Hush [Canada/Poland]
Apr. 20th, 2009 10:19 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roesslyngTitle: Hush
Characters/Pairing: Canada/Poland
Rating: 15+
Length: 1800
Summary: Dancing, seduction,and poetry.
Other: Written for the Hetalia kink meme. (Original post)
Hush
Socked feet padded on the hardwood floor to the tune of a cheerful polonaise trilling from the stereo system. The living room furniture had been pushed away to make space for dancing and though it was late in the evening Canada and Poland were lively, fuelled by liquor and the joy that came from being in good company.
As they danced together, their movements were not evenly matched in skill. One was expert and natural, the other faltering, a beginner’s gestures. Their voices accompanied the music as the teacher instructed his awkward but enthusiastic pupil.
“So now, like this-“
“Ah, like this?”
“No, not quite – but like, that’s closer than before.” Poland smirked. “And by that I mean that like, you still totally suck.”
Canada stopped. He sighed dramatically, then shook his head and grinned. “I don’t think I’m cut out for this,” he said apologetically.
“Yeah, you’re so not.” Poland laughed and crossed the room to turn off the stereo. “Tsk. Maybe you’re just like too drunk for it tonight or something.”
“Liar,” Canada protested. “I’m not drunk!”
“Oh my god, as if. You totally can’t hold your vodka.” Poland rolled his eyes and turned back to him, then let out a startled squeak as Canada swept him into his arms and stole a firm kiss.
“Fine,” Canada said as he drew away. “I’m not the world’s best dancer, nor the greatest drinker. I’ll leave that stuff to you.”
“Good,” Poland said, resting his hands lightly on Canada’s shoulders. “Now, I think you should go to bed.”
“Not tired.” A kiss.
“You’re plastered!”
“Not plastered.” Another kiss.
“It’s like, almost two in the morning!”
“Fine.” Canada stole yet another kiss and then released Poland, who at that point was rather flustered from all the attention. “To bed, then.” Smiling broadly, he squeezed his hand, and together they made their way toward the bedroom.
The full moon slipped its fingers into the room through the slats of the partially-open blinds. Canada went to the window and drew them up, then pulled the curtains aside. The room brightened as the milky light drew out the darkness and left everything pearl-washed.
Poland watched him in the reflection of the mirror that hung on the wall above the low writing desk. He hummed as he removed his hair clips, setting them aside one by one. “Where did you say we were gonna go tomorrow?” he asked, glancing back toward him.
“Mahone Bay,” was Canada’s soft reply. He lingered at the window, looking out at the night sky. “It’s a pretty little place. You’ll like it.” He sighed quietly and slipped off his glasses, setting them on the bedside table. “I know a man who has a strawberry farm just outside the town. They’re the sweetest I’ve ever tasted.” He looked up, seeming to consider something, then slunk his way across the room to Poland. “You’ll see,” he murmured, sliding his arms around Poland’s narrow waist. “’S all sweetness. Like you are.”
Poland raised an eyebrow. “You’re like, way more drunk than I thought,” he said flatly, even as he leaned back against the taller form. “Honestly.”
“Mm. No,” Canada replied. He nuzzled Poland’s hair and kissed the soft strands, sighing. “Just listen. Just... just listen.”
“What-“
“Shhh.” The sound was a puff of breath by his ear, accompanied by trailing kisses and a singsong voice. “You are sweetness and light, you are my sunshine...” He trailed off again, seeming to reconsider his words. Poland watched him in the mirror’s reflection, curiosity rising. When Canada spoke again it was soft, slow whispering. “And you, you are as delicious as the day we sat sipping tea, looking homeward in a city too large to hold our abandonments.”
A blush crept over Poland’s cheeks. “I. Ah. I am?” he whispered, ducking his head to hide his face.
“Oh, yes.”
“Where do you get that from?”
“Scofield.”
“What?”
“Poetry.” A light kiss against his throat, feather-soft. “We have that here, you know. This country might be at the end of the earth, but we still have poetry.”
“I see.” The kiss sent a faint tremor through him. As he recovered from his initial flustered state, Poland relaxed back against him, nestling in his arms. “So like,” he began, licking his lips. “Like. Ah. What other kinds of things did this Scofield guy write?”
Canada chuckled. “Mm, let’s see,” he murmured, lifting his head to press a kiss to Poland’s cheek. “Ah. Oh, yes. You, my tin of cookies, I will eat and eat and eat you up.”
Poland’s lips curled into a smile. “More sugar,” he said with a laugh.
“Yes.” Large hands slowly slid upward, trailing over the fabric of his shirt. “And you, my bag of candies,” a barely-audible whisper, “Come and I’ll unwrap you one by one.” Clever fingers began to slip buttons from their holes, working slowly, teasing.
Pepper-red, Poland parted his lips to speak, but for once found himself wordless. The drifting hands and brushing lips silenced what words he might have spoken. He decided he was satisfied with that, and simply melted under the attention, watching their reflections in the mirror with low-lidded eyes. Each little red button slipped from its place as his lover kissed low, lower. His throat. His shoulder, bared as the fabric slipped away. After a time there was whispering again, rough lips brushing against pale skin.
“Little wonder that I don’t know my body without all ten fingers of you.” A sigh against his throat. “When you ask if I’ve touched myself, an ocean between us-“
“But I’m here now,” Poland interrupted. The words felt strange in his mouth. Canada’s gestures left him dazed.
“Yes,” Canada agreed. “You’re here now.”
“So like, not that stuff about not knowing yourself without me. Tell me something different.”
“Something different, eh?”
“Yeah.” Poland closed his eyes and listened.
“Well, now. Let’s see.” Canada’s voice moved in time with his wandering hands, fingertips delivering the barest touch. “Should I sing of your tongue, the taste of spring berries too sacred for words?” Once more, by his ear. “Or should I say,” he murmured, “that you, bone-stealer, are everything I want?” His voice was low, husky, and Poland could smell him, pine and wood smoke. Fingertips moved downward, drawing out pleased hisses of breath. “Or should I say that I am alive when your hands are? When you say you are falling, all the coals in me are smouldering.”
A teasing tongue slipped out and stroked beneath his ear. Teeth followed it, nipping at the lobe, tugging, drawing a gasp out of Poland. His eyes cracked open and he saw himself in the mirror, flushed, his head tilted back to bare skin for him. Large hands with long fingers splayed over him, stroking. “Say what you want – like, anything. Just don’t stop saying it.”
Canada grinned. “Then I’ll say this,” he murmured, nuzzling at him as he delivered the soft lines, “I want to be your pulpit, your hymn book, the steam organ you’ve come to play.” Endless kisses against his neck. “And I want to devour you, the bowl of your steaming bones I’ve cracked to the marrow, as three whole nights I’ve eaten you, peyakwâw, nîswaw, nistwâw.” Each word punctuated by a kiss.
“What’s that mean? What did you just say?” The low, breathy language with its long vowels was completely unfamiliar.
“Cree. It’s Cree. And it means, once.” Large hands slid to rest at his waist. “Twice.” A gentle nip at his ear. “Three times, over.”
Poland hissed. “Nng, you tease me, and then you go and talk to me in a language I don’t know, and that just teases me more.” He pouted. “It’s so totally not fair.”
Quiet laughter by his ear as hands slid further downward. “Oh, you. Never satisfied. It’s not that I don’t love you, nîcimos, or I’ve-“
“And that one? Nih... nn. What does it mean?” Twisting in his arms.
“Nîcimos.” The barest whisper, the long, soft vowel drawn out huskily, breath stroking against his skin. “Sweetheart. It means sweetheart.” A pause. “Now, don’t interrupt.” His arms wrapped around him, held him close and tight. Their eyes met in the mirror. One moment, then he had his face buried in Poland’s hair again, whispering lines softly in a steady rhythm by his ear, weathered lips close enough to graze the shell. “It’s not that I don’t love you, nîcimos, or that I’ve stopped singing your eyes the drum-song of Astotin Lake, or your legs the shape of wintering geese floating high above our bed of turning grass.” A pause, followed by a sigh. “It’s not that I don’t love you, tapwe, ki-sâhkitin, ki-sâhkitin.”
Poland opened his mouth to question, but before he could speak, Canada murmured, “It means, ‘it’s true, I love you’.”
“Does it?”
“Mmhm.”
“Say it again.”
“Tapwe,” a pause and a kiss against his hair, “ki-sâhkitin.” Low sounds and puffing breath brushed his ear and made him shiver. It was enough to drive him crazy and leave him wanting. Damned if he wouldn’t be satisfied.
“Please,” Poland whispered. He twisted in his arms. “Please.” When his lover’s grip lessened, he turned to him and their mouths met.
They greeted each other with firm, eager kisses. When they broke for breath Poland gasped out that Canada had better not plan on just, like, teasing him, and the answer he received was a laugh followed by more kisses. No words. They didn’t need words; their words had been spent. When strong hands lifted him and set him on the desk, he met the gesture with no resistance. The mouth covering his own and the hands gliding beneath his skirt ensured he would not speak.
After their clothing had been shed they still said nothing. All was silenced by their slick, kiss-bruised lips. What might have once been words turned to muffled hisses, gasps, groans as they readied, eased, then finally moved. Though the clock on the wall ticked away the time they were unaware of it, moving steady as pendulums, lost in the night and the rhythm and each other.
Finally they reached the summit and swallowed each other’s sounds. Afterward they rested breathless against one another. The air rang with the pounding of the blood in their veins but as they nestled together, dazed and spent, all slowed to the speed of a crawling hour-hand.
Poland lifted his head. Cheeks flushed from their efforts, he nuzzled his lover and sighed. “You can’t dance,” he murmured, recalling earlier in the evening, “and you can’t hold your liquor, but you’re totally good at this.”
“Mm. Good,” Canada murmured in reply, nuzzling him in return. After considering Poland’s words, he drew away and looked at him, raising an eyebrow. “Wait. Good at what?”
“Poetry.” Poland let it hang, resisting the urge to smirk at Canada’s kicked-puppy look, then, giving in, he added, “and other things.”
They laughed together and their lips met again. That night they made poetry, hushed as rustling leaves in chokecherry trees, and the moon was the only one that heard their endless whispering.
My wild rose, my sweet prairie crocus,
Tapwe, mistahi ki-sâhkihitin!
Characters/Pairing: Canada/Poland
Rating: 15+
Length: 1800
Summary: Dancing, seduction,and poetry.
Other: Written for the Hetalia kink meme. (Original post)
Hush
Socked feet padded on the hardwood floor to the tune of a cheerful polonaise trilling from the stereo system. The living room furniture had been pushed away to make space for dancing and though it was late in the evening Canada and Poland were lively, fuelled by liquor and the joy that came from being in good company.
As they danced together, their movements were not evenly matched in skill. One was expert and natural, the other faltering, a beginner’s gestures. Their voices accompanied the music as the teacher instructed his awkward but enthusiastic pupil.
“So now, like this-“
“Ah, like this?”
“No, not quite – but like, that’s closer than before.” Poland smirked. “And by that I mean that like, you still totally suck.”
Canada stopped. He sighed dramatically, then shook his head and grinned. “I don’t think I’m cut out for this,” he said apologetically.
“Yeah, you’re so not.” Poland laughed and crossed the room to turn off the stereo. “Tsk. Maybe you’re just like too drunk for it tonight or something.”
“Liar,” Canada protested. “I’m not drunk!”
“Oh my god, as if. You totally can’t hold your vodka.” Poland rolled his eyes and turned back to him, then let out a startled squeak as Canada swept him into his arms and stole a firm kiss.
“Fine,” Canada said as he drew away. “I’m not the world’s best dancer, nor the greatest drinker. I’ll leave that stuff to you.”
“Good,” Poland said, resting his hands lightly on Canada’s shoulders. “Now, I think you should go to bed.”
“Not tired.” A kiss.
“You’re plastered!”
“Not plastered.” Another kiss.
“It’s like, almost two in the morning!”
“Fine.” Canada stole yet another kiss and then released Poland, who at that point was rather flustered from all the attention. “To bed, then.” Smiling broadly, he squeezed his hand, and together they made their way toward the bedroom.
The full moon slipped its fingers into the room through the slats of the partially-open blinds. Canada went to the window and drew them up, then pulled the curtains aside. The room brightened as the milky light drew out the darkness and left everything pearl-washed.
Poland watched him in the reflection of the mirror that hung on the wall above the low writing desk. He hummed as he removed his hair clips, setting them aside one by one. “Where did you say we were gonna go tomorrow?” he asked, glancing back toward him.
“Mahone Bay,” was Canada’s soft reply. He lingered at the window, looking out at the night sky. “It’s a pretty little place. You’ll like it.” He sighed quietly and slipped off his glasses, setting them on the bedside table. “I know a man who has a strawberry farm just outside the town. They’re the sweetest I’ve ever tasted.” He looked up, seeming to consider something, then slunk his way across the room to Poland. “You’ll see,” he murmured, sliding his arms around Poland’s narrow waist. “’S all sweetness. Like you are.”
Poland raised an eyebrow. “You’re like, way more drunk than I thought,” he said flatly, even as he leaned back against the taller form. “Honestly.”
“Mm. No,” Canada replied. He nuzzled Poland’s hair and kissed the soft strands, sighing. “Just listen. Just... just listen.”
“What-“
“Shhh.” The sound was a puff of breath by his ear, accompanied by trailing kisses and a singsong voice. “You are sweetness and light, you are my sunshine...” He trailed off again, seeming to reconsider his words. Poland watched him in the mirror’s reflection, curiosity rising. When Canada spoke again it was soft, slow whispering. “And you, you are as delicious as the day we sat sipping tea, looking homeward in a city too large to hold our abandonments.”
A blush crept over Poland’s cheeks. “I. Ah. I am?” he whispered, ducking his head to hide his face.
“Oh, yes.”
“Where do you get that from?”
“Scofield.”
“What?”
“Poetry.” A light kiss against his throat, feather-soft. “We have that here, you know. This country might be at the end of the earth, but we still have poetry.”
“I see.” The kiss sent a faint tremor through him. As he recovered from his initial flustered state, Poland relaxed back against him, nestling in his arms. “So like,” he began, licking his lips. “Like. Ah. What other kinds of things did this Scofield guy write?”
Canada chuckled. “Mm, let’s see,” he murmured, lifting his head to press a kiss to Poland’s cheek. “Ah. Oh, yes. You, my tin of cookies, I will eat and eat and eat you up.”
Poland’s lips curled into a smile. “More sugar,” he said with a laugh.
“Yes.” Large hands slowly slid upward, trailing over the fabric of his shirt. “And you, my bag of candies,” a barely-audible whisper, “Come and I’ll unwrap you one by one.” Clever fingers began to slip buttons from their holes, working slowly, teasing.
Pepper-red, Poland parted his lips to speak, but for once found himself wordless. The drifting hands and brushing lips silenced what words he might have spoken. He decided he was satisfied with that, and simply melted under the attention, watching their reflections in the mirror with low-lidded eyes. Each little red button slipped from its place as his lover kissed low, lower. His throat. His shoulder, bared as the fabric slipped away. After a time there was whispering again, rough lips brushing against pale skin.
“Little wonder that I don’t know my body without all ten fingers of you.” A sigh against his throat. “When you ask if I’ve touched myself, an ocean between us-“
“But I’m here now,” Poland interrupted. The words felt strange in his mouth. Canada’s gestures left him dazed.
“Yes,” Canada agreed. “You’re here now.”
“So like, not that stuff about not knowing yourself without me. Tell me something different.”
“Something different, eh?”
“Yeah.” Poland closed his eyes and listened.
“Well, now. Let’s see.” Canada’s voice moved in time with his wandering hands, fingertips delivering the barest touch. “Should I sing of your tongue, the taste of spring berries too sacred for words?” Once more, by his ear. “Or should I say,” he murmured, “that you, bone-stealer, are everything I want?” His voice was low, husky, and Poland could smell him, pine and wood smoke. Fingertips moved downward, drawing out pleased hisses of breath. “Or should I say that I am alive when your hands are? When you say you are falling, all the coals in me are smouldering.”
A teasing tongue slipped out and stroked beneath his ear. Teeth followed it, nipping at the lobe, tugging, drawing a gasp out of Poland. His eyes cracked open and he saw himself in the mirror, flushed, his head tilted back to bare skin for him. Large hands with long fingers splayed over him, stroking. “Say what you want – like, anything. Just don’t stop saying it.”
Canada grinned. “Then I’ll say this,” he murmured, nuzzling at him as he delivered the soft lines, “I want to be your pulpit, your hymn book, the steam organ you’ve come to play.” Endless kisses against his neck. “And I want to devour you, the bowl of your steaming bones I’ve cracked to the marrow, as three whole nights I’ve eaten you, peyakwâw, nîswaw, nistwâw.” Each word punctuated by a kiss.
“What’s that mean? What did you just say?” The low, breathy language with its long vowels was completely unfamiliar.
“Cree. It’s Cree. And it means, once.” Large hands slid to rest at his waist. “Twice.” A gentle nip at his ear. “Three times, over.”
Poland hissed. “Nng, you tease me, and then you go and talk to me in a language I don’t know, and that just teases me more.” He pouted. “It’s so totally not fair.”
Quiet laughter by his ear as hands slid further downward. “Oh, you. Never satisfied. It’s not that I don’t love you, nîcimos, or I’ve-“
“And that one? Nih... nn. What does it mean?” Twisting in his arms.
“Nîcimos.” The barest whisper, the long, soft vowel drawn out huskily, breath stroking against his skin. “Sweetheart. It means sweetheart.” A pause. “Now, don’t interrupt.” His arms wrapped around him, held him close and tight. Their eyes met in the mirror. One moment, then he had his face buried in Poland’s hair again, whispering lines softly in a steady rhythm by his ear, weathered lips close enough to graze the shell. “It’s not that I don’t love you, nîcimos, or that I’ve stopped singing your eyes the drum-song of Astotin Lake, or your legs the shape of wintering geese floating high above our bed of turning grass.” A pause, followed by a sigh. “It’s not that I don’t love you, tapwe, ki-sâhkitin, ki-sâhkitin.”
Poland opened his mouth to question, but before he could speak, Canada murmured, “It means, ‘it’s true, I love you’.”
“Does it?”
“Mmhm.”
“Say it again.”
“Tapwe,” a pause and a kiss against his hair, “ki-sâhkitin.” Low sounds and puffing breath brushed his ear and made him shiver. It was enough to drive him crazy and leave him wanting. Damned if he wouldn’t be satisfied.
“Please,” Poland whispered. He twisted in his arms. “Please.” When his lover’s grip lessened, he turned to him and their mouths met.
They greeted each other with firm, eager kisses. When they broke for breath Poland gasped out that Canada had better not plan on just, like, teasing him, and the answer he received was a laugh followed by more kisses. No words. They didn’t need words; their words had been spent. When strong hands lifted him and set him on the desk, he met the gesture with no resistance. The mouth covering his own and the hands gliding beneath his skirt ensured he would not speak.
After their clothing had been shed they still said nothing. All was silenced by their slick, kiss-bruised lips. What might have once been words turned to muffled hisses, gasps, groans as they readied, eased, then finally moved. Though the clock on the wall ticked away the time they were unaware of it, moving steady as pendulums, lost in the night and the rhythm and each other.
Finally they reached the summit and swallowed each other’s sounds. Afterward they rested breathless against one another. The air rang with the pounding of the blood in their veins but as they nestled together, dazed and spent, all slowed to the speed of a crawling hour-hand.
Poland lifted his head. Cheeks flushed from their efforts, he nuzzled his lover and sighed. “You can’t dance,” he murmured, recalling earlier in the evening, “and you can’t hold your liquor, but you’re totally good at this.”
“Mm. Good,” Canada murmured in reply, nuzzling him in return. After considering Poland’s words, he drew away and looked at him, raising an eyebrow. “Wait. Good at what?”
“Poetry.” Poland let it hang, resisting the urge to smirk at Canada’s kicked-puppy look, then, giving in, he added, “and other things.”
They laughed together and their lips met again. That night they made poetry, hushed as rustling leaves in chokecherry trees, and the moon was the only one that heard their endless whispering.
My wild rose, my sweet prairie crocus,
Tapwe, mistahi ki-sâhkihitin!
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