Author: Pixie-Rings

Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia

Pairing: Greece/Japan

Genre: smutty introspection? Spiritual? It's not PWP, I don't think…

Rating: soft R, I guess.

Disclaimer: APH belongs to Himaruya, and the countries factually belong to themselves. Or their bosses and the people that live there, rather.

Word count: 927

Warning: convoluted prose

Summary: It's a strange sensation, to give in in such a way. His voice is soft at first, rising in volume and pitch as Greece continues his persistent play, tuning Japan like a shamisen.

A/n: ugh, lame title is lame. I really couldn't think of what to call this.

It's a strange sensation, to give in in such a way. He does not wish for the emotions Greece is trying to write into his skin to come out, to be free, because he is not like that, but this is relentless and irresistible. His voice is soft at first, rising in volume and pitch as Greece continues his persistent play, tuning Japan like a shamisen.

Greece is powerful. His shoulders are broad and his muscles are hard, but what comes across in his touches is nothing but worshipful gentleness. His large hands, that wield his cross with deadly force, are now pure instruments of a delicacy few would see in him. They spread over Japan like dove wings, teasing him and adoring him like he's never felt before. It is as if Greece is thinking primarily of him, and only him.

Greece's skin is the colour of that toffee England used to send him. Its taste, however, is the opposite: salty, spicy, raw, burnt and impervious like his land. It is the Mediterranean, his islands and his mountains. He tastes like the clearest blue seas and the brightest sunshine draped over whitewashed houses. It is delightfully new on Japan's tongue, and he enjoys it. He enjoys the merging contrast between his paper-colour and that sun-kissed expanse, stretched over tight, compact muscles. Greece is beautiful and wild, untamed.

Greece's kisses taste much like his skin… salty and thick, like his language. They roll over Japan's tongue, calmly seeking him. Japan responds in likeness, his own tongue-work more abrupt and slightly forceful, yet obsequious: like his own language. Greece murmurs again his skin, lavishing him in Greek and wrapping him in phrases he can give no meaning to.

When Greece is inside him, it is slow and firm, deep and majestic. It makes Japan shudder throughout, desire more and feel so privileged to be able to become one with him. He is large and thick, but never, in any way, too much. His mind wanders to oplites and spears, foolish thoughts as those were Greece's mother's, but there is much left of her fiery temperament latent beneath Greece's surface, and this is what Japan is shown. Greece is a not a fire, he is a volcano: slow and passionate, able to become frenzied if needed, but mostly latent and hot. It thrills Japan in ways he hasn't felt in centuries. He allows his hands, so different from Greece's, to sink into thick curls the colour of burnt earth. He presses Greece to him and allows himself to be vocal, to allow sighs and moans gentle as the breeze that plays with his wind chimes.

Japan can be perverted. That much he knows of himself. There are things of himself that almost shame him. But none of that matters with Greece. This, this lovemaking they are entwined in, is more powerful than any sensation had before. Japan wishes it could never end. That he could be allowed to drift into this thick, resinous sea of pleasure that Greece is already a siren of, forever. Until the end of time.

But nothing lasts forever, not even that which one wishes most. The steady build, the waves that started small and grew, stormier and stormier until they became a tsunami that crashes along his senses, overwhelming his mind and rendering it useless beyond breathing and Greece's name, are now ripples inside him, and he shakes with them, trembling like the aftershock of an earthquake.

Greece then rides it out, his own tremors oddly contrasting under Japan's palm. Japan spreads his hands over Greece's back, sighs his name, ever obsequious, ever 'Girisha-san', and the larger nation pulls away from him to kiss him lazily. He is like a cat basking in the sun now, lethargic, idle and content. Greece nestles at Japan's side and pulls him close, burying his nose in the inky bowl of Japan's hair, his arms wrapped protectively around him. No matter how much Japan will deny it, this will not be the last of their trysts. Something was born here, Japan knows. Something kindled in the green pools of Greece's eyes, dark with desire and alit with… with…

Japan allows himself to move closer to Greece, wishing to stay as close as possible. His fingers follow invisible trails over the thick, strong arm around his middle, sprinkled with darker hairs against dark skin that make such a different sensation. And he allows himself to relax in satiation, to enjoy the gentle warmth of afterglow.

"We'll do this again," Greece murmurs against the shell of his ear, kissing the dip behind it ever so gently, like a butterfly skimming his skin. Japan hums his approval, snuggling back into the embrace and sighing again. Greece seems content with his answer, and soon drifts away. Japan stays awake, struggles to, a moment longer, and smiles. This warmth, this slow, sweet desire, is all he's ever wanted.