[Fanfic] SwedenxFrance
Title: Losing Touch
Author: Me, bonzai-bunny
Character(s)/Pairing(s): SwedenxFrance
Rating: NC-17/R
Warnings: Smut, a smidgen of angst
A/N: I’ve decided that it’s pretty impossible for me to write anything happy. xD And this pairing wasn’t nearly as crackish as I thought it would be. The smut's pretty vague (at least to me) so, you know.
---o0o---
Sweden often wonders if it’s really okay for him to do this, to give into the temptation and the calling of lust. Theoretically, there isn’t anything wrong with it, part of his brain (presumably the part driven by the lust) and France counter-argue. He and Finland aren’t technically married anymore; Finland is his own, independent nation, and Sweden can do whatever he wants.
But it still bothers him immensely, still sneaks under his skin when France greets him in his normal, affectionate way. He smells like rich coffee, faint cigarettes and expensive cologne, and the smell always makes something sink in Sweden’s belly.
“Ah, welcome. It is good to see you again,” France kisses the Nordic on both cheeks in the doorstep of his Parisian apartment.
Sweden nods, mumbles a quiet, “You too,” and France drags him inside.
The butterflies in Sweden’s stomach churn harder when France closes the door (even though they’ve done this multiple times), because they rarely waste time, and almost immediately his head is tugged down and lips are attached to his.
The kiss reminds Sweden of Finland, for some reason, even though it’s very different than the kisses they used to give each other. Finland was soft and sweet and France is passionate and smooth with none of the shy nuances of the former.
Some of his anxiety melts away, though, when a tongue presses into his mouth because he can’t deny it; it does feel good. France was good at making people feel good, he decides, with warm hands, so opposite of Sweden’s, tugging up his sweater and running up his abs.
But soon, France pulls away, taking his warmth with him.
“You are distracted, non?”
Sweden nods guiltily with a slight blush, but France only chuckles, (more warmth spreads through the other at this) and pulls Sweden forward.
“Ah, I’m sure I can help with that,” he says with a little wink and Sweden knows that they are heading for his bedroom and the thought doesn’t bother him nearly as much as it might have before.
When they get there, Sweden tugs off his belt, watching as France climbs on his bed and climbs out of his fashionable boots and jeans.
“Are you in a hurry today?”
Sweden nods, knowing that means that they’ll keep most of their clothes on for this and skip a lot of foreplay.
“Peter’ll be home soon,” he says unzipping his pants.
France smiles faintly in comprehension and stretches over to grab lubricant on his bedside table.
“I only wish we could schedule this better; we are both always so busy. I want to make love to you,” he scrunches up his delicate nose like he’s displeased by the next thought, “not fuck.”
Sweden doesn’t say anything to that, a little shocked of France’s choice of words, but climbs onto the bed and receives a brief kiss from France.
“I would draw it out slowly as I’d like,” a few more peppered kisses to his jaw and hands start to roam to his hips, pulling down his pants. Sweden begins to feel the heat once again and it blossoms inside him once France’s hand is around his slowly growing arousal, still covered by his underwear.
“I would make you feel better than you ever have before.”
“Hmm,” he mutters, trying to keep his face stoic, when truly what France is saying is exciting him more than he’d like to admit. And with the warm hand practically wrapped around him, rubbing him; gushes of heat shoot through his entire body.
Then, suddenly, France is pressed up against him, arms wrap around his broad shoulders, so hot, and his breath creates warm puffs of air against Sweden’s normally much cooler skin.
“Mmm, Berwald, you are still so tense,” he grinds their bodies together and Sweden is surprised at how erect the other is. He trembles with pleasure that he’s still half-afraid to feel and France then kisses him, long and hard. When the kiss breaks, France looks up at him, something strange and soft dancing in his cobalt eyes.
“Just let go, mon chéri,” he whispers hotly against Sweden’s lips, “I will not let you fall.”
Sweden nods, trying to do so, and takes the other’s hand as he pulls him forward, further on the bed.
Then France pulls down his underwear, shimmies it off, and lies in front of Sweden so unabashedly, so sure, that it makes Sweden blush.
But they’ve both done this too many times to be embarrassed and he takes the lube France had set beside him, working quickly to prepare the other man. He anticipates the heat he knows will soon be around him, feeling his own arousal throb, and with trembling fingers he also pulls down his own boxers and wraps a slick hand around his erection, shivering inwardly at the coolness of the lube.
“Ready?”
He knows he doesn’t need to ask the question; France’s half-lidded eyes are still following his every movement and his legs are still spread wide, showing his intimacy.
France only manages a slight nod and a breathy “Oui.”
Then Sweden slowly pushes in and his thoughts run together, too overwhelmed by all of the heat surrounding him. Both he and France go to a place of ecstasy that wraps around their minds and soon Sweden is rocking into him with reckless abandon. And France is still so effortlessly beautiful, enticing, with his face flushed in a nice way, and his hair sticking with sweat.
The previous problems and inhibitions that the Nordic had are foreign to him now, and he doesn’t think about Finland, doesn’t think about the chill of his home, and doesn’t think about his family, only the tight heat wrapped around him and how great it would be to last there forever.
But all too soon, the warmth spills through him and stars shoot behind his eyes and it is over for both of them.
France is strangely quiet when Sweden pulls out, and Sweden is thankful for this, caught up in his thoughts. Now that the deed was done, the guilt is starting to set in again, and he fears France speaking will only make it worse, but what’s done is done and he can’t change that. It shouldn’t matter to him that he and Finland used to lie around and cuddle after sex, whispering sweet nothings. It doesn’t matter that sometimes when Finland came he would cry out, “I love you.”
Because France is not Finland; Finland is not France and crying out, “I love you,” wouldn’t make sense because Sweden’s relationship with France has nothing to do with love, and he repeats this like a broken record in his mind.
He jumps while putting on his pants when France wraps his arms around him from behind, still nude, with an unlit cigarette between his lips.
“Pl’se don’t. Th’ smoke.”
Sweden’s back is turned so he can’t see France’s bitter smile and only hears, “Oh yes, I forgot. Smoke on your clothes and all,” as he slowly drops his arms.
When Sweden is fully dressed again, he turns around and gives France a light peck on his cheek with a mumbled, “See ya.”
He stops at the doorway and looks behind him to see France still sitting on his bed, clutching the cigarette pack like it’s a lifeline.
“Berwald, if you need to talk,” he pauses, gathering words, “you can always call me.”
Sweden nods, taking in the full meaning of the gesture, but pretending to be ignorant.
“I will.”
But in truth, he never does.
Author: Me, bonzai-bunny
Character(s)/Pairing(s): SwedenxFrance
Rating: NC-17/R
Warnings: Smut, a smidgen of angst
A/N: I’ve decided that it’s pretty impossible for me to write anything happy. xD And this pairing wasn’t nearly as crackish as I thought it would be. The smut's pretty vague (at least to me) so, you know.
---o0o---
Sweden often wonders if it’s really okay for him to do this, to give into the temptation and the calling of lust. Theoretically, there isn’t anything wrong with it, part of his brain (presumably the part driven by the lust) and France counter-argue. He and Finland aren’t technically married anymore; Finland is his own, independent nation, and Sweden can do whatever he wants.
But it still bothers him immensely, still sneaks under his skin when France greets him in his normal, affectionate way. He smells like rich coffee, faint cigarettes and expensive cologne, and the smell always makes something sink in Sweden’s belly.
“Ah, welcome. It is good to see you again,” France kisses the Nordic on both cheeks in the doorstep of his Parisian apartment.
Sweden nods, mumbles a quiet, “You too,” and France drags him inside.
The butterflies in Sweden’s stomach churn harder when France closes the door (even though they’ve done this multiple times), because they rarely waste time, and almost immediately his head is tugged down and lips are attached to his.
The kiss reminds Sweden of Finland, for some reason, even though it’s very different than the kisses they used to give each other. Finland was soft and sweet and France is passionate and smooth with none of the shy nuances of the former.
Some of his anxiety melts away, though, when a tongue presses into his mouth because he can’t deny it; it does feel good. France was good at making people feel good, he decides, with warm hands, so opposite of Sweden’s, tugging up his sweater and running up his abs.
But soon, France pulls away, taking his warmth with him.
“You are distracted, non?”
Sweden nods guiltily with a slight blush, but France only chuckles, (more warmth spreads through the other at this) and pulls Sweden forward.
“Ah, I’m sure I can help with that,” he says with a little wink and Sweden knows that they are heading for his bedroom and the thought doesn’t bother him nearly as much as it might have before.
When they get there, Sweden tugs off his belt, watching as France climbs on his bed and climbs out of his fashionable boots and jeans.
“Are you in a hurry today?”
Sweden nods, knowing that means that they’ll keep most of their clothes on for this and skip a lot of foreplay.
“Peter’ll be home soon,” he says unzipping his pants.
France smiles faintly in comprehension and stretches over to grab lubricant on his bedside table.
“I only wish we could schedule this better; we are both always so busy. I want to make love to you,” he scrunches up his delicate nose like he’s displeased by the next thought, “not fuck.”
Sweden doesn’t say anything to that, a little shocked of France’s choice of words, but climbs onto the bed and receives a brief kiss from France.
“I would draw it out slowly as I’d like,” a few more peppered kisses to his jaw and hands start to roam to his hips, pulling down his pants. Sweden begins to feel the heat once again and it blossoms inside him once France’s hand is around his slowly growing arousal, still covered by his underwear.
“I would make you feel better than you ever have before.”
“Hmm,” he mutters, trying to keep his face stoic, when truly what France is saying is exciting him more than he’d like to admit. And with the warm hand practically wrapped around him, rubbing him; gushes of heat shoot through his entire body.
Then, suddenly, France is pressed up against him, arms wrap around his broad shoulders, so hot, and his breath creates warm puffs of air against Sweden’s normally much cooler skin.
“Mmm, Berwald, you are still so tense,” he grinds their bodies together and Sweden is surprised at how erect the other is. He trembles with pleasure that he’s still half-afraid to feel and France then kisses him, long and hard. When the kiss breaks, France looks up at him, something strange and soft dancing in his cobalt eyes.
“Just let go, mon chéri,” he whispers hotly against Sweden’s lips, “I will not let you fall.”
Sweden nods, trying to do so, and takes the other’s hand as he pulls him forward, further on the bed.
Then France pulls down his underwear, shimmies it off, and lies in front of Sweden so unabashedly, so sure, that it makes Sweden blush.
But they’ve both done this too many times to be embarrassed and he takes the lube France had set beside him, working quickly to prepare the other man. He anticipates the heat he knows will soon be around him, feeling his own arousal throb, and with trembling fingers he also pulls down his own boxers and wraps a slick hand around his erection, shivering inwardly at the coolness of the lube.
“Ready?”
He knows he doesn’t need to ask the question; France’s half-lidded eyes are still following his every movement and his legs are still spread wide, showing his intimacy.
France only manages a slight nod and a breathy “Oui.”
Then Sweden slowly pushes in and his thoughts run together, too overwhelmed by all of the heat surrounding him. Both he and France go to a place of ecstasy that wraps around their minds and soon Sweden is rocking into him with reckless abandon. And France is still so effortlessly beautiful, enticing, with his face flushed in a nice way, and his hair sticking with sweat.
The previous problems and inhibitions that the Nordic had are foreign to him now, and he doesn’t think about Finland, doesn’t think about the chill of his home, and doesn’t think about his family, only the tight heat wrapped around him and how great it would be to last there forever.
But all too soon, the warmth spills through him and stars shoot behind his eyes and it is over for both of them.
France is strangely quiet when Sweden pulls out, and Sweden is thankful for this, caught up in his thoughts. Now that the deed was done, the guilt is starting to set in again, and he fears France speaking will only make it worse, but what’s done is done and he can’t change that. It shouldn’t matter to him that he and Finland used to lie around and cuddle after sex, whispering sweet nothings. It doesn’t matter that sometimes when Finland came he would cry out, “I love you.”
Because France is not Finland; Finland is not France and crying out, “I love you,” wouldn’t make sense because Sweden’s relationship with France has nothing to do with love, and he repeats this like a broken record in his mind.
He jumps while putting on his pants when France wraps his arms around him from behind, still nude, with an unlit cigarette between his lips.
“Pl’se don’t. Th’ smoke.”
Sweden’s back is turned so he can’t see France’s bitter smile and only hears, “Oh yes, I forgot. Smoke on your clothes and all,” as he slowly drops his arms.
When Sweden is fully dressed again, he turns around and gives France a light peck on his cheek with a mumbled, “See ya.”
He stops at the doorway and looks behind him to see France still sitting on his bed, clutching the cigarette pack like it’s a lifeline.
“Berwald, if you need to talk,” he pauses, gathering words, “you can always call me.”
Sweden nods, taking in the full meaning of the gesture, but pretending to be ignorant.
“I will.”
But in truth, he never does.