[fic] Sanctuaire
Title: Sanctuaire
Author: etre_sans_age
Rating: R, maybe NC-17
Characters: Russia/France
Warnings: sex in a church
Wordcount: 1,533
Summary: Reposted from the kink meme. For the prompt - Russia and France admiring a church. In this case, the Notre Dame cathedral in Paris. Scandalously fluffy.
[crossposted to francexrussia]
“Is it as beautiful as you remembered, Russia?”
The voice sounded gentle, sophisticated, ever so slightly condescending - familiarly so.
“Even more than ever,” he answered warily, as France took his hand and led him through the tall doors, under the somber vigil of statues and gargoyles. Here, the cool hushed atmosphere made a sudden contrast to the bustling warmth and vibrancy of Paris just outside the walls.
Russia tried to convince himself that he was not intimidated - how could France ever frighten someone like him - but the strange fluttering sensation in the pit of his stomach did not desist. He attributed it to the café au lait earlier that day, and did his best to smile back at the other’s almost glowing expression of contentment.
Once inside, Russia craned his neck and stared up at the lofty curves of the arched ceiling of the nave, windows casting jeweled rainbow light upon the floor, graceful columns and carvings watching over the prayers of the worshippers. Not paying attention to France going on about the magnificent organ (a tasteless and purposeful double entendre that not even America could miss), he idly wondered how many prayers whispered here made it to the heavens and how many did not. Most likely more did not, if one considered the turmoil scarred France’s history. Yet somehow this cathedral was able to weather the wars that raged throughout the land over the centuries, both political and ideological.
Russia had to smile at the irony of its name - “Our Lady of Paris” - as if France could ever remain faithful to just one woman. No, Notre Dame was like a shrine to them all, to love and liberty and light, to every beautiful thing that France adored.
He almost felt jealous. Almost.
A distinct crack in the solemn silence. The rustling sound of a body being roughly pushed up against the wall. A very amused chuckle.
“Ah, Russia, I know you are not accustomed to the idea of someone actually wanting to be with you, but perhaps you could try imagining it, oui?”
Looking down at that lazy smirk, Russia resisted the urge to throw France over the fragile balcony, to see his brains splattered over the lovely tiled floor far below. It seemed that habit had once again subconsciously overpowered his initial intentions, and of course, France had to point that out, as graciously offensive as ever.
“I apologize,” he murmured, loosening his hold on the other’s shirt - no doubt couture and more expensive than all of Russia’s outfit put together, an outfit that was steadily being unfastened and dragged off by dexterous fingers.
And yet Russia could not help but notice the slight trembling that did not still even after he touched his lips to those pale fingertips. He buried his face into France’s shoulder, feeling silky hair against his cheek, and breathed softly onto too-warm flesh.
“What are you thinking about?” Russia asked, pulling back just enough to press his mouth against the other’s curved sensuous lips. “Do you think of her, even now? Or him?” As if he were not guilty of that sometimes, though he would swear this time was different.
France sighed and reached up to caress the side of Russia’s face fondly.
“I was actually thinking… about how happy I am that you still wanted to see me, after all that has happened.”
Upon hearing the faintest hint of sadness (and was that embarrassment as well?) in France’s voice, the tension that had been troubling Russia vanished, to be replaced with a relieved lightness near dizzying in its intensity. He knew his face must have shown his surprise, if but for a moment, shaken by this unexpected statement, words that closely echoed how he also felt.
In wordless reply, Russia leaned forward and gently kissed the other’s eyelids, to banish any unshed tears away. France laughed, charmed and distracted, and then urged him to continue despite their current precarious position.
Russia did not even think of refusing.
For a moment, the two nations took the time to renew a relationship that had faded to the background in the past decades, with kisses languorously slow and indulgent, mouths exploring and welcoming at the same time. France pressed his body up against Russia’s softness, wanting and needing to feel the cool expanse against his own skin. Russia obliged by quickly stripping them of the rest of their clothes, even the scarf that France had retied into a more fashionable knot at yesterday’s meeting.
“So eager now, mon ami?” France asked, with a coy glance that did not match his shameless grin. Turning his head to the side, he sucked lightly at Russia’s fingers, which had strayed too close, earning him another firm shove against the cathedral wall.
“Yes, you occasionally have that effect,” Russia whispered teasingly, as he hitched up France’s leg to offer better access. There was only the briefest of preparation before Russia, somewhat hesitantly, moved up and into the other, with careful shallow motions. France let out a pleased gasp at the intrusion, arching involuntarily into the thrust, and he shut his eyes as he wrapped his arms tightly around Russia’s neck.
Only a short while later, France blinked and then tugged at the other nation’s hair impatiently.
“Russia?”
“Hmmm?”
“You can go, ah, a bit faster, or harder, if you want. I am not so fragile.”
“But I like this very much.” Shifting his grip on the other’s hips, he met France’s gaze and smiled sweetly. “It is different, do you not agree? Different… and nice.”
France was about to make a smart-ass reply but found himself interrupted by Russia suddenly changing tactics in a most amazing and acceptable manner. Whatever he wanted to say promptly left his mind, as during the next several minutes he could not quite get the breath to form any coherent words. Or thoughts, even.
As for Russia, he was still not sure how he managed to stay upright, since his legs were trembling from such completely uninhibited pleasure coursing through his entire body. His hearing was filled with France’s barely stifled wordless moans mixing in with his own uneven panting in strange harmony. Somehow, the other nation had matched his pace after the first shock, like the skilled and much too experienced lover he was, and desperately Russia pulled France closer, to fuck him harder. Closer, he thought, so close, so much better than anything anyone had ever given him before, he was almost there, almost---
It was at this exact moment that the bells of Notre Dame started ringing, loudly and merrily.
Shocked by the unexpected sound, Russia almost dropped the other nation, who had burst into hysterical laughter.
“You knew that was going to happen, didn’t you?” Russia muttered, still annoyed at having been caught by surprise. The nation was on his knees now, a properly humble position to assume in a church, though what he was doing at the moment did not have an appropriate place in any service. (At least, not in any regular church service that he knew of, heaven knew what took place in Parisian cathedrals.)
“It was magnifique, Russia, the best~! Ah, if only I had a camera, your face…” Lying on his back, France made a soft noise of pleasure as Russia finished licking him clean, and he wound his fingers into the other’s pale blond hair, satisfied. Russia looked back up at him, a small smile creeping back on to his lips, lips that still glistened most obscenely.
“So… did a choir of angels sing for you as well?” Russia asked, now more amused and sated than annoyed.
Even though he had just promised that he was not going to, France laughed again and Russia joined him this time, feeling comfortable and warm and so completely at ease.
After their laughter died away into the silence of the hall, the two nations struggled to sit back up on the cold floor of the balcony, though not quite ready to dress just yet.
“This… I did not know how much I missed it until now.” In that vulnerable moment, Russia looked so heartbreakingly beautiful, and France did not hesitate to embrace him.
“I am truly grateful for everything that you have done, France.” Except for that one thing back in the 1800s, of course.
“Je t’offre le sanctuaire… For you and yours, I give everything that I possibly can. Always and willingly.” France smiled somewhat wistfully, and rested his head on the other’s bare chest, placing a hand over his heart. “To see your genuine smile again, that is all I ask for.”
Covering France’s hand with his own, Russia sighed contentedly, basking in this peaceful moment before it was lost forever.
“Thank you, my friend…”
The young frere who had been on pigeon-poop duty crossed himself and begged forgiveness from God and Jesu and whichever saints would listen. He tried to look on the bright side, that it was not often men devoted to the church got to see angels (mon Dieu, weren’t they supposed to be sexless?!) so perhaps, just possibly, he may not burn in hell for accidentally looking in on, on, whatever they were doing.
Author: etre_sans_age
Rating: R, maybe NC-17
Characters: Russia/France
Warnings: sex in a church
Wordcount: 1,533
Summary: Reposted from the kink meme. For the prompt - Russia and France admiring a church. In this case, the Notre Dame cathedral in Paris. Scandalously fluffy.
[crossposted to francexrussia]
“Is it as beautiful as you remembered, Russia?”
The voice sounded gentle, sophisticated, ever so slightly condescending - familiarly so.
“Even more than ever,” he answered warily, as France took his hand and led him through the tall doors, under the somber vigil of statues and gargoyles. Here, the cool hushed atmosphere made a sudden contrast to the bustling warmth and vibrancy of Paris just outside the walls.
Russia tried to convince himself that he was not intimidated - how could France ever frighten someone like him - but the strange fluttering sensation in the pit of his stomach did not desist. He attributed it to the café au lait earlier that day, and did his best to smile back at the other’s almost glowing expression of contentment.
Once inside, Russia craned his neck and stared up at the lofty curves of the arched ceiling of the nave, windows casting jeweled rainbow light upon the floor, graceful columns and carvings watching over the prayers of the worshippers. Not paying attention to France going on about the magnificent organ (a tasteless and purposeful double entendre that not even America could miss), he idly wondered how many prayers whispered here made it to the heavens and how many did not. Most likely more did not, if one considered the turmoil scarred France’s history. Yet somehow this cathedral was able to weather the wars that raged throughout the land over the centuries, both political and ideological.
Russia had to smile at the irony of its name - “Our Lady of Paris” - as if France could ever remain faithful to just one woman. No, Notre Dame was like a shrine to them all, to love and liberty and light, to every beautiful thing that France adored.
He almost felt jealous. Almost.
A distinct crack in the solemn silence. The rustling sound of a body being roughly pushed up against the wall. A very amused chuckle.
“Ah, Russia, I know you are not accustomed to the idea of someone actually wanting to be with you, but perhaps you could try imagining it, oui?”
Looking down at that lazy smirk, Russia resisted the urge to throw France over the fragile balcony, to see his brains splattered over the lovely tiled floor far below. It seemed that habit had once again subconsciously overpowered his initial intentions, and of course, France had to point that out, as graciously offensive as ever.
“I apologize,” he murmured, loosening his hold on the other’s shirt - no doubt couture and more expensive than all of Russia’s outfit put together, an outfit that was steadily being unfastened and dragged off by dexterous fingers.
And yet Russia could not help but notice the slight trembling that did not still even after he touched his lips to those pale fingertips. He buried his face into France’s shoulder, feeling silky hair against his cheek, and breathed softly onto too-warm flesh.
“What are you thinking about?” Russia asked, pulling back just enough to press his mouth against the other’s curved sensuous lips. “Do you think of her, even now? Or him?” As if he were not guilty of that sometimes, though he would swear this time was different.
France sighed and reached up to caress the side of Russia’s face fondly.
“I was actually thinking… about how happy I am that you still wanted to see me, after all that has happened.”
Upon hearing the faintest hint of sadness (and was that embarrassment as well?) in France’s voice, the tension that had been troubling Russia vanished, to be replaced with a relieved lightness near dizzying in its intensity. He knew his face must have shown his surprise, if but for a moment, shaken by this unexpected statement, words that closely echoed how he also felt.
In wordless reply, Russia leaned forward and gently kissed the other’s eyelids, to banish any unshed tears away. France laughed, charmed and distracted, and then urged him to continue despite their current precarious position.
Russia did not even think of refusing.
For a moment, the two nations took the time to renew a relationship that had faded to the background in the past decades, with kisses languorously slow and indulgent, mouths exploring and welcoming at the same time. France pressed his body up against Russia’s softness, wanting and needing to feel the cool expanse against his own skin. Russia obliged by quickly stripping them of the rest of their clothes, even the scarf that France had retied into a more fashionable knot at yesterday’s meeting.
“So eager now, mon ami?” France asked, with a coy glance that did not match his shameless grin. Turning his head to the side, he sucked lightly at Russia’s fingers, which had strayed too close, earning him another firm shove against the cathedral wall.
“Yes, you occasionally have that effect,” Russia whispered teasingly, as he hitched up France’s leg to offer better access. There was only the briefest of preparation before Russia, somewhat hesitantly, moved up and into the other, with careful shallow motions. France let out a pleased gasp at the intrusion, arching involuntarily into the thrust, and he shut his eyes as he wrapped his arms tightly around Russia’s neck.
Only a short while later, France blinked and then tugged at the other nation’s hair impatiently.
“Russia?”
“Hmmm?”
“You can go, ah, a bit faster, or harder, if you want. I am not so fragile.”
“But I like this very much.” Shifting his grip on the other’s hips, he met France’s gaze and smiled sweetly. “It is different, do you not agree? Different… and nice.”
France was about to make a smart-ass reply but found himself interrupted by Russia suddenly changing tactics in a most amazing and acceptable manner. Whatever he wanted to say promptly left his mind, as during the next several minutes he could not quite get the breath to form any coherent words. Or thoughts, even.
As for Russia, he was still not sure how he managed to stay upright, since his legs were trembling from such completely uninhibited pleasure coursing through his entire body. His hearing was filled with France’s barely stifled wordless moans mixing in with his own uneven panting in strange harmony. Somehow, the other nation had matched his pace after the first shock, like the skilled and much too experienced lover he was, and desperately Russia pulled France closer, to fuck him harder. Closer, he thought, so close, so much better than anything anyone had ever given him before, he was almost there, almost---
It was at this exact moment that the bells of Notre Dame started ringing, loudly and merrily.
Shocked by the unexpected sound, Russia almost dropped the other nation, who had burst into hysterical laughter.
“You knew that was going to happen, didn’t you?” Russia muttered, still annoyed at having been caught by surprise. The nation was on his knees now, a properly humble position to assume in a church, though what he was doing at the moment did not have an appropriate place in any service. (At least, not in any regular church service that he knew of, heaven knew what took place in Parisian cathedrals.)
“It was magnifique, Russia, the best~! Ah, if only I had a camera, your face…” Lying on his back, France made a soft noise of pleasure as Russia finished licking him clean, and he wound his fingers into the other’s pale blond hair, satisfied. Russia looked back up at him, a small smile creeping back on to his lips, lips that still glistened most obscenely.
“So… did a choir of angels sing for you as well?” Russia asked, now more amused and sated than annoyed.
Even though he had just promised that he was not going to, France laughed again and Russia joined him this time, feeling comfortable and warm and so completely at ease.
After their laughter died away into the silence of the hall, the two nations struggled to sit back up on the cold floor of the balcony, though not quite ready to dress just yet.
“This… I did not know how much I missed it until now.” In that vulnerable moment, Russia looked so heartbreakingly beautiful, and France did not hesitate to embrace him.
“I am truly grateful for everything that you have done, France.” Except for that one thing back in the 1800s, of course.
“Je t’offre le sanctuaire… For you and yours, I give everything that I possibly can. Always and willingly.” France smiled somewhat wistfully, and rested his head on the other’s bare chest, placing a hand over his heart. “To see your genuine smile again, that is all I ask for.”
Covering France’s hand with his own, Russia sighed contentedly, basking in this peaceful moment before it was lost forever.
“Thank you, my friend…”
The young frere who had been on pigeon-poop duty crossed himself and begged forgiveness from God and Jesu and whichever saints would listen. He tried to look on the bright side, that it was not often men devoted to the church got to see angels (mon Dieu, weren’t they supposed to be sexless?!) so perhaps, just possibly, he may not burn in hell for accidentally looking in on, on, whatever they were doing.