Originally written for the Hetalia kink meme prompt "Any/Any - wearing boots only." This was actually the first kink meme fill I completed, but I held off on deanoning it until now partly because of my initial nervousness about posting my smutty fics and partly because this site steadfastly refused to let me upload any new fics for the past several days (and only now seems to be finally letting me put character tags on them).
They are called jika-tabi, Japan informs him. Jika-tabi. He draws out the pronunciation, repeating it slowly so that Greece can say it along with him.
Their soles are modeled on tabi, traditional split-toe Japanese socks, making sliding sandals on and off effortless. Unlike tabi, however, jika-tabi are always long, extending halfway to the knee and even farther than that with custom tailoring. They are usually made of cloth, but some are made of black leather that hugs white legs, warm against bare skin. They sometimes come with laces that look complicated to the innocent eye, but can be undone in a matter of seconds by delicate yet deft fingers. And redone in a matter of seconds too.
Undone.
Redone.
They have been worn by ninja, well-trained ninja who knew how to slip into other people's homes and bedrooms undetected. Or how to catch them by surprise, press them up against walls with cool, sleek blades placed to their throats gently enough and firmly enough to keep them captive without drawing blood, whisper words meant to be heard only by their captive in gusting breaths close to their ears, and letting go only when they are satisfied with what they have coaxed out from their captive.
Of course, ninja are not as common nowadays as they were in the past. But some still exist, and some still remember slipping their jika-tabi on, feeling them slip sinuously around their legs in rough yet protective caresses, ready for another round of infilitration and possession of the things they desire the most.
A lesson about the make and history of a pair of Japanese boots should not be so arousing, but Greece likes anything to do with Japan, especially when it involves a half-naked Japan. Japan knows this, and his only choice of wear for this lesson is a thin cotton white yukata so sheer that Greece swears he can almost see Japan's nipples through the fabric. It's just long enough for its hem to brush over the tops of his jika-tabi, its virginal color combining with the faint pinkness of his skin to bring out the blackness of his fine hair, of his eyes looking straight at his audience's, and of his jika-tabi that he runs his white fingers over lovingly, all the better to draw his rapt audience into imagining the feel of his own fingers traveling down from smooth, soft thighs into hard black leather. The obi of Japan's yukata slipped out of its too-loose knot sometime during the lesson, and in his current crouching position it results in boot-clad legs framing an exposed groin just as well-defined and hard as Greece's own.
Greece has a question for his instructor: He wants to know just how elusive ninja are, if any of them has ever been caught by their intended captives.
Japan purses his lips, as if analyzing his question thoughtfully, and answers that it depends on the skill of the ninja. The best of ninja, those who can conceal their selves from others even when their physical forms are in plain sight, are never caught - unless they iwant/i to be caught. It's rare, but it's been known to happen when the ninja believes he stands to gain more from being caught than eluding capture yet again.
How does one know when a ninja wants to be caught?
Simple. If a ninja is in plain sight and looking straight at you but making no effort to conceal his ninja occupation, or even flaunting it, that's when you'll know he's waiting for you.
That's all the invitation Greece needs, and in a matter of seconds he has his arms around Japan, their mouths and bodies pressed against each other in a smoldering heat.
Japan melts into the embrace and kisses, lets Greece carry him to bed and swirl his tongue across his collarbone and nipples, but he makes sure that Greece does not forget who used to be a ninja and is intent on continuing to wear the jika-tabi. He manages to make Greece's shirt vanish and his jeans slide down to his knees in the same time it takes Greece to strip him of his white yukata, and responds immediately to each lick and bite Greece performs on him with one of his own delivered to various parts of Greece's body.
Fingers rubbing feather-soft circles on his hips, as teeth clamp down on his shoulder with a fierceness that signals a hickey to be found there in the morning.
A moist tongue exploring the shell of his ear as if tasting the sweat there, before fingers card into his hair and yank his head to one side to capture his lips in a bruising kiss.
Fingertips brushing lightly against his straining erection, slowly, agonizingly gently - and then a hand suddenly grips his cock and begins pumping it, one finger swirling over its painfully sensitive tip.
All while Japan's legs are intertwined with Greece's, the coarse leather of the jika-tabi constantly making itself felt on his bare legs, a sensation that becomes even more heightened with the juxtaposition of gentleness and roughness in Japan's touches and caresses. Greece may be the one physically on top, but Japan is the one playing him like a lyre, knowing exactly which strings to flick at and when it's time to stroke instead of flick.
And Greece loves it. Not just because it allows him to laze a bit and let his partner do most of the work, but because it brings out a side of Japan that few have seen ever since the war: the Japan who knows what he wants and will plan down to the last detail on how to get it. Only here, the want is quite the opposite of war and the one targeted is more than happy to surrender.
A small bottle is transferred from one hand to another, a long stroke done by oiled fingers that produce a sharp hiss of breath, and Greece slowly pushes inside of Japan who inhales deeply as he brings up his boot-clad legs to rest on the other's broad shoulders. From there on, it's all sweat-slicked chests and searing kisses and movement in and out that gradually becomes intense thrusting to the sounds of moans and gasps with the occasional intermingled imore/i and iJapan/i and ifaster/i, until Japan cries out Greece's name loud and clear, whiteness splattering across their chests. Greece answers Japan's call as he gives one final thrust and empties himself inside Japan, Japan's legs sinking back onto the bed as he does so.
They lay there for several moments, letting the afterglow wash over them, until Japan gives Greece's shoulder a gentle nudge. Greece rolls over from on top of Japan to his side and makes sure to tell him how much he enjoyed it.
Japan says he's glad to hear that because this kind of thing is not something he has done before, and he was afraid that he'd slip up or become self-conscious while doing it...
But there were no signs of any of that, Greece is quick to assure him. Japan really looked as if he was enjoying it as much as he himself was.
Indeed, Japan murmurs as some of the old shyness comes back to dust his cheeks. Greece-san does not mind my odd...kinks, then?
Not at all, especially if it means a greater frequency of passionate sex together.
Japan shakes his head because he really should have seen that answer coming, shouldn't he? He says it with enough of a smile, though, to let Greece know that he isn't itoo/i exasperated.
Greece smiles in return, letting his eyelids droop shut as he wraps his arms around Japan because even if Japan is going to slip away in the morning, he's caught him for the night. The last sensations he experiences before drifting off are the feel of leather sliding in and out of his legs to rest against his hips and a whisper of I let you catch me a long time ago, Greece-san, and you haven't let go yet.
Reviews and constructive criticism are always welcome!