glum. Not that he has a lot of experience with toys, but he’s starting to figure out that the market isn’t balanced in their favor. He leafs through a few more pages of the catalogue, pausing to study something that’s got an overabundance of glitter on it. “D’you ever wonder why a dildo would need to glow in the dark? I mean, if it’s inside of you, it’s not like you’ll see it.”

Canada’s fingers pause, then continue shifting through America’s bangs. “I can’t say that’s ever crossed my mind."

“Me either. But just now, it did.”

“Would you like a glow-in-the-dark dildo?” asks Canada, almost affectionately.

America bites his lip long enough for the embarrassing, wiggly ball of warmth in his stomach to subside. “Maybe later.”

Laughter, familiar and yet new. It’s weird how a thing like sex, and only sex, can completely revise a relationship. Things are changing between them, thinks America, though he’s still not sure what that means. So far, it’s just meant that Canada feeds him more often, touches him in the right places, and doesn’t act as much like a doormat when he’s upset. Those are all good things. America likes change; it’s a staple of his nation. He likes change with Canada.

Mine, Canada had said last week. You’re mine. And if it’d been anyone else, if it’d been said in any other tone, America would’ve balked.

(It’s not a tone he recognizes. It’s not something he can categorize, something he can quantify. It’s the way people sound when they pray.)

They are silent a little longer, and then Canada reaches for the porn catalogue, plucking it from America’s slack fingers. He studies it with pursed lips—the way he might a cookbook. “I don’t know how much I like the idea of ordering it, anyway, though.”

“Why’s that?” America asks, grinning at his dubious expression.

“Something with that much power? We’ll have to be careful what we buy. You’ll want something that’s going to be the right size and… and you know, something we can set up without hurting you.”

`“I’m pretty flexible.”

The catalogue bops America on the head. “Don’t be an idiot about this. You never think things through.”


Sighing, Canada leans down and presses his open mouth to the reddening mark on America’s brow. Oh. Okay, that’s nice. He hadn’t been serious, but America’s not going to turn away free kisses.

“Let’s at least talk to a proper supplier,” murmurs Canada against his skin, breath melting into America and becoming a part of his own body heat. “If we’re going to do this, do it right, eh?”

“Okay,” says America; he doesn’t mention that really, if Canada asked, he’d do anything at all.

That night, they’re in bed and Canada is taking America from behind, his hands clasped over America’s hips like they’re going to hold him up as soon as his legs turn into rubber. Which, really, is going to be pretty soon. America’s lost track of his heartbeat somewhere in the rush of white noise in his ears, and he’s aware that he’s panting desperately into the pillow, that Canada is balls-deep inside of him and perfect, but that’s about it.

And really, it’s kind of funny that it’s Canada like this: passionate, directing, taking care of things. America had been the first one to kiss him (sloppy, half drunk, sad). America had been the one to trap his brother up against the kitchen counter and shove eager fingers down his jeans. America had said in the morning, D’you think we can do this again? Or is that bad?

Nowadays, the propositioning goes both ways. So do the spoils of war. Kind of funny. Mostly, though, America likes it. Variety is the spice of whatever.

Okay, he likes it a little more than “mostly.”

“America,” moans Canada, his lips falling to America’s spine and making a trail to his neck. It tingles and then burns, hot dampness against America’s skin. He says America’s name again, the ca accented by his voice and the sharp thrust back into America’s body.

Say something else, America is thinking, like an undercurrent to the frantic stream of nonsense that spills out of his mouth, caught between hitched breath and sudden, shocked silences when the pleasure is too much to bear. Say I’m yours again tell me you want me love me your brother loving me

The words are so vivid, so real, that America has to bite the pillow to keep them from breaking out of his throat. From ruining everything.

(This is about the point that he realizes he’s in trouble.)

“Oh oh oh,” Canada is chanting, over the slap of skin against skin, and America feels him start to jerk inside before his brother’s strangled cry announces that he’s coming.

I’m never gonna be able to hide this if we use the fucking machine, America realizes, somewhere amidst the tremulous orgasm and the aftershocks he rides out while clutching fistfuls of the sheets. It’s like trying to carry a gallon of water in his mouth all day; sooner or later, something’s going to gush out, somewhere in the middle of heightened pleasure or when all of America’s defenses are scratched to hell—and then Canada will know, and that might be the last time—

“What’s wrong?” Canada asks, rubbing his stomach from behind.

America just shakes his head.

Like most things, he decides he’s just not going to think about it. Instead, while the sweat is still cooling on them, America digs out the porn catalogue again, presses against Canada, and asks him if fucking machines are measured in horsepower or miles per hour.

Canada is going to have a nervous breakdown. As usual, it’s all America’s fault.

He’s beginning to regret his impulsive actions that fateful day they watched France’s DVD—they’ve caused Canada nothing but sleepless nights and flutters of anxiety that don’t fit quite right in his belly. America is acting like everything is normal. Initially, that had given Canada some hope. Maybe he hadn’t said anything out loud during sex at all (mine you’re mine my brother and I love you want you love in ways I can’t stand god why now why is it now), or maybe America had been so close to orgasm that he hadn’t heard the reverent words, mouthed lips to throat. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

D’you mean it? America had whispered, after.

Quiet, like he’d been afraid to get an answer. Not like America at all.

Maybe, Canada thinks, America did hear and just doesn’t care. In a way, that’s worse. It means that either America doesn’t want to hurt Canada’s feelings with an outright rejection (we’re just blowing off steam, ha ha, didn’t you know that?) or that America doesn’t care that Canada wants to—to keep him in a way, to—stay committed, sort of.

“Oh hell,” Canada tells the package of poutine gravy in his hand. The supermarket aisle is empty, so it’s okay to talk to himself and gravy packets. Not that anyone notices Canada to begin with. “Can’t my life be easy just once?”

The gravy has nothing to contribute except a count of its calories. Canada glumly adds the packet to the basket hanging from his arm.

He’s come to pick up supplies for dinner and a few other provisions that aren’t entirely necessary (like ice wine and lemon drops). Canada likes to buy food. He’s a stocker, a pantry-filler. It’s… comforting to him. Some people have therapy; Canada has grocery shopping. There’s something about the clean tiles and white florescent lights and rows of overpriced baking mixes that speak of an order that Canada has yet to find in his own, often rattled life. Besides, no matter how much food he buys, sooner or later America will empty his cupboards with his bottomless stomach, anyway.


We’ve never been good at talking, Canada muses, pulling the basket to his stomach and heading down toward the flour bags. His sneakers squeak on the floor. Not then, not now. Not to each other.

Canada knows that he bottles. Clams up. Takes the low ground. However you want to say it, that’s what he does. He’s never liked confrontation; the rest of his family thrives on it, but then, he’s not quite like them in any exact way. He’d rather chew nails than ask America about his feelings. And America doesn’t talk about important things because—

“He’s an idiot,” Canada mutters.

(Once, it would’ve sounded sour. Now, Canada hears himself and is horrified at how obvious it is that he really likes his brother. Maybe even loves, as in really loves.)

The flour comes in varying sizes that won’t fit perfectly on Canada’s shelf no matter what he chooses. He picks something in the middle and hefts it into the basket. He wishes he knew what to make for supper. Or, you know, how to sort out his life.

So, they aren’t talking about it. But they are discussing the fucking machine.

The fucking machine.

God, those three words alone are enough to make Canada’s stomach seize up and start the erratic tumbling. True to form, the nausea whirls as he makes his way toward the produce, pretending that he is not in a public supermarket while thinking about fucking machines. It’s not that he doesn’t like the idea. He’d been the one to come up with it, sort of. And the image alone—thinking about America, America, unabashedly moaning like those women did in the video, bound tight and unable to do anything but thrash as someone else controlled everything with a tiny remote—

Canada blinks. He’s standing in the middle of the aisle and has stopped moving. Well, that’s stupid. Somewhere, he’s passed the produce section, and now he turns and doubles back.

No, I really do like the idea. For sure.

But sometimes Canada feels like when they’re talking about the fucking machine, they’re really talking about something else.

Metaphor. There’s a reason North America isn’t very good at it in general.

But with the fucking machine, he can’t help but worry. He’s done his research because America’s thickheaded and won’t think about it (but Canada isn’t letting anything inside his brother that’s an unknown, not today and not tomorrow). You can call it whatever you want—fucking machine, sex machine, automated erotic stimulation device—but the fact remains that the dildo is on a stick that’s moved by a motor, an actual motor, a motor that’s going to be propelling the toy into America at whatever speed it’s set to. And motors aren’t intelligent, they aren’t receptive. They aren’t like Canada, who stood shock-still and waited, panting, the first time America felt him sink in to the hilt. Sure, it’s Canada that’ll be holding the control, but—

More than anything, Canada doesn’t want to see his brother hurt. America takes hits like a champion boxer, but that doesn’t mean he should have to.

Oh, and Canada ought to pick up some turkey.

(And what does it say, that America’s willing to let Canada be the one to do this to him? What does any of it mean? Canada’s not sure. He’s not sure, but at least one thing hasn’t changed: it must be America’s fault.)

America likes turkey.

God, he is completely fucked.

The key turns in the front door.

America pauses for only a moment, listening to Canada’s sneakers tromp against the kitchen tile, the paper bags rustling in his arms. He doesn’t think about how familiar those sounds are becoming. Instead, he squirms against the sofa cushions, feet on the coffee table and laptop in lap. If Canada hasn’t figured out he’s snuck into the house (the really shiny fast car with the American flag stickers stuck all over the bumper ought to have done the trick), then it’s his own fault if he’s surprised.

“Some people,” calls Canada from the kitchen, “actually ring ahead when they come over.”

“You’re a total hypocrite.”

“D’you want any coffee?”

“Heck yeah,” America says loudly. He exits a few of the tabs in the browser window and turns down the volume, just in case some raunchy sex noises get thrown at them from the web sites. He isn’t sure if they’re trying to make potential customers horny or what.

True to form, within a few minutes, Canada comes into the living room with two steaming mugs in hand: one yellow and one blue. America already knows which one he’s supposed to reach for.

“They come handheld,” America tells him, taking the yellow. “Did you know that? But then isn’t it like a really elaborate vibrator instead?”

“If it’s the size of a small jungle cat, it’s still a really elaborate vibrator,” says Canada, sitting beside him. His eyebrows raise when he catches sight of the screen, a tinge of pink dusting his nose. “Oh.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“There are so many.”

“It’s the next step to artificial intelligence,” America warns him, clicking on another product description. The machine that comes up is called the Red Devil, a bright red and appropriately evil-looking device. “Robots can’t harm humans according to the three laws of robotics, but they will fuck them stupid. Just wait for it to show up at Blockbuster.”

Canada leans against him and America thinks, Don’t you dare press into it. Naturally, that’s exactly what he does.

And to further his humiliation, Canada does that little weird thing where he startles like he’s been surprised and then tries to cover it up with a fake, innocent expression. His arm goes around the back of the sofa, fingers playing with the soft down at the back of America’s neck. Double damn him. America rests his chin on his brother’s shoulder. It’s a battle he’ll have to win another day.

“I still don’t like the idea of buying one online,” Canada tells him.

“Why? D’you think it’ll be any different in a store?” America glances at him askance. “Like, d’you think we’ll get to test drive ‘em?”

Canada starts to say something and then stops. He snorts.

“Exactly! We may as well purchase or it’ll never happen.” America clicks on a few more fucking machines for sale online, ignoring the price tags—they are somehow both cheaper, and more expensive, than he’d imagined. Less than a car, more than a stereo system. “This one comes with a removable head, see? So if we don’t like the dildo, we can just get a new one. And some of them, you adjust the angle for penetration, see…”

“Right,” says Canada faintly.

“Oops, that’s double penetration. That one’s not gonna be much use for me.”


“How about something in blue? You like blue. We can take turns on it.”


“Just don’t want you to get jealous,” says America, and he’d say more, but then Canada makes a frustrated and incredulous sound. A sound that’s promptly muted because he’s fitted his mouth over America’s and is busy trying to choke him with his tongue.

That’s not fair at all, America thinks. But he decides not to complain too much. He molds Canada between himself and the back of the sofa, hot breath mingling between them, and gives as good as he gets.

(Two days later, they’re standing in front of an erotic boutique with blood-flushed ears. Canada is wearing flannel, and that’s what America will always remember best about that day: green plaid and the warm sweat in Canada’s hand as America pulled him through the doors.)

Shopping for a fucking machine is harder than it sounds.

“We should’ve measured to see how high the kitchen table is,” America tells his brother mournfully. They’re crouching in front of a machine that has a rubber orange dildo pointed right at their foreheads. “I can’t tell what kind of height we’re lookin’ for at all. You’d think about as tall as my waist, right?”

“We are absolutely not putting the sex toy in the kitchen,” says Canada, with more calm than America expects.

“Well, I don’t mind if—”

“Not mine. Not yours.”

“Spoilsport,” mumbles America. He reaches to poke the dildo, but his fingers are caught in midair. Canada makes a face at him: Don’t even think about it.

It does present an interesting question, though, and one which America proposes as soon as he’s reclaimed his hand. They both stand, and Canada’s knee joints crack a little, and America points out, “Where do you put a fucking machine, anyway? Can you dismantle it, fold it up, and keep it in a cupboard?”

Canada looks pained. “I’d say we could keep it in the shed, but the raccoons might get at it. I don’t suppose you have a storage closet that’s not being used?”

America laughs because his brother has no idea how hilarious that idea is. Or maybe he’s got something of an idea, because in the next second, Canada starts to snicker along with him. They huddle together and share the good humor for a moment, their own personal bubble amidst displays of lube solutions, champion vibrators, plugs, restraints, and of course, the pleasuring machines in their gleaming armor. As ridiculous as he feels, America’s never felt more at home (and that has less to do with the sex toys and more to do with the company, honest).

And then the counter guy just has to jump in.

“Are you guys looking for anything in particular?”

Canada goes a fantastic shade of fuchsia; he grips America’s sleeve and doesn’t answer. Being a hero, and slightly interested in not being here all day, America takes the lead. “Yeah, we wanna buy one of these kinds of things. Um…”

“Colton.” The man smiles at them, all white teeth and crinkled eyes. He’s middle-aged, but in that way that says he still works out every other day and knows how to crunch numbers better than your accountant. America likes him immediately. “Been in the market for one long?”

“A few months,” hedges America. “Sort of just looking online and in catalogues. But we thought—er, maybe we should—”

“Don’t worry about it. A lot of folks come in to buy. That way they can see what they’re getting in for, literally.”

“Oh god,” mutters Canada, close to America’s ear.

“Why don’t you tell me what you’ve got in mind,” continues Colton, eyeing the machine behind him. “I can already tell you that you don’t want that one if you want something at a pretty steadfast speed. Its legs aren’t anchored well enough. It’ll fall over unless you’re looking for slow and deep.”

“Deep’s good. Slow, not so much.”

“I’d rather it didn’t fall over,” says Canada, very quiet.

Giving a nod to the girl at the counter (she’s got a little American flag tattooed to her forearm and America likes that), Colton beckons to them and starts to walk. There isn’t much else to do but follow him. “Tell me what you’re looking for exactly,” the man says back over his shoulder. “What kind of qualities? How fast? What kind of penetration angles are we talking about? Flexibility?”

America opens his mouth. He’s about to say, Got it in spades, thanks, but thinks better of it. Instead, he offers a few tentative answers—from the silence at his side, he’s guessing Canada has no intention of contributing. And really, that’s okay. America’s going to be the one who—yeah. Uses it. Sort of.

Then again, his answers aren’t very helpful. “Sure. Uh. Flexibility and speed… that’s good.”

Colton comes to a stop in front of a door with an EMPLOYEES ONLY sign dangling from a nail on it. He rummages in his pocket, an eyebrow raised as he glances back at them. “You have no idea, do you.”

Canada sags in relief. “Not at all.”

“We do, too! Kind of.”

“Actually,” says Colton, “this makes it a lot easier. If you’re not looking for anything too specific or a designed, intense experience, then you’re just looking for a good time. We’ve got plenty of machines that can supply that.”

“Oh,” says America, feeling lame. “That’s awesome.”

A key comes out of the pocket. The key goes in the lock to the door. Canada’s hand slides across America’s back, a brief flash of heat following in its wake, and then they’re both stumbling through the threshold as Colton leads them into the storage spaces. The back end of the store is much bigger than the front. More shelving, too.

“How about something where you can adjust both how high it is as well as the angle of the dildo?” Colton asks cheerfully, leading them down the third aisle of merchandise, packed tightly in plastic. “I’m thinking something you boys can pack away, too. You don’t look like the types to want this in your living room.”

America nudges Canada with his elbow and gets an elbow back for his troubles. They make faces at each other, but remain pressed close, hip to hip. They’ve entered no-nation’s land (except for France, but he doesn’t count).

After intensive, silent discussion, Canada clears his throat. “That sounds good.”

“Let’s see, a good stroke length… What do you think about 180 strokes a minute as far as speed goes?”

America feels his stomach twist and upend itself. “Uh,” he says.

“Right,” mumbles Canada.

“And your budget?”

“Pretty big,” America manages to say, still stuck on 180 strokes a minute.

Colton slows down and shuffles in front of a few large boxes. Then, he makes a satisfied noise and draws one out. He deposits it on the cement flooring and the contents make a disturbed noise. “Okay, I’m going to recommend this one: the Anaconda.”

“Say what?” asks America.

“She’s got a safety lock to guarantee you can keep her standing in whatever position you want—and there are tons, trust me. She’ll go up as high as you please, almost. Adjustable speed, the horsepower’s around 1/17th.” Colton looks at them. “The power cord only goes six feet, though. That okay?”

Canada purses his lips. For a moment, America watches him do this, wondering what he’s thinking, if he’s regretting his decision to get involved with America and go shopping for sex toys of all things with him already. He keeps watching Canada, even as his brother steps forward and studies the picture on the box. The Anaconda is sleek, black, and set up on four legs with adjustable lengths and positions.

“And it’s safe?” Canada finally asks, soft-like.

Something in America tightens and goes warm.

“Very safe,” says Colton, firm.

Canada looks at America and smiles. “It’s up to you.”

That doesn’t take much thought. It doesn’t help that America’s too busy drinking in the subtle happiness in Canada’s face to really give a flying rat’s ass about the fucking machine. “Sure,” he breathes, “we’ll take it.”

(Later, they have to pick out a dildo and America tells Canada he wants it the same size and shape as Canada’s, thanks. He doesn’t need to experiment with anything weird. It’s sort of a step closer to declaring love, right?)

Continued here: Wired Differently, cont.
Tags: hetalia fic
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