❝if i could have a second skin i'd probably dress up in you❞
wear my colors | axis powers hetalia | 1000 words | netherlands ; belgium | r |
in which belgium congratulates the netherlands on his victory over slovakia.
wear my colors.
Even though he technically hadn’t been playing today, and it is the dead of winter, there’s still a layer of sweat hanging off of his skin that necessitates a wash. So as soon as he gets back to the hotel, he sheds his clothing and slips into the shower. The hot water falls against his forehead and slicks his hair to the sides of his face. He slips out just as quickly, wraps a towel around his waist, and heads back into the main room.
He grabs the pack of cigarettes and lights one before he even bothers to slip into a pair of well-fit slacks. He’s digging through his suitcase for a clean shirt when he hears someone giggle behind him.
“You know, it’s a good thing you can’t die, because otherwise your lungs would have been charred to ash long ago.”
He whips around, startled, and upon seeing his sister seated primly on his bed, mutters, “Jesus fucking christ, Bel, how the hell did you get in here?”
“Why is it,” Belgium returns, smiling sweetly but ignoring his question, “that whenever I hear you say more that five words at once, at least two of them are entirely explicit?”
Holland lets out a grunt that is decidedly noncommittal.
“See, you’re so eloquent,” Belgium continues ruefully. Her brother won’t pretend that he doesn’t notice exactly how she’s dressed-the knee-length denim skirt and plain white blouse might’ve been neutral if she hadn’t coupled them with a red hair ribbon and bright orange scarf.
“How. Did. You. Get. In. Here.” Holland is being very careful not to swear, and he’s amazed when he manages it. Belgium throws back her head and laughs.
“Maybe I made it worth the doorman’s while?” She asks the question casually, but then sees the anger flash in Holland’s eyes and decides to switch tactics. “I told him I was your sister, and that I wanted to congratulate you. Fair enough?”
“I’m supposed be on the same rules as the players,” he says under his breath, his words clouded with smoke.
“Oh, and you think they aren’t celebrating tonight? Come on, Wim, you did well.”
“Glad you think so.” Holland crosses his arms over his chest, glares down a her. “Now do you mind getting out so I can get dressed?”
“You’re wearing pants, aren’t you,” Belgium murmurs idly with a wave of her hand. “What more do you need?”
“It’s the dead of fucking winter. I’ll freeze.”
“There you go again with the cursing,” she tuts. “Who taught you manners? It can’t have been the same person who taught me.”
“When you were learning manners, I was fighting war.”
“How nice for you,” Belgium laughs. “Oh, speaking of which, Switzerland and I are betting on you and Spain.”
This stops Holland cold. He looks at Belgium meanly and spits out, “Well, go wish him luck or something, then.”
“Already done.”
“Seriously, get out.”
“No, I don’t think I will.”
Holland throws his hands up in disgust and turns his back on her. He hears her let out her breath in a huff, and then feels her as she comes up behind him and places her arms around his waist. Her downy blonde hair brushes against the bear skin of his back. He drops the cigarette and stomps it out under his foot.
“No, really, broer-I’m proud of you.” Her voice is soft and sincere, and Holland sighs.
“Thanks.”
“Now, do you want to here more about that bet?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Oh, I think you do.” And as if to prove it, she skirts around to face him, stands up on her tiptoes, and kisses him lightly on the mouth. She’s not entirely tall enough to do this, however, so her kiss grazes his lower lip and the edges of his chin.
Holland doesn’t need any further persuasion. He reaches down and grips her around the waist, lifting her up so that their lips meet. He’s hungrier for her than he realizes, as he bits down on her tongue and her hands dig into his hair. She wraps her legs firmly around her waist, and they stagger around the room for a moment, blind to everything but the sensations of one another.
Eventually his legs hit the edges of the bed, and he falls backwards onto it, taking her with him. She breaks away from his kiss for a moment, laughing deliriously. He reaches up and begins unbuttoning her blouse; after a moment she realizes what he’s doing and helps quicken the process.
When she’s shed everything but the scarf, he flips her over on the bed and hold her down by the shoulders, just hard enough not to bruise. He’s always careful of that; her skin is the texture of a peach, and his hands could leave marks just as easily on her as on the delicate fruit. But he doesn’t want that.
She unzips his pants and he kicks them off, and a moment later they are side-by-side under the sheets, limbs intertwined.
After a moment, she sighs in contentment and tucks her chin against his shoulder. “I’ve missed you,” she breathes.
“I’ve only been gone a few weeks,” he grumbles.
“But it seems longer,” she insists.
“So are you going to tell me what that bet entailed?”
“Eh. Something about winners and losers and rewarding the former,” she says idly.
His hands are still gently caressing her body, so the last word comes out coupled with a soft moan.
“So if Spain wins tomorrow…”
“Switzerland will be busy tomorrow night.”
He pauses, one of his hands on the curve of her stomach and the other against her swan’s neck. “Excuse me?”
“What, you thought I’d bet on Spain?”
“…maybe.”
She laughs again, and now he turns his head to hide his blush. “You’re so cute, Wim. Really. How could you ever think I’d bet on anyone but you?”
And because he doesn’t want to admit just how happy that statement makes him, he simply gathers her up in his arms and kisses her again in earnest. But based on her response, the message gets across just fine.
notes; my headcanon name for netherlands is "willem" or "wim" for short. also, in case you hadn't heard, the netherlands bested slovakia 2-1 in the round of 16 on june 28, 2010.
in which belgium congratulates the netherlands on his victory over slovakia.
wear my colors.
Even though he technically hadn’t been playing today, and it is the dead of winter, there’s still a layer of sweat hanging off of his skin that necessitates a wash. So as soon as he gets back to the hotel, he sheds his clothing and slips into the shower. The hot water falls against his forehead and slicks his hair to the sides of his face. He slips out just as quickly, wraps a towel around his waist, and heads back into the main room.
He grabs the pack of cigarettes and lights one before he even bothers to slip into a pair of well-fit slacks. He’s digging through his suitcase for a clean shirt when he hears someone giggle behind him.
“You know, it’s a good thing you can’t die, because otherwise your lungs would have been charred to ash long ago.”
He whips around, startled, and upon seeing his sister seated primly on his bed, mutters, “Jesus fucking christ, Bel, how the hell did you get in here?”
“Why is it,” Belgium returns, smiling sweetly but ignoring his question, “that whenever I hear you say more that five words at once, at least two of them are entirely explicit?”
Holland lets out a grunt that is decidedly noncommittal.
“See, you’re so eloquent,” Belgium continues ruefully. Her brother won’t pretend that he doesn’t notice exactly how she’s dressed-the knee-length denim skirt and plain white blouse might’ve been neutral if she hadn’t coupled them with a red hair ribbon and bright orange scarf.
“How. Did. You. Get. In. Here.” Holland is being very careful not to swear, and he’s amazed when he manages it. Belgium throws back her head and laughs.
“Maybe I made it worth the doorman’s while?” She asks the question casually, but then sees the anger flash in Holland’s eyes and decides to switch tactics. “I told him I was your sister, and that I wanted to congratulate you. Fair enough?”
“I’m supposed be on the same rules as the players,” he says under his breath, his words clouded with smoke.
“Oh, and you think they aren’t celebrating tonight? Come on, Wim, you did well.”
“Glad you think so.” Holland crosses his arms over his chest, glares down a her. “Now do you mind getting out so I can get dressed?”
“You’re wearing pants, aren’t you,” Belgium murmurs idly with a wave of her hand. “What more do you need?”
“It’s the dead of fucking winter. I’ll freeze.”
“There you go again with the cursing,” she tuts. “Who taught you manners? It can’t have been the same person who taught me.”
“When you were learning manners, I was fighting war.”
“How nice for you,” Belgium laughs. “Oh, speaking of which, Switzerland and I are betting on you and Spain.”
This stops Holland cold. He looks at Belgium meanly and spits out, “Well, go wish him luck or something, then.”
“Already done.”
“Seriously, get out.”
“No, I don’t think I will.”
Holland throws his hands up in disgust and turns his back on her. He hears her let out her breath in a huff, and then feels her as she comes up behind him and places her arms around his waist. Her downy blonde hair brushes against the bear skin of his back. He drops the cigarette and stomps it out under his foot.
“No, really, broer-I’m proud of you.” Her voice is soft and sincere, and Holland sighs.
“Thanks.”
“Now, do you want to here more about that bet?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Oh, I think you do.” And as if to prove it, she skirts around to face him, stands up on her tiptoes, and kisses him lightly on the mouth. She’s not entirely tall enough to do this, however, so her kiss grazes his lower lip and the edges of his chin.
Holland doesn’t need any further persuasion. He reaches down and grips her around the waist, lifting her up so that their lips meet. He’s hungrier for her than he realizes, as he bits down on her tongue and her hands dig into his hair. She wraps her legs firmly around her waist, and they stagger around the room for a moment, blind to everything but the sensations of one another.
Eventually his legs hit the edges of the bed, and he falls backwards onto it, taking her with him. She breaks away from his kiss for a moment, laughing deliriously. He reaches up and begins unbuttoning her blouse; after a moment she realizes what he’s doing and helps quicken the process.
When she’s shed everything but the scarf, he flips her over on the bed and hold her down by the shoulders, just hard enough not to bruise. He’s always careful of that; her skin is the texture of a peach, and his hands could leave marks just as easily on her as on the delicate fruit. But he doesn’t want that.
She unzips his pants and he kicks them off, and a moment later they are side-by-side under the sheets, limbs intertwined.
After a moment, she sighs in contentment and tucks her chin against his shoulder. “I’ve missed you,” she breathes.
“I’ve only been gone a few weeks,” he grumbles.
“But it seems longer,” she insists.
“So are you going to tell me what that bet entailed?”
“Eh. Something about winners and losers and rewarding the former,” she says idly.
His hands are still gently caressing her body, so the last word comes out coupled with a soft moan.
“So if Spain wins tomorrow…”
“Switzerland will be busy tomorrow night.”
He pauses, one of his hands on the curve of her stomach and the other against her swan’s neck. “Excuse me?”
“What, you thought I’d bet on Spain?”
“…maybe.”
She laughs again, and now he turns his head to hide his blush. “You’re so cute, Wim. Really. How could you ever think I’d bet on anyone but you?”
And because he doesn’t want to admit just how happy that statement makes him, he simply gathers her up in his arms and kisses her again in earnest. But based on her response, the message gets across just fine.
notes; my headcanon name for netherlands is "willem" or "wim" for short. also, in case you hadn't heard, the netherlands bested slovakia 2-1 in the round of 16 on june 28, 2010.