[ ficlets / oneshot ] Axis Powers Hetalia Collection II
Title: Two Bottles
Author: frostberryjam
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: France/America (Axis Powers Hetalia)
Warnings: Vague description of sex.
Summary: Wine in the morning, wine in the afternoon, and wine in the evening.
Author Notes: Decided randomly to use human names for this. Honestly, I don’t know why. Written for a_moveablefeast‘s August challenge.
1: Wine in the morning.
Coolness on his throat.
Wetness on his throat.
Heat on his throat.
Alfred opens his eyes, staring at the blurry ceiling striped with sunlight filtering through the blinds, enjoying the luxurious feeling of someone lapping at the curve of his neck with a velvety tongue. Beard stubble rubs against his collarbone, itchy, ticklish, and he shivers.
The mouth moves down. Sucks on his collarbone, nips with straight, white teeth. Goes down even lower to latch hungry lips around a nipple and Alfred reacts, fingers carding through long blond hair and moaning.
“Fuck, Francis!”
Liquid splashes on his abdomen in reply, along with a satisfied chuckle. Alfred stills, confused, and looks down to see a smoked black glass bottle in the man’s hand. The scent of old wine fills the air and Francis wordlessly releases the tight nub of nerves, going down lower and dipping his tongue into Alfred’s belly button, lapping at the ruby-red liquid pooling in the indentation and then going lower.
Alfred bites his hand, trying to be quiet because heroes don’t cry out loudly when their lovers decide to surprise them with wine and a blow job in the morning.
2. Wine in the afternoon
“Shouldn’t you be going home?” Alfred asks with an amused grin as he discovers the Frenchman sprawled out over the sofa in his office like a possessive feline, closing the door quietly behind him. There’s no point in terrifying or traumatizing the Whitehouse interns any more than necessary. They’re already unsure of what to make of his presence and close relationship with Obama.
“You want me gone?” Azure-hued eyes rise, a playful smile shifting Francis’s lips in reply as he curves an arm inward, beautiful fingers cradling fragile glass filled with wine. Alfred’s cheeks almost color at the subtle reminder of how he’d been awakened that morning.
“Are you fishing for compliments?” He reaches the front of his desk, setting down the stack of folders he’s carrying and although it only takes but a moment, he’s unsurprised that when he tries to step back the other nation is already standing behind him. The scent of freshly cut roses and wine is heady as Francis molds himself to his back and nuzzles his hair and then his ear. “No, monsieur. The way your body reacts so sweetly is compliment enough for me.”
He physically turns Alfred, who rests now with his lower back against the desk, edge biting into skin through the material of his clothing. Francis removes the glasses and carefully folds them, setting the pair down and out of the way. There is trust in the gesture that the nation is allowing him, because now Alfred’s sight goes blurry and he closes his eyes before his head begins to ache.
“Think highly of yourself, don’tcha frog?” He drawls in a Southern accent, head tilting in a defiant gesture.
Francis silences him with a kiss that is flavored bitterly with wine.
3. Wine in the evening
Alfred washes the dishes, fingers slick with soap and bubbles decorating his knuckles before he moves the plate under the tepid water and rinses it. The ceramic clicks as it’s placed on the drying rack. He hums to himself as he performs the utterly mundane task that he’s done for hundreds of years -- or when he’s been able to, sometimes he’s been too busy, or once upon a time he was too short to reach -- and is unaware that Francis watches him.
Like many households, they have an agreement that the cook doesn’t clean. And since Francis refuses to let him cook after he’d made hamburgers for their last anniversary, Alfred is used to this.
Francis is not. So he sits there at the kitchen table, watching one of the most powerful countries in the world wash the dishes, surprisingly quiet and peaceful. He thinks that Arthur is a fool. He thinks that he’s wondrously lucky, even if Alfred can occasionally be a bête noire. He thinks that and watches Alfred raise an arm to sweep back the golden hair falling into his eyes with a flick of his wrist.
When Alfred rinses his hands, turns off the running water, dries off with a kitchen towel and turns around, Francis had already poured two glasses of wine. His lips twitch in amusement but he takes a seat, pulling a chair back from the kitchen table.
“How many bottles have you gone through today?” He questions, picking up the glass.
“Are you implying I’m a lush?”
“Depends on what your answer is.” The younger blond snipes back with a grin that is so winsome and carefree that Francis smirks in reaction and wants to kiss it off those perfectly succulent lips.
“One.” Graceful fingers touch the mouth of the wine bottle on the table that he has just served them from. “Two, if you count this morning.”
Alfred’s cheeks glow with heat. “Ah. I still owe you for that.”
Francis smiles into his wine glass.
Title: Five Things Turkey Had To Get Used To
Author: Berry
Rated: PG
Pairing: Turkey/Greece.
Warnings: This is more of a buildup on what will eventually be, but I suppose some shota warnings? Turkey swearing.
Summary: Five things Turkey had to get used to when he took Greece into his home.
Author Notes: One less thing on my writing queue, hurray! I think it was… trowicia that I promised this one to.
One; The scrolls all over the place that began to take over his home, all in Greek and some in Latin, so old that the paper was brittle and the vellum disintegrating, letters faint and buried under the dust of centuries. They showed up in the dinning rooms, in the hallways, in the treasure rooms, thousands of them, no matter how many times he barked at his servants to clean the mess up.
Two; The fucking cats. They turned up one at a time, seemingly innocuous because the Ottoman palace is a lush, sybaritic labyrinth of rooms and halls. One, two, even ten cats mean little. He might go days without running across one, and Turkey is proud that he has accrued such wealth that he can afford such a baroque home. It speaks of his power, absolute now that the other Empires are gone.
But then he starts crossing paths with cats. Again and again.
And at some point he realizes there are more than fifty cats in the palace.
And that he’s allergic to them when he starts sneezing and isn’t sick, and in some rooms he keeps sneezing until he can hardly breathe, until he manages a compromise with Greece that the cats can have half of the damn palace, if they’ll only leave his half alone.
Three: Coming home and knowing someone is waiting for him, even though Greece neither welcomes him nor smiles when he makes an appearance, not even when Turkey bends down and ruffles his hair or pats him on the back, sometimes too hard, because he forgets how slender and fragile Greece’s body is, his large hands able to span his waist easily and lift up without difficulty.
Four; How fragile children are. Turkey is accustomed to saying what’s on his mind, because no one dares to take offense or contradict him and as far as he’s concerned, everything he says is perfectly the truth and if you can’t handle the truth, he has no use for you. So when he dismissively makes a mention of Greece’s mother, or her death, or how he’s going to turn one of her favorite temples or holy lands into a new home for one of his nobles, Greece’s soft lips go tight into a white line and his eyes almost water before he rakes Turkey with a look of sheer loathing.
Turkey, being Turkey, mocks him for those unshed tears.
Five: Waking up blearily at sunrise and finding a bundle of warmth that smells like sunshine and ocean salt cradled against his chest, chin resting on a crown of untamable brown hair and soft hands that have never picked up a weapon gripping his shirt.
He’s told the brat countless times to stop sneaking into his bed because he’s sure one day he’s going to roll over and crush the small body, although it hasn’t happened yet, and the only time that Greece listens to him on that topic is when number four comes to play and Greece despises him so much that he avoids being in his presence for days.
On such occasions, when Turkey finally does wake up to discover the boy in his bed again after one of those ‘fights‘, he unconsciously nuzzles the soft dark strands and chooses to sleep in.
Title: The Way We Give Thanks
Author: Berry
Rated: NC-17
Pairing: Greece/Spain no, I'm not kidding, stop staring at me like that. (Axis Powers Hetalia)
Warnings: None, really.
Summary: After the reunification of Italy, Spain is lonely. Greece decides to give him a cat. A proper thanks is in order.
Author Notes: This was sort of fascinating for me, first time writing a Greece whose behavior isn't affected by Turkey's presence. As much as I adore Turkey, I kind of enjoyed it. Written for the hetalia_kink and for peachmusk.
The kitten had fur that stuck out wildly in great reddish-brown chunks, giving her a perpetually windblown, surprised appearance as she padded about the floor on soft paws. She ducked underneath the sofa couch and Spain tensed, lips parting in anxiety.
The only thing that kept him from getting up and going down on his knees to pull her out was Greece laying a warm hand on his wrist and shaking his head calmly.
She popped out thirty seconds later, clawed her way up to the armrest and sat there with pride. Then promptly began to bathe herself with a pink, raspy tongue, wetting her paw and then rubbing that against her face in a meticulous play for cleanliness.
Spain felt his heart congest, and looked at Greece with no idea of what to say.
"I, ah." The skin at the corner of vibrant olive-green eyes wrinkled in a smile. "Thank you."
The other nation simply nodded. "I heard from Belgium that you've been lonely since South Italy reunited with his brother. The cat should keep you company."
Spain tried not to think of Romano. That wound was still too fresh. The house too empty. The kitten paused in her grooming and meowled at them petulantly.
"She needs a name." Greece stated, and Spain wondered whether after a couple thousand years of being followed around by felines, he hadn't actually learned to understand them.
"Oh. Right. A name." The Spaniard eagerly agreed, trying to think, aware of the other man's hand still placed on his wrist. "She seems like an Isadora, doesn't she?"
Greece finally smiled. It was the vague tilt of his lips upward, different from his usual expression of drowsy disinterest.
"Isadora it is then." He removed his hand and seemed ready to leave as suddenly as he had shown up at the door with a feline tucked into the crook of his elbow.
Saying ‘thank you’ simply didn’t seem enough. And if Greece walked out, Spain suspected that some of that emptiness that had been haunting him would return to mock him, even if Isadora was there. A cat couldn't give him what he needed.
Impulsively he reached out and snagged Greece’s shirt, pulling him forward -- into a kiss.
Greece’s lips were velvety and parted without battle when Spain sought a deeper connection, fingers gripping the material of the white t-shirt tightly. He had his eyes closed so he couldn’t see the other nation’s reaction, but true to his reputation (Virgen madre en el cielo, ranking first in the world for having the most sex) Greece adapted fluidly to the situation and placed his hands on Spain’s back, fingers digging and kneading into muscle like a contended cat.
Like Isadora was currently doing, sliding sharp claws into the upholstery and ripping thread out, the sound ignored by both as Greece allowed Spain to explore his mouth at his leisure before he sucked on the other’s tongue, hands sliding down his back to grip his rear and pull him closer. Spain made a sound of not-quite protest as they ground against one another, both half-erect and swiftly growing harder through their clothes.
It was a hell of a way to say ‘thank you’. It was a good way to say ‘keep me company’. Spain moaned into the kiss, trading clutching the shirt for carding his fingers through Greece’s hair and then cautiously touching the little hair curl that seemed untamable by a comb. The reaction was immediate; Greece released his tongue and gripped him closer, grinding them harder against each other until Spain nearly embarrassed himself by coming too early.
And while standing in his living room, no less.
“Sofa,” He gasped, sucking in a breath and Greece moved them over immediately, so that somehow Spain ended up without a shirt -- and sitting down while Greece lowered himself gracefully to his knees before him.
“Er, wait--” That was sort of what Spain had planned on doing, but he ended up swallowing his words as long, dusky fingers adroitly undid the buttons of his slacks and drew out his cock.
The Greek moved with a deftness that was sybaritic, expression focused as he laved a wet path with his tongue down the other man’s cock, almost satisfied in a way to be doing what he was doing, and Spain’s toes curled along with the rest of his body tensing. Greece’s lips were somehow even softer as they brushed their way up from the base to the head, drawing a groan from Spain.
Eyes the color of the sea under clear sunlight flicked up to look at him, and yes, that was satisfaction in them, unmistakable, and Spain almost lost control again at the realization that Greece loved it. Sex. All of it. What he could make his partners feel with those sinful lips and warm hands that were making Spain’s brain want to shut down and stop wasting energy thinking and enjoy the bacchanal.
Without breaking their gaze, Greece went down on him.
“Jesu Cristo--“ The blasphemy slipped from Spain’s lips as easily as Greece swallowed him to the root, and for a moment he was almost numb from the shock of it before his fingers gripped the dark hair and his hips arched off the edge of the sofa, as if he were trying to get deeper--impossible--but he wasn’t capable of rational thought at the moment.
Hands on his hips pressured him down, silently promising; ‘calm down, I’ll give you everything you want’. Spain dropped back down heavily onto the sofa, flustered at his over eagerness. So virginal, and untried, and apologetically he stroked Greece’s hair as the man rose upwards only until the head was in his mouth, nestled and massaged with a clever tongue, rubbing Spain’s nerves raw with pleasure.
Not to be outdone (who’s he kidding, even France might have some trouble trying to keep up with this man) Spain managed to remove one of his shoes and worked blindly to get the correct angle he needed until his foot brushed against the Greek’s trapped manhood. There was a noticeable slowing of Greece’s wondrously talented mouth but not a full stop, not even as Spain began massaging the bulge.
A fretful ‘meow’ managed to somehow register in Spain’s consciousness. He blearily looked to the side, hand still stroking and petting Greece’s hair and using his foot to pleasure him in return for the fantastic blowjob--and met accusatory yellow eyes as Isadora still sat on the armrest. He tried to manage a reassuring smile (“It’s okay, we’re fine, we’re going to get you something to eat as soon as we’re done, I promise.“) but it came out all twisted as Greece began bobbing his head, sliding Spain’s cock all the way down his throat and back out.
“Grecia--” The name barely squeezed out between pants as Spain tried to warn him, tension gathering in his abdomen with the force of a tidal wave. In response Greece pulled back and began humming against the head of his cock, stroking the rest of it with his fingers, rougher, quicker, and Spain gripped the soft brown hair again with both hands as he spilled his seed into the other’s mouth, barely conscious of Greece continuing to squeeze and suck, swallowing and then pulling back, licking his lips.
As if boneless, Spain slumped into the sofa. He barely reacted with more than a twitch as the kitten slinked off the armrest and stubbornly climbed onto his stomach even though he was panting, apparently with the intent to threaten harm if he didn’t pay attention to her. Now.
Greece barely caught her by the scruff before she climbed higher. He set her down on the floor and murmured something castigating in his native language, lips swollen and slick still, hair a disheveled mess from Spain’s grip. The kitten sauntered off, tail proudly held high. Greece rose smoothly to his feet as if he had only knelt for a second.
“Wait.” Spain sat forward, sensing Greece might honestly leave exactly the same way Isadora just had. He gripped Greece’s lean hips and opened up the man’s pants with his teeth, unsurprised to discover no underwear. He kissed the head of the weeping erection, tasting the salty, earthy flavor and meting Greece’s eyes. “I have to thank you twice now.”
Author: frostberryjam
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: France/America (Axis Powers Hetalia)
Warnings: Vague description of sex.
Summary: Wine in the morning, wine in the afternoon, and wine in the evening.
Author Notes: Decided randomly to use human names for this. Honestly, I don’t know why. Written for a_moveablefeast‘s August challenge.
1: Wine in the morning.
Coolness on his throat.
Wetness on his throat.
Heat on his throat.
Alfred opens his eyes, staring at the blurry ceiling striped with sunlight filtering through the blinds, enjoying the luxurious feeling of someone lapping at the curve of his neck with a velvety tongue. Beard stubble rubs against his collarbone, itchy, ticklish, and he shivers.
The mouth moves down. Sucks on his collarbone, nips with straight, white teeth. Goes down even lower to latch hungry lips around a nipple and Alfred reacts, fingers carding through long blond hair and moaning.
“Fuck, Francis!”
Liquid splashes on his abdomen in reply, along with a satisfied chuckle. Alfred stills, confused, and looks down to see a smoked black glass bottle in the man’s hand. The scent of old wine fills the air and Francis wordlessly releases the tight nub of nerves, going down lower and dipping his tongue into Alfred’s belly button, lapping at the ruby-red liquid pooling in the indentation and then going lower.
Alfred bites his hand, trying to be quiet because heroes don’t cry out loudly when their lovers decide to surprise them with wine and a blow job in the morning.
2. Wine in the afternoon
“Shouldn’t you be going home?” Alfred asks with an amused grin as he discovers the Frenchman sprawled out over the sofa in his office like a possessive feline, closing the door quietly behind him. There’s no point in terrifying or traumatizing the Whitehouse interns any more than necessary. They’re already unsure of what to make of his presence and close relationship with Obama.
“You want me gone?” Azure-hued eyes rise, a playful smile shifting Francis’s lips in reply as he curves an arm inward, beautiful fingers cradling fragile glass filled with wine. Alfred’s cheeks almost color at the subtle reminder of how he’d been awakened that morning.
“Are you fishing for compliments?” He reaches the front of his desk, setting down the stack of folders he’s carrying and although it only takes but a moment, he’s unsurprised that when he tries to step back the other nation is already standing behind him. The scent of freshly cut roses and wine is heady as Francis molds himself to his back and nuzzles his hair and then his ear. “No, monsieur. The way your body reacts so sweetly is compliment enough for me.”
He physically turns Alfred, who rests now with his lower back against the desk, edge biting into skin through the material of his clothing. Francis removes the glasses and carefully folds them, setting the pair down and out of the way. There is trust in the gesture that the nation is allowing him, because now Alfred’s sight goes blurry and he closes his eyes before his head begins to ache.
“Think highly of yourself, don’tcha frog?” He drawls in a Southern accent, head tilting in a defiant gesture.
Francis silences him with a kiss that is flavored bitterly with wine.
3. Wine in the evening
Alfred washes the dishes, fingers slick with soap and bubbles decorating his knuckles before he moves the plate under the tepid water and rinses it. The ceramic clicks as it’s placed on the drying rack. He hums to himself as he performs the utterly mundane task that he’s done for hundreds of years -- or when he’s been able to, sometimes he’s been too busy, or once upon a time he was too short to reach -- and is unaware that Francis watches him.
Like many households, they have an agreement that the cook doesn’t clean. And since Francis refuses to let him cook after he’d made hamburgers for their last anniversary, Alfred is used to this.
Francis is not. So he sits there at the kitchen table, watching one of the most powerful countries in the world wash the dishes, surprisingly quiet and peaceful. He thinks that Arthur is a fool. He thinks that he’s wondrously lucky, even if Alfred can occasionally be a bête noire. He thinks that and watches Alfred raise an arm to sweep back the golden hair falling into his eyes with a flick of his wrist.
When Alfred rinses his hands, turns off the running water, dries off with a kitchen towel and turns around, Francis had already poured two glasses of wine. His lips twitch in amusement but he takes a seat, pulling a chair back from the kitchen table.
“How many bottles have you gone through today?” He questions, picking up the glass.
“Are you implying I’m a lush?”
“Depends on what your answer is.” The younger blond snipes back with a grin that is so winsome and carefree that Francis smirks in reaction and wants to kiss it off those perfectly succulent lips.
“One.” Graceful fingers touch the mouth of the wine bottle on the table that he has just served them from. “Two, if you count this morning.”
Alfred’s cheeks glow with heat. “Ah. I still owe you for that.”
Francis smiles into his wine glass.
Title: Five Things Turkey Had To Get Used To
Author: Berry
Rated: PG
Pairing: Turkey/Greece.
Warnings: This is more of a buildup on what will eventually be, but I suppose some shota warnings? Turkey swearing.
Summary: Five things Turkey had to get used to when he took Greece into his home.
Author Notes: One less thing on my writing queue, hurray! I think it was… trowicia that I promised this one to.
One; The scrolls all over the place that began to take over his home, all in Greek and some in Latin, so old that the paper was brittle and the vellum disintegrating, letters faint and buried under the dust of centuries. They showed up in the dinning rooms, in the hallways, in the treasure rooms, thousands of them, no matter how many times he barked at his servants to clean the mess up.
Two; The fucking cats. They turned up one at a time, seemingly innocuous because the Ottoman palace is a lush, sybaritic labyrinth of rooms and halls. One, two, even ten cats mean little. He might go days without running across one, and Turkey is proud that he has accrued such wealth that he can afford such a baroque home. It speaks of his power, absolute now that the other Empires are gone.
But then he starts crossing paths with cats. Again and again.
And at some point he realizes there are more than fifty cats in the palace.
And that he’s allergic to them when he starts sneezing and isn’t sick, and in some rooms he keeps sneezing until he can hardly breathe, until he manages a compromise with Greece that the cats can have half of the damn palace, if they’ll only leave his half alone.
Three: Coming home and knowing someone is waiting for him, even though Greece neither welcomes him nor smiles when he makes an appearance, not even when Turkey bends down and ruffles his hair or pats him on the back, sometimes too hard, because he forgets how slender and fragile Greece’s body is, his large hands able to span his waist easily and lift up without difficulty.
Four; How fragile children are. Turkey is accustomed to saying what’s on his mind, because no one dares to take offense or contradict him and as far as he’s concerned, everything he says is perfectly the truth and if you can’t handle the truth, he has no use for you. So when he dismissively makes a mention of Greece’s mother, or her death, or how he’s going to turn one of her favorite temples or holy lands into a new home for one of his nobles, Greece’s soft lips go tight into a white line and his eyes almost water before he rakes Turkey with a look of sheer loathing.
Turkey, being Turkey, mocks him for those unshed tears.
Five: Waking up blearily at sunrise and finding a bundle of warmth that smells like sunshine and ocean salt cradled against his chest, chin resting on a crown of untamable brown hair and soft hands that have never picked up a weapon gripping his shirt.
He’s told the brat countless times to stop sneaking into his bed because he’s sure one day he’s going to roll over and crush the small body, although it hasn’t happened yet, and the only time that Greece listens to him on that topic is when number four comes to play and Greece despises him so much that he avoids being in his presence for days.
On such occasions, when Turkey finally does wake up to discover the boy in his bed again after one of those ‘fights‘, he unconsciously nuzzles the soft dark strands and chooses to sleep in.
Title: The Way We Give Thanks
Author: Berry
Rated: NC-17
Pairing: Greece/Spain no, I'm not kidding, stop staring at me like that. (Axis Powers Hetalia)
Warnings: None, really.
Summary: After the reunification of Italy, Spain is lonely. Greece decides to give him a cat. A proper thanks is in order.
Author Notes: This was sort of fascinating for me, first time writing a Greece whose behavior isn't affected by Turkey's presence. As much as I adore Turkey, I kind of enjoyed it. Written for the hetalia_kink and for peachmusk.
The kitten had fur that stuck out wildly in great reddish-brown chunks, giving her a perpetually windblown, surprised appearance as she padded about the floor on soft paws. She ducked underneath the sofa couch and Spain tensed, lips parting in anxiety.
The only thing that kept him from getting up and going down on his knees to pull her out was Greece laying a warm hand on his wrist and shaking his head calmly.
She popped out thirty seconds later, clawed her way up to the armrest and sat there with pride. Then promptly began to bathe herself with a pink, raspy tongue, wetting her paw and then rubbing that against her face in a meticulous play for cleanliness.
Spain felt his heart congest, and looked at Greece with no idea of what to say.
"I, ah." The skin at the corner of vibrant olive-green eyes wrinkled in a smile. "Thank you."
The other nation simply nodded. "I heard from Belgium that you've been lonely since South Italy reunited with his brother. The cat should keep you company."
Spain tried not to think of Romano. That wound was still too fresh. The house too empty. The kitten paused in her grooming and meowled at them petulantly.
"She needs a name." Greece stated, and Spain wondered whether after a couple thousand years of being followed around by felines, he hadn't actually learned to understand them.
"Oh. Right. A name." The Spaniard eagerly agreed, trying to think, aware of the other man's hand still placed on his wrist. "She seems like an Isadora, doesn't she?"
Greece finally smiled. It was the vague tilt of his lips upward, different from his usual expression of drowsy disinterest.
"Isadora it is then." He removed his hand and seemed ready to leave as suddenly as he had shown up at the door with a feline tucked into the crook of his elbow.
Saying ‘thank you’ simply didn’t seem enough. And if Greece walked out, Spain suspected that some of that emptiness that had been haunting him would return to mock him, even if Isadora was there. A cat couldn't give him what he needed.
Impulsively he reached out and snagged Greece’s shirt, pulling him forward -- into a kiss.
Greece’s lips were velvety and parted without battle when Spain sought a deeper connection, fingers gripping the material of the white t-shirt tightly. He had his eyes closed so he couldn’t see the other nation’s reaction, but true to his reputation (Virgen madre en el cielo, ranking first in the world for having the most sex) Greece adapted fluidly to the situation and placed his hands on Spain’s back, fingers digging and kneading into muscle like a contended cat.
Like Isadora was currently doing, sliding sharp claws into the upholstery and ripping thread out, the sound ignored by both as Greece allowed Spain to explore his mouth at his leisure before he sucked on the other’s tongue, hands sliding down his back to grip his rear and pull him closer. Spain made a sound of not-quite protest as they ground against one another, both half-erect and swiftly growing harder through their clothes.
It was a hell of a way to say ‘thank you’. It was a good way to say ‘keep me company’. Spain moaned into the kiss, trading clutching the shirt for carding his fingers through Greece’s hair and then cautiously touching the little hair curl that seemed untamable by a comb. The reaction was immediate; Greece released his tongue and gripped him closer, grinding them harder against each other until Spain nearly embarrassed himself by coming too early.
And while standing in his living room, no less.
“Sofa,” He gasped, sucking in a breath and Greece moved them over immediately, so that somehow Spain ended up without a shirt -- and sitting down while Greece lowered himself gracefully to his knees before him.
“Er, wait--” That was sort of what Spain had planned on doing, but he ended up swallowing his words as long, dusky fingers adroitly undid the buttons of his slacks and drew out his cock.
The Greek moved with a deftness that was sybaritic, expression focused as he laved a wet path with his tongue down the other man’s cock, almost satisfied in a way to be doing what he was doing, and Spain’s toes curled along with the rest of his body tensing. Greece’s lips were somehow even softer as they brushed their way up from the base to the head, drawing a groan from Spain.
Eyes the color of the sea under clear sunlight flicked up to look at him, and yes, that was satisfaction in them, unmistakable, and Spain almost lost control again at the realization that Greece loved it. Sex. All of it. What he could make his partners feel with those sinful lips and warm hands that were making Spain’s brain want to shut down and stop wasting energy thinking and enjoy the bacchanal.
Without breaking their gaze, Greece went down on him.
“Jesu Cristo--“ The blasphemy slipped from Spain’s lips as easily as Greece swallowed him to the root, and for a moment he was almost numb from the shock of it before his fingers gripped the dark hair and his hips arched off the edge of the sofa, as if he were trying to get deeper--impossible--but he wasn’t capable of rational thought at the moment.
Hands on his hips pressured him down, silently promising; ‘calm down, I’ll give you everything you want’. Spain dropped back down heavily onto the sofa, flustered at his over eagerness. So virginal, and untried, and apologetically he stroked Greece’s hair as the man rose upwards only until the head was in his mouth, nestled and massaged with a clever tongue, rubbing Spain’s nerves raw with pleasure.
Not to be outdone (who’s he kidding, even France might have some trouble trying to keep up with this man) Spain managed to remove one of his shoes and worked blindly to get the correct angle he needed until his foot brushed against the Greek’s trapped manhood. There was a noticeable slowing of Greece’s wondrously talented mouth but not a full stop, not even as Spain began massaging the bulge.
A fretful ‘meow’ managed to somehow register in Spain’s consciousness. He blearily looked to the side, hand still stroking and petting Greece’s hair and using his foot to pleasure him in return for the fantastic blowjob--and met accusatory yellow eyes as Isadora still sat on the armrest. He tried to manage a reassuring smile (“It’s okay, we’re fine, we’re going to get you something to eat as soon as we’re done, I promise.“) but it came out all twisted as Greece began bobbing his head, sliding Spain’s cock all the way down his throat and back out.
“Grecia--” The name barely squeezed out between pants as Spain tried to warn him, tension gathering in his abdomen with the force of a tidal wave. In response Greece pulled back and began humming against the head of his cock, stroking the rest of it with his fingers, rougher, quicker, and Spain gripped the soft brown hair again with both hands as he spilled his seed into the other’s mouth, barely conscious of Greece continuing to squeeze and suck, swallowing and then pulling back, licking his lips.
As if boneless, Spain slumped into the sofa. He barely reacted with more than a twitch as the kitten slinked off the armrest and stubbornly climbed onto his stomach even though he was panting, apparently with the intent to threaten harm if he didn’t pay attention to her. Now.
Greece barely caught her by the scruff before she climbed higher. He set her down on the floor and murmured something castigating in his native language, lips swollen and slick still, hair a disheveled mess from Spain’s grip. The kitten sauntered off, tail proudly held high. Greece rose smoothly to his feet as if he had only knelt for a second.
“Wait.” Spain sat forward, sensing Greece might honestly leave exactly the same way Isadora just had. He gripped Greece’s lean hips and opened up the man’s pants with his teeth, unsurprised to discover no underwear. He kissed the head of the weeping erection, tasting the salty, earthy flavor and meting Greece’s eyes. “I have to thank you twice now.”