This is what I do when I should be studying. I'm such a dumbass.

Apr 04, 2009 14:50

Semi-recent Kink Meme Fills! :D

(If you're not into Hetalia, just read the last one. The others are more or less shameless smut.)

Title: Hockey Night in Canada
Author/Artist: blacknoise
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Canada/UK
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Some cussing
Summary: Arthur finds a different side of Matthew during the "Battle of Ontario".



The Hockey Night in Canada theme song would be stuck in his head for the next while, he thought, a little sourly. Canada was panting the theme under his breath, punctuating the phrases of the jaunty tune with sharp thrusts and a mercilessly jerking hand, mouth moist against his ear.

Of course, Arthur should have seen it coming.

One of his brief, rare visits to Matthew’s house in Ottawa (just housekeeping; checking up on the old charge, eh wot) had resulted in an earnest plea to go watch tonight’s hockey game together. Canada had, of course, excellent seats not far from the players’ boxes at center ice. None of this jabber had any particular relevance to England, but if he was honest, he didn’t have plans that night, nor did he fancy pub-crawling alone in the Market when it was colder than Morgaine’s tit outside. A bit of sport never did any harm.

So he’d hopped into Canada’s car with him, and headed out of the city proper to some obscure suburban hell…Kanata, was it?-in the west, where the arena was. Canada drove through ice and snowdrifts the way America drove down sunlit freeways; with speed, control, and a hint of reckless abandon (he even skid the car into its parking spot, twirling neatly on a patch of black ice while Arthur held his breath).

They wove through a crowd of rabid, jersey-wearing, painted Canadians (not so unlike the football matches at home; this much he could understand), and to their seats, which, he had to admit, did offer an excellent view of the ice. There was some pomp and ceremony with a dramatic dimming of the lights and some lasers as the players filed out onto the ice. The announcer’s booming voice proclaimed them the Toronto Maple Leafs and the Ottawa Senators.

Canada was literally bouncing in his seat, repeating “BattleofOntarioBattleofOntarioBattleofOntario” under his breath and grinning from ear to ear. He stilled a little at Arthur’s increasingly dour look. Really, it was hardly seemly to-and then they were singing O Canada, the entire stadium singing dutifully along. It was a short song, really, but Arthur couldn’t miss the glow on Matthew’s face, the way he stood that much taller when his people sang his song.

Little flicker of pride in his former ward.

The game began, and Arthur was instantly bored. He hadn’t bothered to learn the finer points of the rules of hockey. Terms like “icing” made him think of cakes, and it was hard to visualize “offside” when he was so used to the 11-player rules on the football field. Basics were simple enough, he surmised. Skate with puck on stick; attempt to place puck in net. Standard attack and defense. On ice, of all things.

Then some Toronto bloke called Devereaux slammed an Ottawa man-did that say “Fisher”? Whatever; Number 12-into the Plexiglas sideboards. There was a roar of indignation from the predominantly red-wearing crowd. He assumed the play would be stopped. He saw Canada tense up out of the corner of his eye.

But no, Fisher turned around and punched the man in the face. Arthur’s jaw dropped, and he looked to Canada for an explanation, but Matthew was out of his seat, his gentle, placid face twisted into a bloodthirsty snarl.

“Punch his fucking head in!” Mathew bellowed, tossing his cup of beer angrily into the crowd. Given that both players had each other by the collar and were trading blows with equal intensity, it was impossible to tell which player he was screaming at. Then again, Arthur mused, still frozen in shock, Matthew was wearing a Team Canada jersey-he probably didn’t have a favourite in this match. Was he just here for the-then a few more players from each team hopped on what was rapidly becoming a bloody pile of large, angry men. Arthur cocked his head to the side. Again, he’d forgotten that Canada was of a similar stature to most of those players; tall, broad-shouldered… but usually a complete pushover.

Not tonight, however; as referees struggled to pull the angry players off of one another, Canada’s features remained fixed on the ice, eyes bright and sharp like a warrior’s. It was rather fetching on him, actually. Refreshing, after decades of his being little more than unremarkable background noise. Arthur pursed his lips, considering.

Canada’s fists were tight, whole body a lovely tense line as the offending players were relegated to the penalty box. Two minutes of downtime for that kind of violence? Arthur shook his head in wonder. If this had happened on a football field, most of those players would be banned for life. Unless they were on their way out anyway, like Zinedine Zidane. He snorted to himself, recalling Francis’ anguished cries of “Mais pourquoi?!?!?! Mais pourquoi?!?!!?” back at the World Cup some years back.

His train of thought was summarily derailed with one glance south of Canada’s 49th parallel. There, nudging subtly against Matthew’s jeans, a discerning eye could note that Southern Ontario had been slightly awakened by the sheer violence of the “battle of Ontario”. Arthur stared a little more, then began to consider his options.

He really hadn’t had Canada since those tumultuous times when he was steering the boy away from France, and at the time, it had been mostly a bittersweet (accent on the bitter) affair. In time, Canada had fallen into line nicely, and become so complacent and eager-to-please that he really held little interest for him. This uncharacteristic streak of violence was a welcome surprise.

Expression still fierce, Canada sat down as the game resumed. Arthur never considered himself as ostentatiously unsubtle as Francis, yet, in a very French move, his hand found its way into Matthew’s lap. Matthew’s loud cheering during the powerplay cut off into a strangled noise when Arthur’s hand squeezed insistently. There was a lot to grab. Arthur felt his face heating up.

“…A-Arthur?” Matthew yelped, giving him a wide-eyed, confused stare, while intermittently checking back on the game.

“I think we have pressing matters to address, Matthew,” Arthur said, hoping he sounded nonchalant enough.

“What are you…” Arthur squeezed again, just a little, to emphasize his point. Canada swallowed audibly, pressing into the touch ever-so-slightly. “…Oh. C-can we wait until after the game?”

“No.”

An interesting noise from the back of his throat. “Nnng, fine. The period will be over in another few seconds.” Then Canada fully ignored him for that stretch of time, watching the game intently. Even with a hand groping at his burgeoning vital regions.

The moment the last player cleared off the ice, Arthur was up and moving, dragging Matthew along close behind him. They ducked into the first public bathroom they happened upon. Arthur put on his best full-browed glare and the one man by the urinals beat a hasty retreat. Arthur locked the door behind him.

“Now then,” he said, moving in on a still largely bemused Canada, “I had no idea you enjoyed bloodsports so much, Matthew.”

Canada moaned a little while England undid the front of his jeans, “It’s…aah, not a bloodsport. The fighting is just a-a perk.”

“Whatever it is, you certainly seem to enjoy it,” Arthur murmured, pushing Matthew back against the wall (and setting off the automatic hand-dryer in the process). He yanked Canada’s pants down with little ceremony, then maneuvered the boxer-briefs off as well.

…Victoria, by the grace of God.

Arthur paused for a second, just to make sure he wasn’t seeing things. “My, but you’ve grown,” he breathed. Canada mumbled something, flushing embarrassedly. Arthur ignored him, pushing Matthew’s jersey up for better access. Matthew’s hand came up quickly to swat his away. Mmm, and that aggressive streak had returned full-bore.

“Jersey stays on,” Canada said, in a flat tone that, amazingly, brooked absolutely no opposition. Arthur shrugged, wrapping a hand around Matthew’s erection and pumping it firmly.

Matthew fairly melted back against the wall, hips arching up to meet Arthur’s hand. Arthur felt one hand slide into his hair, urging him downward. Arthur resisted for a second (and the impudent kid’s insistent push got stronger) but then capitulated, kneeling on the bathroom floor. He wasn’t particularly fond of (or good at) the subtleties of elaborate sex, much preferring to just drive for the (ideally) inevitable conclusion. So, without another word, he took Canada as deep as he possibly could, though he still found room for a whole hand and change between his lips and Matthew’s hips. Matthew moaned raggedly, tugging on Arthur’s hair in pleasure as Arthur bobbed on his length, working his hand mercilessly.

Then that damnable theme song began to play. Honestly, how had he missed the TVs mounted on every wall in the bathroom!? Of course, Canada’s attention was instantly split; he tried to watch the replays of the best plays of the first period, all the while having his knob polished (spectacularly, Arthur didn’t hesitate to add). England removed his mouth, cleared his throat, and barked, “Matthew! A little focus, please!” Indeed, there were angry muffled shouts and frantic knocking at the bathroom door already. It was only a matter of time before somebody found a custodian with a key.

Canada was watching the replay of the big fight. The warm, heavy erection in Arthur’s hands twitched gamely. Beneath the Team Canada jersey, Matthew’s chest rose and fell dramatically. He finally tore his eyes from the television and looked Arthur full in the face with a mouthwatering intensity that had his trousers tightening to a painful degree.

“Stand up,” Matthew said, his voice husky and low. Arthur frowned, confused, but got up. Immediately, Canada had hands on him, tugging his fly down and releasing him from the confines of his trousers. He sighed gratefully at Canada’s touch, leaning in a little so that he could continue stroking him while Matthew lavished attention on him.

Canada’s hands were calloused and warm, much like America’s, yet there were subtleties to his touch; a skillful, delicate use of his fingertips as he stroked that was a hundred and ten percent France. Over all of this, though, were little things that were distinctly Canada; his subtle smell of pine, woodsmoke, and maple syrup, the steady patience in his touch (though the strokes were perfect and forcing him very quickly towards the inevitable), and that fetching way that he bit his lip, even when he was taking charge of the situation.

Arthur kissed him then, pressing close, their hands still working double-time between them. Canada responded spectacularly, growling and tugging on Arthur’s bottom lip with his teeth. Where have you been hiding, England wondered silently, groaning shakily at the raw eroticism of the gesture. Matthew grabbed his ass with his free hand and tugged him even closer, so that their hips very nearly met.

Then the TV again. Announcing that the game would resume in five minutes.

“Shit,” Canada cursed, “We’ve got to hurry.” He quickened his pace, and England had to grab his shoulder with one hand to remain standing.

“I’m sure it’s not terribly important if we’re a few minutes late,” Arthur tried to placate him.

Matthew frowned, looking at Arthur as though he’d blasphemed. “Not a chance.”

The issue was, their rhythms were all off from one another; whenever Arthur thought he’d established a good one, Matthew would use his damned Francis-hand, and make him buck and shiver uncontrollably, thereby compromising Arthur’s own efforts with him.

Canada stopped, looking mightily aroused, but also very fustrated. “This isn’t working, Arthur,” he said and by God somehow he made his plaintive tone sound commanding and sexy so England just looked at him stupidly. Matthew sighed. “Okay, let’s try this, then.”

Arthur felt himself being wheeled around to face the mirrors. Canada bent him over the sink, settled in behind him, and reached around to grip his arousal with one hand. He froze when he felt Canada’s cock slipping in between his ass cheeks. “M-Matthew!” he bit out, because that was too big, too fast, “I’m not-I’m not-”

“Ne t’inquiète pas, I’m not going to,” Canada murmured, hot breath tickling his neck. No, Canada stayed right where he was, wedged comfortably between England’s rhythmically clenching cheeks, rutting up against him while he jerked Arthur off with new urgency.

So here he was, bent over a bathroom sink with Matthew huffing the Hockey Night in Canada theme song into the ticklish place behind his earlobe as he thrust erratically against him. He was sure to have a dent on his thighs from the counter’s edge, and numerous inexplicable hickeys on his neck from Matthew’s impressive enthusiasm, but he was too far gone to care. This was turning out to be an incredibly fortunate discovery. He’d almost dubbed Canada a eunuch at one point. Certainly not the case.

“-and the players are ready to take the ice again-” came the announcer’s voice.

With a curse that he muffled by biting down hard on the muscle between Arthur’s neck and shoulder, Canada came, his release hot and sticky in the cleft of his ass. Arthur made a long, strained sound as Canada’s grip tightened spasmodically. One fierce pump of his hand and Arthur was over the edge as well, ruining the clean finish of the mirror and dribbling into the sink.

Canada leaned on him for a moment, as his breathing slowed back down. Arthur felt him press a feather-light kiss to the nape of his neck, the kind of soft, loving gesture that only Canada would make. Then his warmth was gone and he heard Matthew a few steps away, raiding the paper towel dispenser.

“Okay, we’ve gotta go, second period’s starting,” he said, suddenly in a rush again. Arthur wiped himself clean, half-assed the cleanup of the sink and mirror, and pulled his trousers back up. Feeling wonderfully sated, he followed Matthew back out of the bathroom, ignoring the irate glares of a line of spectators with very full bladders.

They reached their seats right as the Sens and Leafs prepared for their face-off, and just as Arthur found himself wondering if he would ever see this mesmerizing other side of Canada again, Matthew leaned over (eyes already watching the play, of course) and whispered out of the corner of his mouth, “…There’s another break in twenty minutes, eh.”

I grew up in Kanata, can you tell?

Title: Russia Pink
Author/Artist: blacknoise
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Russia/Canada/Russia
Rating: R-to-NC-17
Warnings: RUSSIA/CANADA
Summary: Russia hears that Canada is pretty big. He feels the need to remind him that he is much, much bigger. (this is a total crack fill.)



Matthew was, needless to say, a bit ticked off at being woken at 3 am to heavy knocking on his door. Groggily, he made his way downstairs and opened the front door, taking a step back due to the very large Russian occupying the doorframe.

“Um… Hi… Ivan…!” Canada blurted, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Friend Matthew,” Ivan cooed, sounding anything but friendly, “There is a rumour I am hearing lately.”

“Er-what about?” Canada asked. He began to feel slightly nervous.

Without asking permission, Ivan stepped in and shut Matthew’s door behind him. Matthew backpedalled a step for every step Ivan took forward until, with a start, he realized he was pinned against a wall.

“There have been whispers,” Ivan said softly, sibilantly, “That you are quite the man between the legs-“ he punctuated this with one large hand brutally grabbing at Matthew’s pyjama-clad crotch, squeezing just this side of excruciating.

Matthew winced and sucked in air through his teeth. “What the fuck?” He hissed eloquently, bringing up hands to shove the larger man away, only to have both his wrists trapped above his head.

Ivan palmed him. Rubbed that big, heavy hand against flannel PJs until the noises of protest Matthew made softened and deepened. “Yes,” Ivan hissed, “Quite the man.” He let him go suddenly, leaving Matthew panting, hard, and still cornered. Through the fog of sleep, fear, and traitorous arousal, he vaguely made out the sound of Ivan unbuttoning his coat and unzipping his fly.

He pulled out something that could bludgeon several baby seals at a time. Canada’s eyebrows took up residence in the vicinity of his hairline. “Friend Matthew,” Ivan said, huffing lightly as he stroked himself to hardness (and Matthew wondered what on earth he’d done to deserve this ridiculous situation AT THREE IN THE MORNING) “I do hope you are not forgetting that I am bigger than you.”

Nearly half again as big, in fact.

“Ivan,” Matthew said placatingly, looking anywhere but at that massive thing, “Anybody with a globe knows you’re much bigger than me. The biggest. We know.”

Russia leaned in, sandwiching Canada against the wall. His monstrous dick pressed intimidatingly on Matthew’s abdomen. “Da. Do not forget it. I have been hearing many news about you and yours, comrade.”

Matthew bit his lip, screwing up his courage. Took a deep breath. “I-Ivan, it’s only because I’m still small enough to actually fuck somebody without killing them. Unless people are looking to get filleted, they’re not going to go running to you, eh.”

Ivan looked at him, dumbfounded.

Something dawned on Matthew then. “Holy caribou-beaver-Bonhomme-poutine.” He gasped, shell-shocked. “You’re a bottom.”

Ivan turned a flustered shade of Russia Pink. He hoisted Matthew up the two-inch difference in their heights by the collar. “But I am still the biggest.,” he snarled, with all the ferocity of a bear cub on opiates.

Smiling a little awkwardly, Matthew put it to him. “Yes, yes you are.” Even though he was dangling by his t-shirt, he set to rubbing Ivan’s freakishly huge cock with his inner thigh. The big man shivered. “So why don’t I go sit down over there,” he jerked his chin toward a large, plush armchair, “and you can hop on and ride me.” Ivan nodded vigorously, attacking Matthew’s neck with sloppy vodka kisses.

They went on to discuss arctic sovereignty over an increasingly sweaty armchair. Vast stretches of Canadian territory penetrated deep into Siberian waters, and yet Russia remained on top.

Title: Breathe
Author/Artist: blacknoise
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Canada, with late cameos from US, UK, and France
Rating: R for substance abuse and general misery
Warnings: Don't huff gas. It's a very bad idea.
Summary: Canada finds oblivion in organic solvents. (It's kind of a mini-comment on the substance abuse/marginalization issues in Northern communities as well)



Breathe

Matthew Williams, Canada, inhalants (gas-huffing).
Late-1990s

He seeks the cold and silence of the North when he feels lost in the flow and tide of the world. He’s second-class, second-best forgettable with all the noise of important nations around him. Arthur doesn’t call. Francis doesn’t care. Alfred loves Alfred and cannot see beyond the tip of his own nose. Matthew is tired of giving. He’s tired of needing the reinforcement and the validation and the love that he can’t help but believe is there, even though he is given precious little to go on.

Like a dog sniffing at scraps. He’s even sicker of himself than he is of them.

He’s up North in Labrador for the escape, hovering around the outskirts of Davis Inlet, halfway to Natuashish, bundled against the frigid wind. It’s stark here, bold and rugged and truly, truly solitary. He’s drunk all he can drink, already smoked his quarter of pot to heady ashes (one’s legal and one may as well be so it’s not like he has a problem, here). It’s 2 pm and he should be wasted, with all that he’s put in his system already, but his mind still hovers, circles back to his own inadequacy like carrion flies on a hunk of dead elk. An hour passes as he circles through the forest aimlessly, until, while striding loose-limbed and heavy-hearted down a slope, he comes upon a small tent in the brush with young laughter bubbling out of it.

It’s not like him to just come down and barge on into somebody else’s tent, but he’s losing his high and sobering up and he’s half afraid he’ll do something drastic if it’s just him and his inadequacy and his self-loathing and the wild.

So he calls out. “Anyone there?” Of course there is, but it’s only polite to ask.

An Innu kid, maybe fifteen, opens the tent-flap and staggers out, looking up at him blearily. “Whasssyernaame?” He demands, hands out and reaching as though he’s blind.

“Canada,” he says.
Caustic, jaded laughter from inside the tent, and from the dazed-looking kid, whose teeth are warped and rotten in front. “Huh. Huh-huh-huh. Canada,” the kid mumbles. “Fuck Canada-whassyername.”

“Matthew.”

“Wanna get high?”

---

He hovers over the gas canister, looking at the faces of the stoned, absent Innu teenagers warily (most aren’t even looking at him anymore, just watching shadows and light along the walls of the tent). One of the younger ones smiles, dopey and intoxicated and so vague-yes, that’s what he’s been chasing. He takes one deep breath of clean air, already touched with the odor of gasoline, fixes his lips around the open lid, and breathes it in.

The first hit is like a sucker punch to the brain. He blacks out for a second, then comes back, crawling on all fours blindly like an animal. His fingers tingle-burn-tingle, and so do his toes. Blood pounds heavy in his skull like drums around a fire and thinking just stops for one blissful second. It’s over in a matter of minutes, the blank confusion and empty apathy is gone and he presses a hand to his head to stave off the brutal headache that it’s left in its wake. The taste of gasoline vapor on his tongue is making him nauseous. The kid next to him passes up his hit and gives the canister back to him. He hits it again.

And England’s not looking the other way.

And again.

And France holds him close, sings Christmas carols in French on a frozen winter night

And again.

America stands side by side with him, not far (too-far) ahead and playing his own game

Time has passed. He doesn’t know how much.

He’s on his own again, ambling through a snowy clearing with a plastic bag full of gasoline sloshing in one numb hand. Things flicker through his mind, but he can’t hang on to them long enough to process anything. Every now and then he takes another hit. He thinks: Alone blank Safe blank Secret blank. Sucks more fumes from the bag.

And it’s grey, greyer than grey with shadowed snow and bruised monochrome sky and words, words he should know, words he should remember, things he should be thinking but he can’t because it’s so grey.

He breathes. Steps. Breathes. Steps. Lifts the bag to his face for another hit, and as the solvent swirls up and into his lungs like noxious organic death he’s gone.

He’s fallen onto something soft and cold. He’s just looking up at the grim, silver sky while he feels like every molecule in his body is flying apart.

He’s not sure where he is anymore.

2 years later

Frostbite has stolen three of his fingers and most of his toes. Alfred says this, loudly and paranoid, when he finds him one day near Detroit, huffing from a bag with his head lolling back, rolling eyes, and drool streaming from his mouth. What Alfred was doing coming out of a shady back alley, nose twitching like a rabbit’s, and eyes too fever-bright, he can’t think to ask. It’s hard enough just trying to keep from swallowing his own lax tongue. The way his head’s tilted he can see the powder-white caked inside Alfred’s nostrils. Instead of saying something, he coughs a little, gurgling, from all the drool.

Nowadays, he has to put serious effort into keeping his head upright even at the best of times. People are put off by the frown of concentration on his face as he tries to string their words together into sentences that make sense to him. They’re even more put off by his slurring, hazy speech (sometimes directed at people who aren’t there) and the reek of gasoline fumes pouring from his clothes, from his mouth.

When Arthur (with arms bruised heinously with track-marks, he can’t say) and Francis (haggard, gnashing his teeth, wasted to nothing from bad E, he can’t say) drag him off to a treatment facility, he can only laugh dreamily and smile. Finally, some attention.

fanfic, hetalia

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