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valmoraTitle: Unclaimed
Fandom: Hetalia
Rating: R
Characters: Norway/Denmark, Norway/Pictland (female), cameo by in-utero!Orkney Islands
Disclaimer: Norway and Denmark aren't mine and I didn't make money. Pictland is my OC, but you can borrow her.
Warnings: severe dubcon. implied physical trauma as a result. violence.
Notes: originally posted here filling this prompt, and not kindexed yet.
Instead of setting the story on Nordic territory, I set it elsewhere. Cruithne is the Celtic name for the Picts, whose language has since disappeared. The Orkney Islands were for many years Norwegian until they were given as part of a royal dowry to Scotland.
The girl is dark-haired and small but well-muscled, and Denmark likes the look of her lands. The difficulty: she is heavily pregnant, and by the jut of Norway’s chin as he stands next to her, the child is his.
Denmark clenches his fists and thinks of burning down the huts on the hill, setting a torch to the fields, and sending Norway back to the sea. How – he –
“Cruithne,” Norway says, his hand tightening on her shoulder, “I’ll see my cousin to his boat and away from your shores.”
“Thank you,” she says, and stands aside. Denmark tries to forget the way her eyes darken as Norway leaves her side. Not in grief but in wicked humor – it will please her to see them fight.
So they go away from her, to a rocky little outcrop, and Norway says, “You’re far from home.”
“This is nice land,” Denmark says. “Really pretty.” He wants to touch the hammer-pendant worked into Norway’s hair.
“It’s hers and mine,” Norway says. “Not yours. You have plenty. Go east, or south. But this is mine.”
“Is the child yours too?”
He nods. Denmark thinks about that for a second.
“She any good?”
Norway punches him. Denmark, surprised and yet not surprised, stumbles back; his heel catches on a stone and he falls. Loses his breath and skins his palms. Maybe he’s bleeding. Doesn’t matter.
“You can’t have her,” Norway says. What is terrifying is that his eyes show no emotion, empty-dead. He’d probably look the same after hanging from a tree for days. Even the ravens wouldn’t touch him.
Denmark grins. “I like things that are yours,” he says.
Norway slams Denmark’s head into the ground. “You can’t have them.”
“Would you make me yours?” Denmark lilts. “Bet you couldn’t, even with all your ships and all your men.”
Norway punches him again, rolls him over, cuts his trousers open with a knife from his belt.
“I could,” Norway says. “But you’ll finish like Loki, working woman’s magic and mother to a monster.”
“And chained with a pretty thing standing bare-breasted at my side?” Denmark laughs into the stone beneath him. “If that pretty thing is you –” He gasps over the feeling of invasion, something pressing into him, hard and rough, and painful.
His body screaming, he thinks that he should have remembered that Norway goes mad when challenged.
Something warm and wet drips over his entrance, and the rawness slides out, slides in a little more easily. Heat and pain, and somehow he doesn’t mind. That soon enough Norway will have unmanned him, or already has; Denmark isn’t sure.
He lies on the stone and laughs, eyes tearing up at the pain, and waits for Norway to finish with him. Feels Norway surge into him with the same pulse as the water far below crashing on the rocks, and he thinks that they’ll be like this forever, the two of them. Stone and sea, wearing down until they’re mixed up together.
For now he’ll give Norway to the warrior-girl on the hill, because someday Norway will have to come home. Denmark can wait for him. Eventually Norway has to return to what’s his.
Fandom: Hetalia
Rating: R
Characters: Norway/Denmark, Norway/Pictland (female), cameo by in-utero!Orkney Islands
Disclaimer: Norway and Denmark aren't mine and I didn't make money. Pictland is my OC, but you can borrow her.
Warnings: severe dubcon. implied physical trauma as a result. violence.
Notes: originally posted here filling this prompt, and not kindexed yet.
Instead of setting the story on Nordic territory, I set it elsewhere. Cruithne is the Celtic name for the Picts, whose language has since disappeared. The Orkney Islands were for many years Norwegian until they were given as part of a royal dowry to Scotland.
The girl is dark-haired and small but well-muscled, and Denmark likes the look of her lands. The difficulty: she is heavily pregnant, and by the jut of Norway’s chin as he stands next to her, the child is his.
Denmark clenches his fists and thinks of burning down the huts on the hill, setting a torch to the fields, and sending Norway back to the sea. How – he –
“Cruithne,” Norway says, his hand tightening on her shoulder, “I’ll see my cousin to his boat and away from your shores.”
“Thank you,” she says, and stands aside. Denmark tries to forget the way her eyes darken as Norway leaves her side. Not in grief but in wicked humor – it will please her to see them fight.
So they go away from her, to a rocky little outcrop, and Norway says, “You’re far from home.”
“This is nice land,” Denmark says. “Really pretty.” He wants to touch the hammer-pendant worked into Norway’s hair.
“It’s hers and mine,” Norway says. “Not yours. You have plenty. Go east, or south. But this is mine.”
“Is the child yours too?”
He nods. Denmark thinks about that for a second.
“She any good?”
Norway punches him. Denmark, surprised and yet not surprised, stumbles back; his heel catches on a stone and he falls. Loses his breath and skins his palms. Maybe he’s bleeding. Doesn’t matter.
“You can’t have her,” Norway says. What is terrifying is that his eyes show no emotion, empty-dead. He’d probably look the same after hanging from a tree for days. Even the ravens wouldn’t touch him.
Denmark grins. “I like things that are yours,” he says.
Norway slams Denmark’s head into the ground. “You can’t have them.”
“Would you make me yours?” Denmark lilts. “Bet you couldn’t, even with all your ships and all your men.”
Norway punches him again, rolls him over, cuts his trousers open with a knife from his belt.
“I could,” Norway says. “But you’ll finish like Loki, working woman’s magic and mother to a monster.”
“And chained with a pretty thing standing bare-breasted at my side?” Denmark laughs into the stone beneath him. “If that pretty thing is you –” He gasps over the feeling of invasion, something pressing into him, hard and rough, and painful.
His body screaming, he thinks that he should have remembered that Norway goes mad when challenged.
Something warm and wet drips over his entrance, and the rawness slides out, slides in a little more easily. Heat and pain, and somehow he doesn’t mind. That soon enough Norway will have unmanned him, or already has; Denmark isn’t sure.
He lies on the stone and laughs, eyes tearing up at the pain, and waits for Norway to finish with him. Feels Norway surge into him with the same pulse as the water far below crashing on the rocks, and he thinks that they’ll be like this forever, the two of them. Stone and sea, wearing down until they’re mixed up together.
For now he’ll give Norway to the warrior-girl on the hill, because someday Norway will have to come home. Denmark can wait for him. Eventually Norway has to return to what’s his.
