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transemacabreTWO Hungary/Turkey pieces for the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
hetalia_kink meme! I am a sad, sad fangirl.
Title: If only I could be a nightingale and sing in the gardens
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Pairing: Hungary/Turkey
Rating: T for Teen
Early evening in Istanbul, and a cool breeze blows through the curtains from the Bosporus. The dying sunset stains the sky red and orange. Hungary dances, the smallest motion of her feet making her hips roll like the sea, her hands moving to the rhythm of the bağlama that Turkey is strumming.
He sits cross-legged on a divan. A beheaded Greek statue is wearing his white mask, its blank marble eyes the only other voyeur.
"Slower," Turkey murmurs, and his hands drift down the belly of his instrument.
Hungary turns gracefully on the balls of her feet, and he watches the powerful muscles of her neck and back undulate, snakelike. Turkey watches hungrily as his plucked notes travel from her feet to her knees to her thighs.
Her belly ripples, and Hungary glides across the floor to him. Her eyes hold his, and for a moment Turkey forgets who the predator is in this room. "No," she breathes, her finger-cymbals clacking madly. "Play faster."
His fingers dance across the bağlama. Hungary tilts her head back, her long hair brushing the floor. Her bare neck glows in the dimming light. Her eyes narrow, then slide closed as though in ecstasy. "Sing for me, nightingale," she tells him.
Entranced by the language of her belly and hips and feet, Turkey obeys.
Title: Best Safety Lies in Fear
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Pairing: Hungary/Turkey
Rating: M for Mature Content, sexual situations, violence
1526.
When Turkey smashed through her front door with his war axe, Hungary was waiting for him with her longest dagger.
Wood chips flew through the air as the door splintered under Turkey's assault. As he crashed through, Hungary charged, leaping at him with her fiercest battle cry. She hit him square in the chest with both boots, but he pivoted at the last second and sent her crashing into the wall. In an instant Hungary was on her feet again, flipping her long braid over one shoulder, brushing splinters and bits of plaster off herself.
"Ready for more?" Turkey asked her with a lopsided grin. "Nice. I like a woman with some fight in her."
Hungary slashed at him with her dagger, sending him reeling, clutching at his arm. Bright red soaked into his war clothes, staining them dark, darker. Turkey hissed, and then chuckled. "Get out of my house," Hungary told him. She pointed the dagger at him. "Get out! Or your throat is next!"
Quick as a cat, Turkey swung his battle axe at her, nearly taking off her head. Hungary danced out of the way as he smashed her wall, then the door frame, then her table. "Can't run forever, Erzsike!" Another low chuckle. "Soon you'll be mine."
Hungary flung a chair at him, slowing him down just long enough for her to grab a poker from her fireplace and swing it like a sword. Turkey blocked her blow with his axe, but she feinted and her next jab burnt his hand. He yowled and the axe slipped from his hand, clattering heavily to the floor. Triumph singing in her veins, Hungary came at him to deliver the death-blow, but Turkey ducked and swept her legs out from under her. One moment she was bringing her poker down onto his head, the next she was flat on her back, a splitting pain in her head (was her skull cracked in two?), staring up at Turkey's victorious smirk.
"All over but the screamin'," he told her congenially, pressing his foot down onto her throat.
Hungary clenched her eyes shut, and summoned enough air to spit out the nastiest curse she could think of under the circumstances, "Bassza meg!"
"Oh, not yet!" Turkey said eagerly. "But soon!"
When she came to, Hungary was strapped to the back of Turkey's horse. Wild-eyed, she looked around trying to ascertain where she was. Dark woods -- the night was utterly black, no moon -- and her hands and feet were tied with rough rope. She frantically tried to wiggle her hands free, to no avail. "I wouldn't squirm so much, if I were you," Turkey said over his shoulder. Hungary stopped shock-still. "I'm a master with knots," he went on, as though discussing the weather or his favorite candies. "The more you struggle, the tighter they'll be. If you want your hands and feet to turn black from lack of blood, go ahead."
Unable to escape, Hungary tried her last resort: reasoning with him. "Állj meg! Stop! Let me go! Turkey, we are kin. We are both children of the steppes. Do not do this!"
Turkey reined his horse to a halt. "Look here, Magyar princess. Y'know how this story goes. I'm a great empire. Everywhere the wind blows -- north, south, east, west -- will belong to me. My reach'll be known in every corner of this world. Now, if yer blood of my blood, then you'll accept your fate with a little grace and dignity."
Hungary opened her mouth to reply, but he pulled a sack over her head to muffle her protests.
When he pulled her down from his horse, Turkey still had to grapple and bodily drag Hungary into his house. She dug in her heels, scratched him with her nails, and fought him every step of the way. Panting, Turkey threw her to the floor just inside the door, pinning her with his knees. "Crazy fucking bitch! Eh! Sürtük! Hold still, will ya?"
A glint of metal. Hungary fought harder, screaming into the hand Turkey clamped over her mouth as his other hand drew out a blade. "Hush!" he told her, his expression frustratingly unreadable behind that damned white mask. Then he deftly sliced through her bonds, which fell to the floor like strands of cut hair.
Hungary sat up, rubbed her sore wrists, and then slapped him. Turkey's head snapped to the right, and then he turned to face her again. His dark eyes bore into her. "This," he said slowly, "is gonna hurt you a lot more than it hurts me."
Hungary tried to leap to her feet, but Turkey grabbed her arms and wrenched them behind her back. Slamming her into the wall, he pressed his weight against her. Hungary gasped at the heat and weight of his bulk, the iron grip of his hands on her arms. "Stop fighting me," Turkey murmured into the shell of her ear, his breath hot.
"Never," Hungary gritted out.
Turkey nipped her earlobe. "Good girl."
His knee bumped her legs apart, pressing up, rubbing against her hidden places. Hungary twisted in his grip, biting her lip to keep from making any sound. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
Undeterred, Turkey's lips caressed a path from below her ear down to her neck. He kissed where her neck joined her shoulder, then blew cool air over her skin. Her skin prickled deliciously. Turkey laughed, low and mirthful. He was loving this. He rubbed his chin against her neck, tickling her with his scratchy facial hair.
"Say my name," he commanded her. "Call me your master."
Hungary turned just enough so that he could see the look of pure hatred on her face.
Turkey grinned. "I'll take that as a challenge!"
His knee had finished working its way between her legs, and now he began rocking into her, a rhythm as steady as the ocean's tides. Hungary could feel his erection pressing into her, hear the rustle of their clothes rubbing together, almost drowned out by the rapid pounding of her own heart. He lifted her clear off the ground, her feet dangling, and carried her to the nearest divan. He dropped her onto it, and before Hungary could spring to her feet or even roll over, he was on top of her, grinding onto her.
"Let's see what prize I have won," Turkey wondered aloud, more to himself than to her, and Hungary gasped as she felt fingers stroke between her legs, teasing her inner lips. Her hips wiggled involuntarily, as though welcoming their invader.
"Wonderful," said Turkey, and one hand withdrew to pull open his own clothes. This would've been the best moment to fight him and escape, but Hungary was too distracted by the traitorous response of her own body. All her senses were heightened; she was acutely aware of the lush fabric of the divan under her hands, the rough callouses on Turkey's hands, the heat from both their bodies, the ache deep in her body. She had been prepared for battle, for bloodshed. But not for this.
Turkey grasped his member and rubbed it against her buttocks, her legs, and then the wetness between her thighs. He sat up, steadying her with one hand on her back, the other guiding him into her. "Ah, yes, yes," he hissed. Hungary looked back to see him tilt his head back, his eyes narrowed into slits. Then he entered her, and she yelled in pain.
Turkey's hand began to rub comforting circles into her back. "Gently, now, yes, yes," he said. Hungary tried to relax. She dropped down to her elbows, inhaling deeply, closing her eyes. He slipped a little farther in, and although it burned, after a moment the pain lessened. Enraptured by the feeling of her wrapped around him, he slipped back into his native language, his speech becoming a chant of, "Evet, evet, evet, evet..."
He slid all the way into her, and then pulled back out. Hungary made a soft "uff" sound at this sudden loss which she prayed Turkey didn't notice. A moment later he was back in her, thrusting a little harder this time. Hungary grasped at the divan, trying to find some leverage. Soon he was laying into her full-force. The air was filled with the wet sounds of their bodies meeting. Both panted heavily. Hungary's sweaty hair clung to her face. Turkey was stroking someplace deep inside her with every thrust -- someplace she hadn't known existed -- igniting a fire --
The world went white from pleasure, and the tightening of her body around him prompted Turkey's own orgasm. He slumped over her, pressing Hungary down onto the divan again. After a few moments he rolled over and sat up. Hungary hid her face against the divan. Her body was still quaking, and she didn't know how to handle the strange sensations. Turkey idly began stroking her hair.
She must've dozed off, because Hungary woke to the sound of running water. She was rubbing sleep from her eyes when Turkey reappeared, still dressed in the same rumpled clothes from earlier. He smiled down at her. "I think you need a bath, Erzsike."
"What--?" she began to ask, but Turkey picked her up and carried her into the bathroom, a spacious marble affair with a large tub in the middle. Gleaming pipes ran from it and disappeared into the floor. He lowered her into the lukewarm water. The wisps of her clothing floated around her like smoke.
Turkey knelt behind her and began to wash her hair, combing through the tangled strands with his fingers. "You still haven't said my name," he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "S'all right. We have all the time in the world."
The water caressed her body, soothing the raw feeling between her legs. But it couldn't soothe away her thoughts. Hungary caught a glimpse of the two of them in the tall mirror in the corner: herself submerged in the tub, her captor massaging her shoulders, her ravisher soaping her hair. She bit her lip. She looked down at the bruises on her knees and arms. The scrapes on her body from their battle. The red marks on her wrists and ankles from his ropes.
You may act as though you want my love, Hungary thought as Turkey caressed her with his powerful, rough hands. But what you're really after is my soul.
NOTES
Erzsike is the nickname of Erszébet, the Hungarian version of Hungary's name.
Bassza meg means 'fuck off', which is the meaning Hungary was going for; however, it also means 'fuck me', which is how Turkey took it.
Sürtük means 'whore' or 'bitch'.
hetalia_kink meme! I am a sad, sad fangirl. Title: If only I could be a nightingale and sing in the gardens
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Pairing: Hungary/Turkey
Rating: T for Teen
Early evening in Istanbul, and a cool breeze blows through the curtains from the Bosporus. The dying sunset stains the sky red and orange. Hungary dances, the smallest motion of her feet making her hips roll like the sea, her hands moving to the rhythm of the bağlama that Turkey is strumming.
He sits cross-legged on a divan. A beheaded Greek statue is wearing his white mask, its blank marble eyes the only other voyeur.
"Slower," Turkey murmurs, and his hands drift down the belly of his instrument.
Hungary turns gracefully on the balls of her feet, and he watches the powerful muscles of her neck and back undulate, snakelike. Turkey watches hungrily as his plucked notes travel from her feet to her knees to her thighs.
Her belly ripples, and Hungary glides across the floor to him. Her eyes hold his, and for a moment Turkey forgets who the predator is in this room. "No," she breathes, her finger-cymbals clacking madly. "Play faster."
His fingers dance across the bağlama. Hungary tilts her head back, her long hair brushing the floor. Her bare neck glows in the dimming light. Her eyes narrow, then slide closed as though in ecstasy. "Sing for me, nightingale," she tells him.
Entranced by the language of her belly and hips and feet, Turkey obeys.
Title: Best Safety Lies in Fear
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Pairing: Hungary/Turkey
Rating: M for Mature Content, sexual situations, violence
1526.
When Turkey smashed through her front door with his war axe, Hungary was waiting for him with her longest dagger.
Wood chips flew through the air as the door splintered under Turkey's assault. As he crashed through, Hungary charged, leaping at him with her fiercest battle cry. She hit him square in the chest with both boots, but he pivoted at the last second and sent her crashing into the wall. In an instant Hungary was on her feet again, flipping her long braid over one shoulder, brushing splinters and bits of plaster off herself.
"Ready for more?" Turkey asked her with a lopsided grin. "Nice. I like a woman with some fight in her."
Hungary slashed at him with her dagger, sending him reeling, clutching at his arm. Bright red soaked into his war clothes, staining them dark, darker. Turkey hissed, and then chuckled. "Get out of my house," Hungary told him. She pointed the dagger at him. "Get out! Or your throat is next!"
Quick as a cat, Turkey swung his battle axe at her, nearly taking off her head. Hungary danced out of the way as he smashed her wall, then the door frame, then her table. "Can't run forever, Erzsike!" Another low chuckle. "Soon you'll be mine."
Hungary flung a chair at him, slowing him down just long enough for her to grab a poker from her fireplace and swing it like a sword. Turkey blocked her blow with his axe, but she feinted and her next jab burnt his hand. He yowled and the axe slipped from his hand, clattering heavily to the floor. Triumph singing in her veins, Hungary came at him to deliver the death-blow, but Turkey ducked and swept her legs out from under her. One moment she was bringing her poker down onto his head, the next she was flat on her back, a splitting pain in her head (was her skull cracked in two?), staring up at Turkey's victorious smirk.
"All over but the screamin'," he told her congenially, pressing his foot down onto her throat.
Hungary clenched her eyes shut, and summoned enough air to spit out the nastiest curse she could think of under the circumstances, "Bassza meg!"
"Oh, not yet!" Turkey said eagerly. "But soon!"
When she came to, Hungary was strapped to the back of Turkey's horse. Wild-eyed, she looked around trying to ascertain where she was. Dark woods -- the night was utterly black, no moon -- and her hands and feet were tied with rough rope. She frantically tried to wiggle her hands free, to no avail. "I wouldn't squirm so much, if I were you," Turkey said over his shoulder. Hungary stopped shock-still. "I'm a master with knots," he went on, as though discussing the weather or his favorite candies. "The more you struggle, the tighter they'll be. If you want your hands and feet to turn black from lack of blood, go ahead."
Unable to escape, Hungary tried her last resort: reasoning with him. "Állj meg! Stop! Let me go! Turkey, we are kin. We are both children of the steppes. Do not do this!"
Turkey reined his horse to a halt. "Look here, Magyar princess. Y'know how this story goes. I'm a great empire. Everywhere the wind blows -- north, south, east, west -- will belong to me. My reach'll be known in every corner of this world. Now, if yer blood of my blood, then you'll accept your fate with a little grace and dignity."
Hungary opened her mouth to reply, but he pulled a sack over her head to muffle her protests.
When he pulled her down from his horse, Turkey still had to grapple and bodily drag Hungary into his house. She dug in her heels, scratched him with her nails, and fought him every step of the way. Panting, Turkey threw her to the floor just inside the door, pinning her with his knees. "Crazy fucking bitch! Eh! Sürtük! Hold still, will ya?"
A glint of metal. Hungary fought harder, screaming into the hand Turkey clamped over her mouth as his other hand drew out a blade. "Hush!" he told her, his expression frustratingly unreadable behind that damned white mask. Then he deftly sliced through her bonds, which fell to the floor like strands of cut hair.
Hungary sat up, rubbed her sore wrists, and then slapped him. Turkey's head snapped to the right, and then he turned to face her again. His dark eyes bore into her. "This," he said slowly, "is gonna hurt you a lot more than it hurts me."
Hungary tried to leap to her feet, but Turkey grabbed her arms and wrenched them behind her back. Slamming her into the wall, he pressed his weight against her. Hungary gasped at the heat and weight of his bulk, the iron grip of his hands on her arms. "Stop fighting me," Turkey murmured into the shell of her ear, his breath hot.
"Never," Hungary gritted out.
Turkey nipped her earlobe. "Good girl."
His knee bumped her legs apart, pressing up, rubbing against her hidden places. Hungary twisted in his grip, biting her lip to keep from making any sound. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
Undeterred, Turkey's lips caressed a path from below her ear down to her neck. He kissed where her neck joined her shoulder, then blew cool air over her skin. Her skin prickled deliciously. Turkey laughed, low and mirthful. He was loving this. He rubbed his chin against her neck, tickling her with his scratchy facial hair.
"Say my name," he commanded her. "Call me your master."
Hungary turned just enough so that he could see the look of pure hatred on her face.
Turkey grinned. "I'll take that as a challenge!"
His knee had finished working its way between her legs, and now he began rocking into her, a rhythm as steady as the ocean's tides. Hungary could feel his erection pressing into her, hear the rustle of their clothes rubbing together, almost drowned out by the rapid pounding of her own heart. He lifted her clear off the ground, her feet dangling, and carried her to the nearest divan. He dropped her onto it, and before Hungary could spring to her feet or even roll over, he was on top of her, grinding onto her.
"Let's see what prize I have won," Turkey wondered aloud, more to himself than to her, and Hungary gasped as she felt fingers stroke between her legs, teasing her inner lips. Her hips wiggled involuntarily, as though welcoming their invader.
"Wonderful," said Turkey, and one hand withdrew to pull open his own clothes. This would've been the best moment to fight him and escape, but Hungary was too distracted by the traitorous response of her own body. All her senses were heightened; she was acutely aware of the lush fabric of the divan under her hands, the rough callouses on Turkey's hands, the heat from both their bodies, the ache deep in her body. She had been prepared for battle, for bloodshed. But not for this.
Turkey grasped his member and rubbed it against her buttocks, her legs, and then the wetness between her thighs. He sat up, steadying her with one hand on her back, the other guiding him into her. "Ah, yes, yes," he hissed. Hungary looked back to see him tilt his head back, his eyes narrowed into slits. Then he entered her, and she yelled in pain.
Turkey's hand began to rub comforting circles into her back. "Gently, now, yes, yes," he said. Hungary tried to relax. She dropped down to her elbows, inhaling deeply, closing her eyes. He slipped a little farther in, and although it burned, after a moment the pain lessened. Enraptured by the feeling of her wrapped around him, he slipped back into his native language, his speech becoming a chant of, "Evet, evet, evet, evet..."
He slid all the way into her, and then pulled back out. Hungary made a soft "uff" sound at this sudden loss which she prayed Turkey didn't notice. A moment later he was back in her, thrusting a little harder this time. Hungary grasped at the divan, trying to find some leverage. Soon he was laying into her full-force. The air was filled with the wet sounds of their bodies meeting. Both panted heavily. Hungary's sweaty hair clung to her face. Turkey was stroking someplace deep inside her with every thrust -- someplace she hadn't known existed -- igniting a fire --
The world went white from pleasure, and the tightening of her body around him prompted Turkey's own orgasm. He slumped over her, pressing Hungary down onto the divan again. After a few moments he rolled over and sat up. Hungary hid her face against the divan. Her body was still quaking, and she didn't know how to handle the strange sensations. Turkey idly began stroking her hair.
She must've dozed off, because Hungary woke to the sound of running water. She was rubbing sleep from her eyes when Turkey reappeared, still dressed in the same rumpled clothes from earlier. He smiled down at her. "I think you need a bath, Erzsike."
"What--?" she began to ask, but Turkey picked her up and carried her into the bathroom, a spacious marble affair with a large tub in the middle. Gleaming pipes ran from it and disappeared into the floor. He lowered her into the lukewarm water. The wisps of her clothing floated around her like smoke.
Turkey knelt behind her and began to wash her hair, combing through the tangled strands with his fingers. "You still haven't said my name," he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "S'all right. We have all the time in the world."
The water caressed her body, soothing the raw feeling between her legs. But it couldn't soothe away her thoughts. Hungary caught a glimpse of the two of them in the tall mirror in the corner: herself submerged in the tub, her captor massaging her shoulders, her ravisher soaping her hair. She bit her lip. She looked down at the bruises on her knees and arms. The scrapes on her body from their battle. The red marks on her wrists and ankles from his ropes.
You may act as though you want my love, Hungary thought as Turkey caressed her with his powerful, rough hands. But what you're really after is my soul.
NOTES
Erzsike is the nickname of Erszébet, the Hungarian version of Hungary's name.
Bassza meg means 'fuck off', which is the meaning Hungary was going for; however, it also means 'fuck me', which is how Turkey took it.
Sürtük means 'whore' or 'bitch'.
