Words, Bottles, Night [Estonia/Norway]
Apr. 26th, 2011 08:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roesslyngTitle: Words, Bottles, Night
Characters/Pairing: Estonia/Norway
Rating: 18+
Length: ~1200
Summary: Norway likes Estonia as a conversation partner (he also likes his liquor). One night, when they're both drunk and lonely....
Other: Written for the Hetalia kink meme. (Original post)
Words, Bottles, Night
When he entered Estonia’s home that evening the butter-yellow sun was low in the sky and Norway found himself with a feeling of lingering calm. He had arrived there with purpose, showing up on schedule, his hands shoved in the pockets of his light summer jacket and his hair tucked under his hat. Drink, company and good conversation were waiting for him, and he had been eager to get to it.
It was true that he was not ordinarily one for speaking. Silence was good, silence was steadfast. Yet he did feel that conversation was a pleasure when it was good, and after a drink or two Norway often found himself willing to engage, the words flowing freely after he was freed of his usual restraint. At times he longed for it – conversation, and company. Someone to talk to. A good thing, then, that he had found a willing partner. It had been a chance connection instrumented by a mutual acquaintance at a party. At first they had been cordial, nothing more, but later under the influence of drink, feeling out of sorts, they sat together and began speaking. That was it. That was when Norway had familiarized himself with Estonia.
He had found Estonia at that first meeting to be warm and welcoming. In later times, when they came together alone, Norway discovered that he was both willing to talk and liberal with his liquor. Good company, that. It was not long before he transformed from a mere acquaintance into the very person that Norway turned to on certain nights when he was hit with the desire to be around someone else. When the unquenchable desire for company came over him, Estonia’s door was open, and he was always ready with words and a bottle, willing to wash away the longing.
That warm summer evening was no different. In Estonia’s living room the mood was light and the liquor flowed freely. As the mood made its way through Norway his heart warmed and he found himself smiling.
He looked at Estonia over the edge of his glass. He was talking animatedly, his cheeks flushed from the drink, his hands gesturing as he made his point. Norway responded with a nod and a remark tinted with sharp wit that made Estonia laugh. A nice sound, that.
A quiet moment followed, and a content sigh with it. There was one look that was met and held, followed by the click of a glass as it was set on the coffee table.
Days later when Norway looked back on the situation he found it hard to determine exactly how and why everything had happened. Perhaps it had been the work of the liquor, or the warmth he saw in his friend’s expression. Maybe the sting of loneliness had something to do with it, and a longing for contact beyond mere speech. Hands knitting together. Lips meeting.
Whatever the cause, Norway had not been thinking about it when he slid over and nestled against him. He didn’t allow Estonia time to question him on it. Before he could speak Norway stole a kiss, slightly hesitant, light and gentle. The reaction was one of surprise but not protest. Estonia welcomed him, responding in turn. As long arms slid around Norway’s waist, he slipped into the scholar’s lap and kissed him more firmly, lingering, allowing himself to enjoy it.
It was the drink. It must have been the drink. They were both warm with drink, tasting of it. That was the reason for every kiss, every touch, the quickening of breath as Norway pressed closer. Glasses bumped and hands fumbled, shaking, shy.
Norway paused. He cupped Estonia’s head in his hands and whispered words against his mouth. The response was yes. Yes.
Having come to a decision, they made their way to the bedroom.
Soft words were spoken in time to fingers working, buttons slipping from holes and fabric sliding down, sliding off. Press. Norway’s hands tangled in his friend’s hair as they kissed. After breaking he drew him to the bed, falling back onto the mattress with a sigh. There was a pause as the bedside lamp was turned on and they stared at each other in the dim light. Norway could see some hesitation. Estonia didn’t quite look at him, and his cheeks were flushed, his hands shaking. After a moment he bit his lower lip and asked if it was really all right.
Yes, Norway replied. Earlier in the evening some loneliness had stirred in him, but now it gave way to longing and a feeling he couldn’t voice. He lifted his hand to touch Estonia’s face, wordless again.
Estonia tilted his head into the touch and slipped his spectacles off, setting them on the night-table. For a moment he looked back at Norway, seeming to hardly see him as he considered it. The response was not long in coming to him. In short time their lips met again.
Norway relaxed back into the mattress as hands slid over him, unfamiliar but not unwelcome. He couldn’t remember when he had last felt such soft hands. A scholar’s hands, accustomed to pens and paper and computer keys. Delicate fingertips slipped over his hips, brushed his thighs, and he sighed under those touches and the drifting kisses, tender lips against his throat. It was all light, careful, as gentle as the eyes that had looked at him blindly in the dim light, indecisive for only a moment.
His tongue. It was stroking down, gliding over him, taking him in to a mouth kissed to bruising. Norway groaned, hands twisting sheets, tangling in hair. Watching him through half-closed eyes, watching as he worked, head bobbing, hands stroking, eager to please. Want stirring in him and manifesting on his lips, an order that he gasped out, his voice ragged.
Pause. Too long. Lost contact. Too long. Mouth kissed him again as shy hands fumbled, drew open the night-table drawer, groped for something.
Slick fingers inside him made him twist and cling. Whispers by Estonia’s ear, barely-articulated commands that he followed diligently. Good. Good, Norway’s mind, the conscious part of it reflected. He does as he is told. He took him in, fell back, entangled with him, and there was nothing else.
Later, when they rested together, exhausted, Norway wondered what he had been thinking. What Estonia had been thinking when he agreed to it, when he bent to his touch and followed every word. Why. He wasn’t that drunk, neither of them were. Norway stared up at the ceiling, shadowy in the dim light, wondering.
The question was nearly on his lips but he didn’t want to ask it.
Movement. Shifting. A hand touched Norway’s arm. He tilted his head to look at him. Estonia’s face was light and shadow. Hair in his eyes. Watching him. A deep breath, as if to gather his nerves. “Stay.” Whispered. “Just for the night.”
The hesitance, the quiet, the uncertainty. Stay. Maybe that was it. Maybe he was lonely, too.
Norway thought about it. Then he nodded. “Okay,” he said. Then he kissed him, long and lingering.
If it was loneliness, they would share in it.
End.
Characters/Pairing: Estonia/Norway
Rating: 18+
Length: ~1200
Summary: Norway likes Estonia as a conversation partner (he also likes his liquor). One night, when they're both drunk and lonely....
Other: Written for the Hetalia kink meme. (Original post)
Words, Bottles, Night
When he entered Estonia’s home that evening the butter-yellow sun was low in the sky and Norway found himself with a feeling of lingering calm. He had arrived there with purpose, showing up on schedule, his hands shoved in the pockets of his light summer jacket and his hair tucked under his hat. Drink, company and good conversation were waiting for him, and he had been eager to get to it.
It was true that he was not ordinarily one for speaking. Silence was good, silence was steadfast. Yet he did feel that conversation was a pleasure when it was good, and after a drink or two Norway often found himself willing to engage, the words flowing freely after he was freed of his usual restraint. At times he longed for it – conversation, and company. Someone to talk to. A good thing, then, that he had found a willing partner. It had been a chance connection instrumented by a mutual acquaintance at a party. At first they had been cordial, nothing more, but later under the influence of drink, feeling out of sorts, they sat together and began speaking. That was it. That was when Norway had familiarized himself with Estonia.
He had found Estonia at that first meeting to be warm and welcoming. In later times, when they came together alone, Norway discovered that he was both willing to talk and liberal with his liquor. Good company, that. It was not long before he transformed from a mere acquaintance into the very person that Norway turned to on certain nights when he was hit with the desire to be around someone else. When the unquenchable desire for company came over him, Estonia’s door was open, and he was always ready with words and a bottle, willing to wash away the longing.
That warm summer evening was no different. In Estonia’s living room the mood was light and the liquor flowed freely. As the mood made its way through Norway his heart warmed and he found himself smiling.
He looked at Estonia over the edge of his glass. He was talking animatedly, his cheeks flushed from the drink, his hands gesturing as he made his point. Norway responded with a nod and a remark tinted with sharp wit that made Estonia laugh. A nice sound, that.
A quiet moment followed, and a content sigh with it. There was one look that was met and held, followed by the click of a glass as it was set on the coffee table.
Days later when Norway looked back on the situation he found it hard to determine exactly how and why everything had happened. Perhaps it had been the work of the liquor, or the warmth he saw in his friend’s expression. Maybe the sting of loneliness had something to do with it, and a longing for contact beyond mere speech. Hands knitting together. Lips meeting.
Whatever the cause, Norway had not been thinking about it when he slid over and nestled against him. He didn’t allow Estonia time to question him on it. Before he could speak Norway stole a kiss, slightly hesitant, light and gentle. The reaction was one of surprise but not protest. Estonia welcomed him, responding in turn. As long arms slid around Norway’s waist, he slipped into the scholar’s lap and kissed him more firmly, lingering, allowing himself to enjoy it.
It was the drink. It must have been the drink. They were both warm with drink, tasting of it. That was the reason for every kiss, every touch, the quickening of breath as Norway pressed closer. Glasses bumped and hands fumbled, shaking, shy.
Norway paused. He cupped Estonia’s head in his hands and whispered words against his mouth. The response was yes. Yes.
Having come to a decision, they made their way to the bedroom.
Soft words were spoken in time to fingers working, buttons slipping from holes and fabric sliding down, sliding off. Press. Norway’s hands tangled in his friend’s hair as they kissed. After breaking he drew him to the bed, falling back onto the mattress with a sigh. There was a pause as the bedside lamp was turned on and they stared at each other in the dim light. Norway could see some hesitation. Estonia didn’t quite look at him, and his cheeks were flushed, his hands shaking. After a moment he bit his lower lip and asked if it was really all right.
Yes, Norway replied. Earlier in the evening some loneliness had stirred in him, but now it gave way to longing and a feeling he couldn’t voice. He lifted his hand to touch Estonia’s face, wordless again.
Estonia tilted his head into the touch and slipped his spectacles off, setting them on the night-table. For a moment he looked back at Norway, seeming to hardly see him as he considered it. The response was not long in coming to him. In short time their lips met again.
Norway relaxed back into the mattress as hands slid over him, unfamiliar but not unwelcome. He couldn’t remember when he had last felt such soft hands. A scholar’s hands, accustomed to pens and paper and computer keys. Delicate fingertips slipped over his hips, brushed his thighs, and he sighed under those touches and the drifting kisses, tender lips against his throat. It was all light, careful, as gentle as the eyes that had looked at him blindly in the dim light, indecisive for only a moment.
His tongue. It was stroking down, gliding over him, taking him in to a mouth kissed to bruising. Norway groaned, hands twisting sheets, tangling in hair. Watching him through half-closed eyes, watching as he worked, head bobbing, hands stroking, eager to please. Want stirring in him and manifesting on his lips, an order that he gasped out, his voice ragged.
Pause. Too long. Lost contact. Too long. Mouth kissed him again as shy hands fumbled, drew open the night-table drawer, groped for something.
Slick fingers inside him made him twist and cling. Whispers by Estonia’s ear, barely-articulated commands that he followed diligently. Good. Good, Norway’s mind, the conscious part of it reflected. He does as he is told. He took him in, fell back, entangled with him, and there was nothing else.
Later, when they rested together, exhausted, Norway wondered what he had been thinking. What Estonia had been thinking when he agreed to it, when he bent to his touch and followed every word. Why. He wasn’t that drunk, neither of them were. Norway stared up at the ceiling, shadowy in the dim light, wondering.
The question was nearly on his lips but he didn’t want to ask it.
Movement. Shifting. A hand touched Norway’s arm. He tilted his head to look at him. Estonia’s face was light and shadow. Hair in his eyes. Watching him. A deep breath, as if to gather his nerves. “Stay.” Whispered. “Just for the night.”
The hesitance, the quiet, the uncertainty. Stay. Maybe that was it. Maybe he was lonely, too.
Norway thought about it. Then he nodded. “Okay,” he said. Then he kissed him, long and lingering.
If it was loneliness, they would share in it.
End.
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