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They've always switched it up when they meet. This time is Netherlands' turn. Denmark doesn't mind bottoming. A little submissive? Sure, sometimes; but unlike with Sweden, Netherlands is a level player (Sweden is just a little too competitive and if Denmark is honest with himself so is he - and they are both a little too grudge-holdy to be able to guarantee their own peace of mind to drop their barriers and allow for orgasm). This time it's Netherlands', next time, his.
Maybe. But maybe not, because Netherlands looks so hot when he comes buried inside Denmark and he lets slip the locations of the fractures in his armour. Which Denmark really likes.
This time, it's Netherlands who fucks him into the bed, his hands gripping hard on Denmark's hips, pulling him back onto his cock. Denmark has already come once, the evidence of that is on his belly, currently facing the mattress, because Netherlands fucked him face to face with his legs in the air, split apart by those beautiful broad shoulders of Netherlands', like a soldier's uniform complete with epaulettes. And when it's face to face, Netherlands likes to screw him deep and strong, and nothing makes him come faster than that.
But then Netherlands got bored of that - or so he seemed, Denmark might know better - and pulled out, then roughly manhandled Denmark onto his knees before he slid in again.
And the way he's going, Netherlands is certainly trying hard to give him a second orgasm, unsatisfied with a first. Netherlands hasn't even come once yet, though he's shaking and moaning softly and his grip is looser on Denmark's hips. He's swiftly getting there. Denmark squirms to try to get away from his cock - a little too intense, though tell that to his second erection of the night and the ninth he's had since he invited Netherlands over for a working weekend on EU matters.
See, Netherlands is just too damn pretty for his own good and he knows it, he knows Denmark likes what he sees after Netherlands has taken a nice long hot shower and used all Denmark's hot water. But that is a sacrifice he'll make if it gets him a glimpse of naked Netherlands with his hair wet and falling across that wide forehead in strips, as he plods back to the guest room in only a towel.
This accounted for like three erections alone. It has been a very frustrating working weekend for Denmark.
Netherlands lets him squirm as he fucks him from behind. His hands slip on Denmark's hips, and one relaxes into a caress. Just the thought of that has Denmark moaning softly into his forearms and his cock twitches with that old fantasy of his which is instantly upon him, vivid in its familiarity: Netherlands' hands on his body, relaxed, stroking, touching, admiring, pleasing, instead of possessing. He could touch anything he liked, kiss anywhere he wanted, Denmark's entire body is an open canvas for him to stroke and pet. Denmark loves this adoring attention and more so the thought that it isn't just because "if it feels good do it".
Because why does it feel good, Netherlands? Ever stopped to think? he imagines himself saying dryly. As ever, he holds his tongue. He's getting tired of holding his tongue. Denmark has never been known for his patience.
"Fuck," pants Netherlands behind him, "fuck, ungh, you're so good, you fucking love this," he says, as he barters the intimacy of silence for the intimacy of his hands roaming on Denmark's skin, slipping under his hips to curl around his cock. Barters the roughness and rudeness in his grip for that of dirty talk, barely keeping from calling Denmark what he wants to - a slut, a whore, who loves taking Netherlands' cock, while his delicate careful adoring touch sends sparks and tickles through Denmark's nerves.
One wall for another.
It has taken a very, very long time for Denmark to realise that this is how it works.
Not that Denmark isn't smart or clever enough to have figured it out. But when you smile because you like someone and they make your heart beat faster and you give them all your special smiles and your eyes light up and you melt when you see them and you think, how can they possibly not know; and they return all this with a neutral set of thin lips in a Dutch face, impassive and uncaring, then your first suspicion is not, "oh! why, he has simply taught himself not to smile, because he thinks smiles are indicative of stupidity and thus untrustworthiness, and he is a merchant before he is a diplomat, after all."
No, your first reaction is I notice he never seems as happy to see me as I am to see him, and it comes with a stitch in your chest that won't go away, no matter how many times he lets you pay what you want. No matter how many times you lower the sound dues. Just this once, just for him. No matter how many painters and weavers and craftsmen of his you employ, who you personally seek out because they're renowned, and because it'll let you see him again.
And hey, for all his merchant cleverness, Netherlands was never wise enough to figure any of that out either. Netherlands must simply have deduced that all that was because they're friends and because he's a good lay. Unfortunately, he is not wrong about that last bit.
Netherlands bends over as he fucks him, and Denmark can barely keep their weight up as he does it, he can barely keep his own weight up because Netherlands sends lightning dancing up his spine with every thrust, and thunder in his chest at every touch. Netherlands' right hand leaves Denmark's cock to skim over the flanks of his ribs, cups his shoulder, then trails down his right arm and curls around his wrist. He removes it from the bed - Denmark barely stays up right, all that keeps him from flattening on the bed is his left side now and his trembling thighs - and places it on his cock. "Touch yourself," murmurs Netherlands fondly, silken-soft in his ears, "I wanna watch you. I wanna feel it as you do."
Denmark cannot help obeying an order like this. He feels raw, in more ways than one.
But the intimacy keeps going, as Netherlands pushes himself closer to completion. It's hard to avoid it, it takes too much energy to mask his feelings when you're that close to coming - Denmark should know - and Netherlands slips up. He thrusts his cock in deep, then grabs Denmark by the shoulders with both hands and hoists him up, all while still inside him. Then he continues fucking him. The reach is harder, the burn a little hotter, but it's good, and behind him Netherlands is pressed, chest to his back. He licks a long stripe up the back of Denmark's neck to its side that culminates at the tip of his earlobe, which he takes between his teeth.
"Mm, do it," whispers Netherlands hoarsely, "oh, touch yourself - hah - yes - you beautiful asshole." Denmark knows he hadn't meant to say the b-word, and hadn't meant the way his hands drop from Denmark's shoulders and slide tenderly across his back to fall at his hips. One hand he places on his cock, and the other atop Netherlands', where it grips Denmark's hip. Netherlands' fingers move first, splaying across his skin, and Denmark's fingers fall between them, intertwining as naturally as the seasons change. Netherlands' fingers are warm and his thumb shifts softly back and forth, as he worries with his teeth the sensitive skin of the curve where Denmark's neck meets the shoulder, and groans into it, his lips vibrating where they have sealed over the skin in a wet kiss.
Denmark can picture Netherlands' face too clearly, the twist of his thin lips as he bites the lower, his expression torn, his eyes clenched shut like not seeing will help him stave off the rush of his feelings. (That doesn't work, Denmark's already tried it.) The way Netherlands always looks when they're fucking and his guard is down.
"Christ," Denmark pants, as he fucks his fist, "god, fuck," and a string of other profanities interspersed with his moans. With a loud cry he spills into his hand. Orgasm feels jagged, the rug ripped out from under his feet, and he crumples backwards into Netherlands' embrace.
Because that's what it is, Denmark thinks angrily, as his common sense and his better judgement returns, it's an embrace. He doesn't understand how he managed to keep from screaming anything deeper than curse words because there is a forbidden phrase made of three wicked words on the tip of his tongue that would put the lewdest thing Netherlands could dream up to utter shame.
Netherlands clutches him close and whimpers as he comes. Denmark can feel everything, from the burn of his cock pulsating against his super-sensitive nerves, to the desperate way Netherlands pants against the side of his neck, as the breaths skate across his skin, still wet from Netherlands' tongue. His fingers are shaking where they hold Denmark still as he falls apart inside of him.
They collapse sideways on the bed and Denmark smears the come in his fist on his belly - it's already dirty, he's not filthying himself significantly further - and Netherlands pulls out. Too soon. Like a barbed fly from the fish's mouth, and Denmark truly is hook, line, and sinker for him.
But before Denmark can protest, Netherlands kisses his nape, and then climbs over his body to lie facing him. He only makes it halfway, his thigh still rests on Denmark's. And then he grabs Denmark's cheeks in his hands and kisses him with an unhappy sigh, open-mouthed and close-eyed.
How close does he want to be, wonders Denmark. Because they've done stuff like this before.
Netherlands acts like he understands the question Denmark didn't ask and pushes him into his back to climb on top. He presses them close, their bodies pinned together, and wraps an arm around them. Denmark's come smears all over Netherlands' belly, but if he minds, then he's going about complaining all the wrong way - sliding their bodies together to increase the scope of their joined mess and practically hyperventilating against Denmark's mouth.
At some point they must address it because Denmark needs to know: fuck buddies don't touch like this, don't kiss like this, in an embrace of helpless despair. When Denmark peeks, Netherlands' eyes are scrunched shut. Does this hurt him? he wonders. Because it certainly hurts Denmark. To pretend that their relationship is anything like casual, to hold him at arms length in claim only and to press him close when nobody's watching.
There's a weight on his chest and it isn't Netherlands, who is braced on forearms above him. It's the way the air has been sucked out of his lungs, how his heart aches, at the taste and touch of Netherlands' lips that make contact and release in a way that suggest they never want to leave, the kind of cyclic motion becoming more of a constant as they enmesh and his lips keep them stuck together and Denmark's tongue grows to seem foreign alone in his mouth.
At last Netherlands lets him free. He kisses the side of his mouth, and then a second time, but misses and gets Denmark's cheek instead. Netherlands shifts to lay beside but still mostly on top of Denmark. His heart, Denmark can feel, is still racing, but his breath calms.
A moment passes, and then a handful more. Netherlands said he'd have to leave in a half hour, and that was forty-five minutes ago. He's already late, which Denmark knows both of them dislike.
Might as well give him a reason to leave, he thinks.
"This the day we talk about it?" Denmark asks.
Netherlands cracks an eye open. "About what?"
"'Bout what you mean to me. 'Bout what I mean to you." Netherlands turns away, to the side. Denmark tries to regroup his strategy and kisses his jaw, down his neck. "Neth'lands, please," he whispers. He's so sick of this.
"Not today," says Netherlands, but he kisses back when Denmark trails his lips over Netherlands'. "I can barely handle this."
It's not an answer, but it's closer than he's come in four hundred years, so for today, it will have to be acceptable. Netherlands doesn't waste any more time in packing up and leaving as he should have awhile ago, and Denmark waits until he disappears from the view of the window before he puts his fist through his mirror in his impotent rage.