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valmoraTitle: Water Without Stinting
Rating: NC-17.
Fandom: Hetalia
Characters: Finland/Sweden, Sealand, Hana-tamago
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money made.
Notes: Originally posted here for this prompt at the kink meme and indexed here.
The title is a repeated line from the Eino Friberg translation of the Kalevala. If he were to find out how I am using it, he would probably be a bit offended.
If you compare the style in which I've written Sweden's dialogue in this version and in the original, you will notice they are different. My attitudes towards his mumblegruntspeak have changed over time: he's not speaking incomprehensible mumblegrunt. He's speaking a perfectly legitimate, though nonstandard, dialect of Japanese. My portrayal of his dialogue has shifted accordingly.
PSA: Use protection, folks. Just because Sweden and Finland don't doesn't mean you shouldn't.
Sweden set the basket of fresh-picked apples on the kitchen counter next to Finland’s elbow and said, “This ‘nough t’get y’ through th’ next chapter?”
Finland, elbows on the counter so he could eat apples and read at the same time, swallowed. Glanced over at the basket of apples. Slid his gaze up to meet Sweden’s.
“It’s really good,” Finland said. “Well, I mean the book. But the apples too. Thank you.”
“Seal’nd’s been eatin' ‘em too,” Sweden allowed. “’m goin' t’go take a shower. ‘n shave.”
Finland laughed gently. “Ten o’clock shadow,” he quipped, standing up straight, and set his book face-down on the counter to lay his hand against Sweden’s cheek. “When Sealand wakes up, we should really talk to him about not using up all the hot water.”
Sweden grunted. Finland ran his thumb over Sweden’s cheekbone, meditatively. “I’d forgotten what you looked like with facial hair,” he said. “I remember I saw you in, I think 1814 – you were so mad about Napoleon – and you’d grown one.”
“Was a bad idea. Made me look like m’ father.”
“Mm,” Finland said, noncommittal, setting the apple core down on the counter and sliding his arms over Sweden’s shoulders, bending him just enough to be close, kissing-distance. “I don’t mind this look, though, since it reminds me of thistles. Prickly,” he leaned forward to kiss Sweden’s left cheek, “and tenacious,” the right cheek, “and tall,” a stretch to his forehead, “and a pleasure when you get used to them,” his mouth. Finland tasted of apples and his own skin, and a little like blood – he must have bit his cheek while paying too much attention to his book. Sweden’s hand fit perfectly in the small of his back and always had, somehow a sweeter fit between them than sex.
Finland turned his face aside a moment, shining with mischief, and laughed softly when Sweden leaned that extra distance further forward to find the spot behind his ear and kissed it.
“That tickles!” Finland mumbled, but he was smiling.
Sweden flushed. “’m sorry.”
Finland hummed a little and used the hand tangled in Sweden’s hair to bring Sweden’s mouth back to his. His other hand slid under Sweden’s arm, traced down his spine and then back up under his shirt. Sweden could feel the ridge of Finland’s palm, warm over his spine, and the sensation of his calluses sliding over Sweden’s back was strange counterpoint to the soft slick heat of his tongue in Sweden’s mouth.
A cough from the landing of the second floor, the arrhythmic thumping of Hana-Tamago bumping his way down the stairs. Sweden flushed, disentangled himself from Finland, pulled his shirt back down. Sealand finished getting down the stairs just as Hana-Tamago skittered over to them. Finland picked Hana-Tamago up and buried his face in white fluff.
“Anything for breakfast?” Sealand asked, opening the fridge, glancing in, and then closing it again.
“Plenty ‘f surströmming,” Sweden observed. Sealand’s gaze slid past him and then jerked back in a double-take.
“You have stubble,” he said.
Finland looked up from communing with Hana-Tamago. “About that. Please try not to use up all the hot water from now on?”
“Oh.” Sealand looked down at the floor and shuffled his bare feet. “Sorry.”
Sweden could still taste apples. “’s all right. I jus' had t’ wait.”
“Sorry,” Sealand repeated.
“And there’s fresh apples for breakfast!” Finland interjected, before tossing the apple core that was sitting on the counter into the ‘to be composted’ bin.
“Thanks,” Sealand said, grabbing one and washing it off before wandering into the living room, where his computer was. Sweden took the opportunity to go upstairs to his and Finland’s bedroom.
He took off his shirt and was already in the bathroom, about to start washing his face, when he heard the door click open, then shut, and Finland came into view through the bathroom doorway. His t-shirt was already half-off, his belly exposed. Sliding up, it revealed ribs, and the planes of muscle in his back shifting, and his shoulders, until he tossed it on the bed, shaking his head to rearrange his hair and his hands sliding to the button of his jeans.
Sweden set down the shaving soap, rested his hands on the sides of the sink. “Have y’ tak’n up naked siestas, like Italy?”
Finland stepped out of his trousers and boxers. “I don’t want to sleep,” he said, then, “Do you want to debate what is going to happen next in the properly democratic fashion, or do I get to manage by perkele?”
Sweden thought about looking at the carpet, or the tile floor of the bathroom, and couldn’t look away from Finland, the ridges of his collarbone, the span of soft-delineated muscle at his belly, the reddened blood-fullness of his erection.
“Whatev’r y’ wan',” Sweden said.
“I –” Finland exhaled, straightened his posture, shifted his stance to something nearly military. Sweden wondered if it was deliberate or not – wondered if Finland knew how it affected Sweden to see him wear himself as a warrior. He tightened his grip on the sink.
“Let’s compromise,” Finland said. “You stay there, just like that, and I get to have you. Or you come here, and look after me first, and then you get to do anything you like.”
Tempting, either option. Bent over the sink, craning his head to watch Finland in the mirror as Finland filled him, or to find some way to give Finland release before being allowed anything he liked to which Finland would consent.
“Five,” Finland said. “Four. Three.” Only to fall silent when Sweden left the bathroom.
Sweden kissed him, but when Finland opened his mouth to welcome Sweden inside he didn’t taste of apples, only of himself. Sweden missed it a little.
Finland nudged Sweden’s flannel-covered hip with one hand, slid his fingers under the waistband to trail down Sweden’s back, pushing the cloth down and then off. Nudged his erection against Sweden’s, sighed with pleasure into his mouth.
So Sweden took him in hand, stroking slowly, no particular rhythm. Finland’s hold around his shoulders grew tighter and tighter, and heavier as Finland paid more attention to Sweden’s hand than to holding himself up.
Finally Sweden set him down on the edge of the bed, pushed him to lying back, leaned over to kiss him but touching only there, lips and tongue. Finland whined in the back of his throat, reached around Sweden’s chest to try to pull him down, raised one leg and slid it over Sweden’s back. Dug his heel in and turned his head a little to break the kiss.
“I take it back,” Finland gasped, “I want you to fuck me.”
“Was goin’ t’.”
“Now.”
It would have been hard to say no to that, so Sweden didn’t. When he stood up, Finland didn’t quite let go of him, letting his arms slide over Sweden’s shoulders as he moved, and Finland’s leg dropped down to the bed, heel digging into the quilt for purchase. That raised knee tilted his hips, opened him up – showed nothing more than having both legs straight out would have, really, but it was the suggestion, the hint that he might, that drew Sweden’s gaze, hard to break even to rummage in the nightstand.
“Oh,” Finland said, nonchalantly, and followed it up with a little hitched breath like maybe he was touching himself, “leave the condoms. This time.”
Sweden trembled a little with sudden heat, wanting. So rare to go without – not out of necessity or lack of trust, but to avoid some of the mess, and Finland could twist him to pieces by offering the change.
Sweden pulled Finland’s leg over his shoulder, kissed at his belly, his sides, ignored Finland dragging his hands through Sweden’s hair.
The lubricant was probably still too cold. Finland’s muscles shivered when Sweden drew slick circles around his entrance, and he tightened too hard when Sweden’s fingertip slid inside. So Sweden waited, stroked Finland’s perineum with his thumb, edged his finger inside with gentle slow pressure. Got to the second knuckle, changed direction out again. Finland was watching him, toying with his own foreskin.
“You know what we need?” Finland suggested. “A mirror. On the ceiling.”
To watch with, if the angles were right. Sweden didn’t think they would be, but Finland…
“I mean,” Finland added, “that way I could yell at you when you’re not going fast enough.”
Sweden took the hint. More lubricant, two fingers, his tongue dragging up the inside of Finland’s thigh, over skin and heat and to Finland’s erection.
Finland sighed out the breath he’d been holding, let one of his hands settle around the base, stroked in time with Sweden’s movements.
So familiar, the taste, and the left-leaning curve, and the fold of skin a few centimeters from the tip. Sweden listened to Finland’s quickening breathing, murmurs of Yes, there, every so often, felt Finland open up around his fingers. Pulled them out and coated himself, generous because even if Finland didn’t mind it rough he did, steadied himself with one hand and nudged just barely inside.
Finland shivered, tightened – too much, so Sweden moved to pull out and Finland stopped him with a hand on his arm and a leg around his hip.
“I’m fine,” he said, eyes narrowed, cheeks flushed. “Go on.”
Sweden closed his eyes for a moment, opened them to watch Finland, to be sure he wasn’t just trying to make Sweden feel better, and slid all the way inside.
Finland wasn’t faking. His leg tightened around Sweden’s hip, pulling him deeper inside even as his hands tried to find purchase over Sweden’s ribs to bring him closer.
“Like that,” Finland said.
Sweden drew out, just a touch, and stroked Finland’s hip before following the crease between thigh and belly in and beginning to stroke. “No, don’ think so. Haven’ hit th’ prostate yet.”
Finland laughed, flutterings of muscle that Sweden could half-feel, and Sweden slid back in again to feel them better from inside him. Caught Finland unaware, the sudden pleasure rocking them together, apart, together again, full and unfilled and Sweden kissing him, letting Finland swallow the cry he made as he came, and giving Finland the same favor.
After, Sweden grabbed some tissues and made an effort to clean them up. Finland dropped his legs to the bed on either side of Sweden.
“Since I need to take a shower too now, why not let me shave you?” he suggested.
“…y’ sure there’s ‘nough hot water f’r that?”
Finland smiled. “If there isn’t,” he said, “I’m sure I know a way to pass the time until there is.”
Rating: NC-17.
Fandom: Hetalia
Characters: Finland/Sweden, Sealand, Hana-tamago
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money made.
Notes: Originally posted here for this prompt at the kink meme and indexed here.
The title is a repeated line from the Eino Friberg translation of the Kalevala. If he were to find out how I am using it, he would probably be a bit offended.
If you compare the style in which I've written Sweden's dialogue in this version and in the original, you will notice they are different. My attitudes towards his mumblegruntspeak have changed over time: he's not speaking incomprehensible mumblegrunt. He's speaking a perfectly legitimate, though nonstandard, dialect of Japanese. My portrayal of his dialogue has shifted accordingly.
PSA: Use protection, folks. Just because Sweden and Finland don't doesn't mean you shouldn't.
Sweden set the basket of fresh-picked apples on the kitchen counter next to Finland’s elbow and said, “This ‘nough t’get y’ through th’ next chapter?”
Finland, elbows on the counter so he could eat apples and read at the same time, swallowed. Glanced over at the basket of apples. Slid his gaze up to meet Sweden’s.
“It’s really good,” Finland said. “Well, I mean the book. But the apples too. Thank you.”
“Seal’nd’s been eatin' ‘em too,” Sweden allowed. “’m goin' t’go take a shower. ‘n shave.”
Finland laughed gently. “Ten o’clock shadow,” he quipped, standing up straight, and set his book face-down on the counter to lay his hand against Sweden’s cheek. “When Sealand wakes up, we should really talk to him about not using up all the hot water.”
Sweden grunted. Finland ran his thumb over Sweden’s cheekbone, meditatively. “I’d forgotten what you looked like with facial hair,” he said. “I remember I saw you in, I think 1814 – you were so mad about Napoleon – and you’d grown one.”
“Was a bad idea. Made me look like m’ father.”
“Mm,” Finland said, noncommittal, setting the apple core down on the counter and sliding his arms over Sweden’s shoulders, bending him just enough to be close, kissing-distance. “I don’t mind this look, though, since it reminds me of thistles. Prickly,” he leaned forward to kiss Sweden’s left cheek, “and tenacious,” the right cheek, “and tall,” a stretch to his forehead, “and a pleasure when you get used to them,” his mouth. Finland tasted of apples and his own skin, and a little like blood – he must have bit his cheek while paying too much attention to his book. Sweden’s hand fit perfectly in the small of his back and always had, somehow a sweeter fit between them than sex.
Finland turned his face aside a moment, shining with mischief, and laughed softly when Sweden leaned that extra distance further forward to find the spot behind his ear and kissed it.
“That tickles!” Finland mumbled, but he was smiling.
Sweden flushed. “’m sorry.”
Finland hummed a little and used the hand tangled in Sweden’s hair to bring Sweden’s mouth back to his. His other hand slid under Sweden’s arm, traced down his spine and then back up under his shirt. Sweden could feel the ridge of Finland’s palm, warm over his spine, and the sensation of his calluses sliding over Sweden’s back was strange counterpoint to the soft slick heat of his tongue in Sweden’s mouth.
A cough from the landing of the second floor, the arrhythmic thumping of Hana-Tamago bumping his way down the stairs. Sweden flushed, disentangled himself from Finland, pulled his shirt back down. Sealand finished getting down the stairs just as Hana-Tamago skittered over to them. Finland picked Hana-Tamago up and buried his face in white fluff.
“Anything for breakfast?” Sealand asked, opening the fridge, glancing in, and then closing it again.
“Plenty ‘f surströmming,” Sweden observed. Sealand’s gaze slid past him and then jerked back in a double-take.
“You have stubble,” he said.
Finland looked up from communing with Hana-Tamago. “About that. Please try not to use up all the hot water from now on?”
“Oh.” Sealand looked down at the floor and shuffled his bare feet. “Sorry.”
Sweden could still taste apples. “’s all right. I jus' had t’ wait.”
“Sorry,” Sealand repeated.
“And there’s fresh apples for breakfast!” Finland interjected, before tossing the apple core that was sitting on the counter into the ‘to be composted’ bin.
“Thanks,” Sealand said, grabbing one and washing it off before wandering into the living room, where his computer was. Sweden took the opportunity to go upstairs to his and Finland’s bedroom.
He took off his shirt and was already in the bathroom, about to start washing his face, when he heard the door click open, then shut, and Finland came into view through the bathroom doorway. His t-shirt was already half-off, his belly exposed. Sliding up, it revealed ribs, and the planes of muscle in his back shifting, and his shoulders, until he tossed it on the bed, shaking his head to rearrange his hair and his hands sliding to the button of his jeans.
Sweden set down the shaving soap, rested his hands on the sides of the sink. “Have y’ tak’n up naked siestas, like Italy?”
Finland stepped out of his trousers and boxers. “I don’t want to sleep,” he said, then, “Do you want to debate what is going to happen next in the properly democratic fashion, or do I get to manage by perkele?”
Sweden thought about looking at the carpet, or the tile floor of the bathroom, and couldn’t look away from Finland, the ridges of his collarbone, the span of soft-delineated muscle at his belly, the reddened blood-fullness of his erection.
“Whatev’r y’ wan',” Sweden said.
“I –” Finland exhaled, straightened his posture, shifted his stance to something nearly military. Sweden wondered if it was deliberate or not – wondered if Finland knew how it affected Sweden to see him wear himself as a warrior. He tightened his grip on the sink.
“Let’s compromise,” Finland said. “You stay there, just like that, and I get to have you. Or you come here, and look after me first, and then you get to do anything you like.”
Tempting, either option. Bent over the sink, craning his head to watch Finland in the mirror as Finland filled him, or to find some way to give Finland release before being allowed anything he liked to which Finland would consent.
“Five,” Finland said. “Four. Three.” Only to fall silent when Sweden left the bathroom.
Sweden kissed him, but when Finland opened his mouth to welcome Sweden inside he didn’t taste of apples, only of himself. Sweden missed it a little.
Finland nudged Sweden’s flannel-covered hip with one hand, slid his fingers under the waistband to trail down Sweden’s back, pushing the cloth down and then off. Nudged his erection against Sweden’s, sighed with pleasure into his mouth.
So Sweden took him in hand, stroking slowly, no particular rhythm. Finland’s hold around his shoulders grew tighter and tighter, and heavier as Finland paid more attention to Sweden’s hand than to holding himself up.
Finally Sweden set him down on the edge of the bed, pushed him to lying back, leaned over to kiss him but touching only there, lips and tongue. Finland whined in the back of his throat, reached around Sweden’s chest to try to pull him down, raised one leg and slid it over Sweden’s back. Dug his heel in and turned his head a little to break the kiss.
“I take it back,” Finland gasped, “I want you to fuck me.”
“Was goin’ t’.”
“Now.”
It would have been hard to say no to that, so Sweden didn’t. When he stood up, Finland didn’t quite let go of him, letting his arms slide over Sweden’s shoulders as he moved, and Finland’s leg dropped down to the bed, heel digging into the quilt for purchase. That raised knee tilted his hips, opened him up – showed nothing more than having both legs straight out would have, really, but it was the suggestion, the hint that he might, that drew Sweden’s gaze, hard to break even to rummage in the nightstand.
“Oh,” Finland said, nonchalantly, and followed it up with a little hitched breath like maybe he was touching himself, “leave the condoms. This time.”
Sweden trembled a little with sudden heat, wanting. So rare to go without – not out of necessity or lack of trust, but to avoid some of the mess, and Finland could twist him to pieces by offering the change.
Sweden pulled Finland’s leg over his shoulder, kissed at his belly, his sides, ignored Finland dragging his hands through Sweden’s hair.
The lubricant was probably still too cold. Finland’s muscles shivered when Sweden drew slick circles around his entrance, and he tightened too hard when Sweden’s fingertip slid inside. So Sweden waited, stroked Finland’s perineum with his thumb, edged his finger inside with gentle slow pressure. Got to the second knuckle, changed direction out again. Finland was watching him, toying with his own foreskin.
“You know what we need?” Finland suggested. “A mirror. On the ceiling.”
To watch with, if the angles were right. Sweden didn’t think they would be, but Finland…
“I mean,” Finland added, “that way I could yell at you when you’re not going fast enough.”
Sweden took the hint. More lubricant, two fingers, his tongue dragging up the inside of Finland’s thigh, over skin and heat and to Finland’s erection.
Finland sighed out the breath he’d been holding, let one of his hands settle around the base, stroked in time with Sweden’s movements.
So familiar, the taste, and the left-leaning curve, and the fold of skin a few centimeters from the tip. Sweden listened to Finland’s quickening breathing, murmurs of Yes, there, every so often, felt Finland open up around his fingers. Pulled them out and coated himself, generous because even if Finland didn’t mind it rough he did, steadied himself with one hand and nudged just barely inside.
Finland shivered, tightened – too much, so Sweden moved to pull out and Finland stopped him with a hand on his arm and a leg around his hip.
“I’m fine,” he said, eyes narrowed, cheeks flushed. “Go on.”
Sweden closed his eyes for a moment, opened them to watch Finland, to be sure he wasn’t just trying to make Sweden feel better, and slid all the way inside.
Finland wasn’t faking. His leg tightened around Sweden’s hip, pulling him deeper inside even as his hands tried to find purchase over Sweden’s ribs to bring him closer.
“Like that,” Finland said.
Sweden drew out, just a touch, and stroked Finland’s hip before following the crease between thigh and belly in and beginning to stroke. “No, don’ think so. Haven’ hit th’ prostate yet.”
Finland laughed, flutterings of muscle that Sweden could half-feel, and Sweden slid back in again to feel them better from inside him. Caught Finland unaware, the sudden pleasure rocking them together, apart, together again, full and unfilled and Sweden kissing him, letting Finland swallow the cry he made as he came, and giving Finland the same favor.
After, Sweden grabbed some tissues and made an effort to clean them up. Finland dropped his legs to the bed on either side of Sweden.
“Since I need to take a shower too now, why not let me shave you?” he suggested.
“…y’ sure there’s ‘nough hot water f’r that?”
Finland smiled. “If there isn’t,” he said, “I’m sure I know a way to pass the time until there is.”
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2010-04-04 11:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-16 02:54 am (UTC)I lost it here: “You know what we need?” Finland suggested. “A mirror. On the ceiling.”
I would applaud you, if I were not holding a napkin to stop my bloody nose. Because...damn!
no subject
Date: 2010-10-16 05:18 pm (UTC)