I wrote this for fun guys because I decided America needed some sweet Canadian loving after getting the short end of the stick for a while now. -pets her nation lovingly- Enjoy~~~
Warnings: inaccuracy, stupidity, crack, language, sex, nonsense, slash, OOC-ness, fail, etc
Pairing: US/Can (use of country names)
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia
America has never seriously thought about settling down. He's a bachelor, through and through. He likes to mess around. He's an ass man, likes thighs, and is deathly afraid of breasts.
Like seriously, ladies, cover up your bosoms. Babies drink from those. But feel free to wear short skirts. As long as your va-jay-jay is covered (because babies come from those), America has no problem with a little bit of skin.
Unless, you know, it's degrading to women. That's just not cool so sometimes he'll stick to guys. Not because he's gay (even though there's nothing wrong with being homo, he's just not) but because there's less work in winning over a guy. Girls, while pretty and soft and nice-smelling, just aren't the same. They expect commitment and flowers and for him to ditch the Sunday night football game for cuddling.
But guys? Guys take care of themselves. They don't give a fuck about two week anniversaries or whether or not he wears the same shirt three days in a row. Guys don't even fucking care if you give them a reach around. Guys don't burst into tears when you tell them to "shut up and make me a sandwich" after calling you a "chauvinist asshole". No, a guy punches you in the jaw and says, "Fuck you, bro".
That's why he's messing around with Canada.
"If I get off this couch, I'm not coming back." The younger nation responds, tipping back his can of beer. "By the way, your beer is watery piss."
"Hats should be seen, not heard." America laughs, already wrapping an arm around his neighbor/brother/twin/bro with benefits and ignoring the other blond's grumbled "you're such a fucking hoser".
Their little agreement has been going on since, pretty much forever and a year. America isn't sure how it started, but once upon a time Canada just kissed him and it was pretty awesome (because Canada tasted a little bit like syrup and his lips were soft and he let America squeeze his butt and then he just moaned and then, well, it escalated from there) so they decided to do it again and again over the years. Even at their lowest points, Canada would nibble at the tip of his pen while watching America with his lashes lowered and America would wink and mouth lewd things from across the table (much to England's consternation and France's pride along with their Bosses' frustration).
It just got more awesome after the Sexual Revolution.
But they couldn't help it. They were so irrevocably entwined, in so many ways, that their repeated trysts felt so natural that no one even came close. Sure, Canada moved on to Ukraine and there was that one thing with Belgium and Seychelles. And sometimes he and the Netherlands got high and Canada would wake up, chained to the wall, mouth gagged with the still hard European inside him. Oh, and there was that off-and-on thing with Cuba and China just to piss off America but, hey, Canada was always a passive-aggressive little shit. And its not like America didn't have relationships with other nations. Granted, they were brief and didn't always end well, but he got laid okay?
A lot. More than Canada, so there. And people recognized him with greater ease. So there.
But we digress.
So America doesn't particularly like guys but he likes Canada. He likes Canada enough that he's never imagined the blond as a girl (because every time he tried, all he could think of was Canada getting bloodied up during a hockey fight and then plowing Pamela Anderson so…America ended those fantasies quickly). He likes Canada enough to have a spare room in each of his houses just in case his brother comes to his senses and decides to make his title of "51st state" official. He likes Canada enough to not even watch Mexico's swaying, curvy hips as she marches up to the podium to give a speech or the way Brazil twirls a lock of long hair around her finger as she listens to Germany's (boring) presentation on some economic thingy because he knows it puts Canada into a foul mood and less inclined to let America touch him later that night.
America even starts stocking up on real maple syrup and Molsons whenever Canada is in town because there's something about the way the northern nation smiles, soft and affection, and the way his eyes light up when America walks out of the kitchen with two ice cold Molsons.
America thinks he's whipped when a mere frown from Canada makes him want to drop to his knees and beg for forgiveness because that single moue has managed to shove all his shortcomings and failures into his face. America knows he's whipped when a single from glare from Canada sends his testicles recoiling into his kidneys and his very blood feels like a cold front has settled on his red blood cells.
And America cares more about Canada than other nations because fuck it if England falls to Communism, he's not gonna save the limey—former father figure be damned. He's gonna drag Canada to his house, lock the doors, board the windows, and ride out the Red Wave with his brother/lover/thing and him as the last beacons of Freedom and Capitalism in the world.
Even if Canada's a bit of a pinko-Commie, pseudo-Socialist state.
Its still Canada.
He likes Canada a lot more than he likes other nations.
But he still never thought of it becoming any more.
Until his next birthday.
Two of his states—North and South Dakota—wheel in a huge-ass red, white, and blue cake with sparklers and little star sprinkles and figurines of his Founding Fathers into the room as all the nations invited look on, with expressions that vary from disgust to amusement to a very resigned 'Oh America…'
"Hey, England. Doesn't that look just like George?" America says excitedly, pointing at a sugar statue of his first president on one of the cake tiers. "Remember how he led my troops against you and kicked your redcoat rear all the way back to London?"
England, who is already well on his way to being drunk, just slurs, "You ungrateful bastard. I outta box yer ears."
As soon as everyone is done singing him the "Happy Birthday" song in their own languages and America's ears stop ringing from the cacophony, the superpower readies his self to blow out the candles on the bottom tier.
However, just as he is about to blow the flames the fuck out, Canada bursts out of the cake in an explosion of red, white, and blue frosting and funfetti cake, topless, and grins, "Happy Birthday brother."
A sudden hush falls over the group and Canada, realizing that his powers of invisibility are malfunctioning, blushes bright pink and busies himself by grabbing the nearest sugar statue and saying, "Oh, this is Jefferson, isn't it?"
America just stares at the northern nation who is studiously pretending he didn't burst out of his brother's birthday cake in front of all the nations, America's Boss, and God.
Then the silence is broken by England rounding on France and screeching, "This is all your bloody influence, you wanker!" Then he begins to strangle the unrepentant Frenchman (who just laughs merrily) while screaming, "you corrupted my baby" over and over as a few other nations try to pry the two apart.
Canada, then, just smiles down at America and says, quietly, "This was one of your fantasies, wasn't it?" And he's smiling timidly, head tilted and biting at his lower lip.
And America is feeling light-headed (because all his blood is rushing to his dick and holy hell is Florida experiencing a heat wave) and all he can think is "Sweet Washington's ghost, I'm in love."
The next morning Alfred wakes up in his bed, covered in cake and frosting with a heavily asleep Canada cuddled up next to him.
And its just so fucking perfect how the yolky sunlight drifts over the pair of them, fragmenting off Canada's wheat-colored waves and the curve of his pale shoulder. The birds are chirping happily out the window, America is half erect, and there's a smear of red frosting on Canada's nose.
And America feels entirely at ease and, as corny as this sounds, wouldn't trade this moment for anything.
Not even peace in the Middle East. Not even an end to world hunger. Not even his debt to China disappearing.
As selfish as that sounds, America is happy right now. Happier than he's been in a while, in fact.
Fuck tits and curves. Fuck women. Fuck other nations. They don't even matter right now.
Canada fits so perfectly against him. His flaxen hair is soft against America's jaw. His leg is thrown across America's knees and his hand is resting on the bit of pudge above America's hip.
It feels natural and wonderful and America thinks that settling down (not politically, of course, that'd be too much work and would probably ruin everything) and being in love isn't so bad, especially if it's with Canada.
He doesn't even mind being gay if its for Canada. In fact, he'll happily be gay with Canada. All night long even.
America is so excited by the prospect of being officially monogamous with Canada, that he doesn't quite think everything through so when Canada wakes up, indigo eyes bleary, America completely forgets that his lover is not a morning person.
And he announces, with a huge boyish grin, "I love you Matthew."
Canada stares at him blankly, surprised by the use of his human name and caught off guard by the declaration. Then, the words finally hit him.
And he promptly whacks his bedmate in the face with a pillow, hard enough to send the superpower tumbling off the bed. Then he grabs a pair of boxers and hightails it out of the room.
When America finally trudges out of the room after an hour, he finds Canada in the kitchen cooking bacon while wearing just his boxers and a frilly pink apron (that was a gift from Russia in a fit of passive-aggression."
"You're just taunting me now!" America wails, collapsing into a chair and setting his head on the table. "That's fantasy #88!"
"I felt bad about assaulting you with your own pillow." Canada admits, transferring the perfect cooked bacon onto a plate with sunny-side up eggs and putting the plate in front of the other nation. "I was just about to turn onto the highway when I realized that I acted a bit unreasonable."
Then he gets America a glass of orange juice (in his favorite Batman cup).
"I'm going to go now." The violet-eyed nation says timidly, tucking a wavy strand of his unbrushed blond hair behind his ear. "Please don't throw yourself at my legs and try to keep me from leaving."
America does so anyways.
"But I love you!" He whines, rubbing his face against his brother's bony hip. "I had an epiphany and everything!"
"Alfred." The use of his human name stops the superpower's sobbing. "You don't get it, do you?"
America sniffles. "Is it because I'm kind of broke and stole all your good hockey players and singers and actors?"
Canada frowns. "No, but now that you remind me…" Then he shakes his head to dispel the change of topic. "No. Its because you don't mean it."
"Lies and blasphemy." America snaps, blue eyes sharp behind his glasses. "You know I never lie to you." He adds under his breath. "Often."
The younger nation's expression is kind as he sighs. "You mean it now, Al. But tomorrow? Next week? I can't be sure. You told me you loved me back in 1776 but then you invaded a few decades later. Every time you tell me you love me, you forget you ever said it. I love you too; otherwise I wouldn't keep coming back to you. But, forgive me for not believing you when you say you love me."
"But I mean it this time!" America swore, moving to stand on his feet. He grabbed Canada by the shoulders. "I don't remember all the times you're talking about, Matt, but this time it's different. I can imagine us with two kids and a dog and a white picket fence!"
Canada just gives him a skeptical look. "Can't we just keep having sex with no strings attached?" He asked, cupping America's face in his hands.
America is half tempted to relent but then he thinks that he likes the legitimacy of strings attached so, instead, he pulls Canada into a breath-stopping, demanding kiss with tongue that leaves the other blond blushing and wide-eyed.
Just like in Hollywood, fuck yeah.
Then, blue eyes earnest and jaw determined, America says, "I want you, not just your body. And I'll make you believe it."
So, they have sex one more time (on the kitchen table, fyi, fantasy #23), and then Canada leaves, looking thoroughly fucked (and America watches, smugly, as his soon-to-be boyfriend limps out the door).
Then he frowns, realizing that he needs to win over Canada and he doesn't know that much about the other nation except that he has daddy issues, an unhealthy hockey obsession, speaks another language that isn't English or French, and spells some words weird.
To be honest, America has worked magic with much less, but this time he wants to win over Canada, not earn his enmity forever and ever, so he decides more research is in order.
First he hits Google. But after an hour of searching through hundreds of image after typing in 'Canada', the only thing he has to show for it is an empty bottle of lotion and a sore hand.
And, okay, he could stretch it and say that he learned Canada has a lot of pretty scenery, but he's known that since the first time he saw the nation naked.
Then he goes to the library.
He stays there until closing time and, honestly, he's just reminded of a lot of history between the two of them. And then he feels bad.
So he goes to McDonalds to regroup and drown his sorrows in a milkshake and Big Mac. Or twenty. Plus one.
Then he calls up the head of the CIA and says, "I got a mission for you guys. You're not doing anything too important right?"
The director wants to say, "Actually we are and you told us to do this stuff" but he can't exactly say no to his country so instead he just sighs and doesn't really answer.
Long story short, America realizes he can't learn anything new without rousing Canada's suspicion, so he sends his boys up North because that's kind of their job.
No, it is not an improper use of American resources.
At least, he doesn't think so.
"Sir." The suit-clad man says stoically, pretending the personification of his country isn't staring longingly at a map of Canada. His partner shifts next to him, most likely pretending to ignore the same things as the other.
"That was quick!" America says cheerfully, ceasing his absentminded stroking of southern Ontario. "What do you boys have for me?" He grins brightly, resting his broad hands behind his blond head. "Good news I hope?"
He laughs, but both agents are well aware of the handgun the seemingly young man keeps strapped to his thigh. Her name is Sweetness.
"Well, you see, sir." The agent begins, clearing his throat. "We were caught."
America quirks an eyebrow. "Seriously?"
"Yes, sir. Canada also has an intelligence agency, the Canadian Security Intelligence Service or CSIS."
America looks surprised. "Oh, I thought he was joking when he mentioned that."
"He wasn't, sir." The other agent says respectfully. "Apparently they had been tracking our movements the moment we entered Canadian territory."
"Did you manage to gather any useful information?" The nation queried, steepling his fingers and looking unusually serious.
"Not really sir." The agents look apologetic and ashamed. "But they were kind enough to give us this."
His partner hands over a neatly wrapped package, explaining, "They said this might be of interest to you, sir."
America frowned, snatching the package and unwrapping it. The first thing he pulls out is a little note. Reading it, he says, "If you are reading this, Alfred, then your agents have been caught on my land conducting intelligence activities on your behalf. Since we are in a time of good feelings, I realize that the activities are either because you are making sure all is well in my land and you're too much of an overprotective idiot to ask me or because you're trying to woo me and too much of a clueless dunce to take me out to dinner. Please accept these items and stop stalking me. It's creepy. Love, Matthew." Then, with shining eyes, he looked up at the agents. "He said 'love'." America cooed. Then, with all the patience of a child on Christmas morning, he dug into the package.
With a slightly manic grin, he pulled out a short-sleeved red shirt and inhaled the worn fabric deeply. "Smells like maple." He explained, to the agents, pulling it on over his head and going back to the package. "Oh hey! This year's Naughty Mountie Calendar."
With a bright smile, the nation stood up and pulled last year's off the wall and hung the next one up after flipping to January.
It was a picture of Canada shirtless, wearing only a pair of red pants and a Stetson, while sitting on a horse. America smirked, staring at it.
The two agents, to their credit, remained expressionless.
"Are we dismissed, sir?" One asked.
"Yeah, sure. Dismissed." America said absently, already pulling out a little plastic baggie with a golden lock of hair.
"Maybe you should give him a chance this time." England suggested, sipping his tea. "I'm almost starting to feel bad for the git."
"No, you're not." Canada rolled his eyes, stirring more sugar into his tea as Kumajirou gnawed on a scone under the table. "You're enjoying his attempts to get me to take him seriously."
"And you're not?"
"I'll give in eventually, you know me." Canada signed, resting the teaspoon on his saucer. "I think he actually means it this time."
The former Empire merely nodded in agreement. "He paid the Italies to write an opera about how much he loves you. And asked Austria to write a symphony about your hockey prowess."
"That's so sweet." The Canadian smiled.
"He also asked Japan to draw several volumes of USxCanada smut for his personal collection."
"…He is rather serious, isn't he?"
"I heard a rumor that he was lobbying film studios to produce a movie about his courtship of you."
Canada sighed, a bit tiredly. "I feel like its only going to hurt more when I wake up one morning and he's going through another Fred Phelps phase."
"And if he doesn't?" England countered, setting his teacup down with a stern look. "Did you ever pause for a moment, poppet, to think that America truly loves you? Perhaps he doesn't always realize it and, yes, he's a twit and a fool and is oblivious and manages to muck up many, many things, but don't you think that underneath all that stupidity is an unmatched level of adoration directed solely at you?"
When his former charge seemed to still be waffling, England added, "He called and asked your provinces for their blessings."
"As long as he makes you happy, Matt." Ontario said, his fellow provinces nodding in agreement. "You could do worse."
"Even though you could do better." Prince Edward Island added, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. "My baby's all grown up." She murmured, Nova Scotia patting her head comfortingly.
"As long as it's not that French bastard." Quebec muttered, taking a drag of his cigarette. "That traitor…"
"But…you guys aren't actually going to be one, right?" Alberta asked. "Because that Texas guy is a douche."
"And I'd rather Alaska not be my brother." Yukon added. "It might make things awkward."
"And I refuse to play second fiddle to D.C." Ontario said loudly. "I'm always first fiddle."
"You can't even play the fiddle." Quebec sneered. "Idiot."
"No, no." Canada said hurriedly before his provinces started arguing. "We'll just be officially dating. No political or national changes, so don't worry."
"Any questions?" America asked, shuffling his papers and looking out at the assembled nations with a raised eyebrow. But, because the superpower gave a coherent, well-explained speech on the dollar in relation to the euro, no nation raised an objection. With a grin, America then said, "Then I'd like to request five more minutes."
Germany, frowning, asked with a sinking feeling in his gut, "Why?"
Then, suddenly, all the lights dimmed and America jumped onto the table, his dress shoes scratching the polished wood.
Germany face palmed. Why did he bother asking? He should've known better especially after the blond nation gave an exceptionally good presentation.
"Hit it!" The superpower shouted, catching a mike that was thrown from somewhere as a single spot light fell on him. Then, with a soft grin, he swiveled and looked straight at Canada. "This song is for the one nation who always stands by me and is the only one who can make me cry like a bitch and then make me pancakes."
Then, a soft music began to play and America brought the mike to his lips. "Oh, Canada. Let me be your hero."
Canada looked torn between disappearing into the floor and bursting into hysterical tearful laughter.
"Would you dance if I asked you to dance? Would you run and never look back? Would you cry if you saw me crying? Would you save my soul tonight?" America sang softly, somewhat off-key but he made up for it by singing loudly so he gets an A for effort, making his way down to the end where Canada was sitting. "Would you tremble if I touched your lips? Would laugh oh please tell me these. Now would you die for the one you love? Hold me in your arms tonight?"
He came to a stop in front of Canada, kneeling down so he was face to face with the blond nation. "I can be your hero, baby. I can kiss—"
Suddenly, America's singing was cut off by Canada surging to his feet and wrapping his arms around the superpower and pressing his lips against the other's.
The mike slipped from America's fingers, clanging against the table. But it was okay, because the nation was too busy tangling his fingers in Canada's hair while his other hand was splayed possessively on the northern nation's rear.
When Canada pulled away, lips slick and red and bruised, America instinctively followed and tried to bring back that lovely contact. But the other nation just laughed and shook his head. "You moron." He muttered affectionately. "You could've just asked me to dinner."
"And take the easy way out?" America snorted. "That's not my style, babe." He purred, squeezing Matthew's rump and earning a squeak and glare. "I can sing 'Baby got back' next if you'd like." He waggled his eyebrows.
"I can think of a much better use for your mouth." Canada said dryly, rolling his violet eyes.
"Does this mean you believe me?" America asked, a little tentatively, brushing his thumb against Canada's cheekbone. "Because I feel like I wasn't clear…"
"I believed you the moment I received pictures of you poring over a volume of Canadian history in the library." Canada whispered. "I know how much you dislike books."
"They're all fact—"
"—no heart." Canada finished, a fond smile twitching on his lips.
"Fuck, I love you so much." America murmured, already pulling Canada in for another kiss. Then, he paused briefly. "How'd you know about that…?"
"I have my own intelligence agency." Canada rolled his eyes.
"Oh right." America said slowly. How did he keep forgetting that?
"Enough of this sodding conversation." England snapped. "Just get on with the snogging, you pillocks." The sandy-haired nation snorted. "Been pissing around each other for years and still can't be arsed to get on with it."
"Now, now, cher." France said soothingly. "They can't get it up if maman et papa are watching."
And with that, the two European nations finally left (the other nations having left shortly after the necking session began) and the conference room was empty.
"Fantasy #64. Conference room sex." Canada said thoughtfully, breaking the quiet.
And the last articulate thought that dashed through America's mind was "Fuck yeah."
Dear Canadian...you know you want us. -SHOT-
Jk, jk. Lol. I just wanted to write a fun little thing guys. I miss me some US/Can. Also, sorry if some stuff offended you. It wasn't meant to. America is just an asshole. -shrugs- You get used to it.
(But, seriously, thats why you love us -BEATEN WITH A HOCKEY STICK-)