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valmoraTitle: Unorthodox Technique
Fandom: Hetalia
Characters: Finland/Sweden, Sealand
Rating: heavy PG-13 or light R
Disclaimer: not mine.
Notes: originally posted here for this prompt and indexed here.
Summary: Sweden is good at massage.
Finland returns from his ski right before lunch, but doesn’t eat with Sweden and Sealand. He spends the meal stretching on the floor of the living room. Sweden keeps one ear to Sealand’s discussion of maintenance of his facilities, and one eye on his sandwich. Sealand has a tendency to steal food off their plates if he thinks they’re not paying attention, and Finland bent over with his feet spread garners Sweden’s attention well enough that Sealand would think to try.
After they’re done eating, he and Sealand wash the dishes together, and Sealand turns on the TV to catch a Finnish-subtitled broadcast of a recent Hollywood blockbuster – something with lots of explosions, Sweden isn’t sure what. Finland watches it for about ten minutes, then goes upstairs to take a shower.
Sweden waits for the water to stop running before asking if Sealand wants some of the blueberry pie from dinner the other night. Sealand shakes his head, still interested in the film, and so Sweden puts a sandwich, a glass of milk, and a slice of pie on a tray and brings it upstairs to his and Finland’s bedroom.
Finland is wearing his bathrobe, back to the door as he fishing through his dresser for clothes. He turns, brightens a little when he sees Sweden carrying food, but winces when he sits on the edge of the bed to take the tray. The pain can’t be from rough sex – they haven’t for a couple of days – so it must be muscle soreness.
“Y’overdid it,” Sweden remarks, sitting on the bed next to him.
Finland laughs lightly. “Maybe I did.” Which is as close to an admission of guilt as Sweden is likely to get from him. “I’ll be all right, though.” He takes a bite of pie, chews, swallows. Licks streaks of purple pie-filling off the fork, flicker of tongue over the silver-shine of stainless steel.
Sweden meets Finland’s eyes and Finland smiles, a little wider than usual, the tines of the fork pressed against his lower lip. Sweden sighs and covers his face with one hand, but he’s smiling.
“Lie down,” he says, picking the tray up off Finland’s lap and balancing it on the nightstand. “But take off th’ bathrobe first.”
Finland hums agreement and drops the garment on the floor before lying down on top of the sheets, on his stomach. Sweden pulls open a drawer of the nightstand and takes out a bottle of massage oil, spills some over his hands. Looks at Finland for a moment, skin and sweetness, waiting.
Finland sighs when Sweden first touches him, and Sweden feels his spine lengthen, the muscles in his shoulders let go a little more. Sweden draws his hands over Finland’s back, pressing in, smoothing away the ache. Over his shoulder blades, the bumps of his spine, the curve at the small of his back, away to the sides. Finland’s skin is warm from the shower, and his hair drips slowly down his neck into the sheets.
Down to his legs. Sweden refreshes the oil on his hands, wonders if Finland’s awake enough to notice the change, and presses gently over the backs of Finland’s thigh, into the muscle there. Finland has a couple of knots, easy enough to smooth away, and down to his calf muscle, the line there marking the start of the Achilles tendon, tense now. That, too, smooths away under Sweden’s hands.
The room smells like the oil on his hands, chocolate or almonds, a little sweet but too much dark mixed in for that to be anything but accent. He wants to stop the massage, press his lips to Finland’s skin, taste heat and oil and skin. Doesn’t.
“Turn 'ver.” His voice is rough with silence.
Finland hums, rolls over. His eyes are closed, chin tilted back. He has drooled on the bed.
Sweden has only just touched his chest when Finland puts his hands over Sweden’s.
“I’m going to fall asleep,” Finland says.
Sweden thinks about shrugging but it might pull his hands out of Finland’s grip, and he doesn’t want that. “Don’t mind.”
“I was going to let you massage me until I was too relaxed to move and then ask you to fuck me for the endorphins so I wouldn’t notice if I was sore, and I can’t do that if I’m asleep.” Finland isn’t even blushing. Sweden knows he himself has probably just gone bright red.
“’m – b’t – ’t’d be ‘npr’fession’l.”
“Mm, I know,” Finland says, purrs. “But I also know that I’m in bed and naked and you’re here and smell delicious and Sealand’s distracted by a movie downstairs.”
“I,” Sweden tries, and chokes on the words after that because Finland has unbuttoned his trousers. “Y’!”
“Silly,” Finland says, half-chiding, “It was only fifteen kilometres. I think I might go out again tonight if you don’t tire me out.” He blushes a little then, glances up at Sweden. “If I say that’s a challenge, will you take me up on it?”
Sweden coughs. “‘ll try m’best.”
Fandom: Hetalia
Characters: Finland/Sweden, Sealand
Rating: heavy PG-13 or light R
Disclaimer: not mine.
Notes: originally posted here for this prompt and indexed here.
Summary: Sweden is good at massage.
Finland returns from his ski right before lunch, but doesn’t eat with Sweden and Sealand. He spends the meal stretching on the floor of the living room. Sweden keeps one ear to Sealand’s discussion of maintenance of his facilities, and one eye on his sandwich. Sealand has a tendency to steal food off their plates if he thinks they’re not paying attention, and Finland bent over with his feet spread garners Sweden’s attention well enough that Sealand would think to try.
After they’re done eating, he and Sealand wash the dishes together, and Sealand turns on the TV to catch a Finnish-subtitled broadcast of a recent Hollywood blockbuster – something with lots of explosions, Sweden isn’t sure what. Finland watches it for about ten minutes, then goes upstairs to take a shower.
Sweden waits for the water to stop running before asking if Sealand wants some of the blueberry pie from dinner the other night. Sealand shakes his head, still interested in the film, and so Sweden puts a sandwich, a glass of milk, and a slice of pie on a tray and brings it upstairs to his and Finland’s bedroom.
Finland is wearing his bathrobe, back to the door as he fishing through his dresser for clothes. He turns, brightens a little when he sees Sweden carrying food, but winces when he sits on the edge of the bed to take the tray. The pain can’t be from rough sex – they haven’t for a couple of days – so it must be muscle soreness.
“Y’overdid it,” Sweden remarks, sitting on the bed next to him.
Finland laughs lightly. “Maybe I did.” Which is as close to an admission of guilt as Sweden is likely to get from him. “I’ll be all right, though.” He takes a bite of pie, chews, swallows. Licks streaks of purple pie-filling off the fork, flicker of tongue over the silver-shine of stainless steel.
Sweden meets Finland’s eyes and Finland smiles, a little wider than usual, the tines of the fork pressed against his lower lip. Sweden sighs and covers his face with one hand, but he’s smiling.
“Lie down,” he says, picking the tray up off Finland’s lap and balancing it on the nightstand. “But take off th’ bathrobe first.”
Finland hums agreement and drops the garment on the floor before lying down on top of the sheets, on his stomach. Sweden pulls open a drawer of the nightstand and takes out a bottle of massage oil, spills some over his hands. Looks at Finland for a moment, skin and sweetness, waiting.
Finland sighs when Sweden first touches him, and Sweden feels his spine lengthen, the muscles in his shoulders let go a little more. Sweden draws his hands over Finland’s back, pressing in, smoothing away the ache. Over his shoulder blades, the bumps of his spine, the curve at the small of his back, away to the sides. Finland’s skin is warm from the shower, and his hair drips slowly down his neck into the sheets.
Down to his legs. Sweden refreshes the oil on his hands, wonders if Finland’s awake enough to notice the change, and presses gently over the backs of Finland’s thigh, into the muscle there. Finland has a couple of knots, easy enough to smooth away, and down to his calf muscle, the line there marking the start of the Achilles tendon, tense now. That, too, smooths away under Sweden’s hands.
The room smells like the oil on his hands, chocolate or almonds, a little sweet but too much dark mixed in for that to be anything but accent. He wants to stop the massage, press his lips to Finland’s skin, taste heat and oil and skin. Doesn’t.
“Turn 'ver.” His voice is rough with silence.
Finland hums, rolls over. His eyes are closed, chin tilted back. He has drooled on the bed.
Sweden has only just touched his chest when Finland puts his hands over Sweden’s.
“I’m going to fall asleep,” Finland says.
Sweden thinks about shrugging but it might pull his hands out of Finland’s grip, and he doesn’t want that. “Don’t mind.”
“I was going to let you massage me until I was too relaxed to move and then ask you to fuck me for the endorphins so I wouldn’t notice if I was sore, and I can’t do that if I’m asleep.” Finland isn’t even blushing. Sweden knows he himself has probably just gone bright red.
“’m – b’t – ’t’d be ‘npr’fession’l.”
“Mm, I know,” Finland says, purrs. “But I also know that I’m in bed and naked and you’re here and smell delicious and Sealand’s distracted by a movie downstairs.”
“I,” Sweden tries, and chokes on the words after that because Finland has unbuttoned his trousers. “Y’!”
“Silly,” Finland says, half-chiding, “It was only fifteen kilometres. I think I might go out again tonight if you don’t tire me out.” He blushes a little then, glances up at Sweden. “If I say that’s a challenge, will you take me up on it?”
Sweden coughs. “‘ll try m’best.”
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Date: 2010-02-03 12:13 am (UTC)But now I can put it properly in memories, yay ¤3¤/