[fic] Snow Daze - Sweden/France
Title: Snow Daze
Author: le_ouiaboo
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Sweden/France
Rating: M/NC-17
Warnings: smut; frot, non-penetration
Summary: For the prompt: Sweden/France, snowsex.
ff.net link
[Sharing a rare pair and some non-penetrative smut. A sequel may or may not be in the works. You saw nothing.]
Sweden pretended he had not heard and kept right on walking, but the voice was too clear, too deliberate, and someone was bound to notice. He stopped and waited for the tourist to catch up, trying to look like a normal ski resort employee.
“Imagine seeing you here, Berwald,” France purred, stepping to his side, too close for comfort. “What a pleasant surprise!”
“What d’you want?”
“Why, the same thing everyone here wants. A fun time skiing at a lovely locale…” France smiled and glanced over at the pristine white landscape, sparkling under a flawless blue sky, the small crowds of excited skiers at the lifts, waiting to be taken up to the slopes. “With a talented and handsome instructor, perhaps,” he finished, giving Sweden a meaningful look.
“Y’need ski lessons?” Sweden asked doubtfully. He knew France could ski just fine, he was actually one of the better skiers in Europe, if a little flashy.
“Actually, I would like to hire you as my tour guide for the day. I have never been to Åre before, and would love to experience it fully.”
Sweden stared at him impassively and then started walking away, leaving France behind.
“Wait, wait!” France called out, jogging after him. “Think about it, a good review from me could be just what you need!”
“Don’t need y’r money.”
Now it was France’s turn to stare, and while Sweden could stare back until the sun went down, he could not deny the truth. Every little bit helped in these uncertain times. Even if he could do without the hostility of the typical French tourist, the rest of the continent generally respected France’s tastes, and that was never a bad thing.
“Get y’r gear and meet me at the lifts.”
“Ah, I knew you’d understand, darling!”
It seemed France knew what he was doing, and Sweden had nothing to say about the good condition of his skis and poles, the comfort of his outerwear, a little pink to be absolutely masculine, but warm and waterproof enough. He let France settle into the chair lift first, then sat down beside him and lowered the restraining bar, which unfortunately was not restraining enough to keep a nation’s wandering hands to himself. Sweden let it slide though, since the ride was fairly windy, and if that was what France needed to do to keep his circulation going, then he had no objections.
As the lift gradually made its way to the top of the slope, France attempted to start a conversation with Sweden, apparently to better showcase his own wit and charm because he was certainly not expecting any repartee from his taciturn companion. His brilliant anecdotes of time spent snowboarding some of the most dangerous runs in the Alps were lost upon Sweden, however. When France returned to the topic of skiing and how he could use some tips from a fellow skier to perfect his skill, Sweden finally suggested that he was probably out of practice keeping his legs closed.
They spent the rest of the ride up in icy silence.
It was a little awkward disentangling themselves when the chair lift stopped, France seemed to have completely melded himself into Sweden’s jacket, and they received not a few strange looks from other skiers. But eventually, without further mishap, they arrived at the piste France had his eye on, near the top of the peak.
“Incroyable,” France whispered, breath curling out from between his rosy lips in a plume. He stared with wide eyes around the scenery, taking in the crisp clean air avidly. “I have never seen anything so… spectacular, so breathtaking…” He looked over at Sweden, who said nothing and snapped his goggles into place.
“Let’s go.”
They took a challenging first run, and there being no other skiers around, they went as fast as they dared. France seemed to have no problems with the pace, so Sweden led him to the black diamond run further down the slope. There was a close brush with a tree branch once or twice, but France, breathless and ruddy when he slid to a stop in front of Sweden, eagerly asked him for more.
Raising an eyebrow, Sweden pulls out the map, scanning it for a suitable challenge. France tried to tiptoe as best as he could on skis to take a look and nearly lost his balance when Sweden turned to face him.
“Cross-country?” he suggested.
France considered that and then nodded. “A ski tour sounds perfect. Just the two of us, alone with nature…”
Sweden was not so sure about the perfect part, but he did request a tour, and a twenty-six kilometer circuit around the main peak would give France the tour he wanted. After a stop by one of the many resort shops to collect some cross-country necessities, the two were on their way.
“Sweden? Could you… please wait? I-I don’t think… my legs are as long as yours.”
“How’re y’doing?” Sweden asked gruffly, glancing over his shoulder at France who was some distance behind him. France tried to smile, but it was more a pained grimace than anything else. They were on the most difficult part of the trail now, the highland heaths under the shadow of Mount Åreskutan. No doubt France was tired from the first two runs, and he was feeling the burn in his legs, even after they had rested in a shelter some five kilometers back.
The weather was taking a turn for the worse, the skies covering with charcoal-gray clouds, the wind blowing harshly, potentially lowering the visibility even further. Sweden did not want to hurry his guest, but they needed to get to the next lift soon, or risk getting caught in bad weather. He skied back to France’s side, hoping to encourage him to move.
“Sorry,” France mumbled miserably, taking off his goggles to wipe at his reddened eyes with a gloved hand. “I thought I could make it.”
“You okay?”
France nodded, their kind could usually push on far longer than a human can, but Sweden thought that this was not the best way for anyone, even France, to spend a vacation - cold, exhausted, in pain.
“We’ll stop.”
He guided France to the treeline, into a copse of birches, where they could relax tucked away from the wind and snow and hopefully regain some energy before restarting the tour. After performing extraordinary measures to detach themselves from their skis, Sweden stamped flat a patch of snow next to a tall birch tree. All he had in his pack was an emergency tent for one, but with one side left open, it could provide shelter for two, and so he quickly set up the tarp, piling some branches against the outside for extra protection.
“C’mon,” he said, motioning France inside the tent.
With a small groan, France managed to settle into the shelter, gingerly stretching out his legs across the packed snow. Sweden made one last check of the area, assessing the sky and deciding it will hold for the rest of the day. He made himself comfortable beside France, who immediately curled into his side, shivering.
Awkwardly, Sweden put an arm about France’s shoulders, holding him close so that they could share body heat, but after a few minutes, he could tell it wasn’t working. France was on the verge of tears, and he mumbled unhappily to himself in his own language between the sniffling and chattering teeth. It was not in Sweden to feel pity for France, who had once been an ally, but who had caused problems as well, and yet he could not bring himself to ignore the other’s discomfort.
“Don’t cry,” he said at last, bringing up a hand to wipe at France’s cheeks. “Y’lose heat that way.”
France cracked a weak smile despite his chapped lips. “Of course, you’re right.”
He watched curiously as Sweden pull out a heat pack from his bag, warming it between his bare palms before setting it on France’s lap.
“For y’r legs,” he added, but since France did not seem to understand, he moved it on top of France’s left thigh, holding the heat pack down while using his other hand to squeeze at the tense muscle.
That caused France to shudder and gasp, a high-pitched wheeze that sounded unnaturally loud to Sweden in the muffled silence.
“Ah! Th-that felt… very nice. Thank you, Sweden.”
Avoiding France’s gaze, Sweden continued working down his leg, trying to ease the beginnings of a cramp in his calf with his fingers. He debated checking his feet, but decided it was not worth the potential frostbite to take off his boots, and so he clambered over and turned his attention to France’s right leg. Which was just as tense, evidence that France was not exaggerating his pain.
The overwhelming quiet apparently got to France’s sensibilities, and he broke the silence saying, “You’re very good at this. Even better than me.”
“S’nothing,” Sweden murmured. He looked up to see if France was showing any improvement and could not help but notice how brightly flushed his cheeks seemed, his lower lip reddened from chewing on it so hard, his eyes wide and dark and gleaming with barely repressed emotion.
“No, it is something. I think you know, don’t you?” France breathed, his voice low and husky, and feeling a thrill on the back of his neck, Sweden backed away, sitting on the snow with a thump.
“Y’need to relax, France...” But the words did not come out as sternly as he had intended. Sweden found himself unable to move as he stared at France, captivated by the deep, liquid blue of his eyes. Some logical part deep inside his brain told him that they weren’t going to get to the resort with France in this state, they had at least ten more kilometers to go, and it would be better to get it over sooner rather than later, before the sun set and he would have to carry back an obviously aroused Frenchman, on skis.
The rest of his brain was noticing, a bit uselessly, how warm the tent had gotten and that France was saying something but he could not hear through the cotton which had somehow stuffed itself into his ears.
France rose to his knees, crawling over to Sweden and placing his now warmed hands on his thighs. What had been a utilitarian motion became something utterly erotic now that France was performing it. Even through the layers of long underwear and wool trousers and waterproof nylon, he could France’s caresses like a burning brand on his skin. He shifted uncomfortably, knees knocking together, and France withdrew his hands, only to pour himself into Sweden’s lap, straddling his hips gracefully.
“Let me return the favor, please,” he whispered, his lips only a hair’s width away from Sweden’s own. Then France began to move, grinding against Sweden, deliberately pressing their vital regions together. Mouth dry, Sweden’s hands moved to his waist, crushing through the feather down to clamp on his hipbones tightly, guiding him into place.
He was certain nothing else had ever warmed him up so quickly, and France’s hitched little gasps and whines as he rocked in Sweden’s lap threatened to undo the last of his self-composure. So that was why he did not protest when France leaned forward to press their lips together, tongue pushing through his teeth to explore his mouth. That was why he did not hesitate to squeeze at France’s backside, although admittedly, the effect was somewhat attenuated by the layers of clothing they wore. That was why he was enjoying this.
By the jerkiness of his movements, the urgent neediness of his cries, Sweden could tell France was close, and he spilled the other nation out of his lap, causing him to sputter a curse. Swiftly, he pulled France to his knees, tugging his pants down just enough and reaching around to palm his erection, already hard and dripping. As a precaution, Sweden put his other hand over France’s mouth, felt him bite down hard as he stroked him off, the sound of his release a thick spatter on the snow.
France was still shuddering and gulping down air when he sensed Sweden’s cock pressed against the cleft of his buttocks. But even he was not prepared for sex while cross-country skiing, and without lube or condoms, Sweden had to settle for the next best thing. He let his aching length slide down and in between France’s thighs, growling in pleasure at pushing through the tight space. France chuckled breathlessly and submitted to him, letting Sweden thrust between his closed legs with long, powerful strokes, hearing the other nation’s harsh breathing quicken until finally he came, hot cum making a soft hissing noise as it dripped onto the snow-covered ground.
In the following hush, the first thing Sweden said was, “Guess y’can keep your legs together aft’r all,” and France burst out into laughter.
“Mon cher, I can do a lot of things that would surprise you.”
They dressed in somewhat comfortable silence before important organs could freeze and fall off, and Sweden discreetly swept snow over the mess they made in the shelter. But as France seemed a lot more comfortable, and certainly a lot more pleased judging by his satisfied grin, he figured they can now finish the tour, or at least get to the next lift and take it down to the village.
At the base of the mountain, France said his farewells, promising to reimburse Sweden thoroughly for his services. Sweden nodded curtly and then mumbled, “Apres ski?”
France interpreted this unenlightening phrase as best as he could. “Ah, you mean, what do I plan to do now? Eat dinner, for one thing, and sit in front of a fire for at least an hour.”
Blushing faintly, Sweden cleared his throat and then mumbled even more softly, “Sauna?”
Now France was smirking like a cat that got into the cream. “I suppose I should experience the famous Swedish sauna sometime before I leave… It sounds exhilarating.”
Before Sweden could react, France kissed him lightly on the lips. “I’ll be waiting for you after dinner,” he murmured seductively, and Sweden had to wonder if there was any way to make a French person hurry through a meal.
Probably not, but he was planning to stare very intently at France while he ate just to see if he could.
[Thanks for reading, that is, if anyone is reading this rarepair, haha. I apologize one more time to anyone who knows the first thing about skiing or Swedish ski resorts, please feel free to correct me if I got anything wrong. Here is the famous ski resort they are at: http://www.skistar.com/en/Are/]
Author: le_ouiaboo
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Sweden/France
Rating: M/NC-17
Warnings: smut; frot, non-penetration
Summary: For the prompt: Sweden/France, snowsex.
ff.net link
[Sharing a rare pair and some non-penetrative smut. A sequel may or may not be in the works. You saw nothing.]
Sweden pretended he had not heard and kept right on walking, but the voice was too clear, too deliberate, and someone was bound to notice. He stopped and waited for the tourist to catch up, trying to look like a normal ski resort employee.
“Imagine seeing you here, Berwald,” France purred, stepping to his side, too close for comfort. “What a pleasant surprise!”
“What d’you want?”
“Why, the same thing everyone here wants. A fun time skiing at a lovely locale…” France smiled and glanced over at the pristine white landscape, sparkling under a flawless blue sky, the small crowds of excited skiers at the lifts, waiting to be taken up to the slopes. “With a talented and handsome instructor, perhaps,” he finished, giving Sweden a meaningful look.
“Y’need ski lessons?” Sweden asked doubtfully. He knew France could ski just fine, he was actually one of the better skiers in Europe, if a little flashy.
“Actually, I would like to hire you as my tour guide for the day. I have never been to Åre before, and would love to experience it fully.”
Sweden stared at him impassively and then started walking away, leaving France behind.
“Wait, wait!” France called out, jogging after him. “Think about it, a good review from me could be just what you need!”
“Don’t need y’r money.”
Now it was France’s turn to stare, and while Sweden could stare back until the sun went down, he could not deny the truth. Every little bit helped in these uncertain times. Even if he could do without the hostility of the typical French tourist, the rest of the continent generally respected France’s tastes, and that was never a bad thing.
“Get y’r gear and meet me at the lifts.”
“Ah, I knew you’d understand, darling!”
It seemed France knew what he was doing, and Sweden had nothing to say about the good condition of his skis and poles, the comfort of his outerwear, a little pink to be absolutely masculine, but warm and waterproof enough. He let France settle into the chair lift first, then sat down beside him and lowered the restraining bar, which unfortunately was not restraining enough to keep a nation’s wandering hands to himself. Sweden let it slide though, since the ride was fairly windy, and if that was what France needed to do to keep his circulation going, then he had no objections.
As the lift gradually made its way to the top of the slope, France attempted to start a conversation with Sweden, apparently to better showcase his own wit and charm because he was certainly not expecting any repartee from his taciturn companion. His brilliant anecdotes of time spent snowboarding some of the most dangerous runs in the Alps were lost upon Sweden, however. When France returned to the topic of skiing and how he could use some tips from a fellow skier to perfect his skill, Sweden finally suggested that he was probably out of practice keeping his legs closed.
They spent the rest of the ride up in icy silence.
It was a little awkward disentangling themselves when the chair lift stopped, France seemed to have completely melded himself into Sweden’s jacket, and they received not a few strange looks from other skiers. But eventually, without further mishap, they arrived at the piste France had his eye on, near the top of the peak.
“Incroyable,” France whispered, breath curling out from between his rosy lips in a plume. He stared with wide eyes around the scenery, taking in the crisp clean air avidly. “I have never seen anything so… spectacular, so breathtaking…” He looked over at Sweden, who said nothing and snapped his goggles into place.
“Let’s go.”
They took a challenging first run, and there being no other skiers around, they went as fast as they dared. France seemed to have no problems with the pace, so Sweden led him to the black diamond run further down the slope. There was a close brush with a tree branch once or twice, but France, breathless and ruddy when he slid to a stop in front of Sweden, eagerly asked him for more.
Raising an eyebrow, Sweden pulls out the map, scanning it for a suitable challenge. France tried to tiptoe as best as he could on skis to take a look and nearly lost his balance when Sweden turned to face him.
“Cross-country?” he suggested.
France considered that and then nodded. “A ski tour sounds perfect. Just the two of us, alone with nature…”
Sweden was not so sure about the perfect part, but he did request a tour, and a twenty-six kilometer circuit around the main peak would give France the tour he wanted. After a stop by one of the many resort shops to collect some cross-country necessities, the two were on their way.
“Sweden? Could you… please wait? I-I don’t think… my legs are as long as yours.”
“How’re y’doing?” Sweden asked gruffly, glancing over his shoulder at France who was some distance behind him. France tried to smile, but it was more a pained grimace than anything else. They were on the most difficult part of the trail now, the highland heaths under the shadow of Mount Åreskutan. No doubt France was tired from the first two runs, and he was feeling the burn in his legs, even after they had rested in a shelter some five kilometers back.
The weather was taking a turn for the worse, the skies covering with charcoal-gray clouds, the wind blowing harshly, potentially lowering the visibility even further. Sweden did not want to hurry his guest, but they needed to get to the next lift soon, or risk getting caught in bad weather. He skied back to France’s side, hoping to encourage him to move.
“Sorry,” France mumbled miserably, taking off his goggles to wipe at his reddened eyes with a gloved hand. “I thought I could make it.”
“You okay?”
France nodded, their kind could usually push on far longer than a human can, but Sweden thought that this was not the best way for anyone, even France, to spend a vacation - cold, exhausted, in pain.
“We’ll stop.”
He guided France to the treeline, into a copse of birches, where they could relax tucked away from the wind and snow and hopefully regain some energy before restarting the tour. After performing extraordinary measures to detach themselves from their skis, Sweden stamped flat a patch of snow next to a tall birch tree. All he had in his pack was an emergency tent for one, but with one side left open, it could provide shelter for two, and so he quickly set up the tarp, piling some branches against the outside for extra protection.
“C’mon,” he said, motioning France inside the tent.
With a small groan, France managed to settle into the shelter, gingerly stretching out his legs across the packed snow. Sweden made one last check of the area, assessing the sky and deciding it will hold for the rest of the day. He made himself comfortable beside France, who immediately curled into his side, shivering.
Awkwardly, Sweden put an arm about France’s shoulders, holding him close so that they could share body heat, but after a few minutes, he could tell it wasn’t working. France was on the verge of tears, and he mumbled unhappily to himself in his own language between the sniffling and chattering teeth. It was not in Sweden to feel pity for France, who had once been an ally, but who had caused problems as well, and yet he could not bring himself to ignore the other’s discomfort.
“Don’t cry,” he said at last, bringing up a hand to wipe at France’s cheeks. “Y’lose heat that way.”
France cracked a weak smile despite his chapped lips. “Of course, you’re right.”
He watched curiously as Sweden pull out a heat pack from his bag, warming it between his bare palms before setting it on France’s lap.
“For y’r legs,” he added, but since France did not seem to understand, he moved it on top of France’s left thigh, holding the heat pack down while using his other hand to squeeze at the tense muscle.
That caused France to shudder and gasp, a high-pitched wheeze that sounded unnaturally loud to Sweden in the muffled silence.
“Ah! Th-that felt… very nice. Thank you, Sweden.”
Avoiding France’s gaze, Sweden continued working down his leg, trying to ease the beginnings of a cramp in his calf with his fingers. He debated checking his feet, but decided it was not worth the potential frostbite to take off his boots, and so he clambered over and turned his attention to France’s right leg. Which was just as tense, evidence that France was not exaggerating his pain.
The overwhelming quiet apparently got to France’s sensibilities, and he broke the silence saying, “You’re very good at this. Even better than me.”
“S’nothing,” Sweden murmured. He looked up to see if France was showing any improvement and could not help but notice how brightly flushed his cheeks seemed, his lower lip reddened from chewing on it so hard, his eyes wide and dark and gleaming with barely repressed emotion.
“No, it is something. I think you know, don’t you?” France breathed, his voice low and husky, and feeling a thrill on the back of his neck, Sweden backed away, sitting on the snow with a thump.
“Y’need to relax, France...” But the words did not come out as sternly as he had intended. Sweden found himself unable to move as he stared at France, captivated by the deep, liquid blue of his eyes. Some logical part deep inside his brain told him that they weren’t going to get to the resort with France in this state, they had at least ten more kilometers to go, and it would be better to get it over sooner rather than later, before the sun set and he would have to carry back an obviously aroused Frenchman, on skis.
The rest of his brain was noticing, a bit uselessly, how warm the tent had gotten and that France was saying something but he could not hear through the cotton which had somehow stuffed itself into his ears.
France rose to his knees, crawling over to Sweden and placing his now warmed hands on his thighs. What had been a utilitarian motion became something utterly erotic now that France was performing it. Even through the layers of long underwear and wool trousers and waterproof nylon, he could France’s caresses like a burning brand on his skin. He shifted uncomfortably, knees knocking together, and France withdrew his hands, only to pour himself into Sweden’s lap, straddling his hips gracefully.
“Let me return the favor, please,” he whispered, his lips only a hair’s width away from Sweden’s own. Then France began to move, grinding against Sweden, deliberately pressing their vital regions together. Mouth dry, Sweden’s hands moved to his waist, crushing through the feather down to clamp on his hipbones tightly, guiding him into place.
He was certain nothing else had ever warmed him up so quickly, and France’s hitched little gasps and whines as he rocked in Sweden’s lap threatened to undo the last of his self-composure. So that was why he did not protest when France leaned forward to press their lips together, tongue pushing through his teeth to explore his mouth. That was why he did not hesitate to squeeze at France’s backside, although admittedly, the effect was somewhat attenuated by the layers of clothing they wore. That was why he was enjoying this.
By the jerkiness of his movements, the urgent neediness of his cries, Sweden could tell France was close, and he spilled the other nation out of his lap, causing him to sputter a curse. Swiftly, he pulled France to his knees, tugging his pants down just enough and reaching around to palm his erection, already hard and dripping. As a precaution, Sweden put his other hand over France’s mouth, felt him bite down hard as he stroked him off, the sound of his release a thick spatter on the snow.
France was still shuddering and gulping down air when he sensed Sweden’s cock pressed against the cleft of his buttocks. But even he was not prepared for sex while cross-country skiing, and without lube or condoms, Sweden had to settle for the next best thing. He let his aching length slide down and in between France’s thighs, growling in pleasure at pushing through the tight space. France chuckled breathlessly and submitted to him, letting Sweden thrust between his closed legs with long, powerful strokes, hearing the other nation’s harsh breathing quicken until finally he came, hot cum making a soft hissing noise as it dripped onto the snow-covered ground.
In the following hush, the first thing Sweden said was, “Guess y’can keep your legs together aft’r all,” and France burst out into laughter.
“Mon cher, I can do a lot of things that would surprise you.”
They dressed in somewhat comfortable silence before important organs could freeze and fall off, and Sweden discreetly swept snow over the mess they made in the shelter. But as France seemed a lot more comfortable, and certainly a lot more pleased judging by his satisfied grin, he figured they can now finish the tour, or at least get to the next lift and take it down to the village.
At the base of the mountain, France said his farewells, promising to reimburse Sweden thoroughly for his services. Sweden nodded curtly and then mumbled, “Apres ski?”
France interpreted this unenlightening phrase as best as he could. “Ah, you mean, what do I plan to do now? Eat dinner, for one thing, and sit in front of a fire for at least an hour.”
Blushing faintly, Sweden cleared his throat and then mumbled even more softly, “Sauna?”
Now France was smirking like a cat that got into the cream. “I suppose I should experience the famous Swedish sauna sometime before I leave… It sounds exhilarating.”
Before Sweden could react, France kissed him lightly on the lips. “I’ll be waiting for you after dinner,” he murmured seductively, and Sweden had to wonder if there was any way to make a French person hurry through a meal.
Probably not, but he was planning to stare very intently at France while he ate just to see if he could.
[Thanks for reading, that is, if anyone is reading this rarepair, haha. I apologize one more time to anyone who knows the first thing about skiing or Swedish ski resorts, please feel free to correct me if I got anything wrong. Here is the famous ski resort they are at: http://www.skistar.com/en/Are/]