[ oneshot ] Conquest [ Turkey x Greece, Hetalia ]
Title: Conquest
Author: frostberryjam
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Turkey x Greece (Hetalia)
Warnings: If you know who Turkey and Greece are, I don’t think I need to warn you, do I?
Author Notes: Written in about half an hour, inspiration came from the strips where Spain gets into a war with Turkey over S. Italy.
“Come here.” Turkey orders, voice thick with the excitement from going to war, the adrenaline rush of a battle well-fought, of danger edged with pain.
But there's no satisfaction in Turkey's voice, only lust for more.
Greece stares up at him with a vague expression of repulsion, even though his skin prickles with awareness. Thunk. Armor hits the ground, loud in the airy sunroom, splashed with blood. His breath quickens; for all his love of philosophers and the great thinkers, there have also been heroes, great battles that are still spoken of into modern times, and love for a strong warrior still runs deep in Greece’s veins, just like how his mother had reacted to Rome.
Turkey has surprisingly long, elegant hands for a brute. He grips Greece’s chin between his fingers, staring down into mutinous blue-green eyes, their hue deepening as they try to read his expression through the mask, even though Greece knows it’s futile. But he’s stubborn. And Turkey appreciates that, thrills in fighting him even as he notices the way Greece’s mouth is soft, betraying the façade that he utterly hates this. Them.
The mask is removed, set aside, and Turkey dips his head to drink the sweetness that is Greece’s mouth, tightening his grip when the youth flinches. But once their lips touch that becomes enough bondage, and he smoothes his hand down that tempting throat, palm feeling the quickening of a heart. He slides his tongue against unmoving lips, trying to snare Greece into giving in, and they part, granting access.
Greece nips him, teeth sharp. The older nation responds by shoving his tongue deep into his mouth and pinning him down against the recliner chaise by the shoulders. They fight like that for a while longer, pushing against one another before Greece takes the fight in a different way, tongue twining around Turkey’s and struggling for dominance of the kiss.
Unnoticed, one of Turkey’s hands slip underneath the other male’s clothing. The rough fingers wrap around Greece’s weeping cock and the younger gasps, arms hooking around Turkey’s neck as Turkey skillfully rubs his thumb around the head, knowing precisely what can make Greece breathless with pleasure, watches Greece’s flushed cheeks, lips still wet with saliva, hair a dark halo around his face.
He begins moving his hand in serious, working his palm against Greece and milking him into a shuddering climax that has Greece’s delicate features twisting in anger at remembering he’s not supposed to be enjoying himself, and bliss, floating in deep, warm satisfaction.
Turkey frees his hand from underneath the younger’s clothing, wet with semen, and with some desperation frees his cock into the air, sliding his hand against it and letting out a hiss at how good that feels, staring down at Greece’s post-coital expression. Greece turns to look at him, apparently not as out of it as Turkey had deemed, and watches him masturbate, the emotion in his eyes unreadable.
Turkey’s lips stretch into something that could be a smile, or a smirk, or a snarl, for there’s teeth in there. He ceases his movements, gesturing with the wet hand to his cock. “Want to return the favor, little boy?”
Greece rises to a sitting position, looking wanton still with his hair mussed, clothes disheveled. His eyes flicker up to meet Turkey’s briefly. “You’re disgusting.” He bites out without any hatred, an empty statement of fact.
Then he slides down to his knees on the floor and sinks Turkey’s cock into his mouth, covering what he can’t swallow with ink-stained fingers. Turkey closes his eyes in reaction to being enveloped in heat, then snaps them open immediately because he doesn’t want to miss this. Doesn’t want to miss out on seeing that crown of messy, soft hair bobbing up and down as Greece laves him with a nimble tongue, like a cat, and it’s heaven, even with the occasional graze of teeth that he’s sure aren’t accidental.
He doesn’t touch Greece, at first, focuses more on breathing evenly and holding off the orgasm building in his balls. This happens so rarely that he wants to enjoy it fully, gradually sinking his fingers into the brown locks and for a moment, an image of a similar head of hair, of a similar man, but with green eyes flashes through his head, and Turkey smiles distractedly at the idea that he’ll have Spain on his knees like this soon.
Greece takes him into his mouth and swallows, suppressing the gag reflex as Turkey releases a soft groan, fingers tightening on Greece’s hair as his hips begin to move with sedulous control, pushing in and out of Greece’s throat. This is what he wants, not Spain, even though he’ll enjoy that. This is what he’ll always want, his most treasured conquest, what he’ll never give up.
Testy to the end, even when he’s willingly sucking on Turkey’s cock, Greece’s nails dig into the back of Turkey’s thighs and Turkey laughs, quietly and darkly as he grips the strands tighter and slides his manhood in deeper, until Turkey’s swallowed whole by amazingly tight heat. Greece makes a muffled sound of protest, which sends a blinding river of white behind Turkey’s eyes, and he grunts, forcing Greece to drink his semen as he comes in long spurts that leave Turkey weak in the knees.
The Greek jerks back, coughing, wiping his mouth the back of his hand. But not swiftly enough, Turkey sees the come on the boy’s lips and smiles smugly even though all he wants to do next is pick up Greece and take him to bed, sleep with the boy beside him like that infernal army of cats like to sleep beside Greece.
But this is too good to pass up.
“Did it taste good?” He purrs his question, mocking. Greece glares at him, resentful and angry again.
“Get out.” He snarls. “You got what you came for. Go back to fighting your war.”
“Oh, no.” Turkey bends down, and avoiding Greece’s attempt to punch him, picks him up, knowing Greece finds it humiliating to be held against his chest as if he were a woman. Those vivid eyes are glaring at him with fire. It might have been an intimidating look, if Greece’s mouth wasn’t so lush and wet still. Turkey kissed his forehead, affectionate and yet mocking. “We’re not done yet.”
Author: frostberryjam
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Turkey x Greece (Hetalia)
Warnings: If you know who Turkey and Greece are, I don’t think I need to warn you, do I?
Author Notes: Written in about half an hour, inspiration came from the strips where Spain gets into a war with Turkey over S. Italy.
“Come here.” Turkey orders, voice thick with the excitement from going to war, the adrenaline rush of a battle well-fought, of danger edged with pain.
But there's no satisfaction in Turkey's voice, only lust for more.
Greece stares up at him with a vague expression of repulsion, even though his skin prickles with awareness. Thunk. Armor hits the ground, loud in the airy sunroom, splashed with blood. His breath quickens; for all his love of philosophers and the great thinkers, there have also been heroes, great battles that are still spoken of into modern times, and love for a strong warrior still runs deep in Greece’s veins, just like how his mother had reacted to Rome.
Turkey has surprisingly long, elegant hands for a brute. He grips Greece’s chin between his fingers, staring down into mutinous blue-green eyes, their hue deepening as they try to read his expression through the mask, even though Greece knows it’s futile. But he’s stubborn. And Turkey appreciates that, thrills in fighting him even as he notices the way Greece’s mouth is soft, betraying the façade that he utterly hates this. Them.
The mask is removed, set aside, and Turkey dips his head to drink the sweetness that is Greece’s mouth, tightening his grip when the youth flinches. But once their lips touch that becomes enough bondage, and he smoothes his hand down that tempting throat, palm feeling the quickening of a heart. He slides his tongue against unmoving lips, trying to snare Greece into giving in, and they part, granting access.
Greece nips him, teeth sharp. The older nation responds by shoving his tongue deep into his mouth and pinning him down against the recliner chaise by the shoulders. They fight like that for a while longer, pushing against one another before Greece takes the fight in a different way, tongue twining around Turkey’s and struggling for dominance of the kiss.
Unnoticed, one of Turkey’s hands slip underneath the other male’s clothing. The rough fingers wrap around Greece’s weeping cock and the younger gasps, arms hooking around Turkey’s neck as Turkey skillfully rubs his thumb around the head, knowing precisely what can make Greece breathless with pleasure, watches Greece’s flushed cheeks, lips still wet with saliva, hair a dark halo around his face.
He begins moving his hand in serious, working his palm against Greece and milking him into a shuddering climax that has Greece’s delicate features twisting in anger at remembering he’s not supposed to be enjoying himself, and bliss, floating in deep, warm satisfaction.
Turkey frees his hand from underneath the younger’s clothing, wet with semen, and with some desperation frees his cock into the air, sliding his hand against it and letting out a hiss at how good that feels, staring down at Greece’s post-coital expression. Greece turns to look at him, apparently not as out of it as Turkey had deemed, and watches him masturbate, the emotion in his eyes unreadable.
Turkey’s lips stretch into something that could be a smile, or a smirk, or a snarl, for there’s teeth in there. He ceases his movements, gesturing with the wet hand to his cock. “Want to return the favor, little boy?”
Greece rises to a sitting position, looking wanton still with his hair mussed, clothes disheveled. His eyes flicker up to meet Turkey’s briefly. “You’re disgusting.” He bites out without any hatred, an empty statement of fact.
Then he slides down to his knees on the floor and sinks Turkey’s cock into his mouth, covering what he can’t swallow with ink-stained fingers. Turkey closes his eyes in reaction to being enveloped in heat, then snaps them open immediately because he doesn’t want to miss this. Doesn’t want to miss out on seeing that crown of messy, soft hair bobbing up and down as Greece laves him with a nimble tongue, like a cat, and it’s heaven, even with the occasional graze of teeth that he’s sure aren’t accidental.
He doesn’t touch Greece, at first, focuses more on breathing evenly and holding off the orgasm building in his balls. This happens so rarely that he wants to enjoy it fully, gradually sinking his fingers into the brown locks and for a moment, an image of a similar head of hair, of a similar man, but with green eyes flashes through his head, and Turkey smiles distractedly at the idea that he’ll have Spain on his knees like this soon.
Greece takes him into his mouth and swallows, suppressing the gag reflex as Turkey releases a soft groan, fingers tightening on Greece’s hair as his hips begin to move with sedulous control, pushing in and out of Greece’s throat. This is what he wants, not Spain, even though he’ll enjoy that. This is what he’ll always want, his most treasured conquest, what he’ll never give up.
Testy to the end, even when he’s willingly sucking on Turkey’s cock, Greece’s nails dig into the back of Turkey’s thighs and Turkey laughs, quietly and darkly as he grips the strands tighter and slides his manhood in deeper, until Turkey’s swallowed whole by amazingly tight heat. Greece makes a muffled sound of protest, which sends a blinding river of white behind Turkey’s eyes, and he grunts, forcing Greece to drink his semen as he comes in long spurts that leave Turkey weak in the knees.
The Greek jerks back, coughing, wiping his mouth the back of his hand. But not swiftly enough, Turkey sees the come on the boy’s lips and smiles smugly even though all he wants to do next is pick up Greece and take him to bed, sleep with the boy beside him like that infernal army of cats like to sleep beside Greece.
But this is too good to pass up.
“Did it taste good?” He purrs his question, mocking. Greece glares at him, resentful and angry again.
“Get out.” He snarls. “You got what you came for. Go back to fighting your war.”
“Oh, no.” Turkey bends down, and avoiding Greece’s attempt to punch him, picks him up, knowing Greece finds it humiliating to be held against his chest as if he were a woman. Those vivid eyes are glaring at him with fire. It might have been an intimidating look, if Greece’s mouth wasn’t so lush and wet still. Turkey kissed his forehead, affectionate and yet mocking. “We’re not done yet.”