AN: My second fanfic staring Frussia. I'm de-anoning especially because the OP requested nearly two years ago. Who knows if they'd check it, eh? Anywho, she, he, or whatever they want to identify as requested modern day France/Russia engaging in some healthy, good-natured lovings. Why this popped in my head, I know not.

Disclaimer: Does it look like I own Hetalia? Lord knows I'm too wordy to make comics!

If there was one thing that Ivan enjoyed besides swinging about that pipe of his it was affection. His usual way of going about this was demanding that his fellow Nation people become one with him. Unfortunately for Ivan, not many willingly took up the offer beyond his little sister. While he was a bit cracked in a few places, incest with the widow maker was not one of the options in his head. Then there was Francis, slow like molasses and just as prone to slide into every crack. Ivan liked his former mentor because Francis was much more than a willing body and didn't shudder or shake like poor Raivis. The Parisian oozed charm for the large man-child and Ivan? He leeched warmth from the rolling hills France had to offer.

There was one complaint. One, almost insignificant really, that nagged at the Russian like no other. Francis and he had different views on public affection. Francis did it, from faire la bise with strangers to ending it with more or less a kiss to the corner of Ivan's mouth, having strayed and taken interest in lips rather than cheek. The elegant man never stopped with that. There would be the stray touch of fingers, the brushing of elbows when they walked side by side and Ivan had refused to completely hold hands, the knowing looks sent in the direction of the not-so-oblivious Russian. Where Francis could feel comfortable with fondling in public, Ivan is certainly not, thank you.

His, daresay shyness was quite obvious to the Frenchman and being a somewhat sadistic asshole he took great pleasure in the taller man's weariness. 'Pink and panting is a good look for you!' the man would reason in his defense. It was a wonder why Francis hadn't been suffocated in his sleep if Ivan was honest. Clearly Ivan was worried about being respected (or feared – they were the same to him) and his poor reactions to public affection put that fearsome reputation in jeopardy.

Today Ivan had barely escaped embarrassment by ducking into a doorway and far from Francis' Cheshire grin (and hands, and hips, and tongue to boot). He hadn't even bothered at looking at what exactly he had snuck into until he got a good look at his surroundings. Not a sex shop, good. Sturdy shelves lined with a hodgepodge of literature were situated to the left, right, and front of where he stood. He'd found some hole-in-the-wall bookstore, one that he noted lacked a major influx of patrons.

His shoulders sagged in relief. That insufferable man had –

"You didn't honestly think you could hide from me did you?"

Ivan, who had a removable heart prone to taking the dive, clutched his chest as if he was two seconds from being separated from the organ. He let out a strained sigh when his pulse steadied, glancing at the smug looking Frenchman. 'Pleased' was not the look that greeted the offending man.

"I was not aware being fondled on a street corner was okay outside of prostitution," he hissed in retaliation. His face smoothed out a bit when Francis seemed nonchalant by the annoyance in his words. There was no use trying to use that tactic on the Parisian.

Sniffing back a laugh his lover looked around the cramped quarters with mild interest, stepping toward a particularly colorful section housing the romance novels, long fingers tipping back book by book to peer at the covers. Reluctantly, Ivan followed, making sure to stand a few inches away, stuffing his hands in the black full-length pea coat to keep Francis from attacking again. He'd learned his lesson.

Now if Francis could get something past that pretty golden barrier he called a hairdo… Resolving to steam ahead, Ivan gave him a careful once over while trying to look as nonchalant as he could. The shorter man seemed as if he had done nothing wrong from that smartass grin on his face.

"Fra— "

"Mimi, are you about to scold me for what I did out there?" He didn't even hide the amusement in his voice. His attention went to the shelf below where he repeated the same behavior. "You did walk away fairly brisk. If it's worth anything I almost did lose sight of you. Clever man," he crooned, giving him an appraising smile. Ivan, who had been interrupted, made a frustrated sound at the back of his throat, fingers digging into the lining of his pockets.

"You know that I am having soft spot for you," He slipped into the stereotypical Russian to English mannerisms, a pout coming to his lips. "How am I supposed to look imposing when you insist on making me flustered in public?"

Beside him, Francis let the romantic equivalent of 'Backdoor Sluts 10' fall back into place. The humor tapered into fondness, much to Ivan's relief – not wanting his lover of all people to snicker at the idea of him being concerned over reputation. "Ivan, I assure you that I could slap a bunny suit on you and everyone would be terrified. Probably moreso, non? I imagine you'd be quite irate."

While Ivan agreed, that wasn't …quite the response he'd wanted from the older man.

"Francis please…" His voice had taken on a slightly pleading tone, lowering it. He swore he'd seen a flash of hair from one of the few patrons that were floating about and he didn't need them eavesdropping. "Intimidation is what I do, da? I know that everyone thinks I am crazy, but they listen to me. How will they take me seriously when you manage to turn me pink in public? The answer is not, dorogoĭ"

Verbose explanation whispered or not, had had its intended affect of figuratively slapping the humor off of Francis' face. Truthfully it made the Russian mildly concerned. He shifted under his lover's stare – all the while adamantly assuring that it was only Francis and he'd faced worse. When Francis made a move he had to control himself from twitching. The only thing he got was an "Oh" before the often mouthy man pushed past toward the back.

No protest. No 'You're being paranoid mon amour'. An 'oh'. Unsettled, and somewhat like a doting puppy needing to know his master wasn't two snaps from beating him with a paper, he trudged after the uncharacteristically mute Frenchman. Perhaps it'd been something that he said? Ivan frowned, trying to recall anything offensive. He stared at Francis' back as he neared, brows furrowed a bit at the apparent show of aloofness.

"Frantsiya? Did I say something wrong?" His head tilted a bit in question.

Bookshelves make a very solid sounding thud when a six foot tall mass gets suddenly pressed against them. Rather than turn to face Ivan and have a healthy conversation as to why he was wrong – and he was, Francis had tugged at the thick fabric of his coat and coaxed him to rest against the bookshelf without so much as a shrug. He made sure the Russian stayed in place by pressing forward to stand chest to chest, fingers tightening in the heavy wool.

"It almost sounded like you were ashamed of being with me in public. Silly notion, non?" His eyes were sharper than Ivan had seen in awhile and had a different quality from his usual stormy glances toward certain individuals during joint meetings. It was a little alarming. A tad. The bookshelves were rather uncomfortable to lean against after all. "I thought we discussed this, Ivan. I grope because I care -"

"Then you must love me, da?" Ivan interrupted, eyebrow arching in bewilderment. A moment of silence passed between them, Ivan typically wide eyed and Francis seeming to mull over that accusation.

The arms that curled around his neck made him flinch visibly, feeling a bit trapped between a rock and a hard place – forgiving all puns. He must've mumbled his concern, or gripped at the lapels on Francis' coat a bit too tight for pleasure because the other backed off a bit. Ivan took a breath to clear his head and felt hands combing carefully through his hair and a mouth press against his. It was an apology that he was familiar with when the Frenchman did happen across some of his less than normal quirks.

"I suppose you could say that," Francis responded, matter-of-factly. Just as Ivan thought he was out of troubled seas he looked down to see the flicker of mirth in his lover's eyes. A hand trailed from the Russian's slightly wavy hair to stroke against his cheek, earning Francis a rather frank look that meant 'behave'. Respect your elders was the unspoken retort. "If you're so worried about looking like a blushing bride in public then you should be the one groping. Obviously."

The smile that lit up his face, all charm and satisfaction, when he stole one of Ivan's large hands in his to press between them low – very low, on Francis' hip infuriated the large man. Perhaps it was just a flash in the pan emotion when he recognized that lust was there, too. And that he wasn't all that upset, not with quiet words in French being breathed against his ear. He grit his teeth to try to keep some resolve about him which was difficult with a smiling Parisian covering his jaw in feather-light kisses. Ivan did manage to pull away, almost whacking the back of his head good to subtly detach Francis' mouth.

"Nyet, not here" he hissed, breaking eye contact to look around. Nobody. "We're not teenagers Francis. I…we can go back home and I can tie you to the ceiling if you want—"

"I want you here."

Was he doing doe eyes? "No."

Francis sighed and let his nimble fingers do the talking, the vulnerable look toned down for impassive concentration as he slid the buttons from the slots of Ivan's coat, spreading the sides apart to press his body one formidable layer closer than he was before. All the more for convincing Ivan who he knew was an understanding sort of man under a dedicated amount of coaxing. His arms wrapped around Ivan's waist, talented hands stroking a little lower than what he would even venture to call publically appropriate; everything conveniently tucked away from sight by the length of his quickly reddening companion's coat.

"Francis, you're cruel." He would have bludgeoned whoever ventured to say that he'd whined. Even though he had. The smooth sounding laugh at his expense only furthered his opinion. "What is wrong with …having relations in a bed. Or just in a house. A hotel?" Francis' hand dipped lower to rest against the swell of his ass which made the next few words come out in a rushed groan. "A nice dark alley, da? R-romantic."

"It's a wonder how we love each other with such finesse."

"Like you can talk. Exhibitionist!" Ivan shifted, a bit nervous at the way things were sliding about in his mind to make the idea of forcing the lithe framed Frenchman against the worn bookshelves and taking him. Really, Francis had the body of one of his danseurs. His fingers twitched against Francis' hip and he grimaced at the cocky grin that stretched the fine features on the other's face. "Are you positive we can't renegotiate on the alley?"

Francis' fingers moved to the simple belt buckle, shaking his head in the negative. Leaning in, he mouthed the word 'no' against Ivan's before applying the briefest amount of pressure to coax the reluctant man into willing participation. Even if Ivan was his guest this time around he could already hear the accented order banishing him from his own bed to the couch. Ivan succumbed to the kiss. This was worth a night on the couch, was the last of Francis' silent musings before he focused on the here and now that centered on how the Russian's mouth felt smooth against his.

Unlike Ivan, Francis enjoyed showing his affection where all could see. He was very secure in himself and Ivan, who wanted people to like him underneath it all, was… touchy and not in the way the Frenchman preferred. The older was a compassionate man and felt the urge to oblige to the Russian's insecurities of appearing weak (though he doubted that the lumbering man would ever appear weak, even in compromising positions with a certain long-haired 'girly' man). Ivan's fingers dug in once more to pull him flush with his bulk and Francis could have sworn he felt the stirrings of arousal nestled against his thigh.

Ivan broke away to look down at the clasps on the fashionable coat Francis had shrugged on before leaving the house earlier on, brows furrowing in concentration (and a healthy bit of contempt) when he had a bit of trouble. It didn't help that Francis was busy chuckling rather than assisting. "You make this look ridiculously easy to put on. Perestanʹte smyeyatʹsya!" He scolded through his teeth as he finally got the first one undone. The rest followed soon after, bending to the will of Ivan's grumbled complaints of ornate fastenings that he didn't like in the 1700s, either.

"Congratula—" Francis was cut off by a mouth that had the force of a brick wall when it was needed, a helpless noise melting into a pleased (and muffled) murmur against the rather fierce kiss, allowing his neck to bend under Ivan's enthusiasm to potentially shut him up. The Frenchman didn't have a issue with being silenced, not when it involved hands mirroring what his had done beneath the coat, guiding him to press against the spot where Ivan had occupied previously, leaning forward in obnoxious aversion of the blunt edges digging into his back. It had its perks, arching. He felt seamless with the Russian's body, sharing heat with the man that could barely pass as a space heater. It was just part of being the embodied northern Nation that left him colder than previous bedmates and lovers the Parisian had loved (or loved in the sense of impassioned one night dramas that were best left to one night only lest they lose their mystery).

A hand detached from the confines of Ivan's coat to thread through hair that was deceptively soft and thick, pulling him down to deepen the kiss, urging him to hurry. If this had been behind closed doors, whether public or private he would have granted them the time to simply kiss and rut about like reckless teenagers though both of them were far past that point in their existence. This was in the back of some tiny used bookstore and while few patrons entered they'd been bickering behind the shelves for roughly a quarter of an hour now. One of the employees had to know. Ivan's hand, strong and capable, cupped him through his trousers and was rewarded with a high breathy moan that he quickly swallowed down.

Francis tugged the buckle he'd loosened up to finally come completely undone, the zipper pulled down with ease and hand diving in confidently. It was the only way Francis knew how. He was rewarded with a low groan that he knew was barely audible but rang in his ears nonetheless. Ivan wasn't a loud lover, after all.

"I hate your fancy clothes," said the Russian, accent thick (which only made Francis want him more), mid-attempt of sliding the slacks the Frenchman had painted on this morning, he was sure of it. "What is it with your designers and…" His rant trailed off when the fine-fingered hand groping at him through his underwear squeezed in warning before completely abandoning ship.

Instead of snarling orders (like others thought Russia prone to doing) he shifted his weight and pressed closer, hands supporting him against the shelf Francis was leaning against. "Barbaric. They're just snug because these are new!" The older man said dryly, working the opening of his pants efficiently, his eyes on Ivan's the whole time as if challenging him. Do you need me to fuck myself too, darling? The man, slighted by temporary ineptitude (He'd stripped Francis successfully plenty of times!), swatted away his lover's hands from those damnable pants without malice, lips exploring the cords of Francis' throat. For all of the prideful protests against Ivan chastising his fashion (a grave injustice) he melted against the attention.

Ivan knew his weak points and like the proper opportunist took advantage of distracting the Parisian, busying himself with finishing the job he'd started, working the slacks down to his thighs where they clung. Painted on, as he'd assumed before and with a severe lack of underwear, not that Ivan was too surprised; it was the only successful commando Francis went these days. He wouldn't share that joke though, fearing the older to mutiny when offended. He was adverse to mutiny, especially when Francis seemed to be reciprocating so nicely; hand slipping under elastic to pull him free and stroke slowly. He pressed his face to the front of the layers Ivan wore, squirming lightly against the hand that had slid from the small of his back to travel to cleft of his ass to probe and prod, Francis hissing out a "We're going to get caught if you don't hurry up" as he moved closer, wrapping his arms around Ivan's shoulders.

"Ty budeshʹ hromatʹ na nedelyu," he warned, somehow managing to sound sarcastic. Francis snorted, smiling at him pleasantly behind the thinly veiled impatience bourn of need.

"You can take care of me later on tonight. I'm serious, do I 'ave to turn around and fuck myself or are you going to give the lovely employees a scare yourself?"

Ivan groaned, rolling his eyes. "Forgive me for worrying about that strut of yours, da?" He was smiling; assured that he'd countered the Parisian in his quips. The Russian did take heed to Francis' underlying pleas however and the danger of being caught. There was nothing, other than Belarus asking to become one that could quell the urge to make love more than prying eyes.

Francis seemed to be a step ahead of him, sliding down on his haunches to take the Russian's length in his mouth, swallowing the girth in a manner that made Ivan jealous of past lovers that'd clearly contributed to his experience. It was obvious that he was simply laving him slick enough to avoid ruining Francis for that week as well; this knowledge didn't stop Ivan from gripping the man's hair with a surprising amount of care, muffling a groan against his other arm when the bastard let him press against the back of his throat. His fingers scraped against Francis' scalp, familiar etiquette in silently urging him on. When he saw Francis staring back at him through his lashes, eyes bluer than open waters, he couldn't help the way his hips jerked forward.

When Francis rocked backwards directly after Ivan considered that he'd done something to upset the Parisian. Before he had the chance to question Francis his arms were locked in place to compensate for the weight that had just bared itself without warning, the clever man having righted himself only to hop into his arms, legs hooking around his waist, leaving him little choice but to hold him up. It was either holding the flirtatious blond up or buckle and make a considerable amount of noise. Seeing as he wasn't dropped immediately Francis considered this good luck, and when Ivan took initiative by moving against him and slowly pressing up and in he bit back a long-awaited groan.

Ivan was a gentler lover to Francis than he was with others. Usually. Thick fingers spread him apart and he struggled to not squirm in the man's arms at the resulting ache. Believe it or not, Francis didn't carry lube in his pocket at all times and therefore wasn't as equipped for play as rumor boasted. He let out a muttered 'go', mouth touching the smooth skin along Ivan's jaw, warm to the touch. Fingers carded through the sandy curls at the base of Ivan's neck, tangling to guide and hold his face against the Parisian's throat.

Teeth grazed the skin near his collarbone and he twitched violently, letting out a breathy laugh that disintegrated into a moan that he muffled with a hand pressed to his mouth.

Perhaps he was guilty of the accusations Ivan threw in his direction about being an exhibitionist. From the sure and fast pace Ivan moved, panting against his ear as he adjusted the bulk of Bourges, the Russian didn't have any remaining inhibitions.

The bookcase dug against his back and oh God. Francis gripped the heavy coat tightly, letting out a choked noise that only spurred Ivan to go faster. His fingers spasmed and he bit the fleshy interior of his cheek when Ivan found his prostate and really, where have you been all my life? Ivan, who knew his tics and noises like the back of his hand (because he categorized more things than suspicious American tourists in his borders), grinned – yes grinned, and put his strength to use.

One arm wrapped securely around Francis' slender waist, forcing hips forward and against as he filled him, his other hand sliding to grip the man's neglected erection which earned him another mewl from his lover whose grip on his hair was borderline painful. He could barely make out his hand trapped between the two of him but he was good at roaming blindly, thumbing the slick tip (swearing to himself all the while that Francis was going to be sternly reprimanded – by use of handcuff to their more than sturdy headboard, in which he would tie him up and let him think of the bad things he'd made the Russian do) with a calloused hand earning another muffled whine. And the hand in his hair went from only marginally tight to what others would consider more than painful.

He wasn't batshit insane, but he did have a masochistic streak in him that he rarely shared unless he trusted the other person involved. For all of the hell he gave the Parisian for making him look less than horrifying around others, he did trust the man. Francis was never malicious when he pulled closer, fingernails perfect from regular manicures marking the skin across his shoulder blades and now was no different with the way his fingers were scrabbling and carting through his hair. The sharp tug sent his hips rigid, fingers digging into the curve of the elder's back as he came down from a rather sudden orgasm, panting wetly against Francis' too-warm neck.

Ivan wasn't expecting the tinkering sound of laughter to accompany his post-orgasmic bliss. Granting the flushed Frenchman a rather dubious moment of gawking, he waited for an explanation while contemplating dropping his lover flat on his ass. Sure he would get points taken off for the dismount but it could be negotiated. Lips covered his to sooth away any of the hurt pride.

"How sweet…We nearly finished together." Francis was looking at him in what Ivan had labeled 'pleased affection', lips damp and bruised. He could be the poster boy for 'debauchery' if the whole Nation thing didn't work out for him.

Confused, Ivan looked down only to notice that yes, Francis had indeed made a mess out of the both of them. Scowling, he carefully disentangled them, brooding quietly for a moment. "You are so… distracting!" The nonverbal 'ugh' came through loud and clear and Francis had a difficult time making himself decent with the way he was snickering. Hmph…

"I love you, too."

"Da, you're buying me a new shirt," he muttered flippantly, leaning in to kiss the nearly glowing Parisian, fixing the slightly damp hair a bit as an afterthought. Once he was sure they both looked presentable enough (He'd pouted at Francis the whole time the man was straightening out his attire and mussed hair), Ivan tucked the smaller man against his side as if shielding his all too giddy mug from the sales attendant.

Like a good man, Francis made up for such an embarrassing ordeal later on in the privacy of his own home.

When Ivan called him at random a few days later (after he'd left France for his own), it was to tell him that a bill and a sizable crate full of books had arrived on his doorstep earlier on. Along with books and bill was a note from the company that stated none-too-politely that any further fraternizing in their establishment could result in both parties being 'forcibly removed'. Francis of course, being a mature man, had exploded violently into the most obnoxious guffaws that Ivan had ever heard. It was almost like the man was beside him. It was only after uttering a "This is not how I wish to expand my library!" that he hung up on the man.

As he reviewed the horribly large bill, he contemplated being more forceful with the alley suggestion the next time Francis had the brilliant idea to fuck in public. Cheaper…

Vocabulaire (as told by Google Translate. Sorry native Russian speakers):

Perestanʹte smyeyatʹsya! – Stop laughing!

Ty budeshʹ hromatʹ na nedelyu. – You're going to limp for a week.