Work Text:
Vienna, summer of 1730
England kisses like he means to devour, and he tastes of salt. Where Austria is meticulously (and fashionably, might he add) clean-shaven England has a faint stubble over his chin and upper lip, which scratches against his face. They have a rough hold of each other’s hair; Austria’s wig and both of their hats discarded at the door to Austria’s chambers. England is straddling him, and his hips move with little rough jerks every time Austria presses his free hand somewhere England likes, the bottom of his ribs, his shoulder, the back of his knee to pull him in closer. Not to be outdone, England uses his grip to force Austria’s head back and tongues at the pulse in his neck, making Austria groan low in his throat. It is exhilarating, learning each other’s bodies like this.
Someone else gasps, and Austria lazily tilts his head sideways to watch. Wigs, hats, shoes, and coats discarded, France has Prussia on his back against the bed, kissing him slowly while his body moves sinuously to pin one pale wrist down. Prussia’s other hand rests limply against the covers and his whole body looks stiff and uncertain. France coaxes him to move his free hand to France’s hip, and Prussia gives the gentlest of squeezes to the meat of France’s ass. The Frenchman makes an encouraging noise and kisses up Prussia’s jaw to his ear. France’s lipstick is smeared in a pink smudge across his cheek and for a moment Austria wants to mess it up even more.
Apparently noticing his attention is elsewhere, England tugs Austria’s head back around to kiss him fiercely. Austria grunts and forces some distance between them.
“You kiss like a brute,” he sneers at his soon-to-be ally.
England only grins, looking dishevelled and wild like the carved figureheads on the prows of his ships. “And you kiss like Spain.”
With a growl of outrage Austria wraps both hands around England’s lean waist and forces him to lean backwards as he attacks his exposed throat with his teeth. It’s England’s turn to grunt as Austria sucks a red mark high on his neck under his ear and nips at the piercings in his ear lobe.
“Play nicely, boys.” France’s voice drifts lazily across from where he is doting on Prussia. Not minding the fact that—except for Prussia—Austria is fairly certain that they are almost all the same age, his intervention is a welcome reminder that this is supposed to be a quadrille.
Austria lets up from England’s neck and pushes him by the shoulders with enough force that England goes over backwards with a huff onto the foot of the bed. Austria untangles their legs, spurning him to crawl and settle at Prussia’s side. Prussia barely looks up. France has let him go and is untying his cravat, unbuttoning his waistcoat, and kissing at the exposed collarbones. Austria reaches into Prussia’s shirt as France keeps unbuttoning down over Prussia’s ribs and down his belly which sucks in at the touch. Prussia’s skin is warming quickly, and Austria stretches to tweak a nipple between his fingers. That gets a reaction. Prussia jumps and almost knocks France’s hands away as one knee suddenly clenches inwards.
“Give him some space,” France chides.
“I’m fine,” Prussia spits before Austria can even reply. As if to make a point, Prussia grasps Austria’s coronet with even more ferocity than England and smashes their lips together. They kiss roughly, and Austria slips his tongue into the other’s mouth. Pain shoots through his mouth as Prussia bites a little too roughly, out-of-practice and clumsy. Austria makes a mental note to condemn Lutheranism again.
When Prussia finally lets him up Austria catches movement in his peripheral vision. France has freed Prussia of his waistcoat, and he descends like a vulture to peck at the pale exposed chest, lying flat on his belly between the other nation’s legs and leaving smeared lipstick behind. Prussia’s other hand reaches down to fist in his hair. Looking grumpy about being cast aside, England crawls up the bed to boldly settle himself over France’s ass, pressing him down into the bed. France laughs indulgently against Prussia’s skin and arches, brushing against England’s clothed groin. England’s mouth drops open in a pleased sigh, and he leans down to kiss at France’s spine over his waistcoat.
“Feeling left out, England?” France taunts.
“I’d never miss an opportunity to mount you,” England sneers.
France looks good like this, caught between Prussia and England. But Austria is under no illusion that they have put him there. France is right where he wants to be, and he is playing the pair like a fine violinist.
As they kiss and nip and grind against each other bits of clothing get tugged off and discarded. France twists to pull England’s waistcoat and shirt out of his breeches.
“England?”
“Hmm?”
France pulls his hand away from England’s ass. “Why do you have a firelock stuffed in your breeches?”
France reveals a miniature pistol, and England grins unrepentantly. “Oh, I must have forgot about that one.”
Austria frowns and abandons his task of removing Prussia’s stockings to snatch the weapon out of France’s hand. “You were supposed to surrender these before entering my house.”
“Sorry, I’m unfamiliar with surrendering.”
France grabs the back of England’s head as if to scruff him and grasps at his waist with the other hand. “Now we both know that is a lie.” He pokes England’s belly. “And I’m sure that this is a Portuguese waistcoat claiming you.”
England growls and the pair continue tearing at each other’s clothing. Austria rolls his eyes and dumps the weapon on the table at his bedside, unwilling to get drawn into that particular three-way affair. He returns to the task of undressing his Prussian partner, who pulls Austria’s cravat loose with military precision. After a few minutes Prussia is left completely nude, France and England sport only their breeches, and Austria wears just his shirt, unbuttoned and hanging off him.
“You look so good,” Austria murmurs in Prussia’s ear, biting gently. “You look strong.”
Prussia squirms and whines in his throat. England thrusts forward from where he is kneeling behind France, who is elbows down kissing Prussia’s nipples, and they all rock together in one sensual movement.
“Easy,” France murmurs, as England tugs at the waistband of his trousers around his raised hips.
Austria is enjoying kissing Prussia, but he feels a little neglected, so he reaches down to take himself in his hand. The release of tension is euphoric, and he tilts his head back with a pleased hum, rubbing a thumb over the slit of his cock. Sensing an opening, Prussia kisses Austria’s neck.
“You would know about looking strong,” Prussia’s voice wavers a little, but it is endearing that he has found the courage to say anything at all. It is that thought which causes a frisson of sensation to shoot up Austria’s spine and he tugs himself firmly in a slow up-and-down motion. The friction is pleasant for a while but quickly starts to feel too dry. England is too far away, and Prussia is kissing his lips and his neck, so the only option clearly is to press his fingers against France’s mouth where the other has his tongue in Prussia’s navel. Austria allows himself a smirk as surprise flashes across France’s face for a brief second—it’s rare that someone can get the jump on him in matters of the bedroom—before he quickly adapts and takes Austria’s fingers into his mouth with an indulgent moan. Fuck if the man isn’t as attractive in his stupid lilac breeches as he is irritating.
In looking at those stupid breeches Austria’s attention is caught by England. The other’s gaze is flicking back and forth between Austria’s fingers in France’s mouth and Austria’s erection, which has grown hard under his attention. England has covered himself in tattoos while at sea. Swallows at his collarbones, a compass over his left wrist, an anchor against waves on his right bicep, and half a dozen more scattered across his skin.
“Do you see something you want, captain?” Austria feels a bit silly tacking the title on at the end, but England seems to enjoy it. He abandons his position behind France and slinks sideways to settle on his belly between Austria’s thighs with the smoothness of a predator. The movement reminds Austria of Spain, and he wonders for a second if that’s where he had learnt it.
“Will you suck me?” Austria breathes out.
“Oh God,” Prussia bleats to his side.
England looks up and grins. “Do you want it?”
For the second time that night Austria is struck by how much England looks like some fiendish mercreature, crawling out of the sea to devour unwitting sailors. He looks hungry. Austria thinks back to the morsels of tender meat he’d watched England swallow earlier. England is always hungry, always swallowing, and Austria is only too happy to be eaten.
In lieu of a spoken answer, Austria removes his fingers from France’s mouth and uses the same wet hand to coax England’s lips to part. He needs little encouragement and lets his mouth open, showing his tongue and teeth like a dog.
“How does my spit taste, England,” France coos, ever the instigator.
Austria spots the flash of contempt on England’s face and before the moment can be lost to bickering, he pulls England firmly by the jaw. The newly minted empire goes down with a grunt of indignation but once Austria’s cock touches his tongue his eyes close and he sucks properly.
Austria gasps brokenly and his hips flex into the wet heat. England lacks a little finesse, but he makes up for it in enthusiasm, slavering wetly over his cock and bringing one hand up to press down on Austria’s stomach and the other to rest on his propped-up thigh.
“What a beautiful sight,” France murmurs, brushing the back of England’s head. He pushes his breeches down just far enough to take himself into his other hand. England glares up at him but returns to his task with even more fervour, forcing Austria’s cock all the way into his mouth until Austria can feel England’s throat spasm around him in a supressed gag. Oh God indeed.
Prussia props himself up on his elbows to watch. Austria hears his breath hitch as France changes his stance so that they are rutting their bare cocks against each other. France gently cradles his head, and Prussia leans into the touch with a moan.
“I knew it had been a while, but I’m starting to think it’s been years, little faithful,” France says, grinding as Prussia needs against him.
Prussia shudders. “Y-Yeah. Fuck, yeah, a long time.”
Austria’s arousal ratchets up another notch at the fluttery waver in Prussia’s voice. His blood sings with it. England lifts his head to suckle on the tip of his cock, then descends with a wet gulp. His tied back hair gives Austria an unobstructed view of his slack face and pursued pink lips, and down past his shoulders (one branded with an incriminating ‘P’) where England is grinding against the bedspread. The knowledge that England is enjoying sucking him off makes Austria throb in his mouth. England’s tongue traces the vein up the underside of his cock, feeling his pulse. With a growl Austria puts both hands around the crown of England’s head and encourages him down. England yields the movement—or is not strong enough to resist it—and isn’t that a thought, and bobs faster up and down over Austria’s erection.
Prussia is breathing heavily, and even France in all his experience looks a little dishevelled. They keep grinding against each other, France pinning Prussia down, whose legs keep fluttering up to loosely press against France’s sides. For several minutes Austria keeps England’s head in place, and he sucks and licks with an enthusiasm bordering on devotion, and the thought is so compelling that Austria can feel his orgasm creeping up on him.
“England,” he gasps. “Fuck, keep going. You’re so good.”
England hums, and Austria feels it like an electric shock. Although he’d kept his hips as still as possible, as he hurtles towards his climax he can’t help but thrust deeply into England’s wet inviting mouth. England gurgles and chokes and his hands tighten in warning on Austria’s stomach and thigh.
“Fuck…Fuck! Almost!”
One of Prussia’s hands loosely sprawls over him and tweaks a nipple. It makes Austria thrust harder and England, eager to please, sucks him as much as he can with no air in his lungs which is not much at all. But it’s enough, it’s enough just to see England struggle, and with a blissed-out cry Austria topples over the edge and comes hard down England’s throat, pressing as deeply as he can go. This makes England properly gag, and his head jolts back instinctively, but he does dutifully swallow what he’s given. He’s been generous so Austria lets him go, still pulsing in the last throes of orgasm, and England gasps a deep lungful of air as soon as he can. He coughs, swallows, coughs again. Austria’s cock gives a valiant twitch when he spots a smear of his effusion on England’s chin.
“Were you trying to choke me?” England growls, voice rough. Noticing Austria’s gaze, he wipes his chin with the back of his tattooed hand.
Austria laughs deliriously, riding the high as his limbs settle. “You’d do the same.”
“He would,” France confirms.
“I would,” England agrees haughtily, pushing himself up to his knees to push down his breeches. His cock is desperately hard and flushed. “So, if you’re feeling inclined.”
Prussia whines quietly, clearly feeling left out and in danger of losing the delicious friction against his cock. Austria finds the energy in his warm afterglow to roll over and kiss him. When they separate Prussia’s red eyes are blown wide with barely contained ferality. Behind them, England and France are kissing too—more like biting, really—and palming each other roughly, breeches shoved to their knees.
“Why don’t we let them work out all that pent-up tension?” Austria suggests invitingly, smoothing a hand down Prussia’s side. “And I’ll look after you?”
Prussia’s face crumples in desperate desire. “Yeah, fuck I want-” He stops, embarrassed, and buries his face in Austria’s neck to kiss his jawline away from prying eyes.
“What do you want?” Austria encourages him, tilting his head up for Prussia to lick. England and France topple over onto the bed behind him.
“Fuck…will you,” Prussia whispers against his skin. “Will you suck me like England did for you?”
A pulse of arousal shoots through Austria’s cock with valiantly attempts to come back to attention. He smooths Prussia’s hair and gently pulls him away from his neck.
“You want my mouth?”
“F-Yeah. Christ, yes…” Prussia’s blasphemy is thrilling—not such a chaplain anymore.
Austria descends to kiss those invitingly flushed lips. Prussia’s hands come up to fist in his hair and Austria moans. After a few moments a cut-off gasp behind him catches his and Prussia’s attention and they both break apart to look. France has England fully nude on his back with one arm firmly pressed over the other’s hips, which twitch helplessly under the French empire’s firm grasp. France’s other hand is between England’s legs and Austria spots a smear of oil on England’s inner thigh, when had France retrieved that? Austria considers the possibility that France keeps a bottle tucked in his breeches in the same place England keeps a firelock, prepared for a quick fuck at any moment. France coos and kisses England’s knee as the other writhes against where France’s hand slowly pumps between his legs.
“Show us, France.” Prussia suddenly demands, voice gravelly with more force than he’s been able to summon all night. France grins.
“Don’t you dare,” England growls.
“Behave, England,” France releases his hips to push up England’s thigh closest to them, folding it back towards his stomach. Prussia sucks in a breath at the sight of France’s wet pointer finger inside England, the knuckle of his middle finger dripping with more oil and massaging around England’s fluttering rim. England goes to kick France, but he’s caught, and all four of them make a noise as France slides in the second finger in retribution. England’s spine arches and his hands scrabble desperately at the bedspread as he gasps.
Austria needs to get Prussia in his mouth now. He needs to make Prussia squirm like that. The thought is so strong that he can rip his gaze away from the tempting display and slide downwards, knocking against Prussia’s belly and knees as he goes. Prussia is slow to react until Austria fists his cock and he almost jumps off the bed.
“Fuck Austr-” His name ends on a moan as Austria swallows Prussia to the base in one smooth movement. He’s neatly shaven and tastes faintly like soap, and Austria sucks with rapture. He can feel Prussia’s pulse throbbing, and he grasps Prussia’s hips hard. His own hips are slightly elevated, and France lets go of England for a second to playfully smack his ass. Austria jumps and glares over his shoulder, but France has already lost interest, pressing down hard on England’s softer underbelly instead.
Their voices start to blend as the edges of their pleasure meld. Prussia is the loudest, gasping, groaning, and muttering bitten off expletives as Austria bobs his head up and down. Austria hums every so often, eyes shut as he devotes himself to the task of making Prussia feel as good as possible. England is clearly trying to restrain his voice, making little cut off grunts and soft noises deep in his throat. France is praising him quietly, and England occasionally snaps at him to hold his tongue.
Without looking Austria feels France slide something against his hand and he instinctively takes it. It’s the bottle of oil he’d used to open England up. Austria glances up. Prussia has not noticed.
While continuing to suck and lick him Austria slicks the fingers of his right hand, rubbing distracting circles on Prussia’s hip with his left. He then runs the back of his hand down the back of Prussia’s thigh, leaving a trail and letting him feel the moisture, until he presses at Prussia’s perineum.
Prussia suddenly props himself up on his elbows. “Oh God what…are you—is that?” Prussia sounds adorably flustered.
Austria hums and lets his cock droop from his mouth.
“Do you want my fingers?” He massages them against the soft skin of his rim.
Prussia’s head falls back with a soft thump. “Ahh…just…hmm, do it…”
Austria obliges, gently pressing with the tip of one finger. Prussia clenches immediately.
“Relax,” Austria murmurs.
“I’m trying,” he snaps.
“Not everyone is as well-practiced at taking as our dear England,” France says slyly.
“I swear to God France I’m going to take that firelock and fire it up you a-Aah!”
“Oh, there it is!” France preens with delight as he rubs his fingers harder into what Austria assumes must be England’s sweet spot. England moans helplessly, thighs fluttering off the bed.
The distraction is enough that Austria can slide his finger deeper inside Prussia, who is tight and hot around him. Despite having already cum Austria is back at full mast at just the feeling of Prussia stretching around him. Prussia’s teeth are gritted, and he clenches at the bedsheets. Austria is determined to make him feel good and pumps his finger with another drizzle of oil. Once he has a rhythm established, he dives back down to swallow Prussia’s cock. Prussia moans again, and Austria feels his muscles slowly relax enough that he can suggest a second finger at Prussia’s clenching entrance with gentle pressure.
“Fuck…yeah come on,” Prussia whines. Austria obeys and the other groans. With two fingers in him and Austria’s mouth sealed around his cock Prussia twitches hard every few seconds, muscles spasming and threatening to throw Austria off. Austria tightens his grip to hold Prussia down and that earns him a loud moan.
“Fucking, faster…twat,” he hears England snap behind him.
France practically purrs. “Hold your tongue, brute. Patience is a cardinal virtue.”
“Jesus fucking…”
There’s a rough scuffle and Austria pops off Prussia’s cock to peek. England has rolled France over and now straddles him imperiously, the other laid back on the bedspread with one wrist pinned. France’s other hand still works dutifully between England’s legs as England grinds over him with increasing intensity.
Austria watches a bead of sweat trail down England’s spine and imagines licking it up. France, for all his prior teasing, looks helplessly captivated, blue eyes wide and mouth parted as he helps England take his pleasure. He must do something particularly pleasing with his fingers because England jumps, whines low in his throat, and rolls his hips harder.
“Fuuck…yeah there! Fucking…right there,” England is growling and clawing like a siren and then he takes himself into his hand. As he jerks himself off Austria subconsciously mirrors the rhythm with his fingers inside Prussia. England and France keep moaning and murmuring mixed insults and expletives to each other, and the pitch gets higher and higher until eventually, with a shattered cry, England climaxes. He throws his head back, mouth open and choking on air as he comes over his own fist and France’s taut belly while his hips ride out the wave over France’s fingers deep inside of him.
Austria must strike particularly hard with his own fingers because Prussia’s muscles suddenly clamp around him and he feels the spongy piece of tissue deep inside of Prussia against his fingertips. The other lets out a strangled moan, legs fluttering in overstimulation.
“Oh my…God! Austria!”
More blasphemy, and Austria returns his full attention to Prussia. The other’s flushed cock is too tempting not to put back in his mouth and he sucks luxuriously, swirling his tongue around the head and bobbing up and down as quickly as he can manage. Prussia’s insides are hot and squeezing desperately as he fingers his sweet spot. Austria hints at the stretch of a third finger, pressing it against Prussia’s rim, and the other arches in pleasure. He has waited patiently through his and England’s orgasm so Austria rewards him as best he can, sucking and thrusting his fingers.
His own head is a little fuzzy, and it isn’t helped when Prussia desperately reaches down to grab and pull at his hair. Austria moans and lets his eyes roll closed, enjoying the pleasure of being used.
“Fucking, gonna, come down your fucking throat,” Prussia snarls, and for a second Austria sees it again. The Teutonic Order reaching and winning and taking. Prussia takes him so well that Austria’s ring finger slips in besides the other two and the Kingdom of Prussia almost howls with satisfaction. He thrusts into Austria’s mouth, and Austria gags hard as the tip of his cock touches his soft uvula. He can’t talk, can’t tell Prussia how much he wants it, so he just hums and moans and slobbers, spit dribbling down his chin, down Prussia’s cock, and over his perineum to pool around his fingers buried inside the other. Fuck he wants it.
“Fuck…Austria…fuck!” Prussia seizes against him and Austria tastes salt and wet earth at the back of his mouth as the other comes hard.
He breathes desperately through his noise as the jet of liquid touches the back of his throat, barely maintaining the presence of mind to swallow and weakly thrust his fingers against Prussia’s spot. Prussia moans loudly, squirming and thrusting against Austria’s mouth. He’s so hard again, the tip of his cock brushing against the bedsheets where his hips are only half propped up, knees skating out, and with Prussia satisfied Austria is suddenly one hundred times more aware of it. Prussia begins to settle and he lets go of his death grip on Austria’s hair. Austria gives his cock one final suck and licks from base to tip as he comes down from the high, and Prussia’s breath catches as he slowly removes his fingers. Prussia groans and shudders with the loss of pressure before his limbs sprawl loosely, cock going soft against his thigh. His hole twitches around nothing and Austria’s cock gives a hard throb.
He shakily pushes himself up to his hands and knees.
“At ease, major,” France teases and Austria’s mouth twitches with the hint of a smile, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“You…that was so good,” Prussia breathes, and it’s as if decades of clerical posture have been stripped from him. He looks relaxed, for the first time since Austria can remember. He did that.
England has rolled off France to flop by his side, and his breathing is slowing back down. Sweat has plastered strands of his blonde hair, which have escaped the knot, to his brow, and Prussia looks about the same, fingered to exhaustion. France is still clearly achingly hard; breeches tangled around his knees and hips slick with sweat where England had ridden his hand.
Now that Austria is ready to go again, he mentally measures whether he actually wants to fuck France. The other is beautiful, that much he has begrudgingly admitted over the course of the evening. France is also powerful—because it takes a lot to hold England down even briefly—and Austria knows from his reaction to the glimpse he’d caught of the Teutonic Order under Prussia’s modest exterior that he is attracted to power.
France’s cock is also a pleasing size.
He looks up and feels heat rush to his face as he realises he’s been caught staring. France smirks and runs one hand down his body, over his tight adonis belt, to grasp himself loosely in his fist.
“Do you like what you see?”
Austria’s mouth is suddenly very dry, and when he swallows, he can taste traces of Prussia.
“Don’t give him the satisfaction Austria,” England says lazily, massaging his own thigh where he’s almost melted into the sheets.
“My fingers gave you plenty satisfaction, it’s only fair I should get my own,” France shamelessly strokes himself to his audience. Prussia blearily props himself up to get a look in, and his eyes trace France’s muscles with interest.
“You should get Austria to ride you.”
“Prussia!”
England cackles as Austria’s cheeks flush an even darker red. “You should open him up, Prussia. Return the favour.”
There’s a beat of silence as the idea hangs in the air. Austria can’t bring himself to look at Prussia, but he can feel the weight of the other’s red gaze bearing down on him hungrily.
“Do you want my fingers?” Prussia asks, voice low, in a perfect mirror of what Austria had asked him earlier.
Austria bites his lip with how badly he wants it. Prussia has long fingers and he knows they’ll feel good inside him.
“Do you think yourself up to it?”
He looks at Prussia as he says it and there’s a glint of something feral in the other’s eyes. The Teutonic beast is so close to the surface again. Prussia suddenly rears up from where he’d been laid flat the whole bed-play, and Austria widens his stance to balance as Prussia presses himself against his back, mouthing at the top of his spine and curling a hand around his hip.
Austria hums and tries not to feel too self-conscious about facing England and France as the latter palms himself with hooded eyes. Despite his recent orgasm England appears to be hardening again already, one hand drifting to rest in the crook of his slick inner thigh.
He feels Prussia stroke himself once against the small of his back and then Prussia’s wet fingers trace his rim. Austria realises with a shudder that they’re wet with Prussia’s own spend. His head tilts back to rest on Prussia’s shoulder without his trying to, and when the first finger breaches him Austria keens. It feels good. He’s had an orgasm and he’s relaxed and eager. His muscles twitch and throb, welcoming Prussia’s finger as the other gently thrusts it inside of him. It brushes the place deep inside of him and his hips jump uncontrollably into Prussia’s hand.
“God…Austria…”
He feels like Prussia’s new God, as the ex-clergyman kneels behind him and gives him his full devout attention. He feels like an altar, stripped bare; a conduit for some higher power. A second finger joins the first and Austria grunts, consciously focuses on relaxing as the stretch stings him slightly. The fingers retreat and then return with more oil and he moans appreciatively. Prussia presses a kiss to the back of his neck, painfully tender for such a moment.
England and France are both stroking themselves now, watching intently. France goes slower, as if teasing himself or maybe holding himself off. They lean against each other, elbows brushing. At one point France slides the fingers of his hand covered in sticky precum into England’s mouth and Austria is surprised that England allows it without complaint, eyelids fluttering shut as he suckles and moans around the mouthful. He thinks back to when England had sucked him off with such devotion earlier. Austria vows, once he has signed the new Anglo-Austrian alliance between them, to explore this oral fixation more. France takes England’s spit and strokes himself with it, and Austria throbs with the need to have his cock.
“I’m ready,” he says decisively. Prussia groans deep in his throat and slows down the thrusting of his fingers, leaving Austria with a deep ache. He removes them gently, and the loss is maddening. He feels more than sees Prussia settle against England’s other side.
His focus is entirely on France, who kicks off his breeches and then reaches for the bottle of oil and upends it generously over himself. He strokes once, twice, then gently holds the base of his cock between his thumb and fingers like a favour for Austria to take.
“Come here then,” the French empire says, smooth as silk.
Austria’s thighs wobble as he goes to crawl over France, and England sniggers. Ignoring him and the flush on his cheeks, Austria settles over France’s hips and takes a moment to appreciate how deep France’s cock will reach inside him. It’s been a while.
“Let me…” Austria hesitates to admit to the vulnerability. “Let me go at my own pace.” He finally manages to spit out.
France, for all his lechery, only nods. “Take your time.”
Austria props himself up until he can feel the tip of France’s cock against him. He feels the both of them twitch. With a deep breath he presses down, and after a few moments his muscles give and allow the invasion. Austria bites his lip so hard it hurts with the effort to not whimper at the sensation of being split. He forces himself down further, eased by the slickness of the oil. The tip is already overwhelming, and he bounces a few times to ease the stretch. A minute passes before he feels ready to sink lower, and now the worst is over he can seat himself flush against France’s pelvis and God he feels so full.
France has been incredibly patient—ever attentive to his partners. Now though, Austria can feel the tremble of barely controlled power as France struggles to hold still for him to adjust. It’s not quite romantic, but it is more concern than he’d expected after decades of gutting each other on the battlefield. Austria does feel a little like a conqueror sat atop him like this, and he flexes his inner muscles experimentally as the headrush takes him. France gives a strangled whine, and his hands tighten on Austria’s hips.
“That was on purpose you swine,” he wheezes.
In response Austria gives a short bob, rising ever so slightly on his knees to let France’s cock slip out and then back into him. He can’t help his own short moan at the friction, but France’s voice far outstrips his in volume.
“I swear on the holy chrism, Austria, if you do not move properly, I will do it for you,” there’s a hint of something dark and dangerous in France’s voice, so Austria obliges with a deeper grind against him.
France groans and Austria settles into a rhythm, bouncing over his cock. It feels good, striking him deep in the right places and with the perfect girth. He consciously relaxes, tilting his hips slightly, and moans as France’s cock slides in deeper with every upstroke.
Another moan to his left makes him open his eyes, which he hadn’t even realised had slipped shut, to catch Prussia stroking himself off, hard again to the sight of Austria taking France deeply. England is touching himself too, and for a moment Austria observes the difference between them. Prussia clearly likes a lighter, faster grasp, whereas England favours a tighter, slower hand around his cock. England then reaches over to grasp Prussia and kiss him for the first time since they’d started. Prussia gives a valiant fight, but England succeeds in plundering his mouth, tongue slipping behind his teeth. Prussia grasps under England’s ear and runs a finger curiously up England’s many piercings.
England leans in to whisper something, far too quiet for Austria to catch, but it makes Prussia turn bright red almost immediately.
“What,” Austria wheezes as France’s cock pulses inside him. “What did he say?”
Prussia can’t seem to find the words, the Teutonic Order retreating back to hide under decades of clerical vows.
“I only offered him my tongue,” England says slyly.
Austria wonders what England had really said to garner than kind of reaction.
“How will you…” For all his logistical skill Prussia can’t seem to work out where to put his legs or hips for whatever England has offered, one leg bending in midair with uncertainty.
“Fucking hell just come…here!” With a rough yank England drags Prussia to roll and sit on his face, resting the backs of his thighs in the crooks of his elbows.
“England!”
Prussia’s voice is cut off into a struck-dumb squeal as England licks noisily at his rim—God England really is insatiable in his greed. Austria wonders whether this is the first time someone has put their tongue on Prussia there, as the kingdom suffers a full-body shudder from head to toes. Arthur pushes Prussia’s thighs even further apart and feasts on him like he’s been marooned and starved for months, and Austria admires the way his tattooed forearms flex. Prussia moans helplessly, his early bravado gone again, grinding into England’s firm grasp.
The whole thing happens so fast. “The poor man wasn’t going anywhere, England,” France chides. Prussia moans.
England doesn’t reply, just sucks loudly while humming in his throat.
Austria rolls his hips, watching indulgently, and moans in surprise when France thrusts hard to meet him. He shifts his gaze to glare down but France only grins at him.
“Come on, I have been very patient with all of you tonight,” France thrusts hard again, disrupting Austria’s rhythm, and within a few seconds it becomes clear that from now on he’s just there for the ride. Austria gasps at the sensation and his muscles clench and flutter. His neglected cock, which had softened to half mast, fills back out with renewed interest.
They move sinuously together, France thrusting with a perfect metronomic rhythm as if he has practiced and perfected the art of fucking his partners. It’s slippery and wet as they sweat together and every nerve in his belly lights up with pleasure at the smooth friction between his legs. France adjusts his hold on Austria’s hips, clutching hard enough with all the strength of the Bourbon monarchy to leave bruises on his pale skin. He swears under his breath as he thrusts hard, grinds inside him, and thrusts again.
It’s good. Almost too good, as he rushes towards another orgasm after only a few minutes. France is an excellent lover but even his formidable patience is wearing thin, and he’s biting his bottom lip and screwing his eyes shut with the effort it takes not to finish.
His cock throbs hard and Austria feels the pulse inside him. Gathering his strength, he uses his thighs to aid the movement of his hips.
“Ah…come on…France…”
France gives a tortured groan. “You feel so good.”
“Come on then,” Austria knows how to play for an audience, and he plays for Francis like he would for a packed room in Vienna. He throws his head back and grinds down, and his moan is not entirely theatrical as France’s cock crushes the swollen spot deep inside of him. “Finish for me.”
For all his power and bravado, even France cannot resist such a compelling order. His moans escalate into volume until they drown out Prussia, who is gasping and whining as England valiantly continues to eat him out. They seem to set each other off, and France grasps Austria hard enough that his pelvis throbs. He will have bruises for a few minutes until his body heals them. France thrusts once, twice more, and then settles as deep inside him as he can and Austria can feel the pulse of his orgasm and the wetness of it inside of him as France whines loudly.
He’d been keeping a handle on his own arousal but the sensation of France coming and the delightfully open and vulnerable face he makes as he does, lipstick smudged across his cheek and blonde curls spilling across the bed like a halo, has him throbbing for attention. He bounces on France’s spent cock and the other moans pitifully in overstimulation. He grasps himself in his hand and it only takes a few strokes before he’s spilling too—weaker the second time—but still fitfully across France’s lean belly and the coating of hair he has from sternum to navel the same way England had. The release tingles through his whole body and he gasps towards the ceiling as his nerves vibrate with pleasure.
Next to him Prussia is moaning higher, seemingly overwhelmed by England’s hunger as the other lathes his tongue across him. Austria can’t see England’s face behind Prussia’s thigh, but he can imagine the other has his green eyes shut in concentration. His own legs are splayed open, oil glistening on this perineum, while Prussia sits gingerly over his face, seemingly reluctant to put his full weight down. England’s arms flex as he pulls Prussia as deep as the other will allow and Prussia keens and takes himself more firmly into his hand where he had been loosely toying with himself. He strokes quicker and his feet flutter up from the mattress, dropping back to drum up and down in desperation. He grasps at his own chest with the other hand, pinching a nipple.
Austria’s thighs shudder as he pushes himself up and France’s cock slips from him with a wet noise. France groans but puts his arms out to welcome Austria to collapse next to him. He allows it, too tired to complain, and watches as Prussia brings himself to completion while rutting his rim against England’s tongue.
“Come in his mouth, Prussia…you know he likes it,” France murmurs, his voice spent but ever the instigator.
England gives a muffled moan between Prussia’s legs and Prussia shakes uncontrollably as he pushes himself up on his knees, breaking England’s hold over his thighs. England’s face emerges, wet and erotically blotchy pink with exertion. His lips are swollen and he works his jaw open until it pops. Prussia trembles as he settles over England’s chest, still stroking himself off furiously, and bumps the head of his cock demandingly against the pursed bow of England’s mouth.
“Let me…fuck…” Prussia whines, his hand a blur. “Let me come in your mouth.”
Eyes slightly wet with exertion but eager to please, the island relents and opens his mouth, and now it’s Prussia in charge of the movement as he thrusts his cock down England’s throat. England’s eyes flutter shut and he tries to work his tongue against Prussia, the motion visible through his hollowed cheeks and in the tightening of the tendons in his neck. It’s almost unnecessary, however, and with a deep Teutonic growl Prussia finds his second orgasm down England’s throat. The other gags once but swallows, his throat bobbing hard to keep up, as another load joins Austria’s in his stomach.
The thought of England’s greedy mouth makes his cock twitch weakly in interest, but France has fucked him into exhaustion.
The Prussian rides out the last pulses of his orgasm in England’s mouth before pulling out, raking one hand through his white hair with a dazed expression, red eyes blown.
“Fucking hell…your mouth…” He murmurs.
England manages a wry grin and slips a hand up to rub the back of Prussia’s spine, his thumb sliding between the crease of his cheeks. “Was I the first to lick you?” He says hoarsely.
Prussia’s cheeks darken and he refuses to answer, dismounting and collapsing with wobbling legs onto the bed besides him. As he does more of England’s body comes into view and it’s clear that the other has come untouched over his own stomach just from eating Prussia out and swallowing his spend.
France notices too. “I’m not sure you are in the position to be feeling very smug, England.” He chides. England looks a little embarrassed but still grins unrepentantly, all teeth like a siren.
“Oh likewise, I heard you squealing as soon as Austria gave you a command.”
They bicker for a moment, and Austria tunes it out as he enjoys the glow that comes after an orgasm. The room stinks of sweat, oil, and sex, with an undercurrent of earth and petrichor. He wonders whether their coupling will have been reflected in warm wet storms over the continent.
“I meant to ask, what post is it that you’re officially holding?” Austria interrupts, tracing circles on France’s hipbone but directing the question toward Prussia with a nod. England and France stop arguing for a moment to listen, curious.
“Now that you’ve given up the ploughshare in favour of the sword again,” England adds.
Prussia yawns and stretches like a satisfied cat. “I’m acting as lieutenant-general for his majesty’s cavalry division.”
Nobody speaks for a moment.
“So, that means…”
“Well, that’s higher than captain.”
“Oi.”
“And you’re a major-general.”
“…You have the highest rank of all of us?” Austria demands, turning to face Prussia.
The silence that follows is finally broken by France’s loud laughter. “I suppose piety does have its rewards.”