[Fanfic] - Some Kinda Hate
Title: Some Kinda Hate
Parings: Netherlands/Sweden, overtones of DenSu and undertones of SuFin. Awwww yiiiis.
Rating: NC-17
Summary: The prompt was something like “Netherlands/Sweden - confessions and love triangles.” Oh what was that, prompt? I get to include angsty DenSu overtones? FUCK YEAH.
Warnings: Errr there’s a substantial bit of DenSu headcanon underlying this, and thus I’m nervous about even putting it up, but hopefully I’ve gone through it enough that it doesn’t show too much ah no wait it totally does - at least I hope I’ve gone through it enough that it doesn’t confuse anyone. Also, my standard weirdo POV thing is in full effect here - sliding in and out of third-person omniscient and third-person limited. Damn you, Tolstoy! *shakes fist*
It would happen sporadically; always, always, Netherlands noticed, when Denmark was far away - as in, across-the-world away - on business.
Strange coincidence, huh?
No time to think on it right now, though - Sweden’s large, sure hands had shoved themselves into his pants, one gripping his hip, the other roughly palming his cock. Netherlands swallowed, ground into it, and hauled the two of them, a tangled heap of undone clothing and already-sweaty bodies and searching limbs, onto the bed with a low growl.
A fight - it was always what Sweden wanted, on the rare occasions when he came to him. Rough sex, harsh sex, biting, scratching, blood, choking. All fair game.
Netherlands didn’t mind being a replacement - Sweden was good, it was fun, and hell, he liked sex just as much as anyone else - but it was goddamn annoying that he wouldn’t fess up to the reason behind this entire casual sex thing.
But for the moment: a fight, some sex, a release. Netherlands could grant him that.
They were naked and hot, pressed together, clothing hastily thrown across the room - all nails and teeth instead of caresses and kisses. Sweden shuddered, breaths coming out in pants, as Netherlands bit into his collarbone and twisted his jaw, slightly. Just right. Exactly right. Sweden brought his hand down between them at that, gripping the both of them, close, together, a little too tight but that was good - pumped, quickly, clumsily, sweat-slicked skin against sweat-slicked skin - Sweden closed his eyes, licked his lips, and tried to lose himself in the moment. The present. He was here, in Netherlands’ bedroom, in Netherlands’ sheets - he breathed in deeply - the smell was different, a reminder.
Netherlands busied himself with marking up Sweden and smirking against his flushed skin as he heard Sweden’s breathing coming faster. Netherlands had been with Denmark; he knew what to do. He grabbed Sweden’s hair, yanked - held back a small laugh at Sweden’s arm, hitching in its furious rhythm between them, in response to that - what else did Denmark do?
It was hard to think with Sweden writhing beneath him - somehow the depressingly funny thought that Sweden had run away from Denmark only to spend the rest of his life clinging to people who never clung back flitted into his head - oh yeah. Stupid Dane never did shut up, did he?
Netherlands began to talk, just low, snarky observations on how aroused Sweden was, because Denmark always pulled that shit. It wasn’t his thing, really, but Sweden’s response - a groan, a flush, a twitch against the covers - made it worth it. He tried to ignore the sensation of Sweden’s hand, covering the both of them, crushing the both of them. Instead he dug the nails of one hand into Sweden’s side, other trailing down his neck, over his jaw, into his mouth.
Sweden’s eyes opened and Netherlands shoved his hand further, one quick movement. Sweden jerked and gagged for just a second, hand tightening and hitching again, before he threw a leg around Netherlands, pressed up and into him even as his hand sped up.
“Lemme guess, you want me to fuck you,” Netherlands said, pulling his spit-covered hand out of Sweden’s swollen mouth. Not something he’d normally say, but definitely something Denmark would. Not the same words, but who gave a fuck, really? Not him.
Sweden didn’t say anything - not that that was unusual - just stared up at him behind his glasses, flushed, sweaty, wanting. Netherlands couldn’t help but think it was a good look for him - wanting.
So Netherlands spat into his hand; there was probably lube somewhere, but Sweden liked it rough - it wasn’t Netherlands’ favorite, at least for the actual act, but what the hell.
He raised up, palmed himself, licked his lips as their sweat, Sweden’s spit, and his saliva smeared together - tasted Sweden’s saliva on his own tongue - and pushed into Sweden with a hiss. Sweden was tight. Always. He wondered if Sweden even had sex outside of their occasional hookups - got distracted by Sweden’s stuttered intake of air, slight move down, onto him.
He moved in, further, lack of lube making it a bit difficult. It was probably pretty painful, judging by Sweden’s halting, gasping breaths - Sweden brought his arms up, around him, clung to him. So clingy.
Netherlands pushed into him, entirely, finally - held back a moan of his own, it was so hot, so tight -
He began moving.
Sweden made a low, keening noise, and cut it off before it could complete itself. He always did. Netherlands took it as a sign he needed something more, as Sweden was quiet in bed; any noise was good noise.
And then Netherlands remembered - Sweden’s neck. He brought his forearm up, while drawing his body back and out, slowly - laid it over Sweden’s windpipe and pressed down. Smirked. He didn’t know, for sure, but he could could take a guess as to why Sweden liked this so much. “Axes, right?” Netherlands huffed, pushing back in, attempting to establish a rhythm. So tight.
Sweden froze; Netherlands kept going, slow but rough and halting; in, out, in.
“What?”
Netherlands pulled out, almost entirely. “Would ya stop denying it?” he huffed. He thrust into Sweden, hard - “Just spit it out.”
Oh. Sweden moaned aloud, the sound building and spilling over that arm pressed down, suffocating, over his windpipe, and arched up despite himself. Denying, he wasn’t -
Netherlands rammed into him so harshly that they both moved up the bedcovers, over panted breaths, sweat-sliding - Sweden’s head hit the wall with a loud thump. “M’not -”
“Shut up,” Netherlands ground out, and picked up his pace, adjusted his arm - Sweden couldn’t get air, he couldn’t - his hands clawed up Netherlands’ back - “Just say it.” Netherlands bent Sweden even further, it had to be painful, had to be.
Sweden tried to strangle out a response, tried to get his breathing under control, tried to get, just, breathing, air, it was -
Netherlands bent down and bit Sweden’s lip, drew blood - Sweden couldn’t help but be reminded, because Denmark had done the same, so long ago, which war was that - copper, mud, too many images were flashing, and air, and he hurt, ached, groaned and shivered and thrust, arched, ground - against, into, the pain.
Tongue and teeth in his mouth, hot and wet, forceful, driving, it was so similar, and h-he still - needed air, chest heaving, Netherlands folding him nearly in half and his head repeatedly hitting the wall only added, wasn’t distracting - way too much sensation, far too many memories, it all collided behind his eyes, blurring his sight - was he shaking?
The arm was pulled off of his neck and Sweden gasped, spots receding from his vision. Netherlands raked his nails over Sweden’s shoulders, up his neck, finally dug into his collarbone, continued his hard, deep pounding - Sweden reached his arms around and pulled him in further, closer, deeper. More.
“Yer quiet,” he huffed out.
Netherlands merely growled in response, ground into him again. And again. And again.
Then he pulled back and latched a hand around Sweden’s throat. Sweden could feel his Adam’s apple jump against it, so similar, almost the same size -
“Sweden. This is,” Netherlands tightened his hand around Sweden’s convulsing throat, continued his motions, “y’should -” he groaned, lost in sensation for a moment as Sweden’s answering noise made its way past his clenched hand, “it’s obvious,” he finally stated.
Sweden answered with large hands, blunt nails digging, sliding into hips he couldn’t seem to keep hold of. Couldn’t keep hold of, could never - for a moment he thought of Finland, of Norway, of - Tino - they didn’t - he choked. This was too much for his mind, but his body only responded feverishly. He lost himself to sensations of the flesh instead, fell right in.
Netherlands pressed on, and pressed in, wide palm becoming even more familiar with the contours of Sweden’s strained neck.
Sweden keened, as much as he could with that force always pressing down, always, and it was just right - his back off of the bed so Netherlands could hit him, there, and maybe he should hit him as well - Sweden grabbed Netherlands’ other hand, brought it to his cheek, opened his eyes and tried to ask with a look rather than words.
Netherlands granted him that, one harsh smack making his world spin, glasses skewed, everything reduced to pure sensation, now. Breath fighting for passage through his throat, pain overridden by pleasure mixing in heady sensation below, more neglected arousal - Netherlands cut off his air completely.
“You don’t think I’m that blind, do you?” Netherlands growled, lowering himself down, bending Sweden down, mouthing at Sweden’s ear before biting it. Sweden arched up, friction, he needed friction - “Just - “ thrust - “say -” bite - “it -” blood.
The copper, it was the smell of his own blood that did it. He’d smelled that so many times, and almost always at Denmark’s hands - and he could pretend, in this moment, eyes closed, scrunched, lost in the physical -
“Yeah,” he breathed, barely able to choke it out. He told himself it was because of the hand on his neck.
Netherlands snorted, a hot puff of air against his neck, and then - sharp, bright pain and the smell of more blood. Metallic. Axes. Ax handles.
“Dan-Danmark,” Sweden - sobbed, really - garbled and sex-drunk - “he - I - yer like ‘im.” One overly loud, stuttered inhalation - "'n bed."
Netherlands bit into Sweden’s neck, harder than he needed to, then pulled away and paused. I’m like him for you, he thought, and willed that away almost before it even entered his head.
“About time,” he retorted instead, flat and dry, rolling his eyes to emphasize his point.
---
-
---
Uhhhh.
Yeah.
Someone get on my ass about starting up that epic DenSu, already. Because this is basically an outtake.
ALSO STANDARD DISCLAIMER ABOUT CRIT GOES HERE: I will never ever ever be offended if you crit me in regards to fic, so feel free to do so. Seriously. Seeeeriously. I've only been writing fic for about four months now, and I will take any advice I can get.
Parings: Netherlands/Sweden, overtones of DenSu and undertones of SuFin. Awwww yiiiis.
Rating: NC-17
Summary: The prompt was something like “Netherlands/Sweden - confessions and love triangles.” Oh what was that, prompt? I get to include angsty DenSu overtones? FUCK YEAH.
Warnings: Errr there’s a substantial bit of DenSu headcanon underlying this, and thus I’m nervous about even putting it up, but hopefully I’ve gone through it enough that it doesn’t show too much ah no wait it totally does - at least I hope I’ve gone through it enough that it doesn’t confuse anyone. Also, my standard weirdo POV thing is in full effect here - sliding in and out of third-person omniscient and third-person limited. Damn you, Tolstoy! *shakes fist*
It would happen sporadically; always, always, Netherlands noticed, when Denmark was far away - as in, across-the-world away - on business.
Strange coincidence, huh?
No time to think on it right now, though - Sweden’s large, sure hands had shoved themselves into his pants, one gripping his hip, the other roughly palming his cock. Netherlands swallowed, ground into it, and hauled the two of them, a tangled heap of undone clothing and already-sweaty bodies and searching limbs, onto the bed with a low growl.
A fight - it was always what Sweden wanted, on the rare occasions when he came to him. Rough sex, harsh sex, biting, scratching, blood, choking. All fair game.
Netherlands didn’t mind being a replacement - Sweden was good, it was fun, and hell, he liked sex just as much as anyone else - but it was goddamn annoying that he wouldn’t fess up to the reason behind this entire casual sex thing.
But for the moment: a fight, some sex, a release. Netherlands could grant him that.
They were naked and hot, pressed together, clothing hastily thrown across the room - all nails and teeth instead of caresses and kisses. Sweden shuddered, breaths coming out in pants, as Netherlands bit into his collarbone and twisted his jaw, slightly. Just right. Exactly right. Sweden brought his hand down between them at that, gripping the both of them, close, together, a little too tight but that was good - pumped, quickly, clumsily, sweat-slicked skin against sweat-slicked skin - Sweden closed his eyes, licked his lips, and tried to lose himself in the moment. The present. He was here, in Netherlands’ bedroom, in Netherlands’ sheets - he breathed in deeply - the smell was different, a reminder.
Netherlands busied himself with marking up Sweden and smirking against his flushed skin as he heard Sweden’s breathing coming faster. Netherlands had been with Denmark; he knew what to do. He grabbed Sweden’s hair, yanked - held back a small laugh at Sweden’s arm, hitching in its furious rhythm between them, in response to that - what else did Denmark do?
It was hard to think with Sweden writhing beneath him - somehow the depressingly funny thought that Sweden had run away from Denmark only to spend the rest of his life clinging to people who never clung back flitted into his head - oh yeah. Stupid Dane never did shut up, did he?
Netherlands began to talk, just low, snarky observations on how aroused Sweden was, because Denmark always pulled that shit. It wasn’t his thing, really, but Sweden’s response - a groan, a flush, a twitch against the covers - made it worth it. He tried to ignore the sensation of Sweden’s hand, covering the both of them, crushing the both of them. Instead he dug the nails of one hand into Sweden’s side, other trailing down his neck, over his jaw, into his mouth.
Sweden’s eyes opened and Netherlands shoved his hand further, one quick movement. Sweden jerked and gagged for just a second, hand tightening and hitching again, before he threw a leg around Netherlands, pressed up and into him even as his hand sped up.
“Lemme guess, you want me to fuck you,” Netherlands said, pulling his spit-covered hand out of Sweden’s swollen mouth. Not something he’d normally say, but definitely something Denmark would. Not the same words, but who gave a fuck, really? Not him.
Sweden didn’t say anything - not that that was unusual - just stared up at him behind his glasses, flushed, sweaty, wanting. Netherlands couldn’t help but think it was a good look for him - wanting.
So Netherlands spat into his hand; there was probably lube somewhere, but Sweden liked it rough - it wasn’t Netherlands’ favorite, at least for the actual act, but what the hell.
He raised up, palmed himself, licked his lips as their sweat, Sweden’s spit, and his saliva smeared together - tasted Sweden’s saliva on his own tongue - and pushed into Sweden with a hiss. Sweden was tight. Always. He wondered if Sweden even had sex outside of their occasional hookups - got distracted by Sweden’s stuttered intake of air, slight move down, onto him.
He moved in, further, lack of lube making it a bit difficult. It was probably pretty painful, judging by Sweden’s halting, gasping breaths - Sweden brought his arms up, around him, clung to him. So clingy.
Netherlands pushed into him, entirely, finally - held back a moan of his own, it was so hot, so tight -
He began moving.
Sweden made a low, keening noise, and cut it off before it could complete itself. He always did. Netherlands took it as a sign he needed something more, as Sweden was quiet in bed; any noise was good noise.
And then Netherlands remembered - Sweden’s neck. He brought his forearm up, while drawing his body back and out, slowly - laid it over Sweden’s windpipe and pressed down. Smirked. He didn’t know, for sure, but he could could take a guess as to why Sweden liked this so much. “Axes, right?” Netherlands huffed, pushing back in, attempting to establish a rhythm. So tight.
Sweden froze; Netherlands kept going, slow but rough and halting; in, out, in.
“What?”
Netherlands pulled out, almost entirely. “Would ya stop denying it?” he huffed. He thrust into Sweden, hard - “Just spit it out.”
Oh. Sweden moaned aloud, the sound building and spilling over that arm pressed down, suffocating, over his windpipe, and arched up despite himself. Denying, he wasn’t -
Netherlands rammed into him so harshly that they both moved up the bedcovers, over panted breaths, sweat-sliding - Sweden’s head hit the wall with a loud thump. “M’not -”
“Shut up,” Netherlands ground out, and picked up his pace, adjusted his arm - Sweden couldn’t get air, he couldn’t - his hands clawed up Netherlands’ back - “Just say it.” Netherlands bent Sweden even further, it had to be painful, had to be.
Sweden tried to strangle out a response, tried to get his breathing under control, tried to get, just, breathing, air, it was -
Netherlands bent down and bit Sweden’s lip, drew blood - Sweden couldn’t help but be reminded, because Denmark had done the same, so long ago, which war was that - copper, mud, too many images were flashing, and air, and he hurt, ached, groaned and shivered and thrust, arched, ground - against, into, the pain.
Tongue and teeth in his mouth, hot and wet, forceful, driving, it was so similar, and h-he still - needed air, chest heaving, Netherlands folding him nearly in half and his head repeatedly hitting the wall only added, wasn’t distracting - way too much sensation, far too many memories, it all collided behind his eyes, blurring his sight - was he shaking?
The arm was pulled off of his neck and Sweden gasped, spots receding from his vision. Netherlands raked his nails over Sweden’s shoulders, up his neck, finally dug into his collarbone, continued his hard, deep pounding - Sweden reached his arms around and pulled him in further, closer, deeper. More.
“Yer quiet,” he huffed out.
Netherlands merely growled in response, ground into him again. And again. And again.
Then he pulled back and latched a hand around Sweden’s throat. Sweden could feel his Adam’s apple jump against it, so similar, almost the same size -
“Sweden. This is,” Netherlands tightened his hand around Sweden’s convulsing throat, continued his motions, “y’should -” he groaned, lost in sensation for a moment as Sweden’s answering noise made its way past his clenched hand, “it’s obvious,” he finally stated.
Sweden answered with large hands, blunt nails digging, sliding into hips he couldn’t seem to keep hold of. Couldn’t keep hold of, could never - for a moment he thought of Finland, of Norway, of - Tino - they didn’t - he choked. This was too much for his mind, but his body only responded feverishly. He lost himself to sensations of the flesh instead, fell right in.
Netherlands pressed on, and pressed in, wide palm becoming even more familiar with the contours of Sweden’s strained neck.
Sweden keened, as much as he could with that force always pressing down, always, and it was just right - his back off of the bed so Netherlands could hit him, there, and maybe he should hit him as well - Sweden grabbed Netherlands’ other hand, brought it to his cheek, opened his eyes and tried to ask with a look rather than words.
Netherlands granted him that, one harsh smack making his world spin, glasses skewed, everything reduced to pure sensation, now. Breath fighting for passage through his throat, pain overridden by pleasure mixing in heady sensation below, more neglected arousal - Netherlands cut off his air completely.
“You don’t think I’m that blind, do you?” Netherlands growled, lowering himself down, bending Sweden down, mouthing at Sweden’s ear before biting it. Sweden arched up, friction, he needed friction - “Just - “ thrust - “say -” bite - “it -” blood.
The copper, it was the smell of his own blood that did it. He’d smelled that so many times, and almost always at Denmark’s hands - and he could pretend, in this moment, eyes closed, scrunched, lost in the physical -
“Yeah,” he breathed, barely able to choke it out. He told himself it was because of the hand on his neck.
Netherlands snorted, a hot puff of air against his neck, and then - sharp, bright pain and the smell of more blood. Metallic. Axes. Ax handles.
“Dan-Danmark,” Sweden - sobbed, really - garbled and sex-drunk - “he - I - yer like ‘im.” One overly loud, stuttered inhalation - "'n bed."
Netherlands bit into Sweden’s neck, harder than he needed to, then pulled away and paused. I’m like him for you, he thought, and willed that away almost before it even entered his head.
“About time,” he retorted instead, flat and dry, rolling his eyes to emphasize his point.
---
-
---
Uhhhh.
Yeah.
Someone get on my ass about starting up that epic DenSu, already. Because this is basically an outtake.
ALSO STANDARD DISCLAIMER ABOUT CRIT GOES HERE: I will never ever ever be offended if you crit me in regards to fic, so feel free to do so. Seriously. Seeeeriously. I've only been writing fic for about four months now, and I will take any advice I can get.