when the pawn hits the conflicts he thinks like a king;
title: Sunday Hanged Man
character(s)/pairing(s): Turkey/Greece
rating: PG-13
summary: It's often enough that Greece shows up at Turkey's house; but that doesn't stop history from rearing its head, becoming a shadow over them... [written for frostberrytea via a fic meme- choices were H, stormy weather (who here is thinking the song? B) ); and F, pain. i didn't really adhere to them though :\]
☆Sunday hanged man
It happened every so often, was nothing to start a fire over. But it was still jarring whenever he found Greece turned up on his doorstep; it was like a black injection into his veins, and the dark humming began, underscore to the air currents. He had just been going out to buy some shit for dinner and hadn’t expected it in the least, seeing Greece standing cool, silhouetted slightly by the sun, looking as though he’d been trying to decide whether to knock on the door or turn back around. Bit too late for that. His eyes met Turkey’s and they both were silent for a minute or so to give the space between them time to sour.
“Heh,” Turkey said, leaning against the doorway, “Must be my lucky day, seein’ you here. ’Sup, brat?”
The spark lit, a little white star in Greece’s eyes. “Nothing,” he said, like he was biting the word off ice; and then, giving Turkey a lazy once-over- “Going somewhere?”
“Yeah, actually. Was goina buy groceries and stuff. I guess your dumb ass dropped by at an opportune time, eh?”
“If it’s Turkish food,” Greece answered, mouth twitching downwards, “I don’t think I’d go near it.”
“Tch! Greek food’s got nothin’ on Turkish food,” Turkey snapped; he would’ve gone on, but the quickness of his words fell flat between them, and all he got was a look burned derisive from Greece. He leaned back slightly. “Well, whatever. Your loss.”
“It’s a loss I’m willing to take...” The cadence of his words seemed unsteady; he looked tentatively to the side.
Another pause. Did these things need formalities, introductions? They both knew what the other was driving toward, anyway; but Turkey went on, “Yer not lookin’ so good.”
Greece’s eyes flashed toward his. “You neither, jerk.”
“-You comin’ in?” Turkey asked, not missing a beat.
Something invisible but seeming gray ran through the line of Greece’s body; a shudder, maybe. “...Yeah,” he said.
Turkey gave him a smile, a canine grin, and stepped aside, made sure the proximity of his body was felt as Greece swept past him and held his head indifferently. “Lock the door, would ya?”
“Yeah,” Greece answered.
The passing seconds were something gray; Turkey stepped out, whistling and swinging his keys, and Greece shut the door as he went. They took care not to meet each other’s eyes.
Coming out from the house, Turkey noticed it was nice out, had a wide, spacey feeling to it; the slight wind carrying white, not too hot and not too cold. Squared his shoulders and walked out toward where his car was parked, ducked inside, and then started off onto the street. None of this, he thought vaguely, took a sinner or a saint. Wasn’t remarkable in any way.
-The whole time they’d talked Greece had had this caged look on his face. It was familiar as old repeated words, the look of wanting something you didn’t, needing something you didn’t. It creeped Turkey out to think that maybe the look was only a reflection...
He didn’t bother to think long about it; he figured it didn’t bother Greece, why should it bother him? But his blood was running high and scarlet, alive as neon, the whole time he was in the store, and his thoughts were running on a white, high wave. He barely notice what he was buying. The implication of shadows to come clouded his mind; he was fully conscious, though, that he bought a bottle of raki. That was probably a good idea, it’d help them both, make things a helluva a lot easier.
He must have looked like he was in a good mood to the cashier, because as he was handed his receipt he also got a wide smile- a kind of nod to the rest of the day. Implied that he knew something. He took his receipt and change and bags, and was suddenly aware of something...he swallowed the feeling down like it had gone bad, and didn’t even notice the muted rage with which he tore the car door open and tossed the bag in.
A self-consciousness crept over him like a dizzying rain; he started the car up. What was he doing? He’d been actually looking forward to seeing Greece- had been excited to, as a matter of fact, a feeling that dimly recalled what he’d once felt marching off to conquer. He’d been looking forward to touching him, tasting him, feeling him near.
After the self-consciousness came a kind of curling meanness, the war drums starting up true in his heart beat. And shouldn’t he look forward to a good fuck?- Or should he? Was that it? That bastard, stupid kid, this happened much too often.
The colors of the street and the scenery outside had an undertone of white; bleached white as he sped past, and slowly regained distinction when he slowed to a stop at a light. He didn’t owe that shit anything- didn’t owe him love, and didn’t even owe him civility. What had he done to Greece that was worse than what any other nation did to another? He didn’t even owe him forgiveness (for what?).
But hadn’t they at least made a shot at redemption? They had played nice in the early years of the republic, and let it not be forgotten that he was actually the first to help Greece out during the second World War. You can build a thousand bridges, but ya suck one cock, and you’re forever just a cocksucker (though, that admittedly wasn’t the best analogy- they’d both had their share of that). Ah, but he had to remember- after that came the tax, and after that the pogrom, and all the other after-thats. It didn’t mean a thing to be the hand that feeds, if directly afterwards you retreat. He was caught up in thinking, getting closer to home. The Marmara was gleaming happily; he noticed a stray dog loping across the street, maybe as a joke, and stopping for to let it pass, felt everything stagnate.
Shit!- he was making himself the sucker. The sudden bad storm attacking his veins made him just feel stupid. Wasn’t it nothing? He was frowning by the time he reached the driveway, frowning full from gray to black.
In the tumult of his feeling, Turkey rushed out of the car, haphazardly brought the grocery bag, ripped out the keys from the ignition with a vagabond tearing. It seemed and looked stupid, the anger with which he walked toward the door, but it wasn’t the time to be seeing himself in the third person because he had a bull to kill right beyond that locked door.
What he didn’t notice, as he rushed off to battle, his heart pounding in his ears, was the stillness he left behind him. That kind of still air that knew something; what it was was that, in all of their pettiness, neither Turkey nor Greece ever stopped to think that the other was feeling and thinking the exact same thing. Self-righteous, bitchy, angered, in love- hardly understanding what the point of the war was other than to fight it.
Turkey had started to unlock the door, but Greece had apparently heard the key turning in the lock and had come to unlock it himself. As soon as Turkey perceived the door unlocking from the inside his posture became like stone, his fist curled darkly. The door opened, with that sleepy grace that Greece had about all his movements, and the first things Turkey perceived were sea-blue eyes. “Hey,” Greece said, seeming indifferent, and turned away to go back inside.
Turkey locked the door behind him, ran his tongue over his teeth, feeling full the broody atmosphere he came in with. He turned, and he took note of the way Greece walked; both warm and cool depending on what you wanted, indolence striking Turkey as insolence. The dark smoke billowed inside Turkey’s chest, pervaded and made thought near impossible. He followed quickly after Greece, but turned off to go into the kitchen and make a haphazard attempt at putting the things away.
He was near finished when Greece called, from the living room, “What did you buy?” with only a flicker of interest.
Turkey paused and waited; Greece didn’t ask twice, so, gathering up his arms and feeling like a blade must as it takes the plunge, he threw care aside and went into the living room- Greece noticed him come in, but didn’t turn to see him (he was on the couch, reading a book, or something). He crossed swift, a gale; and then with a sudden shadow of violence, yanked Greece up from where he sat. There was a sort of struggle, Greece trying to push him away, Turkey not relenting; the book fell somewhere before Greece relented and looked at Turkey with confusion.
“Ow- jerk,” he said, looking from Turkey and then to the floor, where the book had fallen, “You tore it...what do you want?”
Turkey laughed, sounding joyless, the sound backed up in his throat. “What the Hell do you think I want?” he asked, leaning in toward Greece.
“You could ask like a normal person,” Greece snapped.
Electricity popped in the undercurrents; Turkey gave Greece a shake for good measure, by the shoulder. “You want me to ask you? Whaddyou think,” he snarled, teeth straydog sharp, “I let you in here ’cause I’m a nice guy?”
Greece’s eyes were struck with that cold cosmic blue that glimmered just like fury- that look that made Turkey understand all over again just why he couldn’t stop returning to him. “What do you think,” he asked, the sound of the words snapping although he said them slow, “I came here because I just like seeing you?”
“Not at all, actually,” Turkey answered, “Not at all.”
The hand that held onto Greece’s shoulder moved up toward his neck; Turkey’s fingers lingered there with the promise of something dark, but instead of what was implied by his posture, he just traced along the tendon, the muscle, felt the song that runs along the lines of the neck. He moved forward and his lips met Greece’s; Greece’s tongue was first to meet his, movement that’d leave any Romeo shaking wet with envy. They stayed like that, a picture of something sweeter than it actually was, until Greece pulled Turkey toward him and Turkey pushed both of them down, down toward the cushion, the darkness, the movie they’d been through way too many times before.
And after the fact, drifting in heedless white, thinking of nothing but the glow, panting and sweating, Turkey ducked out of the stray feeling and looked at Greece- he’d moved, now sitting across from him, trying similarly to get through the dregs of infatuated chaos. It wasn’t just a history thing, Turkey found himself thinking; he’d always liked the way Greece looked, the contrast of his colors, the smoothness of his body, the sullen way he breathed. Okay, cool it; alright, just pause and think. It was a real damn shame that they hated each other, and that was something he’d only let himself think after orphan passions like these. The thought couldn’t stop the burning in his chest though. He didn’t wonder whether Greece felt the same way; but anyway he reached out-
He pulled Greece roughly against his own body, the way an actual sweetheart might, and he could tell by the bitterness of Greece’s reciprocal movement that he was startled. It wasn’t to make a play at love; it was just to feel the coolness of Greece’s skin on the alcoholic storm that was raging in his body, because with the instincts of a fighting man he realized that if something didn’t calm them from this thrumming fever high, they would end up ripping each other apart.
title: Finish What You Started
character(s)/pairing(s): Turkey/Greece
rating: PG-13
summary: First: Turkey has a sweet tooth. Second: he hates surprises. Third: Greece is really good at sneaking up on him. [written for frostberrytea via a fic meme- choices were D, cooking; and D, back.]
☆FINISH WHAT YOU STARTED
For a first thing, Turkey had a sweet tooth. That needs no explanation. Second, he hated surprises. He never liked to be snuck up on and got no thrill from somebody possibly getting one over on him. Third: Greece could walk soundlessly as a cat, as though the echo of his footsteps slept even when he himself was occasionally among the realm of the conscious.
Fourthly and lastly, Greece is real good at things that Turkey likes and that he hates. So one burned blue day, late in the afternoon, getting on into evening, it was Turkey’s turn to make dinner, and he stood facing the counter, sulk and salt. He’d been bitching about it like he bitched about everything between them, grumbling to himself that he didn’t see why he should make dinner for that asshole, of all people. He was caught up in the mechanics of the kitchen, and in his own thoughts, and the orphan static sound of the ocean outside the window, that he didn’t notice when Greece snuck up close behind him; didn’t notice until Greece’s hand, cove of fingers and palm cool, was covering his eyes.
It was a red flag across his senses; he was already regretting agreeing not to wear the mask. “’Ey, bastard,” Turkey snapped, “The Hell d’ya think yer-”
He was about to go on but his mouth was suddenly full- Greece had apparently seen it as an opening and had accordingly jammed his index finger in Turkey’s mouth. Turkey’s first reaction was a muffled gag, a flash of red, to start a fight- he was about to bark something about giving a goddamn warning, and where does Greece think he’s putting his damn hands, but then the second response came: the thought, the word, sweet. The taste was sudden and stung the corners of his tongue; tasted low and melancholy gold, with a medicinal tang to it- there was something else, an underscore of something bitter.
So the conflagration had died down; and Greece, seeing this, pressed his finger harder against Turkey’s tongue, the joints crowding against the roof of his mouth. Turkey ran his tongue over Greece’s finger, swirled it over, then sucked; the thickness of whatever it was slid down dark into his throat, sugar thick.
He could tell Greece was looking at him, studying his reaction; so that braggart spark came into his eyes and he sucked just a bit harder, ran his teeth along. Greece punctuated the reciprocation with a slight backward forward motion- what Turkey could taste now under the heavy dulcet syrup was the slight salt of Greece’s skin...
Then, barely edging through an opening, Greece pulled his finger out. He still stood close to Turkey though, leaning on his atmosphere, cool blue and ocean spark- just looking at him, just curious about the reaction. Turkey frowned against the residue of sugar in his mouth and, glancing broodily over his shoulder, asked, “The Hell?”
Greece studied him for a moment, the look in his eyes unreadable. “Tell me what it was,” he says.
Turkey paused; he sucked back the lingering saliva, decided after much debate, “Honey.”
Greece paused for a while. “Hm,” he answered, and then- giving no further warning- went to turn away, suddenly leaving Turkey without an explanation, without the steady magnetism of his proximity. That was a little fuckin’ irritating. Greece was like this, after all, who knew what he was thinking? He’d prolly read about something similar in a book somewhere and just decided to try it. But that doesn’t jive, regardless.
So Turkey had to ameliorate that. “Not so fast, kid,” he said, rough tongue razor blade (still with the last notes of saccharine), moving with a natural fighter’s facility so that Greece was pinned in front of him by the hips, against the counter (the knife Turkey’d been using to cut vegetables grinned prettily)- Greece was looking up at him half-curious and half-scornful, that look that set Turkey’s thoughts on fire- and Turkey, with a rude dark smile, told him, “You gotta finish what you started.”
notes;
uhmmmm i think i like this pairing a little too much.
1] my references reek of wikipedia do they not? everything that i referred to in sunday hanged man can be found here.
2] im a little disturbed that i included the word "jive" in a fic including turkey.
3] actually while looking up some stuff on their history, i came across the thought that they will fight about fucking ANYTHING. it seems to be getting better recently. but maybe not. anyway, i thought i would share this from uncyclopedia:
❝ Greeks and Turks seem to fight over everything in general[...] The last major conflict occurred in 1989 when the two countries fought over a small pebble that a tourist dropped over the side of a ferry in the Aegean Sea. Within minutes, a team of Turkish naval commandos had established a small but significant presence on the pebble, raising fears in Thessaloniki that soon all pebbles would be seized by tiny little Turk soldiers. The Greek response was to increase domestic corruption, drink frappe, and moan about everything so eventually the fuss died down. ❞
absolutely beautiful.
thanks for reading! :D
character(s)/pairing(s): Turkey/Greece
rating: PG-13
summary: It's often enough that Greece shows up at Turkey's house; but that doesn't stop history from rearing its head, becoming a shadow over them... [written for frostberrytea via a fic meme- choices were H, stormy weather (who here is thinking the song? B) ); and F, pain. i didn't really adhere to them though :\]
☆Sunday hanged man
It happened every so often, was nothing to start a fire over. But it was still jarring whenever he found Greece turned up on his doorstep; it was like a black injection into his veins, and the dark humming began, underscore to the air currents. He had just been going out to buy some shit for dinner and hadn’t expected it in the least, seeing Greece standing cool, silhouetted slightly by the sun, looking as though he’d been trying to decide whether to knock on the door or turn back around. Bit too late for that. His eyes met Turkey’s and they both were silent for a minute or so to give the space between them time to sour.
“Heh,” Turkey said, leaning against the doorway, “Must be my lucky day, seein’ you here. ’Sup, brat?”
The spark lit, a little white star in Greece’s eyes. “Nothing,” he said, like he was biting the word off ice; and then, giving Turkey a lazy once-over- “Going somewhere?”
“Yeah, actually. Was goina buy groceries and stuff. I guess your dumb ass dropped by at an opportune time, eh?”
“If it’s Turkish food,” Greece answered, mouth twitching downwards, “I don’t think I’d go near it.”
“Tch! Greek food’s got nothin’ on Turkish food,” Turkey snapped; he would’ve gone on, but the quickness of his words fell flat between them, and all he got was a look burned derisive from Greece. He leaned back slightly. “Well, whatever. Your loss.”
“It’s a loss I’m willing to take...” The cadence of his words seemed unsteady; he looked tentatively to the side.
Another pause. Did these things need formalities, introductions? They both knew what the other was driving toward, anyway; but Turkey went on, “Yer not lookin’ so good.”
Greece’s eyes flashed toward his. “You neither, jerk.”
“-You comin’ in?” Turkey asked, not missing a beat.
Something invisible but seeming gray ran through the line of Greece’s body; a shudder, maybe. “...Yeah,” he said.
Turkey gave him a smile, a canine grin, and stepped aside, made sure the proximity of his body was felt as Greece swept past him and held his head indifferently. “Lock the door, would ya?”
“Yeah,” Greece answered.
The passing seconds were something gray; Turkey stepped out, whistling and swinging his keys, and Greece shut the door as he went. They took care not to meet each other’s eyes.
Coming out from the house, Turkey noticed it was nice out, had a wide, spacey feeling to it; the slight wind carrying white, not too hot and not too cold. Squared his shoulders and walked out toward where his car was parked, ducked inside, and then started off onto the street. None of this, he thought vaguely, took a sinner or a saint. Wasn’t remarkable in any way.
-The whole time they’d talked Greece had had this caged look on his face. It was familiar as old repeated words, the look of wanting something you didn’t, needing something you didn’t. It creeped Turkey out to think that maybe the look was only a reflection...
He didn’t bother to think long about it; he figured it didn’t bother Greece, why should it bother him? But his blood was running high and scarlet, alive as neon, the whole time he was in the store, and his thoughts were running on a white, high wave. He barely notice what he was buying. The implication of shadows to come clouded his mind; he was fully conscious, though, that he bought a bottle of raki. That was probably a good idea, it’d help them both, make things a helluva a lot easier.
He must have looked like he was in a good mood to the cashier, because as he was handed his receipt he also got a wide smile- a kind of nod to the rest of the day. Implied that he knew something. He took his receipt and change and bags, and was suddenly aware of something...he swallowed the feeling down like it had gone bad, and didn’t even notice the muted rage with which he tore the car door open and tossed the bag in.
A self-consciousness crept over him like a dizzying rain; he started the car up. What was he doing? He’d been actually looking forward to seeing Greece- had been excited to, as a matter of fact, a feeling that dimly recalled what he’d once felt marching off to conquer. He’d been looking forward to touching him, tasting him, feeling him near.
After the self-consciousness came a kind of curling meanness, the war drums starting up true in his heart beat. And shouldn’t he look forward to a good fuck?- Or should he? Was that it? That bastard, stupid kid, this happened much too often.
The colors of the street and the scenery outside had an undertone of white; bleached white as he sped past, and slowly regained distinction when he slowed to a stop at a light. He didn’t owe that shit anything- didn’t owe him love, and didn’t even owe him civility. What had he done to Greece that was worse than what any other nation did to another? He didn’t even owe him forgiveness (for what?).
But hadn’t they at least made a shot at redemption? They had played nice in the early years of the republic, and let it not be forgotten that he was actually the first to help Greece out during the second World War. You can build a thousand bridges, but ya suck one cock, and you’re forever just a cocksucker (though, that admittedly wasn’t the best analogy- they’d both had their share of that). Ah, but he had to remember- after that came the tax, and after that the pogrom, and all the other after-thats. It didn’t mean a thing to be the hand that feeds, if directly afterwards you retreat. He was caught up in thinking, getting closer to home. The Marmara was gleaming happily; he noticed a stray dog loping across the street, maybe as a joke, and stopping for to let it pass, felt everything stagnate.
Shit!- he was making himself the sucker. The sudden bad storm attacking his veins made him just feel stupid. Wasn’t it nothing? He was frowning by the time he reached the driveway, frowning full from gray to black.
In the tumult of his feeling, Turkey rushed out of the car, haphazardly brought the grocery bag, ripped out the keys from the ignition with a vagabond tearing. It seemed and looked stupid, the anger with which he walked toward the door, but it wasn’t the time to be seeing himself in the third person because he had a bull to kill right beyond that locked door.
What he didn’t notice, as he rushed off to battle, his heart pounding in his ears, was the stillness he left behind him. That kind of still air that knew something; what it was was that, in all of their pettiness, neither Turkey nor Greece ever stopped to think that the other was feeling and thinking the exact same thing. Self-righteous, bitchy, angered, in love- hardly understanding what the point of the war was other than to fight it.
Turkey had started to unlock the door, but Greece had apparently heard the key turning in the lock and had come to unlock it himself. As soon as Turkey perceived the door unlocking from the inside his posture became like stone, his fist curled darkly. The door opened, with that sleepy grace that Greece had about all his movements, and the first things Turkey perceived were sea-blue eyes. “Hey,” Greece said, seeming indifferent, and turned away to go back inside.
Turkey locked the door behind him, ran his tongue over his teeth, feeling full the broody atmosphere he came in with. He turned, and he took note of the way Greece walked; both warm and cool depending on what you wanted, indolence striking Turkey as insolence. The dark smoke billowed inside Turkey’s chest, pervaded and made thought near impossible. He followed quickly after Greece, but turned off to go into the kitchen and make a haphazard attempt at putting the things away.
He was near finished when Greece called, from the living room, “What did you buy?” with only a flicker of interest.
Turkey paused and waited; Greece didn’t ask twice, so, gathering up his arms and feeling like a blade must as it takes the plunge, he threw care aside and went into the living room- Greece noticed him come in, but didn’t turn to see him (he was on the couch, reading a book, or something). He crossed swift, a gale; and then with a sudden shadow of violence, yanked Greece up from where he sat. There was a sort of struggle, Greece trying to push him away, Turkey not relenting; the book fell somewhere before Greece relented and looked at Turkey with confusion.
“Ow- jerk,” he said, looking from Turkey and then to the floor, where the book had fallen, “You tore it...what do you want?”
Turkey laughed, sounding joyless, the sound backed up in his throat. “What the Hell do you think I want?” he asked, leaning in toward Greece.
“You could ask like a normal person,” Greece snapped.
Electricity popped in the undercurrents; Turkey gave Greece a shake for good measure, by the shoulder. “You want me to ask you? Whaddyou think,” he snarled, teeth straydog sharp, “I let you in here ’cause I’m a nice guy?”
Greece’s eyes were struck with that cold cosmic blue that glimmered just like fury- that look that made Turkey understand all over again just why he couldn’t stop returning to him. “What do you think,” he asked, the sound of the words snapping although he said them slow, “I came here because I just like seeing you?”
“Not at all, actually,” Turkey answered, “Not at all.”
The hand that held onto Greece’s shoulder moved up toward his neck; Turkey’s fingers lingered there with the promise of something dark, but instead of what was implied by his posture, he just traced along the tendon, the muscle, felt the song that runs along the lines of the neck. He moved forward and his lips met Greece’s; Greece’s tongue was first to meet his, movement that’d leave any Romeo shaking wet with envy. They stayed like that, a picture of something sweeter than it actually was, until Greece pulled Turkey toward him and Turkey pushed both of them down, down toward the cushion, the darkness, the movie they’d been through way too many times before.
And after the fact, drifting in heedless white, thinking of nothing but the glow, panting and sweating, Turkey ducked out of the stray feeling and looked at Greece- he’d moved, now sitting across from him, trying similarly to get through the dregs of infatuated chaos. It wasn’t just a history thing, Turkey found himself thinking; he’d always liked the way Greece looked, the contrast of his colors, the smoothness of his body, the sullen way he breathed. Okay, cool it; alright, just pause and think. It was a real damn shame that they hated each other, and that was something he’d only let himself think after orphan passions like these. The thought couldn’t stop the burning in his chest though. He didn’t wonder whether Greece felt the same way; but anyway he reached out-
He pulled Greece roughly against his own body, the way an actual sweetheart might, and he could tell by the bitterness of Greece’s reciprocal movement that he was startled. It wasn’t to make a play at love; it was just to feel the coolness of Greece’s skin on the alcoholic storm that was raging in his body, because with the instincts of a fighting man he realized that if something didn’t calm them from this thrumming fever high, they would end up ripping each other apart.
title: Finish What You Started
character(s)/pairing(s): Turkey/Greece
rating: PG-13
summary: First: Turkey has a sweet tooth. Second: he hates surprises. Third: Greece is really good at sneaking up on him. [written for frostberrytea via a fic meme- choices were D, cooking; and D, back.]
☆FINISH WHAT YOU STARTED
For a first thing, Turkey had a sweet tooth. That needs no explanation. Second, he hated surprises. He never liked to be snuck up on and got no thrill from somebody possibly getting one over on him. Third: Greece could walk soundlessly as a cat, as though the echo of his footsteps slept even when he himself was occasionally among the realm of the conscious.
Fourthly and lastly, Greece is real good at things that Turkey likes and that he hates. So one burned blue day, late in the afternoon, getting on into evening, it was Turkey’s turn to make dinner, and he stood facing the counter, sulk and salt. He’d been bitching about it like he bitched about everything between them, grumbling to himself that he didn’t see why he should make dinner for that asshole, of all people. He was caught up in the mechanics of the kitchen, and in his own thoughts, and the orphan static sound of the ocean outside the window, that he didn’t notice when Greece snuck up close behind him; didn’t notice until Greece’s hand, cove of fingers and palm cool, was covering his eyes.
It was a red flag across his senses; he was already regretting agreeing not to wear the mask. “’Ey, bastard,” Turkey snapped, “The Hell d’ya think yer-”
He was about to go on but his mouth was suddenly full- Greece had apparently seen it as an opening and had accordingly jammed his index finger in Turkey’s mouth. Turkey’s first reaction was a muffled gag, a flash of red, to start a fight- he was about to bark something about giving a goddamn warning, and where does Greece think he’s putting his damn hands, but then the second response came: the thought, the word, sweet. The taste was sudden and stung the corners of his tongue; tasted low and melancholy gold, with a medicinal tang to it- there was something else, an underscore of something bitter.
So the conflagration had died down; and Greece, seeing this, pressed his finger harder against Turkey’s tongue, the joints crowding against the roof of his mouth. Turkey ran his tongue over Greece’s finger, swirled it over, then sucked; the thickness of whatever it was slid down dark into his throat, sugar thick.
He could tell Greece was looking at him, studying his reaction; so that braggart spark came into his eyes and he sucked just a bit harder, ran his teeth along. Greece punctuated the reciprocation with a slight backward forward motion- what Turkey could taste now under the heavy dulcet syrup was the slight salt of Greece’s skin...
Then, barely edging through an opening, Greece pulled his finger out. He still stood close to Turkey though, leaning on his atmosphere, cool blue and ocean spark- just looking at him, just curious about the reaction. Turkey frowned against the residue of sugar in his mouth and, glancing broodily over his shoulder, asked, “The Hell?”
Greece studied him for a moment, the look in his eyes unreadable. “Tell me what it was,” he says.
Turkey paused; he sucked back the lingering saliva, decided after much debate, “Honey.”
Greece paused for a while. “Hm,” he answered, and then- giving no further warning- went to turn away, suddenly leaving Turkey without an explanation, without the steady magnetism of his proximity. That was a little fuckin’ irritating. Greece was like this, after all, who knew what he was thinking? He’d prolly read about something similar in a book somewhere and just decided to try it. But that doesn’t jive, regardless.
So Turkey had to ameliorate that. “Not so fast, kid,” he said, rough tongue razor blade (still with the last notes of saccharine), moving with a natural fighter’s facility so that Greece was pinned in front of him by the hips, against the counter (the knife Turkey’d been using to cut vegetables grinned prettily)- Greece was looking up at him half-curious and half-scornful, that look that set Turkey’s thoughts on fire- and Turkey, with a rude dark smile, told him, “You gotta finish what you started.”
notes;
uhmmmm i think i like this pairing a little too much.
1] my references reek of wikipedia do they not? everything that i referred to in sunday hanged man can be found here.
2] im a little disturbed that i included the word "jive" in a fic including turkey.
3] actually while looking up some stuff on their history, i came across the thought that they will fight about fucking ANYTHING. it seems to be getting better recently. but maybe not. anyway, i thought i would share this from uncyclopedia:
❝ Greeks and Turks seem to fight over everything in general[...] The last major conflict occurred in 1989 when the two countries fought over a small pebble that a tourist dropped over the side of a ferry in the Aegean Sea. Within minutes, a team of Turkish naval commandos had established a small but significant presence on the pebble, raising fears in Thessaloniki that soon all pebbles would be seized by tiny little Turk soldiers. The Greek response was to increase domestic corruption, drink frappe, and moan about everything so eventually the fuss died down. ❞
absolutely beautiful.
thanks for reading! :D