[Fanfic] - Trim Deep
Title: Trim Deep
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Russia/Denmark/Sweden
Summary: Denmark wants to bring someone else to bed; Sweden picks someone who he hopes will shut Denmark up. It...doesn't quite work out that way.
Warnings: PWP cranked up to 11. Kissing, groping, sex, oral sex, bondage, makeshift gagging, desperation, voyeurism/exhibitionism, dirty talk, general rough play, minor bloodkink, too much description of hot sweaty manly men and Sweden’s deliciously long legs. I think that’s all.
---
Denmark stills above him, eyes screwed shut and breathing heavily; Sweden feels his own hot come sliding down his side and shifts a little, trying not to grimace at the sensation.
A few more pants and Denmark pulls out, gives Sweden a lazy kiss, and flops over on his backside, elbows bracing his upper half.
“Shew,” Denmark huffs, looking up at the ceiling for a second. “Sverige, that was great and all, but we should really pull someone else in here,” he smirks, looking over at Sweden.
Sweden shifts on his back and sends Denmark a dulled scowl.
“You know, like a threesome. How hot would that be? I’d get to watch you in action and get to be in on the action myself,” he winks and elbows Sweden, losing his balance and hitting Sweden a bit harder in the side than he intends. “Yeah? Whadda ya say?”
“No.”
“What? C’mon, it’s a great idea!”
Sweden shakes his head.
“We could probably get-”
“No. Don’ want to,” Sweden grinds out, then turns over and doesn’t respond to Denmark the rest of the evening.
---
About six months - and fourteen more requests - later, Sweden is at a meeting, washing his hands in the bathroom, when Russia walks up, characteristic smile in place. Russia stops. Folds his arms and leans a hip against the counter, simply staring. Sweden knows he is just trying to mess with him - it is Russia, after all, he has a penchant for mind games.
“Hm,” Russia softly breaks the silence, running his eyes up and down Sweden’s form. “One with Russia?” he asks, obviously saying it only to get a rise out of Sweden.
Sweden is about to put his hands under the dryer and ignore Russia’s comment completely when he pauses, hands dripping water on the floor. Actually...if he invites Russia, just once, Denmark would probably never ask again. And...he and Russia really need to work on “thawing their relations,” as the papers called it, anyway.
He turns around to face Russia. “’kay.”
Russia looks like he’s just been backhanded by Italy. “...you are serious?” he asks, tilting his head to the side, wary.
“Well, with a couple’a stipulations.”
---
“I dunno what’s gotten into you, Sverige, but I like it,” Denmark grins down at him, even while Sweden straps him in tighter to the wooden chair.
Sweden doesn’t say anything, just binds Denmark’s legs to the chair legs.
“Hey, how’re you planning on gettin’ my pants off, anyway?”
Sweden shrugs, and, binding done, stands up. He steps back and looks over Denmark - arms bound together behind the chair, and then to the chair, naked torso bound to the back, thighs and legs nearly covered in soft ropes - and Denmark just smiles even wider, excitement and a little lust dancing in his eyes.
Everything is in place, Sweden notes, and nods with approval. He sits down on the bed, about a foot away from Denmark’s chair, and looks Denmark in the eye. He meets that wide grin with a small twist of his mouth - part good humor, part knowing smirk.
He brings his hands up to his collar and slowly begins unbuttoning - feels the kiss of the chilled air in the room at his throat, slowly moving down his sternum, teasingly - watching Denmark watching him, as bit by bit his flesh becomes exposed. He makes sure to run his long, thin fingers down his neck, down his sternum, as he goes, following the line of skin the buttons create, making sure Denmark’s eyes follow the line of skin as well. Subtle directing.
His shirt is fully unbuttoned and Denmark’s grin has turned into an unapologetic leer when the doorbell rings. Denmark looks to the bedroom door with a frown, confused, and Sweden looks at the clock - right on time.
He gets up and goes out, ignoring Denmark’s shouts of “Hey, what the hell, Sverige, that was just gettin’ good!”
Sweden opens the front door and there is Russia, waiting patiently with a small smile and his hands behind his back. Upon seeing Sweden, shirt unbuttoned and rumpled, his eyebrows shoot up for a millisecond, before the smile becomes decidedly less childish.
“You did not start without me, I hope? That would be...disappointing.”
Sweden shakes his head and steps aside to let Russia in. “Jus’ settin’ up.”
Russia pauses in the hallway and looks over at him, again, still with that smile. “Ah! Preparation?” A nod. Russia steps closer and Sweden backs up into the wall at the unexpected move. Russia reaches out, delicately, and traces his thumb and forefingers along Sweden’s exposed hipbone. He looks up into Sweden’s confused gaze. “That is not a bad idea,” he smirks, before leaning in and running his tongue up Sweden’s throat.
Sweden gasps and almost shoves Russia off in surprise, before he takes a moment to consider and decides that, well, it wasn’t a bad idea to get used to Russia before they re-entered the bedroom. He brings a hand up to Russia’s hair and leans his head back, baring more of his throat, and gives a small grunt of pleasure when Russia begins nipping at it. Russia moves lower and bites down hard on his collarbone, and Sweden immediately grabs Russia by the ass and grinds their bodies together.
Russia lets out a small laugh at this and Sweden uses the hand in Russia’s hair to bring him up and smash their lips together. Sweden notes that Russia’s kiss is completely different from Denmark’s - still heated, but subtle, skilled, just short of demanding.
“Hey Sverige, what’s the hold up!?” Denmark calls, and they break apart with a start. “Ya okay?”
Russia crooks his mouth in a half-smile, knowingly, and brings an arm out toward the bedroom in a “lead the way” gesture.
---
They enter the bedroom and it seems that Denmark is struck speechless. Sweden bites down a laugh at his expression while Russia takes off his coat and drapes it over the end of the bed, looking at Denmark with a predatory gaze.
“Uh...Sverige...?” Denmark finally asks, normally confident voice very uncertain.
“Mm?”
“Why...” he pauses at Russia’s vicious smile and quickly looks back to Sweden, eyebrow raised and half-grin on his face. “Why’s this guy here?”
Sweden shrugs off his shirt and tosses it Denmark’s way, then sits on the bed like nothing in the world is out of the ordinary. “Said y’wanted a threesome,” he stoically states - but apparently the amusement in his eyes gives him away, because Denmark scowls.
“Er, yeah, I did,” Denmark retorts, an edge of anger in his voice. “But I was thinking more like-”
“You were thinking what?” Russia interrupts while taking off his shoes with a glare that shuts Denmark up.
Denmark stays quiet for only a second before he begins spluttering again. Russia looks to Sweden and lightly quips “I am afraid that you did not do this correctly.” With that, he crosses the room in three graceful strides, picks up Sweden’s discarded shirt, and stuffs it into Denmark’s mouth, tying the sleeves around Denmark’s head and securing it there. He steps back with a smirk and then says “This is much better, yes?”
He turns to Sweden and Sweden frowns, then looks at Denmark to see if he should stop this right here, point proven. Denmark looks miffed that he’s been gagged, but the slight flush high on his cheekbones (and lack of yelling) tells Sweden that he’s not completely opposed to this. Not yet.
Well, time to convince him. Sweden looks up at Russia and raises his eyebrows, wondering if he’s just going to stand there leering at Denmark or not.
Russia laughs a little at Sweden’s expression, then settles himself onto the bed, on his knees, sideways, taller than Sweden in this position. Sweden turns a little, face up, and Russia leans down and starts kissing him again, running his large hands down Sweden’s naked torso. They are surprisingly warm - the rough calluses on them make Sweden’s skin sing, and he lets out a low, rumbling moan, for both Russia’s benefit and for Denmark’s.
Sweden deepens the kiss, turning in to Russia a bit more, making sure Denmark can see their profiles; can see tongues slip past lips and begin a slow, luxurious, burning dance. He brings his hands up to Russia’s shirt, and begins unbuttoning it, movements lazy, languid. He moves his head down, skips Russia’s neck, and begins mouthing Russia’s exposed skin near the collarbone. Russia pulls a hand to his hair, the other running up and down his arm, across his shoulders. More buttons undone, and he tilts his head and watches Denmark from below his eyelashes as he goes, open-mouthed nips, kisses, swirls of tongue dancing down Russia’s chest as more and more of his torso is revealed.
Denmark shifts against the bindings, but doesn’t look away from what Sweden’s mouth is doing to Russia. He doesn’t try to catch Sweden’s eye. Just stares at Sweden’s mouth leaving shining trails of saliva down those pale muscles. Sweden runs his teeth across a rib and Russia gives a hum of appreciation; Denmark doesn’t look angry at all anymore, simply intrigued and a little flushed.
Once the buttons are completely undone, Sweden draws himself up again and runs his hands over Russia’s shoulders, sliding the shirt off with the movement. It falls to the floor with a wisp of sound, hardly audible over their breaths, which have become noticeably heavier. Sweden can see Denmark looking at Russia’s profile - broad, built, a little fat around the hips but other than that thoroughly muscled - much more so than Sweden, who is long, lean, and toned, yes, but not overly built - Sweden runs his hands up Russia’s side, nails dragging a little and eliciting a husky gasp. Again, Sweden directs Denmark’s gaze to where he wants it to be.
Looking at their bodies. Watching as their hands and mouths coax harsher and harsher sounds out of one another.
Sweden glances at Denmark and sees his eyes darken, can hear his breathing pick up through his nose - he uses that to his advantage. He pulls Russia flush against him with a rough, abrupt movement. Russia’s leg slips off the bed at the unexpected move, but he doesn’t seem to mind when it brings his crotch to Sweden’s hip. He thrusts a tiny bit, half-erect against Sweden’s side, and lets out a small, low sound while wrapping his arms around Sweden.
They resume kissing, more heated, more forceful now, with soft, panting breaths. Their bodies turn into one another, arms wrap around each other, hands stop the tentative touches and strokes and begin gripping and rubbing in earnest. Sweden glances once more at Denmark - one last check - and finds that Denmark’s chest is lightly flushed and nearly heaving against its bindings. His eyes are intently watching the two, flickering everywhere, as if he’s not quite sure what to concentrate on.
Sweden, now confident that Denmark no longer has any protests, throws himself into putting on a good show.
---
Denmark is a bit surprised when, seemingly out of nowhere, the slow, heavy kissing and touching he’s watching snaps into something almost animalistic. Sweden wraps one arm around Russia’s waist and pulls him in even closer, chests brushing, while the other reaches up and grabs Russia by the back of the head, pressing their mouths together with a light clack of teeth.
If Russia minds he doesn’t let on - he moves almost into Sweden’s lap, shoves his tongue down Sweden’s throat, runs a hand down chest and abs and hips. He reaches further down and brushes against Sweden’s crotch - Sweden growls at that, flips them into the middle of the bed and grinds down. They stretch out and tangle into one another, gasping - feeling shifting legs and naked skin and searching hands.
They thrust against each other with pants still on, wrapped up - on the bed, Denmark glowers, too far away - Sweden on top for now. Denmark watches them kiss and it’s deep, harsher - he watches as Russia’s eyebrows furrow the tiniest bit, Sweden’s eyes screw tightly shut, their hands claw everywhere, impatient to explore every inch of exposed skin, thread through hair, occasionally stop and dig nails in.
Russia kisses down Sweden’s jaw and licks down his neck, marking it up over Sweden’s desperate swallows, his continued thrusts. Russia begins shucking off Sweden’s pants, Sweden moans and rubs his thumb harshly along the skin at the top of Russia’s arm, strokes back and forth, following the prominent line of muscle. Russia pulls Sweden’s pants down as much as he can - Sweden shifts to one arm and uses the other to pull them down further before shimmying out of them. He sits back on his knees and goes to undo Russia’s pants, eyeing the bulge there, and leans down and ghosts his lips along Russia’s stomach and hips as he does.
Russia quickly lifts his hips so that Sweden can pull them down, chest rising and falling rapidly - Denmark eyes Russia’s clothed erection as well. As Sweden moves down, he nips at the top hem of Russia’s underwear - Russia lets out an understated noise of frustration. “Stop this teasing,” he groans, frowning.
"Hm." Sweden grunts and sits back up, moves to the side a bit to yank off one leg of Russia’s pant legs, then the other - hasty and awkward. He kneels back over Russia’s thigh - one long, lean leg on one side, one on the other - and leans forward, places his hands around Russia’s hips, digging his thumbs in faintly. Russia retaliates by moving one of those powerful thighs against Sweden’s erection - Sweden grunts and bucks against it before he abruptly straightens out over Russia once again. Their bodies meld together and slide a bit - Denmark sees that a soft sheen of sweat has begun to form on Russia’s torso. Russia’s hand slips on Sweden’s back, Sweden gains a faint flush.
Russia’s hands move up to grip Sweden’s ass - he grinds up against Sweden harshly and bites his lip in one swift, sharp movement. Both let out loud, long moans - Sweden’s eyes shut for a split second.
At that a desperate noise escapes Denmark’s throat and he tries to lurch forward despite the futility of it. Ugh, those sounds. Deep and wanting and obscene.
Russia and Sweden freeze, panting, and they both look over at him with curious gazes. Sweden’s then slides into a tiny smirk - Russia turns his attention to Sweden’s neck - the smirk falters as Russia marks up Sweden’s neck and runs a hand up his back, twisting their legs together.
“I think your Daniya likes watching us,” Russia murmurs against Sweden’s jaw with a chuckle. Denmark inhales sharply at the commentary; hearing it, Russia looks over and quirks an eyebrow. “You did not tell me he liked watching,” he continues, studying Denmark’s response to this even while he reaches an arm between himself and Sweden - he palms Sweden though the briefs and is rewarded with a gruff, muted sound.
Denmark lets out a tiny noise and clenches his jaw to stop it. His gaze flickers back and forth between that large hand cupping Sweden and the smirk on Russia’s face as he runs his teeth along Sweden’s neck, eyes meeting his.
“Daniya,” Russia says, quiet, but dark and forceful. “Will you watch me fellate Shvetsiya? I think I would like to,” he continues over Sweden’s groan and Denmark’s thundering breaths.
Yes, Denmark is sure of it - he will watch with rapt attention if Russia blows Sweden. Especially if he keeps making Sweden make those noises. He nods frantically and makes a muffled noise of agreement through the shirt.
“Or perhaps would you enjoy it just as much if I described it for you,” Russia sneers, even while running a tongue along the line of Sweden’s shoulder. Sweden simply ducks his head in and begins mouthing Russia’s ear, but Denmark shoots him a confused look.
Russia’s eyes shut and his mouth falls open before he turns back to Sweden and cups his jaw, brings them together for another heated kiss - another minute of this, Denmark silently straining against his bindings - just - any friction, please, this was torture - and unable to achieve any relief - Sweden had put rope around his torso, and his legs, but not his lap, damn it - and then Russia pulls away even while wrapping his arms around Sweden’s back, presses them together. Denmark watches their sweaty bodies slide against one another, outline of ribs and muscle moving in shuddering, heaving motions.
“I think,” Russia gasps, looking at Sweden, “that your lover seems to enjoy - what is it - dirty talk?”
At this Denmark shuts his eyes and tries to calm down, or at least relieve some stress by struggling against his bindings, though even that has already proven to be pretty pointless. He’s so aroused - and - fuck - couldn’t they pay just a little attention to him!? Russia makes a pleased noise at his response. Denmark doesn’t see Sweden’s reaction.
Denmark hears them shift and looks up at them - they’re both sitting up on their knees in the middle of the bed, Sweden running teeth and tongue along Russia’s collarbone, punctuating with the occasional kiss, Russia’s hands on Sweden’s hips - both obviously very aroused. Russia brings one hand up to the turn of Sweden’s jaw and runs his nails down the side of Sweden’s neck; they leave faint trails in their wake. Sweden moans and lets out a stuttering breath.
Russia’s attention is taken by Denmark’s louder moan, though. “Ah - perhaps he is just turned on by noise in general,” he announces to both of them. Both Denmark and Sweden nod - Denmark reluctantly, Sweden as one curt, efficient motion of the head, more focused on running his hands up Russia’s sides and biting the join of collarbone and shoulder.
Bringing a hand up to Sweden’s hair, Russia presses him in a little more, then looks at Denmark. “Well,” Russia says, a bit breathless, “that sounds like much fun.” He abruptly presses Sweden down into the mattress below him. “What would you like to see, Daniya?” he asks as he leans down, running his large hands up Sweden’s thighs, and mouths Sweden’s erection through his underwear. Sweden half-shouts at that and Denmark moans long and loud - so loud it is barely muffled.
Russia pulls back up, looks at Denmark, and uses a hand to rub Sweden, roughly. “I could touch him, like this,” he smiles, dark - Denmark’s eyes flicker down - Sweden, panting, sweat running down his temples, legs spread wide, thrusting lightly into that touch, one hand bunched in the quilt on the bed, mouth in a grimace - then back up to Russia’s face.
“Or,” Russia continues, “I could perform oral sex on him -” with this he lifts the hem of Sweden’s briefs, pulls them down past his erection - Denmark stares and swallows audibly.
“If so, how would you like me to?” Russia asks, a soft purr, smirk in his voice. “I could tease him. I could go slowly, and play with him first - and not let him find relief until he makes noise that is to your satisfaction.”
Denmark throws his head back and stretches up into his bindings, eyes closed, jaw clenched - he decides that grinding his teeth down onto the shirt in his mouth is a decent way to vent his sexual frustration. He might chew through it before this is over, though. He is definitely gonna have trouble breathing if Russia keeps this up.
“I could also take him into my mouth completely,” Russia says, interrupting his thoughts. Denmark looks at Russia again; Russia catches his eye, makes sure he’s looking, before he resumes. “It would be fast and, ah, sloppy? Yes. Much spit and usage of my tongue.”
With those words Sweden mouths something, softly, and arches up off the bed a little; Denmark can’t tear his eyes from the sight.
Russia smiles and looks at Sweden as well - frantically rising chest, throat working, glazed eyes trained upon the ceiling.
While Sweden calms down a little, Russia watches Denmark watching the two of them. He really is liking this, isn’t he? Much more than either Sweden or Russia thought he would.
Sweden lets out one loud huff and looks at Russia, gaze serious and heated. Russia meets his eyes - “Fuck me,” Sweden demands. He turns his head to Denmark and growls “Danmark likes t’see me in a submissive p’sition,” with a wry twist of his mouth.
Russia raises his eyebrows and he turns to observe Denmark as well, pulling Sweden close to himself, allowing their erections to brush together, slightly. “This could be arranged. Daniya?”
Denmark can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. Sweden just ordered Russia to fuck him. And Denmark is not opposed to this at all - though it’s true, he likes seeing Sweden in a “submissive position”, he likes it the other way around as well. He knows Sweden knows that - he’s just being a passive-agressive dick, Denmark thinks with a growl.
He recovers and violently nods his approval. They both hastily tug off their underwear and take a moment to observe each other; seeing the undisguised lust on both of their faces makes Denmark’s hard-on throb and his chest constrict. Russia lubes up his fingers and cock - that elicits a small groan - while Sweden lays back on his elbows, breathing still heavy, and watches Russia’s hand stroke up and down. Denmark doesn’t even know where to look, but either sight ensures his erection isn’t going away anytime soon.
Russia carefully puts a slightly shaky hand between Sweden’s legs, and Denmark can’t really see what happens in graphic detail. He doesn’t know whether that is a blessing or a curse. He would love to see, but he didn’t really know if his dick can handle it at this point. Or his brain, for that matter.
Sweden lets out a cut-off hitch of a breath, and Russia clicks his tongue, finger carefully moving in and out, and mutters “You should not hold back. Daniya is aroused by your noises.”
When all that happens is a few breaths that have a little sound behind them, Russia bends down and laps at the head Sweden’s cock, eyes trained on Sweden’s face. A strangled sound is emitted into the air and Sweden’s entire body twitches - unsure as if it should move up into Russia’s hot mouth or down onto Russia’s teasing finger.
Denmark’s muffled, appreciative cursing is almost drowned out by Russia’s chuckle and Sweden’s noise as Russia simultaneously adds another finger and swallows Sweden down a little further. Russia speeds up both movements - Sweden still can’t seem to decide where to move his hips so he arches his back up off the bed instead with a guttural growl - Denmark is just tight, too tight, everywhere - all of his muscles are strained, tight, taut with tension, the air in his chest, his throat - tight - tight breaths - tight pants, but not nearly tight enough - all of those goddamn ropes around him, too tight and still not tight enough. No relief, no relief, and as Russia pulls his hand out and pushes himself in, Sweden lets out a loud groan, wraps a long, slender leg around Russia’s ass, thrusts himself up onto Russia’s erection - ugh, they are both making the most vulgar, amazing noises.
Denmark realizes he’s panting into his gag, uttering things along the lines of “oh Jesus fuck you two” and “louder” and most of all “please, please, keep going,” though the words are impossible to discern once they escape the filter of the shirt.
Russia raises himself up on his arms over Sweden, then uses one arm to swing Sweden’s other leg over a broad shoulder. It’s an awkward position - one leg over Russia’s shoulder, the other around his waist, Sweden’s hips completely raised from the bed - and if it wasn’t for Sweden’s obscenely long legs and their matching heights, it might have been impossible - but apparently it’s a really good one. Sweden inhales sharply, meets Russia’s next thrust violently, then his rumbling shout cuts through the air.
“Yes, I think that is what he wants to hear,” Russia pants, and thrusts even harder into Sweden this time - another growled, choked shout. Denmark agrees, loudly, and twists his jaw, fabric against his teeth being the only useful friction he can access.
An irregular murmur of words begin streaming from Sweden’s mouth, cut off by each hard thrust, the sound low and almost - rasping. He turns his head to the side and stares at Denmark - twitching against the bindings, muscles clenched and defined, sweat running down his body - he looks - fuck -
Sweden brings his hand down to his erection and lightly traces along it, gives a loud moan just for Denmark. At Denmark’s wild jerk and tightened jaw, he throws his head back, baring his neck, opens his mouth, lets his eyes stare, half-lidded.
Russia slows to small, shallow thrusts and follows his gaze. Sends a heated, twisted smile Denmark’s way. “I think we have given him enough of a show, yes?” he breathes, voice a bit husky.
“Prob’ly,” Sweden grunts. He wraps his hand around himself entirely and licks his lips, watches Denmark’s eyes follow his hand - up, down, up - slow strokes, matching Russia’s slow rocking rhythm, his cock hard and heavy under his palm. “Ya gonna play nice?” he asks once Denmark meets his eyes.
Denmark nods yet again and loudly says - well, who knows what it is - into the gag.
Sweden looks up at Russia. Russia leans down and kisses him, sloppily, just as one last tease to Denmark. Denmark groans in frustration. Russia pulls out, surprisingly careful, and rolls his shoulders before sitting up all the way.
He steps up from the bed, tall, built, towering over Denmark. Denmark can’t decide if he’d rather observe Sweden’s stretched form on the bed, his long, subtle lines of muscle - or Russia - more power in every movement, harder muscles but softer shape overall, a wider jaw and larger hands.
“I have told this to Shvetsiya,” Russia begins - Denmark’s gaze snaps to his, “but you were not there to hear it. I ask that you do not touch my neck. I am not comfortable with it.”
Denmark nods - whatever, who cares, just, please, please, someone touch him already.
“Okay,” Russia nods.
Russia walks around, behind Denmark, and barely traces his fingers up the side of Denmark’s face as he goes. Denmark turns into it, and Russia grabs his hair and yanks his head back instead - Denmark’s eyes flutter and he gasps.
Russia holds it there, uses his other hand to trace down Denmark’s chest with the backs of his fingers, over bumps of rope and the skin between - shik shik shik down the rope, touching with sufficient pressure but not duration, God no. Just enough to make every tiny patch of skin flare to life, to make Denmark’s ribs strain against their bindings.
“Look at you,” Russia says, low and breathless, cupping Denmark’s jaw with both hands an tilting his head back until their eyes met. “You can’t even breathe correctly. You’re sweaty. Dirty.” Hm, a positive response to that, but not a violent one. Let’s try again.
He turns Denmark’s head to the side and leans over Denmark, ghosts his warm breath down the side of Denmark’s face, runs his teeth over the shirt, just - hovers - above his neck. Denmark whines - he doesn’t even care at this point, but he’d sure be bitching Russia out right now if he could speak.
“Shvetsiya is looking at you,” Russia breathes against Denmark’s throat. Takes a tentative lick before he continues. “His eyes start here,” one of Russia’s fingers touches Denmark’s throat, begins moving lower. “Go down...” the finger follows, occasionally making contact with a sliver of skin. Denmark groans and writhes - it gets worse when Russia pauses in the air over his crotch and finishes with “...and end here: your obvious arousal.” They both flicked their gazes over, and Sweden was staring at Denmark’s tight, tented pants, a curled-up hand near his face as he tried not to bite his own knuckles at the sight.
“Mm, Shvetsiya does seem to enjoy the sight of you so aroused, Daniya,” Russia says, and mouths Denmark’s throat.
Denmark shudders violently at this. Ah, closer.
Russia’s other hand snaps down to grip Denmark’s hip solidly, and Denmark tries to thrust even though he can’t. Sweden’s wearing an intense expression that Denmark’s never seen before and it sends a jolt through him - he lets out a hoarse cry and moves his head so that - yes - Russia twists his hair even further, tsking - Denmark moans.
Russia makes a noise between a chuckle and a hum, still lapping at his neck, moving down to where it meets the muscle of Denmark’s back and shoulders. “You wanted me to do that.” He sounds intrigued. “You like rough things?” he asks, and then bites down on the corded muscle, making it give - Denmark is sure he’s making noise but can’t concentrate because he smells blood - Russia laps it clean, too careful and light. Probably on purpose. Denmark lets out one long and weak, high-pitched, desperate keen from the back of his throat.
Seeming to finally take pity on him, Sweden steps up and starts removing the gag; Denmark’s panting picks up just in anticipation. Russia’s hands knead his hipbones, skim up his sides, pick at the ropes just to point out that they’re still there.
“He is so desperate for attention,” Russia remarks to Sweden, lightly. Denmark’s muscles twitch under his mouth at that. “Ah. Daniya, do you know what would be good?” he asks, rhetorical, since the shirt isn’t quite off yet. He looks up at Sweden. “If I could watch you perform oral sex on Shvetsiya.”
At that moment Sweden rips the shirt out, stream of spittle following, and Denmark’s muffled sounds become an unrelenting stream of panted words - “oh my god oh my god oh just touch me already jeez you guys just - oh -” he groans as Sweden touches himself and raises his eyebrows, questioning.
“Yeah yeah yeah stop teasing me already - yeah - Sverige, do it - let me - ” Denmark cut himself off with a choked gasp as Russia bites him, again.
“I hope you do not mind if I make commentary,” he purrs brightly into Denmark’s neck.
“You sound waaaay too cheery about that,” Denmark gasps out, arching back into Russia - and those teeth - but not taking his eyes off of Sweden’s cock.
“You do not seem opposed.”
A flick of the tongue as Denmark licks his lips and one stiff nod in reply - quickly followed by a low stream of permutations of “yes please” that was more akin to one long, rough exhale than anything.
“Ryssland,” Sweden cuts in, eyes flicking back and forth between Denmark’s moving mouth, filling the room up with its words, and Russia’s soft tongue, sharp teeth, nibbling a line up a tendon in Denmark’s neck.
Russia looks up at him.
“D’ya wanna direct?”
Russia looks quite surprised, and Sweden almost smiles at that. “M’sure Danmark would like t’hear ya too,” he explains.
Denmark can’t see Russia’s expression, but he can sure hear the smirk in his voice when he orders Sweden to bring his cock to Denmark’s lips.
“Daniya, lick him. Tease him.” Denmark moans at that and happily complies. Russia presses light, light, light kisses along Denmark’s neck, flicks his tongue over the bite mark. Denmark huffs a little onto the tip of Sweden’s cock.
“Shvetsiya,” Russia orders, “put your hand on the back of Daniya’s head - control him.”
Denmark barely has time to exhale a breathless “oh fuck” before Sweden presses his head to his lips again.
“Ah, yes, like that - how does it taste?” Russia chimes. Denmark looks up at Sweden’s unreadable expression and continues mouthing his cock. “That was not a - rhetorical? - question. Answer me, Daniya,” Russia orders, an edge of danger in the tone.
“It’s...” Denmark mumbles, lips just brushing the tip at this point, soft and wet slips against smooth and slick skin, “sharp? I dunno,” he tongues the slit, twirls the tip of his tongue around the head, tasting - he grins at Sweden’s grunt of pleasure. “Yeah, sharp,” he replies, a little muffled, “kinda musky I guess. Some spice. Tastes like Sverige, shit, I dunno.”
“I think that is a good description,” Russia agrees, and rewards Denmark by moving to the side of the chair and beginning to remove the lap ropes. A few are uncoiled, the ones over Denmark’s thighs - and really that doesn’t make much of a difference. Denmark tries to move a little, finds he can’t, and swears loudly against Sweden’s flesh.
“Shvetsiya, place your knee between Daniya’s legs. Make it easier for him to reach you.”
Sweden moves so that he’s straddling Denmark - one knee on the chair, other leg braced on the floor. His hand is still on the back of Denmark’s head, in his hair, keeping him from moving forward any further, from taking any more of Sweden into his mouth.
“Sveriiiige,” Denmark groans, mouth sending vibrations up Sweden’s erection. He gives a surprisingly gentle lick - tongues the tip.
Sweden grunts and waits for orders with a frown, frame imperceptibly trembling from the effort of holding back. Denmark just looks - wow - sweaty and flushed and so, so focused, still muttering off and on, wet lips fluttering - teasing in the only way he can.
Russia looks at Sweden from his crouch beside the chair and smiles - barely, just a twitch of his lips - and begins rubbing a hand into the muscle of Denmark’s inner thigh. Denmark shifts against his hand - the muscle movement can be easily seen through the pant leg - strains forward -
“Control him,” Russia nods at Denmark. “Hold him and thrust in.”
Denmark’s throaty agreement with this is cut off when Sweden shoves Denmark’s head forward - his hissed intake of air and Denmark’s choke resound instead.
Russia hums and nods, glancing up at them for a moment - Sweden looks so severe, Denmark, utterly whorish and reveling in it, both of them wildly turned-on - before nonchalantly returning to untying Denmark’s knots. The movements are unhurried, but he finds his fingers are stumbling more than they should be, won’t quite comply.
Sweden swallows, tightens his fingers a little, and pushes Denmark’s head back, forward, in, out, in - slowly, taking note of how Denmark’s tongue smoothes out and strokes against him, watching the spit slide down the side of his mouth - in, out, in. Almost teasing. Denmark looks up at him through his eyelashes, red-faced and hollow-cheeked, a soft whine in the back of his throat.
“Your Daniya is greedy.”
Some deep, undefinable sound from Denmark, and he tries to shove forward. Sweden holds him back -
- then moves his hips forward, grinds his knee against Denmark’s crotch as he thrusts himself deep into Denmark’s mouth. Denmark complies immediately with a broken-sounding groan and a burst of air from his nose - presses his erection to Sweden’s bony knee as much as he can, a fresh flush staining his shoulders.
“You enjoy that muchly, Daniya? Look at what you are doing to Shvetsiya,” Russia intones, softly, as he clumsily works on the knots to release Denmark’s legs, nips at the clenched thigh underneath those pants. “He is very sweaty, yes? I can smell it.”
Denmark hadn’t noticed, but now - now he could smell Sweden. Fresh air and warm spice and oh, take him a little deeper - yes. He closes his eyes.
“No,” Russia snaps. “Look at him.” Ah, there was the first leg. He shifts near the front of Denmark’s chair and grabs the leg before Denmark can move it, running one hand up underneath Denmark’s pants leg and kneading at the knotted calf muscle. His other hand he allows to play up Denmark’s thigh, light, then traces his fingers, tips barely touching, up Sweden’s inner thigh.
At this Sweden emits a half-vocalized huff and shoves Denmark’s head forward, all the way, before jerking it back and off completely.
“Jesus Christ, Sverige,” Denmark hoarsely exclaims. “Ya have no idea how goddamn hot you look right now,” he grins, flushed and spit-covered.
“I would agree,” Russia murmurs, just below his ear. Denmark tries to twist his head around and Sweden holds him there with a chastising grunt.
“How the - how’d ya get back there?” Denmark pants, trying to press himself into Russia’s hands running down his sides. Russia bites down on the same spot from earlier and digs his fingers into Denmark’s upper thighs in response, making a pleased sound at Denmark’s loud shout.
“You are a whore for attention,” Russia chirps, sliding his fingers closer to Denmark’s crotch, inwards, oooh just another inch or two - Denmark barely hears his own rumbled moan.
Oh, Russia thinks. What was America’s phrase for that? Ah - bingo. “Well! You seem to agree,” he smiles and stands in one fluid motion, looking at Sweden. Sweden tears his gaze from Denmark and raises an eyebrow.
“What am I agreeing to?” Denmark asks, low, still dazed.
Russia slides his fingers down Denmark’s jaw, his neck, finally flaring out to the broad shoulders which are still hitched back over and behind the chair. “That you are a whore for attention,” he replies, happy voice bouncing around the room.
Denmark only closes his eyes and groans at that assessment.
“So,” Russia begins, “we will make sure you get it.”
Denmark tries to turn again - he wants to see Russia’s expression - and again is stopped by Sweden’s hand and a twitch of his mouth - what would be a smirk for most people.
Russia bends down into Denmark’s line of sight and starts on his other leg, humming a tune as he goes. “Shvetsiya, you should untie Daniya’s back from the chair,” he says, sounding absolutely nonchalant, “but not his arms. Keep those bound.”
Sweden raises his eyebrows for a split second and then pulls away (Denmark makes a little sound of protest) and walks around.
“And you’re plannin’ on keepin’ my arms bound why?”
Russia looks at him and gives him an almost wicked smile. “We are giving you the attention, I have said. You should not have to do anything.”
Denmark throws his head back and makes a noise of frustration. “Well hell, get on with it then, I’m dyin’.”
Right then the ropes from his other leg fall free and hit the floor with a light thud. Russia scoots in front of him and smiles, grabbing his knees. “You were saying what, Daniya?” Then he runs his hands up Denmark’s thighs in one swift, rough motion, and begins work on the button of Denmark’s pants. He laughs at Denmark’s thrust.
“Ya can’t just grab my dick or somethin’ while you’re down there, can ya?” Denmark grouses, eyes on Russia’s careful hands. He hears Sweden stifle a laugh behind him. “And you, Sverige, you’re a cruel bastard.” No response except a light thwack to the back of Denmark’s head. “Dick,” Denmark mutters.
Russia just continues his feather-light, careful opening of Denmark’s trousers, smile and eyes darkening once Denmark’s boxer-clad erection springs free. Russia runs his hands between boxers and pants, along the hemlines, circling them around and provoking a - sob, almost - from Denmark. Then he pulls Denmark’s pants down - Denmark lifts up as much as he can, rushed and awkward, wanting to shed layers as soon as possible - drags his nails down Denmark’s covered ass as he goes - that gets a cursed growl. Russia hums at that and continues dragging his nails down with the fabric. Over large, heavily muscled thighs. Drags his thumbs through the darker, coarser hair along the inside, fingers along the clenched muscle on the outside, leaving bright red streaks. He bites the inside of Denmark’s knee when it is exposed, relishing in the choke that escapes. Denmark leans forward a little - ah, Shvetsiya must be almost done - helps him shake off the bunched material. He has nice calves, Russia notes. Large, with coiled muscle. Every movement can be seen under the skin, despite the hair covering them. They’re more built than either Russia’s or Sweden’s.
“’kay,” Sweden calls, standing over Denmark behind the chair, hands on Denmark’s shoulders keeping him pinned down.
“Hey, Sverige, whaddaya think about Rusland’s plan?” Denmark asks, still a little breathless, still a little flushed, drool still all over one side of his face.
Sweden looks down at him - eyes dark, arrogant grin, sweaty, straining erection leaving a dark spot on his boxers - oh he just wants to take him, right now - then at Russia, and shrugs. “Haven’ heard it.”
“Okay, Rusland, what’s the plan?”
Russia’s eyes light up before he abruptly hauls Denmark up by his armpits and tosses him facefirst onto the bed - Denmark makes a loud “oof!” - then follows him down and pins him to the bed with his larger size. “Shvetsiya, it would be good for you to come to the bed,” Russia huffs, half-arousal and half-laughter. “My plan,” he smiles, grinding against Denmark and doing it again upon Denmark’s dramatic hitch of breath, “is to fuck you into the bed while Shvetsiya watches.”
Denmark’s breathing noticeably picks up. They both look at Sweden, who’s cross-legged near the headboard. Sweden raises an eyebrow, and Russia continues. “Shvetsiya can have you afterwards,” he purrs, and Denmark snarls into the sheets and tries to twist down against the bed. Russia grabs his hip and stops him. “You will get all of the attention you need.”
“Sounds great, except I’m kind of not right now, asshole,” Denmark bites out between breaths.
“Shvetsiya?”
Sweden tosses the lube their way. “’s a good plan.”
Russia drags down Denmark’s boxers, nails running along the way, hoping to get a response like before; Denmark lets out a quick, low swear, muffled by the bedsheet half-in his mouth.
Leaning down, Russia nips along Denmark’s muscled back, runs his teeth down the tight lines along his spine - slips the boxers off, Denmark helping, and bites at the ropes around Denmark’s wrists. Denmark thrashes under him and Russia grabs both hips, with both hands - stills him, flattens them to the bed even while grinding against him once more.
“God damn, even humping the bed is great at this point,” Denmark mutters in a few breathless puffs, eyes half-lidded.
Russia shifts to one elbow - Denmark mewls a little at the move - coats a finger in lube. Lifts himself up a little, drags Denmark’s hips back up into the air, runs the lube-slicked finger along Denmark’s spine.
“Are you seriously gonna play with me like this?” Denmark demands, voice rough and scratchy.
“If it makes you put on such a show, yes,” Russia replies.
“Christ. What do you want me to do - just stop the damn teasing,” Denmark growls, only a bit of a whine slipping in.
Russia likes that whine. “Ah, well,” he begins, sitting fully back on his haunches while Denmark remains face-first into the bed, ass up, hands bound behind his back, awkward and on display, panting, sweaty - what a nice sight - “keep talking.”
“Keep” - wheeze - “talking?”
“Yes. I am sure,” Russia runs one hand down Denmark’s side, the other - the one with the lube - kneading Denmark’s ass, “that Shvetsiya would like to hear how you are...faring.”
Denmark’s eyes snap to Sweden’s at that; Sweden is intensely watching Russia’s hands, however.
“What -” that comes out a little too choked for comprehension - “Sverige,” Denmark tries again, “you gotta opinion on that?”
Sweden’s eyes flick to his for the barest instant and a half-grunt, half-hmm is his only reply. Denmark looks a little closer - he’s thrown off-course by Russia’s other hand joining, rubbing up the backs of his thighs, rough, thumbs rubbing along the crease where his thigh and buttock meet - fuck - Sweden is really hard. Really, really hard. Leaking precum, a new sticky line forming between his stomach and cock with every twitch, not even noticing, hand twitching on the sheets semi-rhythmycally - hard. Denmark lets out a low groan just at the sight, and another, really loud one when Russia lurches forward while biting that same goddamn spot and barely brushing his entrance with his finger.
“You are too quiet,” Russia murmurs against the bite mark, and lets his finger flick again, teasing.
“Okay, damn, fuck, do that again,” Denmark sighs. Russia does, and licks further up Denmark’s neck. Denmark can feel Russia’s length press against his upper thigh, and, oh God -
“You are still too quiet,” Russia chuckles against the bottom of his jaw. “This is for Shvetsiya’s good, you know.”
Denmark’s breath leaves him all at once, in a rush of air, at that. “Gotcha. You want me to - ahh -” he trails off when Russia’s finger touches and stays.
“Describe to Shvetsiya, what is happening, yes?”
“Yeah. Okay, this bastard isn’t fucking me and he should be already,” Denmark breathes - that comes out a lot weaker than he intends.
Russia chomps down on the bite mark again - there really was no other word, it was a chomp - and Denmark lets out a strangled cry. “Fuck, god damnit -” a gasp, “okay - I smell fuckin’ blood and Russia had better fuck me or at least get a finger in my ass within the minute or -” a few rough breaths “- I don’t even know, but -” a low, deep moan “- fuck yeah -” Denmark’s eyes screw shut, jaw tight, neck corded, as Russia inserts a finger - “oh, yeah, that’s way better, keep doin’ that, and - ohh, Sverige, how the hell did you keep quiet during this -” more stuttered exhales into the bed “- just a little faster - yesss,” Denmark hisses.
“That is more like it,” Russia remarks, sounding both amused and slightly out of breath.
“Ha, you sound like you’re enjoying it too,” Denmark huffs. “I mean, not surprised, my ass is a pretty sight -”
Sweden snorts and Denmark’s attention goes there. “Sverige, don’t even pretend you don’t - goddamn, Russia, do that thing ag- fuuuck -”
Denmark’s torn between screwing his eyes shut - whatever-the-hell Russia’s doing is fantastic, but Sweden looks - wow. “Sverige,” a pause for a few breaths, “you are so into this,” Denmark half-laughs, then breaks off into an appreciative rumble when Russia adds a - second? third? - well, another - finger. He still keeps his eyes on Sweden though - the hand in the sheets is balled into a fist, there’s definitely a flush over his chest, and oh, is it hot, and he might chew through his lip pretty soon.
“God, Sverige,” Denmark says, weakly, “you look -” Denmark cuts himself off with something more akin to a yowl than anything, and exclaims “Rusland, there, do that - yes.”
“This?” Russia curls his fingers again and Denmark bucks up into him with a sob.
“Yeah,” he replies when his brain is a little more ordered.
Russia continues, quirking his fingers in an off-kilter rhythm. Denmark keens and demands he go a little faster - yeah, and - Russia takes some of Denmark’s fingers into his mouth, licking and biting.
Denmark twitches his fingers and tries to drive them deeper into Russia’s mouth. “Just - fuck me already,” he demands.
Russia pulls his fingers out, draws up and crouches over Denmark, bracing one hand on the bed, the other at Denmark’s hip. He pauses, pressed against Denmark, and reminds him to make some noise for Sweden.
“Got it,” Denmark says even as he thrusts back against Russia. Russia’s grip on his hip tightens and Denmark lips his lips, looking up at Sweden. “He has really big hands, huh?” he chuckles.
Sweden’s hm of agreement is drowned out by Denmark’s deep snarl as Russia enters him.
“Why’re you going so slow? I’m not a virgin, damn.”
Russia pushes in all the way, quick and sharp, with a growl, and begins a short, quick, forceful rhythm over Denmark’s stream of curses muttered into the bed.
Denmark tries to move against him, meet his thrusts - Russia digs his nails in and splays himself along Denmark’s back to keep him in place. Denmark yells at the change - “yeah, yeah, that’s way better, that - “ pant “ - that angle -”
“Keep going.”
“Huh? Ohhh...um - ugh, yeah - actually -” a pause for breath - “why doncha tell us how we look, eh, Sverige?”
Sweden’s dark gaze travels over them. “Yer sweaty.”
“I think,” more panting, “ya can do better than that.”
“Yer flushed,” Sweden replies, lip quirked in a half-smirk.
“Stop - ah - stop bein’ a dick, Sver - yes, that, there - Jesus Rusland’s a hard fuck - that’s - that’s good - I - Sverige you know I get off on your voice, fuck you,” Denmark finally slurs out, all at once.
Sweden shifts against the headboard and brings a hand to his thigh, thumb gently rubbing circles against the skin. “Mm. ‘kay. Ever’ time Ryssland enters ya y’can see his muscles move.”
Denmark emits a raw, jagged sound and encourages Sweden to go on in a garbled mess of curses.
“An’ y’look like a whore,” Sweden mutters, throaty, a slight leer to the tone. Denmark shouts and Russia leans further down and murmurs something in his ear, getting another loud yelp for his efforts. “Yer hair’s all messed up an’ yer gettin’ drool on m’bed.”
Denmark isn’t even breathing properly anymore, and Russia keeps pounding away, keeps saying things he can barely understand, in Russian, right in his ear - but it’s all obvious from the tone that they aren’t innocent things.
“Damn that accent,” Denmark says, and it comes out as a whimper. Damn that whimper.
Denmark opens his eyes again - he sees sheets, Russia’s hair, and Sweden, one hand on his erection and the other at his lips. “Sverige, nope -” Sweden looks confused - “stop jackin’ off.” Denmark takes time to attempt to get his breath, then decides it’s fruitless. “You’ve got me next,” he informs in a wheeze, cocky grin smeared across the bedspread. The grin shatters when Russia slams into him particularly forcefully; Denmark’s eyes close for an instant and his mouth falls open before he clenches his jaw in a grimace.
“Ah, he likes it rough?” Russia asks, heaving, and brushes the sweat from his eyes against Denmark’s shoulder - hm, that doesn’t work too well, Denmark’s dripping in sweat as well - before he looks at Sweden.
They both make sounds of agreement, and Russia smiles at Sweden’s hands fisted in the bedsheets before he twists and moves the arm bracing himself on the bed to Denmark’s hair, instead.
He presses Denmark’s face down into the mattress with a jerk, leaning his weight into it, and twists his fingers around Denmark’s hair, then grinds into Denmark with a shuddering, brusque movement.
“Like this, Daniya?”
He only gets a broken moan and a violent twitch in response.
“I will take that as a yes,” he gasps, then swallows heavily and quickens his pace.
“Okay - Rusland - ugh -” Russia can hardly understand Denmark, with his face pressed so solidly into the bed, “this is - oh fuck yeah - harder -” an audible swallow - “Sverige I - Jesus - I hope you - “ a keen “ - like this.”
Russia makes a small sound before slamming into Denmark, mouth twisted, arm and hand clenching over Denmark’s head - listens to Denmark’s hoarse cry - watches Sweden watching them through half-shut eyes - crashes his hips into Denmark, buries himself deep as his orgasm rips through him - roughly rocking them together and riding it out through heavy pants.
He stills and closes his eyes, biting his lip momentarily - the first thing he notices is that both Denmark and Sweden are practically gasping for air, and if he had the breath he’d laugh at that. He draws himself out, slowly, shakily, moves his hand from Denmark’s head and nearly falls over - he’s still a little too shell-shocked to maintain balance, apparently.
Then he flops back against the foot board and nudges Denmark with his knee. “I think,” he breathes, voice almost a croak, still very low and hoarse, “it’s Shvetsiya’s turn.”
He chuckles at Denmark’s tiny sound of want.
The next thing Denmark knows, Sweden has grabbed him - hauls him straight off the bed and flush against him. Once they’re both on their knees on the bed, Sweden yanks his head back so he’s exposed, bared, everything, to Russia’s view - Russia sweeps his eyes down their entwined forms, tangled legs, with a satisfied leer.
Sweden keeps one hand in Denmark’s hair and uses the other to paw over Denmark’s chest, mouthing at Denmark’s neck and pressing his erection to rope-covered arms.
“M’not gonna last long,” he mutters against Denmark’s neck, then bites down - Denmark’s yowl is very satisfying.
Soon after that Denmark’s world is one of tearing skin, nails, bites, teeth, pulls - ugh -
“Yeah - me - neither,” he wheezes. Sweden’s erection is pressed against him, they’re slipping against one another and he can’t even feel the precome he knows has to be there, against his back, his ass, his thighs - wherever Sweden decides their skin should meet.
Sweden ruts and lets out a tiny, guttural sound; Denmark curses at that, out on a breath.
“You - we’re not - not close enough like that - untie my arms,” Denmark demands. Or tries, it doesn’t sound very demanding, but he’s really too far gone to care.
Russia leans forward, to his knees, and bites along Denmark’s sternum, collarbone - Sweden fists his hair and yanks Denmark’s head back further, against his shoulder, and lets out a burst of air at Denmark’s needy sound. Russia reaches around and starts on those ropes even while teeth attack his neck. Denmark mewls.
He’s too distracted by the muscle, heat, his body being ripped - he’s not sure how long it is but the ropes slide off and he feels Sweden’s legs - those legs, Jesus Christ those legs - shift beneath his - all lean muscle, light hair - hands at his hips and Sweden’s cock is pressing against him again, and this time it’s exactly where he wants it to be.
“Fuck, yes, Sverige, just - do it -”
Denmark growls when Sweden enters him in one hard, hard thrust. He reaches a newly-freed arm back, and haphazardly, roughly, grasps Sweden’s thigh just to feel it move. Sweden pulls out, not all the way, blazingly slow. More noise from Denmark. Another hand other twines in the hand at Denmark’s hip - Denmark wonders if it’s Sweden’s, but no, there are two hands - huge hands - both Russia and Sweden.
Oh fuck, since when were hands this hot?
Russia’s nipping along his rib cage and then - “Sverige, move -” before Denmark can say much more than that Russia’s lips are at his and his appreciative rumble when Sweden obeys is lost in Russia’s mouth.
Sweden’s hands tighten on Denmark’s hips and pull Denmark down, up, down - slow, hard, powerful. Denmark’s teeth clack against Russia’s with the motion, so Russia moves down, dragging his teeth along the flushed skin, over straining muscle, one hand still slipping in Denmark’s and Sweden’s on a hip while the other makes small, fluttering pets along Denmark’s body.
“Rougher,” Denmark grunts.
The pets become nails scorching down his ribs, up his thighs, digging into his arms - his head’s yanked and it hurts “- oh fuck yeah -” Sweden slams into him “- God - damn -it -” the pace picks up. Slippery, sinewy thighs against Denmark’s large, powerful ones, between his, that cock driving into him, raw, deliberate -
Sweden brings a clawing hand back to Denmark’s hip and stills him as Russia does the same - Denmark feels teeth in his shoulder instead - and - Jesus Christ the smell of blood again, this time courtesy of Sweden, Sweden - Denmark is reduced to a loud stream of unintelligible cursing in what probably isn’t even a language anymore.
He shouts loudly when heat engulfs his own straining arousal. Denmark tries to look down and feels Sweden’s teeth on his ear, sharp and painful - he can’t look, not without ripping his ear off. His vision’s hazy anyway, fuzzed out in bliss, but he can smell - sweat and musk and blood and somehow, semen - hear - Sweden’s panting, the smack of flesh-on-flesh, obscene, wet sounds from Russia’s mouth on him - feel - just, too much. Too fucking much, because now it’s sensation from everywhere and he doesn’t even know - anything -
Russia grabs his free hand - what was he doing with that anyway? - forces Denmark to grab his hair. “You - you want me - oh, God - to -”
The heat in the front goes away and the back keeps going, oh Christ, please keep going, he's so goddamn close - “Yes,” Russia purrs.
Denmark gathers his thoughts well enough to nod and weakly announce that he gets it; Sweden rips his shoulder open further with his teeth.
More noise.
The heat returns and Denmark has no problem with clutching the soft, sweaty strands between his fingers, tight - tighter - as Sweden’s thrusts somehow get even more harsh - he shoves Russia’s head down a moment and Russia simply takes it.
“What - the hell - Rusland -”
Sweden pulls up a little, flush against Denmark’s back - the thrusts become gentle and shallow for a moment - and looks over Denmark’s shoulder. Denmark feels fevered breath against his neck, then ear, and hears Sweden’s cut-off, breathless chuckle.
“He looks good suckin’ y’off -” and at nearly the same time Sweden pulls back and drives into him with one ferocious thrust - at that Denmark comes, hard - nails digging into his hips, more scoring down his sides - right into Russia’s mouth - fist twists in sweaty hair - the hands on his thighs, his hips, dig in. He yells, shouts, please, fuck, anything, he doesn’t even know what’s coming out of his mouth just that he’s coming and it’s loud -
He vaguely registers Sweden’s groan as Russia pulls off. The last of it hits Russia’s face while Sweden stills, twitching - Denmark can feel him inside, throbbing - he gives a weak moan as his eyes crack open -
Russia leans back against the footboard and wipes the wet strand from his face before licking it, tongue swirling. He smirks around his finger at Denmark even as Denmark’s gasping for air, trying to recover, he kind of needs air but - shit -
Denmark’s shaking so hard that when Sweden pulls out and lets go he just collapses to the bed in a sweaty, convulsing heap with a choke. He closes his eyes and feels Russia’s foot brush against his leg in stuttered, but somewhat soothing, strokes.
A few minutes pass before he opens his eyes again and shakily lifts himself up, and the first thing to greet him is Russia. Russia, leaning against the footboard, with a quirked eyebrow and cigarette smoke hazy in the air around him.
“Where - the fuck -” okay, breathing still isn’t working too well. Denmark runs a hand through his hair and is surprised to find it drenched. He reaches out a shaky hand for the cigarette. “Gimme that.” It comes out weak, all on the exhale.
Russia does, with a dark smile.
Denmark takes it and leans back on a trembling arm before twisting around to offer it to Sweden. Not that Sweden really smokes, but - that was one hell of a fuck.
“Sverige?”
Sweden’s sprawled among the pillows and headboard, still unable to catch his breath. His annoyed glare with their smoking is laced with too much exhaustion to have much impact.
“Guess not. Here, Rusland.” Denmark hands it back and Russia takes it with a nod, still smiling. Denmark scoots to the edge of the bed in one ungraceful movement and gets up on shaky legs, stumbling a bit. They both look at him, confused and still breathing hard.
“Shower,” Denmark says in response, then grins a huge, dopey grin, and takes off to the bathroom, tripping a little on the way. He shuts and locks the bathroom door without looking back at them.
---
When he gets back to the bedroom, toweling off his hair, it’s to find a lightly snoring Russia positively clinging to Sweden, the both of them sprawled out over the covers.
“He’s a cuddler, huh?” Denmark grins, crossing his arms and looking at the two of them tangled up together. Or rather, Russia tangled up in Sweden.
Sweden gives him a very unamused look.
Denmark snorts. “I’m not savin’ you.”
---
Here, have a pretty!
---
I need to stop writing porn but there are like three other prompts I wanna fill SHIT so I can get to the last chapters of LATFF already.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Russia/Denmark/Sweden
Summary: Denmark wants to bring someone else to bed; Sweden picks someone who he hopes will shut Denmark up. It...doesn't quite work out that way.
Warnings: PWP cranked up to 11. Kissing, groping, sex, oral sex, bondage, makeshift gagging, desperation, voyeurism/exhibitionism, dirty talk, general rough play, minor bloodkink, too much description of hot sweaty manly men and Sweden’s deliciously long legs. I think that’s all.
---
Denmark stills above him, eyes screwed shut and breathing heavily; Sweden feels his own hot come sliding down his side and shifts a little, trying not to grimace at the sensation.
A few more pants and Denmark pulls out, gives Sweden a lazy kiss, and flops over on his backside, elbows bracing his upper half.
“Shew,” Denmark huffs, looking up at the ceiling for a second. “Sverige, that was great and all, but we should really pull someone else in here,” he smirks, looking over at Sweden.
Sweden shifts on his back and sends Denmark a dulled scowl.
“You know, like a threesome. How hot would that be? I’d get to watch you in action and get to be in on the action myself,” he winks and elbows Sweden, losing his balance and hitting Sweden a bit harder in the side than he intends. “Yeah? Whadda ya say?”
“No.”
“What? C’mon, it’s a great idea!”
Sweden shakes his head.
“We could probably get-”
“No. Don’ want to,” Sweden grinds out, then turns over and doesn’t respond to Denmark the rest of the evening.
---
About six months - and fourteen more requests - later, Sweden is at a meeting, washing his hands in the bathroom, when Russia walks up, characteristic smile in place. Russia stops. Folds his arms and leans a hip against the counter, simply staring. Sweden knows he is just trying to mess with him - it is Russia, after all, he has a penchant for mind games.
“Hm,” Russia softly breaks the silence, running his eyes up and down Sweden’s form. “One with Russia?” he asks, obviously saying it only to get a rise out of Sweden.
Sweden is about to put his hands under the dryer and ignore Russia’s comment completely when he pauses, hands dripping water on the floor. Actually...if he invites Russia, just once, Denmark would probably never ask again. And...he and Russia really need to work on “thawing their relations,” as the papers called it, anyway.
He turns around to face Russia. “’kay.”
Russia looks like he’s just been backhanded by Italy. “...you are serious?” he asks, tilting his head to the side, wary.
“Well, with a couple’a stipulations.”
---
“I dunno what’s gotten into you, Sverige, but I like it,” Denmark grins down at him, even while Sweden straps him in tighter to the wooden chair.
Sweden doesn’t say anything, just binds Denmark’s legs to the chair legs.
“Hey, how’re you planning on gettin’ my pants off, anyway?”
Sweden shrugs, and, binding done, stands up. He steps back and looks over Denmark - arms bound together behind the chair, and then to the chair, naked torso bound to the back, thighs and legs nearly covered in soft ropes - and Denmark just smiles even wider, excitement and a little lust dancing in his eyes.
Everything is in place, Sweden notes, and nods with approval. He sits down on the bed, about a foot away from Denmark’s chair, and looks Denmark in the eye. He meets that wide grin with a small twist of his mouth - part good humor, part knowing smirk.
He brings his hands up to his collar and slowly begins unbuttoning - feels the kiss of the chilled air in the room at his throat, slowly moving down his sternum, teasingly - watching Denmark watching him, as bit by bit his flesh becomes exposed. He makes sure to run his long, thin fingers down his neck, down his sternum, as he goes, following the line of skin the buttons create, making sure Denmark’s eyes follow the line of skin as well. Subtle directing.
His shirt is fully unbuttoned and Denmark’s grin has turned into an unapologetic leer when the doorbell rings. Denmark looks to the bedroom door with a frown, confused, and Sweden looks at the clock - right on time.
He gets up and goes out, ignoring Denmark’s shouts of “Hey, what the hell, Sverige, that was just gettin’ good!”
Sweden opens the front door and there is Russia, waiting patiently with a small smile and his hands behind his back. Upon seeing Sweden, shirt unbuttoned and rumpled, his eyebrows shoot up for a millisecond, before the smile becomes decidedly less childish.
“You did not start without me, I hope? That would be...disappointing.”
Sweden shakes his head and steps aside to let Russia in. “Jus’ settin’ up.”
Russia pauses in the hallway and looks over at him, again, still with that smile. “Ah! Preparation?” A nod. Russia steps closer and Sweden backs up into the wall at the unexpected move. Russia reaches out, delicately, and traces his thumb and forefingers along Sweden’s exposed hipbone. He looks up into Sweden’s confused gaze. “That is not a bad idea,” he smirks, before leaning in and running his tongue up Sweden’s throat.
Sweden gasps and almost shoves Russia off in surprise, before he takes a moment to consider and decides that, well, it wasn’t a bad idea to get used to Russia before they re-entered the bedroom. He brings a hand up to Russia’s hair and leans his head back, baring more of his throat, and gives a small grunt of pleasure when Russia begins nipping at it. Russia moves lower and bites down hard on his collarbone, and Sweden immediately grabs Russia by the ass and grinds their bodies together.
Russia lets out a small laugh at this and Sweden uses the hand in Russia’s hair to bring him up and smash their lips together. Sweden notes that Russia’s kiss is completely different from Denmark’s - still heated, but subtle, skilled, just short of demanding.
“Hey Sverige, what’s the hold up!?” Denmark calls, and they break apart with a start. “Ya okay?”
Russia crooks his mouth in a half-smile, knowingly, and brings an arm out toward the bedroom in a “lead the way” gesture.
---
They enter the bedroom and it seems that Denmark is struck speechless. Sweden bites down a laugh at his expression while Russia takes off his coat and drapes it over the end of the bed, looking at Denmark with a predatory gaze.
“Uh...Sverige...?” Denmark finally asks, normally confident voice very uncertain.
“Mm?”
“Why...” he pauses at Russia’s vicious smile and quickly looks back to Sweden, eyebrow raised and half-grin on his face. “Why’s this guy here?”
Sweden shrugs off his shirt and tosses it Denmark’s way, then sits on the bed like nothing in the world is out of the ordinary. “Said y’wanted a threesome,” he stoically states - but apparently the amusement in his eyes gives him away, because Denmark scowls.
“Er, yeah, I did,” Denmark retorts, an edge of anger in his voice. “But I was thinking more like-”
“You were thinking what?” Russia interrupts while taking off his shoes with a glare that shuts Denmark up.
Denmark stays quiet for only a second before he begins spluttering again. Russia looks to Sweden and lightly quips “I am afraid that you did not do this correctly.” With that, he crosses the room in three graceful strides, picks up Sweden’s discarded shirt, and stuffs it into Denmark’s mouth, tying the sleeves around Denmark’s head and securing it there. He steps back with a smirk and then says “This is much better, yes?”
He turns to Sweden and Sweden frowns, then looks at Denmark to see if he should stop this right here, point proven. Denmark looks miffed that he’s been gagged, but the slight flush high on his cheekbones (and lack of yelling) tells Sweden that he’s not completely opposed to this. Not yet.
Well, time to convince him. Sweden looks up at Russia and raises his eyebrows, wondering if he’s just going to stand there leering at Denmark or not.
Russia laughs a little at Sweden’s expression, then settles himself onto the bed, on his knees, sideways, taller than Sweden in this position. Sweden turns a little, face up, and Russia leans down and starts kissing him again, running his large hands down Sweden’s naked torso. They are surprisingly warm - the rough calluses on them make Sweden’s skin sing, and he lets out a low, rumbling moan, for both Russia’s benefit and for Denmark’s.
Sweden deepens the kiss, turning in to Russia a bit more, making sure Denmark can see their profiles; can see tongues slip past lips and begin a slow, luxurious, burning dance. He brings his hands up to Russia’s shirt, and begins unbuttoning it, movements lazy, languid. He moves his head down, skips Russia’s neck, and begins mouthing Russia’s exposed skin near the collarbone. Russia pulls a hand to his hair, the other running up and down his arm, across his shoulders. More buttons undone, and he tilts his head and watches Denmark from below his eyelashes as he goes, open-mouthed nips, kisses, swirls of tongue dancing down Russia’s chest as more and more of his torso is revealed.
Denmark shifts against the bindings, but doesn’t look away from what Sweden’s mouth is doing to Russia. He doesn’t try to catch Sweden’s eye. Just stares at Sweden’s mouth leaving shining trails of saliva down those pale muscles. Sweden runs his teeth across a rib and Russia gives a hum of appreciation; Denmark doesn’t look angry at all anymore, simply intrigued and a little flushed.
Once the buttons are completely undone, Sweden draws himself up again and runs his hands over Russia’s shoulders, sliding the shirt off with the movement. It falls to the floor with a wisp of sound, hardly audible over their breaths, which have become noticeably heavier. Sweden can see Denmark looking at Russia’s profile - broad, built, a little fat around the hips but other than that thoroughly muscled - much more so than Sweden, who is long, lean, and toned, yes, but not overly built - Sweden runs his hands up Russia’s side, nails dragging a little and eliciting a husky gasp. Again, Sweden directs Denmark’s gaze to where he wants it to be.
Looking at their bodies. Watching as their hands and mouths coax harsher and harsher sounds out of one another.
Sweden glances at Denmark and sees his eyes darken, can hear his breathing pick up through his nose - he uses that to his advantage. He pulls Russia flush against him with a rough, abrupt movement. Russia’s leg slips off the bed at the unexpected move, but he doesn’t seem to mind when it brings his crotch to Sweden’s hip. He thrusts a tiny bit, half-erect against Sweden’s side, and lets out a small, low sound while wrapping his arms around Sweden.
They resume kissing, more heated, more forceful now, with soft, panting breaths. Their bodies turn into one another, arms wrap around each other, hands stop the tentative touches and strokes and begin gripping and rubbing in earnest. Sweden glances once more at Denmark - one last check - and finds that Denmark’s chest is lightly flushed and nearly heaving against its bindings. His eyes are intently watching the two, flickering everywhere, as if he’s not quite sure what to concentrate on.
Sweden, now confident that Denmark no longer has any protests, throws himself into putting on a good show.
---
Denmark is a bit surprised when, seemingly out of nowhere, the slow, heavy kissing and touching he’s watching snaps into something almost animalistic. Sweden wraps one arm around Russia’s waist and pulls him in even closer, chests brushing, while the other reaches up and grabs Russia by the back of the head, pressing their mouths together with a light clack of teeth.
If Russia minds he doesn’t let on - he moves almost into Sweden’s lap, shoves his tongue down Sweden’s throat, runs a hand down chest and abs and hips. He reaches further down and brushes against Sweden’s crotch - Sweden growls at that, flips them into the middle of the bed and grinds down. They stretch out and tangle into one another, gasping - feeling shifting legs and naked skin and searching hands.
They thrust against each other with pants still on, wrapped up - on the bed, Denmark glowers, too far away - Sweden on top for now. Denmark watches them kiss and it’s deep, harsher - he watches as Russia’s eyebrows furrow the tiniest bit, Sweden’s eyes screw tightly shut, their hands claw everywhere, impatient to explore every inch of exposed skin, thread through hair, occasionally stop and dig nails in.
Russia kisses down Sweden’s jaw and licks down his neck, marking it up over Sweden’s desperate swallows, his continued thrusts. Russia begins shucking off Sweden’s pants, Sweden moans and rubs his thumb harshly along the skin at the top of Russia’s arm, strokes back and forth, following the prominent line of muscle. Russia pulls Sweden’s pants down as much as he can - Sweden shifts to one arm and uses the other to pull them down further before shimmying out of them. He sits back on his knees and goes to undo Russia’s pants, eyeing the bulge there, and leans down and ghosts his lips along Russia’s stomach and hips as he does.
Russia quickly lifts his hips so that Sweden can pull them down, chest rising and falling rapidly - Denmark eyes Russia’s clothed erection as well. As Sweden moves down, he nips at the top hem of Russia’s underwear - Russia lets out an understated noise of frustration. “Stop this teasing,” he groans, frowning.
"Hm." Sweden grunts and sits back up, moves to the side a bit to yank off one leg of Russia’s pant legs, then the other - hasty and awkward. He kneels back over Russia’s thigh - one long, lean leg on one side, one on the other - and leans forward, places his hands around Russia’s hips, digging his thumbs in faintly. Russia retaliates by moving one of those powerful thighs against Sweden’s erection - Sweden grunts and bucks against it before he abruptly straightens out over Russia once again. Their bodies meld together and slide a bit - Denmark sees that a soft sheen of sweat has begun to form on Russia’s torso. Russia’s hand slips on Sweden’s back, Sweden gains a faint flush.
Russia’s hands move up to grip Sweden’s ass - he grinds up against Sweden harshly and bites his lip in one swift, sharp movement. Both let out loud, long moans - Sweden’s eyes shut for a split second.
At that a desperate noise escapes Denmark’s throat and he tries to lurch forward despite the futility of it. Ugh, those sounds. Deep and wanting and obscene.
Russia and Sweden freeze, panting, and they both look over at him with curious gazes. Sweden’s then slides into a tiny smirk - Russia turns his attention to Sweden’s neck - the smirk falters as Russia marks up Sweden’s neck and runs a hand up his back, twisting their legs together.
“I think your Daniya likes watching us,” Russia murmurs against Sweden’s jaw with a chuckle. Denmark inhales sharply at the commentary; hearing it, Russia looks over and quirks an eyebrow. “You did not tell me he liked watching,” he continues, studying Denmark’s response to this even while he reaches an arm between himself and Sweden - he palms Sweden though the briefs and is rewarded with a gruff, muted sound.
Denmark lets out a tiny noise and clenches his jaw to stop it. His gaze flickers back and forth between that large hand cupping Sweden and the smirk on Russia’s face as he runs his teeth along Sweden’s neck, eyes meeting his.
“Daniya,” Russia says, quiet, but dark and forceful. “Will you watch me fellate Shvetsiya? I think I would like to,” he continues over Sweden’s groan and Denmark’s thundering breaths.
Yes, Denmark is sure of it - he will watch with rapt attention if Russia blows Sweden. Especially if he keeps making Sweden make those noises. He nods frantically and makes a muffled noise of agreement through the shirt.
“Or perhaps would you enjoy it just as much if I described it for you,” Russia sneers, even while running a tongue along the line of Sweden’s shoulder. Sweden simply ducks his head in and begins mouthing Russia’s ear, but Denmark shoots him a confused look.
Russia’s eyes shut and his mouth falls open before he turns back to Sweden and cups his jaw, brings them together for another heated kiss - another minute of this, Denmark silently straining against his bindings - just - any friction, please, this was torture - and unable to achieve any relief - Sweden had put rope around his torso, and his legs, but not his lap, damn it - and then Russia pulls away even while wrapping his arms around Sweden’s back, presses them together. Denmark watches their sweaty bodies slide against one another, outline of ribs and muscle moving in shuddering, heaving motions.
“I think,” Russia gasps, looking at Sweden, “that your lover seems to enjoy - what is it - dirty talk?”
At this Denmark shuts his eyes and tries to calm down, or at least relieve some stress by struggling against his bindings, though even that has already proven to be pretty pointless. He’s so aroused - and - fuck - couldn’t they pay just a little attention to him!? Russia makes a pleased noise at his response. Denmark doesn’t see Sweden’s reaction.
Denmark hears them shift and looks up at them - they’re both sitting up on their knees in the middle of the bed, Sweden running teeth and tongue along Russia’s collarbone, punctuating with the occasional kiss, Russia’s hands on Sweden’s hips - both obviously very aroused. Russia brings one hand up to the turn of Sweden’s jaw and runs his nails down the side of Sweden’s neck; they leave faint trails in their wake. Sweden moans and lets out a stuttering breath.
Russia’s attention is taken by Denmark’s louder moan, though. “Ah - perhaps he is just turned on by noise in general,” he announces to both of them. Both Denmark and Sweden nod - Denmark reluctantly, Sweden as one curt, efficient motion of the head, more focused on running his hands up Russia’s sides and biting the join of collarbone and shoulder.
Bringing a hand up to Sweden’s hair, Russia presses him in a little more, then looks at Denmark. “Well,” Russia says, a bit breathless, “that sounds like much fun.” He abruptly presses Sweden down into the mattress below him. “What would you like to see, Daniya?” he asks as he leans down, running his large hands up Sweden’s thighs, and mouths Sweden’s erection through his underwear. Sweden half-shouts at that and Denmark moans long and loud - so loud it is barely muffled.
Russia pulls back up, looks at Denmark, and uses a hand to rub Sweden, roughly. “I could touch him, like this,” he smiles, dark - Denmark’s eyes flicker down - Sweden, panting, sweat running down his temples, legs spread wide, thrusting lightly into that touch, one hand bunched in the quilt on the bed, mouth in a grimace - then back up to Russia’s face.
“Or,” Russia continues, “I could perform oral sex on him -” with this he lifts the hem of Sweden’s briefs, pulls them down past his erection - Denmark stares and swallows audibly.
“If so, how would you like me to?” Russia asks, a soft purr, smirk in his voice. “I could tease him. I could go slowly, and play with him first - and not let him find relief until he makes noise that is to your satisfaction.”
Denmark throws his head back and stretches up into his bindings, eyes closed, jaw clenched - he decides that grinding his teeth down onto the shirt in his mouth is a decent way to vent his sexual frustration. He might chew through it before this is over, though. He is definitely gonna have trouble breathing if Russia keeps this up.
“I could also take him into my mouth completely,” Russia says, interrupting his thoughts. Denmark looks at Russia again; Russia catches his eye, makes sure he’s looking, before he resumes. “It would be fast and, ah, sloppy? Yes. Much spit and usage of my tongue.”
With those words Sweden mouths something, softly, and arches up off the bed a little; Denmark can’t tear his eyes from the sight.
Russia smiles and looks at Sweden as well - frantically rising chest, throat working, glazed eyes trained upon the ceiling.
While Sweden calms down a little, Russia watches Denmark watching the two of them. He really is liking this, isn’t he? Much more than either Sweden or Russia thought he would.
Sweden lets out one loud huff and looks at Russia, gaze serious and heated. Russia meets his eyes - “Fuck me,” Sweden demands. He turns his head to Denmark and growls “Danmark likes t’see me in a submissive p’sition,” with a wry twist of his mouth.
Russia raises his eyebrows and he turns to observe Denmark as well, pulling Sweden close to himself, allowing their erections to brush together, slightly. “This could be arranged. Daniya?”
Denmark can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. Sweden just ordered Russia to fuck him. And Denmark is not opposed to this at all - though it’s true, he likes seeing Sweden in a “submissive position”, he likes it the other way around as well. He knows Sweden knows that - he’s just being a passive-agressive dick, Denmark thinks with a growl.
He recovers and violently nods his approval. They both hastily tug off their underwear and take a moment to observe each other; seeing the undisguised lust on both of their faces makes Denmark’s hard-on throb and his chest constrict. Russia lubes up his fingers and cock - that elicits a small groan - while Sweden lays back on his elbows, breathing still heavy, and watches Russia’s hand stroke up and down. Denmark doesn’t even know where to look, but either sight ensures his erection isn’t going away anytime soon.
Russia carefully puts a slightly shaky hand between Sweden’s legs, and Denmark can’t really see what happens in graphic detail. He doesn’t know whether that is a blessing or a curse. He would love to see, but he didn’t really know if his dick can handle it at this point. Or his brain, for that matter.
Sweden lets out a cut-off hitch of a breath, and Russia clicks his tongue, finger carefully moving in and out, and mutters “You should not hold back. Daniya is aroused by your noises.”
When all that happens is a few breaths that have a little sound behind them, Russia bends down and laps at the head Sweden’s cock, eyes trained on Sweden’s face. A strangled sound is emitted into the air and Sweden’s entire body twitches - unsure as if it should move up into Russia’s hot mouth or down onto Russia’s teasing finger.
Denmark’s muffled, appreciative cursing is almost drowned out by Russia’s chuckle and Sweden’s noise as Russia simultaneously adds another finger and swallows Sweden down a little further. Russia speeds up both movements - Sweden still can’t seem to decide where to move his hips so he arches his back up off the bed instead with a guttural growl - Denmark is just tight, too tight, everywhere - all of his muscles are strained, tight, taut with tension, the air in his chest, his throat - tight - tight breaths - tight pants, but not nearly tight enough - all of those goddamn ropes around him, too tight and still not tight enough. No relief, no relief, and as Russia pulls his hand out and pushes himself in, Sweden lets out a loud groan, wraps a long, slender leg around Russia’s ass, thrusts himself up onto Russia’s erection - ugh, they are both making the most vulgar, amazing noises.
Denmark realizes he’s panting into his gag, uttering things along the lines of “oh Jesus fuck you two” and “louder” and most of all “please, please, keep going,” though the words are impossible to discern once they escape the filter of the shirt.
Russia raises himself up on his arms over Sweden, then uses one arm to swing Sweden’s other leg over a broad shoulder. It’s an awkward position - one leg over Russia’s shoulder, the other around his waist, Sweden’s hips completely raised from the bed - and if it wasn’t for Sweden’s obscenely long legs and their matching heights, it might have been impossible - but apparently it’s a really good one. Sweden inhales sharply, meets Russia’s next thrust violently, then his rumbling shout cuts through the air.
“Yes, I think that is what he wants to hear,” Russia pants, and thrusts even harder into Sweden this time - another growled, choked shout. Denmark agrees, loudly, and twists his jaw, fabric against his teeth being the only useful friction he can access.
An irregular murmur of words begin streaming from Sweden’s mouth, cut off by each hard thrust, the sound low and almost - rasping. He turns his head to the side and stares at Denmark - twitching against the bindings, muscles clenched and defined, sweat running down his body - he looks - fuck -
Sweden brings his hand down to his erection and lightly traces along it, gives a loud moan just for Denmark. At Denmark’s wild jerk and tightened jaw, he throws his head back, baring his neck, opens his mouth, lets his eyes stare, half-lidded.
Russia slows to small, shallow thrusts and follows his gaze. Sends a heated, twisted smile Denmark’s way. “I think we have given him enough of a show, yes?” he breathes, voice a bit husky.
“Prob’ly,” Sweden grunts. He wraps his hand around himself entirely and licks his lips, watches Denmark’s eyes follow his hand - up, down, up - slow strokes, matching Russia’s slow rocking rhythm, his cock hard and heavy under his palm. “Ya gonna play nice?” he asks once Denmark meets his eyes.
Denmark nods yet again and loudly says - well, who knows what it is - into the gag.
Sweden looks up at Russia. Russia leans down and kisses him, sloppily, just as one last tease to Denmark. Denmark groans in frustration. Russia pulls out, surprisingly careful, and rolls his shoulders before sitting up all the way.
He steps up from the bed, tall, built, towering over Denmark. Denmark can’t decide if he’d rather observe Sweden’s stretched form on the bed, his long, subtle lines of muscle - or Russia - more power in every movement, harder muscles but softer shape overall, a wider jaw and larger hands.
“I have told this to Shvetsiya,” Russia begins - Denmark’s gaze snaps to his, “but you were not there to hear it. I ask that you do not touch my neck. I am not comfortable with it.”
Denmark nods - whatever, who cares, just, please, please, someone touch him already.
“Okay,” Russia nods.
Russia walks around, behind Denmark, and barely traces his fingers up the side of Denmark’s face as he goes. Denmark turns into it, and Russia grabs his hair and yanks his head back instead - Denmark’s eyes flutter and he gasps.
Russia holds it there, uses his other hand to trace down Denmark’s chest with the backs of his fingers, over bumps of rope and the skin between - shik shik shik down the rope, touching with sufficient pressure but not duration, God no. Just enough to make every tiny patch of skin flare to life, to make Denmark’s ribs strain against their bindings.
“Look at you,” Russia says, low and breathless, cupping Denmark’s jaw with both hands an tilting his head back until their eyes met. “You can’t even breathe correctly. You’re sweaty. Dirty.” Hm, a positive response to that, but not a violent one. Let’s try again.
He turns Denmark’s head to the side and leans over Denmark, ghosts his warm breath down the side of Denmark’s face, runs his teeth over the shirt, just - hovers - above his neck. Denmark whines - he doesn’t even care at this point, but he’d sure be bitching Russia out right now if he could speak.
“Shvetsiya is looking at you,” Russia breathes against Denmark’s throat. Takes a tentative lick before he continues. “His eyes start here,” one of Russia’s fingers touches Denmark’s throat, begins moving lower. “Go down...” the finger follows, occasionally making contact with a sliver of skin. Denmark groans and writhes - it gets worse when Russia pauses in the air over his crotch and finishes with “...and end here: your obvious arousal.” They both flicked their gazes over, and Sweden was staring at Denmark’s tight, tented pants, a curled-up hand near his face as he tried not to bite his own knuckles at the sight.
“Mm, Shvetsiya does seem to enjoy the sight of you so aroused, Daniya,” Russia says, and mouths Denmark’s throat.
Denmark shudders violently at this. Ah, closer.
Russia’s other hand snaps down to grip Denmark’s hip solidly, and Denmark tries to thrust even though he can’t. Sweden’s wearing an intense expression that Denmark’s never seen before and it sends a jolt through him - he lets out a hoarse cry and moves his head so that - yes - Russia twists his hair even further, tsking - Denmark moans.
Russia makes a noise between a chuckle and a hum, still lapping at his neck, moving down to where it meets the muscle of Denmark’s back and shoulders. “You wanted me to do that.” He sounds intrigued. “You like rough things?” he asks, and then bites down on the corded muscle, making it give - Denmark is sure he’s making noise but can’t concentrate because he smells blood - Russia laps it clean, too careful and light. Probably on purpose. Denmark lets out one long and weak, high-pitched, desperate keen from the back of his throat.
Seeming to finally take pity on him, Sweden steps up and starts removing the gag; Denmark’s panting picks up just in anticipation. Russia’s hands knead his hipbones, skim up his sides, pick at the ropes just to point out that they’re still there.
“He is so desperate for attention,” Russia remarks to Sweden, lightly. Denmark’s muscles twitch under his mouth at that. “Ah. Daniya, do you know what would be good?” he asks, rhetorical, since the shirt isn’t quite off yet. He looks up at Sweden. “If I could watch you perform oral sex on Shvetsiya.”
At that moment Sweden rips the shirt out, stream of spittle following, and Denmark’s muffled sounds become an unrelenting stream of panted words - “oh my god oh my god oh just touch me already jeez you guys just - oh -” he groans as Sweden touches himself and raises his eyebrows, questioning.
“Yeah yeah yeah stop teasing me already - yeah - Sverige, do it - let me - ” Denmark cut himself off with a choked gasp as Russia bites him, again.
“I hope you do not mind if I make commentary,” he purrs brightly into Denmark’s neck.
“You sound waaaay too cheery about that,” Denmark gasps out, arching back into Russia - and those teeth - but not taking his eyes off of Sweden’s cock.
“You do not seem opposed.”
A flick of the tongue as Denmark licks his lips and one stiff nod in reply - quickly followed by a low stream of permutations of “yes please” that was more akin to one long, rough exhale than anything.
“Ryssland,” Sweden cuts in, eyes flicking back and forth between Denmark’s moving mouth, filling the room up with its words, and Russia’s soft tongue, sharp teeth, nibbling a line up a tendon in Denmark’s neck.
Russia looks up at him.
“D’ya wanna direct?”
Russia looks quite surprised, and Sweden almost smiles at that. “M’sure Danmark would like t’hear ya too,” he explains.
Denmark can’t see Russia’s expression, but he can sure hear the smirk in his voice when he orders Sweden to bring his cock to Denmark’s lips.
“Daniya, lick him. Tease him.” Denmark moans at that and happily complies. Russia presses light, light, light kisses along Denmark’s neck, flicks his tongue over the bite mark. Denmark huffs a little onto the tip of Sweden’s cock.
“Shvetsiya,” Russia orders, “put your hand on the back of Daniya’s head - control him.”
Denmark barely has time to exhale a breathless “oh fuck” before Sweden presses his head to his lips again.
“Ah, yes, like that - how does it taste?” Russia chimes. Denmark looks up at Sweden’s unreadable expression and continues mouthing his cock. “That was not a - rhetorical? - question. Answer me, Daniya,” Russia orders, an edge of danger in the tone.
“It’s...” Denmark mumbles, lips just brushing the tip at this point, soft and wet slips against smooth and slick skin, “sharp? I dunno,” he tongues the slit, twirls the tip of his tongue around the head, tasting - he grins at Sweden’s grunt of pleasure. “Yeah, sharp,” he replies, a little muffled, “kinda musky I guess. Some spice. Tastes like Sverige, shit, I dunno.”
“I think that is a good description,” Russia agrees, and rewards Denmark by moving to the side of the chair and beginning to remove the lap ropes. A few are uncoiled, the ones over Denmark’s thighs - and really that doesn’t make much of a difference. Denmark tries to move a little, finds he can’t, and swears loudly against Sweden’s flesh.
“Shvetsiya, place your knee between Daniya’s legs. Make it easier for him to reach you.”
Sweden moves so that he’s straddling Denmark - one knee on the chair, other leg braced on the floor. His hand is still on the back of Denmark’s head, in his hair, keeping him from moving forward any further, from taking any more of Sweden into his mouth.
“Sveriiiige,” Denmark groans, mouth sending vibrations up Sweden’s erection. He gives a surprisingly gentle lick - tongues the tip.
Sweden grunts and waits for orders with a frown, frame imperceptibly trembling from the effort of holding back. Denmark just looks - wow - sweaty and flushed and so, so focused, still muttering off and on, wet lips fluttering - teasing in the only way he can.
Russia looks at Sweden from his crouch beside the chair and smiles - barely, just a twitch of his lips - and begins rubbing a hand into the muscle of Denmark’s inner thigh. Denmark shifts against his hand - the muscle movement can be easily seen through the pant leg - strains forward -
“Control him,” Russia nods at Denmark. “Hold him and thrust in.”
Denmark’s throaty agreement with this is cut off when Sweden shoves Denmark’s head forward - his hissed intake of air and Denmark’s choke resound instead.
Russia hums and nods, glancing up at them for a moment - Sweden looks so severe, Denmark, utterly whorish and reveling in it, both of them wildly turned-on - before nonchalantly returning to untying Denmark’s knots. The movements are unhurried, but he finds his fingers are stumbling more than they should be, won’t quite comply.
Sweden swallows, tightens his fingers a little, and pushes Denmark’s head back, forward, in, out, in - slowly, taking note of how Denmark’s tongue smoothes out and strokes against him, watching the spit slide down the side of his mouth - in, out, in. Almost teasing. Denmark looks up at him through his eyelashes, red-faced and hollow-cheeked, a soft whine in the back of his throat.
“Your Daniya is greedy.”
Some deep, undefinable sound from Denmark, and he tries to shove forward. Sweden holds him back -
- then moves his hips forward, grinds his knee against Denmark’s crotch as he thrusts himself deep into Denmark’s mouth. Denmark complies immediately with a broken-sounding groan and a burst of air from his nose - presses his erection to Sweden’s bony knee as much as he can, a fresh flush staining his shoulders.
“You enjoy that muchly, Daniya? Look at what you are doing to Shvetsiya,” Russia intones, softly, as he clumsily works on the knots to release Denmark’s legs, nips at the clenched thigh underneath those pants. “He is very sweaty, yes? I can smell it.”
Denmark hadn’t noticed, but now - now he could smell Sweden. Fresh air and warm spice and oh, take him a little deeper - yes. He closes his eyes.
“No,” Russia snaps. “Look at him.” Ah, there was the first leg. He shifts near the front of Denmark’s chair and grabs the leg before Denmark can move it, running one hand up underneath Denmark’s pants leg and kneading at the knotted calf muscle. His other hand he allows to play up Denmark’s thigh, light, then traces his fingers, tips barely touching, up Sweden’s inner thigh.
At this Sweden emits a half-vocalized huff and shoves Denmark’s head forward, all the way, before jerking it back and off completely.
“Jesus Christ, Sverige,” Denmark hoarsely exclaims. “Ya have no idea how goddamn hot you look right now,” he grins, flushed and spit-covered.
“I would agree,” Russia murmurs, just below his ear. Denmark tries to twist his head around and Sweden holds him there with a chastising grunt.
“How the - how’d ya get back there?” Denmark pants, trying to press himself into Russia’s hands running down his sides. Russia bites down on the same spot from earlier and digs his fingers into Denmark’s upper thighs in response, making a pleased sound at Denmark’s loud shout.
“You are a whore for attention,” Russia chirps, sliding his fingers closer to Denmark’s crotch, inwards, oooh just another inch or two - Denmark barely hears his own rumbled moan.
Oh, Russia thinks. What was America’s phrase for that? Ah - bingo. “Well! You seem to agree,” he smiles and stands in one fluid motion, looking at Sweden. Sweden tears his gaze from Denmark and raises an eyebrow.
“What am I agreeing to?” Denmark asks, low, still dazed.
Russia slides his fingers down Denmark’s jaw, his neck, finally flaring out to the broad shoulders which are still hitched back over and behind the chair. “That you are a whore for attention,” he replies, happy voice bouncing around the room.
Denmark only closes his eyes and groans at that assessment.
“So,” Russia begins, “we will make sure you get it.”
Denmark tries to turn again - he wants to see Russia’s expression - and again is stopped by Sweden’s hand and a twitch of his mouth - what would be a smirk for most people.
Russia bends down into Denmark’s line of sight and starts on his other leg, humming a tune as he goes. “Shvetsiya, you should untie Daniya’s back from the chair,” he says, sounding absolutely nonchalant, “but not his arms. Keep those bound.”
Sweden raises his eyebrows for a split second and then pulls away (Denmark makes a little sound of protest) and walks around.
“And you’re plannin’ on keepin’ my arms bound why?”
Russia looks at him and gives him an almost wicked smile. “We are giving you the attention, I have said. You should not have to do anything.”
Denmark throws his head back and makes a noise of frustration. “Well hell, get on with it then, I’m dyin’.”
Right then the ropes from his other leg fall free and hit the floor with a light thud. Russia scoots in front of him and smiles, grabbing his knees. “You were saying what, Daniya?” Then he runs his hands up Denmark’s thighs in one swift, rough motion, and begins work on the button of Denmark’s pants. He laughs at Denmark’s thrust.
“Ya can’t just grab my dick or somethin’ while you’re down there, can ya?” Denmark grouses, eyes on Russia’s careful hands. He hears Sweden stifle a laugh behind him. “And you, Sverige, you’re a cruel bastard.” No response except a light thwack to the back of Denmark’s head. “Dick,” Denmark mutters.
Russia just continues his feather-light, careful opening of Denmark’s trousers, smile and eyes darkening once Denmark’s boxer-clad erection springs free. Russia runs his hands between boxers and pants, along the hemlines, circling them around and provoking a - sob, almost - from Denmark. Then he pulls Denmark’s pants down - Denmark lifts up as much as he can, rushed and awkward, wanting to shed layers as soon as possible - drags his nails down Denmark’s covered ass as he goes - that gets a cursed growl. Russia hums at that and continues dragging his nails down with the fabric. Over large, heavily muscled thighs. Drags his thumbs through the darker, coarser hair along the inside, fingers along the clenched muscle on the outside, leaving bright red streaks. He bites the inside of Denmark’s knee when it is exposed, relishing in the choke that escapes. Denmark leans forward a little - ah, Shvetsiya must be almost done - helps him shake off the bunched material. He has nice calves, Russia notes. Large, with coiled muscle. Every movement can be seen under the skin, despite the hair covering them. They’re more built than either Russia’s or Sweden’s.
“’kay,” Sweden calls, standing over Denmark behind the chair, hands on Denmark’s shoulders keeping him pinned down.
“Hey, Sverige, whaddaya think about Rusland’s plan?” Denmark asks, still a little breathless, still a little flushed, drool still all over one side of his face.
Sweden looks down at him - eyes dark, arrogant grin, sweaty, straining erection leaving a dark spot on his boxers - oh he just wants to take him, right now - then at Russia, and shrugs. “Haven’ heard it.”
“Okay, Rusland, what’s the plan?”
Russia’s eyes light up before he abruptly hauls Denmark up by his armpits and tosses him facefirst onto the bed - Denmark makes a loud “oof!” - then follows him down and pins him to the bed with his larger size. “Shvetsiya, it would be good for you to come to the bed,” Russia huffs, half-arousal and half-laughter. “My plan,” he smiles, grinding against Denmark and doing it again upon Denmark’s dramatic hitch of breath, “is to fuck you into the bed while Shvetsiya watches.”
Denmark’s breathing noticeably picks up. They both look at Sweden, who’s cross-legged near the headboard. Sweden raises an eyebrow, and Russia continues. “Shvetsiya can have you afterwards,” he purrs, and Denmark snarls into the sheets and tries to twist down against the bed. Russia grabs his hip and stops him. “You will get all of the attention you need.”
“Sounds great, except I’m kind of not right now, asshole,” Denmark bites out between breaths.
“Shvetsiya?”
Sweden tosses the lube their way. “’s a good plan.”
Russia drags down Denmark’s boxers, nails running along the way, hoping to get a response like before; Denmark lets out a quick, low swear, muffled by the bedsheet half-in his mouth.
Leaning down, Russia nips along Denmark’s muscled back, runs his teeth down the tight lines along his spine - slips the boxers off, Denmark helping, and bites at the ropes around Denmark’s wrists. Denmark thrashes under him and Russia grabs both hips, with both hands - stills him, flattens them to the bed even while grinding against him once more.
“God damn, even humping the bed is great at this point,” Denmark mutters in a few breathless puffs, eyes half-lidded.
Russia shifts to one elbow - Denmark mewls a little at the move - coats a finger in lube. Lifts himself up a little, drags Denmark’s hips back up into the air, runs the lube-slicked finger along Denmark’s spine.
“Are you seriously gonna play with me like this?” Denmark demands, voice rough and scratchy.
“If it makes you put on such a show, yes,” Russia replies.
“Christ. What do you want me to do - just stop the damn teasing,” Denmark growls, only a bit of a whine slipping in.
Russia likes that whine. “Ah, well,” he begins, sitting fully back on his haunches while Denmark remains face-first into the bed, ass up, hands bound behind his back, awkward and on display, panting, sweaty - what a nice sight - “keep talking.”
“Keep” - wheeze - “talking?”
“Yes. I am sure,” Russia runs one hand down Denmark’s side, the other - the one with the lube - kneading Denmark’s ass, “that Shvetsiya would like to hear how you are...faring.”
Denmark’s eyes snap to Sweden’s at that; Sweden is intensely watching Russia’s hands, however.
“What -” that comes out a little too choked for comprehension - “Sverige,” Denmark tries again, “you gotta opinion on that?”
Sweden’s eyes flick to his for the barest instant and a half-grunt, half-hmm is his only reply. Denmark looks a little closer - he’s thrown off-course by Russia’s other hand joining, rubbing up the backs of his thighs, rough, thumbs rubbing along the crease where his thigh and buttock meet - fuck - Sweden is really hard. Really, really hard. Leaking precum, a new sticky line forming between his stomach and cock with every twitch, not even noticing, hand twitching on the sheets semi-rhythmycally - hard. Denmark lets out a low groan just at the sight, and another, really loud one when Russia lurches forward while biting that same goddamn spot and barely brushing his entrance with his finger.
“You are too quiet,” Russia murmurs against the bite mark, and lets his finger flick again, teasing.
“Okay, damn, fuck, do that again,” Denmark sighs. Russia does, and licks further up Denmark’s neck. Denmark can feel Russia’s length press against his upper thigh, and, oh God -
“You are still too quiet,” Russia chuckles against the bottom of his jaw. “This is for Shvetsiya’s good, you know.”
Denmark’s breath leaves him all at once, in a rush of air, at that. “Gotcha. You want me to - ahh -” he trails off when Russia’s finger touches and stays.
“Describe to Shvetsiya, what is happening, yes?”
“Yeah. Okay, this bastard isn’t fucking me and he should be already,” Denmark breathes - that comes out a lot weaker than he intends.
Russia chomps down on the bite mark again - there really was no other word, it was a chomp - and Denmark lets out a strangled cry. “Fuck, god damnit -” a gasp, “okay - I smell fuckin’ blood and Russia had better fuck me or at least get a finger in my ass within the minute or -” a few rough breaths “- I don’t even know, but -” a low, deep moan “- fuck yeah -” Denmark’s eyes screw shut, jaw tight, neck corded, as Russia inserts a finger - “oh, yeah, that’s way better, keep doin’ that, and - ohh, Sverige, how the hell did you keep quiet during this -” more stuttered exhales into the bed “- just a little faster - yesss,” Denmark hisses.
“That is more like it,” Russia remarks, sounding both amused and slightly out of breath.
“Ha, you sound like you’re enjoying it too,” Denmark huffs. “I mean, not surprised, my ass is a pretty sight -”
Sweden snorts and Denmark’s attention goes there. “Sverige, don’t even pretend you don’t - goddamn, Russia, do that thing ag- fuuuck -”
Denmark’s torn between screwing his eyes shut - whatever-the-hell Russia’s doing is fantastic, but Sweden looks - wow. “Sverige,” a pause for a few breaths, “you are so into this,” Denmark half-laughs, then breaks off into an appreciative rumble when Russia adds a - second? third? - well, another - finger. He still keeps his eyes on Sweden though - the hand in the sheets is balled into a fist, there’s definitely a flush over his chest, and oh, is it hot, and he might chew through his lip pretty soon.
“God, Sverige,” Denmark says, weakly, “you look -” Denmark cuts himself off with something more akin to a yowl than anything, and exclaims “Rusland, there, do that - yes.”
“This?” Russia curls his fingers again and Denmark bucks up into him with a sob.
“Yeah,” he replies when his brain is a little more ordered.
Russia continues, quirking his fingers in an off-kilter rhythm. Denmark keens and demands he go a little faster - yeah, and - Russia takes some of Denmark’s fingers into his mouth, licking and biting.
Denmark twitches his fingers and tries to drive them deeper into Russia’s mouth. “Just - fuck me already,” he demands.
Russia pulls his fingers out, draws up and crouches over Denmark, bracing one hand on the bed, the other at Denmark’s hip. He pauses, pressed against Denmark, and reminds him to make some noise for Sweden.
“Got it,” Denmark says even as he thrusts back against Russia. Russia’s grip on his hip tightens and Denmark lips his lips, looking up at Sweden. “He has really big hands, huh?” he chuckles.
Sweden’s hm of agreement is drowned out by Denmark’s deep snarl as Russia enters him.
“Why’re you going so slow? I’m not a virgin, damn.”
Russia pushes in all the way, quick and sharp, with a growl, and begins a short, quick, forceful rhythm over Denmark’s stream of curses muttered into the bed.
Denmark tries to move against him, meet his thrusts - Russia digs his nails in and splays himself along Denmark’s back to keep him in place. Denmark yells at the change - “yeah, yeah, that’s way better, that - “ pant “ - that angle -”
“Keep going.”
“Huh? Ohhh...um - ugh, yeah - actually -” a pause for breath - “why doncha tell us how we look, eh, Sverige?”
Sweden’s dark gaze travels over them. “Yer sweaty.”
“I think,” more panting, “ya can do better than that.”
“Yer flushed,” Sweden replies, lip quirked in a half-smirk.
“Stop - ah - stop bein’ a dick, Sver - yes, that, there - Jesus Rusland’s a hard fuck - that’s - that’s good - I - Sverige you know I get off on your voice, fuck you,” Denmark finally slurs out, all at once.
Sweden shifts against the headboard and brings a hand to his thigh, thumb gently rubbing circles against the skin. “Mm. ‘kay. Ever’ time Ryssland enters ya y’can see his muscles move.”
Denmark emits a raw, jagged sound and encourages Sweden to go on in a garbled mess of curses.
“An’ y’look like a whore,” Sweden mutters, throaty, a slight leer to the tone. Denmark shouts and Russia leans further down and murmurs something in his ear, getting another loud yelp for his efforts. “Yer hair’s all messed up an’ yer gettin’ drool on m’bed.”
Denmark isn’t even breathing properly anymore, and Russia keeps pounding away, keeps saying things he can barely understand, in Russian, right in his ear - but it’s all obvious from the tone that they aren’t innocent things.
“Damn that accent,” Denmark says, and it comes out as a whimper. Damn that whimper.
Denmark opens his eyes again - he sees sheets, Russia’s hair, and Sweden, one hand on his erection and the other at his lips. “Sverige, nope -” Sweden looks confused - “stop jackin’ off.” Denmark takes time to attempt to get his breath, then decides it’s fruitless. “You’ve got me next,” he informs in a wheeze, cocky grin smeared across the bedspread. The grin shatters when Russia slams into him particularly forcefully; Denmark’s eyes close for an instant and his mouth falls open before he clenches his jaw in a grimace.
“Ah, he likes it rough?” Russia asks, heaving, and brushes the sweat from his eyes against Denmark’s shoulder - hm, that doesn’t work too well, Denmark’s dripping in sweat as well - before he looks at Sweden.
They both make sounds of agreement, and Russia smiles at Sweden’s hands fisted in the bedsheets before he twists and moves the arm bracing himself on the bed to Denmark’s hair, instead.
He presses Denmark’s face down into the mattress with a jerk, leaning his weight into it, and twists his fingers around Denmark’s hair, then grinds into Denmark with a shuddering, brusque movement.
“Like this, Daniya?”
He only gets a broken moan and a violent twitch in response.
“I will take that as a yes,” he gasps, then swallows heavily and quickens his pace.
“Okay - Rusland - ugh -” Russia can hardly understand Denmark, with his face pressed so solidly into the bed, “this is - oh fuck yeah - harder -” an audible swallow - “Sverige I - Jesus - I hope you - “ a keen “ - like this.”
Russia makes a small sound before slamming into Denmark, mouth twisted, arm and hand clenching over Denmark’s head - listens to Denmark’s hoarse cry - watches Sweden watching them through half-shut eyes - crashes his hips into Denmark, buries himself deep as his orgasm rips through him - roughly rocking them together and riding it out through heavy pants.
He stills and closes his eyes, biting his lip momentarily - the first thing he notices is that both Denmark and Sweden are practically gasping for air, and if he had the breath he’d laugh at that. He draws himself out, slowly, shakily, moves his hand from Denmark’s head and nearly falls over - he’s still a little too shell-shocked to maintain balance, apparently.
Then he flops back against the foot board and nudges Denmark with his knee. “I think,” he breathes, voice almost a croak, still very low and hoarse, “it’s Shvetsiya’s turn.”
He chuckles at Denmark’s tiny sound of want.
The next thing Denmark knows, Sweden has grabbed him - hauls him straight off the bed and flush against him. Once they’re both on their knees on the bed, Sweden yanks his head back so he’s exposed, bared, everything, to Russia’s view - Russia sweeps his eyes down their entwined forms, tangled legs, with a satisfied leer.
Sweden keeps one hand in Denmark’s hair and uses the other to paw over Denmark’s chest, mouthing at Denmark’s neck and pressing his erection to rope-covered arms.
“M’not gonna last long,” he mutters against Denmark’s neck, then bites down - Denmark’s yowl is very satisfying.
Soon after that Denmark’s world is one of tearing skin, nails, bites, teeth, pulls - ugh -
“Yeah - me - neither,” he wheezes. Sweden’s erection is pressed against him, they’re slipping against one another and he can’t even feel the precome he knows has to be there, against his back, his ass, his thighs - wherever Sweden decides their skin should meet.
Sweden ruts and lets out a tiny, guttural sound; Denmark curses at that, out on a breath.
“You - we’re not - not close enough like that - untie my arms,” Denmark demands. Or tries, it doesn’t sound very demanding, but he’s really too far gone to care.
Russia leans forward, to his knees, and bites along Denmark’s sternum, collarbone - Sweden fists his hair and yanks Denmark’s head back further, against his shoulder, and lets out a burst of air at Denmark’s needy sound. Russia reaches around and starts on those ropes even while teeth attack his neck. Denmark mewls.
He’s too distracted by the muscle, heat, his body being ripped - he’s not sure how long it is but the ropes slide off and he feels Sweden’s legs - those legs, Jesus Christ those legs - shift beneath his - all lean muscle, light hair - hands at his hips and Sweden’s cock is pressing against him again, and this time it’s exactly where he wants it to be.
“Fuck, yes, Sverige, just - do it -”
Denmark growls when Sweden enters him in one hard, hard thrust. He reaches a newly-freed arm back, and haphazardly, roughly, grasps Sweden’s thigh just to feel it move. Sweden pulls out, not all the way, blazingly slow. More noise from Denmark. Another hand other twines in the hand at Denmark’s hip - Denmark wonders if it’s Sweden’s, but no, there are two hands - huge hands - both Russia and Sweden.
Oh fuck, since when were hands this hot?
Russia’s nipping along his rib cage and then - “Sverige, move -” before Denmark can say much more than that Russia’s lips are at his and his appreciative rumble when Sweden obeys is lost in Russia’s mouth.
Sweden’s hands tighten on Denmark’s hips and pull Denmark down, up, down - slow, hard, powerful. Denmark’s teeth clack against Russia’s with the motion, so Russia moves down, dragging his teeth along the flushed skin, over straining muscle, one hand still slipping in Denmark’s and Sweden’s on a hip while the other makes small, fluttering pets along Denmark’s body.
“Rougher,” Denmark grunts.
The pets become nails scorching down his ribs, up his thighs, digging into his arms - his head’s yanked and it hurts “- oh fuck yeah -” Sweden slams into him “- God - damn -it -” the pace picks up. Slippery, sinewy thighs against Denmark’s large, powerful ones, between his, that cock driving into him, raw, deliberate -
Sweden brings a clawing hand back to Denmark’s hip and stills him as Russia does the same - Denmark feels teeth in his shoulder instead - and - Jesus Christ the smell of blood again, this time courtesy of Sweden, Sweden - Denmark is reduced to a loud stream of unintelligible cursing in what probably isn’t even a language anymore.
He shouts loudly when heat engulfs his own straining arousal. Denmark tries to look down and feels Sweden’s teeth on his ear, sharp and painful - he can’t look, not without ripping his ear off. His vision’s hazy anyway, fuzzed out in bliss, but he can smell - sweat and musk and blood and somehow, semen - hear - Sweden’s panting, the smack of flesh-on-flesh, obscene, wet sounds from Russia’s mouth on him - feel - just, too much. Too fucking much, because now it’s sensation from everywhere and he doesn’t even know - anything -
Russia grabs his free hand - what was he doing with that anyway? - forces Denmark to grab his hair. “You - you want me - oh, God - to -”
The heat in the front goes away and the back keeps going, oh Christ, please keep going, he's so goddamn close - “Yes,” Russia purrs.
Denmark gathers his thoughts well enough to nod and weakly announce that he gets it; Sweden rips his shoulder open further with his teeth.
More noise.
The heat returns and Denmark has no problem with clutching the soft, sweaty strands between his fingers, tight - tighter - as Sweden’s thrusts somehow get even more harsh - he shoves Russia’s head down a moment and Russia simply takes it.
“What - the hell - Rusland -”
Sweden pulls up a little, flush against Denmark’s back - the thrusts become gentle and shallow for a moment - and looks over Denmark’s shoulder. Denmark feels fevered breath against his neck, then ear, and hears Sweden’s cut-off, breathless chuckle.
“He looks good suckin’ y’off -” and at nearly the same time Sweden pulls back and drives into him with one ferocious thrust - at that Denmark comes, hard - nails digging into his hips, more scoring down his sides - right into Russia’s mouth - fist twists in sweaty hair - the hands on his thighs, his hips, dig in. He yells, shouts, please, fuck, anything, he doesn’t even know what’s coming out of his mouth just that he’s coming and it’s loud -
He vaguely registers Sweden’s groan as Russia pulls off. The last of it hits Russia’s face while Sweden stills, twitching - Denmark can feel him inside, throbbing - he gives a weak moan as his eyes crack open -
Russia leans back against the footboard and wipes the wet strand from his face before licking it, tongue swirling. He smirks around his finger at Denmark even as Denmark’s gasping for air, trying to recover, he kind of needs air but - shit -
Denmark’s shaking so hard that when Sweden pulls out and lets go he just collapses to the bed in a sweaty, convulsing heap with a choke. He closes his eyes and feels Russia’s foot brush against his leg in stuttered, but somewhat soothing, strokes.
A few minutes pass before he opens his eyes again and shakily lifts himself up, and the first thing to greet him is Russia. Russia, leaning against the footboard, with a quirked eyebrow and cigarette smoke hazy in the air around him.
“Where - the fuck -” okay, breathing still isn’t working too well. Denmark runs a hand through his hair and is surprised to find it drenched. He reaches out a shaky hand for the cigarette. “Gimme that.” It comes out weak, all on the exhale.
Russia does, with a dark smile.
Denmark takes it and leans back on a trembling arm before twisting around to offer it to Sweden. Not that Sweden really smokes, but - that was one hell of a fuck.
“Sverige?”
Sweden’s sprawled among the pillows and headboard, still unable to catch his breath. His annoyed glare with their smoking is laced with too much exhaustion to have much impact.
“Guess not. Here, Rusland.” Denmark hands it back and Russia takes it with a nod, still smiling. Denmark scoots to the edge of the bed in one ungraceful movement and gets up on shaky legs, stumbling a bit. They both look at him, confused and still breathing hard.
“Shower,” Denmark says in response, then grins a huge, dopey grin, and takes off to the bathroom, tripping a little on the way. He shuts and locks the bathroom door without looking back at them.
---
When he gets back to the bedroom, toweling off his hair, it’s to find a lightly snoring Russia positively clinging to Sweden, the both of them sprawled out over the covers.
“He’s a cuddler, huh?” Denmark grins, crossing his arms and looking at the two of them tangled up together. Or rather, Russia tangled up in Sweden.
Sweden gives him a very unamused look.
Denmark snorts. “I’m not savin’ you.”
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Here, have a pretty!
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I need to stop writing porn but there are like three other prompts I wanna fill SHIT so I can get to the last chapters of LATFF already.