A part of him wonders -- wishes, really -- if they might pres together until their ribs ached and joined, more one being than two. He wants to keep Netherlands here with him forever, wants to keep him safe and contented behind the arch of rib. Instead, he noses against temple, presses a faint kiss to hairline and takes a moment to breath around the press of palm to throat. The gentled touch eases, fingertips possessive where they press in against the curve of back, against rung of vertebra.

It drags a soft sound from him, muffled behind the layer of teeth as it is, pulse thundering against the pad of Netherlands' thumb. A warm flush is settling upon him, ears and cheeks pinked at the scrape of teeth and warm press of skin to skin. Netherlands can probably feel the way Russia's throat works beneath his palm as he swallows.