Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia


Mama's Boys

When Herakles finally gets to the door of his Santorini home, he's only a little surprised to find Hassan standing on the doorstep in thrown on sweats and a football jersey. Wordlessly Hassan digs into his pocket, flashing the red-and-white top of a Marlboro cigarette box at the other, and the door is opened further to allow him in.

Neither of them says a word, until they're reclining on crappy sun chairs behind Herakles' home, a lighter making quick word of igniting their fags.

"The mom thing?" Herakles starts, putting the cigarette to his lips and inhaling sharply. It's been a while since they last did this, and there's a small burn as the smoke fills his lungs to their brim, but it fades in moments anyways.

Hassan makes a soft noise, his features turned into something hard and bitter. Because Herakles knows better he can see the weariness under it all, and there's an echo in his chest. He exhales the stream of smoke and sighs.

"Two-thousand years and I'm still in the shadow of her legacy," Hassan comments, his tone failing to be harsh because of its melodious quality. "I love her," he adds more gently, almost reverently, "but…"

Herakles shushes him, because he knows what that's like, for sure, and he knows that the worst thing to do is to keep thinking about it. He loves his mother, too; he's as much of a mama's boy as they come, even. But he's also more than well aware that most of everything that forms his identity is hers. Her architecture, her gods, her art and her ideas. Herakles looks over at Hassan, who is nursing the cigarette like it can siphon all his bad feelings away. He allows his eyes to roam over the other's lazy, unkempt appearance, and in the recesses of his mind he starts to come up with another way to exorcise those bad feelings, once and for all.

But then suddenly Hassan is looking at him, eyebrows pulled up in exasperation.

"Don't even think about," he warns, and Herakles scowls. For as long as he's known Hassan, and it's been a long, long time, he's still not used to the other's hyper-intuition. It's a bit frightening, how well Hassan can read his thoughts without a single word having been uttered.

"Too late."

Hassan sighs in an almost dramatic way, and presses the cigarette butt out against the arm of his chair. Herakles tries not to let his excitement show when he asks, "Is that a yes?"

Hassan stands suddenly, and turns to the other with a soft smile. They're in Herakles' bedroom almost instantly.


In his faintest memories, Herakles can still remember the faces of their predecessors. His mother's comes easiest, of course; it tickles his mind nearly every time he looks into a mirror. But hers is not the only one.

It's when Herakles is straddling Hassan, his hands planted on either side of his head, that the image of Hassan's mother is sharpened in his mind. There are trace features of Rome there, too; they both have that quality about them, for better or worse. But it's mostly her, the same thin lips and all-knowing cattish eyes, adjusted slightly to fit on the more masculine jaw. Herakles doesn't shake his head so as not to arouse any of Hassan's suspicions about where his thoughts are taking him, but he does lean down and kiss him.

Herakles' focus centers immediately on the body beneath his. He and Hassan don't have sex very often, for a multitude of reasons the other does no good job of explaining, and when they do the foreplay always drags on. Unlike Herakles' (many) other partners, Hassan is never one to come looking for sex; in fact, most of the time Herakles picks up on the other's need for it before he himself does. And even then, it takes the gentle coaxing to get him out of his shell, a silent little tete-a-tete of touches to convince Hassan to take down his walls. Herakles knows why it's like this, but he can't help but wish sometimes that it wasn't. That maybe it didn't matter if they were half-brothers, or second-generation Nations, and especially that others had never used sex with Hassan to further their own ambitions.

Or, at least, Hassan could acknowledge that he knew Herakles wasn't like them.

Herakles' lips roam over Hassan's face first, pressing gentle little kisses to his brow and on the bridge of his nose. He nuzzles their noses together and chuckled softly, in the way that was all just an upbeat exhale of breath. He lets the corners of his mouth brush the other's as he kisses the cheeks that warmed under his ministrations. And then he leans up, looks Hassan in the eyes, and pretends he doesn't see the other's tears. There must be some translation of the tenderness he holds for the other somewhere on his face, or maybe it's just Hassan's killer intuition once again, because Hassan smiles up at him.

And then Hassan bits his lip, trying to keep words from rolling off his tongue, Herakles can tell. He shifts his weight onto one palm, and rubs his coarse thumb gently on Hassan's lip until it's freed from his teeth.

"You like me for me… right?"

Hassan averts his gaze when the words spilled out, probably ashamed of them and of how needy he sounds. Herakles knows about Hassan's attempts to be self-reliant: to resist foreign occupation, to use other Nations' conflicts when it suited him, if it came to that. He also knows that his friend, his brother, is being utterly ridiculous.

"Of course I do. You're very pretty."

Hassan looks back up, and this time he rolls his eyes and shifts up. Herakles laughs a little, this time from his parted lips. Since their toddler days, before they knew of things like war and occupation and legacy, it had only been Herakles who was allowed to call Hassan 'pretty'. Others can call him graceful or nimble or mysterious or wily, but only Herakles can call him pretty.

"You're insufferable,"

"You love me, though."

"And you love lots of people," Hassan responds calmly, all traces of the life that had been there seconds ago gone just as quickly. Deciding the situation needs salvaging before Hassan gets any more self destructive, because it really made for awful sex when he was, Herakles pushes him back down against the sheets before peeling his own shirt off. Hassan shifts, giving Herakles permission to do to him the same, and soon the jersey joins the wifebeater on the floor. Herakles keeps up with the kisses, this time making a trail from Hassan's ear to his jaw and down to his nipples, and Hassan rewards him by tangling his fingers in Herakles' mop of curls, tugging and threading.

"You're special," Herakles murmurs over wet skin, relishing in the little shiver the other gives. Hassan is the worst at vocal expression, but Herakles enjoys the challenge of sensing it off his body. He gives little nips, careful not to leave bruises because as much as he wants to, he knows the other will complain and give him pointed looks. And sometimes that's fun, but he's not in the mood.

Herakles takes a quick peek down, looking to see if Hassan has a suitable erection yet. There is definitely heat coming off of him, that much Herakles can feel even between their layers of pants (and probably underwear on Hassan's part). But there isn't any tenting, and Herakles feels his pride get a little dented. He knows he shouldn't be thinking of his very own half-brother/best friend/lifelong companion as another conquest in the bedroom, but it's the way he's hardwired, no doubt thanks to his parents…

Suddenly he's seeing Hassan's complaints about living in their shadows in a whole new light.

What catches his eye on the way back up from his inspection of Hassan's nether regions is the little dip in his stomach, his bellybutton. There are only two Nations in the world who have them, and only a handful who know about this at all; both of those Nations are in Herakles' bedroom presently. Sometimes he's wondered if it's because they both had two Nation-parents, and not just one or none, like the others. Other times he wonders if it's because so much of their culture relies on their past, only then wouldn't Italy and Italy have them too? He's had sex with both enough times to know that neither does.

Right now, he's mostly wondering if it would be sexy to engage it in play, or if it would just turn the other off. Realizing there's only one way to really find out, Herakles takes the plunge. He goes in with his tongue, and it's not the best taste in the world but it's certainly nothing close to the worst thing Herakles has put to his mouth. And it's worth it for when Hassan hisses and tightens his hands on the sheets.

"What?"

"Relax," Herakles murmurs, rubbing the curve of his pelvis absently. Hassan is still tense, but his death grip on the sheets loosens, which is good enough. He licks the other's navel again, nipping at the soft skin just beneath. He then sits up, running his fingers over his lean muscles and bony ribs, just feeling the heat coming off him. Herakles smiles, and takes another kiss from Hassan. This one is long and wet and full on the lips, and with a sneaky hand Herakles feels around for the other's readiness. It's there now, an erection pushing against the cloth of his pants.

Herakles tapers the kiss off with a gentle humming moan in Hassan's mouth. The other exhales softly, parting his swollen lips and panting softly as he lifts his hips off the bed. Without waiting for Herakles' help, he slides his pants and underwear down past his knees in one go. Herakles removes them the rest of the way, dropping them out of his way. It takes a lot for him not to immediately peel his pants off too, but he palms at his crotch to placate his cock.

Hassan's shifted upwards again, so he's leaning his shoulders against the headboard of the bed. His body is curved, knees pointed outwards and legs spread. This is how Herakles knows he enjoys sex much more than he ever lets on; he loves to arrange his body on the bed, he loves to make it easier on his partner, and most of all Hassan loves to watch. So Herakles laughs and Hassan hits him on the shoulder with an open palm, both reprimanding and urging.

They kiss again, and Herakles whispers softly in Greek, wondering if Hassan can understand him at all and figuring that he probably can. They kiss, and Herakles can feel like he's losing a part of himself to it because Hassan is so overwhelming when he puts his all into something. But then they break the kiss and Herakles' hands are on Hassan's cock, and Hassan's nimble fingers are in Herakles' hair and on his skin. Hassan's hard and hot, and the tip of his shaft starts leaking precum almost as soon as Herakles starts stroking. Lovingly Herakles rubs it off onto his thumb, and then when he catches Hassan's hazy eyes he makes a show of licking it clean. Hassan moans a little, Adam's apple bobbing as he tries to hold in the moans. There's a drop of sweat rolling down Hassan's forehead, and Herakles licks it before its saltiness can burn the other's eye. He takes in the sight of Hassan, body tight, breath heavy, hair sweaty, pupils dilated...

Herakles takes his hands off of Hassan because he can't wait any longer; he needs to be touched too. His pants come off so quickly a gust of air is blown out as they're tossed across the room. Hassan laughs a little, really faintly, and focuses his gaze on Herakles' penis now that it's out in the open. Herakles watches as Hassan swipes at his forehead with that back of his hand, before he grabs onto Herakles' cock and strokes it.

Usually when Herakles has sex, his partner is always the first priority. There are some exceptions, of course, but most of them wait until they've come undone to give Herakles any pleasure in return. He doesn't really blame them because he knows he's good at sex, and he can only imagine that if he was having sex with someone who was both instinctively talented and who had several centuries to perfect his technique, he'd get distracted too. But it's nice to see both of their cocks out in humid air of his bedroom, both fully erect. And it's especially nice when he doesn't have to wait as long to be touched.

"Hassan," he murmurs lowly, his own voice sounding a little gruff. Hassan isn't the best at giving handjobs; he has the basic technique down pat and knows a couple of good tricks too, but he's usually the one receiving the sexual act and it shows in the deliberateness and shyness of his ministrations. Still, it's not bad, either; what he lacks in skill he more than makes up for in effort.

Still, Herakles cuts in, wrapping his large, calloused palm around the base of both of them. Hassan shivers and bucks up a little, and Herakles can feel that motion shudder through his whole cock. Then Hassan settles his slightly smaller palm above Herakles', engulfing the tips of their cocks and rubbing them against his skin and each other in quick, almost jerky motions.

They fall into that pattern, with Herakles stroking them up and down, turning his palm around them every so often, and Hassan teasing the hot foreskin of their cocks, his palm spreading the stickiness of their precum. Herakles' foot rests against Hassan's ass, toeing the taut skin and sliding up to his spine, and Hassan sets his free hand at the nape of Herakles' neck, where his fingers tease at a little known sensitive spot.

Hassan pulls Herakles in closer a little too hard, and his head hits into the headboard with a thud. Before Herakles can ask if he's okay, they're kissing hotly, mouths open and tongues wrestling.

Hassan comes first; there's a lot of stimuli all at once, Herakles knows it, and he feels the moment when Hassan's body tightens up hard before his seed spills out into his palm. Herakles smoothes his hand up, and rubs the other's come all over his shaft, as Hassan's hand falls slack. Herakles' eyes are barely open now, because his sweaty bangs are hanging in them, but he forces himself to focus on the other's face as he comes, because it is very, very pretty.

And when Hassan's breathing is back to almost-normal, he sits up with a huge smile that's threatening to take over his face, and he slides Herakles' penis in both of his hands and puts his all into it, undoing the other with white-hot fervor. When Herakles comes, Hassan shyly licks a flick of his cum off his palm, his lips swollen and his cheeks cherry red. This makes Herakles smile, because he knows it was done for him; Hassan doesn't enjoy the taste of cum very much.

Then Herakles leans in, pulling Hassan closer to him and settling their heads on his beaten pillow. Hassan's smile becomes more content, but it fades away into softness when his eyes fall shut.

"Was that good?" Herakles asks softly, his voice already thick with sleepiness. Hassan nods, and when he shifts his head his nose brushes Herakles' cheek, which he figures is answer enough. Feeling good about himself, Herakles drifts off to sleep.

end


A/N: I originally got inspired for this doing my art history reading, which was about Ancient Egyptian artwork, and seeing how many times they simply referred to it as "Egyptian" in the text. The same thing occurred in my readings about Ancient Greece, and I basically started to wonder at how other nations who don't have close relations with these two would treat them and view their culture. I mean, a lot of what we know here in the States about Egypt and Greece is really limited to ancient times, and it just blossomed into this concept in my head. I'm not very sure where the porn came from, but.

But, I finally fufilled my goal for this fandom, of writing a romance for my OTP. This pairing was the first one I ever shipped when I started the manga in summer 09, and it's taken me two full years and then some to finally figure out their story. So I hope you all really enjoyed it!