yuuago: (Norway - Cold)
yuuago ([personal profile] yuuago) wrote in [community profile] hetalia2017-04-20 06:25 am

[Fanfic] Sublime

Title: Sublime
Author/Artist: [personal profile] yuuago/[personal profile] roesslyng
Pairing: FemFrance/FemNorway
Rating: 15+/T for references to sex
Warnings: None
Summary: France tends to come on too strong - but there are things about her that are appealing, in a way

Fic under the cut. Crossposted from my writing journal*



Sublime

France is too much.

Not too much of anything in particular. Not quite. She's too much of everything. Never learned moderation, that one. Never learned when to quit.

She could do with a bit of learning, as far as Norway's concerned.

She's too much contact, fingertips trailing along Norway's shoulders, a brush that's unasked for, but not half as much as what comes next. That same hand moving to touch her chin, tilt it up just a little, make damn sure Norway is looking at her. Make sure they're looking each other in the eyes, make certain that Norway can see that smile on her face, which manages somehow to give everything and nothing away at the same damn time.

She is the scent of perfume, something fancy, expensive, leaving Norway feeling heady as France steps close to speak. But it isn't just the fragrance, no, that isn't the only thing that sets Norway feeling dizzy. It's the proximity, that too. Too close. Too much. Close enough to feel breath over her ear as France whispers to her in a language that sounds like silk slipping through your fingers.

And in the end, Norway waits a little too long. Takes one second too many before she responds. France is counting them, she's sure. One. Two. Hesitation, because that warm breath flutters against her ear again, and the word yes is almost on her lips. And then Norway twists away. Gives her an earful, throwing France's language right back at her. That only makes her laugh, makes her go on about how quaint it is when Norway speaks French to her, how old-fashioned her turns of phrase.

My dear Norway, it's the twenty-first century. You really should get with the times.

All this is something Norway can do without, she knows. She can't be having with this, and she can't be having with France, and she can't be having with the thought that these words, these touches, these invitations are only meant to get her in private, that it's nothing personal at all. The words You only want my head between your legs, isn't that right? are on the tip of her tongue.

Instead, she stays cold, formal, polite. Goes on her way. Leaves it at that. She is here on business; she'll make damn sure they keep it businesslike.

It's in the night that she changes her mind. Thinks back to that moment. Considers France's words, thinks for a while about her offer. As she looks out the window of her hotel room at the Paris lights Norway breathes and can practically smell that perfume again. And beneath that, she remembers something else. Fresh clean soap.

France is too much. This, Norway knows. France is too much light, too busy, bustling with energy. Too many people.

Maybe she'd make an art of it if she could. Maybe she's tried before.

But there are other ways, too, that she is too much.

Norway closes her eyes. Blocks out the city lights. Thinks about that touch from before, from earlier that day. Her touch was light, but her hand was cold, and it wasn't just the proximity that sent shivers coursing down Norway's back.

France is more than Paris, just as she herself is more than Oslo, and what this southern woman lacks in fjords, she makes up for in other ways.

Savoie. Mont Blanc. Glaciers. Snow.

Towering jagged roughness reaching up as if to penetrate the bright dome of the sky itself.

Her phone is out before she thinks about it, before she takes time to consider it. The message she sends is brief.

Show me something sublime.
Maybe I'll change my mind.


Maybe she'll take a while with that. Maybe France will need to think on it. Take some time to figure it out.

In the end, she'll give in. She always does. France's presence is intoxicating, her voice rich as cream. Norway knows that this sort of thing can lead to foolishness. Can lead to bad decisions, the sort of decisions that end with that one thinking she has leave to do whatever she pleases, say whatever she likes.

Well.

Norway stares down at her phone and thinks for a moment – just a moment – that she should send a follow-up. Say that it was a mistake, that the cryptic message was meant for someone else.

It ain't as if France doesn't already do whatever the hell she wants.

Isn't that right? That's what she does. Says whatever she pleases. Teases, and flirts, and condescends. Goes on about northern rustics as if Norway should be bloody well flattered that France is giving her a look at all.

But Norway remembers the last time. Cold air and a clear night far away from any city. Wine in her mouth and loose hair falling in coils over her shoulders and long fingers curling inside of her.

All right, then.

She slides her phone into her pocket.

Tonight, she will dream of glaciers.

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