[Fanfic] - France/Russia drabbles.
One pretty PG one, another that's probably R or something.
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A bridge somewhere over the river Seine, at dusk, and Russia watched France watch the sunset with a smile on his face.
France twirled a cigarette between his fingers, not so much smoking it as watching the smoke it issued, inhaled his own city air, sighed it out as the last rays lit tops of buildings and made streaks on the river.
People walked behind them, around them, and the city kept going as they stood together, another full swing from day into dusk into night. It wasn’t a particularly nice day, but all the same - Russia liked the orange highlights the dusk bestowed upon France’s face - liked the way France’s face lit up as he watched his city light up.
The sun sunk, and France finally turned to him, cigarette out and gone by this point.
“Ah, darling, sorry to forget you - it is simply - “
Russia shook his head and cut France’s apology off. ”It is nice.”
France raised both eyebrows for a moment before turning and leaning against the bridge, question on his face.
“Watching you.”
France laughed and tossed his wasted cigarette aside, lit a new one, observed Russia. ”Though I do realize it is, as you put it, nice to watch me - I feel there is something else in that statement,” he winked.
Russia nodded and looked off, shuffling from foot to foot; he didn’t say anything, and France waited, idly observing passing people, passing boats on the river, whatever scene he could frame his mood with at that moment. Waited, for Russia to continue. For he knew Russia would.
“I like sunrises,” Russia finally said.
France looked at him and something changed, for a fleeting instant, before he slid back into nonchalance. ”And you don’t like sunsets?”
Russia shifted again, turned his head to see the city, swiftly darkening sky making the lights ever brighter. ”I…I do when I am here. Night is not as dark in your city of light.”
France chuckled, turning to put out his cigarette, and took Russia’s hand in his, pulling them down the path, into the night lights.
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“Ah,” France shifted above Russia and touched his hand, stilling the motions, before continuing. “That - that is a bit rough, darling.”
Russia simply looked up at him, quizzical and young-looking in the candlelight.
“Your grip,” France elaborated. “It is - shall we say - harsh?”
“Oh!” Russia removed his hand completely from France’s arousal and blushed.
France sighed, and seeing Russia’s worried expression at that, gave a light laugh. “Here, I shall show you what I mean - how does that sound?”
Russia swallowed and nodded, shifted again, unsure of what to do. France merely smiled and took over, leaning down in one slow arch, softly pressing his lips to Russia’s. “Don’t be so shy, dear,” me murmured into the kiss, and barely licked.
Ran his hands down, clasped one of Russia’s in his own - much, much larger than his, not nearly so delicate - allowed his mouth to follow.
Russia tried to sit up - “No, no,” France tutted, and flicked his eyes up to meet Russia’s even while traveling lower, lower - “you do not need to do a thing. Relax.” Russia did, though France could still feel that gaze upon him.
A twitch as France’s other hand found Russia’s erection, and a nice, breathless gasp as his mouth followed. France pulled away and shushed Russia once more before continuing.
Russia choked something else, and just as France pulled away to quiet him again - truly, he worried too much - Russia came, right into his hair.
France immediately brought his mouth down again, determined to make this good, and pleasurable, at least for the last of it - internally he chastised himself for not realizing Russia was so close. He pulled away in time for Russia to begin babbling that he was sorry, he didn’t think -
“Hush,” France replied, soft and smooth to match the mood before, stroking Russia’s hair. Finally he had to place another kiss to Russia’s mouth; Russia froze in surprise before responding, and meekly pulling back.
“Your hair,” Russia said, sounding both mournful and apologetic.
France grabbed a lock and held back a grimace. Ah, his beautiful hair! “It is no matter,” he waved, “these things happen.”
“But-“
“Perhaps,” France cut him off with a wink, “you should pay me back, no?”
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A bridge somewhere over the river Seine, at dusk, and Russia watched France watch the sunset with a smile on his face.
France twirled a cigarette between his fingers, not so much smoking it as watching the smoke it issued, inhaled his own city air, sighed it out as the last rays lit tops of buildings and made streaks on the river.
People walked behind them, around them, and the city kept going as they stood together, another full swing from day into dusk into night. It wasn’t a particularly nice day, but all the same - Russia liked the orange highlights the dusk bestowed upon France’s face - liked the way France’s face lit up as he watched his city light up.
The sun sunk, and France finally turned to him, cigarette out and gone by this point.
“Ah, darling, sorry to forget you - it is simply - “
Russia shook his head and cut France’s apology off. ”It is nice.”
France raised both eyebrows for a moment before turning and leaning against the bridge, question on his face.
“Watching you.”
France laughed and tossed his wasted cigarette aside, lit a new one, observed Russia. ”Though I do realize it is, as you put it, nice to watch me - I feel there is something else in that statement,” he winked.
Russia nodded and looked off, shuffling from foot to foot; he didn’t say anything, and France waited, idly observing passing people, passing boats on the river, whatever scene he could frame his mood with at that moment. Waited, for Russia to continue. For he knew Russia would.
“I like sunrises,” Russia finally said.
France looked at him and something changed, for a fleeting instant, before he slid back into nonchalance. ”And you don’t like sunsets?”
Russia shifted again, turned his head to see the city, swiftly darkening sky making the lights ever brighter. ”I…I do when I am here. Night is not as dark in your city of light.”
France chuckled, turning to put out his cigarette, and took Russia’s hand in his, pulling them down the path, into the night lights.
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“Ah,” France shifted above Russia and touched his hand, stilling the motions, before continuing. “That - that is a bit rough, darling.”
Russia simply looked up at him, quizzical and young-looking in the candlelight.
“Your grip,” France elaborated. “It is - shall we say - harsh?”
“Oh!” Russia removed his hand completely from France’s arousal and blushed.
France sighed, and seeing Russia’s worried expression at that, gave a light laugh. “Here, I shall show you what I mean - how does that sound?”
Russia swallowed and nodded, shifted again, unsure of what to do. France merely smiled and took over, leaning down in one slow arch, softly pressing his lips to Russia’s. “Don’t be so shy, dear,” me murmured into the kiss, and barely licked.
Ran his hands down, clasped one of Russia’s in his own - much, much larger than his, not nearly so delicate - allowed his mouth to follow.
Russia tried to sit up - “No, no,” France tutted, and flicked his eyes up to meet Russia’s even while traveling lower, lower - “you do not need to do a thing. Relax.” Russia did, though France could still feel that gaze upon him.
A twitch as France’s other hand found Russia’s erection, and a nice, breathless gasp as his mouth followed. France pulled away and shushed Russia once more before continuing.
Russia choked something else, and just as France pulled away to quiet him again - truly, he worried too much - Russia came, right into his hair.
France immediately brought his mouth down again, determined to make this good, and pleasurable, at least for the last of it - internally he chastised himself for not realizing Russia was so close. He pulled away in time for Russia to begin babbling that he was sorry, he didn’t think -
“Hush,” France replied, soft and smooth to match the mood before, stroking Russia’s hair. Finally he had to place another kiss to Russia’s mouth; Russia froze in surprise before responding, and meekly pulling back.
“Your hair,” Russia said, sounding both mournful and apologetic.
France grabbed a lock and held back a grimace. Ah, his beautiful hair! “It is no matter,” he waved, “these things happen.”
“But-“
“Perhaps,” France cut him off with a wink, “you should pay me back, no?”