[fic] Give Thanks
Title: Give Thanks
Author: etre_sans_age
Rating: R/NC-17/I don't fucking know
Characters: Turkey/America, Canada
Warnings: food!sex on a kitchen counter, how unsanitary
Wordcount: 2,940
Summary: Reposted from the kink meme. For the prompt - Turkey gets the wrong idea about 'Turkey day' and comes over to see what it's all about, which somehow leads to ... censorable material. Football of the American type occurs. A baster is used. Canada is traumatized.
He should have realized something was not quite right when America’s brother, whatever his name was, opened the door and let him in, a huge smile on his face.
“Welcome, Turkey! Just make yourself comfortable in the living room, we’re still cooking dinner. I’ll, uh, let America know you’re here, eh?”
Turkey remembered his name at last and grinned back, watching Canada head off to the kitchen. Without even thinking about it, he took off his shoes and looking about the cozy home, filled with the sounds of a sports game on television, the amusing sight of odd little trinkets that America hoarded everywhere, and more importantly, the tantalizing smells of roasting and boiling and baking, enough to torture a starving man. This was a good home, Turkey thought, a blessed home, and he counted himself fortunate to have his casual request to visit America’s home accepted so eagerly. Though he was not quite sure what Canada was doing here, he could deal with a third party easily enough…
Setting his gifts down on the coffee table, Turkey had only a minute to find a seat on the couch and observe the events on the huge plasma-screen television before America bounded out of the kitchen and threw his arms about the older nation’s shoulders in a fierce backward hug.
“Hey, Turkey! So glad you could make it to our Thanksgiving!”
“Amerika, I must thank you for allowing me to drop in at such late notice,” Turkey replied, standing up to shake America’s hand firmly. “And I was not sure what to bring, so I brought raki to drink, and sweets, for after dinner. Please, accept these gifts.” Which he was sure they’d take - there was no question that these two drank alcohol despite their seeming youth, since proximity to England and France tended to guarantee alcoholism.
The brothers glanced at each other and then peered excitedly at the wrapped bottle and exotic, colorful boxes, making ooh and aah noises under their breath. “Wow, you shouldn’t have, I mean, we have so much food already, but… thanks, really.”
Suddenly remembering that he had something on the stove, America excused himself and dashed back to the kitchen, while Canada attempted to explain the intricacies of American football to the amused Turkey. It was a strange sport, not as breathtaking as football, real football, but powerful and dramatic in a way Turkey definitely approved of. Clashing masculine bodies, titanic struggles for territory, teammates pushing their speed and strength and intelligence to the limits and beyond.
America, stuck cooking dinner, constantly shouted for the latest updates from his twin, who got some of the terminology wrong in his excitement.
“Touchdown, it’s touchdown, not goal, you hockey freak!”
“Oh, shut it, they sometimes call it goal, too, I heard them!”
“That’s a field goal! Different from a touchdown, bro!”
Turkey laughed heartily, entertained by their not entirely mean-hearted exchange, and he settled back into the couch cushions, soon to be joined by both of the younger nations on either side. America told him dinner would be ready by half-time, so in the meantime, they cheered for both teams, caught up in the enthusiasm of so many other American citizens this night.
Normally guarded, Turkey found himself cheering along with the brothers, hardly bothering to wonder at this new feeling of being wholly welcomed into a family, of not being hated or treated with distrust and suspicion as he had grown accustomed to in his relations with the rest of Europe and Asia. Had he taken the time to examine it, he would have felt surprised, but right at that moment, he only felt excited, not knowing which team would get the upper hand.
At last, it was time for dinner, and they tore their attention from the television to the equally satisfying prospect of food, and lots of it.
The table was set for three, but it could have easily seated six or eight, and all available space was taken up by plates and bowls and platters of American food. Turkey could not recognize all of the dishes, but if they tasted half as good as they smelled, then it would be ambrosia indeed. For the main event, America brought out a massive pan with a huge roasted bird, gleaming golden brown and still steaming from its time in the oven, and set in the center of the table.
“And there we go, the highlight of the dinner, turkey!”
“Yay, turkey!” Canada was obviously still in the cheering mood.
“You mean me?” Turkey asked, somewhat confused.
“No, no, turkey, the bird, that gorgeous, beautiful bird right there,” America replied, his tone reverent and spoiled only slightly by the drool threatening to spill from a corner of his mouth.
“…What?” Well, he had had his suspicions before, and they were confirmed now. This ‘Turkey Day’ was not about him, in any way. It was about this… this monstrous American poultry that they were planning to devour. But before he could collect his wits enough to feel affronted to be associated with a source of protein, America had carved off a giant drumstick and set it on his plate.
“Enjoy, Turkey. The drumstick’s the best!”
During the course of the dinner, Canada had asked him if he was planning to take off the mask, and somewhat reluctantly, he pulled it off and set it on the table beside his glass of raki and water. But he did not take down the hood of his sweatshirt, he needed at least something covering his head. They stared at him then, America stopping his chewing long enough to comment that he had rather nice eyes. Turkey chuckled, too warmed by their innocence to be insulted by the misunderstanding that brought him here in the first place.
“I was wondering why France or England did not come,” he asked, to take the attention off of him, for the weight of their bright blue gazes unnerved him somewhat.
“Oh, England never feels comfortable visiting me,” America replied, apparently not bothered by this, “and France, he just hates the food.”
“Really? But the food tastes fine to me.” Maybe a little bland compared to Turkish cuisine, but filling and comforting.
“I think he just hates it on principle. It is… kind of British. A little.”
“Yeah, and I heard they had plans,” Canada added ominously. “Those sort of plans…” The disgusted grimace on Canada’s face was soon matched by America’s, and Turkey grinned in sympathy.
“Forget them. You don’t need those two around anyway, since you have two perfectly fine specimens of turkey to admire right here.”
“Hah hah, you said it, man!” America laughed, then started choking, so that his brother had to rush over and pound his back.
They did not finish the turkey, but came close, and demolished the garlic mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, cranberry sauce, honey glazed ham, sweet potatoes and spinach greens, washing it all down with the chilled raki and iced tea. It seemed that the brothers did enjoy the exotic anise-flavored spirit, and Turkey smiled into his own glass of the milky drink.
“They call it aslan sütü in my homeland. It means ‘the lion’s milk’, the milk of the brave,” he explained, casting a sideways glance at a beaming America.
“That’s so awesome,” America breathed, then turned his attention to the desserts - pumpkin pie and apple pie and pecan pie and well, every kind of pie you could imagine. Canada preferred ice cream with his pie, instead of America’s choice of pie with more pie and some pie to the side, and they set to with gusto. Turkey was feeling stuffed of food some time ago and stared in amazement as the brothers easily finished off three pies before giving up with a contented sigh that could only come from carbohydrate overload.
Then it was time to drag their heavy limbs to the couch and catch the ending of the game, frosty beers in hand. Not more than fifteen minutes after the game ended (the Dallas Cowboys won), the brothers were nodding off, America finally slumping onto Turkey’s left side, his blond head resting on his shoulder. Struggling to stay awake, Canada yawned and sleepily offered to show Turkey his room for the night.
“Wait, Canada, show me America’s room first, I’ll take him there.” With some difficulty, for America was not light even before eating enough food to feed three people, Turkey ended up half carrying, half dragging the unconscious nation up the stairs to his room, slinging him onto the bed. He bade the other brother good night, then shuffled to the guest room to take a shower before going to sleep. His plans for the night, however vague, were spoiled by this turn of events, but, and this was the strange part, that did not upset him at all.
America woke up at four am with a raging thirst that must have resulted from indulging a bit too much over dinner. Groaning in pain, he stumbled down the stairs, in the search for any form of liquid.
He noticed a light on in the kitchen, and when he peeked in, saw Turkey smoking a cigarette pensively, wearing nothing but boxers. The nation had apparently been making coffee, though why he would be doing so early in the morning escaped America, and was now pouring it out into a cup. He looked up and waved America over with a smile, stunningly handsome stripped down like that, like one of the gods of old.
“Come here, little lion,” he said softly, warmly. Turkey poured out another cup and invited America to taste, if he so dared. Thirsty, America took a gulp of the hot liquid and almost choked again. This Turkish coffee was strong, stronger than the strongest coffee he had ever made, so bitter and sweet it made his eyes water.
Attempting to blink the tears out of his eyes but still look manly, America cleared his throat and said, “Shit.”
“You didn’t spit it out, so that’s pretty good.” Turkey nodded in approval, stubbing his cigarette out on the counter with a spark of some unreadable emotion in his dark eyes. Before America knew what was happening, he was backed up against the counter, Turkey’s body pressed close against his, no space separating them. He knew he was blushing, he could not help it, but took a deep breath as Turkey pressed dry lips to his cheek, then the corner of his mouth, taking in a whiff of soap and musk and manly sweat. Though America possessed unnatural strength, he felt weak trapped against the lean tanned body, those muscles honed to sleekness from years of battle and training, and he trembled in anticipation as Turkey backed up just enough to take off his shirt.
“We could just err, go to my room, if you want.”
“Right here is fine, I don’t want to disturb your brother,” Turkey murmured, his voice a soft low rumble that made America’s heart skip rapidly.
“Ah, okay. But you know, I don’t have…” America’s eyes widened as Turkey reached out with one hand to retrieve a bottle of olive oil, pouring it out into a glass bowl. His fascinated gaze followed the arm as it grabbed a brush from the cutlery drawer and swirled it into the oil with lazy motions.
Pushing America gently onto the cold marble, Turkey grinned and dripped the oil onto the broad chest below, smirking as America gasped. Such a beautiful man to love, and even if he was no longer virgin, he would more than satisfy Turkey’s need. Slowly, he spread the oil across America’s pale skin, teasing around a rosy nipple with the brush, and then discarding it completely in favor of his own tongue. Angels above, but the boy was as delicious as he looked, squirming and gasping and whispering his pleasure. Soon, they had taken off the last of their clothing, and America had wrapped his legs around Turkey’s waist, begging quietly for more, more, more.
It was perhaps around four thirty am when Canada woke up, feeling muzzy and thirsty and needing to go to the bathroom. He had just finished washing his hands when he heard a muffled noise coming from the kitchen, and decided to investigate, figuring it might be America wanting another try at the pecan pie. Canada was about to enter the kitchen when he heard America’s frantic whispered voice.
“Turkey, that baster doesn’t go there!”
“Hush, it will work, trust me.”
Huh, the two of them were awake. Maybe they were, err, making turkey sandwiches and pouring gravy over the meat, that’s what he would be doing after Thanksgiving dinner. Though he would not be groaning loudly in ecstasy like America was doing. And maybe he would not exactly be grunting, either, unless he was perhaps having a manliness contest with America. Or you know… fucking him.
Oh God.
Oh dear God.
Canada debated whether to leave them alone or burst into the kitchen in defense of his silly brother. But Turkey was really big and strong and probably knew a thousand ways to kill someone with his bare hands, not that he would kill another nation, but… no, Canada could not do that, not even for America. Instead, he opted for peeking into the room, just to make sure no one was getting hurt.
America thought he could not get enough of Turkey, though his mind was focused on the nation currently fucking him and not on the cold cuts of meat in the refrigerator just asking to be eaten. He could feel marble under his back, stubble against his throat, tongue on his skin, fingers pumping his erection, an impressive cock thrusting into his body with maddening steadiness, driving him closer to climax with each rocking motion. All he could do was reach out for the other nation, clutching at those close-cropped locks, tugging at the curls at the base of Turkey’s neck and getting rewarded with a sharp intake of breath. Biting his lip to keep from screaming, America managed a somewhat muffled moan of pleasure as he reached that peak, his back clearing off of the counter in rapture. He slumped back down, panting, and Turkey pulled out slightly, to turn America onto his side and continue until he, too, came with a satisfied growl.
“Fucking hell… that was awesome,” America managed to say, collapsing onto his back after Turkey released him.
Turkey said nothing and just kissed him, delving his tongue into that tasty mouth, to have his kiss willingly returned by the younger nation.
About thirty seconds later, they heard a crash from the hallway and Canada shouting, “Ahhh! It’s just me, Canada! I’m okay! I’m uh, checking the front door to see if it was locked. I wasn’t watching you two or anything, nope, that wasn’t me!”
Then a soft muttered, “Tabernac.”
raki - Turkish anise flavored spirit, turns milky when diluted with water.
Author: etre_sans_age
Rating: R/NC-17/I don't fucking know
Characters: Turkey/America, Canada
Warnings: food!sex on a kitchen counter, how unsanitary
Wordcount: 2,940
Summary: Reposted from the kink meme. For the prompt - Turkey gets the wrong idea about 'Turkey day' and comes over to see what it's all about, which somehow leads to ... censorable material. Football of the American type occurs. A baster is used. Canada is traumatized.
He should have realized something was not quite right when America’s brother, whatever his name was, opened the door and let him in, a huge smile on his face.
“Welcome, Turkey! Just make yourself comfortable in the living room, we’re still cooking dinner. I’ll, uh, let America know you’re here, eh?”
Turkey remembered his name at last and grinned back, watching Canada head off to the kitchen. Without even thinking about it, he took off his shoes and looking about the cozy home, filled with the sounds of a sports game on television, the amusing sight of odd little trinkets that America hoarded everywhere, and more importantly, the tantalizing smells of roasting and boiling and baking, enough to torture a starving man. This was a good home, Turkey thought, a blessed home, and he counted himself fortunate to have his casual request to visit America’s home accepted so eagerly. Though he was not quite sure what Canada was doing here, he could deal with a third party easily enough…
Setting his gifts down on the coffee table, Turkey had only a minute to find a seat on the couch and observe the events on the huge plasma-screen television before America bounded out of the kitchen and threw his arms about the older nation’s shoulders in a fierce backward hug.
“Hey, Turkey! So glad you could make it to our Thanksgiving!”
“Amerika, I must thank you for allowing me to drop in at such late notice,” Turkey replied, standing up to shake America’s hand firmly. “And I was not sure what to bring, so I brought raki to drink, and sweets, for after dinner. Please, accept these gifts.” Which he was sure they’d take - there was no question that these two drank alcohol despite their seeming youth, since proximity to England and France tended to guarantee alcoholism.
The brothers glanced at each other and then peered excitedly at the wrapped bottle and exotic, colorful boxes, making ooh and aah noises under their breath. “Wow, you shouldn’t have, I mean, we have so much food already, but… thanks, really.”
Suddenly remembering that he had something on the stove, America excused himself and dashed back to the kitchen, while Canada attempted to explain the intricacies of American football to the amused Turkey. It was a strange sport, not as breathtaking as football, real football, but powerful and dramatic in a way Turkey definitely approved of. Clashing masculine bodies, titanic struggles for territory, teammates pushing their speed and strength and intelligence to the limits and beyond.
America, stuck cooking dinner, constantly shouted for the latest updates from his twin, who got some of the terminology wrong in his excitement.
“Touchdown, it’s touchdown, not goal, you hockey freak!”
“Oh, shut it, they sometimes call it goal, too, I heard them!”
“That’s a field goal! Different from a touchdown, bro!”
Turkey laughed heartily, entertained by their not entirely mean-hearted exchange, and he settled back into the couch cushions, soon to be joined by both of the younger nations on either side. America told him dinner would be ready by half-time, so in the meantime, they cheered for both teams, caught up in the enthusiasm of so many other American citizens this night.
Normally guarded, Turkey found himself cheering along with the brothers, hardly bothering to wonder at this new feeling of being wholly welcomed into a family, of not being hated or treated with distrust and suspicion as he had grown accustomed to in his relations with the rest of Europe and Asia. Had he taken the time to examine it, he would have felt surprised, but right at that moment, he only felt excited, not knowing which team would get the upper hand.
At last, it was time for dinner, and they tore their attention from the television to the equally satisfying prospect of food, and lots of it.
The table was set for three, but it could have easily seated six or eight, and all available space was taken up by plates and bowls and platters of American food. Turkey could not recognize all of the dishes, but if they tasted half as good as they smelled, then it would be ambrosia indeed. For the main event, America brought out a massive pan with a huge roasted bird, gleaming golden brown and still steaming from its time in the oven, and set in the center of the table.
“And there we go, the highlight of the dinner, turkey!”
“Yay, turkey!” Canada was obviously still in the cheering mood.
“You mean me?” Turkey asked, somewhat confused.
“No, no, turkey, the bird, that gorgeous, beautiful bird right there,” America replied, his tone reverent and spoiled only slightly by the drool threatening to spill from a corner of his mouth.
“…What?” Well, he had had his suspicions before, and they were confirmed now. This ‘Turkey Day’ was not about him, in any way. It was about this… this monstrous American poultry that they were planning to devour. But before he could collect his wits enough to feel affronted to be associated with a source of protein, America had carved off a giant drumstick and set it on his plate.
“Enjoy, Turkey. The drumstick’s the best!”
During the course of the dinner, Canada had asked him if he was planning to take off the mask, and somewhat reluctantly, he pulled it off and set it on the table beside his glass of raki and water. But he did not take down the hood of his sweatshirt, he needed at least something covering his head. They stared at him then, America stopping his chewing long enough to comment that he had rather nice eyes. Turkey chuckled, too warmed by their innocence to be insulted by the misunderstanding that brought him here in the first place.
“I was wondering why France or England did not come,” he asked, to take the attention off of him, for the weight of their bright blue gazes unnerved him somewhat.
“Oh, England never feels comfortable visiting me,” America replied, apparently not bothered by this, “and France, he just hates the food.”
“Really? But the food tastes fine to me.” Maybe a little bland compared to Turkish cuisine, but filling and comforting.
“I think he just hates it on principle. It is… kind of British. A little.”
“Yeah, and I heard they had plans,” Canada added ominously. “Those sort of plans…” The disgusted grimace on Canada’s face was soon matched by America’s, and Turkey grinned in sympathy.
“Forget them. You don’t need those two around anyway, since you have two perfectly fine specimens of turkey to admire right here.”
“Hah hah, you said it, man!” America laughed, then started choking, so that his brother had to rush over and pound his back.
They did not finish the turkey, but came close, and demolished the garlic mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, cranberry sauce, honey glazed ham, sweet potatoes and spinach greens, washing it all down with the chilled raki and iced tea. It seemed that the brothers did enjoy the exotic anise-flavored spirit, and Turkey smiled into his own glass of the milky drink.
“They call it aslan sütü in my homeland. It means ‘the lion’s milk’, the milk of the brave,” he explained, casting a sideways glance at a beaming America.
“That’s so awesome,” America breathed, then turned his attention to the desserts - pumpkin pie and apple pie and pecan pie and well, every kind of pie you could imagine. Canada preferred ice cream with his pie, instead of America’s choice of pie with more pie and some pie to the side, and they set to with gusto. Turkey was feeling stuffed of food some time ago and stared in amazement as the brothers easily finished off three pies before giving up with a contented sigh that could only come from carbohydrate overload.
Then it was time to drag their heavy limbs to the couch and catch the ending of the game, frosty beers in hand. Not more than fifteen minutes after the game ended (the Dallas Cowboys won), the brothers were nodding off, America finally slumping onto Turkey’s left side, his blond head resting on his shoulder. Struggling to stay awake, Canada yawned and sleepily offered to show Turkey his room for the night.
“Wait, Canada, show me America’s room first, I’ll take him there.” With some difficulty, for America was not light even before eating enough food to feed three people, Turkey ended up half carrying, half dragging the unconscious nation up the stairs to his room, slinging him onto the bed. He bade the other brother good night, then shuffled to the guest room to take a shower before going to sleep. His plans for the night, however vague, were spoiled by this turn of events, but, and this was the strange part, that did not upset him at all.
America woke up at four am with a raging thirst that must have resulted from indulging a bit too much over dinner. Groaning in pain, he stumbled down the stairs, in the search for any form of liquid.
He noticed a light on in the kitchen, and when he peeked in, saw Turkey smoking a cigarette pensively, wearing nothing but boxers. The nation had apparently been making coffee, though why he would be doing so early in the morning escaped America, and was now pouring it out into a cup. He looked up and waved America over with a smile, stunningly handsome stripped down like that, like one of the gods of old.
“Come here, little lion,” he said softly, warmly. Turkey poured out another cup and invited America to taste, if he so dared. Thirsty, America took a gulp of the hot liquid and almost choked again. This Turkish coffee was strong, stronger than the strongest coffee he had ever made, so bitter and sweet it made his eyes water.
Attempting to blink the tears out of his eyes but still look manly, America cleared his throat and said, “Shit.”
“You didn’t spit it out, so that’s pretty good.” Turkey nodded in approval, stubbing his cigarette out on the counter with a spark of some unreadable emotion in his dark eyes. Before America knew what was happening, he was backed up against the counter, Turkey’s body pressed close against his, no space separating them. He knew he was blushing, he could not help it, but took a deep breath as Turkey pressed dry lips to his cheek, then the corner of his mouth, taking in a whiff of soap and musk and manly sweat. Though America possessed unnatural strength, he felt weak trapped against the lean tanned body, those muscles honed to sleekness from years of battle and training, and he trembled in anticipation as Turkey backed up just enough to take off his shirt.
“We could just err, go to my room, if you want.”
“Right here is fine, I don’t want to disturb your brother,” Turkey murmured, his voice a soft low rumble that made America’s heart skip rapidly.
“Ah, okay. But you know, I don’t have…” America’s eyes widened as Turkey reached out with one hand to retrieve a bottle of olive oil, pouring it out into a glass bowl. His fascinated gaze followed the arm as it grabbed a brush from the cutlery drawer and swirled it into the oil with lazy motions.
Pushing America gently onto the cold marble, Turkey grinned and dripped the oil onto the broad chest below, smirking as America gasped. Such a beautiful man to love, and even if he was no longer virgin, he would more than satisfy Turkey’s need. Slowly, he spread the oil across America’s pale skin, teasing around a rosy nipple with the brush, and then discarding it completely in favor of his own tongue. Angels above, but the boy was as delicious as he looked, squirming and gasping and whispering his pleasure. Soon, they had taken off the last of their clothing, and America had wrapped his legs around Turkey’s waist, begging quietly for more, more, more.
It was perhaps around four thirty am when Canada woke up, feeling muzzy and thirsty and needing to go to the bathroom. He had just finished washing his hands when he heard a muffled noise coming from the kitchen, and decided to investigate, figuring it might be America wanting another try at the pecan pie. Canada was about to enter the kitchen when he heard America’s frantic whispered voice.
“Turkey, that baster doesn’t go there!”
“Hush, it will work, trust me.”
Huh, the two of them were awake. Maybe they were, err, making turkey sandwiches and pouring gravy over the meat, that’s what he would be doing after Thanksgiving dinner. Though he would not be groaning loudly in ecstasy like America was doing. And maybe he would not exactly be grunting, either, unless he was perhaps having a manliness contest with America. Or you know… fucking him.
Oh God.
Oh dear God.
Canada debated whether to leave them alone or burst into the kitchen in defense of his silly brother. But Turkey was really big and strong and probably knew a thousand ways to kill someone with his bare hands, not that he would kill another nation, but… no, Canada could not do that, not even for America. Instead, he opted for peeking into the room, just to make sure no one was getting hurt.
America thought he could not get enough of Turkey, though his mind was focused on the nation currently fucking him and not on the cold cuts of meat in the refrigerator just asking to be eaten. He could feel marble under his back, stubble against his throat, tongue on his skin, fingers pumping his erection, an impressive cock thrusting into his body with maddening steadiness, driving him closer to climax with each rocking motion. All he could do was reach out for the other nation, clutching at those close-cropped locks, tugging at the curls at the base of Turkey’s neck and getting rewarded with a sharp intake of breath. Biting his lip to keep from screaming, America managed a somewhat muffled moan of pleasure as he reached that peak, his back clearing off of the counter in rapture. He slumped back down, panting, and Turkey pulled out slightly, to turn America onto his side and continue until he, too, came with a satisfied growl.
“Fucking hell… that was awesome,” America managed to say, collapsing onto his back after Turkey released him.
Turkey said nothing and just kissed him, delving his tongue into that tasty mouth, to have his kiss willingly returned by the younger nation.
About thirty seconds later, they heard a crash from the hallway and Canada shouting, “Ahhh! It’s just me, Canada! I’m okay! I’m uh, checking the front door to see if it was locked. I wasn’t watching you two or anything, nope, that wasn’t me!”
Then a soft muttered, “Tabernac.”
raki - Turkish anise flavored spirit, turns milky when diluted with water.