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roesslyngTitle: And frost hardens the fields
Fandom: Hetalia
Characters/Pairing: Netherlands/Denmark
Rating: 18+
Length: ~1k
Summary: Denmark is bereft of company. Whatever fantasies he can dream up will have to suffice.
Other: Set some time during the 19th century. Written for NedDen week; prompt was "dream". Title comes from Hauge's poem "It's cold in big houses".
And frost hardens the fields
Winter.
Snow falls outside. Denmark watches it for a moment, soft flakes drifting in the moonlight. Aside from the snow, everything is still.
Iceland went to bed ages ago. He's been getting less talkative as time goes on, as if Norway's absence has left him wanting to do nothing but sulk the day away. Which probably isn't far from the truth, Denmark thinks. But he wishes the kid wouldn't take it out on him.
The house feels cold and lonely. His bedroom is no better. As he readies himself for sleep, Denmark tries not to dwell on it, tries not to think about it, tries not to linger on the emptiness.
It isn't easy. He gives up after a while.
In bed, he wraps the sheets and blankets around him and tries to sleep. Tries to dream. But sleep doesn't come.
He lets his mind wander.
Company. That would be good. Someone close – someone who could wrap their arms right around him, tug him close, and envelope him in warmth.
He knows someone like that.
It's been a while, but it isn't hard to pull up memories of Netherlands. Denmark closes his eyes and thinks about him. He imagines the scent of leather and tobacco clinging to him. Remembers how the warmth of his breath feels as he lingers from behind, trailing soft kisses along Denmark's shoulder. He knows his hands, the way those long fingers sprawl at his hips.
It isn't hard to bring to mind the shape of him. Long and sturdy. Netherlands is an even bigger man than Denmark is, and this is why Denmark thinks about him now, imagining those arms circling him from behind.
He needs someone to wrap around him tonight.
He needs to feel small tonight.
The Netherlands he's imagining isn't as gruff as the real thing might be. Well – let's be fair, Denmark reminds himself. Even if he's a little coarse, and a little rough at the edges, Netherlands can be sweet. Denmark's seen him when he's sweet. He's seen him be far more gentle than anyone would ever expect. So it isn't a stretch, it isn't at all, to think he could be like that. To imagine him pulling Denmark close, holding him tenderly. Breath fluttering at his bare shoulders. Firm chest pressed against his back.
"So." He can imagine his voice, low and patient, as if he knows Denmark wants to be like this now. "What do ya need?"
"Dunno'," Denmark murmurs out loud. Saying it makes him feel like a fool. He's alone in his room, after all, and no matter how hard he thinks of him, desires him, dreams of him, he can't bring Netherlands into this room by thought alone.
He stares at the window and the falling snow.
Try harder, he tells himself. Maybe if you think about him more, you'll be able to sleep. Even if there isn't any way to get rid of the loneliness.
"You're tense," he imagines Netherlands murmuring. "Stop worrying about shit. It won't fix anything."
The hands in his imagination, hands he knows well, slide down.
Denmark draws a quick breath. He lets his own hand follow where his mind takes it, along his hip, brushing the top of his thigh before dipping to touch himself.
It hasn't been so long that he isn't able to remember the sensation of Netherlands' hands. And while his hand isn't a substitute for the real thing, he can at least manage an approximation. It's close enough.
Denmark sighs and thinks of that hand on him, steady and sure. He gives himself a long, slow stroke. Then another.
"Relax, will ya? I'm here."
And he isn't, not really, but Denmark can manage. Denmark can pretend. Denmark can picture him there, pressed up behind him. Firm, but gentle, with a strong hand on Denmark's cock stroking him closely, slowly, drawing it out. The other arm snakes beneath him to wrap around him and stroke along his chest.
He aches for him, for this. Denmark slides his hand along, taking it slow. Thumbs at the head, lingering there. He remembers the way he'd do that, and remembers that Netherlands has hands even bigger than his own. Maybe the thought of this is the reason for the slickness he finds there.
The sensation makes him groan.
If Netherlands were here, if he were really, really here –he wouldn't be satisfied with stroking at Denmark. He'd want something for himself, too. Knowing him, that's how it'd be.
Denmark imagines him, the heat of Netherlands' body, the shape of his cock pressing full and hard against Denmark's ass. Or his thighs. Yeah, Denmark thinks, that's nice – they've done it like that before. The thought makes his breath catch: Netherlands sliding his cock between Denmark's legs, holding him close, so close, and getting him off while he gets himself off, thrusting between them. He dreams of his breath hot and heavy against his neck, his shoulders. And that hand....
He grips himself and bites at the pillow. Shuts his eyes tight. It's a sorry substitute for the real thing, but if he thinks hard enough, if he daydreams strong enough, he can almost pretend – almost – just enough –
When he comes, it isn't satisfying, and as Denmark opens his eyes to slits and watches the snow falling in the moonlight outside the window he wonders if he should have even bothered.
The loneliness sits as heavily on him as before. The only difference is that now he's made a mess besides.
Later, after wiping down and drawing the curtains around his bed to block out the sight of the damn moonlight and snow, Denmark thinks for a bit, and decides.
He'll write Netherlands a letter. Tomorrow. In the morning. And he won't say how much he misses him, won't let on how much he needs him right now – in whatever way that could mean, because it could mean a lot of things.
All he will say is that it's been a while, and he'd like to see him again. To say that, and nothing else – wouldn't want to appear desperate.
Even if he is. A little.
As the snow falls, Denmark closes his eyes, and dreams, and wants.
Fandom: Hetalia
Characters/Pairing: Netherlands/Denmark
Rating: 18+
Length: ~1k
Summary: Denmark is bereft of company. Whatever fantasies he can dream up will have to suffice.
Other: Set some time during the 19th century. Written for NedDen week; prompt was "dream". Title comes from Hauge's poem "It's cold in big houses".
And frost hardens the fields
Winter.
Snow falls outside. Denmark watches it for a moment, soft flakes drifting in the moonlight. Aside from the snow, everything is still.
Iceland went to bed ages ago. He's been getting less talkative as time goes on, as if Norway's absence has left him wanting to do nothing but sulk the day away. Which probably isn't far from the truth, Denmark thinks. But he wishes the kid wouldn't take it out on him.
The house feels cold and lonely. His bedroom is no better. As he readies himself for sleep, Denmark tries not to dwell on it, tries not to think about it, tries not to linger on the emptiness.
It isn't easy. He gives up after a while.
In bed, he wraps the sheets and blankets around him and tries to sleep. Tries to dream. But sleep doesn't come.
He lets his mind wander.
Company. That would be good. Someone close – someone who could wrap their arms right around him, tug him close, and envelope him in warmth.
He knows someone like that.
It's been a while, but it isn't hard to pull up memories of Netherlands. Denmark closes his eyes and thinks about him. He imagines the scent of leather and tobacco clinging to him. Remembers how the warmth of his breath feels as he lingers from behind, trailing soft kisses along Denmark's shoulder. He knows his hands, the way those long fingers sprawl at his hips.
It isn't hard to bring to mind the shape of him. Long and sturdy. Netherlands is an even bigger man than Denmark is, and this is why Denmark thinks about him now, imagining those arms circling him from behind.
He needs someone to wrap around him tonight.
He needs to feel small tonight.
The Netherlands he's imagining isn't as gruff as the real thing might be. Well – let's be fair, Denmark reminds himself. Even if he's a little coarse, and a little rough at the edges, Netherlands can be sweet. Denmark's seen him when he's sweet. He's seen him be far more gentle than anyone would ever expect. So it isn't a stretch, it isn't at all, to think he could be like that. To imagine him pulling Denmark close, holding him tenderly. Breath fluttering at his bare shoulders. Firm chest pressed against his back.
"So." He can imagine his voice, low and patient, as if he knows Denmark wants to be like this now. "What do ya need?"
"Dunno'," Denmark murmurs out loud. Saying it makes him feel like a fool. He's alone in his room, after all, and no matter how hard he thinks of him, desires him, dreams of him, he can't bring Netherlands into this room by thought alone.
He stares at the window and the falling snow.
Try harder, he tells himself. Maybe if you think about him more, you'll be able to sleep. Even if there isn't any way to get rid of the loneliness.
"You're tense," he imagines Netherlands murmuring. "Stop worrying about shit. It won't fix anything."
The hands in his imagination, hands he knows well, slide down.
Denmark draws a quick breath. He lets his own hand follow where his mind takes it, along his hip, brushing the top of his thigh before dipping to touch himself.
It hasn't been so long that he isn't able to remember the sensation of Netherlands' hands. And while his hand isn't a substitute for the real thing, he can at least manage an approximation. It's close enough.
Denmark sighs and thinks of that hand on him, steady and sure. He gives himself a long, slow stroke. Then another.
"Relax, will ya? I'm here."
And he isn't, not really, but Denmark can manage. Denmark can pretend. Denmark can picture him there, pressed up behind him. Firm, but gentle, with a strong hand on Denmark's cock stroking him closely, slowly, drawing it out. The other arm snakes beneath him to wrap around him and stroke along his chest.
He aches for him, for this. Denmark slides his hand along, taking it slow. Thumbs at the head, lingering there. He remembers the way he'd do that, and remembers that Netherlands has hands even bigger than his own. Maybe the thought of this is the reason for the slickness he finds there.
The sensation makes him groan.
If Netherlands were here, if he were really, really here –he wouldn't be satisfied with stroking at Denmark. He'd want something for himself, too. Knowing him, that's how it'd be.
Denmark imagines him, the heat of Netherlands' body, the shape of his cock pressing full and hard against Denmark's ass. Or his thighs. Yeah, Denmark thinks, that's nice – they've done it like that before. The thought makes his breath catch: Netherlands sliding his cock between Denmark's legs, holding him close, so close, and getting him off while he gets himself off, thrusting between them. He dreams of his breath hot and heavy against his neck, his shoulders. And that hand....
He grips himself and bites at the pillow. Shuts his eyes tight. It's a sorry substitute for the real thing, but if he thinks hard enough, if he daydreams strong enough, he can almost pretend – almost – just enough –
When he comes, it isn't satisfying, and as Denmark opens his eyes to slits and watches the snow falling in the moonlight outside the window he wonders if he should have even bothered.
The loneliness sits as heavily on him as before. The only difference is that now he's made a mess besides.
Later, after wiping down and drawing the curtains around his bed to block out the sight of the damn moonlight and snow, Denmark thinks for a bit, and decides.
He'll write Netherlands a letter. Tomorrow. In the morning. And he won't say how much he misses him, won't let on how much he needs him right now – in whatever way that could mean, because it could mean a lot of things.
All he will say is that it's been a while, and he'd like to see him again. To say that, and nothing else – wouldn't want to appear desperate.
Even if he is. A little.
As the snow falls, Denmark closes his eyes, and dreams, and wants.
