Warning: Non-explicit sex, language
Disclaimer: Don't own Hetalia
Authoress Note: Sweden/France again, y'all! I don't know, I've found that I love writing France and he seems particularly attractive to me paired with Sweden. Wrote this awhile ago for the kink meme, another rair pair challenge.
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When it comes to Sweden, France is sure of three things:
One: Vodka makes him angry. Red wine makes him sweet.
Two: They must never have sex on Sweden's bed. France could give multiple reasons as to why he thinks that is, but he mostly keeps those to himself.
And three: Their relationship is purely based on sex. There are no ifs, ands, or buts about it.
Honestly, when France first decided to pursue the Nordic, it was for purely selfish reasons. He had heard through the grape vine that Sweden was still suffering a little from his breakup with Finland (which was admittedly quite a long time ago), so it would have been easy to coerce the other into sex, which was what France had planned. France was also looking for new flavors, so to speak, to try out and Sweden was one he had never tasted before. And thirdly, and most importantly, word was also that Sweden had a pretty large cock.
It was shallow, France knew, but he had not bottomed in awhile, he was hornier than usual, and the former Viking seemed like an enticing choice, once one got past his cold exterior.
So France invited him to drinks. France had ordered some cocktail or another and Sweden had straight vodka. About an hour or so of drinking later and France found himself sitting in Sweden's lap, feeling the nation's hard on against his bottom. He shivered when Sweden pulled him close and growled in his ear,
"'M gonna fuck ya 'till ya can't walk n'more."
France smiled, a little tipsy, and leaned into his chest. "That sounds lovely."
When they got to Sweden's house, they fucked and not much else. Over the couch, on a table, on the counter, against a wall. France noticed that they never approached upstairs, but he was too overcome with pleasure to particularly care. After it was over with, he wasn't quite sure how he made it home, just that he didn't recall sleeping at Sweden's place and he left sometime around six in the morning.
True to the Swede's word, at the meeting later that evening, France was having difficulty hiding the pain in his bum. He hadn't bottomed in awhile, and quite frankly, he had been fucked very hard for a very long time. He limped enough that even America caught on, the rest of the nations even going as far as snickering when he winced as he sat down at the table.
He had been ignoring Germany speaking, feeling tired, wondering if he could get Sweden to do him again, when he was suddenly called out on it.
"France!"
He looked up with an innocent smile. "Oui, Allemagne?"
"You of all people should be paying attention to this presentation. It pertains to you."
"Oi, give him a break, will you Germany?"
France looked up, surprised to hear England coming in defense, and France was about to say so, but of course that was too good to be true.
"I mean, clearly whomever he was with last, not only did away with his ability to walk, but also screwed his brains out."
There were more snickers and France lifted a hand to his heart, feigning hurt.
"You wound me, Angleterre. Yes, it is true that I was involved in activities that…left me in the state you see today, but I'm afraid you are simply jealous."
England crossed his arms and scowled, "And why the hell would I be jealous of you? You can barely walk."
"Because you have never experienced what I had last night."
"I've had sex before, frog."
France smirked and leaned towards him, his eyes shining with mischief. "Yes but have you ever done it," he paused between each word seductively, "all…night…long?"
England sputtered, his mouth opening and closing like a fish as he thought of a reply and France smirked even more.
"I thought so."
But what was satisfying about the scene wasn't England's stammering, but it was the deep flush on Sweden's face across the table as he looked down at his paper, pretending to write.
The second time they met was about two weeks later. Sweden had showed up on France's doorstep with a bouquet of flowers, apologizing for his behavior when they had sex, for what had happened at the world meeting as a result.
"Sorry. Vodka makes m' 'ngry."
France smiled, because the other was a welcome presence (honestly, he had been trying to think of ways to invite Sweden over without seeming too overbearing) and he had just conveniently opened a new bottle of wine.
He invited the other in, served him a glass, and they (well, mostly France) talked. But as the more the wine flowed, the looser Sweden's mouth became and the more affectionate he acted. He offered no protest when France gently claimed his mouth, and France was only mildly surprised when Sweden asked (a quiet, unsure plea against the heavy beating of France's heart) for France to take him.
France was only a little displeased that he had to clean the couch cushions after Sweden came on them, France pounding him from behind.
The third time they met was before a conference. France was shocked to see Sweden behind his hotel door when he opened it with the Swede poised to knock. The larger man blushed and looked around nervously, radiating all sorts of awkward.
"'Shouln't've come. 'S a mistake."
But France told the other that no, it wasn't, he was always happy to see him. So he dragged Sweden in the room and set him down on the bed once he noticed the bulge in the man's dress slacks, which only made the larger man blush more.
He got on his knees between the Swede's legs as he heard him promise from above, "I'll pay ya back t'night."
And boy, Sweden did. Nobody gave him credit with how frustratingly gentle the man could be. France would call it making love, but he was pretty sure you had to be in love for something like that, and their relationship was purely sexual. They couldn't even be considered, "friends with benefits," because they rarely interacted outside of the bedroom (or whatever room they decided to do it in). And aside from one awkward, late night phone call that had reeked of emotional baggage and had ended in phone-sex, their relationship was purely business too.
The times they had sex were scheduled, penciled in whenever either nation wasn't too busy and when Sweden's son wasn't home.
In fact, the only problem France had with it all was that it was secret. Sweden practically begged France not to tell anyone about it, which, quite frankly, put off France a little. Perhaps Sweden was guilty about something, or maybe he was just ashamed of France, but France told him that they were grown up nations that could do whatever they wanted and what everyone else thought didn't matter.
But Sweden accepted this like a brick wall accepts a punch and didn't budge on his stance. It was a still a secret, their relationship reading more like a guilty affair at times (a lot of those times, Sweden's guilt was palpable and France wondered why the other bothered), but he didn't mind. He stuck around because the sex was good and it didn't affect him either way if their relationship was secret. They had sex and that's all there was to it.
So France is completely shocked when Sweden invites him over one day. That in itself is nothing strange, but the timing is. Sealand was clearly home and France sits in surprised silence in their living room while the young micro-nation chatters about the day he was going to have with his friend, Latvia.
Sweden nods and interjects a thoughtful grunt when the occasion calls for it and France is still too surprised to join in on the conversation. There is a sinking feeling in his belly that makes France wary of the whole situation, of the change, but the kid leaves eventually and there is silence and a question in the air.
"Berwald," France begins (a while ago Sweden insisted that they use a first name basis with each other), "Why am I here?"
Sweden's gaze searches him over, and it makes France unusually itchy, like the other can read his mind.
"For sex," he answers simply and stands as though he plans to do just that. France stands also, because it seems the right thing to do, but he is equally caught off guard when Sweden heads for the stairs. France follows, of course, but that sinking feeling only grows when they get to the floor and Sweden opens a door, his bedroom, France can only presume. He has never seen it before.
Sweden enters and, for one of the few times in his life, France is hesitant. Not because of the sex, but because what this could possibly mean.
Sweden turns around once he realizes that France is not following and pauses at the foot of the bed. He frowns pensively and looks at the piece of furniture.
"Made this fo' F'land."
Oh.
Oh.
France feels like someone punched him in the chest, which confuses him as much as what Sweden had alluded to. Why would he tell France that? They both know that France only cares about the sex, that he isn't doing this out of some sort of altruistic reason in his heart. It's just sex and there isn't anything complicated, nothing that Sweden is implying, about it all.
But France finds himself coming forward, regardless, and they kiss. Sweden's hand is large and cool against his cheek, but his lips are soft (France, for some reason can only think of how many times he's run his fingers over them and Sweden's hard jaw line).
Clothing is discarded on the floor and they embrace, heated and naked on the forbidden bed. France feels something catch in his throat when Sweden mumbles against his neck, "You're beaut'ful," because France hasn't heard something like that sincerely in a very, very long time. It's stupid, it's so very stupid for France to get emotional over something like this; it is only sex.
When France cums, he does so in Sweden's strong embrace, practically swallowed by the larger male. France doesn't want to think about the safety he felt there, but it was definitely warm. Afterwards, he realizes with a start that this is the most monogamous relationship he has been in, in a long time.
When it comes to Sweden, France is sure of three things:
One: Vodka makes him angry. Red wine makes him sweet.
And the rest, he absolutely isn't sure anymore.