Author Notes: This fic is a first, in that it wasn't part of the set of fics the me and my friend, a.k.a my Greece Muse, came up with. Rather, it was a response to a request on the hetalia_kink meme community on LJ. The prompts were for Turkey/Greece, water, sex, and moonlight. I think. Anyway, I've de-anoned on my fic journal, but what the hell. It fits into the timeline of the rest of my fics anyway, so here it is. Hope you enjoy! Thanks and happy reading!

Disclaimer: Hetalia and its characters are totally not mine. No profit is being made from this in any way (ah, pity, my bank account could use a bit of a boost for the holidays), although I suppose some entertainment has been derived out of it. I respond well to positive comments and con-crit, and ignore flames and trolling. The ideas and beliefs that may appear in this series in no way reflects my personal ideals and beliefs. Dude, it's just fanfic, okay? Chill.

~ Ganymede Beneath The Moon ~

Greece hums as he undresses, a light melody; perhaps like something a shepherd might play on panpipes while watching his herd. The climate is welcoming, tonight. The air is balmy, but not too warm, with the occasional land breeze ruffling his hair.

He steps into the water and sighs with pleasure at the gentle warmth of the water, still heated from the fierce sun earlier in the day. There are baths aplenty back in the palace—it is not home—but the stoic marble walls and clean, static façade are no match for the free waters of the Aegean. The overly perfumed steam choking, next to the free-roaming winds that blow out from the land at night, across the shore and into the open waters.

No, Turkey's baths are nothing next to Greece's beaches.

Keeping that thought close to his heart, Greece wades out into deeper water, walking further out from the shore until the shallows are no longer so shallow, and he is almost neck-deep in crystal waters, bright aqua-blue turned into onyx and silver filigree beneath the light of the full moon.

Thoughts of moonlight turn his thoughts towards other moons. Crescent moons, in particular, and what other significance they now have in his life.

Scowling, he dunks himself beneath the surface. Turkey has invaded even this last bastion of hope, his midnight paradise.

He stays beneath the water for as long as he can, until his lungs begin to burn for oxygen, and he rises from the dark depths. Water sprays back as he tosses his head, flinging wet hair from his face. He gulps in air, and the fresh, crisp breaths remind him of the freedom he holds out for, that he will fight for.

One day, he tells himself. Possibly no longer so far in the future as he had once thought.

Leaning back into the water, he lets the sea cradle his body, floating on his back on inky waves. He lets his thought wander, allows his mind to flow over his fractured self, wondering when he'd been so insidiously and meticulously broken into too many pieces to count. One day, he will gather the shattered parts of his soul.

One day, he will be whole again.

Until then, he will escape out from the confines of the palace on clear nights like this, and he will come to his secret paradise. And now, as he lies back in the water, hearing nothing but the sound of the surf and the sea, soothed by the gentle rocking of the waves, he plans.

So deeply in though is he that he misses the faint splashing, mistaking it for the waves breaking upon the shore. He doesn't think much of either sound until large hands, rough from conquering and breaking country after country to hoard, grab him roughly, yanking him back to reality like nothing else can.

Startled, his head falls beneath the water, and salt stings his nose and eyes, fills his mouth as he opens it to shout. Just as quickly, he is righted, and held against a body too large and too hardened by war for his comfort. Instinctively, he struggles, kicking up large splashes, his flailing arms creating high arcs of water that turn into hundreds of minute black diamonds by the light of the moon.

"Be still!" Comes the command. "Unless you want me to knock you unconscious."

Knowing how heavy those hands can be, and how much force Turkey packs within that large, imposing frame, Greece stills, trembling. The water he thought warm no longer seems so welcoming. The breezes are chilly against his wet skin, and clutched tightly to Turkey's bosom, the wide expanse of the sea suddenly seems too large, too vast to be freedom any longer.

All of a sudden, Greece feels like one of his little city-states. So small, so insignificant in the grand scheme of things.

How could he ever have hoped to be free? What does he have to fight for it?

He slumps in Turkey's arms, and assured that all thoughts of fleeing have left the boy's mind, Turkey slowly lowers him back into the water, never fully relinquishing his hold on Greece.

"What are you doing out here?"

"I could be asking you the same thing!" Greece snaps, the fire in him banked, but not extinguished. It does not disturb Turkey. Placid mounts are easy to break. It is the ones with spirit and fire that are a challenge, that are worth keeping, worth the effort to tame, rather than shatter completely to blind obedience.

"My businesses are not yours, but your nocturnal activities rank high on my list of things to investigate, along with uprisings, rebellions, and expanding my borders." Noticing the colour blanching from Greece's olive skin, he knows he has hit his mark.

"I…missed the sea," Greece says eventually. "I came out to swim."

The hum Turkey gives in reply says that the man does not believe him, but he does nothing else, and Greece allows himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, he still has a chance.

He begins to make his way back to shore, and the tug on his wrist reminds him that he is still shackled to Turkey. He looks back, seeing only the shadows against a harsh relief of dark skin and silver light. Shivering from more than just the chill, he says, "It's cold. I want to go back now."

Turkey doesn't move for a while, and then he smiles, and terror shoots through Greece. There are fishes—sharks—in the water that smile like that, with their large, white teeth that tear and rend flesh to bloodied tatters, until all semblance of form is lost.

"P-Please," Greece whispers, tugging insistently against the unrelenting grip Turkey has on his wrist.

Turkey walks with him closer to the shore, but stops again when they reach the sandy shallows, so beautiful and clear during the day, with small, silvery fish darting through the water.

Greece looks back once more, and thinks to himself that he ought to know better than to look back. Did Orpheus not look back as he neared the land of the living? Looking back, he lost everything that meant anything to him.

He sees the dark smile, suddenly so close, and feels the hot breath upon his face. He wants to run, but cannot.

It is not allowed.

Those callused hands reach out for him, and turn him back to face the beast in the sea. One rough thumb strokes his cheek, and then his lips. Greece wants to deny what he knows will follow, but what use is there in that?

Turkey bends down, looming over Greece, enveloping him in shadow. His lips are surprisingly gentle, and for an instant, Greece lowers his guards in bewilderment. He does not get the chance to raise them again.

Turkey kisses him like he conquered him, and before long, he surrenders to a force so massive, he cannot hope to ever surpass it. He feels the wet swipe of tongue and parts his lips to receive it, for there is no barrier Turkey cannot break past, and surrender is far preferable to forced submission.

With his tongue, Turkey strokes him, the gentle invasion a soft, almost tender mimicry of what is to come. Turkey's hands, deliciously rough on his still-smooth skin, travel ever lower, from cheek to neck, to chest, where one lingers to rub and pinch and torment him. One nipple caught between thumb and forefinger, Turkey pinches, deepening his kiss as Greece gasps in the lightning arc of pleasure mingled with pain. As he toys with it, occasionally wandering over to its twin and tweaking it all the same, his other hand journeys further down Greece's lean, slender body.

Already half-hard, Turkey teases him to fullness, fingers alternating between languid strokes and firmer, rougher caresses. And as he milks the first clear, slick drops of Greece's desire, he wraps his hand around Greece, lips quirking into a smirk at the low moan he swallows.

Like a giant wave hitting the sand, Greece stands helpless before the onslaught of Turkey's sexual prowess, and then is swept away. Quivering, his hands are fisted against Turkey's chest, but he offers no resistance. And when Turkey breaks the kiss to nibble at his ear, his neck, the edge of teeth scraping against his pulse, he shudders, and arches his neck, offering himself up to the beast before him.

The hand at his chest teases him with a final, harsh nip that makes him hiss, and then makes its way back, fingers feathering down his spine. He arches into Turkey's body, tall and broad and well-muscled from the centuries of conquest, pebbled nipples rubbing against damp, salty skin. The rough friction makes him toss his head back, and from dazed, heavy-lidded eyes, Greece sees the moon, swollen and ripe, silvery-gold in the star-dotted sky.

The first shallow penetration startles him, and he cringes away from the invasive touch. And harsh nip warns him to be still, and trembling, he feels Turkey's hands part his cheeks, and probe. The first finger enters, and he steels himself to remain still. A hot, wet swipe of tongue over the earlier bite tells him that Turkey is pleased, though it does nothing to alleviate his shivers.

As it enters deeper, the burn increases, with nothing to ease the way. Greece bites his lip to stifle his cries. He almost moans from relief when it is withdrawn, but all too quickly, it returns, and the increased pressure and pain tells him that another has joined it.

His lip is bloody where he bites it to contain his pain, but the pained whimpers betray him, as do the tears the well up in the corners of his eyes.

"It hurts," he gasps. "Please, no more."

"It will get better, if you behave."

"No." Greece shakes like a leaf in his iron embrace. "Please, no!"

Turkey ignores him, fingers questing deeper. "You have two choices, boy," Greece hears over the rapid beating of his heart. "Surrender to me, or force me to make you submit." His fingers scissor apart within him, stretching him. "The latter will hurt far more, mark my words."

Greece knows it will.

He tells himself it is self-preservation. That he submits according to his own will, and that it is not the surrender of a coward. Something in him tells him that he knows better than that, and he feels yet another part of him splinter away.

He wonders how much more is left, before he is finally as empty as he feels.

He tries to submerge himself in his thoughts, numbing himself to the ache as yet another finger joins its brothers in his sore, clinging depths. He almost succeeds. He misses the rough words whispered into his ear, and when he doesn't respond, he finds himself pushed down towards the surf.

"Kneel," Turkey commands.

The water cups his thighs, skims the head of his flagging erection, softening from the onslaught of pain and fear. A hand on his shoulder presses him down to rest on all fours, and he hears Turkey move to position himself behind him. Rough hands trail down to rest at his hips, fingers gripping tight enough for Greece to know that he will see bruises later. The pressure against his entrance barely gives him enough warning to brace himself when he is breached with one hard thrust.

His scream shatters the still night.

His breaths come in shuddering sobs as Turkey plunges in and out of him, his way gradually easing from the blood that trickles down Greece thighs. After awhile, the pain is almost tolerable in its consistency, the rhythm and throbbing steady as the waves that break around them.

And then he feels the return of one hand around his soft cock, gently squeezing, coaxing it back to ripeness. He deems it impossible, and is almost more surprised than shamed—almost—when he feels himself hardening again. The bolts of pleasure slowly melding with the ache inside him until pain and pleasure are one and the same, running rampant through him, as he is tortured at one end and teased at the other.

He no longer knows if he cries from the pain and humiliation, or the shame, or the ever-deepening sorrow and hopelessness. All he knows is that his tears flow down his cheeks, dripping into the Aegean, becoming forever lost.

His cries, similarly, now contain a damning note of hunger, and the dark chuckles interspersed between Turkey's grunts as he thrusts in over and over again tell him that the man hears it too.

As his is brought higher towards that pinnacle of ecstasy, he feels himself falling deeper into shame. Greece knows that no matter how hard he tries, he will never be able to clean himself of the taint. Turkey mistakes the shudder than runs through him to be born of passion and murmurs his encouragement. Greece wants to weep harder, and finds that he cannot.

Finally, he reaches his peak, and plummets from it, like a dive off a cliff into the precarious waters below. He pants from his release, struggling to find himself again as he surfaces from the deep. He feels Turkey come inside him and knows it will be over soon. He does not know how much more he can take.

He feels Turkey slip out of him, and an almost affectionate slap on his ass jerks him to dazed attention. He finds the older man washing the traces of blood and semen from himself, looking for all the world like nothing had just happened.

"Clean yourself," he hears, and he finds himself moving methodically to carry out the task. His hands no longer feel like his own. Nothing belongs to him anymore. Not his lands, or his beaches, or the beloved sea, not even his body.

Weeping quietly, he reaches back to splash water on his wounds, cleaning them gingerly. The saltwater stings the raw wounds as much as his tears burn his eyes. And when he is done, against his own will, he finds himself turning to look back.

Off to one side, Turkey stands in the shallows, his face masked by shadows. The moon outlines him in burnished silver, wreathing him in a halo of moonlight. He is like one of the gods of old; Mighty Zeus come down from Olympus.

Turkey wades over and captures Greece in his grip once more, silently leading him back to the shore, where their clothes lie. Greece feels the latent strength in that grip, like eagle talons wrapped around his wrist. Silent tears trickle down his cheeks as he follows behind Turkey. He dresses in his robes, and then is led again.

And like Ganymede stolen from home, Turkey brings him back to his palace.