A/N: This was for a kinkmeme request that asked for DenSu curling at the Olympics (with a bonus of ice!sex). Slashy PWP (which starts off a little dubcon-y fyi), tons of curling jargon, my first attempt at writing both Denmark and Sweden, and a really goofy ending.

It goes without saying that I don't own anything.

Why Scandinavian Training is Superior

Sweden breathes deeply, placing his right foot onto the hack. He looks towards the house on the other end of the curling sheet, where a Skip would normally stand and provide a spot to aim for. He kneels down, grabbing hold of the handle of his stone and slides back and forth with his left foot while keeping his right on the hack. Sliding helps him to clear his mind, sharpen his focus. He envisions sliding out of the hack and letting go of his stone, giving it just the right amount of 'oomph' for it to glide smoothly down the ice. It would knock the two stones (Denmark's stones, as he privately thinks of them) that he'd placed there out of the house, leaving him as the victor.

Somewhere along the line his eyes had fallen shut and he opens them.

With the double-takeout playing over in his mind, Sweden picks up his broom and prepares to throw his stone. Slide out, slide in, slide out again, and release. He gives the rock a final push and watches it zoom towards the house. Imagines a pair of sweepers with their brooms poised in front of the stone, waiting for a command.

He gets up from his crouched position to quickly trail the rock on its path. It begins to deviate too far to the left halfway down the ice. It'll completely miss its target at this rate. "Curl." He mutters shortly and the rock, as if in response, curls towards the right until it's back on track. Half a second later it crashes into the two rocks (Denmark's, his mind echoes) sitting in the house, knocking them out. For one brief moment it seems as if it will roll out of the house as well, but it doesn't. When Sweden finally gets to the other end of the ice, he can see that it's lying almost directly on the button.

Victory.

The sound of loud clapping causes the Swede to jump. He looks around and spots a guy sitting in the stands. It is, of course, the person he least wants to see right now.

"That was a nice shot, Sverige." Denmark calls, getting up from his seat and making his way down to the rink.

"What're y'doin' here?" Sweden asks bluntly. He watches as the Dane leaps over the railing, landing like a cat on the ice, and stalks to where Sweden is standing. He's dressed in the uniform of the Danish curling teams - a white and gray shirt and black pants. It clashes with Sweden's own vibrant yellow and blue uniform.

"I was just checking out the competition, is all." Denmark grins, all teeth, and shoves his hands in his pockets casually.

"Dun get cocky. Ye've only won two matches s'far."

The confident grin falters slightly. "Yeah, well I was just warming up. . . Anyway, it doesn't matter. I'm definitely going to win on Tuesday, Sverige." Fire returns to his blue eyes.

"We'll see." Sweden mumbles, setting up the rocks for another game. His teams have done really well so far, only losing once. If he wants to have a chance at beating Canada, he'll have to continue training rigorously. He turns around only to find Denmark throwing a stone down the ice.

"What." The bespectacled nation narrows his eyes at the offending rock pointedly.

"Well, I figured you could use another man." The other nation says, standing up. "Besides, I need to practice."

"Hn," Sweden grunts in acquiescence and prepares to throw his shot, wanting to knock Denmark's stone out. The older Scandinavian begins to tap his foot impatiently, breaking the Swede's focus. Sweden takes a deep breath and repeats his earlier process of sliding in and out from the hack. Once he feels more balanced, he slides out and pushes his rock away. It sails down the ice and smashes into Denmark's, taking them both out of the house.

The game continues on in a similar fashion. Every time Denmark gets a rock in the house, Sweden knocks it out. He is hellbent on making sure that Denmark doesn't get a single point. The match ends 1-0, with Sweden as the victor.

"Well I'll be damned." Denmark says in disbelief. Sweden, for his part, feels mildly satisfied. He begins taking the stones off the ice and storing them away. The Dane watches on, waiting to be asked for help but it never comes. When Sweden has all but two rocks stored, Denmark comes up from behind and snakes his arms around the blue-and-yellow clad waist.

"You could've asked me to help, y'know." He says, nipping at the other nation's shoulder playfully.

"Didn't need 'ny." The Swede answers stiffly and tries not to groan when a warm mouth closes on the base of his neck. He rolls his shoulders in discomfort to dislodge the mouth. That proves to be useless because Denmark either doesn't get the hint or just ignores it. Instead, he turns the nation in his arms to plant a kiss on frowning lips. His tongue swipes at the Swede's bottom lip, and the stoic nation reluctantly opens his mouth. Denmark takes advantage of this and slides his tongue inside for exploration.

When the Dane's knee finds its way between his legs, the bespectacled Scandinavian gives a strained moan and grips the other nation's broad shoulders.

"How cute," Denmark purrs, much to his counterpart's disdain.

Before Sweden can retort, he finds himself laying flat on his back, Denmark above him, ice beneath him. He instantly arches away from the frigid surface and subsequently up into the smirking Dane. "What's the matter, Sverige? You cold or something?"

"Off." Sweden grunts, twisting away from the ice as much as he can. Denmark laughs.

"Nah, I think I like it right where I am." His cool fingers travel under Sweden's thin jersey and Sweden tries to fight the shivers lancing down his spine.

"Sl-släpp mig," The Swede says through chattering teeth and curses himself for not wearing an extra layer of clothing. He pushes against Denmark's shoulders but with his arms shaking so badly, he can't gather the required strength to heave the other nation off.

Denmark smirks. "I think I know how to warm you up, Sverige."

Sweden's blue eyes widen. "Danmark-" is all he can say before his jersey is pulled over his head, leaving his back completely unprotected against the ice. His first instinct is to grab the closest source of warmth and hold on tight.

Denmark winces when the younger nation's bare arms cling tightly around his neck, sapping some of his body heat. He reaches up to remove his own curling jersey.

"There, now we're even." He says, planting hot kisses along the Swede's freezing skin. Sweden's response catches in his throat when Denmark bites down on his shoulder. Just tightens his hold around the strong neck, suddenly intensely grateful that Finland isn't around to witness this weakness. Then the slightly shorter Scandinavian wedges a thigh between his legs and all thoughts of self-disgust and discomfort are gone. He moans at the friction and when the Dane pushes at his knees, he doesn't resist. Somehow the bastard always knows how to get him to come undone.

"Ca-can't d-do it 'ere." He stutters in a last-ditch effort to preserve whatever shreds of dignity he has left.

"Why not?"

"Public. Cam'ras. Someone could c'me t' p-pra-" Sweden's breathing hitches when the Danish man licks at his sensitive nipples.

"So let 'em come." Denmark shrugs then smirks. "Besides. . . it adds to the excitement."

Sweden winces at the prospect, then shivers. "G-get of-ff. 'S cold."

"Now now, Sverige. I'm just trying to warm you up," Denmark purrs, ignoring the glare he's receiving. Deft fingers undo the Swede's black pants, swiftly removing them and his undershorts, leaving Sweden completely exposed, and Sweden hisses when his backside touches the ice.

Denmark then slides off his own clothing, kicking them away hastily. He takes a moment to examine the nation spread out before him. The younger man's skin is almost ghostly white by this point; the only colouring left in his face is the slight blue tint of his lips and the red in his cheeks. Denmark hums in appreciation. He kneels over Sweden and presses a kiss to his mouth, sliding his tongue in for a quick swipe. He then quickly replaces his tongue with two fingers, which Sweden dutifully sucks on all while fixing him with a hard stare.

"Don't have any lube with me. . ." The Dane offers, shrugging. When he's satisfied, he pulls his fingers from the hot mouth and nudges the Swedish man's knees further apart. Without waiting for permission, he begins the tedious - but necessary - act of preparation.

When Sweden is sufficiently prepped, Denmark removes his fingers, which causes the other Scandinavian to wince. The Danish nation spits into his hand and slicks himself up as best he can before assuming position. When Sweden gives a curt nod, his face flushed and hair tousled, Denmark pushes in.

Sweden tries to twist away from the intrusion instantly, clenching his eyes shut against the pain. It's been a while since he and Denmark last did this - too long, if he's being honest with himself. His arms tighten around the Dane's neck, nearly enough to choke, until they are pulled away. Strong hands clasp his and press them onto the ice above his head. Sweden hisses, unable to find anything to take his mind off the sensory overload anymore. Then, suddenly, there's a tongue in his mouth, which proves to be a useful distraction until he finally adjusts to Denmark being inside him.

After taking a few laboured breaths, he finally hisses "Move," and the Dane happily complies. The first few thrusts are sloppy and admittedly uncomfortable but then Denmark finds a rhythm and Sweden's suddenly reminded why he likes doing this. Especially when Denmark finds that spot; the one that makes Sweden utter a loud, breathy groan. The elder Scandinavian releases one of his hands to nudge his knee up with an elbow. As if on its own accord, his leg automatically responds by winding around narrow hips. The other one is quick to follow until both of his legs are wrapped tight around the Danish man's waist.

"A-ah," Denmark breathes, arching at the feeling of heels pressing into his back. He uses them to guide his thrusts, succeeding in hitting that spot within Sweden almost every single time. He keeps up that pace for a stretch before he suddenly finds himself laying flat on the ice, Sweden perched above him.

"For he-helvede!" Denmark yelps, arching away from the freezing surface.

"S'your turn." Sweden answers simply. "M'back got t' cold." Upon reaching up to run a hand down his back, Denmark grunts in assent and shrugs one shoulder, then sighs. "Fine, fine." His hands find their way to the Sweden's bony hips and squeeze hard enough to bruise, because that's the kind of guy that Denmark is. The Swedish man groans in response then raises himself up and comes down again, pushing the Dane in deeper each time. This continues until Sweden does something unexpected; he leans down to sink his teeth into Denmark's neck. Denmark yelps again and subsequently climaxes, with Sweden close behind.

When Sweden sits back, there's the barest hint of blood on his lips.

The older nation clamps a hand to the wound on his neck. "That really fucking hurt, dit røvhul."

A rare smirk blooms on the Swede's face as he straightens his glasses. "Dra åt helmet."

Meanwhile, Canada turns around and high-tails it back to the locker rooms as quietly as he can. He desperately hopes they're empty because his face, among other things, is so red it feels like it's about to explode.

So this is how the Scandinavians train.

No wonder they're so good.

Translations

Släpp mig - Let me go

For helvede - Goddamn it

dit røvhul - you asshole

Dra åt helmet - Go to hell

Sverige is Sweden and Danmark is Denmark in Scandinavian, if that wasn't already obvious.

Notes:

The "hack" refers to the little ramp-like thing that the curler slides out from.

Sweepers, as the name suggests, sweep the ice in front of the stone to make it go farther. It's a common misconception that sweeping allows the stone to go faster, but it only makes it go farther.

A Skip is the person who calls the shots, sort of like a team captain.

A "double-takeout" is where a stone knocks two or more stones that were already in the house (the thing that looks like a bull's eye) out.

Getting a stone to "curl" means that it spins as it goes down the ice.

When I used to curl, I would always do the sliding trick to help clear my mind. It really does work.