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valmoraTitle: The Last Like This
Fandom: Hetalia
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Sweden/Finland/America, Sweden/Finland. Stop looking at me like that; it was a request.
Disclaimer: not mine.
Notes: originally posted here for this kink meme prompt and kindexed here.
Historical garbage, BTW. Except for the bit about Britain blockading the Baltic. And Denmark and Finland having respective powers breathing down their necks. So, in short, this is a PWP.
It is October, and getting through the British blockade was a pain, although Norway helped him get through. America thinks Britain might be kind of mad at him about it, but it’s not his fault; he’s neutral. He should be able to go where he pleases.
Where he pleases is Oslo, where he’s spent the last two days meeting with the Nordics, Spain, and Switzerland to see where they’re standing in all this.
None of them wants anything to do with it, although Denmark has dark circles under his eyes – no wonder. No wonder. With Germany breathing down his neck. Denmark keeps touching Norway’s hand, glancing brushes of his fingers, and America realizes why when Denmark expresses a view that in a Nazi-conquered Europe he’s just a roadblock and he’ll get invaded sooner or later.
Spain looks tired, too, but that’s because he’s just hopped out of a civil war, and he’s still all torn up from it. He doesn’t even smile when they mention South Italy, and everyone knows that’s not right, but nobody wants to say anything.
And Finland is pretending to be neutral but mostly it’s because he’s got the Soviet Union breathing down his neck, and his back too. Russia wanting everything and anything from him.
Switzerland is loud when he talks, and rude, but no one blames him – it can’t be fun being caught between all those belligerents.
Sweden does a lot of talking, which America never would have expected, but he argues convincingly – even if he does mumble a little bit – and America thinks, I fucked him and I had no idea who he was. Which is a real shame, because Sweden is smart, and when he’s arguing he looks less severe than usual, even if he’s still pretty terrifying.
Sweden isn’t even referring to Finland as his wife, which America takes as meaning they’re not together anymore, so Sweden is available, and, well, temptation is when you want something and it’d make you happy to have it.
So after the meeting he sidles up to Sweden, makes a little conversation – the topic doesn’t really matter, after all. It’s all about the body language, and Sweden’s definitely receptive.
Even more receptive when America kisses him and gets pressed softly into the wall, the gold buttons on Sweden’s cuffs brushing America’s shoulders.
America breaks the kiss, wanting to breathe, and Sweden mumbles something –
“What?”
“Said that ’f y’ like, Finlan’ said ‘t was all right t’ bring y’ t’ our room. He’d like ‘t.”
They’re still together? Isn’t that unhealthy, to want to stay with…? America doesn’t ask. Gift horse in the mouth, and Finland is friendly and gentle and pretty enough, and if Sweden offers the both of them America won’t turn him down.
Finland is taking a shower when America and Sweden enter the room, lie down on the closer bed together, clothes falling open under unsteady hurried hands until they are naked, hungry for each other. Sweden kisses with a soft-edged thoroughness America hadn’t expected – he should have remembered better from their once-before – and the heat of his skin draws America closer to him, their bodies close and Sweden’s arousal as heavy on America’s hip as America’s must be on his.
The shower turns off and the bathroom door opens to let Finland into the room – America tenses, hoping he hasn’t misread them, that he’s not being used as some sort of wedge in a fight between them – but Sweden relaxes under his hands as Finland stands watching them. And disentangles himself, gently, as Finland moves to kneel on the bed beside them, still wet from the shower, leaving water-trails cold on America’s skin.
Finland sets a hand on America’s shoulder, pulls him around until his back is to Sweden, and kisses him. Slow aching depth, as Sweden traces the back of America’s neck with his tongue, pressing closer and closer, heat against his back. Finland and Sweden both touching him, all over – America throws one arm over Finland’s shoulder and pulls him closer, shifts his weight onto Finland a little so they’re pressed as tight together as Sweden is to his back. Finland smiles into their kiss.
After a time, a hand slides over America’s hip, cold slick fingers brushing between, tracing over his entrance; he slings a leg over Finland’s hips and lets them in, and Finland gasps against him, hardness matching his own as they fall over a little.
He grinds, hard, up against Finland, tries to slide his hand between Finland’s legs and back, and Finland laughs, silver-bright and friendly, shifts just enough that America’s hand falls away.
“I only let one man there,” Finland murmurs into America’s ear before his lips fall to the edge of America’s jaw, his hand between them so that they both can slide into the grasp of his fingers, against each other.
And Sweden makes a noise that doesn’t sound like a laugh, though maybe it is or maybe it isn’t. “’n only when he feels like ‘t,” he says, and suddenly there’s heat and pressure at America’s entrance, sliding in. He arches, gasping, into Finland, who holds him steady and touches him, no more gentle on his arousal than Sweden is inside him, inexorable heat, rhythmic.
America rocks, caught between them, Finland’s smile and wicked fingers and Sweden’s presence at his back, and feels himself catch, breath paused, and Finland does something clever with his hand and America’s gone, shivering pleasure.
He’s too washed-out to move when Sweden pulls out, still hard, and strips off the condom he was wearing, as Finland – belly white-streaked from America’s release – crawls over him to get to Sweden.
Somehow America manages to roll onto his back and turn his head to watch.
Finland swings a knee over Sweden’s hips, spreads himself out, sitting over him. Leans forward, bracing himself with his hands on either side of Sweden’s head. Lowers himself for a kiss as Sweden reaches up, puts a hand on his side, kisses back like there’s nothing in the room but them, like they haven’t just shown America a great time in bed.
Eventually Sweden reaches for the slick, and Finland spreads out over him, lets Sweden’s fingers inside. It would probably be a very nice picture if America could see it, instead of just Sweden’s arm stretched over Finland’s back, sight of his hand blocked by Finland’s body. Until Finland shifts away, eyes closing after a moment – probably Sweden’s fingers slipping out – sits up, and positions himself over Sweden.
They look at each other, and in that moment America wonders if he was even ever here in their heads, but no, he must’ve been, because Finland didn’t –
And Finland sits down. Shivers as much as Sweden’s hips flex, and then they’re rocking into each other, a pretty picture. Both of them pale-flushed and blond, and Finland’s soft-muscled belly streaked white with his arousal right in view over blond curls, and the whisper-hint sight of Sweden, flushed dark, whenever Finland raises himself up.
Until, suddenly, strangely, Sweden reaches for Finland’s hip, pulls him down, takes the rhythm, and tightens, eyes closed, and after that it’s all Finland working himself as Sweden softens, coming out, and Finland with his hand, two fingers inside himself next to Sweden –
He arches, sits down, comes, and can’t seem to catch his breath.
America wonders if they’ll want another round with him; he’ll be ready enough soon. Probably not – they’re already moving, touching each other, soft mumurs in Swedish. And Finland turns to America, smiles sleepy-sweet. “Three men in this bed would be a bit difficult, don’t you think?” he asks. “I’m all for taking a shower and claiming the other bed for tomorrow morning.”
Fandom: Hetalia
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Sweden/Finland/America, Sweden/Finland. Stop looking at me like that; it was a request.
Disclaimer: not mine.
Notes: originally posted here for this kink meme prompt and kindexed here.
Historical garbage, BTW. Except for the bit about Britain blockading the Baltic. And Denmark and Finland having respective powers breathing down their necks. So, in short, this is a PWP.
It is October, and getting through the British blockade was a pain, although Norway helped him get through. America thinks Britain might be kind of mad at him about it, but it’s not his fault; he’s neutral. He should be able to go where he pleases.
Where he pleases is Oslo, where he’s spent the last two days meeting with the Nordics, Spain, and Switzerland to see where they’re standing in all this.
None of them wants anything to do with it, although Denmark has dark circles under his eyes – no wonder. No wonder. With Germany breathing down his neck. Denmark keeps touching Norway’s hand, glancing brushes of his fingers, and America realizes why when Denmark expresses a view that in a Nazi-conquered Europe he’s just a roadblock and he’ll get invaded sooner or later.
Spain looks tired, too, but that’s because he’s just hopped out of a civil war, and he’s still all torn up from it. He doesn’t even smile when they mention South Italy, and everyone knows that’s not right, but nobody wants to say anything.
And Finland is pretending to be neutral but mostly it’s because he’s got the Soviet Union breathing down his neck, and his back too. Russia wanting everything and anything from him.
Switzerland is loud when he talks, and rude, but no one blames him – it can’t be fun being caught between all those belligerents.
Sweden does a lot of talking, which America never would have expected, but he argues convincingly – even if he does mumble a little bit – and America thinks, I fucked him and I had no idea who he was. Which is a real shame, because Sweden is smart, and when he’s arguing he looks less severe than usual, even if he’s still pretty terrifying.
Sweden isn’t even referring to Finland as his wife, which America takes as meaning they’re not together anymore, so Sweden is available, and, well, temptation is when you want something and it’d make you happy to have it.
So after the meeting he sidles up to Sweden, makes a little conversation – the topic doesn’t really matter, after all. It’s all about the body language, and Sweden’s definitely receptive.
Even more receptive when America kisses him and gets pressed softly into the wall, the gold buttons on Sweden’s cuffs brushing America’s shoulders.
America breaks the kiss, wanting to breathe, and Sweden mumbles something –
“What?”
“Said that ’f y’ like, Finlan’ said ‘t was all right t’ bring y’ t’ our room. He’d like ‘t.”
They’re still together? Isn’t that unhealthy, to want to stay with…? America doesn’t ask. Gift horse in the mouth, and Finland is friendly and gentle and pretty enough, and if Sweden offers the both of them America won’t turn him down.
Finland is taking a shower when America and Sweden enter the room, lie down on the closer bed together, clothes falling open under unsteady hurried hands until they are naked, hungry for each other. Sweden kisses with a soft-edged thoroughness America hadn’t expected – he should have remembered better from their once-before – and the heat of his skin draws America closer to him, their bodies close and Sweden’s arousal as heavy on America’s hip as America’s must be on his.
The shower turns off and the bathroom door opens to let Finland into the room – America tenses, hoping he hasn’t misread them, that he’s not being used as some sort of wedge in a fight between them – but Sweden relaxes under his hands as Finland stands watching them. And disentangles himself, gently, as Finland moves to kneel on the bed beside them, still wet from the shower, leaving water-trails cold on America’s skin.
Finland sets a hand on America’s shoulder, pulls him around until his back is to Sweden, and kisses him. Slow aching depth, as Sweden traces the back of America’s neck with his tongue, pressing closer and closer, heat against his back. Finland and Sweden both touching him, all over – America throws one arm over Finland’s shoulder and pulls him closer, shifts his weight onto Finland a little so they’re pressed as tight together as Sweden is to his back. Finland smiles into their kiss.
After a time, a hand slides over America’s hip, cold slick fingers brushing between, tracing over his entrance; he slings a leg over Finland’s hips and lets them in, and Finland gasps against him, hardness matching his own as they fall over a little.
He grinds, hard, up against Finland, tries to slide his hand between Finland’s legs and back, and Finland laughs, silver-bright and friendly, shifts just enough that America’s hand falls away.
“I only let one man there,” Finland murmurs into America’s ear before his lips fall to the edge of America’s jaw, his hand between them so that they both can slide into the grasp of his fingers, against each other.
And Sweden makes a noise that doesn’t sound like a laugh, though maybe it is or maybe it isn’t. “’n only when he feels like ‘t,” he says, and suddenly there’s heat and pressure at America’s entrance, sliding in. He arches, gasping, into Finland, who holds him steady and touches him, no more gentle on his arousal than Sweden is inside him, inexorable heat, rhythmic.
America rocks, caught between them, Finland’s smile and wicked fingers and Sweden’s presence at his back, and feels himself catch, breath paused, and Finland does something clever with his hand and America’s gone, shivering pleasure.
He’s too washed-out to move when Sweden pulls out, still hard, and strips off the condom he was wearing, as Finland – belly white-streaked from America’s release – crawls over him to get to Sweden.
Somehow America manages to roll onto his back and turn his head to watch.
Finland swings a knee over Sweden’s hips, spreads himself out, sitting over him. Leans forward, bracing himself with his hands on either side of Sweden’s head. Lowers himself for a kiss as Sweden reaches up, puts a hand on his side, kisses back like there’s nothing in the room but them, like they haven’t just shown America a great time in bed.
Eventually Sweden reaches for the slick, and Finland spreads out over him, lets Sweden’s fingers inside. It would probably be a very nice picture if America could see it, instead of just Sweden’s arm stretched over Finland’s back, sight of his hand blocked by Finland’s body. Until Finland shifts away, eyes closing after a moment – probably Sweden’s fingers slipping out – sits up, and positions himself over Sweden.
They look at each other, and in that moment America wonders if he was even ever here in their heads, but no, he must’ve been, because Finland didn’t –
And Finland sits down. Shivers as much as Sweden’s hips flex, and then they’re rocking into each other, a pretty picture. Both of them pale-flushed and blond, and Finland’s soft-muscled belly streaked white with his arousal right in view over blond curls, and the whisper-hint sight of Sweden, flushed dark, whenever Finland raises himself up.
Until, suddenly, strangely, Sweden reaches for Finland’s hip, pulls him down, takes the rhythm, and tightens, eyes closed, and after that it’s all Finland working himself as Sweden softens, coming out, and Finland with his hand, two fingers inside himself next to Sweden –
He arches, sits down, comes, and can’t seem to catch his breath.
America wonders if they’ll want another round with him; he’ll be ready enough soon. Probably not – they’re already moving, touching each other, soft mumurs in Swedish. And Finland turns to America, smiles sleepy-sweet. “Three men in this bed would be a bit difficult, don’t you think?” he asks. “I’m all for taking a shower and claiming the other bed for tomorrow morning.”
