fic: untitled
Aug. 28th, 2010 12:49 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bonnefoisTitle: untitled
Series: Hetalia
Character/Pairing: France/America
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 419
Author's note:
Hetalia random pairing generator: France/America - Spooning. This is the last spooning one for now, I swear.
--
"Can I be the big spoon tonight? Heroes should be big spoons," America mumbles sleepily.
"Of course, mon cher."
They adjust positions (a position which is surely going to hurt his back in the morning, oh, the flexibility of youth) until France is cradled in America's arms. His knees are fitted close, bent into his, and his breath is against France's neck. His derriere is pleasantly sore, and he's still a little sticky, but America is hardly fastidious about showers.
America breathes in deep. "You always smell so good. Why do they make the joke about stinky Frenchmen anyways?"
"I bet it was Angleterre's doing," France says, amused. "Though you've joked about it on many occasions."
"Yeah, but you were sleeping with Iraq. I said a lot of things, most of them while drunk."
"And then you would drunk-dial me. I saved them all, you know," France murmurs.
"Why, because they're some kind of 'comedic gold?" America asks, irritation creeping into his voice.
"No, because they remind me that deep down you care, even if you're calling me a dirty cowardly Frenchman," France says, faintly amused.
"Oh yeah," America says. He can just tell the look on his face, showing of youth and naivete. He's seen it many times over the years, from the times when he brushed the dust from his skinned knees as a child to when he helped in fire the muskets, and fixed every new bruise, and left some of his own.
"I say a lot of things," America says, and it's almost halting, but not really so, almost an apology but not really so.
"I'll blame Angleterre and his awful parenting skills," France says.
"Just like always," America replies. "Feels like the good old days, or something."
France smiles to himself. "Yes, cher . Just like old times."
America nuzzles in, and France knows the time for talking is over. He falls asleep so fast, but at least he stays up for a little talking. And ah, it feels good to be a little sore and a little sticky and in his young, exuberant lover's arms. What else can he ask for?
Many things, certainly, like to be rid of those awful drapes, but for now he just focuses on the afterglow as he drifts off to sleep in his own hazy bliss.
Series: Hetalia
Character/Pairing: France/America
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 419
Author's note:
Hetalia random pairing generator: France/America - Spooning. This is the last spooning one for now, I swear.
--
"Can I be the big spoon tonight? Heroes should be big spoons," America mumbles sleepily.
"Of course, mon cher."
They adjust positions (a position which is surely going to hurt his back in the morning, oh, the flexibility of youth) until France is cradled in America's arms. His knees are fitted close, bent into his, and his breath is against France's neck. His derriere is pleasantly sore, and he's still a little sticky, but America is hardly fastidious about showers.
America breathes in deep. "You always smell so good. Why do they make the joke about stinky Frenchmen anyways?"
"I bet it was Angleterre's doing," France says, amused. "Though you've joked about it on many occasions."
"Yeah, but you were sleeping with Iraq. I said a lot of things, most of them while drunk."
"And then you would drunk-dial me. I saved them all, you know," France murmurs.
"Why, because they're some kind of 'comedic gold?" America asks, irritation creeping into his voice.
"No, because they remind me that deep down you care, even if you're calling me a dirty cowardly Frenchman," France says, faintly amused.
"Oh yeah," America says. He can just tell the look on his face, showing of youth and naivete. He's seen it many times over the years, from the times when he brushed the dust from his skinned knees as a child to when he helped in fire the muskets, and fixed every new bruise, and left some of his own.
"I say a lot of things," America says, and it's almost halting, but not really so, almost an apology but not really so.
"I'll blame Angleterre and his awful parenting skills," France says.
"Just like always," America replies. "Feels like the good old days, or something."
France smiles to himself. "Yes, cher . Just like old times."
America nuzzles in, and France knows the time for talking is over. He falls asleep so fast, but at least he stays up for a little talking. And ah, it feels good to be a little sore and a little sticky and in his young, exuberant lover's arms. What else can he ask for?
Many things, certainly, like to be rid of those awful drapes, but for now he just focuses on the afterglow as he drifts off to sleep in his own hazy bliss.
