**WARNING: MATURE CONTENT AHEAD***
Sweat-matted, brown hair tickles his chest. His breath hitches—Hungary squeezes her knees and they dig into his sides, forcing a gasp out of him, aimed straight for her, and she cranes her neck down to force their lips together. His hands keep steady on her hips, despite how his elbows shake, and he holds her in place above him, feeling the coarse texture of white lace under his fingers, above old scars and more of the same, rough skin of her palms against his stomach. He can taste himself on her tongue and he's pretty sure she knows it by the way she grips his hair and bites at his mouth.
The bed springs squeak.
Light from the street below reflects through the window, illuminating the curve of her back as she straightens, throwing her head back, a shudder running through her in time with her rotating hips. He wants to appreciate the sight of her, flesh flushed red with sex and eyes blinking rapidly, but he isn't sure that he has enough blood left in his brain to manage such a task, and just forces himself not to close his eyes, digging his fingers into her and breathing noisily through his nose. They're drunk, the both of them. Even through the musk that's filled the room, he can still smell the case of beer they split and, somehow, that makes things less surreal than they already are.
Her hands are in his hair again and this time, she drags him up and presses his face into her breasts, burying her gasps in his scalp. He doesn't let go of her, but he licks what he can reach and that's enough to make her buck against him, keening in his ear, breath falling hot and damp across his cheek as her fingernails scrape into his shoulder blades. She murmurs something, too quiet to catch, and suddenly, the desire for showmanship is gone and Denmark loses himself in the wet slaps of skin on skin and the way her sweat tastes.
She makes a small, desperate noise. He relishes it and grabs her close.
He doesn't know what exactly it is that they're doing or what they are to the other. They won't cuddle when they're done and they won't call each other tomorrow. They won't make plans for later in the week. They won't touch gently like lovers because they aren't lovers.
But she has a pack of cigarettes in her purse and they still have half a cake to finish.
The streetlamp goes out and the night continues without incident.