It is night when Anatolia is brought before her. Hellas is in a tent, still in her armour, still bloody and sticky from the fight. Anatolia is fighting in her men's arms and Hellas' tongue moves out of her mouth to lick her lips.
The woman is in chains, her long dark hair matted with sweat and blood. Hellas makes her kneel in front of her, and she starts laughing. She laughs for what feels like minutes, and then she crouches and crushes Anatolia's jaw in her hand.
“I have you, finally, finally at my feet.”
The spit on her cheek is worth the lashing it justifies. That night, she summons one of the young men to her tent. She cries out Anatolia's name as she climaxes and then laughs until she is breathless.
She enjoys seeing her possessions in her house. She doesn't care if they are working for her, against her or are simply resigned (though sometimes she mourns the death of the fire in Kemet's eyes), as long as they are there and as long as she can touch them readily.
Kemet is quiet under her hands now, so much quieter than she used to be. Her son is next to her at all times, causing Hellas to back away. The boy's eyes are as blank and empty as his mother's, and when Hellas thinks of that one time he called her 'aunt Hellas' she just feels like invading some fresh, new country. But she still combs Kemet's hair, still presses kisses to her shoulder after they fuck. But it is a one-sided kind of fucking that Hellas soon gets bored with.
Syria makes her want to tear her hair out, but it is so much better when the conquered territory does so. They have each other against the walls of Hellas' garden, on the floor of her bedroom, and inside the pond. They go on for hours on end, and afterwards Hellas feels vibrant and strong; Syria always ends up in chains afterwards.
Persia she hardly ever touches in that manner. He taunts her endlessly and her domination of him happens with whips and starvation, not hands and tongues. The nights after the whippings she cries out when she brings herself to a climax, remembering old days, old fights. She never dreams afterwards.
Anatolia never speaks to her, but the fire has not died in her eyes. She does chores without having been told to, but she leaves poisoned berries in Hellas' salad; She calles Hellas 'mistress' but she nearly bites of her captor's finger when her cheek is patted. Hellas delights in it, delights in the thrill that courses through her when Anatolia's head is between her legs, arms bound behind her back. She never gets bitten, but the chance is always there.
Some nights, Hellas summons her and makes her dance during dinner. The music and Anatolia's body become one, and for a split-second Hellas feels like an uncultured hick-- and then she remembers that she has the largest household anyone has ever had, and she smiles.
Other nights, it is Anatolia bound to a bed with crude rope or soft fabrics, legs spread as wide as the bed's width, and it is Hellas between them. Hellas kisses softly tanned breasts until they are wet, until Anatolia's nipples are so sensitive there are tears in her eyes. When she has enough patience for it, she works a whole fist inside of the conquered territory, fingers held tightly together. When she manages that, she feels so fulfilled that she feels almost as full as Anatolia must feel in that moment. When she manages that, she kisses the woman underneath her softly until she climaxes. Hellas does not even need to touch herself; the wetness streams down her thighs with no help from anyone.
But her favourite is the blindfold. Sometimes it is Anatolia that wears it, other times it is Hellas. It is risky, and she always informs herself thoroughly of circumstances in the land before suggesting it, but it is worth it to be underneath warm, dry hands, being thoroughly unfurled until she's breathless with it. Because even blindfolded and at Anatolia's mercy, there is the knowledge in Hellas' mind that she is not getting killed, not getting betrayed-- the knowledge that she has truly subjected Anatolia.
She thinks of him the day after she has made the small clay figure. She gets up in the middle of the night to touch the still-soft material, to see it mold underneath her fingers. She can't wait to start working on the marble, has already worked out the grid system in her head. She will touch her fingers to an abdomen as rock-hard as his was when she positioned him, see a strong back emerge from underneath her chisel.
When she is back in bed, brown-stained fingers bring her to an easy climax, arching underneath imagined, strong hands.
The next day he is back, for her to do a touch-up on the clay figure. She imagines positioning him again, but instead of touching his shoulder she will touch his abdomen; instead of his thigh, she will touch his cock. She wants to feel it harden until it is like marble in her hands, but warm like marble never gets.
He looks at her, spectacles still on his nose; she lets out a sigh and orders him to undress.
That night she uses the little toy she keeps underneath her bed, pushing the hard leather into herself. It has warmed in her hands, between her thighs, and somehow she wishes it was a little colder.
Many days, weeks go by before she sees him again, yet every day she works on the statue and every night she imagines the blond, pale man underneath her, between her thighs. She makes good progress, wanting to touch the real thing again as soon as she can. She makes up an excuse to have him visit her, needs to make sure that she has the right pose down. Of course she does, and of course the proportions are more than perfect. But the moment he takes off his glasses he turns into something more than a barbarian, and she wants to kneel in front of him and bite his hip until she can see the white of his skin turn red and blue.
It takes months to finish it, months until she is satisfied. She is completely covered in dust when he comes in, awkward as ever; she is wearing a loincloth, her breasts unbound, chisel still in her hand as he moves closer.
She shows him the statue, lets him see every perfect inch of himself. She takes his hand and puts it on his marble jaw, his collarbone and shoulders. She moves her hand down over the statue's cold, hard abdomen, sighing in satisfaction.
His hand comes to rest over hers when she is touching a marble hip, and when she closes her eyes it is all marble-white on her eyelids.
He takes her against the statue, her arms thrown up so that her hands can clench at his stone head. He bends to take her nipple into his mouth and she clenches her thighs around him so hard she can already imagine bruises blooming beautifully. She makes him move to the wall soon enough, then the table, and when that gives in she rides him as he lies on the floor. His hands are strong on her wide hips, and he is completely silent while she lets out sharp cries of conquest. His hands move over her as if she were Galatea, as if the dust on the planes of her belly isn't from hard work but from coming to life.
His eyes close as he climaxes inside of her, and she thinks she can hear a soft moan when he does. Her shudder is full-body, the arch of her back complete when she follows suit.
He helps her colour in the markings on his back, the stroke of his brush crude but precise.
It is the very early morning, just before sunrise. Hellas has been awake for two and a half days, and her eyes droop shut every now and then. Being in a bed isn't helping, either, but she doesn't want to fall asleep. Not yet.
Because she knows that any minute now Kemet will wake up. She's surprised she didn't wake up earlier, when Hellas snuck into her bed. Hellas's feet are still cold from the water she trudged through to get to the shore, and her hair smells like the salty wind of the sea between her lands and Kemet's. Kemet's hair smells of sand and perfume, cropped so short to her skull that it only just tickles Hellas' nose when she leans in.
“Helios is nearly there, my beautiful Kemet,” she whispers. “I told him to be on his best behaviour today.”
There is no real sign of surprise from Kemet, no sitting up quickly, no stabbing. This is not the first time Hellas has snuck into Kemet's bed, however, and the transition from sleep to complete understanding of the situation is easily made.
“In my lands, it is easy to do his job properly.” Kemet stirs a little, then turns her head on her headrest so she can look at Hellas. “I wish he would stop trying so hard. It is high time for the floods, and it is getting hard to leave the house without burning alive at this point.”
Hellas leans in and presses her lips to Kemet's neck, then opens her mouth to suck the warm, dry skin there. “You're being dramatic, my dear,” she murmurs when she pulls back, only to put a hand on Kemet's stomach. “You could never be uncomfortable outside.” It's very sensible of Kemet-- acting like her people would, no bragging about being perfectly fine in the scorching heat, even in full armour. It's more practical, but Hellas could never resist a good brag.
Kemet doesn't reply, which Hellas takes as a 'go on, you imbecile,'and she smiles against Kemet's shoulder.
Hellas makes love to Kemet with her tongue for half an hour, then with her fingers for five minutes. She drags her fingers through the wetness between the other woman's legs after, tracks one finger up to the woman's navel, then laughs when Kemet shoots her a pointed look.
The Nile floods three days later. Hellas helps on the land, then makes Kemet thank her for a whole day.
It's been almost an hour. It started out as a lazy make-out session ('I'm bored, wanna do it?', and when you're a little drunk and Denmark is looking good cause he's been working out, and, well, Belgium was wearing shorts today, you say yeah, okay, sure.) but now it's been almost an hour. Netherlands' dick is starting to look pretty pathetic, and Denmark is just shoving himself against him. Someone's fingers were in someone's ass at some point, but it didn't really do much except leaving both of them with sticky fingers and slightly sore asses.
“Jesus Christ you pathetic asshole, are you actually gonna do something except--” Another elbow in his eye, and he can't even summon the energy to turn this around and throw Denmark on his back and just-- shove it--
He pulls at Denmark's hair, almost gets in a good rut, then falls back with a disappointed groan when Denmark suddenly sits back. Netherlands has a feeling the other guy's just going to call it quits now, get them both a beer and watch a game or something. He makes to get up as well, starting to button up his pants again, when he sees it--
Denmark is just. Sitting there, head thrown back, pulling at his half-hard dick.
“What the fuck are you doing--” Netherlands starts, but Denmark just moans, and Netherlands can't help but look on in fascination. Denmark is getting steadily harder, and Netherlands wonders what the other man is thinking of to look so turned on. He crawls a little closer, putting one hand on Denmark's bare thigh. Denmark's eyes are closed, his wrist is loose and he moves his hand easily over his cock. His mouth is open, Adam's apple bobbing every time he swallows around dry air, and his legs spread a little wider, seemingly on their own.
Suddenly frustrated, Netherlands leans forward a little. He can feel Denmark's hot breath on his chin, feels the vibration of a small moan. What, an hour of boring dry humping, and Denmark touches himself for a few seconds and suddenly he's all hot for it?
“If you wanted to jerk off,” Netherlands mutters, “you shoulda just told m--”
Netherlands' complaint is cut short by spurts of warm come in his bare forearm, by a dull groan against his shoulder. He doesn't know what to do, just feels the fluid drip down his arm, onto his hand, as Denmark lets out a content sigh and slumps against him.
He's definitely not gonna stand for this. He's not going to just sit there and be-- what is this, Japanese porn? No way.
It takes Denmark longer than usual to come down from the orgasm, probably because he's so thick. Netherlands pushes the other man off himself, noticing how out of it Denmark still is, breathing hard and probably dreaming about winning a football match or something equally stupid. By the time Denmark comes back 'round, blinking sluggishly, then frowning, Netherlands has pulled off his own pants, thrown Denmark's off the bed, and is between his now-spread legs. Denmark starts a little, looking up at Netherlands with that stupid, confused look on his stupid face, before his face scrunches up and he lets out a pained groan. Netherlands quickly slathers some lube onto his dick, then pushes himself inside in one move, glad for the lame as hell fingerfuck of half an hour ago.
He rests inside of Denmark for a few long seconds, straining. Denmark's closed his eyes again, a low groan leaving him as he relaxes enough to feel some pleasure through the strain. This is much better, Netherlands thinks as he starts moving. He fists one hand in Denmarks hair, pulling the dumbass up to bite at his shoulder, his collarbone, his neck; harder than necessary, but damnit he deserves to be a little rough after the hour of awful sex he just lived through.
Once he gets going he can't stop, hips snapping forward. Denmark is moving with him, too, sometimes pushing against Netherlands' (still clothed) chest, trying to move on top, but Netherlands is sure of his position, keeps moving, keeps thrusting steadily. Soon he's grunting as he thrusts forward, all the frustration unravelling and spiralling up to one high point, and when he comes inside of Denmark it's with a loud groan and a sigh.
He pulls out when he's completely done, collapsing onto his back. He reaches over to the nighstand to grab his cigarettes with a sigh, needing to do something with his hands or his mouth or whatever-- he still has a slightly sexual itch, a desire for more. But looking at Denmark, almost asleep already, he figures screw it, maybe next time.
“Next time you feel like driving me crazy,” he says to Denmark, reaching out a hand to push at the other man's head, “just send over a fleet.”
When Greece grows older, the Ottoman Empire starts seeing his mother in him. His eyes are exactly the same, but they are angry all the time unlike hers. The boy knows no limits when it comes to the Empire, is always raging, always seething, ready to rip out a throat or two. Sometimes he watches the boy from afar, when he is quiet, but the fire is still in his eyes. He never rests.
Sadiq can appreciate that. The Ottoman Empire can't.
So the beatings pile up, keep going; so the rebellions. It drives the Empire crazy, because all he wants is a calm house to come home to after whupping some serious ass. But it seems Greece cannot grant him anything-- so when the Ottoman comes home he is greeted with a fist, and his duties simply continue.
But despite all the emotions, all the harm done to each other, things never explode. With everything piling up, at one point, it should all collapse in on itself-- someone's violent death, or sex so hard they'll both be bruised for weeks. But it never happens, and the tension just rises.
Centuries later, Turkey has shed his heavy silks and jewels; he wears a simple green coat over simple pants. Sometimes he misses the weight, but most of the time he doesn't. Greece looks the same, but Turkey just chalks that up to the fire in his eyes. To him, Greece could never not look like himself, like his mother.
Turkey prides himself on being calmer, now. He's a big ol' regular country, no more imperialism, no more house full of conquered territories. He doesn't miss it. Honestly, Europe, he doesn't miss it one bit.
Except for those rare times he drinks ouzo because it reminds him of-- fuck, fuck, it reminds him of nothing, it reminds him of anice, because that's what it goddamn tastes like, just like sour wine is sour wine, even when he drinks it while eating olives. It reminds him of nothing.
But Greece is sitting in front of him now, and it's had to ignore the memories from bubbling up. He only looks up when Greece provokes him:
“Do you want some Greek olives to go with that Greek ouzo you're drinking?”
And that, well, that's just unacceptable. Implying that Turkey likes Greek things-- because he definitely doesn't. He definitely doesn't like Greek things, so that's why it's okay when he throws the glass of ouzo at Greece's face, and then just throws the bottle after the glass for good measure.
Greece manages to avoid the bottle, but the glass hits him, straight on the forehead, leaving an ugly mark. Turkey snorts, then yelps when Greece throws a plate at him.
Greece throws the first knuckle-cracking punch, but Turkey is quick to take the boy in a headlock. They both end up with bruises on their backs and stomachs; Turkey can already feel a black eye coming up when, suddenly, he feels Greece's mouth on his, can feel the blood in his own mouth seeping into Greece's. His eyes are open and he can see Greece's face: it looks like Greece isn't sure what is going on either. (In hindsight, Turkey thinks it has to be him that started it. It was a great kiss, so of course he must have initiated it. Greece walks away every time he brings it up, which must mean jealousy and shame at being a bad kisser are consuming him.)
Turkey nearly tears out Greece's hair when shoves him up against the bar. He's frustrated and pissed off and so very, very turned on right now; right now, when he's pushinga hand inside Greece's pants and cups him through-- well, through nothing, the cheeky son of a bitch.
“You been ready for me?” It was a stupid question, but the bite to his neck (so hard it makes him yell, then shove up against Greece again) is worth the raised mark Greece's teeth leave there.
Neither is ready, though, it seems after a (bloody, agressive) while, and they don't dare move from the bar while they rut up against each other. Turkey's not sure what to do-- turn Greece around, shove his fingers inside, fuck him against the bar? Drop to his knees and take in all of Greece's cock in one go? Just stand there and let Greece finish him off with those annoying, insolent, strong, fuckin' amazing hands?
By the time he's made up his mind it's already happening, Greece's hand moving over Turkey's cock in precise, hard strokes that drive him over the edge in no-time, but he enjoys it while it lasts-- watches Greece's hands on himself with breathless fascination. It doesn't take more than a few minutes for Turkey to finish, a tightness in his stomach that drifts down to his groin, and before he knows it he's coming all over his own stomach and Greece's hands with long, intense spurts. It leaves Turkey panting and shivering; it leaves Greece with a bloody bite on his shoulder, half-deaf from the shouting in his right ear, and a stupidly hard cock.
Turkey takes a little longer to figure Greece out. The brat's always been like that-- contradictory and
complicated, leaving Turkey so frustrated he almost gives up right there and walks out on the brat. He tries gentle, because he can't imagine Greece liking rough after all the beatings he received over the centuries, but that just makes the brat look sweaty and bothered. Tries quick, but that just gets him snapped at to calm down and try not to rip his cock off in the process. So by the time he's got it down Greece is shouting in Greek, English, even a little Turkish (bastard, bastard, twist your stupid goddamn wrist you old geezer, how long has it been since you gave someone a handjob, fuck fuck fuck) but Turkey gets it, traps Greece between the bar and himself and then just holds his cock tightly until he comes.
Afterwards, they wash their hands on the other side of the bar, because it's goddamn weird to go around putting that stuff in your mouth for fun, get dressed, and leave without saying another word. Turkey's not sure where it'll go from here. He hopes things won't get worse, doesn't think their relationship could take the blow. He hopes this'll happen again, just with less black eyes and broken plates, so he can lick Greece open, see him shivering and cursing underneat him, maybe even let Greece do the same to him. But he sure isn't gonna call Greece up and ask ('So, about that fucking thing-- you wanna do it again next week? I'll bring the lube, you bring the condoms'), so all he can do is wait.
They huddle together underneath the bed when the Ottoman storms by. Egypt is older than Greece, he's a boy that just lost his mother whereas Egypt can hardly remember his, but it feels like they're protecting one another. Greece clutches Egypt's arm while Egypt holds onto Greece's small, warm hand. They both shiver, then exchange smiles once danger has passed, when the last of the silks and curled slippers have passed by their eyes and their breathless throats.
It's good not to be alone when you're scared, Greece whispers, peeking out from underneath the bed.
It is better to have a companion hope, Egypt answers, and pretends that there are no tears when Greece smiles at him.
It takes Greece a long time to grow up, to look more like a man than a boy. Egypt finds it hard to ignore once the change is permanent, and often finds himself looking away when Greece is undressing. He remembers hiding underneath Sadik's bed, remembers clutching onto each other in fear, but now a thrill runs through him at the memory. He feels unclean whenever he thinks is and turns his back to Greece when he bathes. For once, he thanks Allah that Greece is so absent-minded, thick-headed even, when he hunches his back when he dries off.
“Tea.” It's not a question, but it makes Egypt look over his shoulder all the same. Greece is frowning as he puts on his clothes, tightens the band around his waist, then touches his fingertips to his lips.
“Ah...?” Egypt is never sure what to do with Greece when he's like this, his mind is still hazy from the hot bath.
It takes Greece a while, obviously, to realise what's even going on. “Tea. Have you already--” He raises his hand and gestures to the left, as if he's showing Egypt the way to words already spoken.
Egypt shakes his head and smiles. He finishes putting on his keffiyeh and makes his way over to Greece. “I have not. Right now, then?”
He gets a nod and a smile in reply; Egypt watches him as he leads the way out of the baths, and has never wanted Greece as much before.
That night, he cannot even close his eyes to sleep, let alone fall into a numb trance. He thinks about Greece, smelling like the perfumes the Ottoman gives him, oiled from his clavicle to his toes, coming out of a bath. The water drips off Greece in Egypt's dream, or stays on top of his oily skin, slowly slipping down. Of course he is completely naked, which is not unusual in real life, let alone in Egypt's late-night dreams. The guilt almost overpowers the thought of Greece breathing on his bared neck (these days, the feeling of air against the back of his neck feels sinful) and stroking a rough thumb over Egypt's hipbone. He knows exactly what Greece looks like, the scars, the tanlines, the roughness of his hands, even when he is not around.
He bites his lip when he cups himself through his nightshirt, imagines Greece going to his knees in front of him to rub a cheek against the cloth, briefly thinks of the roles being reversed, thinks of mouthing Greece's cock through light, brightly coloured pants. But when he drags his hand over the planes of his stomach Greece is back on his knees, looking up like this is all he wants, right now. Just when he slides his hand down to his erection again, Greece pushes his clothes up, holding it up with firm and steady hands as he leans in and presses an open-mouthed kiss to Egypt's erection.
The moan in his head echoes into the richly furnished room, and he starts jerking off slowly, upper body rocking into the mattress. In his mind Greece is sucking on him eagerly, one hand cupping his testicles, the other wrapping around the base of his erection.
Greece doesn't need any encouragement from Egypt, but he doesn't mind it when fantasy-him puts a hand on top of his head and starts thrusting forward into his hot mouth. He keeps taking it in deeper, almost impossibly so, for such a long time, like he doesn't need air, likes he enjoys pressing his nose into the black curls on Egypt's crotch.
Like the real him, the fantasy-him doesn't last for long. He licks his hand once so he can pull faster, so he can realistically imagine Greece with strings of come on his face, strings that he will later wipe off with his finger, which he will then lick clean.
His moan is more of a sob than an expression of pleasure. He will have to clean his sheets, his hands are sticky and he feels sweaty.
He still can't sleep.
These fantasies get richer over the centuries. He doesn't always think of Greece in that way: sometimes he imagines stabbing Greece, or taking him prisoner and letting him starve in a dungeon somewhere. Other times it starts with taking the often rebellious nation prisoner and ends with Egypt hitting him with a light whip, over the bare buttocks, and it excites him. It is disconcerting, but sometimes he is lucky enough to have forgotten his fantasies in the morning.
The nicest moments are when he is sitting side-by-side with his friend, drinking tea or eating something with their fingers. When they can both laugh at themselves and at the world, troubles forgotten in favour of friendship. When night falls, they both fall asleep against the other, and there are no thoughts of sex, ruined friendships and bitter, nagging guilt.
On this particular day, they are sitting on a mountaintop in Greece's house. There is a breeze that makes Egypt want to pull his clothes tighter around him, but Greece's arms and his feet are bare. They are eating baklava from a sticky plate in between them, and Egypt is completely at peace until Greece won't stop staring at him. He frowns and touches his clean hand to his mouth, trying to feel for a stray piece of filo dough on his chin, but Greece's eyes are on his lips.
“Do I have something...?” He supposes he may as well ask, but Greece shakes his head and puts his fingers in the honey on the plate.
“I've never had sex with you,” Egypt hears, and he's left blinking like a particularly dense owl.
“You have not,” he finally replies, licking his lips nervously. “Is that...” He's not sure what he wants to say now. Is that bad? Do you want to? Is that really appropriate to say to someone who has been your friend for centuries?
He ends up saying nothing, because Greece starts sucking the honey of first his own fingers, then takes Egypt's hand and starts sucking the honey off-- and he is hard just like that.
“You want to...? …here?” This seems the most pressing matter right now, not the fact that his fingers are in Greece's hot, wet mouth and that he can definitely see that Greece's zipper is straining. Though, all things considered, he knows how he would like this to end up, and it involves spending copious amounts of time lying down, and he would prefer it not to be on rocks.
“Ah... It's the breeze against your back when you're having intercourse, I suppose,” he says, looking out over the sea, then back at Egypt, “Waves crashing against the rocks below,” another pause, and Egypt already regrets asking, and he supposes he can live with maybe getting a few bruises.
“Alright,” he breathes, just to stop him from overthinking, and he leans in to kiss Greece on the lips. It's exactly like he always imagined, though honey and filo dough were not always involved. Greece's lips are soft but a little chapped at the corners, full and pleasant to press his own lips again. Greece kisses Egypt like he's seen him kiss other people countless times, open-mouthed and just wet enough for it to be arousing. He wraps a hand around the back of Egypt's neck and scoots closer before shifting to lie down on his back. Egypt understands, sighs into the kiss, and lies down between Greece's legs.
They kiss for a while, bodies slowly moving against one another. Greece's hands wander over Egypt's body while Egypt himself is trying to think of the logistics. Greece doesn't seem bothered, holds him close and rolls his hips against Egypt's. It's hard to think like that, but Egypt shifts them, slowly, inch by inch. And somehow, because he still thinks of Greece of someone younger than him, and it feels strange to act the submissive role this first time, it ends up with Egypt behind Greece, holding on to the other man's chest tightly as he thrusts forward between Greece's tightly closed thighs. He shot down the suggestion to use honey as a lubricant, figuring that was probably not very hygienic. This feels as good as anything else, though-- with his nose buried in the nape of Greece's neck he can smell the country and the man at the same time. It feels like he is making love to both Herakles and Greece, like he can ease both their worries for a moment. He tugs on Greece's cock steadily, listening to the small sounds escaping him so he can make this as good for Greece as it is for him.
He hasn't laid with anyone for so long, it doesn't take him long to come, spilling out onto the rocks and Greece's warm skin. Greece obviously has more stamina than he does-- even after Egypt has gathered his wits after the orgasm, he's only panting a little louder, thrusting his hips forward, yearning for more friction. It makes Egypt want, again, badly, but all he can do now is bring Greece to a finish.
He moves back in between Greece's legs, his own knees cushioned on their discarded clothes. Greece makes an inquiring sound, but it's cut off when Egypt leans forward and takes the tip of Greece's erection into his mouth-- cut off, then replaced with a long moan. He keeps his eyes open to look down when Egypt starts bobbing his head. Egypt likes the contrast of his hands on Greece's lighter-skinned hips, and eyes it for a little before meeting Greece's eyes. He can go far (though not as far as Greece can, he knows from walking in on the man mid-act quite a few times) and he soon has Greece leaning back against the rocks, breathing heavily, even letting out a soft plea every now and then. Egypt hollows his cheeks more and more, sucks harder and harder, and soon he only has the head of Greece's cock in his mouth as he tries to draw out the orgasm as much as he can.
It is dark by the time they have both recovered, but they still can't bring themselves to move from the spot they're in. Egypt can feel bruises forming on his back and behind, but Greece promises, softly, to kiss the pain away-- and he does, throughout the night, and Egypt returns the favour the next day, and the next.
Germany doesn't even move when Denmark punches him square on the nose, hardly even flinches as his nose cracks and blood starts streaming down his face. Denmark, for his part, only gets more pissed off at this: he'd been looking forward to this moment for almost 5 years, had fantasised about it on and off. And now that he actually did it, all Germany does is stand there, and then he says, “I'm sorry.”
Sweden knows Denmark well enough to know that that's not enough for Denmark, a broken nose and an apology; he knows the man wants a brawl, wants to humiliate the other person as thoroughly as he's been humiliated. He gets it, but Sweden also knows that he doesn't want this to get out of hand, because unlike Russia he doesn't want to punish Germany like they did in 1919, doesn't want to be back in this position again in another 25 years.
Denmark pulls his fist back again, eyes mad with fury, and Sweden steps in front of Germany just in time.
His head snaps to the side, pain blossoming in his cheek, but he quickly looks back to Denmark, who looks shocked, and, well, angrier than before.
“What the fúck, Sweden--” he begins, but Sweden looks at him over the rim of his glasses and he shuts up for a second; Sweden is glad for his gift for intimidation for once. He turns around and gives Germany his handkerchief.
“Get outta here,” he says sternly. “Get yerself cleaned up. I'll take care'a him.” Which is clear language, he figures, and Germany seems to get it because he turns around without even trying to apologise again. It'll come later. Sweden's glad he doesn't have to deal with it right now, not while Denmark is seething, almost needing to be held back.
“Before you punch m--” Sweden starts, but Denmark dóes punch him, doesn't even give him a chance to try and make his case, and he tries to think of a good way to make Denmark calm down using words as he gets rid of the vertigo. He's still thinking when he feels blood trickling out of his nose, and he's still thinking when he pushes his tongue against the back of his teeth and one of them moves. Denmark is already pulling back again, because he doesn't know when to stop, and Sweden still doesn't know what to say.
“Denmark, stop--” he says it in Danish, but he's only just in time to catch Denmark's fist, and then it clicks and Sweden pulls him closer, bites Denmark's mouth and keeps his arms around his friend, his brother.
Denmark has stopped speaking, stopped trying to punch Sweden, but it's far from over. Sweden's lips are already bleeding and the skin on his hand is getting scratched through the fabric of his shirt. It hurts a little, but not too much; he has taken Care of Denmark's people throughout the war and he can take care of him a little longer. So he tears at Denmark's clothes and his lips and readily goes down when Denmark hooks a leg between his.
Really, Sweden thinks as he tears at Denmark's hair and pulls him down for another kiss, he understands. It's hard for him too, talking about his feelings, expressing emotions through words. He hasn't been in Denmark's position for a long time, but he remembers the feeling of being dominated, the helplessness and anger. If he can remember that, he can forgive Denmark for biting his shoulder only a few days after his liberation; knows that the mental pain is easier to deal with when you can bite someone’s neck and feel the other person fight back just enough for it to hurt, but not so much it makes you feel helpless all over again.
Sweden can give Denmark that. So he grabs Denmark's cock through his threadbare pants and long underwear (Sweden doesn't think it's even near cold enough to wear them, but he can count Denmark's ribs so this time he won't comment on it) and pulls him closer. He can feel warm, hard flesh digging into his hip when he removes his hand, and he can feel Denmark's growl against his neck.
“Shouldn't let me do this, Sweden—” he growls, but rough fingers are dragging down Sweden's pants, already searching for his entrance. Sweden's not sure if he wanted thát, feels his insides contract painfully for a second, but he started this and he'll finish it. He pulls down Denmark's pants until they fall to his knees, then grabs him again.
“Can make my own decisions,” he grunts, unclear even for him, then nearly bites off his tongue when Denmark pushes a finger into him. It's been a long time since he was last in this position, so it hurts, but that's what this is all about, in the end.
Denmark works quick and efficient, even through the anger and desperation, and it's not long before he thinks Sweden is ready, until he seems to think it won't hurt Denmark himself. Sweden's fingernails dig into Denmark's back so hard he's sure he broke the skin, and then Denmark pushes in and up in one stroke. Sweden yells, just oncee, then starts fighting for control, trying to ignore the burn in his backside, trying to focus on the pleasure of being filled and of laying with an equal.
Denmark fights back as much as he can, but Sweden feels the anger and the hatred seeping out of him a little more with each stroke. He's getting tired, so Sweden bites Denmark's lip and clenches every time Denmark moves forward. Still, they don't speak and the only place on Sweden's body Denmark looks at is the place where he's entering him.
When Sweden feels his friend tensing he grabs forward, gets the man in a headlock, and refuses to let go. In the end he's stronger, not weakened by hunger and exhaustion, and when Denmark spills into him he does so with a helpless, tired sob. Sweden doesn't bother trying to get himself off; after that last sound Denmark made, his erection quickly started flagging.
He holds Denmark for a long time, feels the rest of he man's energy drain out of him, physically and mentally. Aft one point he slips out of Sweden, though neither men pay much mind to it.
When Denmark finally falls asleep Sweden drags him onto the couch-- and it's nice, comforting, that Denmark stíll sleeps like a drunk even if he isn't-- then sits down on the handmade chair next to it. He doesn't fall asleep for a long time.
I wrote a bigass intro to it but it wasn't working for this fic. I still like the intro, but not.... here. Just so you know.
It started because she asked them to model for her, two beautiful, strong men who could not look at each other without energy bursting off them. It took her two hours to get them to stop hitting each other when she was looking at her modelling clay instead of them, and even then they kept pinching and insulting each other, driving her nearly crazy.
It ended when she walked over, put one dirty hand on Turkey's chest, the other on Greece's, and gave each a lingering kiss on the mouth. They both looked equally dumbfounded when she pulled back to look at them, a situation to be taken advantage of-- so she pulled them together, arms around their waists, until they were chest-to-chest. She was almost tempted to go back and start a new clay model, but Greece drew an arm around her waist and held her there, pressed against Turkey's side.
She knew what they looked like, all of them, entangled as the light fell through the window and illuminated them. She knew what she looked like, personally-- muscular, toned, darker than most women, hair wild and brittle from salt and sun. Perfectly objectively, she knew she was beautiful, and so were they: her Ares and her Herakles, two heroes, god and demi-god. Greece was holding her, her back to his chest, as Turkey knelt in between her legs. She was still wearing her clothes, the cloth stifling her in the midsummer heat, working up a flush that went down to the top of her breasts.
He asked her for permission with his eyes at the same time that his rough fingers entered her, tongue still pressed to her clitoris, and she wished she could think clearly enough to figure out a way to involve Greece beyond fickle fantasies (Turkey on his stomach, Greece spreading him open for her, the hard leather of one of her toys digging into her hips)-- until Turkey opened his mouth and caught her completely, all of her focused on the heat between her legs, the calluses of his fingers as they slid in and out of her.
Greece did not involve himself much, merely held her until he put one hand on Turkey's dark curls and murmured: 'Lower', and Turkey did after giving Greece a dirty look, and Hellas wondered how he knew, just like he knew to stroke her wrist in the right spot.
She didn't last long after Turkey started stroking her with three fingers and sucking on her clitoris, causing her back to arch and her thighs to clench around Turkey's neck. When she lifted her head from Greece's shoulder she could see her own fluids dripping off Turkey's cheek and chin, almost wanted to lean forward and taste herself on him, but Greece was first, let go of her and licked a clean stripe up Turkey's chin and cheek. She heard a whisper from Greece, and a snort and a soft 'brat' from Turkey, but neither pulled away.
For a moment she looked on in fascination as Greece cleaned Turkey up, as Turkey started palming himself through the coarse cloth of his trousers; then she got up and left the room to undress and fetch some wine. If she wanted to go on she needed a cool breeze and some drink.
When she came back things looked different-- Greece on his back, holding on tightly to Turkey's left thigh with one hand, the other clutching his hip. Turkey was turned the other way, both arms warpped around Greece's spread thighs as he swallowed the other man down completely. She took care not to drop her goblet as she set it down on the floor, and so busy were they with one another that they didn't notice her approaching, kneeling next to them. She looked wistfully at her drawing table, wished she had the materials she needed to draw this: The eager way Greece's chin tilted upwards when Turkey's hips came down, the sweat on Turkey's strong thighs, the arch of his back and the dip of his lower back, he way they were both holding on to the other so tight they must have left bruises.
They were both men of stamina, however, and after several minutes the temptation became too strong. So she made her way to Greece's head, traced his soft, red lips with one finger before forcing it inside of his mouth, stretching it even further around Turkey's cock. The moan both men let out made her laugh, softly, not mockingly. When she felt her finger was slick enough she spat, once, in the cleft of Turkey's buttocks before dragging her already-wet finger through the fluid and pressing the tip of her finger to his opening.
She felt him tense next to her, his hips stilling while they were down. Greece hardly seemed to mind, his head tilted back, mouth still open and willing, his hands still on Turkey's thighs. She sweetened the surprise by wrapping her hand around the base of his cock, the pressure there taking away from the pressure at his opening. When he finally moved his hips again, minutely, it felt like a victory, small though it was, and she relished the feeling of his muscles giving way to her finger.
She didn't want to get in Greece's way, so she moved her hand to Turkey's lower back, rubbing it slowly as she kept pushing her finger further and further inside of him. It felt more like a victory the longer she kept it up, and she felt herself get wet once more as she slowly started pushing in the next finger. It went more slowly, the stretch worse, the burn probably more painful for the man underneath her-- but he didn't stop thrusting his cock into Greece's mouth or sucking on the head of Greece's cock, and she did not stop her movements.
Greece spilled first, his hips pinned to the ground by Turkey's strong hands. She felt Turkey tense when it happened, felt the way his shoulders hunched forward and his stomach muscles clenched as he started as well. She hooked her fingers inside of him, trying in vain to find that sensitive spot inside of him as he finished. Greece pulled back his head and pushed at the other man's hips in obvious annoyance and impatience before cupping his hands around the head of Turkey's cock.
The way Turkey clenched around her fingers made Hellas shake a little, thighs trembling but her knees steady on the hard stone floor. With one last bite to his buttocks she pulled her fingers out of him, and noticing that he was avoiding her eyes, she stood up and walked out of the room to clean herself.
The image was still fresh in her mind days after, when she sat down with her modelling clay-- the strong thighs and the hard backs of Herakles and Ares.
They didn't see each other immediately after the war. 1944, she was free. Half of him was free, the other was occupied and starving.
So they don't see each other for a while. Can't, anyway, even if he'd want to see her-- which he doesn't, because he's seen himself in the water (when there's clear water that hasn't turned to ice, that is) and he looks like crap. And even though he knows she wouldn't, he's still afraid she'd make fun of him for still being occupied. For picking parts of a flower bulb out of his teeth and eating them again. His skin's ashen and he can't tell the colour of his own eyes.
He thinks of Belgium and all he can think of is her hand in his after the last war, and he knows he looks the same as she did that time, scarred and hungry and paranoid and sick to his stomach of everything he sees. And he's too ashamed to even try and send a letter. So he doesn't, and he thinks.
Even after May 1945, when everyone goes free, he still doesn't see her. He goes to England, sees his queen. Goes to Canada, sees the rest of his royal family. He's too tired to cry when he sees little Margriet, but Juliana does when she sees him, and he understands. He can see his own ribs; he hasn't slept in weeks.
July swelters. August does the same. Sometimes when he thinks of Canada he smiles, but when he thinks of Belgium his heart wrenches. He doesn't know why he hasn't gone to see her yet. Why she hasn't come to see him. He helped her last time, despite that whole neutrality thing he had going on back then-- is it too much to say hi, at least? Hey, asshole, long time no see. You look like shit. Let's get drunk. Yeah, Belgium, yeah, okay. I love you. I love you. Buy me a beer because I don't even have you left.
But she doesn't say hi. So he rebuilds and he rebuilds and-- he goes hungry again. Not as hungry as last time, never again as hungry as last time. But hungry enough. He wants to punch someone until his people can eat again, but all he can do is rebuild and rebuild and rebuild and have dreams of when he couldn't even wrap his arms around all the people in his house. That many. Those times.
He's got cheese and bread, at least. And milk. He got some from a farmer-- had to cycle for an hour just to get there, but it's still milk, and it makes him feel good and strong and a little younger. He's just contemplating how much of the cheese he could give to the kids down the road when there's a knock on the door. Sounds frantic, and for a moment his hands still around the bread because it sounds like he's going to be taken away.
He grunts to himself and stands up, angry at himself for thinking that. Stupid Netherlands. Stupid dreams. Stupid Germa--
He doesn't know what to think when she stands there crying and sniffling in her summer dress and her summer hair ribbon and her summer shoes and eyes. Doesn't know why she's crying. He's been eating. Washing, even. He looks okay enough.
“Oh, Netherlands, oh, Willem,” she whispers, and the lilt to her voice is still the same and even though she's thinner and he's thinner and their hearts are heavier she still feels the same in his arms.
It takes her a while to stop crying (he didn't, obviously. No, he held her and thought about her and he smiled, which was probably more disturbing than the wet stains on his shirt), but when she does he takes her hands quietly.
“I missed you,” he says, and he means it. He's meant it since 1830, and she knows that, but she chooses to ignore all of thát bullshit when she puts her head on his shouler.
“I know. I'm sorry I wasn't there before.”
“Busy. We all were.” He wants to say 'I missed you' again but that'd just negate what he just said, and he doesn't want her to get smart with him now. Now, when her head is on his shoulder and her hand is in his, and he can close his eyes and feel happy.
“How are...” She trails off and he doesn't know what she wants to ask but he still answers-- “Fine.” Because he wants to show her that everything is fine. Everything will be fine, for both of them.
She kisses him after dinner, after coffee. She tastes like one potato and a bit of cauliflower and bad coffee, he like the tears running down into his mouth when he finally starts to cry. He's missed her so much. Her lips are cracked now, even though they never were. He can feel her cheekbones under his thumbs, and she breaks away and laughs and hiccups. “Y-you silly oaf,” she whispers, and his hands feel her hipbones. “You dreadful, dreadful man,” she says, a little louder, when he feels her thighs and lifts her up, when her wrists touch the back of his neck. “I'll tell Luxembourg you were c-crying,” she manages before he puts her down on his bed and he kisses her again.
He doesn't speak much when he makes love to her. His mouth moves silently against new scars. They hurt him, those scars, just like his scars hurt her. She gives herself to him and he gives himself to her and it's an all-around giving fest and he has to lean over twice to wipe his nose on a kerchief or else he'll blubber all over her. Their hips jut into one another but that just illustrates how well they fit into one another, still.
“Broertje,” she whispers thickly, and he whispers back, whispers “België, alles, jij-- alleen jij, altijd jij, jij of de hel,” and when he comes inside of her warmth he chokes out “M'n lief--” and she laughs hoarsely in delight. He hears the love in there. It sounds good.
Afterwards she pets his hair, his head on her chest, hearing her heart beat. “I'll come see you again soon,” she says, fingers slipping over his jawline. He only grunts and kisses her collarbone. “I will. I won't stay away this long again. I never will again.”
That just reminds him of 1830 again, and he bites her collarbone instead.
“I'll stay with you,” she says, again. To make her point. He knows. He hopes he does, anyway.
When her heartbeat's slowed down and he's counting her ribs as she breathes in her sleep, he takes her hand again. “I'll protect you next time,” he whispers. He's not going to just smuggle food over her borders, or choke on his own misery while she does the same. And he feels sick at the thought of there even being a next time next time, but he has to say it. She stirs at his voice, in his arms, and he lets out a soft sigh. Protection. That sounds nice.
;There were bad harvests all over Europe for a couple of years after the war. Things sucked balls for a while.
;The south of the Netherlands got liberated before the west and north; the south suffered less during that hunger winter because of it. A little.
;It's still a joke in the Netherlands to say 'Oh, you don't like your dinner? Well, in the war we had flower bulbs, so stop complaining.' It really did happen, though.
;As a nation, the Netherlands as a whole was probably worst off during the war. There's numbers on this and that, suffice to say that things were pretty crappy.
;1830, by the way, was the year the Belgians said fuck it, we wanna be our own nation. Sure, the Netherlands only accepted that in 1839, but who's counting?
;Translations! 'Broertje' is little brother. What Netherlands is saying: 'Belgium, everything, you-- only you, always you, you or hell-- my darling--'.
;In WWI, Netherland stayed neutral, but they díd smuggle food and supplies into Flanders. Couldn't just leave 'em, right?