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silverfoxflower) wrote2011-08-05 02:50 pm
Fic: Ten Incidences Which Made Ukraine Hate Her Breasts ... (Canada/Ukraine, PG-13)
Fandom: Hetalia
Genre: Het, Angst, Fluff
Word Count: ~2800
Pairing: Canada/Ukraine
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Very glossed over implications of rape, sexual harassment
Notes: Written for this prompt on the
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hetalia_kink meme. Also posted there to read/comment anonomously.Summary: See title.
Disclaimer: Not mine, don't sue.
Ukraine rolls out of bed in the pink of dawn. Before her feet have even touched the floor a stabbing pain in her lower back sends her sprawling right back into the crumpled covers. She groans quietly, not wanting to wake the slumbering body next to her. So she lies on her side and massages her spine with a quiet whimper, even as Canada stirs.
“Whatsit- what time?” He yawns, patting around for his glasses.
“Seven, коханий,” She coos, or tries to through gritted teeth. “You should get some more sleep …”
“Your back again?” Canada murmurs sympathetically, and in the warmth of their covers, his hands find their way to the exact place it hurts and begins rubbing it in slow circles.
Ukraine almost moans with relief, melting into her boyfriend’s capable fingers. It’s hard to make herself protest. “You’ll be tired at your meeting, love. I can take care of it.”
“Hush.” Canada’s breath is warm in her ear as he continues rubbing in slowing circles. By the time he has drifted asleep again, Ukraine’s back feels well enough for her to untangle herself from his embrace. Although, she would like nothing more than to draw the covers up over them both, unplug the alarm clock, and shut out the world.
The medicated patch she slaps on her back grows cold and then warm, but it smells exactly as expected. No amount of perfume can cover up the scent of menthol that seems to seep into her skin.
She has to wear a back brace today, a spandex, strapped thing which is a large step up from what she used to have, but is still so shameful to her that she puts away her favorite blouse and chooses one which hides the clasps better.
Her second best shirt pops two buttons and she drops it in the mournful pile of similar items on her closet floor.
Canada is in the kitchen, the ragged bottom of his sweatpants pooling on the tile. He is brewing coffee. With a smile, he hands her a filled travel mug as she comes around and it’s exactly the way she likes it – dark and aromatic.
Grateful beyond words, Ukraine rises on her toes to give her lover a kiss. Even though she’s a big girl, Canada definitely has a few inches on her. It’s always a bit awkward when they negotiate for an embrace, this time doubly so because they are cramped in the small space between the oven and the kitchen island.
Half asleep and grinning in that terribly endearing way of his, Canada leans down and is promptly bounced backwards by Ukraine’s breasts.
“Wait …” She cries softly, trying to shift her hips and raise her arms. Suddenly, it is imperative that they kiss, even if the offending masses on her chest are squeezed into nothingness.
“You’ll be late!” Canada announces, glancing at the clock.
A childish protest dies on Ukraine’s lips as she realizes that her perpetually over-sleeping boyfriend woke up early to ensure that she made her appointment on time.
“… thank you,” She says sadly, and squeezes his hand before rushing out the door.
She almost forgets the coffee.
.04
“My country desires above all, a closer relation to the EU, and we agree that a major component of that is the elimination of our stocks of enriched uranium, however, support in this area is still limited …” Ukraine pauses for a breath, realizing that France’s eyes have not strayed above her neck for the past twenty minutes.
Flushing, she puts her notecards in front of her chest, as if they would cover anything at all. The rest of her speech, the speech that she has rehearsed in the mirror every night fretfully until Canada sleepily paws her into bed, does not go well at all.
“Your request is fascinating, Cherie,” France winks lazily, after her last, stuttered words. “Perhaps we could talk it over at … ah, greater depth over dinner in Paris …”
Ukraine trembles, whether in rage or hopelessness she doesn’t know. If she was a stronger nation, she might have replied, in an icy-perfect voice, I prefer to dine with men who know how to make eye contact, Mr. Bonnevoy, or perhaps, Won’t your husband, Germany, mind?. But this moment passes, and she deflates herself into a tired resignation. After all, France propositions to everyone. No use making an international incident about it, is what her bosses would say.
So she mumbles quietly, “N-no, no thank you. I-I actually am seeing Canada …”
France looks bored, as if this was what he had expected all along. “Who? Oh well, perhaps another time, then.” He stands and bows over her hand like the perfect gentleman he isn’t, leaning too far into her personal space in order to stage-whisper, “Have your request, whatever it was, faxed to my embassy and I’ll take a look at it, Cherie.” Then he smiles secretly, as if he has done her a great favor and sweeps out of the room with his people.
He does not even bother to pretend that he had heard a word of her speech.
.05
Maybe it is just residual anger over the way the talks with France have dissolved, but as Ukraine walks down the street she feels especially vulnerable. Even with her blouse buttoned modestly and unfashionably up to her neck and a thick sweater covering her front.
The uncomfortable pricks along the back of her neck convince her that she is being stared at. She tells herself that it is mostly her own self-consciousness, but still cringes and blushes whenever she passes a woman with a critical glare, a man with a lingering eye.
Perhaps a woman who loves attention, who enjoys flaunting her beauty, would gain enjoyment from the jealousy and lust so casually dispensed her way, but Ukraine is not that kind of person at all. She is meek, wants nothing more than to be ignored and blend into the sea of populace.
But they single her out, the heft and obscene movements of her breasts, the cringe-worthy sound they make as she walks
Ukraine tries to look ahead, straighten her back and project an air of nonchalant confidence like Belgium told her to, but in the end, her body reverts to its most comfortable position – shoulders hunched trying to hide her chest, eyes on the ground.
.06
As Ukraine, she knows that her body was not hers. Her plentiful curves are the richness of her land, her soft nature, their weakness. Especially in times of war.
She isn’t strong, like Hungary, couldn’t bind her breasts, tie her hair and fight.
She tries not to think of all the times she had been captured and conquered, for all countries go through the same and each come out with different scars and there is no use in looking back or reminiscing over past pains.
To the soldiers, her body was fully ripe and fully woman in a land of bitter cold and burnt fields. Some sank into her, whimpering for the homes they left behind. They treasured her in their heads.
Others despised her for so much of the same reason. That she reminded them of what they could never come back to again.
Still, until they grew older and made tragedies of their own, it was easy to bundle Russia and Belarus away and bargain their freedom with her suffering.
.07
Ukraine trips up the steps of Belarus’ dark house, an autumn wind blowing through her ankles and making her conservative heels click with her shivering. She has a steaming pot of Kapustnyak in hand, which she had nipped back to her house to pick up. The thick vegetable soup had been simmering on the stove for hours, and now it is losing heat as she waits outside of Belarus’ house, watching the glass casserole cover condense with round droplets of steam.
The first thing that she says, when Belarus opens the door is, “You need to eat more, сестра, you are wasting away!” and then, “Ah, the house is so dark! Let me open the curtains!”
The second statement, Ukraine tries not to admit to herself, is an excuse to set down the dish and turn away from Belarus, because with one look she can see that her sister is having one of her bad days. One of the days where she goes mad with wanting and cannot bring herself to be kind.
“Maybe I should eat,” Belarus trails Ukraine’s nervous movements, her words coming dark and dreamy, “Brother has always preferred large tracks of land …”
Then she turns speculative and jealous, staring at her sister’s ample form, and Ukraine sighs, knowing that it will not be a good day for her after all.
.08
Ukraine has a very nice trainer, Linda, who is helping with her backaches. Linda tells her to stop her dependence on back braces because it will make her stomach muscles weak. She says that strengthening her abdomen will make it easier for her body to support its own weight. She also says that Ukraine’s hunched posture is very bad.
Ukraine only wishes she had this woman five hundred years ago.
But today is not one of their appointment days, and Ukraine goes to the gym to fulfill one of Linda’s cheerful commands, to “Do some cardio!”
Longingly, Ukraine looks at the lean, chattering women entering the dancing class. She picks a treadmill near a corner and not in good view of anything.
Against Linda’s advice, she has done what people advised on the internet and bought two sports bras a size too small and layered them over each other. The effect is satisfactory. She feels herself very short of breath, but as she hops experimentally, her breasts barely bounce, and only the softest of springing sounds can be heard.
Slipping in her headphones with the talking points of the next EU meeting, as narrated by Germany, Ukraine steps onto the treadmill and begins with a slow jog.
It goes well for a while, and although the podcast is nothing if not dry, she thinks of a few intelligent questions which she intends to bring up during the next meeting.
Ukraine imagines herself asking something in a strong and confident voice, and everyone turning to look with surprise and respect in their eyes once they realize that it is her speaking.
Halfway through her fantasy, Ukraine realizes that she is getting very light-headed, her breaths shallow and fast. Panicking, she attempts to slow the treadmill, but it is too late as she falls backwards and sinks into unconsciousness.
.09
It could have been worse, Ukraine tells herself grimly, stripping off her soaked t-shirt in the locker room, they could have cut off her bra and gave her CPR in front of everyone.
Actually, she was lucky that she had woken up right before they intended to do that.
There is a raw shuffle of feet on tile behind her, and Ukraine instinctively pulls on her blouse and faces the lockers, even though she is still sweaty and had intended to shower.
Two girls, young and sleek in their shorts and sports bras. They pass Ukraine with the most casual of glances, but as they turn away, she hears one mutter, “Totally fake.”
Ukraine flushes in response, as if she had done something wrong, and proceeds to finish buttoning her shirt. Everything that had happened during the day overwhelms her until she is trembling with it.
She breathes through her nose, numbers ticking through her head and making her calm. Her fingers, which had flown over her buttons before, now move to undo her work, slowly and deliberately.
When she is down to her undergarments, she wraps herself in a towel, takes her shower caddy and marches over to the row of lockers, so determined that she doesn’t even cringe as she passes a mirror.
“And then he was like-“ The girl speaking, the one who had muttered, turns with a round-eyed expression when she sees Ukraine pausing by her locker. Her friend looks confused and nervous.
“They’re real, actually.” Ukraine declares in her sweetest voice. She doesn’t turn back to see their expressions, continuing onto the showers, and rewarding herself with a long, hot soak.
.10
Last morning, Canada had spoken of his longing for a food item from his country, how he always forgets to bring a bottle when he stays over at Ukraine’s. So today, since it was on her way, anyways, Ukraine pops into Ontario and practices her English shyly, until she is pointed to a large store.
As she wanders the aisles that seem to go on forever, under fluorescent lights which turn the floor a shining white, Ukraine catches a glimpse of a mannequin wearing a red bathing suit with a white stripe down the middle and a maple leaf hovering above the belly button.
Canada’s flag. Ukraine swallows a giggle, imagining the look on her boyfriend’s face if she wore that for him.
It is a grave thing, for a country to wear the flag of another. As good as being conquered. A mark of ownership. It had been a sign of the times when the comforter at the Sweden-Finland household changed from just Sweden’s flag to both of theirs side by side.
Ukraine steps forward and hesitantly fingers the material, already feeling Canada’s heated gaze on her body, what he would think of her just from that little action. Canada is more possessive than he cares to admit, and he would enjoy this greatly.
I hate the way they look at you, He had confided to her once, more than a little drunk. They want you. It’s just … it’s just that if I had more presence …
Ukraine couldn’t answer him then, because it would have come across as patronizing, but the reason she loves him is for his patient, gentle nature. She has had her share of men who come only to claim, and needs no more.
Still, a little play could be fun. She glances regretfully at the swimsuit, still too shy to handle the way the fabric would stretch across her body.
Anyways, she has another surprise for Canada.
+ .01
Canada runs his hand through his hair and opens the door with a yawn. He had just had some paperwork to look through after the meeting, and sat at a coffeehouse for about an hour, half-awake through the muted Ukrainian chatter around him.
The first thing that he notices is that all the lights are off, and the glorious, rolling orange of the sunset floods the apartment though the balcony.
The second thing he notices is the note on the table, спальня, it reads, bedroom.
Feeling as if his night has gotten so much better, Canada fairly sprints to the upstairs, wondering if it would be uncouth to strip in the hall. Or perhaps it doesn’t mean what he wants it to at all. After all, Ukraine had never been this … forwardbefore. A bit more uncertain, Canada opens the door.
Greeting him is the most beautiful sight he has ever seen, and he thinks this every day when he gets to come home to her. But today, Ukraine is sitting up on the bed, clad in only a robe, which, although thick and purple, does nothing to hide her lovely curves. On her lap is a bottle of 100%, Canadian maple syrup.
“Welcome home,” She whispers shyly, and Canada thinks he may cry.
“Is it my birthday?” He asks intelligently, because honestly he doesn’t even know.
Ukraine blushes and her hands hover at the belt around her waist. Like the rest of the house, the room is stained red and fading to maroon. There are candles on the floor and the tables, licking light up the walls. When Ukraine slides the robe down her shoulders, she becomes a painted goddess.
She has never allowed him to see her body like this before, preferring to make love in the darkness, under the covers. So, quickly, as if a child stealing a mouthful of sugar, Canada’s eyes soak in and catalogue every part of Ukraine she allows him – her dainty feet, dimpled calves and thighs, trembling stomach, her generous breasts, and, his favorite, her shoulders, which are a perfect curve for his palms.
When his eyes meet hers, he sees her anxious expression, as if she doubts his response.
“Beautiful.” He feels the need to tell her that she is everything perfect in the world, the universe sewn in every pore of her skin. But he can’t find the words, so he looks as earnest as he can and repeats, “Beautiful.”
Ukraine smiles in the last of the setting light and hands him the maple syrup.
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Ukraine's always been one of my favourite characters- thank you so much for reminding me why I love her.
And the Canada/Ukraine... they just fit together so well I don't think I'll ever be able to ship either of them with anyone else any more. ♥
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^^
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Also, a;lksdfxmaf YOU WONDERFUL WRITER. I LOVE YOU FOR THIS.
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I want to hug both Canada and Ukraine when I read this fic - Ukraine because of everything she's gone through, and Canada for being such a great boyfriend. I hope one day Ukraine works up the nerve to buy and wear that swimsuit in front of him so they can both enjoy it. ;D
And, even though it's off-topic, I want to add that I love Clear Mornings, too. I just never got around to commenting on it for some reason. (There's something about the way you write het that makes me temporarily forget that I'm mainly a BL/GL fan. I don't know what it is, but I hope you continue to write het, even if it's only every so often).no subject
I have hope that Ukraine will become more confident in the future!
And thank you for reading Clear Mornings! It was my first het piece, so I'm glad you liked it :D Even more so because you're usually a slasher! So am I, actually, but I will definitely write more het in the future <3
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Thank you so much for de-anoning; I don't visit the kink meme much anymore, so I probably wouldn't have seen this lovely fic otherwise!
I'm a big Canada/Ukraine shipper, and I loved it! I sympathized with Ukraine so much, as I've had similar issues with people before. I wanted to slap France and those girls in the locker room for being a pervert and being catty bitches, respectively. Good on Ukraine for telling the latter off, though!
Once again, really good fan fic!
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I laughed at the part when Canada was so eager running up the stairs. XD He's such a kid sometimes.
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Canada is adorable, yes XD
highly enjoyed!
Can I just say how effing cute this is? I never really understood Ukraine, just because I don't see a lot of representation of her in fandom. So, it makes me really happy to see her not just as the doting sister or the sweet love interest, but as someone with real concerns and insecurities and - fortunately - a boyfriend like Canada to love every piece of her. I'm so happy to have found this fic!