[ oneshot ] Benimki Daima [ Turkey/Greece, Hetalia ]
Title: Benimki Daima
Author: frostberryjam
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Turkey/Greece (Axis Powers Hetalia)
Disclaimer: I do not own APH.
Warnings: ... you do know who Greece and Turkey are, don't you?
Summary: Turkey and Greece, now and then.
Author Notes: Unsurprisingly this was written for hetalia_kink. Yes, yes, I know. Anyway. Greece. Turkey. The Berry way. Which means fucked up and loving at the same time. I love this ship way too much.
"I hate you. Don't misunderstand this." Clothing rustles, falls to the floor. That blindingly white smirk is silenced by eager, hungry lips and skilled hands that press bare shoulders deeper into the carpet, knees on either side of dark hips. Greece tastes like honey and cinnamon.
Turkey has missed the taste.
Fingers card through the wavy brown locks, grip and yank back, freeing his mouth and leaving behind that dulcet taste on his tongue. He savors it, staring into eyes that could rival the shine of beryl, and smirks again.
"Misunderstand what?" He drawls. "That you came crawling back to me?"
Greece rakes him with a stare of familiar contempt. "Fuck you."
"Say 'please'?"
Strong hands give him another shove down. When did Greece grow so tall? He's almost as tall as he is, although in Turkey's eyes, he's still the same brat he found centuries ago.
Lips crash onto his. Rough. Sensual. He remembers that Greece tops the list for the nation that has the most sex in the world. Such a slut. It irks him. He opens his mouth and traps Greece's tongue when it flicks inside, seeking to dominate. He sucks on it, drinking in the sweetness, while his fingers run down his chest, twisting the nipples on the way down, palming a leanly muscled stomach, unzipping the brat's pants.
Greece presses a knee into his groin. Threateningly. Pleasurably. Turkey groans and stops sucking on his tongue, missing it after it's gone, and yet he doesn't feel too bad after he sees how flushed Greece is.
"Whatssa matter? Can't stand a little petting?" He demands huskily, freeing Greece's manhood and wrapping calloused fingers around it. Greece's head swings back for a moment, baring his throat, and it's a buffet for Turkey exclusively, who latches on to that beautiful neck with teeth, lips and tongue, sucking, biting, laving wetly where Greece's heart is beating a thousand miles per minute.
He bites down hard enough to leave a mark, and Greece shudders against Turkey, moaning his name into his ear with longing.
It's Turkey's turn to be affected.
"Benimki. Daima." He murmurs unconsciously, but Greece hears him. And understands. Eyes snap to meet his and Greece pushes him down again.
"Not yours, you supercilious prick." He speaks against Turkey's mouth, even as the older nation tightens his grip around his cock and strokes it. If Greece were like one of his precious cats, he would have begun to purr.
If you say so. That's what Turkey's smile arrogantly declares, although he's not about to ruin this opportunity, not after so long, not since he screwed up his chance after the earthquakes, and shifts so he's sitting up. The younger protests as they're both suddenly hoisted onto their feet and Turkey pushes him against the long table they use for these world meetings, stacks of paper tumbling down with the force of their movements.
Greece inhales as he feels the bulge against his stomach, grinding against him as Turkey covers him with his lean, powerful body -- and then withdraws, a round glass bottle in his hand. Greece blearily stares, not recognizing it until his former conqueror twists the cap off and the scent of olives invades his nostrils.
He looks to the side to see North Italy's nameplate knocked askew on the table. Why the hell Italy left behind a bottle of olive oil in the meeting room, he doesn't want to know. He's only thankful even though he will never admit it.
"Hurry up." He urges, turning onto his stomach because even though it grates on him like claws ripping into his spine, this is what he wants, and everyone else is going to be returning from lunch at any moment now, no matter how complex the catering of a meal has to be for thirty-odd people with very specific culinary demands.
He pushes down his pants, and Turkey wisely refrains from chuckling smugly. That will earn him at least a broken jaw, so he settles for undoing his own slacks, pushing them low on his hips enough that he can bring his cock out, giving it a fond squeeze before he drizzles the fragrant oil over his fingers.
It makes them both stop, their breathing harsh. They remember that scent. It's burned into their memories. An image of a thousand years past, dozens of mortal lifetimes ago, them underneath an olive tree with sunlight on their legs, Greece's limbs slender and blushed with youth, a white mask tossed on the grass, lips pressing kisses against a tanned stomach.
This time Turkey doesn't say it but Greece still hears it. Benimki. Daima.
Mine.
Forever.
The fingers invading his entrance roughly pry a groan from his lips. Greece spreads his legs and braces himself on the desk. He encourages it, pushes back. They hate to be gentle. It would break one of them. Both of them.
The fingers are long and graceful, Turkey's always possessed beautiful hands for a savage, and they pry noise out of him until the Greek has to bite down on his wrist before someone overhears and comes to investigate the source of the commotion.
The fingers slip away and are replaced with something larger, thicker. Heat spreads across the nape of Greece's neck and his fingernails dig into the table's surface as the moment is drawn out unbearably. Turkey is pushing inside of him a centimeter at a time, groaning darkly into his ear.
The torture goes on and on, surging deeper into him until angry, frustrated tears are squeezing out the corners of Greece's eyes. It almost seems as if it is never going to end until suddenly Turkey's pressed flush against him, dark hands on his waist. The former Empire rolls his hips in a circular motion and Greece's nails dig deeper into the wood, marking it.
"Fucking. Move." He throatily commands.
A smile is pressed against his back, then a sharp bite to the curve of his shoulder at the same time as Turkey withdraws. Greece chokes, waiting, shoulder burning from pressure of canines.
Turkey thrusts into him.
Then he pulls back languidly, with all the patience in the world.
"I hate you." Greece's voice is garbled, but it isn't loathing that Turkey hears. He guides Greece down to lay on the table, covering his body like a blanket and wants to close his eyes as he begins to move in that tight, amazing heat. But it's better to keep them open, see how the Greek's fingers are curving with desperation, leaving wounds in the wood.
"You hate me?" He taunts because sometimes he can't keep his mouth shut even when his nerves have been set on fire, the slap of flesh and smell of sweat in the air.
"Yes!" The word slips from Greece's mouth as the angle of a thrust brushes the head of Turkey's cock against his prostate. He's barely listening and Turkey knows it.
A drop of sweat rolls down the Greek's spine. Despite the steady, hard rhythm he's trying to maintain, Turkey bends down to lick it off the golden skin and follows the path up until his mouth is against Greece's neck.
The man underneath him reacts by tightening around him, raising his hips and pushing back. Turkey has to close his eyes at that point, keenly aware of how much Greece wants him, maybe as much as Turkey has wanted this for centuries, and on instinct opens his mouth, tongue sliding across sweet-salty skin again before he bites down.
Greece gasps. A tremble moves down his frame. Turkey realizes the man has come without even being jerked off by hand and groans softly, teeth still gripping Greece's nape like a tomcat mounting his queen. Turkey gives a few more hard, thundering thrusts before he spills liquid heat inside of the nation that was once his most cherished possession.
They remain like that, out of breath, connected even when Turkey pulls his spent cock out, biting down hard enough that there will be a mark there to remind Greece of this for a long time after.
And make him want it again.
Author: frostberryjam
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Turkey/Greece (Axis Powers Hetalia)
Disclaimer: I do not own APH.
Warnings: ... you do know who Greece and Turkey are, don't you?
Summary: Turkey and Greece, now and then.
Author Notes: Unsurprisingly this was written for hetalia_kink. Yes, yes, I know. Anyway. Greece. Turkey. The Berry way. Which means fucked up and loving at the same time. I love this ship way too much.
"I hate you. Don't misunderstand this." Clothing rustles, falls to the floor. That blindingly white smirk is silenced by eager, hungry lips and skilled hands that press bare shoulders deeper into the carpet, knees on either side of dark hips. Greece tastes like honey and cinnamon.
Turkey has missed the taste.
Fingers card through the wavy brown locks, grip and yank back, freeing his mouth and leaving behind that dulcet taste on his tongue. He savors it, staring into eyes that could rival the shine of beryl, and smirks again.
"Misunderstand what?" He drawls. "That you came crawling back to me?"
Greece rakes him with a stare of familiar contempt. "Fuck you."
"Say 'please'?"
Strong hands give him another shove down. When did Greece grow so tall? He's almost as tall as he is, although in Turkey's eyes, he's still the same brat he found centuries ago.
Lips crash onto his. Rough. Sensual. He remembers that Greece tops the list for the nation that has the most sex in the world. Such a slut. It irks him. He opens his mouth and traps Greece's tongue when it flicks inside, seeking to dominate. He sucks on it, drinking in the sweetness, while his fingers run down his chest, twisting the nipples on the way down, palming a leanly muscled stomach, unzipping the brat's pants.
Greece presses a knee into his groin. Threateningly. Pleasurably. Turkey groans and stops sucking on his tongue, missing it after it's gone, and yet he doesn't feel too bad after he sees how flushed Greece is.
"Whatssa matter? Can't stand a little petting?" He demands huskily, freeing Greece's manhood and wrapping calloused fingers around it. Greece's head swings back for a moment, baring his throat, and it's a buffet for Turkey exclusively, who latches on to that beautiful neck with teeth, lips and tongue, sucking, biting, laving wetly where Greece's heart is beating a thousand miles per minute.
He bites down hard enough to leave a mark, and Greece shudders against Turkey, moaning his name into his ear with longing.
It's Turkey's turn to be affected.
"Benimki. Daima." He murmurs unconsciously, but Greece hears him. And understands. Eyes snap to meet his and Greece pushes him down again.
"Not yours, you supercilious prick." He speaks against Turkey's mouth, even as the older nation tightens his grip around his cock and strokes it. If Greece were like one of his precious cats, he would have begun to purr.
If you say so. That's what Turkey's smile arrogantly declares, although he's not about to ruin this opportunity, not after so long, not since he screwed up his chance after the earthquakes, and shifts so he's sitting up. The younger protests as they're both suddenly hoisted onto their feet and Turkey pushes him against the long table they use for these world meetings, stacks of paper tumbling down with the force of their movements.
Greece inhales as he feels the bulge against his stomach, grinding against him as Turkey covers him with his lean, powerful body -- and then withdraws, a round glass bottle in his hand. Greece blearily stares, not recognizing it until his former conqueror twists the cap off and the scent of olives invades his nostrils.
He looks to the side to see North Italy's nameplate knocked askew on the table. Why the hell Italy left behind a bottle of olive oil in the meeting room, he doesn't want to know. He's only thankful even though he will never admit it.
"Hurry up." He urges, turning onto his stomach because even though it grates on him like claws ripping into his spine, this is what he wants, and everyone else is going to be returning from lunch at any moment now, no matter how complex the catering of a meal has to be for thirty-odd people with very specific culinary demands.
He pushes down his pants, and Turkey wisely refrains from chuckling smugly. That will earn him at least a broken jaw, so he settles for undoing his own slacks, pushing them low on his hips enough that he can bring his cock out, giving it a fond squeeze before he drizzles the fragrant oil over his fingers.
It makes them both stop, their breathing harsh. They remember that scent. It's burned into their memories. An image of a thousand years past, dozens of mortal lifetimes ago, them underneath an olive tree with sunlight on their legs, Greece's limbs slender and blushed with youth, a white mask tossed on the grass, lips pressing kisses against a tanned stomach.
This time Turkey doesn't say it but Greece still hears it. Benimki. Daima.
Mine.
Forever.
The fingers invading his entrance roughly pry a groan from his lips. Greece spreads his legs and braces himself on the desk. He encourages it, pushes back. They hate to be gentle. It would break one of them. Both of them.
The fingers are long and graceful, Turkey's always possessed beautiful hands for a savage, and they pry noise out of him until the Greek has to bite down on his wrist before someone overhears and comes to investigate the source of the commotion.
The fingers slip away and are replaced with something larger, thicker. Heat spreads across the nape of Greece's neck and his fingernails dig into the table's surface as the moment is drawn out unbearably. Turkey is pushing inside of him a centimeter at a time, groaning darkly into his ear.
The torture goes on and on, surging deeper into him until angry, frustrated tears are squeezing out the corners of Greece's eyes. It almost seems as if it is never going to end until suddenly Turkey's pressed flush against him, dark hands on his waist. The former Empire rolls his hips in a circular motion and Greece's nails dig deeper into the wood, marking it.
"Fucking. Move." He throatily commands.
A smile is pressed against his back, then a sharp bite to the curve of his shoulder at the same time as Turkey withdraws. Greece chokes, waiting, shoulder burning from pressure of canines.
Turkey thrusts into him.
Then he pulls back languidly, with all the patience in the world.
"I hate you." Greece's voice is garbled, but it isn't loathing that Turkey hears. He guides Greece down to lay on the table, covering his body like a blanket and wants to close his eyes as he begins to move in that tight, amazing heat. But it's better to keep them open, see how the Greek's fingers are curving with desperation, leaving wounds in the wood.
"You hate me?" He taunts because sometimes he can't keep his mouth shut even when his nerves have been set on fire, the slap of flesh and smell of sweat in the air.
"Yes!" The word slips from Greece's mouth as the angle of a thrust brushes the head of Turkey's cock against his prostate. He's barely listening and Turkey knows it.
A drop of sweat rolls down the Greek's spine. Despite the steady, hard rhythm he's trying to maintain, Turkey bends down to lick it off the golden skin and follows the path up until his mouth is against Greece's neck.
The man underneath him reacts by tightening around him, raising his hips and pushing back. Turkey has to close his eyes at that point, keenly aware of how much Greece wants him, maybe as much as Turkey has wanted this for centuries, and on instinct opens his mouth, tongue sliding across sweet-salty skin again before he bites down.
Greece gasps. A tremble moves down his frame. Turkey realizes the man has come without even being jerked off by hand and groans softly, teeth still gripping Greece's nape like a tomcat mounting his queen. Turkey gives a few more hard, thundering thrusts before he spills liquid heat inside of the nation that was once his most cherished possession.
They remain like that, out of breath, connected even when Turkey pulls his spent cock out, biting down hard enough that there will be a mark there to remind Greece of this for a long time after.
And make him want it again.