[fic] The Great Debate [Greece/France]
Title: The Great Debate
Author: le_ouiaboo
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Greece/France
Rating: M/NC-17
Warnings: smut; Greek and French style, le wink
Summary: For the prompt: France argues that the best part of sex is French Love (oral sex). Greece counters that the best part is Greek Love (anal sex). So they decide to try their best to prove their point to each other. The way they know best.
[This is the most detailed smut I have ever written, ever, hahaha, man...]
He has been trying to quit these past years, but bad habits are the hardest to break, and his host seemed to have no qualms about enabling him. France would point this out, but the cigarette between his fingers feels too comforting to give up just yet, and so he says nothing. There is not much to say when one is around Greece, who is perfectly content to watch the ocean in complete silence for half an hour after previously agreeing to resume important discussions on assorted economic issues. Normally, this would annoy France, whose time is so precious, but he has grown used to Greece’s ways somewhat, the relaxed pace of life here. Because there is really no hurry to get back to business, not while there is good food to sample, fine liquor to drink, and such unique and charming company to enjoy…
Eventually.
If one is very, very, very patient.
Another sea breeze ruffles through his hair, and France sets his spent cigarette down onto a glass dish, debating asking Greece to lend him another, or at least something with which to roll another cigarette. Just as he opens his mouth to make the request, Greece turns and looks at him curiously.
“I’m sorry, what were we talking about?” he asks at last.
With a practiced smile, voice brimming with nonchalance, France replies, “Oh, various things, you know.”
Greece nods slowly, looking thoughtful. “Sex?”
How fortunate that Greece is far more observant than he lets on, and France feels no guilt over what he says next. “Why yes, I believe I had just convinced you that French love - that is, oral sex - is the best part of sex, rather than your… Greek love.”
He watches the other nation process this, and finally, Greece shakes his head in denial.
“No, I don’t think that was what we were talking about.”
France makes a shocked gasp of protest. “Are you insinuating that I’m a liar?”
“I have known you to lie before, if it serves your best interests,” Greece says evenly, to France’s demonstration of indignation. “Besides, we both know such a claim needs evidence to be convincing, and you have not given me any evidence.”
“Not yet,” France declares swiftly. “But… if you are willing to relocate, that can be easily remedied.”
Looking around the little balcony of the beachside house, Greece shrugs. “Why not here? The weather’s nice.”
Even though France raises an eyebrow in surprise, the idea of making love with only the sky above does sound fantastic, and no doubt someone as easygoing as Greece prefers it. He shall oblige.
“Then please take a seat, Grèce. This may take a while.”
Greece sprawls out comfortably in a chair, limbs loose and relaxed, a flicker of interest in those calm green eyes. Bending forward, France kisses him lightly on the lips, taking his time in order to thoroughly savor the taste of another nation, something rare and beautiful and meant to be shared, with him, at any rate. One of Greece’s arms drapes heavily over his shoulders, another wraps around his waist, and as he is being pulled down into his lap, France deepens the kiss, delving in with delight. He straddles Greece’s legs, moving into the position calculated to provide the most pleasure while never breaking the seal of their lips. Now Greece makes a soft noise of appreciation in the back of his throat, satisfied to let France do the work to prove himself, the art that he was rumored to have perfected.
Cool pale fingers slide under Greece’s shirt, caressing the toned abdomen and chest with lazy strokes, playing gently over his nipples, down the rippling muscles of his stomach, then teasingly cupping his crotch, until Greece nips at France’s lower lip impatiently.
France graces him with one last kiss before glancing down to assess his progress, extremely pleased to see how quickly Greece has responded. And this was only the beginning.
Slowly, practically oozing with sensuality, France slides out of Greece’s lap and sinks to his knees before him. Tongue flicking over his lips in anticipation, he presses his palm against the noticeable bulge in the khaki fabric, causing Greece to tense under the pressure, his knuckles turning white from gripping the arms of the chair so hard. Then France undoes the front of his trousers, exposing the boxers underneath, tugging both articles of clothing down to pool around the other nation’s ankles.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs simply, pausing to admire the flawless golden proportions of Greece’s body bronzed by years under the Mediterranean sun. Unlike with the others, he sees no purpose in spouting meaningless words of effusive praise to soothe their fragile egos. Here is quiet perfection at its purest, and he has come to worship in the only way he knows how.
Each open-mouthed kiss along Greece’s thighs makes him shudder involuntarily, and the nibble of sharp teeth followed by a brush of warm tongue over the sensitive skin sends the blood immediately racing down to his groin. Determined to leave no possible opportunity for pleasure unexplored, France cradles his testicles in the palm of his hand, bending down to nuzzle at the velvety skin before taking first one, then the other, into his mouth, laving them generously with his lips and tongue as Greece lets out a soft groan. France looks up, blue eyes sparkling, mouth curved into a wide grin. Helpless, Greece reaches to card his fingers through France’s long hair, already twisted and slightly crunchy with salt brought from the sea breeze, scratching at his scalp encouragingly.
France continues his worship, fingers tracing over the length of Greece’s fully erect cock, following with his lips, pressing dry kisses up the hot swollen prick. He patiently licks away the drops of pre-cum welling from the tip with obvious enjoyment, and more than once, Greece bites down hard on his lip from the sensation. When France parts his wet lips to take in his cock, tongue swiping at the firm flesh as it slides further, deeper into his mouth, Greece nearly moans aloud in relief. He tilts his head back, closing his eyes, letting himself drift away, enjoying France’s centuries of expertise at what he does best.
It doesn’t take long to discover what his partner responds to, what makes him moan and shudder and gasp, and each divine sound from Greece’s lips drives France to swallow even more of his thick length, sucking at the cock pressing insistently against the back of his throat as he bobs his head back and forth. His knees are starting to ache from spending so long on the stone floor, he is not nearly as young as when he first learned to do this, but he does not want Greece to come yet, not before wringing the last bit of pleasure from him. A few more moments, then France backs away to take a breath, fingers encircling the base of Greece’s erection briefly before he goes down on him again, this time taking in his entire length easily. Greece jerks under his hands, body tightening from the impending orgasm, and with a low groan, he comes into France’s mouth. With a hum of triumph, France swallows the thick cum splashing onto his tongue, and keeps swallowing until he feels certain Greece has finished, by the slowing trembling of his muscles. Only then does he let the softening cock fall from his mouth, and even so, he cannot resist planting a few more kisses on it, so that traces of semen mixed with saliva now glisten on his cheeks and chin.
After a minute to catch his breath, Greece opens his eyes and gazes at France very seriously.
“That was a good justification for French love,” he murmurs.
“Ah, so I have convinced you, non?”
“…Let me think about it…”
France’s overworked jaw drops. He cannot believe this. That was the best blowjob he had given in the past year, and probably among the highest ranked of the decade so far. And that was still not enough to convince Greece that oral sex was the best sex? What do they teach Greek girls in school? Or for that matter, Greek boys…
“Surely there is not much else you need to consider, Grèce,” France insists.
This time Greece really does smile, a slight amused quirk of his lips, and he calmly answers, “I always like to examine both sides of the argument, don’t you?”
France laughs, a low throaty chuckle, and Greece takes that as agreement. As he pulls his shirt down and his trousers back up, France remains kneeling, hair tousled, lips swollen, looking utterly filthy and debauched and absolutely gorgeous for it. He tilts his head when Greece swings a leg over him to get to his feet, and then reaches over to wrap his arms about Greece’s waist, still on his knees.
“Help me up, darling, I think my legs have gone to sleep.”
Bemused, Greece grabs hold of France’s arms, easily lifts him to his feet, and has to brace himself when France leans heavily against him, still smiling.
They linger in the coolness of the kitchen, feeling no rush to go anywhere just yet. However, France does make a beeline for the alcohol, helping himself to a glass of ouzo to wash out the taste in his mouth. At the counter, Greece breaks into the box of sticky-sweet desserts that were supposed to be for after dinner, and he shares a thick slice of pastry with France, who nibbles at it in between sips of the liqueur. Like the gourmand he is, France makes little noises of happiness with each bite, each sip, and after they finish the pastry, he proceeds to lick each of Greece’s honey-dipped fingers clean, slowly and thoroughly. Watching him swirl his tongue over the pad of his index finger, Greece cannot resist indulging this fixation of France’s. He slides two fingers in at once, pressing them gently down against his tongue, so that France sucks at them with an audible, wet sound, and suddenly Greece has to remember to breathe, has to remember this is what the French are best at.
Almost regretfully, he draws his fingers away, one by one, and France’s eyelids flutter open. If ever there were eyes to drown in, these were the ones, Greece muses - deeper and bluer and more fickle than the ocean, a threat to any man, any woman. Insatiable, irresistible…
France remains still, outwardly serene, but his breaths are shallow and quick, betraying his desire, and when Greece reaches for him, he falls into the embrace, barely remembering to set his empty glass down on the counter. They press close together, feeling the other’s heartbeat, fingers tangling into each other’s hair as they lean in to kiss. Even through Greece’s scent of sea salt and anise and honey, France still smells like France, that tantalizing undertone of rose and musk and wine-soaked wood.
Eventually they pause, though their lips are still almost touching, and France whispers, “Shall we take this to your room?”
Greece does not answer, but takes his hand and leads him upstairs silently.
The bedroom is almost completely open to the air, and sunlight streams through the sheer curtains, while outside, the sound of gulls and waves create a soothing background murmur. The two waste no time, France playfully stripping Greece of his t-shirt and khakis, while Greece fiddles with the buttons of France’s linen shirt, the zipper on his slim white slacks. It makes him wonder how France can get nude so quickly when his clothes fit him like a second skin, but he should not think too much on that, not when he has an argument to offer.
Naked at last, they tumble into bed, trying to get their bearings.
“No, like this,” Greece says quietly, and France finds himself lying on his stomach, face down into a pillow. He glances over his shoulder, and Greece reassures him, “It will feel better this way. For the both of us.”
France smiles, trusting, and turns to look out at the beach while Greece straddles his hips. He leans forward, brushing aside heavy locks of golden hair to expose the long column of France’s neck, kisses the nape tenderly. Whereas France had focused on the front of his body, Greece now lavishes attention to his partner’s back, callused palms brushing over his shoulder blades, fingers massaging, loosening any tension in his muscles. France seems to melt under his touch, purring from the pleasure, and by the time Greece has finished massaging his lower back, he senses they are both deeply aroused. Even so, he takes his time, hand grazing over France’s ass admiringly, its tempting curves enhanced by the slimness of his waist, no doubt the result of centuries of French slavishness to high fashion. He wants to kiss it, and he does, lips seeking purchase on the smooth skin, teeth barely sinking into the firm, enticing flesh. Of their own accord, his hands then pull gently at each cheek so that he can slide his tongue down the line dividing them.
Somewhere above, he hears France make a gasping noise, feels him squirm slightly. He continues tonguing him until France gives in and spreads his legs further apart.
After he has tasted his fill, Greece reaches for the oil, moistening his fingers with care before working them where his mouth had just been, using steady, circular motions, teasing at the exposed hole. He enjoys this part, the preparation, but he knows to go slowly, even for someone as experienced as France. After all, the burden of proof is on him.
He pushes one long finger in, stroking at the hot inner walls insistently. Decades of experience show him where he must touch next, but he waits until he feels able to slide another finger in. Only then does he stroke at the prostate, and France immediately responds to that, moaning, back arching, hips lifting. Greece reaches around with his other hand and feels France heavy in his palm, his erection fully hard. He continues stroking France, inside, outside, drawing out another breathless moan, watching him buck shamelessly into his palm.
“Ready?” he asks, and France nods frantically, already on his knees and elbows.
Gripping France’s hips, Greece slides in with agonizing deliberateness, savoring the hot slow burn. For some reason, he meets resistance, a stubborn tightness, before he can seat himself fully, and so with the fingers of one hand, he massages at France’s lower back, right above his buttocks, encouraging him to relax.
Then he can move, and he pushes all the way in so that his hipbones make contact with the other nation’s body, and nothing has ever felt so divine. It is a little harder to pull out, but he forces himself to, only to plunge back in at the proper angle, the tip of his cock brushing France’s prostate just so. France keens out helplessly, a beautiful sound, and Greece repeats the motion in order to hear it again. He keeps moving in this steady, easy pace, ignoring every plea from France to move faster or harder, until France stops speaking and can only moan wordlessly in ecstasy. As pretty as it sounds, Greece leans over to grasp his chin, covers France’s mouth briefly with his own, their teeth clacking as he thrusts, and when he is done, France is left whimpering even more wildly than before.
Just a few more strokes of one oiled hand, and France comes, crying out, shuddering as he spends himself into Greece’s palm. The moment France reaches his peak, his body clenches, muscles tightening, and Greece follows him soon afterwards, spilling into France, filling him with cum once more. He continues moving, however, and watches himself thrusting into France’s buttocks, feeling like he is floating, gloriously detached. Then he is milked dry, and he slows and stops.
France has collapsed onto the mattress, completely drained, utterly sated. Reluctantly, Greece pulls out with a slick noise, and a trickle of his semen is already visible down France’s inner thigh.
He leans over, smiling slightly, and whispers into France’s ear, “How was that evidence for Greek love?”
France makes a huffy sound and answers, “You may have convinced yourself, but I will not make a judgment until I get to top.”
Greece’s answer is lost when France flops onto his back and pulls him down for a kiss. The welcome distraction occupies them for the next few moments as they curl into each other’s embrace, kissing and basking in the warm sunlight.
But the question remains on their minds, and later that evening, after another session, they conclude that it was a draw, and best out of three wins the argument.
The next day, they agree that best out of seven will win.
When France finally has to catch his plane back to Paris at his boss’ insistence, Greece promises him that they will eventually resolve the debate, no matter how many times they must go through the evidence. Even if it takes years, Greece swears solemnly, and France laughs and blows him a kiss, to hold him to the promise.
Author: le_ouiaboo
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Greece/France
Rating: M/NC-17
Warnings: smut; Greek and French style, le wink
Summary: For the prompt: France argues that the best part of sex is French Love (oral sex). Greece counters that the best part is Greek Love (anal sex). So they decide to try their best to prove their point to each other. The way they know best.
[This is the most detailed smut I have ever written, ever, hahaha, man...]
He has been trying to quit these past years, but bad habits are the hardest to break, and his host seemed to have no qualms about enabling him. France would point this out, but the cigarette between his fingers feels too comforting to give up just yet, and so he says nothing. There is not much to say when one is around Greece, who is perfectly content to watch the ocean in complete silence for half an hour after previously agreeing to resume important discussions on assorted economic issues. Normally, this would annoy France, whose time is so precious, but he has grown used to Greece’s ways somewhat, the relaxed pace of life here. Because there is really no hurry to get back to business, not while there is good food to sample, fine liquor to drink, and such unique and charming company to enjoy…
Eventually.
If one is very, very, very patient.
Another sea breeze ruffles through his hair, and France sets his spent cigarette down onto a glass dish, debating asking Greece to lend him another, or at least something with which to roll another cigarette. Just as he opens his mouth to make the request, Greece turns and looks at him curiously.
“I’m sorry, what were we talking about?” he asks at last.
With a practiced smile, voice brimming with nonchalance, France replies, “Oh, various things, you know.”
Greece nods slowly, looking thoughtful. “Sex?”
How fortunate that Greece is far more observant than he lets on, and France feels no guilt over what he says next. “Why yes, I believe I had just convinced you that French love - that is, oral sex - is the best part of sex, rather than your… Greek love.”
He watches the other nation process this, and finally, Greece shakes his head in denial.
“No, I don’t think that was what we were talking about.”
France makes a shocked gasp of protest. “Are you insinuating that I’m a liar?”
“I have known you to lie before, if it serves your best interests,” Greece says evenly, to France’s demonstration of indignation. “Besides, we both know such a claim needs evidence to be convincing, and you have not given me any evidence.”
“Not yet,” France declares swiftly. “But… if you are willing to relocate, that can be easily remedied.”
Looking around the little balcony of the beachside house, Greece shrugs. “Why not here? The weather’s nice.”
Even though France raises an eyebrow in surprise, the idea of making love with only the sky above does sound fantastic, and no doubt someone as easygoing as Greece prefers it. He shall oblige.
“Then please take a seat, Grèce. This may take a while.”
Greece sprawls out comfortably in a chair, limbs loose and relaxed, a flicker of interest in those calm green eyes. Bending forward, France kisses him lightly on the lips, taking his time in order to thoroughly savor the taste of another nation, something rare and beautiful and meant to be shared, with him, at any rate. One of Greece’s arms drapes heavily over his shoulders, another wraps around his waist, and as he is being pulled down into his lap, France deepens the kiss, delving in with delight. He straddles Greece’s legs, moving into the position calculated to provide the most pleasure while never breaking the seal of their lips. Now Greece makes a soft noise of appreciation in the back of his throat, satisfied to let France do the work to prove himself, the art that he was rumored to have perfected.
Cool pale fingers slide under Greece’s shirt, caressing the toned abdomen and chest with lazy strokes, playing gently over his nipples, down the rippling muscles of his stomach, then teasingly cupping his crotch, until Greece nips at France’s lower lip impatiently.
France graces him with one last kiss before glancing down to assess his progress, extremely pleased to see how quickly Greece has responded. And this was only the beginning.
Slowly, practically oozing with sensuality, France slides out of Greece’s lap and sinks to his knees before him. Tongue flicking over his lips in anticipation, he presses his palm against the noticeable bulge in the khaki fabric, causing Greece to tense under the pressure, his knuckles turning white from gripping the arms of the chair so hard. Then France undoes the front of his trousers, exposing the boxers underneath, tugging both articles of clothing down to pool around the other nation’s ankles.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs simply, pausing to admire the flawless golden proportions of Greece’s body bronzed by years under the Mediterranean sun. Unlike with the others, he sees no purpose in spouting meaningless words of effusive praise to soothe their fragile egos. Here is quiet perfection at its purest, and he has come to worship in the only way he knows how.
Each open-mouthed kiss along Greece’s thighs makes him shudder involuntarily, and the nibble of sharp teeth followed by a brush of warm tongue over the sensitive skin sends the blood immediately racing down to his groin. Determined to leave no possible opportunity for pleasure unexplored, France cradles his testicles in the palm of his hand, bending down to nuzzle at the velvety skin before taking first one, then the other, into his mouth, laving them generously with his lips and tongue as Greece lets out a soft groan. France looks up, blue eyes sparkling, mouth curved into a wide grin. Helpless, Greece reaches to card his fingers through France’s long hair, already twisted and slightly crunchy with salt brought from the sea breeze, scratching at his scalp encouragingly.
France continues his worship, fingers tracing over the length of Greece’s fully erect cock, following with his lips, pressing dry kisses up the hot swollen prick. He patiently licks away the drops of pre-cum welling from the tip with obvious enjoyment, and more than once, Greece bites down hard on his lip from the sensation. When France parts his wet lips to take in his cock, tongue swiping at the firm flesh as it slides further, deeper into his mouth, Greece nearly moans aloud in relief. He tilts his head back, closing his eyes, letting himself drift away, enjoying France’s centuries of expertise at what he does best.
It doesn’t take long to discover what his partner responds to, what makes him moan and shudder and gasp, and each divine sound from Greece’s lips drives France to swallow even more of his thick length, sucking at the cock pressing insistently against the back of his throat as he bobs his head back and forth. His knees are starting to ache from spending so long on the stone floor, he is not nearly as young as when he first learned to do this, but he does not want Greece to come yet, not before wringing the last bit of pleasure from him. A few more moments, then France backs away to take a breath, fingers encircling the base of Greece’s erection briefly before he goes down on him again, this time taking in his entire length easily. Greece jerks under his hands, body tightening from the impending orgasm, and with a low groan, he comes into France’s mouth. With a hum of triumph, France swallows the thick cum splashing onto his tongue, and keeps swallowing until he feels certain Greece has finished, by the slowing trembling of his muscles. Only then does he let the softening cock fall from his mouth, and even so, he cannot resist planting a few more kisses on it, so that traces of semen mixed with saliva now glisten on his cheeks and chin.
After a minute to catch his breath, Greece opens his eyes and gazes at France very seriously.
“That was a good justification for French love,” he murmurs.
“Ah, so I have convinced you, non?”
“…Let me think about it…”
France’s overworked jaw drops. He cannot believe this. That was the best blowjob he had given in the past year, and probably among the highest ranked of the decade so far. And that was still not enough to convince Greece that oral sex was the best sex? What do they teach Greek girls in school? Or for that matter, Greek boys…
“Surely there is not much else you need to consider, Grèce,” France insists.
This time Greece really does smile, a slight amused quirk of his lips, and he calmly answers, “I always like to examine both sides of the argument, don’t you?”
France laughs, a low throaty chuckle, and Greece takes that as agreement. As he pulls his shirt down and his trousers back up, France remains kneeling, hair tousled, lips swollen, looking utterly filthy and debauched and absolutely gorgeous for it. He tilts his head when Greece swings a leg over him to get to his feet, and then reaches over to wrap his arms about Greece’s waist, still on his knees.
“Help me up, darling, I think my legs have gone to sleep.”
Bemused, Greece grabs hold of France’s arms, easily lifts him to his feet, and has to brace himself when France leans heavily against him, still smiling.
They linger in the coolness of the kitchen, feeling no rush to go anywhere just yet. However, France does make a beeline for the alcohol, helping himself to a glass of ouzo to wash out the taste in his mouth. At the counter, Greece breaks into the box of sticky-sweet desserts that were supposed to be for after dinner, and he shares a thick slice of pastry with France, who nibbles at it in between sips of the liqueur. Like the gourmand he is, France makes little noises of happiness with each bite, each sip, and after they finish the pastry, he proceeds to lick each of Greece’s honey-dipped fingers clean, slowly and thoroughly. Watching him swirl his tongue over the pad of his index finger, Greece cannot resist indulging this fixation of France’s. He slides two fingers in at once, pressing them gently down against his tongue, so that France sucks at them with an audible, wet sound, and suddenly Greece has to remember to breathe, has to remember this is what the French are best at.
Almost regretfully, he draws his fingers away, one by one, and France’s eyelids flutter open. If ever there were eyes to drown in, these were the ones, Greece muses - deeper and bluer and more fickle than the ocean, a threat to any man, any woman. Insatiable, irresistible…
France remains still, outwardly serene, but his breaths are shallow and quick, betraying his desire, and when Greece reaches for him, he falls into the embrace, barely remembering to set his empty glass down on the counter. They press close together, feeling the other’s heartbeat, fingers tangling into each other’s hair as they lean in to kiss. Even through Greece’s scent of sea salt and anise and honey, France still smells like France, that tantalizing undertone of rose and musk and wine-soaked wood.
Eventually they pause, though their lips are still almost touching, and France whispers, “Shall we take this to your room?”
Greece does not answer, but takes his hand and leads him upstairs silently.
The bedroom is almost completely open to the air, and sunlight streams through the sheer curtains, while outside, the sound of gulls and waves create a soothing background murmur. The two waste no time, France playfully stripping Greece of his t-shirt and khakis, while Greece fiddles with the buttons of France’s linen shirt, the zipper on his slim white slacks. It makes him wonder how France can get nude so quickly when his clothes fit him like a second skin, but he should not think too much on that, not when he has an argument to offer.
Naked at last, they tumble into bed, trying to get their bearings.
“No, like this,” Greece says quietly, and France finds himself lying on his stomach, face down into a pillow. He glances over his shoulder, and Greece reassures him, “It will feel better this way. For the both of us.”
France smiles, trusting, and turns to look out at the beach while Greece straddles his hips. He leans forward, brushing aside heavy locks of golden hair to expose the long column of France’s neck, kisses the nape tenderly. Whereas France had focused on the front of his body, Greece now lavishes attention to his partner’s back, callused palms brushing over his shoulder blades, fingers massaging, loosening any tension in his muscles. France seems to melt under his touch, purring from the pleasure, and by the time Greece has finished massaging his lower back, he senses they are both deeply aroused. Even so, he takes his time, hand grazing over France’s ass admiringly, its tempting curves enhanced by the slimness of his waist, no doubt the result of centuries of French slavishness to high fashion. He wants to kiss it, and he does, lips seeking purchase on the smooth skin, teeth barely sinking into the firm, enticing flesh. Of their own accord, his hands then pull gently at each cheek so that he can slide his tongue down the line dividing them.
Somewhere above, he hears France make a gasping noise, feels him squirm slightly. He continues tonguing him until France gives in and spreads his legs further apart.
After he has tasted his fill, Greece reaches for the oil, moistening his fingers with care before working them where his mouth had just been, using steady, circular motions, teasing at the exposed hole. He enjoys this part, the preparation, but he knows to go slowly, even for someone as experienced as France. After all, the burden of proof is on him.
He pushes one long finger in, stroking at the hot inner walls insistently. Decades of experience show him where he must touch next, but he waits until he feels able to slide another finger in. Only then does he stroke at the prostate, and France immediately responds to that, moaning, back arching, hips lifting. Greece reaches around with his other hand and feels France heavy in his palm, his erection fully hard. He continues stroking France, inside, outside, drawing out another breathless moan, watching him buck shamelessly into his palm.
“Ready?” he asks, and France nods frantically, already on his knees and elbows.
Gripping France’s hips, Greece slides in with agonizing deliberateness, savoring the hot slow burn. For some reason, he meets resistance, a stubborn tightness, before he can seat himself fully, and so with the fingers of one hand, he massages at France’s lower back, right above his buttocks, encouraging him to relax.
Then he can move, and he pushes all the way in so that his hipbones make contact with the other nation’s body, and nothing has ever felt so divine. It is a little harder to pull out, but he forces himself to, only to plunge back in at the proper angle, the tip of his cock brushing France’s prostate just so. France keens out helplessly, a beautiful sound, and Greece repeats the motion in order to hear it again. He keeps moving in this steady, easy pace, ignoring every plea from France to move faster or harder, until France stops speaking and can only moan wordlessly in ecstasy. As pretty as it sounds, Greece leans over to grasp his chin, covers France’s mouth briefly with his own, their teeth clacking as he thrusts, and when he is done, France is left whimpering even more wildly than before.
Just a few more strokes of one oiled hand, and France comes, crying out, shuddering as he spends himself into Greece’s palm. The moment France reaches his peak, his body clenches, muscles tightening, and Greece follows him soon afterwards, spilling into France, filling him with cum once more. He continues moving, however, and watches himself thrusting into France’s buttocks, feeling like he is floating, gloriously detached. Then he is milked dry, and he slows and stops.
France has collapsed onto the mattress, completely drained, utterly sated. Reluctantly, Greece pulls out with a slick noise, and a trickle of his semen is already visible down France’s inner thigh.
He leans over, smiling slightly, and whispers into France’s ear, “How was that evidence for Greek love?”
France makes a huffy sound and answers, “You may have convinced yourself, but I will not make a judgment until I get to top.”
Greece’s answer is lost when France flops onto his back and pulls him down for a kiss. The welcome distraction occupies them for the next few moments as they curl into each other’s embrace, kissing and basking in the warm sunlight.
But the question remains on their minds, and later that evening, after another session, they conclude that it was a draw, and best out of three wins the argument.
The next day, they agree that best out of seven will win.
When France finally has to catch his plane back to Paris at his boss’ insistence, Greece promises him that they will eventually resolve the debate, no matter how many times they must go through the evidence. Even if it takes years, Greece swears solemnly, and France laughs and blows him a kiss, to hold him to the promise.