kay_cricketed (kay_cricketed) wrote,

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"I know we're all depressed because Lindsay Lohan's in jail."

Haven't posted for a while! D: I fail. Been a bit busy, applying for new jobs, attempting to do my own well. Same old. Trying to make Tony's POV work how I want it to, and a comedy should not be this hard to write, LOL.

Ahh, new things, new things...

Inception is deliciously predictable but clever like a madly clever film. Worth two showings, for sure. Very, very well-written and crafted. Also, it does not hurt that I want to thoroughly molest against a kitchen table pet the well-tailored suits that Arthur wears. The supporting characters, unf.

I have a Tumblr account so that I can spam people with pictures of America! If you go there now, you will get a face full of inappropriate sexy. Yup. Find it here: http://onesyouhear.tumblr.com/

Still working on fic archive. Once it's done, I'm trying to figure out if I want to stop posting fic here and post it there all the time, or if I'll keep on posting in both places. :/ Hmmm.

Mfff... been tired lately. /fails

Okay, you've listened enough. Have fic. XD XD

Fandom: Kyou Kara Maou
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Yuuri/Wolfram
Summary: Written for a_big_apple for Gulf Aid Now! The prompt was Yuuram and mpreg.

In which Wolfram is victorious and Yuuri gets used to it. A series of snapshots consisting of the great name debate, unidentified stuffed animals, king-chasing hussies, and love in all of its simplistic complexities.

Domestic Disturbance

By Kay


The first time Wolfram brings up the need for a blood-related heir, Yuuri chokes on a hunk of roasted boar, knocks over one of the dinner candles, and almost lights the table on fire. By the time the situation is sorted, the subject is shoved none too gently under the carpet and Wolfram is livid.

He decides Yuuri just needs more time (time, time, it’s always about more time for Yuuri—he’s still convinced the only reason Yuuri went along with the wedding is because Greta had been getting close to marriage herself). And while Wolfram can’t stand the wimp’s slow pace, he goes along with it, as he always does. Love’s taken him to more frustrating places before.

The second time Wolfram brings up a blood-related heir, he’s already pregnant.

The smack of Yuuri’s skull hitting the floor when he faints is extremely satisfying. Sometimes preparedness lessons are best learnt through hands-on application.


“It’s interesting,” is what Conrad has to say about it, smile peaceful and nonthreatening. “I was under the impression you’d have to purposefully lower your body’s core temperature to even sustain an embryo.”

Wolfram folds the wet cloth over his husband’s head in equal parts self-righteousness and disdain. “It’s not as easy as it looks, either,” he announces haughtily. And then ruins it by grinning to himself like a child that’s gotten an especially wonderful gift, which isn’t too far off from the truth. He touches his stomach once, just a small brush of fingertip to cloth, and is pleased at the steadfastness of the protections he’d put into place. The well of gentle warmth in his stomach is a haven from the intense heat his maryoku leaves like a signature in his blood.

It puts him off balance; he feels too light in his center. But it’s worth it.

“Please keep in mind that this is a two-person decision,” Conrad says, glancing fondly at their king. Yuuri groans in his unconscious state and Wolfram leans over to pad at his forehead again.

“It’s a three-person decision. And right now, it’s two against one.”


The decision hadn’t been an easy one.

If asked, Wolfram has an entire spectrum of reasons that sound very logical and thoughtful. For one, Yuuri has grown into an impressive king and the land is more or less as peaceful as it’s been for many ages; however, there’s always the threat of the unknown. It’s sensible to have a blood-related heir, just in case it takes so long to find and train the next successor who has inherited the soul of the Maou.

Secondly, Greta is grown and out of castle with her own husband. Wolfram knows how much Yuuri misses having her around. He gets a little teary (the wimp) whenever Greta shows up with her sunny smiles, almost taller than her father, her arms full of wildflowers she’s picked from the road—even being a princess hasn’t stripped her from her roots. Wolfram, if he has to admit it, also misses having a child to dote on and love. They’re a good age and the politics are stabilized enough that the time is perfect for make a new family member.

Most importantly, if Wolfram doesn’t prove to all of those hussies that flirt with his husband that their chances are nonexistent, there will be murder.

(Secretly, deep down in the places that no one can find except for Wolfram himself, he’s afraid. Yuuri can say I love you. Yuuri gives up his space in the bed without an argument. Their lovemaking pulls out the wildfire inside of Wolfram, leaves him gasping and trembling and feeling as though there can be no doubt, none whatsoever, that Yuuri feels the same as he.

But still. There are places, deep down, that are afraid.

This one piece of Yuuri, he will claim forever to fill them with light.)


“This can’t be happening,” mumbles Yuuri into his hands. His head hasn’t stopped hanging down into them for an hour. Conrad makes a sympathetic noise and refills his juice.

Across from him, Wolfram smirks. “Get used to it, wimp.”

“Seriously, men should not be able to get pregnant!”

“You’ve seen it before. You weren’t upset then.”

Then,” Yuuri stresses, “it wasn’t my—it wasn’t you.”

Wolfram counts to ten. He’d expected this, he tells himself. It’s going to take time, always more and more and more time, for Yuuri to acclimate. He’s not a fast-paced learner. He’s an idiot. “We are having this baby whether you like it or not,” he announces when he feels calm. “I suggest you start liking it very, very quickly.”

Yuuri glances up, dark eyes wide. “I didn’t mean that I—”

“Maybe I should talk to His Majesty,” Conrad suggests.

Wolfram scowls at him, but in time, he gives a measured nod. No, maybe that’s exactly what his husband needs. He always comes back from their conversations at ease, feeling better about whatever ridiculous nonsense has plagued him (and god, why can’t Wolfram be the one to make him feel like that, make him smile?).

He leaves them alone. He should write Greta, tell her the good (isn’t it?) news.


The first time Yuuri tells Wolfram that he loves him, they’re about to die and it’s probably one of those better off saying something, anything, to make it meaningful moments. Still, Wolfram doesn’t let the doubt creep in. He kisses Yuuri as the world falls in around them, and feels joy that at least he’d gotten to hear it before death.

Except they don’t die.

(His brother is far too efficient, damn him.)

At first, Wolfram is ecstatic. Now that Yuuri’s owned up to his feelings, they’ll be able to move forward—no more stupid misunderstandings, no jealousy to beat off as it flickers hot in his chest, no protests when he subtly suggests wedding plans.

Except, Yuuri can’t meet his eyes.

For days, he’d felt like he was glowing under his skin. And suddenly, Wolfram is left cold again; he’s made of hearth ash and the coming night. He goes quiet and realizes, in foolish hindsight, the mistake he’s made. Part of him is bitter that he hadn’t died and been lost in the unknowing happiness a while longer, but Wolfram also doesn’t want to be dead. It’s not his nature. So he goes on. He lets Yuuri run. He’s… tired.

Two months later, Yuuri crawls into their bed and buries his face against Wolfram’s back. He says the words again.

After the ninety-seventh time, Wolfram starts to believe them.


For the rest of the day, Wolfram is productive.

He checks in with Gwendal to see if any trouble has stirred and ends up helping his brother finish the mounds of paperwork on his desk. Wolfram doesn’t like paperwork, but he does like to prove that he’s a capable ruler alongside his husband. Once they’ve finished, Gwendal attempts to engage him in discussion about decreasing his duties out of castle now that he’s with child.

Wolfram makes a clever escape.

(Okay, he runs for it.)

He spends the next few hours practicing with the men in the courtyard, thoroughly trouncing them and crowing in satisfaction. Wolfram normally behaves with more conduct, but today he could really use the ego boost.


Wolfram’s already in his nightgown, tucked into bed with a book of time-favored military strategies when the bedroom door creaks open.

Yuuri pops his head in and takes in the sight quickly. His nervous smile becomes sheepish in a heartbeat, and he slinks in like a kicked dog might when returning to the kitchen for more scraps. The comparison is enough to distract Wolfram from acting like he’s not actually happy to see him.

“Before you say anything,” Yuuri says quickly, hands stretching out in front of him as a defensive measure, “I love you and I love our—our baby, okay? I’m happy. I’m really happy. I’m not just saying that to get out of trouble, I’m incredibly happy!”

Wolfram considers this. He nods and shifts to allow Yuuri to get into bed.

After his husband gets into his pajamas—still in a rush, as though he’s reciting lines to himself that he’s afraid he’ll forget—they settle into their normal routine. The book is placed back on the nightstand. Yuuri inches forward under the covers and kisses his cheek; he’s hesitant, but there’s something burning and wondering in those dark black eyes. Wolfram gets a good idea of what it is when his hands find Wolfram’s belly, sliding along the silk of the nightgown.

“I can’t believe you’re pregnant…” he says, soft-like. He rests his palms flat against the skin, as if he can feel what’s nestled beneath, little more than a breath of magic. “Are you—Conrad said it was safe, but are you sure?”

Something in Wolfram clicks into place, and he feels warm and flushed all over. “Idiot,” he mutters, yanking Yuuri forward by his pajama collar and into a lingering, clumsy kiss. He thinks, eyes closing: Hey you. This is your father.


“Oh my god!” wails Gunter. “We’re having a baby!”

Wolfram feels his eye tic. “Excuse me?” he growls dangerously, shoving his chair back to stand. Beside him, Yuuri makes frantic noises for him to sit, sit down, what are you doing, think about your condition—

“His Majesty’s tiny, unborn child!” the spectacle continues to weep, wobbling on his feet as though ready to fall. Wolfram spitefully hopes he does, and that he slams into the table on his way down. He’s never liked this carpet, anyway. “I-I can’t even, that’s just too—”

“Aren’t you forgetting someone!?”

“This can’t be good for the baby,” Yuuri despairs.

Gwendal says nothing; he’s too busy fixatedly sewing a small, unidentifiable animal plushie, which has become the norm since the day he found out. If he were less infuriated, Wolfram would worry about the possibility of carpal tunnel.


Gisela is the most level-headed person in the castle. This has always been the case, but Wolfram’s never appreciated her more than he does now. “Just be careful and come check in with me every fortnight,” is her advice, gifted with a fond smile. “You’ll need to eat certain vitamins, but I’ve already informed the cooks. Once you start to show, we’ll have to revisit how to take care of yourself, but you’re young. Young Mazoku do very well in early pregnancy. Hardly any symptoms at all.”

Which is exactly why Wolfram ends up feeling seasick when he’s on land for about nine weeks in a row.

Of course.

Gisela just sighs. “You are certainly unique, Your Excellency.”

Wolfram, pale and clammy, tells her it’s probably Yuuri’s fault.


“This is all my fault,” Yuuri says unhappily.

Bent over the sink, his body shaking from head to foot from the violent heaving he’s wrapping up this very moment, Wolfram wishes he had the energy to agree. As it is, he can’t even work up enough stamina to be indignant. He coughs and spits into the basin. His head swims.

“Are you okay? Should I get you some water? Let me call Gisela, she’s probably got some more of that stuff you—”

“Nngh. Shut up.” Wolfram shakes his head and spits again. Lifts his chin, staring into the mirror. He’s an irritating shade of white, his cheeks embossed in red. His hair’s in wild disarray from his fingers tugging at it relentlessly every time he feels stressed or stricken ill. He’s starting to think living on a boat might be easier; at least there, the reaction makes sense.

Behind him, Yuuri idles up with caution. He puts his hands on Wolfram’s hips: steady, reassuring, cool.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“If this lasts the whole pregnancy,” Wolfram informs him, with appropriate gravity, “I’m going to burn all of your baseball gloves, and you will watch me do it.”


Eventually, the sick eases. It’s early enough in the pregnancy that Wolfram decides Yuuri’s confusing sports collection can be left intact for at least a little bit longer. He’s relieved, secretly. Mazoku are with child for a long time—born too early and demons are prone to weak constitution and chaotic maryoku. He really hadn’t wanted to spend the entire time revisiting every dish the cooks made.

“That,” Yuuri tells him, shadows under his eyes, “was the worst few months of my life. Uh. Like, even including the months I spent in dresses.”

“I love those pictures,” Wolfram murmurs, laying down on the blessedly chilled sheets. He feels heavy, even though he knows he’s still flat as a tabletop.

Yuuri crawls up beside him and presses his cheek to Wolfram’s belly. “Hey in there. Can you be quiet for, uh, your daddies now? Thanks, baby!”

Oh. That’s really kind of—cute.


After the nausea dissipates, Wolfram tries to go back to his duties as a soldier of the Maou. Unfortunately, Gwendal has other plans.

Most of them involve never leaving the Blood Pledge Castle grounds.

“I’m not an invalid! I can patrol and train perfectly well,” snaps Wolfram in outrage. He ignores the miniature mountain of knitting that’s accumulated beside Gwendal’s desk, mostly because he can’t explain what half of it is. “There have been plenty of other pregnant men in the military who haven’t been taken off duty until closer to the end!”

“I have personally checked, and all of those men weren’t married to the Maou.” It would be funny, except Gwendal is perfectly, gravely serious. Wolfram tries not to set something on fire.

“You were never this overprotective of me before,” he complains. “You just want to make sure you get a cute nephew to stick Bando-dolphin hats on…”

Gwendal sighs.

(He also doesn’t deny it.)


Except for the irritating side effects and the sudden watch everyone’s got on him, being with child is fairly pleasant. Wolfram hates to admit it, but he loves the attention. He’s being spoiled rotten with gifts and well-wishes from around the countryside. It doesn’t hurt that Gunter can be heard sobbing in random corridors at all hours of the day. The ladies at court aren’t whispering spitefully about how he can’t even provide the king with a proper royal family (god, he loves seeing them go green with envy, the rabid witches). Both Wolfram and Yuuri’s mothers are doting on him with more abandon than usual, and that’s an awful lot.

Still, the best parts are the ones that should be taken for granted—but aren’t.

“Hello, I hope you’re having a good day! I, uh, see that you’ve got a new crib from your great uncle, huh? You know, I don’t like him very much, but he does give really nice gifts. Expensive stuff, though.”

Without looking up from his book, Wolfram says mildly, “Stop poisoning him against my uncle before he’s even born.”

Ear against Wolfram’s stomach, Yuuri frowns. “Hey, how do you know it’s a he?”

“Have you seen my family? Do you see any women besides my mother whatsoever?”

“Oh. Oh, I was kind of hoping for another little girl.”

Sighing, Wolfram folds his fingers in Yuuri’s hair; it’s heated from the sun that drifts in through the windows. He says, quite serious, “We could always take a tip from your mother and keep him in dresses until his voice changes.”

“H-hey! Not funny!”


One day, it comes. The gentlest, most subtle of swells.

Wolfram watches himself in the mirror. He smoothes his hands down his chest and stomach, feeling the curve that hadn’t been there before. Basking in the weight that’s settling on his hips.

“Don’t listen to him,” he says in delighted satisfaction. “Real men wear dresses all the time. My older brother’s best friend wears dresses!”

Then he adds hastily, “But don’t ever use Yozak as a role model.”


Of course, while it’s a joyous occasion, Wolfram has to put up with his fair share of irritations, too. Like how everyone seems to want to touch his stomach now. Or how Yuuri walks on eggshells around him (not a large change, but it’s increased exponentially). It’s also a little disappointing that he has to get entirely new clothes, ones which will inevitably need to be let out again in time, and while Wolfram doesn’t mind the weight gain (he’s always been ridiculously skinny, a chance is obviously in line) he can’t help but picture how awkward his final term is going to be. He’s already bumping his hip into things he shouldn’t be.

He tries to imagine what his son will be like. There’s not a lot else to do on sun-soaked afternoons. Wolfram pictures, in his hidden sentimentality, that the baby will have his husband’s cute looks and his own fiery personality. Or perhaps it will be the other way around. As long as it’s a combination of the two of them—something fully formed, taken from both roots, he doesn’t care. He wants to know what they could create, what something looks like when it’s been made from two equal halves. He imagines their child and he feels like it’s the puzzle piece that’s going to make him feel right.

“We should think of names,” Yuuri says softly, the next time he’s resting his cheek on Wolfram’s tummy. Wolfram’s gotten more or less used to it.

“It’s too early, wimp.”

“If you wait too long, he’ll end up with a name like Shibuya Yuuri Harujuku Furi,” Yuuri points out petulantly.

Wolfram smiles. “I was thinking Aleanoran.”

“Or that! That’s like Pochi’s name all over again!”

“You are not naming our son Pochi.”

“I didn’t mean that—”

“Besides, your name was all Weller’s fault!”

(To that, Yuuri really doesn’t have a reply. It’s kind of true.)


Shinou, he is so hungry now. All of the time. All of the day!

“Your Mazoku is burning at an increased rate to take on the toil of carrying child,” Gisela says sensibly. “Especially considering the projections that had to be put into place—I’m actually surprised you haven’t started binging earlier.”

Wolfram doesn’t like the sound of that word: binging.

But even though he ends up eating enough for three of his men (and they can devour an entire cow, he’s sure of it) per meal, most of it goes to his stomach. Which gets rounder and rounder, the swell becoming a firm curve of skin. With it come enough aches that Wolfram doesn’t care so much that Gwendal took him off of military duty for a while. Yes, actually, that had been a smart move.

Yuuri likes the balloon he’s got under his shirt, anyway. At first, Wolfram doesn’t get it—it must be some weird Earth thing—but he’s not complaining. He loves it. Loves the way Yuuri’s eyes light up when they see him and the baby. Loves the way his husband’s hands can’t stop touching, can’t cease the long strokes over his “baby bump” (whatever the hell that means, but Wolfram can guess). Loves how Yuuri kisses him, hot and possessive, uncharacteristic in his fervor. Like he’s finally owing up to his right. Like he’s seen the worth and it’s too much to bear.

At least, that’s what Wolfram likes to think.

Still. Their lovemaking is also really good, in a way he hadn’t expected. It’s nice to feel wanted so wholly for once. Sometimes Yuuri kisses the crest of his belly: once, lingering, his eyes closed and breath made of vulnerabilities.


Wolfram’s out on the balcony, watching the sallow orange of the sun as it sits down on the countryside. There’s a nice breeze that’s catching on his white shirt, the only thing big enough to tug over his tummy, and he’s alone, but it’s nice. It’s nice to be alone sometimes. He sighs.

Foosteps. He knows them as well as his own.

“Don’t tell me. My husband’s late for dinner because he’s still wrapped up in his stupid little game.”

“Baseball isn’t stupid to him,” Conrad remarks, noncommittal. He steps out into the light, hand resting at ease on his sword hilt. “But yes, he is.”

Wolfram snorts. His hand is folded over the baby, feeling its fullness, its presence. “Of course. That wimp.”

“Some things never change.”

“Yeah, but some things do.”

Conrad glances at him and smiles, a little wistful. When he speaks, it’s quietly. “I never thought I would live to see you like this. I’m happy. Parenthood becomes you, Wolfram.”

Oh. Oh, and how there’s always so much to say between them, but they can’t bear to tread there at all. Wolfram closes his eyes against the sunset.

“You’ll be a good uncle, Weller.”


Time passes and the novelty starts to wear thin. The summer is sweltering hot and Wolfram doesn’t like how the maids coo at him when he toddles around. Yuuri’s passion has faded into something tender and solitary; it’s equally pleasing, but doesn’t distract him as much. Sometimes Yuuri will surprise him by skipping work duties to come eat lunch with his pregnant husband in their bedroom, and life feels normal and a little bit precious again.

But then Wolfram’s back clenches up, or he has to walk up all of the goddamned steps in the castle, or he’s bored out of his mind. And he says, at this point to the baby, “If you’re anything like me, you’re as impatient as I am to get this over with.”

“Don’t goad our baby,” Yuuri protests.

“I think the baby’s goading me, actually. Ugh.”

His mother is a surprising relief from the world. She gives Wolfram perfumes and bath ointments that make his tension fade away. She listens when he rants. She still loves him, even the clumsy parts of him (perhaps those the most), when he’s done.

Conrad hovers like a phantom. Wolfram thinks one day, purely out of thin air, that it’ll truly be something if his brother guards their child like he guards Yuuri. He doesn’t say anything. They go on as they always have, but Wolfram reaches out for Conrad’s arm more for balance. Just because he’s there, and easier to grab than furniture, of course.


It’s a late hour, sticky and muggy. Rain clouds are forming along the edge of the horizon, but they haven’t gone any further. Wolfram closes his eyes, slumped against Yuuri’s side as they sit on the window bed, listening to the faint fury of thunder. Yuuri’s fingers gently rub circles along his very well-rounded belly, trying to soothe the tumbling inside of it.

“My heart jumped so high the first time he moved,” Wolfram mutters, shifting uncomfortably. He feels a little sick, a little raw. Can’t sleep like this. Can’t even move. “Now, I just wish he’d stop.”

“Shhh, baby,” Yuuri croons, like the goofball he is. “You’re going to make your other daddy barf, okay?”

“I think you’re the ‘other’ daddy.”

A patter of movement that sends his insides somersaulting. Wolfram blanches.

“Are you sure this is normal? He’s usually at least a little calm at this time of night.”

“I don’t know,” Wolfram says, and then there’s pain slicing him open.


Yuuri panics and wakes up half of the castle.

He’s early, thinks Wolfram, laying dazed on the bed. Magic spins around him and there’s something like wet fire against his heart, something too big to contain, something he’s never felt. It envelops him and the world spins.

Oops, comes the thought, just before Wolfram passes out. Sorry, I meant ‘she.’ You can’t blame me for trying.

Yuuri will never let him hear the end of this.


He wakes slow, his conscious unfurling from its crouch. The room is pressed with satisfying warmth born of fire in the hearth, and there’s a weight on his chest that’s moving: tiny, incremental movements.

Wolfram’s fingertips shake as they touch her back.

“I didn’t know what to do with her,” Yuuri tells him from the bedside, voice thick. He sounds like he had the first time he accepted himself as Maou, the first time he’d saved a life—the first time he told Wolfram he loved him. It’s strange. Wolfram’s never made a clear connection between those things before. “But Conrad did. He just… he set her right down on you, and patted her quiet. Oh my god, Wolfram.”

The baby. Oh, their baby. Soft, soft flesh and damp, snuffling noises. The start of a dark curl on her skull.

Wolfram tears up.

For a moment, Yuuri doesn’t move. Then he slides into bed beside them, pressing his fingers to their daughter’s pudgy cheek, and her lashes are long, and she’s perfect, she’s perfect.


Two hours later, they’re arguing over names.

The room’s already filling up fast with expensive presents and unidentified animal toys and princely little outfits that could only be Gunter’s doing. Wolfram decides he will burn them on principle. Their baby’s sleeping between them, unbothered by the soft but heated voices rolling over her head, and Conrad hasn’t left the door once, not even to eat dinner. He stands outside and he smiles and he had the honor of being the third person to hold her (“Just because no one else is around!” Wolfram insists).

“I was thinking maybe something, you know, Japanese.”

“Like Pochi.”

“Pochi is a dog’s name!” Yuuri says in exasperation.

“Then why did you name a dragon it?! Adelaide. Or Laetitia.”

“Oh my god, you’re as bad as Conrad. It runs in the family. I want to be able to give her a cute nickname, not—”

“You can make a lot of cute nicknames from those!”

(If this is how the next several decades are going to go, Wolfram’s never looked forward to anything more.)


The third time they talk about a blood-related heir, they’ve just finished reading Maren her fifth bedtime story and crept out of the room. This time they’re lucky enough not to wake her.

Wolfram groans and smacks Yuuri in the shoulder. “Have some self-control,” he complains. “If you can’t learn to say no to her, you’ll be in big trouble later.”

“I didn’t see you putting your foot down!” whispers Yuuri. They make a face at each other. In the darkness of the corridor, they follow these faces with a smile.

“Hey,” says Yuuri.


“Do you ever think about—”

the end

Fandom: Hetalia
Rating: Mature
Pairing: Canada/America
Summary: [Deanon from Hetalia Kink Meme, the Haskell House Opera House and Library with Canada topping.] Canada and America visit an old friend: the one place they literally have no boundaries.

For those who don't care to read the link: Haskell House was built in the early 1900s directly on the border of Vermont and Quebec. It's an international library and opera house, wherein Canadian and U.S. citizens can come in and read books or watch shows. A black line crosses the building, depicting the actual border. It's... gorgeous, and awesome, and recognized as a monument to the relationship between the Canadian and American people.

The House We Built

The mid-afternoon sunlight leaves the hardwood floor warm under America’s back, and he feels languid in it, like his bones are melting. It’s a nice feeling. He likes it. He likes how Canada’s touching him, too—broad palms sweeping down his chest and ribcage, over and over. And even though he should feel antsy, being laid out naked in the reading room like this, America’s never felt more at rest.

In all the world, there is only one place he can really be one with Canada. And he’s there now, the black line that divides Vermont from Quebec present between his shoulder blades.

“You can’t just close the place down ‘for repairs’ because you want sex,” Canada chides him. But his fingers don’t stop moving, teasing the muted red of America’s nipples. He’s straddling his brother, and America can feel the erection bulging against the seam of Canada’s jeans every time he shifts his weight. “It’s not fair to our people. And I was kind of busy with other things, eh, all the trouble going on in Toronto—”

“S’why I figured I’d interrupt you,” America says seriously. He cups Canada’s hips, loving the weight of him. “You’re all wrinkle-faced. Wound up.”

Canada sighs, but it’s a nice sigh. “Huh, so I see. Wrinkle-faced. Great.”

“Besides, you’re the one that closed down the opera house just so I could fuck you over the balcony edge that one time. The night before a show, no less.”

A few decades ago, Canada might’ve gone red in the cheekbones and ears, but now he makes a face instead. America’s a little disappointed about that, but he forgets it, he forgets everything when Canada pushes himself up and settles between America’s legs. The sun catches on Canada’s hair and the curve of his jaw, and god, his brother’s gorgeous. Really just… something else. It’s been centuries and he still has the power to make America take pause (and recognize that he’s damned lucky everyone else seems to glance over Canada and ignore his potential, not that he’d ever tell Canada so).

“Sometimes I just feel like I need to be here so bad,” Canada tells him, noncommittal. He unbuttons his jeans and unzips, the sound of metal tugging against metal too loud in the quiet of the library.

“Yeah,” mumbles America. He knows. God, he knows. This place—so much of the both of them put together, built into walls and doors and bookcases—gets to him in the same way. To be a nation means having boundaries, for reasons related to both safety and sanity. But their border has always been smudged and softened, and here, only here, it doesn’t exist at all.

The house they’ve built is only their own.

“All right down there?” Canada asks, taking the lube out of his pocket. He uncaps it and slicks his fingers up, rubbing them together.


“Good spot?”

“Yeah. Wanna take a nap here after you do me.”

“Right in front of the windows. Classy.”

“That’s the spirit,” he murmurs, fighting a smile. “But I don’t think it’s the nap we should worry about people seeing, y’know?”

Canada laughs under his breath. Jutting from the opening in his jeans, his erection bobs; it’s a pretty ripe-peach shade in the lighting. When he leans over America, stealing a kiss that’s all wet tongue and shared breath, the world is blocked out. He keeps kissing America as he presses his thumb against the thin sheen of skin behind America’s balls, rubbing the pucker until it seems almost natural, entirely at ease, to slip inside.

Still, America’s heart skips a few beats.

They’re silent a while as Canada opens him up, coaxing his body to accept two and then three fingers. Normally at this point, America’s awash in hot and cold sensations, focusing on the threat of foreign invasion and how this isn’t it: your brother safe he’s safe you can trust him let him in it’s okay he’s safe. But today, they’re in the house they built, and America’s entire being is thrumming in pleasure and left wanting more. Today, America widens his knees. Grips big fistfuls of Canada’s hair, urging him closer.

“Take it easy,” Canada breathes. Which makes America want to laugh; if there’s one thing he’s always sucked at, it’s taking it easy.

But he doesn’t laugh, because Canada’s fingers are buried inside of him to the knuckles—and moving, too, tiny increments at a time. He swallows and grasps himself, swollen and aching. It’s a good distraction from the waiting. He likes the foreplay, he really does, but sometimes America just wants to be full now.

Canada hums against his stomach, mouth leaving a damp trail to his navel. “Ready?” he asks. “And not your level of ready—mine.”

“M’ready by anyone’s standards.”

“For sure?”

“Canada, for sure,” says America, rubbing his brother’s cheeks. He grins and knows that it comes off a little wild, a little in love. “Push it in, mm’kay?”

There’s something a little dark and wondering in Canada’s gaze; it goes straight to America’s arousal, electrifying. He bites his lip as Canada pulls his fingers free with a wet noise, the leftover lube smeared against his inner thigh. “So bossy,” murmurs Canada, holding him under the thighs as he presses in closer, the tip of his erection nudging and finding its place. “I wish you weren’t so much.”

And then he pushes forward, and America’s next breath gets lost somewhere on the way up his esophagus, and the sun’s hitting the stained glass windows and scattering color across the walls. There’s no adjustment period; one minute, he’s empty and the next, he’s full.

“Fuck,” Canada whispers, the curse uncharacteristic. His hips undulate in a clumsy fashion as if out of control, and America loses all of the breaths that follow. “Fuck, you just… you just took it all in easy, you…”

His spine is grinding against the painted line every time Canada rocks into him. America gasps, arching up and rubbing his groin against his brother’s stomach. “Oh jesus,” he says, hearing the words like they belong to someone else. “Don’ just—hngh! There, there you’ve…”

Stretching out over him, Canada takes his mouth and they kiss. America isn’t sure why he needs to have oxygen anymore; his whole existence narrows to the wood beneath his bones, the cloying heat of Canada’s mouth, the precum that slickens between them and the eager way all of America accepts Canada into him. Almost unwilling to pull out, Canada keeps his thrusts rolling and long, asking a little more each time and getting it. No one else could ask it of America, but Canada can.

It’s over too soon. It always is. America twists away from Canada’s kiss and clutches him tight, cheek pressed to cheek. He can feel something shaking let loose inside of him, knocked out of line as Canada fucks him into the floor. When he comes, he bellows into Canada’s shoulder.

When the aftershocks fade, and the space between them is sticky-damp from America’s come, Canada kisses him again. Tenderly, like a secret told.

They couldn’t tell anyone what that secret is, though.

America nips his bottom lip. He can still feel Canada, twitching deep in him. Waiting. He doesn’t speak. Instead, he takes Canada’s hips and moves them, drawing them forward and then back, once and then twice. Go ahead. Finish it, you dork.

Canada groans, low in his chest. He takes over, pumping into America until the rhythm because erratic. He stares down at America with his mouth open, panting harshly in the silence, caught on the sight of him covered in his own come (at least, that’s what America likes to think he’s looking at). He touches America, every so often, and just when America thinks he’s going to get stimulated from the shocks of pleasure and get going for another round, his brother squeezes his eyes shut and hisses through his teeth. He doesn’t move, but America feels it when it happens.

His stomach jumps around a bit. Pushing the damp fringe of Canada’s hair from his face, America kisses him: his chin, his nose, his forehead. Playful, amused kisses. “Took you a while,” he tells him. “I’m not losing my touch, am I?”

When he can speak, Canada mutters, “Floor hurts my knees.” He pulls out, his limp cock still hanging out of his jeans.

America blinks. “Oh.”

“You’re not really going to nap on it, are you?”

He had been going to, but Canada looks flushed and hopeful. He likes to cuddle up afterward, and America decides the sunny floor-nap can wait. “I guess we could try the bean bag chair,” he reasons.

Canada smiles. It’s worth it.

(The library stays locked until the evening, as they sleep a little later than planned and wake tangled in each other. It smells like books and autumn. Canada goes to find something hot to drink, wandering shirtless down the corridor, and America stays behind to listen to their house make settling noises. The world is waiting for them, but for now, he’s going to wait for Canada to come back with the coffee.)


Nnff, bed.
Tags: hetalia fic, kkm fic
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