A/N: My friend requested I write Holland/Spain for the final of the FIFA world cup. I was only to happy to oblige. I hope this isn't too much fail for everyone to read. XD
Warnings: Violence, language, sex... yeah.
Holland stepped inside Spain's hotel room. It was covered from head to toe with flags and confetti and all manner of celebratory ornaments. A huge Spanish flag decorated the bed cover, seeing it made him queasy.
The waning light of the evening shone through the drawn red curtains, giving the room a dark air. Spain walked over to Holland, arms outstretched, a bright smile adorning his face.
"Holanda! So nice of you to join me. Truly, I am sorry for your loss."
"No you aren't."
Spain laughed. "Yes, I guess that is true. You read me too well, Lars."
"You ruled me for a good part of my life. I know you, Spanje. You never pass down the opportunity to rub your victories in other people's faces."
"Why else would I invite you here?"
Lars walked over to the bed, and sat down with a sigh.
"You know, I really thought I had it. I really thought we would beat you. Fuck." He lit up a cigarette.
Antonio passed him a glass. "Have some wine too. It'll drown out your sorrows."
"I'd never drink your alcohol. No thanks."
Spain shrugged, and downed the glass himself. He flopped down next to the taller, paler man and leaned back against the violent red and yellow of the covers.
"You played rough today, Holanda."
Netherlands looked back at him. Like always, the Spanish man's face was drawn out in a wide grin. It mocked him. He took the cigarette out of his mouth.
"Is that an innuendo or a statement?"
"...maybe it's both." And suddenly Spain's lips were on his, and he was kissing him fiercely, pulling him down onto the bed. Spain always tasted of blood and ocean; he didn't quite know if that put him off or turned him on.
"Spain, my smoke, it'll-"
"Forget it." Strong tanned arms were pushing him down. Soon Holland lay there, underneath the man he had fought so hard to get away from, all those years ago.
"Well, this brings back memories..."
"Shut up, Antonio."
Spain reached down and bit, hard, on Holland's shoulder blade. The cry that erupted was muffled out by his hand. Antonio kept his hand like that for a second, admiring the rare, panicked look in Lars' eyes. He loved being in control; the sense of power and dominance was like his drug. Holland reached up and slapped his arm away.
"God Antonio, are you trying to suffocate me?"
There was no reply.
"You heard me."
"I'm not your damn whore!"
"Tonight you are."
Lars swore under his breath, before sitting up and pulling off his shirt. Boots; trousers – it all joined the ever increasing pile of clothing on the floor.
Spain straddled him, and studied the pale man's torso. He was muscular and strong, his arms marked; but not as much as most of the other nations. The only real blemish was the scar on his forehead. Slowly, Antonio's fingers reached out and caressed it.
Holland flinched so violently that he almost sent Spain flying off the bed.
"Damn it Antonio, what was that for?"
"To remind you who exactly you belong to."
"Fuck Antonio, you and I both know that isn't true. I've been free since 1579."
"And yet, I can still defeat you."
"Are you ever going to shut up and get this over and done with?"
Spain laughed. It was true, he would love to hurry up and get to it. But this was a night he was going to remember. And one that Netherlands would remember for as long as he lived.
His fingers find themselves inside Holland; Lars stiffens up and does not make a sound. Slowly, ever so slowly, they twist and circle inside him, stretching and teasing. A low animalistic groan escapes Holland's lips, Spain only smiles.
And then they brush against that one spot, and Holland could scream: God Antonio, fuck me, just fuck me right now; but he doesn't, and the game goes on, two equals, each never willing to submit to the other.
The fingers pull out, but before Holland can breathe again, they are replaced with Spain's entire girth. He pushes himself in deep, and they both gasp.
"...Spanje, are you going to move, or am I going to have to do it instead?"
A smirk; and Spain pulls himself out to the tip. He sits there, green eyes shining in the half light, but he doesn't make any move to get back inside.
Holland's eyes widen. So that's how it's going to be then. Well fuck this. He's a kingdom himself and even if he lost, there is no way he is going to be treated like a slave. He reaches out to the bedside table, and his hand grasps around an empty wine glass.
He brings it smashing down against Antonio's left temple; it shatters, and suddenly there is blood dripping onto the cover, but he can't see it because it is the same colour as the red on Spain's flag.
Spain punches him in the face. Holland sits up, grabs Spain's hips, and knocks him off the end of the bed. They fall to the ground together, clawing and punching. Antonio is quicker, but Lars is stronger, and soon has him pinned down. He pummels the Spaniard to the ground, but a well aimed kick to the stomach sends him doubling over in pain. Spain seizes a handful of hair, and drags him over to the wall.
Warm breath in his ear: "Holanda, I am going to fuck you against this wall, and you're going to remember it for life."
He feels Spain's member pushing against him, into him, but he is silent. He won't give the arrogant bastard the satisfaction of making him scream.
They start moving then, slowly at first, then gaining speed with each thrust. Spain pushes forward, Holland pushes back, and they create an obscene rhythm. Kisses plant themselves along Lars' neck, he shifts and tries to get away from them, but Spain's entire weight leaves him no room to move. He feels himself getting hard, damn it all, and reaches down a hand to stroke himself, but Spain hisses in his ear.
"If you touch yourself, I will hurt you, Holanda."
Spain climaxes, and he pulls out, hot and sticky. Holland makes a move to protest, but suddenly Spain's hand wraps itself around his length, and starts moving steadily.
"You bastard," Holland mutters, "you just wanted to do that yourself."
Spain laughs, and soon enough Holland comes, hard, in his hand. He whirls around, and they look at each other, enemies; best friends; brothers, sweaty and flushed.
"So..." Spain muses, brushing hair out of Holland's eye, "who do you think will win in 2014?"
A/N: So much fail... urg.