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valmoraTitle: Appetizer
Fandom: Hetalia
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Finland/Sweden; order is important
Warnings: unmitigated PWP
Notes: originally posted here for this prompt and kindexed here.
Slightly bowdlerized summary (from the kindex): A needy Sweden persuades Finland to stop thinking about cooking dinner and do him.
Finland set the cucumbers in the refrigerator, put the grocery bags away so that they would be ready for the next time, and went to get his cookbooks from the shelf so that he could make dinner. Had his hand on the spine, fingers curled around to the cover, when he felt Sweden wrap his arms around him from behind and press a kiss to the top of his head.
Not that he wasn’t appreciative, but. “What’s this for?”
Sweden held him a little tighter and shifted his weight slightly into Finland. “Sealand’s with Latvia t’night.”
“And…?” He had a feeling he knew where this was going.
“’n I’ve missed y’.”
It was going where he’d thought it was going. He was interested; however, there was a reason he’d done the grocery shopping. “It’s my night to cook dinner, though.”
“Save ‘t for t’morrow.” Sweden leaned to kiss the back of his neck. “’r later t’night. I… even over th’table. Just fuck me now.”
Well, that changed things. Finland let go of the cookbook and pulled out of Sweden’s embrace, turning to face him. And then he realized that Sweden was only wearing a bathrobe, which meant Sweden had anticipated his answer, damn him. “Have you already –”
Sweden nodded. Good. Pre-slicked and pre-stretched so that Finland didn’t have to worry, and – oh, that was nice. Sweden going to his knees in front of Finland, right there in the kitchen, opening Finland’s jeans for a blow job.
Finland was about halfway there, definitely interested without being desperate, but Sweden had the benefit of a lot of practice. It helped that Finland rested his fingertips over Sweden’s throat; he could feel the flex and stretch of the muscles in time with what Sweden’s mouth was doing, like knowing him outside and inside.
After a few minutes he touched the corner of Sweden’s jaw, drew his fingers over Sweden’s cheekbones beneath his glasses frames, and said, “I know you’re a cocksucker, but I thought you wanted to –”
Sweden pulled off him, swallowed, licked his lips. Stood. Untied the belt of his bathrobe and let it fall open and off of his shoulders to the floor.
He was flushed down to his collarbones, not much but enough to see it on his paleness, and there was a days-old yellowed bruise on his shoulder from falling off the bed when Sealand had tried to wake them up last Sunday morning. And he was hard – beautifully so, red and leaking when Finland reached for him.
He caught Finland’s hand, held it between his own. Drew Finland forward two paces, closer to the kitchen table, and then against him into a kiss that ended with Sweden pressed against the edge of the table, close and warm. And then Sweden turned around, leaned his elbows and belly on the table, widened his stance so that Finland could see him – could see everything.
Finland licked his thumb and pressed it against Sweden’s entrance, felt him tense.
“’s not your cock,” Sweden said, and turned his head to glare over his shoulder.
Fine. If that was what he wanted, he’d get it. Finland lined himself up, pushed in, heard Sweden mumble a curse. Felt like doing the same thing himself, because, God, how long had Sweden been playing with himself to get this slick? A long time. All of it waiting for Finland to get home so they could be like this –
He pulled out, all the way, reached around Sweden’s hip until he could fold his fingers around Sweden, and pushed in through the muscle-resistance as his hand moved.
Sweden moaned into the table, low and desperate.
“How long’ve you been like this?” Finland asked, bending over him and kissing his spine as he slid out, aching-slow.
“Like what?” Sweden rocked back against him, let Finland slide home again, slick and hot.
“Desperate.”
Sweden gasped, shifted his hips, shivered and tightened around him. “Lunch. Nineteen-sev’nteen. Sixteen-thirty.”
Finland closed his eyes and laid his cheek against Sweden’s shoulder blade. Rested a moment seated inside him. Felt the steady arch of Sweden waiting, wanting to draw away but not being able to because of the table and reduced to faint shifts of his weight, impaling himself on Finland by centimeters and judging by the rhythmic catches in his breath sliding Finland straight over his sweet spot every time.
So Finland drew out, watched Sweden’s open-raw entrance fold closed with him gone, red slick sweetness above and heat and muscle and blood below. And pushed in again, watched Sweden’s body take him in, stretching tight. Only a few centimeters, enough to breach him and little else, then out again. In, a little deeper each time, until Sweden was rocking with him, his hand on himself counter-rhythm to Finland’s hips. Until Sweden was so close and tight Finland wasn’t sure he’d be able to reenter if he pulled out all the way, and then it was just Sweden’s heat and his own breath, and Sweden came around him, breathless and pulsing.
Finland shifted his stance, worked himself deeper, quick and hard and sloppy, and rocked into him until his own release. Rested a hand on Sweden’s back and pulled out.
“Stay there and let me get something to clean up,” Finland said.
Sweden nodded against the table. “’n while you’re at ‘t, something t’keep me stretched for after dinner.”
Fandom: Hetalia
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Finland/Sweden; order is important
Warnings: unmitigated PWP
Notes: originally posted here for this prompt and kindexed here.
Slightly bowdlerized summary (from the kindex): A needy Sweden persuades Finland to stop thinking about cooking dinner and do him.
Finland set the cucumbers in the refrigerator, put the grocery bags away so that they would be ready for the next time, and went to get his cookbooks from the shelf so that he could make dinner. Had his hand on the spine, fingers curled around to the cover, when he felt Sweden wrap his arms around him from behind and press a kiss to the top of his head.
Not that he wasn’t appreciative, but. “What’s this for?”
Sweden held him a little tighter and shifted his weight slightly into Finland. “Sealand’s with Latvia t’night.”
“And…?” He had a feeling he knew where this was going.
“’n I’ve missed y’.”
It was going where he’d thought it was going. He was interested; however, there was a reason he’d done the grocery shopping. “It’s my night to cook dinner, though.”
“Save ‘t for t’morrow.” Sweden leaned to kiss the back of his neck. “’r later t’night. I… even over th’table. Just fuck me now.”
Well, that changed things. Finland let go of the cookbook and pulled out of Sweden’s embrace, turning to face him. And then he realized that Sweden was only wearing a bathrobe, which meant Sweden had anticipated his answer, damn him. “Have you already –”
Sweden nodded. Good. Pre-slicked and pre-stretched so that Finland didn’t have to worry, and – oh, that was nice. Sweden going to his knees in front of Finland, right there in the kitchen, opening Finland’s jeans for a blow job.
Finland was about halfway there, definitely interested without being desperate, but Sweden had the benefit of a lot of practice. It helped that Finland rested his fingertips over Sweden’s throat; he could feel the flex and stretch of the muscles in time with what Sweden’s mouth was doing, like knowing him outside and inside.
After a few minutes he touched the corner of Sweden’s jaw, drew his fingers over Sweden’s cheekbones beneath his glasses frames, and said, “I know you’re a cocksucker, but I thought you wanted to –”
Sweden pulled off him, swallowed, licked his lips. Stood. Untied the belt of his bathrobe and let it fall open and off of his shoulders to the floor.
He was flushed down to his collarbones, not much but enough to see it on his paleness, and there was a days-old yellowed bruise on his shoulder from falling off the bed when Sealand had tried to wake them up last Sunday morning. And he was hard – beautifully so, red and leaking when Finland reached for him.
He caught Finland’s hand, held it between his own. Drew Finland forward two paces, closer to the kitchen table, and then against him into a kiss that ended with Sweden pressed against the edge of the table, close and warm. And then Sweden turned around, leaned his elbows and belly on the table, widened his stance so that Finland could see him – could see everything.
Finland licked his thumb and pressed it against Sweden’s entrance, felt him tense.
“’s not your cock,” Sweden said, and turned his head to glare over his shoulder.
Fine. If that was what he wanted, he’d get it. Finland lined himself up, pushed in, heard Sweden mumble a curse. Felt like doing the same thing himself, because, God, how long had Sweden been playing with himself to get this slick? A long time. All of it waiting for Finland to get home so they could be like this –
He pulled out, all the way, reached around Sweden’s hip until he could fold his fingers around Sweden, and pushed in through the muscle-resistance as his hand moved.
Sweden moaned into the table, low and desperate.
“How long’ve you been like this?” Finland asked, bending over him and kissing his spine as he slid out, aching-slow.
“Like what?” Sweden rocked back against him, let Finland slide home again, slick and hot.
“Desperate.”
Sweden gasped, shifted his hips, shivered and tightened around him. “Lunch. Nineteen-sev’nteen. Sixteen-thirty.”
Finland closed his eyes and laid his cheek against Sweden’s shoulder blade. Rested a moment seated inside him. Felt the steady arch of Sweden waiting, wanting to draw away but not being able to because of the table and reduced to faint shifts of his weight, impaling himself on Finland by centimeters and judging by the rhythmic catches in his breath sliding Finland straight over his sweet spot every time.
So Finland drew out, watched Sweden’s open-raw entrance fold closed with him gone, red slick sweetness above and heat and muscle and blood below. And pushed in again, watched Sweden’s body take him in, stretching tight. Only a few centimeters, enough to breach him and little else, then out again. In, a little deeper each time, until Sweden was rocking with him, his hand on himself counter-rhythm to Finland’s hips. Until Sweden was so close and tight Finland wasn’t sure he’d be able to reenter if he pulled out all the way, and then it was just Sweden’s heat and his own breath, and Sweden came around him, breathless and pulsing.
Finland shifted his stance, worked himself deeper, quick and hard and sloppy, and rocked into him until his own release. Rested a hand on Sweden’s back and pulled out.
“Stay there and let me get something to clean up,” Finland said.
Sweden nodded against the table. “’n while you’re at ‘t, something t’keep me stretched for after dinner.”
no subject
Date: 2011-11-27 07:35 pm (UTC)This is my grinning face, over here. :Db