“Yes, yes, we all know where your interests lie,” said England, voice strained. Russia kissed his way down his throat, and then bit, hard, right above his trachea. England gave a strangled yell, and said, “That'll bruise, you cretin!”
Russia looked up at him, and smiled happily. “Yes, it will bruise very nicely.” England nearly shivered, aches forgotten. Prussia's hand slipped towards his waistband.
Big fingers grabbed the same spot, and twisted. England closed his eyes, breathing harder than he wanted to be. How could Russia know, about his-- penchant-- for this? He couldn't have been talking to France. Could he?
No matter how hard it made him, he wasn't just going to take it. He grabbed a handful of the other man's hair, and held as head still while he bit him back. Russia made a high, breathy noise, and Prussia let out a heartfelt “Fuck.”
“And this doesn't bother you?” asked England, hand still in Russia's hair. Prussia shrugged, not looking away from the white-purple teethmarks in Russia's throat.
“He had it coming. Besides, it's not as girly as that freaky fag shit you were doing before.” England let it go.
Russia made little needy noises, and tilted his head back, already hard as hell against England's front. England wondered if, after all the messed up sex they'd had over the years, they didn't all have a little bit of a weakness for this. He thought of France again, and groaned. When he bit again, dragging his fingernails down the other man's neck, it wasn't Russia's gasp he was hearing.
He heard Prussia stand, and braced himself for the derisive, mood-shattering dig. It didn't come. Instead, the man moved behind him, and moved his hair out of the way, biting the back of his neck-- also hard enough to bruise, England noted with displeasure, but the thought was near the back of his mind. Russia was bit his collarbone, and England choked back a moan. Then Prussia's hands were under his shirt, fingernails cruel against his chest, and Russia's teeth were in his neck, and God, he was going to have a lot of explaining to do when he met his boss the next day.
“See?” said Russia, happily, centimeters from England's skin. “It's much nicer together.”
Prussia, a catch in his voice, said “Shut up, fuckface.”
Russia smiled at England. “Prussia is being very rude. Don't you think Prussia is being rude?”
England opened his eyes, blearily. “What?”
“Prussia. Rude. Shall we bite him?”
England blinked. Prussia was backing away. “Oh no, no, no. This isn't my party. He's the one we're supposed to be messing up. If you want to let him mark you all up, that's your call, but stay the fuck away from--”
Russia pushed him down face first on England's bed, following him down, and purred “Shut up, slut.” England shook himself, the whiplash catching him again. Would the man ever choose a role and stick with it?
Wait. Was that a keen from Prussia? Oh, he was never going to let him live this down.
He only wants us for our infantry... [3/7?]
Russia looked up at him, and smiled happily. “Yes, it will bruise very nicely.” England nearly shivered, aches forgotten. Prussia's hand slipped towards his waistband.
Big fingers grabbed the same spot, and twisted. England closed his eyes, breathing harder than he wanted to be. How could Russia know, about his-- penchant-- for this? He couldn't have been talking to France. Could he?
No matter how hard it made him, he wasn't just going to take it. He grabbed a handful of the other man's hair, and held as head still while he bit him back. Russia made a high, breathy noise, and Prussia let out a heartfelt “Fuck.”
“And this doesn't bother you?” asked England, hand still in Russia's hair. Prussia shrugged, not looking away from the white-purple teethmarks in Russia's throat.
“He had it coming. Besides, it's not as girly as that freaky fag shit you were doing before.” England let it go.
Russia made little needy noises, and tilted his head back, already hard as hell against England's front. England wondered if, after all the messed up sex they'd had over the years, they didn't all have a little bit of a weakness for this. He thought of France again, and groaned. When he bit again, dragging his fingernails down the other man's neck, it wasn't Russia's gasp he was hearing.
He heard Prussia stand, and braced himself for the derisive, mood-shattering dig. It didn't come. Instead, the man moved behind him, and moved his hair out of the way, biting the back of his neck-- also hard enough to bruise, England noted with displeasure, but the thought was near the back of his mind. Russia was bit his collarbone, and England choked back a moan. Then Prussia's hands were under his shirt, fingernails cruel against his chest, and Russia's teeth were in his neck, and God, he was going to have a lot of explaining to do when he met his boss the next day.
“See?” said Russia, happily, centimeters from England's skin. “It's much nicer together.”
Prussia, a catch in his voice, said “Shut up, fuckface.”
Russia smiled at England. “Prussia is being very rude. Don't you think Prussia is being rude?”
England opened his eyes, blearily. “What?”
“Prussia. Rude. Shall we bite him?”
England blinked. Prussia was backing away. “Oh no, no, no. This isn't my party. He's the one we're supposed to be messing up. If you want to let him mark you all up, that's your call, but stay the fuck away from--”
Russia pushed him down face first on England's bed, following him down, and purred “Shut up, slut.” England shook himself, the whiplash catching him again. Would the man ever choose a role and stick with it?
Wait. Was that a keen from Prussia? Oh, he was never going to let him live this down.