![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
silverfoxflowerTitle: If The World Ends in Fire & Ice
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
silverfoxflower
Fandom: Hetalia
Genre: Angst, Slash
Word Count: ~2000
Pairing: Denmark/Sweden
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Dub/Noncon
Notes: Written for this prompt onhetalia_kink . Also posted there if you want to read/comment anonymously
Summary: It's the Kelmar Union Era and Denmark owns Sweden. He takes what he wants, and Sweden can't quite bring himself to hate it.
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or its characters. All I own is a battered European History textbook and too much time on my hands.
All he ever wanted
All he ever wanted
(not love, not adoration, not even tenderness, because what he wanted and what he needed were expressly different things)
Was to be taken seriously.
“Sweden.” He smiled, like ice and alcohol. “Sverige.”
Sweden turned very slightly from his task, neck tensed in annoyance. But didn’t reply, didn’t even acknowledge Denmark’s drunken request, which he had made in the very tone of Sweden’s name. Should’ve been apparent.
It made him burn. Before Sweden even processed movement, Denmark slid behind him, warm breath swirling fire on the nape of his neck. His voice was darker than the fire-flickered room. “Sverige…I want you to look at me.”
It was dangerous to interrupt a Viking while he was sharpening his weapon. Sweden’s hand tightened on his axe and he did not speak. But perhaps there was a treacherous tremble in his fingers that was not there before.
Denmark’s expression twitched and began to darken. His hands shot out, slamming Sweden into his workbench and tangling in his shirt. Denmark sneered as the cheap, rough material ripped between his fingers. It hadn’t been his intention to humiliate Sweden with poverty; the son of a whore had chosen it himself.
Perhaps to match his pretty little favorite.
“Saw you in the garden, today, Sverige.” Denmark ran his palms along the lean lines of Sweden’s frame, claiming the painful shift of muscle under skin, the mouth-watering smell of pine and musk that was all his.
Sweden drew back from the bench and carefully pressed a thumb along the blade of his axe, angling it to the grindstone for the perfect edge. A jarring, metallic sound. A shiver of clenched hatred.
“The sweet, blonde one…what was his- Ah, Finland? You were lookin’ at him?” Denmark could not suppress the savage pleasure he felt at Sweden’s flinch. “Careful,” He purred. “Dun’ wanna cut your hand.”
///
Mouths jarring out of angle, wide, lapping tongues smearing saliva, sharp, white teeth sinking into skin too rough to be pleasurable. It was just another way to mark possession.
Sweden fought because his pride demanded it, grunting slightly as his axe was ripped from his grip, skittering to the other side of the room. Denmark gleefully slammed him into the floor, hands kneading at his corded thighs, pulling apart his ass, raking blunt nails down his muscled back.
“I want you Sverige.” Denmark’s laugh was a low growl, deep in his throat. “Now.”
Sweden ground his teeth and tried to knee him in the face, but even drunk, the Dane was too nimble, too well-fed, and well-trained, having survived the harsh winter nights far easier than Sweden. He easily overpowered the other man, pinning him down in a warm crush of hands, legs, teeth and laughter.
“I own you.” And that was the last that Denmark would say. From here on out the sharp-tongued Nordic with fire-blue eyes would show rather than declare, conquer his threatened territory. Half-hard already, he ground against the sharp jut of Sweden’s pelvis, then shifting lower. His grin was a savage promise.
Closing his eyes tightly, Sweden attempted to shift Denmark off, bucking suddenly against his grasp. But that just seemed to make the other man hiss in pleasure as he leaned down, rubbing their bodies together in slow, smooth movements. There was no need to be frantic. Denmark was willing to take his time.
Almost bearable. Sweden set his teeth against it. Almost. The warmth was welcome, the caresses (their sharp edge, even) made him shiver and twitch … and Denmark’s face. If it wasn’t for the fact that it was Sweden’s pride on the floor, being ground into some other man’s whore, his freedom pounded into submission, his love…
So Sweden would never admit to himself that what Denmark did to him was almost bearable, on those cold nights by the smoking, flickering fire, curled up in their sweat and saliva. Almost bearable.
///
Bit his lips open. Tasted the blood as he swirled his tongue inside, forcing Sweden to accommodate him, a hint of things to come. With his other hand, Denmark began palming the stoic, ice-nation through his clothing. Sweden made a soft sound in the back of his throat and Denmark swallowed it, delighted. He wanted to swallow everything of his Sverige, but the man was stubborn. Fought him tooth and nail, even as he reluctantly clenched in pleasure from Denmark’s rough ministrations. The fiery-eyed Dane ground into Sweden’s erection with the heel of his hand, grabbing and twisting the growing bulge with more sadism than skill.
Now, Sweden was plastered to the ground, legs forced wide by Denmark’s hips, clenched teeth almost scraping the dirt with every jerky and constrained movement. Denmark unbelted Sweden in a hurry, tugging and ripping at whatever was in his way to get at his meat.
The fiery Nordic was so excited, so hard, he panted his lust in Sweden’s ear – somewhere between a threat and an endearment.
At the salty scrape of skin, Denmark immediately palmed Sweden’s cock in a bruising grip, giving a few, painful, tugs and feeling Sverige’s precum sliding across his knuckles. It fascinated Denmark to watch Sweden’s fingers claw the dirt as if searching for redemption, vengeance, scraping together what was left of his dignity even as he was being unceremoniously jerked off.
If Sweden could somehow stay above all of this … keep his passion contained within those ice-blue eyes … perhaps he could get through tonight with his sanity intact.
As if Denmark would allow that. He bit, a mouthful of cloth, knowing Sweden liked the pain, enjoying the way the blonde man choked back a strangled cry and twisted under his body. With his other hand he hooked his fingers in the back of Sweden’s trousers and dragged them down hurriedly.
He wanted to be inside his Sverige now.
Sweden startled at the feeling of his ass exposed to the icy air. He tried to struggle away one last time, but with Denmark’s hold on his cock, it was a lost battle before it ever really began. Like all of their battles. For show. Denmark liked to think that Sweden knew what the outcome of every quiet rebellion, every cold reception would be. He was just damn stubborn like that.
How cute.
Two fingers. Two fingers hastily wet with Sweden’s saliva (Denmark had suddenly slid them into his mouth, nearly gagging him, laughing when the ice-giant attempted to snap the offending digits off with his teeth) pushed roughly into the man’s tight entrance.
Sweden tasted dirt, struggling to take in air by the mouthful. Oh God the burn was excruciating. Even more humiliating was the sick thrill that shot up his spine even though it was Denmark touching him so, the man he hated making him squirm on the floor like an overheated bitch dog, barely suppressing the urge to press back against that delicious, disgusting pressure.
It became even harder when Denmark’s fingers skidded against that one place deep inside that made Sweden crack like melting ice. Smirking, the fiery Dane curled his fingers, stretching and pinching and abusing the oversensitized flesh until the moans tumbling out of Sweden’s mouth sounded a bit like surrender. Until Sweden’s prideful body had shaken and broken under him, begging for release with silent thrusts against his cruel hands.
Denmark was painfully hard himself, so he decided to be kind. With a breathless moan, he unbelted himself, releasing his erection to the chilly air. Any other time he might have admired it – blushing an angry red, the exact curve and hardness of perfection, precum pearling the tip like the gift of a sloppy kiss, but today, Denmark wanted nothing more than-
Now. Pushing into Sweden with little warning and even less consideration.
And it made Sverige scream, in sudden pain and surprise. Oh fuck that was hot, the sound sent a shiver down Denmark’s spine that made him harder, made his next thrust equally as savage and possessive.
There was no use to hold down Sweden’s wrists, anymore, he wasn’t going anywhere, so Denmark’s fingers turned to clawing open Sweden’s ass cheeks, holding them apart so the snap-blue-eyed Dane could watch himself fucking his (his) Sverige – cock stretching the small entrance painfully, making it bleed a little with every thrust.
Sweden’s breaths were coming sporadically, stuttering, moaning.
Denmark, high on the pleasure of fucking that tight heat, suddenly craved to see Sweden’s face. So, he pulled out, grabbed Sverige’s lean hips and flipped him around.
What he saw made him painfully hard.
Sweden. White-blonde hair tangled and sweaty, falling into his face. Skin flushed dusky red, darkening the mess of bruises and bites Denmark had seen to mark him with. Mouth lax and shiny with saliva, expelling harsh breaths with an edge of a sob. Eyes gone soft like the ice had melted, soft with almost-surrender that they would both deny in the morning.
Denmark shuddered somewhere deep inside himself, unaware that at that moment, to Sweden, he appeared the exact same way. (Eyes gone soft like fire dampened and smoking.)
///
The second time was not as rough, but was equally painful. Sweden threw back his head, ground it against the dirt as his eyes filled with empty tears and he gasped through clenched teeth. Denmark was holding him down again, but differently. The fire-eyed Nordic had captured his hands in an odd embrace, tangled their fingers together and pressed - palm-to-palm – downwards.
Denmark’s hips were thrusting, rolling, keeping up an internal rhythm that pummeled Sweden’s prostate until the ice-giant was a shaking, shivering mess. And through all of this, Denmark was mouthing his bottom lip, behind his ear, the curve of his neck at his pulse point. It put Sweden on edge, anticipating that any moment he would be ripped open by Denmark’s teeth. But it never happened.
Hooking his hands underneath Sweden’s legs, Denmark lifted them and pushed Sweden’s knees against his chest, changing their position. It made the Swede tighter, made Denmark’s access easier as he began thrusting in earnest, breathless expletives thrown and crushed on the ground, arching his back to reach ever deeper into his Sverige and make the other feel it.
Sweden attempted to ward off the thick wave of pleasure-pain coursing through his system, because he knew, if he allowed himself to come, he would shatter. Through slitted eyes and clenched teeth he watched Denmark nearing the end.
The fire-eyed man didn’t know that he knew, didn’t think that he saw. But as his cock hardened and pulsed its last few beats before completion, Denmark’s face always betrayed him (a hidden, smoking softness of pure longing) and at that moment, it was as if their positions reversed.
Sweden contemplated the curve of Denmark’s neck as the other man lost himself, focused on nothing but pleasure, emptying spastically in Sweden’s tight entrance. For a second, just for a second, Denmark was so vulnerable that Sweden could easily kill him. Cut open his throat with his own hunting knife still hanging at his belt. Shutter those fire-bright eyes in an everlasting expression of pain, pleasure, betrayal, surrender.
This second passed. It always did, when Sweden couldn’t hold himself together any longer and broke - a soft, deep cry filling his throat as his own seed splashed violently across his chest.
They rocked together, silent, in front of the fire, movements slowing, bodies entangled, sticky with blood and cum and saliva and sweat. Denmark still wanted sloppy kisses. For once, Sweden obliged him without much protest, far too tired to murder his oppressive captor just right now.
Denmark climbed off of Sweden, but instead of walking away like the other man expected, he tugged them, together, into a half-sitting, half-leaning position with legs engangled, and Sweden’s back at his chest. The ice-giant was silent, but no doubt shattered from the waist down. He would limp tomorrow.
Soothingly, almost tenderly, Denmark ran his opened palm back and forth across Sweden’s twitching thighs, up the harsh cut of his hipbone. He draped a blanket over them before their sweat could cool in the night air, chilling them both.
They would sleep tonight, Denmark’s nose nestled into the sweaty curls at the nape of Sweden’s neck, Sweden leaning back as gingerly as his back would allow. The ice giant was awake long after his fiery captor had begun breathing deep and slow.
Denmark’s arms, locked over his waist felt like fire & ice. It was almost bearable.
They had cut in too deep, and fallen too far, but-
It was all he ever wanted.
Author:
silverfoxflower Fandom: Hetalia
Genre: Angst, Slash
Word Count: ~2000
Pairing: Denmark/Sweden
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Dub/Noncon
Notes: Written for this prompt on
hetalia_kink . Also posted there if you want to read/comment anonymously Summary: It's the Kelmar Union Era and Denmark owns Sweden. He takes what he wants, and Sweden can't quite bring himself to hate it.
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or its characters. All I own is a battered European History textbook and too much time on my hands.
All he ever wanted
All he ever wanted
(not love, not adoration, not even tenderness, because what he wanted and what he needed were expressly different things)
Was to be taken seriously.
“Sweden.” He smiled, like ice and alcohol. “Sverige.”
Sweden turned very slightly from his task, neck tensed in annoyance. But didn’t reply, didn’t even acknowledge Denmark’s drunken request, which he had made in the very tone of Sweden’s name. Should’ve been apparent.
It made him burn. Before Sweden even processed movement, Denmark slid behind him, warm breath swirling fire on the nape of his neck. His voice was darker than the fire-flickered room. “Sverige…I want you to look at me.”
It was dangerous to interrupt a Viking while he was sharpening his weapon. Sweden’s hand tightened on his axe and he did not speak. But perhaps there was a treacherous tremble in his fingers that was not there before.
Denmark’s expression twitched and began to darken. His hands shot out, slamming Sweden into his workbench and tangling in his shirt. Denmark sneered as the cheap, rough material ripped between his fingers. It hadn’t been his intention to humiliate Sweden with poverty; the son of a whore had chosen it himself.
Perhaps to match his pretty little favorite.
“Saw you in the garden, today, Sverige.” Denmark ran his palms along the lean lines of Sweden’s frame, claiming the painful shift of muscle under skin, the mouth-watering smell of pine and musk that was all his.
Sweden drew back from the bench and carefully pressed a thumb along the blade of his axe, angling it to the grindstone for the perfect edge. A jarring, metallic sound. A shiver of clenched hatred.
“The sweet, blonde one…what was his- Ah, Finland? You were lookin’ at him?” Denmark could not suppress the savage pleasure he felt at Sweden’s flinch. “Careful,” He purred. “Dun’ wanna cut your hand.”
///
Mouths jarring out of angle, wide, lapping tongues smearing saliva, sharp, white teeth sinking into skin too rough to be pleasurable. It was just another way to mark possession.
Sweden fought because his pride demanded it, grunting slightly as his axe was ripped from his grip, skittering to the other side of the room. Denmark gleefully slammed him into the floor, hands kneading at his corded thighs, pulling apart his ass, raking blunt nails down his muscled back.
“I want you Sverige.” Denmark’s laugh was a low growl, deep in his throat. “Now.”
Sweden ground his teeth and tried to knee him in the face, but even drunk, the Dane was too nimble, too well-fed, and well-trained, having survived the harsh winter nights far easier than Sweden. He easily overpowered the other man, pinning him down in a warm crush of hands, legs, teeth and laughter.
“I own you.” And that was the last that Denmark would say. From here on out the sharp-tongued Nordic with fire-blue eyes would show rather than declare, conquer his threatened territory. Half-hard already, he ground against the sharp jut of Sweden’s pelvis, then shifting lower. His grin was a savage promise.
Closing his eyes tightly, Sweden attempted to shift Denmark off, bucking suddenly against his grasp. But that just seemed to make the other man hiss in pleasure as he leaned down, rubbing their bodies together in slow, smooth movements. There was no need to be frantic. Denmark was willing to take his time.
Almost bearable. Sweden set his teeth against it. Almost. The warmth was welcome, the caresses (their sharp edge, even) made him shiver and twitch … and Denmark’s face. If it wasn’t for the fact that it was Sweden’s pride on the floor, being ground into some other man’s whore, his freedom pounded into submission, his love…
So Sweden would never admit to himself that what Denmark did to him was almost bearable, on those cold nights by the smoking, flickering fire, curled up in their sweat and saliva. Almost bearable.
///
Bit his lips open. Tasted the blood as he swirled his tongue inside, forcing Sweden to accommodate him, a hint of things to come. With his other hand, Denmark began palming the stoic, ice-nation through his clothing. Sweden made a soft sound in the back of his throat and Denmark swallowed it, delighted. He wanted to swallow everything of his Sverige, but the man was stubborn. Fought him tooth and nail, even as he reluctantly clenched in pleasure from Denmark’s rough ministrations. The fiery-eyed Dane ground into Sweden’s erection with the heel of his hand, grabbing and twisting the growing bulge with more sadism than skill.
Now, Sweden was plastered to the ground, legs forced wide by Denmark’s hips, clenched teeth almost scraping the dirt with every jerky and constrained movement. Denmark unbelted Sweden in a hurry, tugging and ripping at whatever was in his way to get at his meat.
The fiery Nordic was so excited, so hard, he panted his lust in Sweden’s ear – somewhere between a threat and an endearment.
At the salty scrape of skin, Denmark immediately palmed Sweden’s cock in a bruising grip, giving a few, painful, tugs and feeling Sverige’s precum sliding across his knuckles. It fascinated Denmark to watch Sweden’s fingers claw the dirt as if searching for redemption, vengeance, scraping together what was left of his dignity even as he was being unceremoniously jerked off.
If Sweden could somehow stay above all of this … keep his passion contained within those ice-blue eyes … perhaps he could get through tonight with his sanity intact.
As if Denmark would allow that. He bit, a mouthful of cloth, knowing Sweden liked the pain, enjoying the way the blonde man choked back a strangled cry and twisted under his body. With his other hand he hooked his fingers in the back of Sweden’s trousers and dragged them down hurriedly.
He wanted to be inside his Sverige now.
Sweden startled at the feeling of his ass exposed to the icy air. He tried to struggle away one last time, but with Denmark’s hold on his cock, it was a lost battle before it ever really began. Like all of their battles. For show. Denmark liked to think that Sweden knew what the outcome of every quiet rebellion, every cold reception would be. He was just damn stubborn like that.
How cute.
Two fingers. Two fingers hastily wet with Sweden’s saliva (Denmark had suddenly slid them into his mouth, nearly gagging him, laughing when the ice-giant attempted to snap the offending digits off with his teeth) pushed roughly into the man’s tight entrance.
Sweden tasted dirt, struggling to take in air by the mouthful. Oh God the burn was excruciating. Even more humiliating was the sick thrill that shot up his spine even though it was Denmark touching him so, the man he hated making him squirm on the floor like an overheated bitch dog, barely suppressing the urge to press back against that delicious, disgusting pressure.
It became even harder when Denmark’s fingers skidded against that one place deep inside that made Sweden crack like melting ice. Smirking, the fiery Dane curled his fingers, stretching and pinching and abusing the oversensitized flesh until the moans tumbling out of Sweden’s mouth sounded a bit like surrender. Until Sweden’s prideful body had shaken and broken under him, begging for release with silent thrusts against his cruel hands.
Denmark was painfully hard himself, so he decided to be kind. With a breathless moan, he unbelted himself, releasing his erection to the chilly air. Any other time he might have admired it – blushing an angry red, the exact curve and hardness of perfection, precum pearling the tip like the gift of a sloppy kiss, but today, Denmark wanted nothing more than-
Now. Pushing into Sweden with little warning and even less consideration.
And it made Sverige scream, in sudden pain and surprise. Oh fuck that was hot, the sound sent a shiver down Denmark’s spine that made him harder, made his next thrust equally as savage and possessive.
There was no use to hold down Sweden’s wrists, anymore, he wasn’t going anywhere, so Denmark’s fingers turned to clawing open Sweden’s ass cheeks, holding them apart so the snap-blue-eyed Dane could watch himself fucking his (his) Sverige – cock stretching the small entrance painfully, making it bleed a little with every thrust.
Sweden’s breaths were coming sporadically, stuttering, moaning.
Denmark, high on the pleasure of fucking that tight heat, suddenly craved to see Sweden’s face. So, he pulled out, grabbed Sverige’s lean hips and flipped him around.
What he saw made him painfully hard.
Sweden. White-blonde hair tangled and sweaty, falling into his face. Skin flushed dusky red, darkening the mess of bruises and bites Denmark had seen to mark him with. Mouth lax and shiny with saliva, expelling harsh breaths with an edge of a sob. Eyes gone soft like the ice had melted, soft with almost-surrender that they would both deny in the morning.
Denmark shuddered somewhere deep inside himself, unaware that at that moment, to Sweden, he appeared the exact same way. (Eyes gone soft like fire dampened and smoking.)
///
The second time was not as rough, but was equally painful. Sweden threw back his head, ground it against the dirt as his eyes filled with empty tears and he gasped through clenched teeth. Denmark was holding him down again, but differently. The fire-eyed Nordic had captured his hands in an odd embrace, tangled their fingers together and pressed - palm-to-palm – downwards.
Denmark’s hips were thrusting, rolling, keeping up an internal rhythm that pummeled Sweden’s prostate until the ice-giant was a shaking, shivering mess. And through all of this, Denmark was mouthing his bottom lip, behind his ear, the curve of his neck at his pulse point. It put Sweden on edge, anticipating that any moment he would be ripped open by Denmark’s teeth. But it never happened.
Hooking his hands underneath Sweden’s legs, Denmark lifted them and pushed Sweden’s knees against his chest, changing their position. It made the Swede tighter, made Denmark’s access easier as he began thrusting in earnest, breathless expletives thrown and crushed on the ground, arching his back to reach ever deeper into his Sverige and make the other feel it.
Sweden attempted to ward off the thick wave of pleasure-pain coursing through his system, because he knew, if he allowed himself to come, he would shatter. Through slitted eyes and clenched teeth he watched Denmark nearing the end.
The fire-eyed man didn’t know that he knew, didn’t think that he saw. But as his cock hardened and pulsed its last few beats before completion, Denmark’s face always betrayed him (a hidden, smoking softness of pure longing) and at that moment, it was as if their positions reversed.
Sweden contemplated the curve of Denmark’s neck as the other man lost himself, focused on nothing but pleasure, emptying spastically in Sweden’s tight entrance. For a second, just for a second, Denmark was so vulnerable that Sweden could easily kill him. Cut open his throat with his own hunting knife still hanging at his belt. Shutter those fire-bright eyes in an everlasting expression of pain, pleasure, betrayal, surrender.
This second passed. It always did, when Sweden couldn’t hold himself together any longer and broke - a soft, deep cry filling his throat as his own seed splashed violently across his chest.
They rocked together, silent, in front of the fire, movements slowing, bodies entangled, sticky with blood and cum and saliva and sweat. Denmark still wanted sloppy kisses. For once, Sweden obliged him without much protest, far too tired to murder his oppressive captor just right now.
Denmark climbed off of Sweden, but instead of walking away like the other man expected, he tugged them, together, into a half-sitting, half-leaning position with legs engangled, and Sweden’s back at his chest. The ice-giant was silent, but no doubt shattered from the waist down. He would limp tomorrow.
Soothingly, almost tenderly, Denmark ran his opened palm back and forth across Sweden’s twitching thighs, up the harsh cut of his hipbone. He draped a blanket over them before their sweat could cool in the night air, chilling them both.
They would sleep tonight, Denmark’s nose nestled into the sweaty curls at the nape of Sweden’s neck, Sweden leaning back as gingerly as his back would allow. The ice giant was awake long after his fiery captor had begun breathing deep and slow.
Denmark’s arms, locked over his waist felt like fire & ice. It was almost bearable.
They had cut in too deep, and fallen too far, but-
It was all he ever wanted.
