[Fanfic] - Tear an Image from the Picture
Title: Tear an Image from the Picture
Pairing: Netherlands -> Belgium
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Nation-incest, crossdressing, masturbation, mirrors, guilt, just an overall weird-ass fic.
Summary: …I don’t even know where to start.
Notes: For the purposes of this fic, Netherlands has green eyes. As far as canon goes they could be almost anything though.
---
He'd checked the blinds thirty-goddamn-times and it still wasn't enough.
Late. A Tuesday night, 3:00. Deathly silent streets below his window - still, cold air - his phone was off. No one would dare bash in his front door, and he reminded himself of this even as he finished off a smoke and stabbed it out in the ashtray.
He looked around, then growled at himself for being so paranoid in his own place. Licked his lips, closed his eyes, ran a hand up his stomach. Bare. Smooth. Purposefully bare and smooth. He tried to forget that earlier he had run a blade, oh-so-cautiously, over the skin here. Over his legs. Over much, much more than that. He tried to forget how he first reacted. Tried to forget that even such a fucking mundane action had caused a reaction at all. That wasn’t the point, right now. The point - well.
His fingertips paused and skidded, then slid further down his abdomen. The skin was cool and soft to the touch, and he shivered, but it wasn't quite right. One shaky breath, and he allowed the other hand to join, running them down, over, to brush across muscled hips that he imagined were softer and wider than they truly were; trailed fingers down hairless thighs that were less supple than they should be, and -
Opened his eyes, eyeing the ribbon on his dresser.
Red.
He took a breath and reached for it.
He was halfway through tying it into his hair when soft, gentle curls brushed against his palms, tickling the insides of his wrists. He’d made them that way, sure, but it was such a familiar sensation - the fact that it was the one he was aiming for sent a chill through him. And then it made him feel sick. Why should he know something as mundane as this? Why should it affect him like this? Why couldn’t he control it, why did this sort of shit drive him to do something so fucked up -
Even the damn color was the same, in this light.
He drew his hand away and dropped the ribbon back onto the dresser, staring down at it.
Another beer, then.
---
Quite a few more beers found him tripping up the stairs, finally stumbling into his mattress and groping toward the silky undergarments that had been there the entire time, waiting. He hastily pulled them on - if he didn’t do it now, he may never - and he ignored how he had started to harden under the lace. He nearly fell onto the bed in his effort to sit down, to balance himself, and slowly drew up intricate stockings. He yanked his fingers up, feeling smooth, hairless skin as he pulled them up along his calves…
Oh fuck.
They weren’t meant to hold in something like this - he tried. He was already straining against the undergarments, he could feel it. He tried ignoring it. It didn’t work. As he pulled the stockings up, fastened them against the garter digging into his hips, ignored the way the entire ensemble awkwardly shifted beneath the evidence of his arousal - he could only think of her.
If she’d worn these before. Whether on her own, or thinking of someone else - he licked his lips and yanked them up, even as he felt himself strain against the elastic waistband…
This was so many counts of wrong.
And for some reason that thought only made him harder. Maybe - maybe he should smoke. Calm down a little.
He lit it with fumbling hands and sat on the bed, too drunk to care that he’d have to ash on the floor. He looked at himself in the mirror. In the candlelight his hair looked much like hers. He closed his eyes and touched it. Felt like hers. He felt himself strain against the elastic again. He wasn’t - he looked again, and fuck, he did resemble her with his hair like this.
He stumbled over to the dresser and used one white-knuckled hand to brace himself as he grabbed the ribbon. Reminded himself that no one was around, licked his lips.
She didn’t taste like cigarettes. She tasted - he didn’t know. Something not so fucking filthy. He assumed chocolate. He tore apart his dresser, he knew he had something she’d sent him, and as soon as he found it he put it in his mouth, ignoring how sweet it was and setting the smoke aside. Flicked his eyes to the mirror. Padded over.
Breathed in. Once. Twice.
Calm down.
He needed to calm down.
He - he was going way too fast.
Calm down, man. He needed to calm the fuck down.
He looked, and suddenly he didn’t care that he was going way too fast. That he was way in over his head. He couldn’t help it.
He was doing this, wasn’t he.
He ran his hand down his reflection and tried to - fuck. No. He closed his eyes. He couldn’t do this. He didn’t want to do this.
His erection, pressing against the lace, said otherwise. How flushed he was, how hard he was breathing, the beads of sweat creeping down the base of his spine - all of it said otherwise. He pressed his forehead against the mirror before finally looking up.
Green, green eyes, hidden under gentle, curled tresses. If he just looked at the eyes - he brought one hand up to the mirror to brace himself and stared. The fog on the mirror blurred things just enough for him to imagine it was true, that she was looking at him like he’d always wanted her to.
He breathed in; one, long, shuddery breath, and decided to - to lick her.
His eyes fluttered closed. It was cold, she tasted way too sweet, but soon it warmed up. He pressed his lips to her and groaned. Drew his hand to his ear, down his jaw, light and tripping down the pulse of his neck, and imagined it to be hers. Flicked a nipple and heard her sigh.
And then - oh, oh fuck, fuck him - he was too worked up to stop, even as guilt nagged at the back of his mind. Brought his hand down, down, hearing her breath pick up as he did. Moaning as her breath hitched, ribs heaving under his hand. Breathing heavily against her mouth, because he was too absorbed to kiss her properly right now, and he hoped she didn’t think it disgusting. Think he was disgusting.
She touched him, finally, soft and gentle as he thought she would. He tried to thrust against her and she pulled her hand away. He cursed, but didn’t move, and ran a hand through her hair. Wrapped it into the ribbon.
“H-hey.” He grit his jaw, eyes still screwed closed, tried to catch his breath. “C’mon.”
Nothing.
“Belgie - Zusje - “ he whined. Fucking whined, and once he heard it he cringed, but - goddamnit, he didn't care. “Zusje.”
He needed her to do something. To acknowledge him. Needed it more than the air he was struggling to inhale.
Nothing.
“Do I - what do I have to do.”
She kissed him, but no answer. It wasn’t good enough, it was never good enough - he was never good enough, of course. He knew that. He felt himself twitch against the panties, desperate for her to touch him. So fucking desperate. It was all he’d ever wanted, for her to - to - more than this, but this was enough, he couldn’t dare ask for more - he dug his fingers further into her hair and wondered if that would work, or if that would just incite him further.
“I’m sorry. I’m a dick. I’m - fuck. I’m sorry, r-really.”
He got a finger, tracing up his shaft, for his efforts.
“I - “ he groaned, he couldn’t help it. “I shouldn’t have - oh fuck. I’m sorry. Believe me.”
A grope, and then nothing.
“B-Bel - Belgie. Y’know I - what do I say. I don’t - I don’t know.”
She only kissed him back, and he grunted and ran his hand through her hair, over and over.
He grabbed himself and nosed her - her nose was cold and slick. Shoved down the underwear, scrunched his eyes closed so tight they hurt, moved his wrist, his arm, his hand, as fast as they would go, panting apologies and swears and sentiments under his breath.
Apologized for everything. Everything. Told her she was beautiful - told her she was far more than that to him - told her she was, and had always been, first in his mind - told her how much of a fuck-up he was. Told her everything he’d ever wanted to tell her and never could choke out. He choked it out. He told it to her, now. Told it to her despite how much it hurt, how much his pride hurt, how much re-living all of that shit hurt - he felt better for it - and eventually his movements stopped being a frantic attempt at release - he’d gotten it all out, she could judge him however she wanted, he was at her mercy - he’d finally put it all out there - he finally opened his eyes -
And he could finally, finally feel genuine pleasure from it. Not pleasure mixed with guilt. He could feel her hand on him, and not just his cheap imitation, distressed and pathetic and wanting and far too large and clumsy. Hers was better, despite how angry she was with him for saying this now of all times, however rough and punishing she was. He deserved it.
When he came, that, that was the moment the full impact of he was doing struck him. He came, and it was with a loud and bitter-tasting mouthful of regret, and her eyes looked sad, and angry, and disappointed with him, as they always did - how dare he do this, how dare he even think of her this way, how dare he say any of this after all of this time. He didn’t want to splatter semen across her stomach, didn’t want to tarnish her image, but oh fuck he couldn’t help that his eyes closed at the feel of it sliding between them, or help that the last words on his tongue were the very, very mangled sounds of “Ik hou van jou”, or that despite all of this - his failure, her disappointment, her scorn - it was so intense that he collapsed against the mirror right after.
He didn’t want to address the wetness on his face, or his trembling frame. The semen could come out of his hair and off of his cheeks tomorrow. He didn’t need to make it to the bed. He didn’t want to make it to the bed. He couldn’t make it to the bed. He could barely move. All he needed was to lick his waste off of her in a daze - all of it, she couldn’t like that, couldn’t possibly, who would want that on them, why would she want him on her - and groan as he slid against the entire mess to the floor, running a hand through the curls.
And maybe a smoke. Maybe he needed that, too.
---
He didn’t make it that far.
Pairing: Netherlands -> Belgium
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Nation-incest, crossdressing, masturbation, mirrors, guilt, just an overall weird-ass fic.
Summary: …I don’t even know where to start.
Notes: For the purposes of this fic, Netherlands has green eyes. As far as canon goes they could be almost anything though.
---
He'd checked the blinds thirty-goddamn-times and it still wasn't enough.
Late. A Tuesday night, 3:00. Deathly silent streets below his window - still, cold air - his phone was off. No one would dare bash in his front door, and he reminded himself of this even as he finished off a smoke and stabbed it out in the ashtray.
He looked around, then growled at himself for being so paranoid in his own place. Licked his lips, closed his eyes, ran a hand up his stomach. Bare. Smooth. Purposefully bare and smooth. He tried to forget that earlier he had run a blade, oh-so-cautiously, over the skin here. Over his legs. Over much, much more than that. He tried to forget how he first reacted. Tried to forget that even such a fucking mundane action had caused a reaction at all. That wasn’t the point, right now. The point - well.
His fingertips paused and skidded, then slid further down his abdomen. The skin was cool and soft to the touch, and he shivered, but it wasn't quite right. One shaky breath, and he allowed the other hand to join, running them down, over, to brush across muscled hips that he imagined were softer and wider than they truly were; trailed fingers down hairless thighs that were less supple than they should be, and -
Opened his eyes, eyeing the ribbon on his dresser.
Red.
He took a breath and reached for it.
He was halfway through tying it into his hair when soft, gentle curls brushed against his palms, tickling the insides of his wrists. He’d made them that way, sure, but it was such a familiar sensation - the fact that it was the one he was aiming for sent a chill through him. And then it made him feel sick. Why should he know something as mundane as this? Why should it affect him like this? Why couldn’t he control it, why did this sort of shit drive him to do something so fucked up -
Even the damn color was the same, in this light.
He drew his hand away and dropped the ribbon back onto the dresser, staring down at it.
Another beer, then.
---
Quite a few more beers found him tripping up the stairs, finally stumbling into his mattress and groping toward the silky undergarments that had been there the entire time, waiting. He hastily pulled them on - if he didn’t do it now, he may never - and he ignored how he had started to harden under the lace. He nearly fell onto the bed in his effort to sit down, to balance himself, and slowly drew up intricate stockings. He yanked his fingers up, feeling smooth, hairless skin as he pulled them up along his calves…
Oh fuck.
They weren’t meant to hold in something like this - he tried. He was already straining against the undergarments, he could feel it. He tried ignoring it. It didn’t work. As he pulled the stockings up, fastened them against the garter digging into his hips, ignored the way the entire ensemble awkwardly shifted beneath the evidence of his arousal - he could only think of her.
If she’d worn these before. Whether on her own, or thinking of someone else - he licked his lips and yanked them up, even as he felt himself strain against the elastic waistband…
This was so many counts of wrong.
And for some reason that thought only made him harder. Maybe - maybe he should smoke. Calm down a little.
He lit it with fumbling hands and sat on the bed, too drunk to care that he’d have to ash on the floor. He looked at himself in the mirror. In the candlelight his hair looked much like hers. He closed his eyes and touched it. Felt like hers. He felt himself strain against the elastic again. He wasn’t - he looked again, and fuck, he did resemble her with his hair like this.
He stumbled over to the dresser and used one white-knuckled hand to brace himself as he grabbed the ribbon. Reminded himself that no one was around, licked his lips.
She didn’t taste like cigarettes. She tasted - he didn’t know. Something not so fucking filthy. He assumed chocolate. He tore apart his dresser, he knew he had something she’d sent him, and as soon as he found it he put it in his mouth, ignoring how sweet it was and setting the smoke aside. Flicked his eyes to the mirror. Padded over.
Breathed in. Once. Twice.
Calm down.
He needed to calm down.
He - he was going way too fast.
Calm down, man. He needed to calm the fuck down.
He looked, and suddenly he didn’t care that he was going way too fast. That he was way in over his head. He couldn’t help it.
He was doing this, wasn’t he.
He ran his hand down his reflection and tried to - fuck. No. He closed his eyes. He couldn’t do this. He didn’t want to do this.
His erection, pressing against the lace, said otherwise. How flushed he was, how hard he was breathing, the beads of sweat creeping down the base of his spine - all of it said otherwise. He pressed his forehead against the mirror before finally looking up.
Green, green eyes, hidden under gentle, curled tresses. If he just looked at the eyes - he brought one hand up to the mirror to brace himself and stared. The fog on the mirror blurred things just enough for him to imagine it was true, that she was looking at him like he’d always wanted her to.
He breathed in; one, long, shuddery breath, and decided to - to lick her.
His eyes fluttered closed. It was cold, she tasted way too sweet, but soon it warmed up. He pressed his lips to her and groaned. Drew his hand to his ear, down his jaw, light and tripping down the pulse of his neck, and imagined it to be hers. Flicked a nipple and heard her sigh.
And then - oh, oh fuck, fuck him - he was too worked up to stop, even as guilt nagged at the back of his mind. Brought his hand down, down, hearing her breath pick up as he did. Moaning as her breath hitched, ribs heaving under his hand. Breathing heavily against her mouth, because he was too absorbed to kiss her properly right now, and he hoped she didn’t think it disgusting. Think he was disgusting.
She touched him, finally, soft and gentle as he thought she would. He tried to thrust against her and she pulled her hand away. He cursed, but didn’t move, and ran a hand through her hair. Wrapped it into the ribbon.
“H-hey.” He grit his jaw, eyes still screwed closed, tried to catch his breath. “C’mon.”
Nothing.
“Belgie - Zusje - “ he whined. Fucking whined, and once he heard it he cringed, but - goddamnit, he didn't care. “Zusje.”
He needed her to do something. To acknowledge him. Needed it more than the air he was struggling to inhale.
Nothing.
“Do I - what do I have to do.”
She kissed him, but no answer. It wasn’t good enough, it was never good enough - he was never good enough, of course. He knew that. He felt himself twitch against the panties, desperate for her to touch him. So fucking desperate. It was all he’d ever wanted, for her to - to - more than this, but this was enough, he couldn’t dare ask for more - he dug his fingers further into her hair and wondered if that would work, or if that would just incite him further.
“I’m sorry. I’m a dick. I’m - fuck. I’m sorry, r-really.”
He got a finger, tracing up his shaft, for his efforts.
“I - “ he groaned, he couldn’t help it. “I shouldn’t have - oh fuck. I’m sorry. Believe me.”
A grope, and then nothing.
“B-Bel - Belgie. Y’know I - what do I say. I don’t - I don’t know.”
She only kissed him back, and he grunted and ran his hand through her hair, over and over.
He grabbed himself and nosed her - her nose was cold and slick. Shoved down the underwear, scrunched his eyes closed so tight they hurt, moved his wrist, his arm, his hand, as fast as they would go, panting apologies and swears and sentiments under his breath.
Apologized for everything. Everything. Told her she was beautiful - told her she was far more than that to him - told her she was, and had always been, first in his mind - told her how much of a fuck-up he was. Told her everything he’d ever wanted to tell her and never could choke out. He choked it out. He told it to her, now. Told it to her despite how much it hurt, how much his pride hurt, how much re-living all of that shit hurt - he felt better for it - and eventually his movements stopped being a frantic attempt at release - he’d gotten it all out, she could judge him however she wanted, he was at her mercy - he’d finally put it all out there - he finally opened his eyes -
And he could finally, finally feel genuine pleasure from it. Not pleasure mixed with guilt. He could feel her hand on him, and not just his cheap imitation, distressed and pathetic and wanting and far too large and clumsy. Hers was better, despite how angry she was with him for saying this now of all times, however rough and punishing she was. He deserved it.
When he came, that, that was the moment the full impact of he was doing struck him. He came, and it was with a loud and bitter-tasting mouthful of regret, and her eyes looked sad, and angry, and disappointed with him, as they always did - how dare he do this, how dare he even think of her this way, how dare he say any of this after all of this time. He didn’t want to splatter semen across her stomach, didn’t want to tarnish her image, but oh fuck he couldn’t help that his eyes closed at the feel of it sliding between them, or help that the last words on his tongue were the very, very mangled sounds of “Ik hou van jou”, or that despite all of this - his failure, her disappointment, her scorn - it was so intense that he collapsed against the mirror right after.
He didn’t want to address the wetness on his face, or his trembling frame. The semen could come out of his hair and off of his cheeks tomorrow. He didn’t need to make it to the bed. He didn’t want to make it to the bed. He couldn’t make it to the bed. He could barely move. All he needed was to lick his waste off of her in a daze - all of it, she couldn’t like that, couldn’t possibly, who would want that on them, why would she want him on her - and groan as he slid against the entire mess to the floor, running a hand through the curls.
And maybe a smoke. Maybe he needed that, too.
---
He didn’t make it that far.