Russia's lips meet his skin and his own breath comes out in stutters, hot little staccato things that beat down harder than he can imagine. After all - he knows. Knows what's at stake, what's open to him, here. Breathes it out hot and heavy and it's almost too much, that level of trust. Russia bares his throat - bares his past - like he bares the back of his head, open to whatever might come to it.

Long fingers don't wind their way through his hair, touch his pulse instead, touch their scars, instead. Theirs. Created by them and born by him - Russia hums and touches and Netherlands shudders, thrusts again and really can't help it.

He sucks at the first thick line he comes to, like it'll wipe away what was there before.