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valmoraI almost can't believe I'm de-anoning on this one...
Title: On Pride, or In which Sweden is a Leanthrope and Still Gets Laid
Rating: NC-17 for sex
Fandom: Hetalia
Pairing: Sweden/Finland
Disclaimer: not mine, etc
Warnings: it's not bestiality. But it might count as furry? I'm not sure.
Notes: Originally posted here as a response to this kink meme prompt, and kindexed here.
Summary (from the kindex): Sweden has a secret. But Finland's much more open-minded (and appreciative) about this situation than Sweden thought he would be.
The grass is soft on his paws, the spring breeze warm. He stands at the edge of the woods and looks up at the open brightness of the night sky.
He sees the little nearby house light up, and smells human as the door opens; he retreats deeper into the woods, afraid of that light, of that figure. His tail swings behind him, brushing foliage, as he walks; his mane is too warm. He tries to smell water but there isn’t any near, so he lies down, curls up in pine needles and little woodland plants and goes to sleep.
Just after six o’clock Sweden wakes naked in a mound of dust. He clambers out of it and stands, still in the little woodland area.
It’s a quick dash to the house, where he takes a shower and, once clean, slips into bed beside Finland, who makes a soft happy noise and wraps around him without waking.
Sweden rests his cheek against the top of Finland’s head, his hands on Finland’s back, and tries to sleep.
He can’t. In the end he gives up and makes breakfast. He brings it up the bedroom and leaves the tray of food sitting on the nightstand while he reads and waits for Finland to wake.
Finland stirs at not-quite eight in the morning, rubs his stubbled cheek against Sweden’s naked belly and crawls across him to get to the food, or more accurately the litre mug of coffee. Lies with his stomach over Sweden’s hips and drinks.
When the mug is mostly-gone, he puts it back on the tray and says, “I remember now why I’m with you. You know how much coffee I need.”
Sweden grunts. Finland wiggles a little, getting up from his prone position so he’s kneeling on the bed, and says, “Do you have time for a quickie before your teleconference?”
Sweden glances at the clock. Forty-five minutes until the call. Including another shower, and dressing, and connection, he has about a half an hour. He also has a lapful of Finland, smelling of sleep and coffee, and arousal.
He reaches to pull Finland into his lap, wrapping his arms around Finland’s shoulders and kissing him. Finland, sitting with his knees on either side of Sweden’s hips, presses closer, bare chest warm. He’s wearing a pair of Sweden’s pyjama bottoms, too long but about right in the waist, blue and white plaid, and Sweden pushes them off Finland’s hips.
Finland must have woken aroused, to be so hungry, and to feel so in Sweden’s hand. His back arches when Sweden first touches him, his cheek scratching at Sweden’s neck as he buries his face in Sweden’s shoulder.
Sweden gauges Finland’s weight on his lap, is tempted for a moment to pick him up, press him to the headboard, or belly-down into the mattress. An animal’s desire, that, and he refuses to be –
He presses kisses to Finland’s neck and asks, “How d’you want it?”
“Mm.” Finland’s movements slow, stop as he thinks. Sweden sits back a little so he can watch Finland’s eyes. “Could I have...?” His eyes flicker to Sweden’s mouth.
Sweden tries to smile to reassure him, but as always it falls flat, and anyway Finland knows he’d never refuse. It’s not that he enjoys it, but that Finland does.
He pushes Finland away, into the bed, and shifts until he is the one kneeling above – and oh, how sweet it would be to press his claim on Finland’s body – but instead he crouches lower, and brushes his lips over Finland. Firm pressure – Finland is ticklish even there, and there are few things more effective at killing Sweden’s mood than Finland having a giggle fit while Sweden’s mouth is full.
Finland is already sticky-damp with readiness; he tastes of salt and musk, hot on Sweden’s tongue.
He thinks of adding his hand, but would need lubricant, and he doesn’t want to stop to ask – he only distributes his attentions more. Finland’s hands on his shoulders clench whenever Sweden takes him in anew, as though the sight pleases him more each time. It just might.
Finland throws a leg over Sweden’s shoulders and uses it to pull him down farther, pressing himself deeper into Sweden’s mouth, and Sweden accepts it – tries to remember to breathe, his tongue sliding over ridges of skin in growing spit-slickness – accepts, too, Finland rocking gently into him.
Finland comes with a sigh and a boneless collapse back onto the bed; Sweden spits into some tissues and looks at the clock. Still a little time, and he won’t last long anyway. Finland takes Sweden in hand to finish him.
That evening he feels the itch of oncoming change riding his shoulders, even though he changed last night – the more he’s in the world news, the more often he shifts; America’s new interest in reforming his health care system is probably what is prompting this.
He goes to bed beside Finland, waiting until Finland is asleep to leave the house and return to the little grove of trees, where he strips naked, leaving his clothes in a little bundle in a tree, and lies down in the dirt, and waits.
The difference in mass between a grown man and an adult male lion is significant, about one hundred kilograms. When he changes, he absorbs that mass from his surroundings, in this case the soil of his own country. It all ends up as dirt anyway, no matter what it was to start.
He rises from the hole in the ground, his tail swinging lightly, and paces up to the edge of the woods, smelling the air.
There is a human nearby, and coming closer. Smelling of water and wind, and of Sweden himself – Finland. It can’t be anyone else.
He backs away, trying to go deeper, but Finland has sharp eyes, and he calls out, “Sweden!” The loud noise startles him, and he finds himself wound to spring, as though on prey, or an attacker. He forces himself not to jump.
Finland comes closer and closer, and Sweden grits his teeth, closes his jaws.
“Sweden?” Finland asks. Sweden takes two paces back, where the trees don’t shadow the light as well, and Finland gasps, swears.
Sweden waits for him to run, to walk away, to be disgusted.
Finland reaches out a hand, lets it hover there for a moment, as though Sweden were a large dog. Sweden bends his head, takes a step forward. Brushes his mane under Finland’s hand, a caress he can hardly feel.
“You’re beautiful,” Finland whispers. “Oh, I would – ” He stoops a little, scratches lightly at Sweden’s shoulders. “Was this why you left last night?”
Sweden makes himself nod.
“I guess that’s why they call you the Lion,” Finland muses. “Have you always done this?”
A shake of the head.
“Good; that means I haven’t been missing anything. When will you change back? Before eight. Before seven?”
A nod.
“Before six?”
Shake.
“All right. Well, wake me up when you get back.”
Sweden doesn’t think he will.
Finland is already awake when Sweden returns dusty and tired, mouth bloody with the squirrel he caught and ate near two in the morning.
Sweden takes a shower, brushes his teeth, goes back into the bedroom.
Finland rolls over to look at him. “Do you have a human mind when you’re a lion?”
“Mostly.”
“What do you mean?”
Sweden watches the bedsheets. “Can think, but sometimes can’t stop th’body from havin' a say.”
“So if I said something like ‘Come here, you beast, and ravish me,’ would that have any effect?”
Sweden tries to cover the heat in his cheeks. “Maybe.” Two quick steps to the edge of the bed and Finland falls into his arms. Sweden sets him on the bed and kneels over him, looking at the curve of his smile, the lines of his muscles beneath his skin.
Finland reaches up to him, as though to pull him down, and Sweden bats his hand away, growling, before he can help it – freezes in horror. But Finland only smiles wider and lets his hand fall back down to the bed, fingers brushing Sweden’s knee. Maybe it’s all right. If Finland freezes in terror, like he used to when they first met, then Sweden will stop. If he can. He thinks he can. He has to.
He bends to smell Finland’s neck, his shoulder – tracing down his body, cheek brushing Finland’s skin sometimes. It takes conscious effort to remember not to bare his teeth, that it doesn’t work in this body. Wouldn’t help his sense of smell.
Finland buries his hands in Sweden’s hair, and Sweden stiffens, uncomfortable, wanting to shake him off and not daring, not wanting to deny the affection. He flexes his fingers in Finland’s sides, and Finland gasps faintly – not pain, quite. Sweden glances down and there are red-skinned streaks running parallel to Finland’s ribs. But he doesn’t feel upset, and his smile isn’t set in his face like it gets whenever he’s in a room with Russia.
Finland slides one hand out of Sweden’s hair, palm resting along the line of his jaw. “I want to follow you,” he says, “but I need to know where you’re going.”
Sweden opens his mouth, but talking feels – odd. Thick. “’m goin’ to want you on your front. But – I'll be quick, so I need to get you close first.”
Finland hums, stretches, hands pulling on the slats in the headboard to work his shoulders. His exposed belly looks soft and sweet, and Sweden bends to kiss it, his tongue slipping out over his skin to taste. Thin-skinned, with muscle beneath. The smell of blood under Finland’s skin isn’t enticing, exactly – it’s more the awareness of the eager thrum of Finland’s pulse.
Sweden is fascinated by the lowest rib, how it juts out over organs under Finland’s skin, wrapping along his chest. And each one higher than the one before, over lungs and blood and heart, to his collarbone and neck –
“Y’ want t’ turn over?”
Finland does. His legs are straight, which doesn’t bother Sweden now but will trouble him later. To distract himself he nuzzles at the back of Finland’s neck, sets one hand over the base of Finland’s spine, to feel him rocking into the bed.
“’m goin’ to get off you,” he says, “Don’ move.” He crawls to the edge of the bed, goes rummaging through the nightstand. It’s not too hard to find – they need it often enough – and Sweden, fingers cold-wet, looks back at Finland.
Who has sat up, back half-turned to Sweden, and is stroking himself like Sweden isn’t even there, or like Sweden gave him permission to move –
He doesn’t quite remember, afterwards, how he ends up with his own voice ringing in his ears and Finland face-down in the mattress, Sweden’s knee on his back to keep him there.
Finland’s knees are folded up to his sides, like a kowtow or – or like a lioness in heat, waiting to be –
He closes his eyes and finds Finland’s entrance by tracing the line up from low between his legs to higher, to inside. Tight dry heat, and Sweden wants to be held by it already – no. Wouldn’t feel good. He reopens the lubricant and adds more.
He ends up being so cautious that by the time Finland says his name, low broken whisper like he’s been begging for a long time, there’s wetness all over his hand and Finland’s thighs, slow trails of it down between his legs towards the bed where his arousal has left a sticky-wet spot from being thrust, needy, into the air above the mattress.
Sweden slides his fingers out, repositions their bodies – pulls Finland’s hips up to the right height – and slides in.
Finland’s so close that he’s almost too tight, just shy of painful but the wetness easing Sweden’s way enough that all he feels is the slide of their skin. Finland smells of sweat and musk, pushing back against him as they move against each other, and Sweden means to kiss his shoulders, is momentarily distracted as Finland moans. Ends with his nails scraping over Finland’s sides and his teeth breaking bruises at the back of Finland’s neck as he comes.
He pulls out, afraid for a moment that Finland will scream in pain, but no, there are no barbs in this form – and collapses on the bed. Watches Finland use his own hand until he comes, and would help but can’t find the strength to move.
Finland lies down, lays a hand on Sweden’s chest and pushes him back, further onto the other side of the bed.
“We’re going to have to wash the sheets,” Finland muses, into Sweden’s chest. “Between me and, well, you in me it’s going to be a mess.”
Sweden breathes in the scent of Finland’s hair and resolves to fall asleep.
Title: On Pride, or In which Sweden is a Leanthrope and Still Gets Laid
Rating: NC-17 for sex
Fandom: Hetalia
Pairing: Sweden/Finland
Disclaimer: not mine, etc
Warnings: it's not bestiality. But it might count as furry? I'm not sure.
Notes: Originally posted here as a response to this kink meme prompt, and kindexed here.
Summary (from the kindex): Sweden has a secret. But Finland's much more open-minded (and appreciative) about this situation than Sweden thought he would be.
The grass is soft on his paws, the spring breeze warm. He stands at the edge of the woods and looks up at the open brightness of the night sky.
He sees the little nearby house light up, and smells human as the door opens; he retreats deeper into the woods, afraid of that light, of that figure. His tail swings behind him, brushing foliage, as he walks; his mane is too warm. He tries to smell water but there isn’t any near, so he lies down, curls up in pine needles and little woodland plants and goes to sleep.
Just after six o’clock Sweden wakes naked in a mound of dust. He clambers out of it and stands, still in the little woodland area.
It’s a quick dash to the house, where he takes a shower and, once clean, slips into bed beside Finland, who makes a soft happy noise and wraps around him without waking.
Sweden rests his cheek against the top of Finland’s head, his hands on Finland’s back, and tries to sleep.
He can’t. In the end he gives up and makes breakfast. He brings it up the bedroom and leaves the tray of food sitting on the nightstand while he reads and waits for Finland to wake.
Finland stirs at not-quite eight in the morning, rubs his stubbled cheek against Sweden’s naked belly and crawls across him to get to the food, or more accurately the litre mug of coffee. Lies with his stomach over Sweden’s hips and drinks.
When the mug is mostly-gone, he puts it back on the tray and says, “I remember now why I’m with you. You know how much coffee I need.”
Sweden grunts. Finland wiggles a little, getting up from his prone position so he’s kneeling on the bed, and says, “Do you have time for a quickie before your teleconference?”
Sweden glances at the clock. Forty-five minutes until the call. Including another shower, and dressing, and connection, he has about a half an hour. He also has a lapful of Finland, smelling of sleep and coffee, and arousal.
He reaches to pull Finland into his lap, wrapping his arms around Finland’s shoulders and kissing him. Finland, sitting with his knees on either side of Sweden’s hips, presses closer, bare chest warm. He’s wearing a pair of Sweden’s pyjama bottoms, too long but about right in the waist, blue and white plaid, and Sweden pushes them off Finland’s hips.
Finland must have woken aroused, to be so hungry, and to feel so in Sweden’s hand. His back arches when Sweden first touches him, his cheek scratching at Sweden’s neck as he buries his face in Sweden’s shoulder.
Sweden gauges Finland’s weight on his lap, is tempted for a moment to pick him up, press him to the headboard, or belly-down into the mattress. An animal’s desire, that, and he refuses to be –
He presses kisses to Finland’s neck and asks, “How d’you want it?”
“Mm.” Finland’s movements slow, stop as he thinks. Sweden sits back a little so he can watch Finland’s eyes. “Could I have...?” His eyes flicker to Sweden’s mouth.
Sweden tries to smile to reassure him, but as always it falls flat, and anyway Finland knows he’d never refuse. It’s not that he enjoys it, but that Finland does.
He pushes Finland away, into the bed, and shifts until he is the one kneeling above – and oh, how sweet it would be to press his claim on Finland’s body – but instead he crouches lower, and brushes his lips over Finland. Firm pressure – Finland is ticklish even there, and there are few things more effective at killing Sweden’s mood than Finland having a giggle fit while Sweden’s mouth is full.
Finland is already sticky-damp with readiness; he tastes of salt and musk, hot on Sweden’s tongue.
He thinks of adding his hand, but would need lubricant, and he doesn’t want to stop to ask – he only distributes his attentions more. Finland’s hands on his shoulders clench whenever Sweden takes him in anew, as though the sight pleases him more each time. It just might.
Finland throws a leg over Sweden’s shoulders and uses it to pull him down farther, pressing himself deeper into Sweden’s mouth, and Sweden accepts it – tries to remember to breathe, his tongue sliding over ridges of skin in growing spit-slickness – accepts, too, Finland rocking gently into him.
Finland comes with a sigh and a boneless collapse back onto the bed; Sweden spits into some tissues and looks at the clock. Still a little time, and he won’t last long anyway. Finland takes Sweden in hand to finish him.
That evening he feels the itch of oncoming change riding his shoulders, even though he changed last night – the more he’s in the world news, the more often he shifts; America’s new interest in reforming his health care system is probably what is prompting this.
He goes to bed beside Finland, waiting until Finland is asleep to leave the house and return to the little grove of trees, where he strips naked, leaving his clothes in a little bundle in a tree, and lies down in the dirt, and waits.
The difference in mass between a grown man and an adult male lion is significant, about one hundred kilograms. When he changes, he absorbs that mass from his surroundings, in this case the soil of his own country. It all ends up as dirt anyway, no matter what it was to start.
He rises from the hole in the ground, his tail swinging lightly, and paces up to the edge of the woods, smelling the air.
There is a human nearby, and coming closer. Smelling of water and wind, and of Sweden himself – Finland. It can’t be anyone else.
He backs away, trying to go deeper, but Finland has sharp eyes, and he calls out, “Sweden!” The loud noise startles him, and he finds himself wound to spring, as though on prey, or an attacker. He forces himself not to jump.
Finland comes closer and closer, and Sweden grits his teeth, closes his jaws.
“Sweden?” Finland asks. Sweden takes two paces back, where the trees don’t shadow the light as well, and Finland gasps, swears.
Sweden waits for him to run, to walk away, to be disgusted.
Finland reaches out a hand, lets it hover there for a moment, as though Sweden were a large dog. Sweden bends his head, takes a step forward. Brushes his mane under Finland’s hand, a caress he can hardly feel.
“You’re beautiful,” Finland whispers. “Oh, I would – ” He stoops a little, scratches lightly at Sweden’s shoulders. “Was this why you left last night?”
Sweden makes himself nod.
“I guess that’s why they call you the Lion,” Finland muses. “Have you always done this?”
A shake of the head.
“Good; that means I haven’t been missing anything. When will you change back? Before eight. Before seven?”
A nod.
“Before six?”
Shake.
“All right. Well, wake me up when you get back.”
Sweden doesn’t think he will.
Finland is already awake when Sweden returns dusty and tired, mouth bloody with the squirrel he caught and ate near two in the morning.
Sweden takes a shower, brushes his teeth, goes back into the bedroom.
Finland rolls over to look at him. “Do you have a human mind when you’re a lion?”
“Mostly.”
“What do you mean?”
Sweden watches the bedsheets. “Can think, but sometimes can’t stop th’body from havin' a say.”
“So if I said something like ‘Come here, you beast, and ravish me,’ would that have any effect?”
Sweden tries to cover the heat in his cheeks. “Maybe.” Two quick steps to the edge of the bed and Finland falls into his arms. Sweden sets him on the bed and kneels over him, looking at the curve of his smile, the lines of his muscles beneath his skin.
Finland reaches up to him, as though to pull him down, and Sweden bats his hand away, growling, before he can help it – freezes in horror. But Finland only smiles wider and lets his hand fall back down to the bed, fingers brushing Sweden’s knee. Maybe it’s all right. If Finland freezes in terror, like he used to when they first met, then Sweden will stop. If he can. He thinks he can. He has to.
He bends to smell Finland’s neck, his shoulder – tracing down his body, cheek brushing Finland’s skin sometimes. It takes conscious effort to remember not to bare his teeth, that it doesn’t work in this body. Wouldn’t help his sense of smell.
Finland buries his hands in Sweden’s hair, and Sweden stiffens, uncomfortable, wanting to shake him off and not daring, not wanting to deny the affection. He flexes his fingers in Finland’s sides, and Finland gasps faintly – not pain, quite. Sweden glances down and there are red-skinned streaks running parallel to Finland’s ribs. But he doesn’t feel upset, and his smile isn’t set in his face like it gets whenever he’s in a room with Russia.
Finland slides one hand out of Sweden’s hair, palm resting along the line of his jaw. “I want to follow you,” he says, “but I need to know where you’re going.”
Sweden opens his mouth, but talking feels – odd. Thick. “’m goin’ to want you on your front. But – I'll be quick, so I need to get you close first.”
Finland hums, stretches, hands pulling on the slats in the headboard to work his shoulders. His exposed belly looks soft and sweet, and Sweden bends to kiss it, his tongue slipping out over his skin to taste. Thin-skinned, with muscle beneath. The smell of blood under Finland’s skin isn’t enticing, exactly – it’s more the awareness of the eager thrum of Finland’s pulse.
Sweden is fascinated by the lowest rib, how it juts out over organs under Finland’s skin, wrapping along his chest. And each one higher than the one before, over lungs and blood and heart, to his collarbone and neck –
“Y’ want t’ turn over?”
Finland does. His legs are straight, which doesn’t bother Sweden now but will trouble him later. To distract himself he nuzzles at the back of Finland’s neck, sets one hand over the base of Finland’s spine, to feel him rocking into the bed.
“’m goin’ to get off you,” he says, “Don’ move.” He crawls to the edge of the bed, goes rummaging through the nightstand. It’s not too hard to find – they need it often enough – and Sweden, fingers cold-wet, looks back at Finland.
Who has sat up, back half-turned to Sweden, and is stroking himself like Sweden isn’t even there, or like Sweden gave him permission to move –
He doesn’t quite remember, afterwards, how he ends up with his own voice ringing in his ears and Finland face-down in the mattress, Sweden’s knee on his back to keep him there.
Finland’s knees are folded up to his sides, like a kowtow or – or like a lioness in heat, waiting to be –
He closes his eyes and finds Finland’s entrance by tracing the line up from low between his legs to higher, to inside. Tight dry heat, and Sweden wants to be held by it already – no. Wouldn’t feel good. He reopens the lubricant and adds more.
He ends up being so cautious that by the time Finland says his name, low broken whisper like he’s been begging for a long time, there’s wetness all over his hand and Finland’s thighs, slow trails of it down between his legs towards the bed where his arousal has left a sticky-wet spot from being thrust, needy, into the air above the mattress.
Sweden slides his fingers out, repositions their bodies – pulls Finland’s hips up to the right height – and slides in.
Finland’s so close that he’s almost too tight, just shy of painful but the wetness easing Sweden’s way enough that all he feels is the slide of their skin. Finland smells of sweat and musk, pushing back against him as they move against each other, and Sweden means to kiss his shoulders, is momentarily distracted as Finland moans. Ends with his nails scraping over Finland’s sides and his teeth breaking bruises at the back of Finland’s neck as he comes.
He pulls out, afraid for a moment that Finland will scream in pain, but no, there are no barbs in this form – and collapses on the bed. Watches Finland use his own hand until he comes, and would help but can’t find the strength to move.
Finland lies down, lays a hand on Sweden’s chest and pushes him back, further onto the other side of the bed.
“We’re going to have to wash the sheets,” Finland muses, into Sweden’s chest. “Between me and, well, you in me it’s going to be a mess.”
Sweden breathes in the scent of Finland’s hair and resolves to fall asleep.
