fic: Vanilla
Feb. 9th, 2012 12:59 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bonnefoisTitle: Vanilla
Series: Hetalia
Character/pairing: France/Canada
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 2667
Author's note: originally meant for this kink meme prompt, but I ended up finishing it for porn battle instead. Fluff, ahoy. Actually, I think this is pretty much schmoop.
Canada is without a doubt, the most gentle lover he has ever had. When he was younger, he might have dismissed this as bland, uninteresting. He has learned, however, that gentleness does not equal boredom.
He's weary as he collects the flowers he's ordered two weeks prior. It is specific roses he wants, for he never settles for anything but the best.
He knows Canada will be late, from their talk last night. He takes a taxi and barely sees the beautiful city of Montréal passing. Canada knows he prefers Montréal, for its French culture, its memories, so he keeps a flat there just for him.
He doesn't bother to knock because he wants to surprise Canada, and Canada has told him that this flat might as well be his own. Canada is on the phone, in some awful jeans and flannel combo. Obviously it's been too long since he's been there to offer his guidance. And yet, he's so happy to see him, this is only a minor (yet insistent) blip. (He figures he'll have Canada out of those clothes soon enough, and yes, he will take relish in removing them.)
Canada catches sight of him and his eyes light up.
"He's here, I'll call you later, bro. Yup. Yup. Don't be too mean to England, yeah, bye."
He closes the cell phone and then his gaze is on France alone. He buries his face in the flowers and breathes in deep.
"Mmm, they smell wonderful," Canada says.
"What about me?" France says teasingly.
"You always smell good," Canada says.
He gives France a gentle kiss to the cheek, giggles as he evades' France's attempts to kiss him harder and takes the flowers.
"I'm going to put these in some water," he says, and leaves. He's so eager, France can't help but find it endearing. Then again, he finds many things about Canada endearing. Francis loosens his shirt, and takes off his shoes and belt. He pads off to Canada's room, and with a sigh of relief, sinks into the bed. He's helped decorate this place, so he cringes a little less than at Canada's clothes. The walls are a lovely clean creme color, while the comforter and curtains are a lovely shade of Chartreuse he so associates with wine. There are dozens of little throw pillows that France loves not for aesthetics, but for their possible uses as bolsters in lovemaking. There's even a sizeable headboard made from dark cherry (it comes in quite handy) to the four-poster bed which has the same gauzy shade of the curtains. They can pull it down close and make their own world. He keeps wine under the bed (among other choice things) so much so that they don't have to leave any more than is necessary.
He sinks into the soft mattress, and sighs. Canada has known him long enough to guess the first place he goes. Soon enough, Canada is there standing over him.He smiles, pushes up his glasses.
"How are you feeling?" Canada asks with concern in his voice.
"Tired," France says.
"Let me help you with that..."
Canada climbs on the bed, and pushes France up until they are facing each other. Canada begins to knead the tension out of his muscles, until the knots of tension just start to dissolve. He starts with his shoulders, and then guides him until he is on his stomach. His hands are skilled, and France sighs in contentment. There's a strength in his gentleness, a firmness to his touch as he moves in a slow, soft rhythm. All the strain and stress of the day begin to melt away.
Canada kisses the base of his neck as he finishes his back. "You need to roll over," he whispers.
France does, with a groan, and Canada helps prop his head up on pillows. France's enjoyment only increases when Canada climbs up and straddles him, and begins to massage France's chest, just near his collar bone.
"Really, where did you learn such things?" France murmurs.
"Sweden taught me," Canada says conversationally.
"Oho? What else did he teach you?"
"Not like that–he's married," Canada says, starting to blush now.
"Like marriage ever stopped anyone," France says.
"It does for him–and it would for me," Canada says. "If I was married I...I'd never even look at other people."
"Easily said by the unmarried," France says.
"Yeah, I guess," Canada says. But France has known Canada long enough to realize there's something more to it Canada isn't saying.
France tilts his head. Smiles. "Are you saying that if you were married, you'd never even look at anything pretty that passed your way? Not even a little?" he teases, unwilling to give it up just yet.
Canada pauses.
"Yes," Canada says. "That's...exactly what I'm saying."
Canada's full out blushing now, it's quite cute.
"Oho, you seem awful sure of yourself," France says, urging him on more. "Why so?"
"Because...." Canada begins. "If I was married to you, do you really think I'd have my head turned by someone else? I mean, there's just no comparing."
France can't help but beam at this. He is an unrepentant egoist, after all. Some would even say narcissist. He can't help loving people who love him as much as he loves himself.
"You mean you don't have someone else holed away? Someone far plainer, but easier to deal with?" France teases.
Canada just shakes his head.
France chuckles and takes those talented hands in his own. He kisses them, his gaze never leaving Canada's.
"You're sweet. You always were–have been–sweet," France says. "Us countries don't really get married anymore, though. So much dramas and so many wars. The legacy of us old Europeans, I supposed."
"I know, I know, I just..." Canada shakes his head again. "Dream, I guess."
France nuzzles the back of Canada's hands. "I'd marry you, though I'd be a horrible husband. Such beauty, it's a curse I tell you. You'd have to beat off the men and women vying for my attention. And of course, Angleterre will say how insufferable I am..."
Canada rolls his eyes heavenward. "Leave it to you to proselytize about the single life."
"What can I say, cher? Old habits die hard. Well, there's nothing saying we can't have a honeymoon," France says, and reaches out to squeeze Canada's firm ass.
"You don't have to if you're too tired," Canada says.
"'Don't have to'? Mon chou, I always want to. You should know that by now."
Canada laughs despite himself. "Yeah...you do. At least let me do the work this time. I-I'l make it quick, then you can rest–"
"Make it quick? We're not running errands, mon amour. Has America's way of thinking rubbed off on you?" France says, indignation creeping up in his voice.
"Then, I'll—"
He's flustered, now. And how adorable he gets when he's flustered. Stuttering occasionally, flushing up and often trying to hide what is so patently obvious.
"I would, though," France cut in.
"Would?" Canada says, with a questioning look.
"Marry you," France says. "I'd certainly never find someone more kind and understanding than you. To say nothing of passive aggressive. My dear, I think you could win awards, if they gave awards for such things."
"Hey," Canada protests.
"Mm, you know it's true," France says. He tugs on Canada's wrists and pulls him down until he's completely laid out on top of France.
"Much better," he says. He finds the weight and pressure of Canada on top of him rather comforting.
France undoes the button on Canada's jeans, and as they kiss, he slips his fingers into the belt loops, pulling them down. He tastes sweet, like he's been sucking on maple syrup candy while he waited for France to arrive.
Canada breaks away a moment.
"I want to take care of you," he says, all of it tumbling out.
"Please do," France says. "I'll hardly protest that..."
Canada takes the active role with such care, kissing his cheek tenderly, his eyelids, tracing over his neck. It isn't hesitant, but very, very gentle as Canada adores him. It's warm and soft, not the usual passion that makes them rip each others clothes off.
France has fucked and been fucked many times, though no one has quite loved him the way Canada does. Canada doesn't hurry at all, simply taking France's shirt off button by button and kissing every part of him Canada can reach. France strokes Canada's hair, for once entirely the passive partner. Canada reaches out for something–lubricant, France guesses–but returns with rose scented oil. France parts his legs a bit, giving Canada a suggestive look, but Canada just shakes his head.
He carefully removes the rest of France's clothes, and France rises or lifts whenever he is needed, until he is comfortably nude.
The scent is quite understanding and pure, and the feel...ah, it's wonderful. Canada continues rubbing over him, this time with no barrier of clothes.
"Mmm, you're still wearing too many clothes, mon amour," France says. He tugs at Canada's shirt, which is personally offending him with its flannel and hiding away of Canada's lovely broad chest.
"Ah, I forgot, didn't I?" Canada says. And then he pushes himself up and off, and the awful flannel is gone, and his glasses are set on the endtable beside the bed. Canada isn't quite so shy about his nakedness anymore, which France is thankful for. He's yet to get Canada to follow in his footsteps to go on a drunken spree through the holidays, but he's still trying. He lets out a happy sigh as he feels Canada straddle him again, just without those loose jeans which didn't even begin to show what a nice ass he has.
Canada rubs out any lingering tension, kissing his mouth, nipples, his shoulder. He even places loving kisses on odd points he's never had a lover adore before. Elbows and knees, the entire length of his jaw, his eyelids, the back of his neck. It doesn't even seem to be a strange fetish of Canada's, just another facet of his love.
Canada begins to move slowly down, licking now, uncaring that he's getting oil on his cheeks and in his hair. His warmth breath comes a bit quicker as he reaches for France's cock, and begins to kiss all the way from the base to the tip. France's grip tightens on the sheets as Canada runs his tongue just under the tip of France's cock. Oh, he wants more, but Canada is slow as he traces his tongue over the entirety of him. His thumb is gently rubbing over his balls, and it only further adds to the beautiful sensation rippling through him.
"Mon chéri," France says his voice a hoarse gasp. "Move around, a bit."
Canada looks up, his mouth still about his cock. He can barely think with Canada's tongue moving over him, but he knows what he wants.
"I want to play too, cher," France says.
Canada moves up to shift, releasing his grip for just a moment. He misses the feel of Canada, but soon enough there's the comforting pressure of Canada laying on top of him, except this time, shifted the other way.
It's a nice view, and France can't help but help himself. He lets out a happy sigh as he squeezes Canada's firm ass. Canada lets out a little squeak of surprise, which turns to a moan the moment France teasingly licks the back of his thighs.
"It isn't too heavy?" Canada asked, concern in his voice. "I'm not crushing you, am I?"
"No," France says with a trace of amusement. "It's just right."
And it is. Soon his cock is engulfed in heat again, and he savors the sensation of Canada's tongue moving along the underside of his cock, leaving him breathless. Merde, he's never wanted to motorboat someone's ass like this before.
He teasingly slips his tongue over Canada's cock only to have Canada's hips hitch. France takes undue pleasure in the way Canada shivers. He reaches out to enclose Canada's cock in his hand as he licks, trying to time it into a nice rhythm. For France, it as much expertise as passion, for he revels in making even lazy, sleepy sex mindblowing for his partner.
And Canada has been well trained under his tutelage. He probes the slit of France's cock with his tongue, his hands loosely gripped about his cock. France isn't sure which is more pleasurable: the fact that Canada has become so good, or that it was by his hand that Canada learned all these techniques.
He begins to hum an old French bawdy song, an old whore's ballad, incidentally enough about large cocks. It isn't quite translatable into English, he prefers such wit only in his native language.
He's known long before the lovely invention of the vibrator that a hummed song has a fairly similar effect. And what an effect it is. Canada makes cute little noises as he sucks, and he feels them, feels him.
Oh, how he's missed this. He's known a lot of cocks, but he likes Canada's best. Canada is just bashful about his size, like many other things. Of course, his complete inability to realize his own beauty only makes him that much more appealing.
It's slow, maybe even sloppier than he usually would due to tiredness and just how well Canada is sucking him off. But Canada has taught him to be graceless and lazy, how to wear loose fitting sweatpants that still smell like Canada on Sunday mornings, and how to enjoy these "Timbit" things, whatever they are.
He likes making Canada come first, as it means he gets to watch his face change. He doesn't this time, only gets a warning of Canada suddenly clenching, and then salty come in his mouth. He's so sleepy that he feels like he's dozing off even as he feels that release, the moment when all the cares in the world have gone and he can be simply carnal, simply human and not country.
Canada rolls off him, his head resting against France's ankles. They're lying like a yin-yang, spooning in reverse. France pats his thigh. "Come back up and snuggle, cher. I'm afraid I'm a bit tired for pillow talk, but I'll be happy to give you a rain check."
A bit of shifting and Canada has his arms about him. He's tired enough to be nodding off, with just a murmur of je t'aime before everything starts to fade to a warm, comforting blanket of black and the faint smell of sex.
Series: Hetalia
Character/pairing: France/Canada
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 2667
Author's note: originally meant for this kink meme prompt, but I ended up finishing it for porn battle instead. Fluff, ahoy. Actually, I think this is pretty much schmoop.
Canada is without a doubt, the most gentle lover he has ever had. When he was younger, he might have dismissed this as bland, uninteresting. He has learned, however, that gentleness does not equal boredom.
He's weary as he collects the flowers he's ordered two weeks prior. It is specific roses he wants, for he never settles for anything but the best.
He knows Canada will be late, from their talk last night. He takes a taxi and barely sees the beautiful city of Montréal passing. Canada knows he prefers Montréal, for its French culture, its memories, so he keeps a flat there just for him.
He doesn't bother to knock because he wants to surprise Canada, and Canada has told him that this flat might as well be his own. Canada is on the phone, in some awful jeans and flannel combo. Obviously it's been too long since he's been there to offer his guidance. And yet, he's so happy to see him, this is only a minor (yet insistent) blip. (He figures he'll have Canada out of those clothes soon enough, and yes, he will take relish in removing them.)
Canada catches sight of him and his eyes light up.
"He's here, I'll call you later, bro. Yup. Yup. Don't be too mean to England, yeah, bye."
He closes the cell phone and then his gaze is on France alone. He buries his face in the flowers and breathes in deep.
"Mmm, they smell wonderful," Canada says.
"What about me?" France says teasingly.
"You always smell good," Canada says.
He gives France a gentle kiss to the cheek, giggles as he evades' France's attempts to kiss him harder and takes the flowers.
"I'm going to put these in some water," he says, and leaves. He's so eager, France can't help but find it endearing. Then again, he finds many things about Canada endearing. Francis loosens his shirt, and takes off his shoes and belt. He pads off to Canada's room, and with a sigh of relief, sinks into the bed. He's helped decorate this place, so he cringes a little less than at Canada's clothes. The walls are a lovely clean creme color, while the comforter and curtains are a lovely shade of Chartreuse he so associates with wine. There are dozens of little throw pillows that France loves not for aesthetics, but for their possible uses as bolsters in lovemaking. There's even a sizeable headboard made from dark cherry (it comes in quite handy) to the four-poster bed which has the same gauzy shade of the curtains. They can pull it down close and make their own world. He keeps wine under the bed (among other choice things) so much so that they don't have to leave any more than is necessary.
He sinks into the soft mattress, and sighs. Canada has known him long enough to guess the first place he goes. Soon enough, Canada is there standing over him.He smiles, pushes up his glasses.
"How are you feeling?" Canada asks with concern in his voice.
"Tired," France says.
"Let me help you with that..."
Canada climbs on the bed, and pushes France up until they are facing each other. Canada begins to knead the tension out of his muscles, until the knots of tension just start to dissolve. He starts with his shoulders, and then guides him until he is on his stomach. His hands are skilled, and France sighs in contentment. There's a strength in his gentleness, a firmness to his touch as he moves in a slow, soft rhythm. All the strain and stress of the day begin to melt away.
Canada kisses the base of his neck as he finishes his back. "You need to roll over," he whispers.
France does, with a groan, and Canada helps prop his head up on pillows. France's enjoyment only increases when Canada climbs up and straddles him, and begins to massage France's chest, just near his collar bone.
"Really, where did you learn such things?" France murmurs.
"Sweden taught me," Canada says conversationally.
"Oho? What else did he teach you?"
"Not like that–he's married," Canada says, starting to blush now.
"Like marriage ever stopped anyone," France says.
"It does for him–and it would for me," Canada says. "If I was married I...I'd never even look at other people."
"Easily said by the unmarried," France says.
"Yeah, I guess," Canada says. But France has known Canada long enough to realize there's something more to it Canada isn't saying.
France tilts his head. Smiles. "Are you saying that if you were married, you'd never even look at anything pretty that passed your way? Not even a little?" he teases, unwilling to give it up just yet.
Canada pauses.
"Yes," Canada says. "That's...exactly what I'm saying."
Canada's full out blushing now, it's quite cute.
"Oho, you seem awful sure of yourself," France says, urging him on more. "Why so?"
"Because...." Canada begins. "If I was married to you, do you really think I'd have my head turned by someone else? I mean, there's just no comparing."
France can't help but beam at this. He is an unrepentant egoist, after all. Some would even say narcissist. He can't help loving people who love him as much as he loves himself.
"You mean you don't have someone else holed away? Someone far plainer, but easier to deal with?" France teases.
Canada just shakes his head.
France chuckles and takes those talented hands in his own. He kisses them, his gaze never leaving Canada's.
"You're sweet. You always were–have been–sweet," France says. "Us countries don't really get married anymore, though. So much dramas and so many wars. The legacy of us old Europeans, I supposed."
"I know, I know, I just..." Canada shakes his head again. "Dream, I guess."
France nuzzles the back of Canada's hands. "I'd marry you, though I'd be a horrible husband. Such beauty, it's a curse I tell you. You'd have to beat off the men and women vying for my attention. And of course, Angleterre will say how insufferable I am..."
Canada rolls his eyes heavenward. "Leave it to you to proselytize about the single life."
"What can I say, cher? Old habits die hard. Well, there's nothing saying we can't have a honeymoon," France says, and reaches out to squeeze Canada's firm ass.
"You don't have to if you're too tired," Canada says.
"'Don't have to'? Mon chou, I always want to. You should know that by now."
Canada laughs despite himself. "Yeah...you do. At least let me do the work this time. I-I'l make it quick, then you can rest–"
"Make it quick? We're not running errands, mon amour. Has America's way of thinking rubbed off on you?" France says, indignation creeping up in his voice.
"Then, I'll—"
He's flustered, now. And how adorable he gets when he's flustered. Stuttering occasionally, flushing up and often trying to hide what is so patently obvious.
"I would, though," France cut in.
"Would?" Canada says, with a questioning look.
"Marry you," France says. "I'd certainly never find someone more kind and understanding than you. To say nothing of passive aggressive. My dear, I think you could win awards, if they gave awards for such things."
"Hey," Canada protests.
"Mm, you know it's true," France says. He tugs on Canada's wrists and pulls him down until he's completely laid out on top of France.
"Much better," he says. He finds the weight and pressure of Canada on top of him rather comforting.
France undoes the button on Canada's jeans, and as they kiss, he slips his fingers into the belt loops, pulling them down. He tastes sweet, like he's been sucking on maple syrup candy while he waited for France to arrive.
Canada breaks away a moment.
"I want to take care of you," he says, all of it tumbling out.
"Please do," France says. "I'll hardly protest that..."
Canada takes the active role with such care, kissing his cheek tenderly, his eyelids, tracing over his neck. It isn't hesitant, but very, very gentle as Canada adores him. It's warm and soft, not the usual passion that makes them rip each others clothes off.
France has fucked and been fucked many times, though no one has quite loved him the way Canada does. Canada doesn't hurry at all, simply taking France's shirt off button by button and kissing every part of him Canada can reach. France strokes Canada's hair, for once entirely the passive partner. Canada reaches out for something–lubricant, France guesses–but returns with rose scented oil. France parts his legs a bit, giving Canada a suggestive look, but Canada just shakes his head.
He carefully removes the rest of France's clothes, and France rises or lifts whenever he is needed, until he is comfortably nude.
The scent is quite understanding and pure, and the feel...ah, it's wonderful. Canada continues rubbing over him, this time with no barrier of clothes.
"Mmm, you're still wearing too many clothes, mon amour," France says. He tugs at Canada's shirt, which is personally offending him with its flannel and hiding away of Canada's lovely broad chest.
"Ah, I forgot, didn't I?" Canada says. And then he pushes himself up and off, and the awful flannel is gone, and his glasses are set on the endtable beside the bed. Canada isn't quite so shy about his nakedness anymore, which France is thankful for. He's yet to get Canada to follow in his footsteps to go on a drunken spree through the holidays, but he's still trying. He lets out a happy sigh as he feels Canada straddle him again, just without those loose jeans which didn't even begin to show what a nice ass he has.
Canada rubs out any lingering tension, kissing his mouth, nipples, his shoulder. He even places loving kisses on odd points he's never had a lover adore before. Elbows and knees, the entire length of his jaw, his eyelids, the back of his neck. It doesn't even seem to be a strange fetish of Canada's, just another facet of his love.
Canada begins to move slowly down, licking now, uncaring that he's getting oil on his cheeks and in his hair. His warmth breath comes a bit quicker as he reaches for France's cock, and begins to kiss all the way from the base to the tip. France's grip tightens on the sheets as Canada runs his tongue just under the tip of France's cock. Oh, he wants more, but Canada is slow as he traces his tongue over the entirety of him. His thumb is gently rubbing over his balls, and it only further adds to the beautiful sensation rippling through him.
"Mon chéri," France says his voice a hoarse gasp. "Move around, a bit."
Canada looks up, his mouth still about his cock. He can barely think with Canada's tongue moving over him, but he knows what he wants.
"I want to play too, cher," France says.
Canada moves up to shift, releasing his grip for just a moment. He misses the feel of Canada, but soon enough there's the comforting pressure of Canada laying on top of him, except this time, shifted the other way.
It's a nice view, and France can't help but help himself. He lets out a happy sigh as he squeezes Canada's firm ass. Canada lets out a little squeak of surprise, which turns to a moan the moment France teasingly licks the back of his thighs.
"It isn't too heavy?" Canada asked, concern in his voice. "I'm not crushing you, am I?"
"No," France says with a trace of amusement. "It's just right."
And it is. Soon his cock is engulfed in heat again, and he savors the sensation of Canada's tongue moving along the underside of his cock, leaving him breathless. Merde, he's never wanted to motorboat someone's ass like this before.
He teasingly slips his tongue over Canada's cock only to have Canada's hips hitch. France takes undue pleasure in the way Canada shivers. He reaches out to enclose Canada's cock in his hand as he licks, trying to time it into a nice rhythm. For France, it as much expertise as passion, for he revels in making even lazy, sleepy sex mindblowing for his partner.
And Canada has been well trained under his tutelage. He probes the slit of France's cock with his tongue, his hands loosely gripped about his cock. France isn't sure which is more pleasurable: the fact that Canada has become so good, or that it was by his hand that Canada learned all these techniques.
He begins to hum an old French bawdy song, an old whore's ballad, incidentally enough about large cocks. It isn't quite translatable into English, he prefers such wit only in his native language.
He's known long before the lovely invention of the vibrator that a hummed song has a fairly similar effect. And what an effect it is. Canada makes cute little noises as he sucks, and he feels them, feels him.
Oh, how he's missed this. He's known a lot of cocks, but he likes Canada's best. Canada is just bashful about his size, like many other things. Of course, his complete inability to realize his own beauty only makes him that much more appealing.
It's slow, maybe even sloppier than he usually would due to tiredness and just how well Canada is sucking him off. But Canada has taught him to be graceless and lazy, how to wear loose fitting sweatpants that still smell like Canada on Sunday mornings, and how to enjoy these "Timbit" things, whatever they are.
He likes making Canada come first, as it means he gets to watch his face change. He doesn't this time, only gets a warning of Canada suddenly clenching, and then salty come in his mouth. He's so sleepy that he feels like he's dozing off even as he feels that release, the moment when all the cares in the world have gone and he can be simply carnal, simply human and not country.
Canada rolls off him, his head resting against France's ankles. They're lying like a yin-yang, spooning in reverse. France pats his thigh. "Come back up and snuggle, cher. I'm afraid I'm a bit tired for pillow talk, but I'll be happy to give you a rain check."
A bit of shifting and Canada has his arms about him. He's tired enough to be nodding off, with just a murmur of je t'aime before everything starts to fade to a warm, comforting blanket of black and the faint smell of sex.
