(no subject)
"MADDIE!"
Divebombed and somewhat pinned on her own couch by her southern neighbor, Canada seriously begins to wonder about his intentions at times. The hands on her shoulders, the way he tucks his chin over her shoulder, and the protective looks he gives her when he thinks she's not looking. She notices, how can she not, when he's so obvious.
Such a protective brother. She wonders when he'll notice she's grown up. Or remember that he teased her, tormented her, pulled her braids...burned her land. Past is past, but she doesn't need the protection, her quiet fortitude and terrifying skill in battle are proof of that. Even he was a bit scared when she showed up during WWII with her hair tucked up and her eyes a fire.
Matthew Williams indeed. He'd yelled at her for that but she had brushed it off. She contemplated that moment again for a little while and then America shifted on her shoulder and frowned up at her.
"Maddie what's wrong?"
Canada smiled at his pouting, brushing his hair back and shrugging. Her smile curls into a little smirk as she raises an eyebrow.
"Nothing's wrong America. Just you know, was watching that." Her free hand, you know the one not smushed under his shoulder gestured at the game. It was a rerun of a game last week, but she hadn't seen it and she did want to watch it. However he had the remote in her hands and was flicking through the channels.
Goddamnit.
"Hey Maddie, did you talk to Cuba last week?"
Oh not this again. He was always worried Canada would 'go commie' or something.
"Yes I did. He's sweet America, don't be so rude. He offered to take me on his boat."
There went his little rage, the argument, the constant defense and denial. Cuba was just a friend. Kind and loving, she liked to go down in the winter, shed the heavy jackets and just bask in the sunlight. He never asked for more than her company and they were happy with just their ice cream and a beach.
She'd never get why America got that look in his eye when she spent time with any male nation. It scared her a little, the way he looked like he'd swallow her whole or lock her in a room to keep her safe. It's a reminder of why she had plans against his invasion for years past the time most consider it necessary. It's thrilling too, his looks, his concern, and dare she say it, possessiveness.
His sister, no one else's right? Or...
This time with him pressed against her shoulder, in her face, it's terrifying thrilling. The back and forth, the exasperation in her voice, the unyielding stubbornness in his, they give and take in a familiar rhythm. She won't stop seeing her friends. He won't stop hating them. It's an argument they'll never stop having--
His lips pressed to hers, his eyes wild and he's never been like this before. He's never kissed her before. Oh. Oh. That's why. She kisses back because it's brilliant and new and thrilling in and of itself, but she pushes him back.
"That doesn't change anything." She says, just as stubborn as he is, and his lips dip to kiss her again, almost shy in the light of her acceptance. His words are just as stubborn.
"It should." Her beret falls to the floor.
"I won't stop seeing my friends." Her hands tangle in his hair and he drops the remote. The channel changes to news and they both have to scramble for it before mention of the wrong country sours the mood. But what mood even is this.
"I won't America, I won't stop seeing them just because you're jealous."
He groans and mutters into her lips.
"Stop talking about other people when you're kissing me."
Divebombed and somewhat pinned on her own couch by her southern neighbor, Canada seriously begins to wonder about his intentions at times. The hands on her shoulders, the way he tucks his chin over her shoulder, and the protective looks he gives her when he thinks she's not looking. She notices, how can she not, when he's so obvious.
Such a protective brother. She wonders when he'll notice she's grown up. Or remember that he teased her, tormented her, pulled her braids...burned her land. Past is past, but she doesn't need the protection, her quiet fortitude and terrifying skill in battle are proof of that. Even he was a bit scared when she showed up during WWII with her hair tucked up and her eyes a fire.
Matthew Williams indeed. He'd yelled at her for that but she had brushed it off. She contemplated that moment again for a little while and then America shifted on her shoulder and frowned up at her.
"Maddie what's wrong?"
Canada smiled at his pouting, brushing his hair back and shrugging. Her smile curls into a little smirk as she raises an eyebrow.
"Nothing's wrong America. Just you know, was watching that." Her free hand, you know the one not smushed under his shoulder gestured at the game. It was a rerun of a game last week, but she hadn't seen it and she did want to watch it. However he had the remote in her hands and was flicking through the channels.
Goddamnit.
"Hey Maddie, did you talk to Cuba last week?"
Oh not this again. He was always worried Canada would 'go commie' or something.
"Yes I did. He's sweet America, don't be so rude. He offered to take me on his boat."
There went his little rage, the argument, the constant defense and denial. Cuba was just a friend. Kind and loving, she liked to go down in the winter, shed the heavy jackets and just bask in the sunlight. He never asked for more than her company and they were happy with just their ice cream and a beach.
She'd never get why America got that look in his eye when she spent time with any male nation. It scared her a little, the way he looked like he'd swallow her whole or lock her in a room to keep her safe. It's a reminder of why she had plans against his invasion for years past the time most consider it necessary. It's thrilling too, his looks, his concern, and dare she say it, possessiveness.
His sister, no one else's right? Or...
This time with him pressed against her shoulder, in her face, it's terrifying thrilling. The back and forth, the exasperation in her voice, the unyielding stubbornness in his, they give and take in a familiar rhythm. She won't stop seeing her friends. He won't stop hating them. It's an argument they'll never stop having--
His lips pressed to hers, his eyes wild and he's never been like this before. He's never kissed her before. Oh. Oh. That's why. She kisses back because it's brilliant and new and thrilling in and of itself, but she pushes him back.
"That doesn't change anything." She says, just as stubborn as he is, and his lips dip to kiss her again, almost shy in the light of her acceptance. His words are just as stubborn.
"It should." Her beret falls to the floor.
"I won't stop seeing my friends." Her hands tangle in his hair and he drops the remote. The channel changes to news and they both have to scramble for it before mention of the wrong country sours the mood. But what mood even is this.
"I won't America, I won't stop seeing them just because you're jealous."
He groans and mutters into her lips.
"Stop talking about other people when you're kissing me."