ezyl
in
pillowcased
why does your heart beat like it's alive? | for greek whores and japanese tourists [hetalia/giripan]
titled "for when there is nowhere left to go"
pairing greece/japan.
rating of a light R. =\
warnings when we're talking name-switching, i'm as liberal as they come. and, uh. prostitution is legal in Greece, so you can't sue me this time. now how about that.
summary.
the place in the middle of the street where the contract ends and your life begins.
~1500 words written for sonofon because she sucks at being a supportive honeybunny. this did not turn-out as well as i imagined. \o/ titleverse adapted from a song by inoue joe.
--
for when there is nowhere left to go
for when there is nothing left to lose
for when i will wait for something new
(before i lose you too)
When he was young, Kiku had possessed a serious, almost contagious Fear for dark places.
No one could have actively suspected anything from him, of course; he had long-since convinced his people to keep it under lock and key, himself aloof and unnaturally quiet, applied every potentially-mischievous alternative he could think of to confirm the well being of his own mental health. The little boy Japan had spent the first half of his adolescence cooped-up in a five-by-ten foot den with a square window, stargazing from the bottom of the desert well and beyond, written haiku on rice paper and wore haramaki around the waist until the day Matthew C. Perry had unstrung his billowing sails at the bay and pulled childhood out of rear-end reverie. And now here was Japan, here was the cat that lived in his house. Here was Japan, and he was wholly unafraid of the dark.
He was wholly unafraid of the dark, but Fear had stayed behind and tugged on his clothes for attention. It had been a nice, sharp tug. Friendly reminder for Honda Kiku. The square window in his den had shed the bare minimum of light on a big world. It had been a single blade of light in a massive field of light-up Christmas displays, concept so foreign that it hurt more to stare at it in awe than think about it. And things picked up from there; Fear came as soon as it had despaired and fled, baring its teeth in front of Japan's bewildered ancestors, circling the globe twice and three quarters, tousling bed hair at the Soviet's house and reading fairy tales to children at eight o' clock in the evening from Denmark, drinking it up and debauching the best of the Austrian statesmen. Kiku's Fear pulled at the performers at the opera house in Sydney and skipped over the onion tops from the Orthodox churches, tickled the pope on his nose and turned him liberal for a few decades before jumping onto radical Islam's bandwagon at the second half of the weekend.
Fear had a lot of fun, at the expense of the depression and world war and faith in Charlie Chaplin.
And while his Fear had fun at the turn of the century, Kiku had snuggled into his mattress, three-inches thick and fluffed-up with hemp and little balls of lichen that smelled like tea. He liked the smell of tea--it reminded him of Yao and all the things he had kept a secret from his estranged older brother. The complications in a life had come down at the right moment. Kiku could never tell Yao about the Fear.
Not even Yao. (Especially not Yao.)
Nekojirou-san was the first one to call him out on it. Nekojirou-san was a scrawny tabby cat who liked to lick his paws in the dusty area right next to Kiku's blade of sunlight, wash himself with a vigor he saved for no other cat but himself (the vain creature). Nekojirou-san washes himself delicately and deliberately and devotedly; he starts from his tail and his privates and works his way up his belly with his tongue and his paws, all the way until he reaches the tips of his whiskers. After he finishes cleaning himself, Nekojirou-san would regard Kiku from under half-lidded eyes and make no sound, absolutely no sound at all, like there had been a mask on his muzzle and he might have to pounce any moment and scratch the carpet in the place of a missing rat. (This would have been the case, except there are no rats in Kiku's house.)
"You should find something to do," Nekojirou-san had told Kiku, "You should find something uniquely Japanese to make."
Kiku considers it, and in another minute he calls up his best friend at the time, Toyota-san.
"Let's repair all the bicycles in the nation."
+
As such, the second time Girishia-san takes Kiku's hand in his and marches him down the street and down the alley and down the extent of the world, they are both surprised when Kiku plants a soft kiss on his collarbone.
"I thought we were going to take this slow," Heracles mumbles against Kiku's hair, rubs his fingers in circles against Kiku's back. He can smell cat hair and a little moisture in Kiku's hair, cat hair and rubbery sweat and chrysanthemums. Chrysanthemums, among all of it. He wonders if chrysanthemums come in different colors.
"Slow," he repeats, "I'm not going anywhere, and it isn't like I charge in fifteen-minute increments or anything."
"My Fear is coming back soon," he can only hear Japan mumble from the base of his neck, "He wants to bomb Pearl Harbor."
+
His Fear is not really a fear.
It's more of a monster, a bit feline, like Simone Simon from the Cat People, panther-like and altogether too manipulative and calculating and pushy. Just pushy. It tells him dirty secrets about the other nations sometimes, how Italy is secretly proliferate for unorganized prostitution and how Ireland's slopes are coated in thick smog, whispers it in Kiku's ear and tells him to exploit them, to reach out and take what he wants and never mind the consequences; America will pay for those.
After all, the sun rises in Japan.
+
His lips part in a small puff of air and blurry cheeks, and he feels Girishia-san's tongue slide against the roof of his mouth, not exactly unpleasant but altogether too tickly, like he'd been eating pineapple that had not been previously cured in salt water. He is tentative, soft and just a little too cautious for his occupation, and it makes Kiku wonder what he's done and if he might stop. He kisses back, as much as he can without appearing to do so, kisses back until he's out of breath. They break apart with a small gasp from Kiku and a lighthearted smile from the sky.
"What is that?" Girishia-san asks, jabs a tentative finger at the bulky bit of technology dangling from Kiku's neck.
"It's a camera," Kiku answers.
"That's not a camera," Heracles scratches his head, peers interestedly at the mass of dials and buttons and 24.5-megapixel lenses. A small piece of hair catches against one of his fingertips. "I know what a camera looks like, and that is not a camera. It's too big, and...too big."
"It's a Japanese camera," Kiku clarifies.
A pause.
"That explains it."
+
He is a holiday boyfriend, the proverbial summer fling. His boss bills him off as a member of a higher division of tour guides who may provide sexual favors for tips. He entertains women and men, sometimes simultaneously and sometimes unintentionally, and he is very capable of procuring illicit drugs if his client demands for it. He carries a medical card that gets reevaluated once every two weeks, a pack of breath mints that he never opens by himself. He has a soft voice that rumbles and crackles over the phone line and keeps Kiku's heart beating when he's too close. His hands are thin and broad; they wrap around the curve of Kiku's ass like they've always belonged there (and in a way, they do), and they can turn into feathers or rope at Kiku's will. His fingers are long and taut, and he knows all of the places on Kiku's body where a single stroke can turn into a flower of sparks. His mouth is curved and tender, especially so when he mouths Kiku's cock underneath a sky full of stars, dips his tongue in places that makes Kiku curl up like a cat and hear the thunder of the sea from far away.
And somewhere between fucks, there is always the Fear, a meow, a purr.
And somewhere between fucks, this is what Kiku realizes:
if the sun were to rise in Japan, then it would set in Greece and then
oh fuck I'm going to come
+
And so here's the place in the middle of street where Japan can hold his hand and keep completely still, feel the currents shift in the stream, underlying themes and subliminal messaging shattered and re-shattered until the fragments can only sift into his hair and sweep past behind his ears, cut deep to the mind, not close enough to the heart. And so here's the place where it's not dark enough to see but just dark enough to feel, feel the tingle travel from Greece's palm, down to his fingertips and up his spine and into the rest of the week.
Greece's hand is warm and reassuring, fingers even against Japan's fingers, knuckles sharp and paper-cut thin. Squeezes once, twice, three times and there's his charm.
For two hours and fifteen minutes, the world remains a beautiful place.
>>>>
yeah if anyone asks, i didn't write this. ;A;
original request. please don't ask me how it turned into something creepy like this I DON'T KNOW OKAY. but yeah, i'm still taking requests. just puttin' it out there. y'know. if you want your life ruined at the expense of my writer's flimsy bricks and such~.
A GENERAL DISCLAIMER, AS WELL AS A SAFER ALTERNATIVE TO PROSTITUTION IN FOREIGN COUNTRIES WHERE YOU DON'T HAVE MEDICAL INSURANCE:
you can also watch/join the comm because you love me ♥
...:D
OH AND. IF YOU WANT TO FIND SOMETHING THAT'S ACTUALLY WORTH READING, I SUGGEST THE BRAVE NEW WORLD/HETALIA CROSSOVER WRITTEN BY MY DEAR HONEYBUNNY. BECAUSE SHE DESERVES EVERY BIT OF THE PRAISE I'LL NEVER RECEIVE.
pairing greece/japan.
rating of a light R. =\
warnings when we're talking name-switching, i'm as liberal as they come. and, uh. prostitution is legal in Greece, so you can't sue me this time. now how about that.
summary.
the place in the middle of the street where the contract ends and your life begins.
~1500 words written for sonofon because she sucks at being a supportive honeybunny. this did not turn-out as well as i imagined. \o/ titleverse adapted from a song by inoue joe.
--
for when there is nowhere left to go
for when there is nothing left to lose
for when i will wait for something new
(before i lose you too)
When he was young, Kiku had possessed a serious, almost contagious Fear for dark places.
No one could have actively suspected anything from him, of course; he had long-since convinced his people to keep it under lock and key, himself aloof and unnaturally quiet, applied every potentially-mischievous alternative he could think of to confirm the well being of his own mental health. The little boy Japan had spent the first half of his adolescence cooped-up in a five-by-ten foot den with a square window, stargazing from the bottom of the desert well and beyond, written haiku on rice paper and wore haramaki around the waist until the day Matthew C. Perry had unstrung his billowing sails at the bay and pulled childhood out of rear-end reverie. And now here was Japan, here was the cat that lived in his house. Here was Japan, and he was wholly unafraid of the dark.
He was wholly unafraid of the dark, but Fear had stayed behind and tugged on his clothes for attention. It had been a nice, sharp tug. Friendly reminder for Honda Kiku. The square window in his den had shed the bare minimum of light on a big world. It had been a single blade of light in a massive field of light-up Christmas displays, concept so foreign that it hurt more to stare at it in awe than think about it. And things picked up from there; Fear came as soon as it had despaired and fled, baring its teeth in front of Japan's bewildered ancestors, circling the globe twice and three quarters, tousling bed hair at the Soviet's house and reading fairy tales to children at eight o' clock in the evening from Denmark, drinking it up and debauching the best of the Austrian statesmen. Kiku's Fear pulled at the performers at the opera house in Sydney and skipped over the onion tops from the Orthodox churches, tickled the pope on his nose and turned him liberal for a few decades before jumping onto radical Islam's bandwagon at the second half of the weekend.
Fear had a lot of fun, at the expense of the depression and world war and faith in Charlie Chaplin.
And while his Fear had fun at the turn of the century, Kiku had snuggled into his mattress, three-inches thick and fluffed-up with hemp and little balls of lichen that smelled like tea. He liked the smell of tea--it reminded him of Yao and all the things he had kept a secret from his estranged older brother. The complications in a life had come down at the right moment. Kiku could never tell Yao about the Fear.
Not even Yao. (Especially not Yao.)
Nekojirou-san was the first one to call him out on it. Nekojirou-san was a scrawny tabby cat who liked to lick his paws in the dusty area right next to Kiku's blade of sunlight, wash himself with a vigor he saved for no other cat but himself (the vain creature). Nekojirou-san washes himself delicately and deliberately and devotedly; he starts from his tail and his privates and works his way up his belly with his tongue and his paws, all the way until he reaches the tips of his whiskers. After he finishes cleaning himself, Nekojirou-san would regard Kiku from under half-lidded eyes and make no sound, absolutely no sound at all, like there had been a mask on his muzzle and he might have to pounce any moment and scratch the carpet in the place of a missing rat. (This would have been the case, except there are no rats in Kiku's house.)
"You should find something to do," Nekojirou-san had told Kiku, "You should find something uniquely Japanese to make."
Kiku considers it, and in another minute he calls up his best friend at the time, Toyota-san.
"Let's repair all the bicycles in the nation."
+
As such, the second time Girishia-san takes Kiku's hand in his and marches him down the street and down the alley and down the extent of the world, they are both surprised when Kiku plants a soft kiss on his collarbone.
"I thought we were going to take this slow," Heracles mumbles against Kiku's hair, rubs his fingers in circles against Kiku's back. He can smell cat hair and a little moisture in Kiku's hair, cat hair and rubbery sweat and chrysanthemums. Chrysanthemums, among all of it. He wonders if chrysanthemums come in different colors.
"Slow," he repeats, "I'm not going anywhere, and it isn't like I charge in fifteen-minute increments or anything."
"My Fear is coming back soon," he can only hear Japan mumble from the base of his neck, "He wants to bomb Pearl Harbor."
+
His Fear is not really a fear.
It's more of a monster, a bit feline, like Simone Simon from the Cat People, panther-like and altogether too manipulative and calculating and pushy. Just pushy. It tells him dirty secrets about the other nations sometimes, how Italy is secretly proliferate for unorganized prostitution and how Ireland's slopes are coated in thick smog, whispers it in Kiku's ear and tells him to exploit them, to reach out and take what he wants and never mind the consequences; America will pay for those.
After all, the sun rises in Japan.
+
His lips part in a small puff of air and blurry cheeks, and he feels Girishia-san's tongue slide against the roof of his mouth, not exactly unpleasant but altogether too tickly, like he'd been eating pineapple that had not been previously cured in salt water. He is tentative, soft and just a little too cautious for his occupation, and it makes Kiku wonder what he's done and if he might stop. He kisses back, as much as he can without appearing to do so, kisses back until he's out of breath. They break apart with a small gasp from Kiku and a lighthearted smile from the sky.
"What is that?" Girishia-san asks, jabs a tentative finger at the bulky bit of technology dangling from Kiku's neck.
"It's a camera," Kiku answers.
"That's not a camera," Heracles scratches his head, peers interestedly at the mass of dials and buttons and 24.5-megapixel lenses. A small piece of hair catches against one of his fingertips. "I know what a camera looks like, and that is not a camera. It's too big, and...too big."
"It's a Japanese camera," Kiku clarifies.
A pause.
"That explains it."
+
He is a holiday boyfriend, the proverbial summer fling. His boss bills him off as a member of a higher division of tour guides who may provide sexual favors for tips. He entertains women and men, sometimes simultaneously and sometimes unintentionally, and he is very capable of procuring illicit drugs if his client demands for it. He carries a medical card that gets reevaluated once every two weeks, a pack of breath mints that he never opens by himself. He has a soft voice that rumbles and crackles over the phone line and keeps Kiku's heart beating when he's too close. His hands are thin and broad; they wrap around the curve of Kiku's ass like they've always belonged there (and in a way, they do), and they can turn into feathers or rope at Kiku's will. His fingers are long and taut, and he knows all of the places on Kiku's body where a single stroke can turn into a flower of sparks. His mouth is curved and tender, especially so when he mouths Kiku's cock underneath a sky full of stars, dips his tongue in places that makes Kiku curl up like a cat and hear the thunder of the sea from far away.
And somewhere between fucks, there is always the Fear, a meow, a purr.
And somewhere between fucks, this is what Kiku realizes:
if the sun were to rise in Japan, then it would set in Greece and then
oh fuck I'm going to come
+
And so here's the place in the middle of street where Japan can hold his hand and keep completely still, feel the currents shift in the stream, underlying themes and subliminal messaging shattered and re-shattered until the fragments can only sift into his hair and sweep past behind his ears, cut deep to the mind, not close enough to the heart. And so here's the place where it's not dark enough to see but just dark enough to feel, feel the tingle travel from Greece's palm, down to his fingertips and up his spine and into the rest of the week.
Greece's hand is warm and reassuring, fingers even against Japan's fingers, knuckles sharp and paper-cut thin. Squeezes once, twice, three times and there's his charm.
For two hours and fifteen minutes, the world remains a beautiful place.
>>>>
yeah if anyone asks, i didn't write this. ;A;
original request. please don't ask me how it turned into something creepy like this I DON'T KNOW OKAY. but yeah, i'm still taking requests. just puttin' it out there. y'know. if you want your life ruined at the expense of my writer's flimsy bricks and such~.
A GENERAL DISCLAIMER, AS WELL AS A SAFER ALTERNATIVE TO PROSTITUTION IN FOREIGN COUNTRIES WHERE YOU DON'T HAVE MEDICAL INSURANCE:
Click to viewyou can also watch/join the comm because you love me ♥
...:D
OH AND. IF YOU WANT TO FIND SOMETHING THAT'S ACTUALLY WORTH READING, I SUGGEST THE BRAVE NEW WORLD/HETALIA CROSSOVER WRITTEN BY MY DEAR HONEYBUNNY. BECAUSE SHE DESERVES EVERY BIT OF THE PRAISE I'LL NEVER RECEIVE.