Rating: PG-13, nudity
Characters: G8 + Prussia
Summary: A de-anon from the kink meme, for the prompt someone agrees to become one with Russia. It doesn't quite go as planned.
"So how long do you think it will take for Germany to get disgusted and dismiss us?" America asked. "Because this barista was seriously eye-fucking me this morning, so I was like, let's go back to my place and discuss Puerto Rican statehood, and she was all let's talk tonight, I have to finish my shift, and-"
"Stop," Russia said.
"If nothing happens in thirty minutes, I will start trying to annex someone," Russia said. "Deal?"
America clapped his shoulder. "You're the best, man. I'll make sure to mention Alaska's contributions to the Union."
Russia sighed and opened the door to the G8 conference room. "All I ever wanted."
* * *
Prussia hated these meetings.
Fucking West. Fucking West, with his little hints about letting him take care of the business of the country, and fucking France laughing up his frilly sleeve and talking about how happy Hungary looked these days, and America, fucking America who didn't even remember who he was-
Prussia's first memory was of teething on the hilt of a sword. When a hand came down on his shoulder he just reacted with those instincts he wasn't allowed to have anymore, spinning and wrenching the fingers back hard enough to break. He came up from his hip with a knife (he's not a joke not a fucking joke there'd be no Germany without him-) that stopped on the corner of Russia's left eye. He heard the hissing voices around the table, but he couldn't focus enough to understand what they were saying.
Russia was smiling, and his nation was strong enough that his fingers didn't break. "Very quick, my-"
He lifted the tip away far enough that Russia's eyes could focus on it, and they did. "If you use the word 'oblast' I will put this in your eye." Prussia folded the blade back into his palm and dropped him.
"You are still very fast, Prussia," Russia said. He flexed his hand. "Sort of skill would be useful in Russian Federation."
"Yes," Prussia said, tucking his knife away.
Russia blinked. "What?"
"Yes, I want to become one with you."
There was silence around the table. "What?" Russia said again. Prussia stood. Russia had turned around to face him, and Prussia's boot came down hard on the edge of the chair between his legs. He rested his arms on his knee and leaned in.
"I want." He pointed to himself. "To become one." He interlaced his fingers. "With you." He pointed at Russia. "Got me, comrade?"
Russia clutched his scarf and looked around the table. Prussia took his boot of his chair and started undoing his belt. "Ah, well, first thing, it's not comrade anymore-"
"Take your pants off." He dropped his belt on the floor. Germany covered Italy's eyes.
"That is not necessary-"
Prussia grabbed Russia's notebook and threw it. He followed it with his own binder, a stack of papers, a cup full of pens, a rainbow of sticky notes, and a half-full cup of coffee that exploded on the floor, splattering England's knees. "It's fully fucking necessary, comrade! Why wait? Let's become one." He started unbuttoning his shirt. "Let's become one right now."
France grabbed England's wrist. "Angleterre, if you stop this, there will be no sex until William is king."
"Oh, God, ew," America said.
Prussia took his shirt off. Canada broke a pen, and blue ink sprayed all over his face and hands. "Right now," Prussia repeated. "Right here. On this table." He flicked his shirt at Russia. The starchy cotton slid down his face like snowmelt. "Now take your pants off."
"I do not think-"
"PANTS OFF,” he shouted in his old battlefield voice, which, while designed to cut across the screams of dying men and horses, also coincidentally made his young women feel extremely patriotic. America sat straight in his chair, nearly vibrating with the urge to salute. France flinched. England slouched and put a hand over his face. Germany's mouth twitched like he wanted to smile, like he was having a happy memory. Canada just stared, ink sliding down his nose. (Italy was asleep.)
Prussia popped his top button.
"Take deep breaths, Matthew," America murmured. Canada whimpered. Prussia went up on the balls of his feet and slid his hips over the edge of the table. He wriggled back until he could wedge a heel on the surface, and pushed himself back further until he was sprawled across their papers and binders and plastic CD cases, all leather boots and sharp elbows and hair so pale it glared under the fluorescents. (France helped move the important papers out of his way, much to England's disgust.)
Prussia reclined on one elbow and snapped his fingers in front of Canada's face. "You. Little France." Canada jumped and raised his eyes from Prussia's groin, where all the wriggling had inched the zipper down. "Lubricant. We're not doing this GDR style. And it better not be coconut, that shit gives me hives."
"You know who I am?" Canada clasped his hands. America rolled his eyes.
Prussia leaned towards Canada a little and winked. "Always had an eye for personnel, kid. Now where's my-" A little plastic tube smacked into his palm. "-Maple. Huh." He shrugged and set it down by his hip.
"Why do you have that," America said. Canada mumbled something French and didn't look away from Prussia.
Since 1917, Russia's default expression had been a slightly psychopathic manchild grin, and the nations had learned to look for his emotions in the tiniest of clues. (Except for the ones who didn't care, like America, and the ones who got distracted by butterflies, like North Italy.) Just now he was clutching his scarf like a rope of pearls and blinking repeatedly.
Germany leaned back in his chair. "Did I ever tell you how Prussia and I met?" he remarked to France.
"Later, Allemagne," France said.
England tossed a pen at Russia. Russia whipped around. "Got yourself into this," England said. "I mean, really, what did you expect?" But there was a gleam of metal between his fingers, and Russia took the flask from him with a nod.
"I am getting bored with you," Prussia said. "Come on, didn't we have some good times?" He spread his legs wider and the zipper opened completely. There was a rustling around the table, as though several people at once had shifted in their chairs to try to gaze down the happy trail into the Schwarzenwald. "Yeah, that's right, Little France, grown up nations go commando."
"Little England, surely," England said, and more than one nation shushed him.
"Good times?" Russia said. "Good times? Poland was less of a pain in my- you brought down the Soviet Union! You tried to bite my ear off, you barricaded yourself in the attic for weeks at a time, you dyed things pink, and you had these birds everywhere-"
Prussia lifted up one foot and slammed his heel down hard, making everything on the table jump. (North Italy excepted.) "Bitch, bitch, bitch, Mother Russia. Has America been fucking you so long you've forgotten how to top?"
There was a hiss of indrawn breath around the table, as though the entire G8 had just touched a lit stove.
Canada buried his face in his hands, doing that huff-snort laughter that even nations do when they know they shouldn't be laughing. His curl shook inches from Prussia's groin. "Oh my God, Alfred, your face-"
“The Cold War was a conflict of ideologies!” America shouted. “Ideologies! Why are Europeans so sick?”
“Most of us manage to discuss ideologies with our trousers on,” France said.
“This from the man who refers to his todger as the Norman Invasion,” commented England, somewhat muffled by the hand that still veiled his face.
“Only because they both left such a profound impact on your culture, you inbred little savage.”
“I recall my fist left a profound impact on your where the fucking hell did he get that pipe?” England jerked upright like a marionette with a string caught on the puppeteer's elbow.
The faucet hit the table next to Prussia's ear, and he scrambled sideways, yanking at his waistband. Papers slid into other papers while Germany tried to grab all of them at once. Russia lifted the pipe for another swing.
Prussia grabbed Canada's shoulder and used it to shove himself up, knife opening, snick, in his hand. He danced back when Russia swung again, the pipe coming so close it clicked as it hit a button, and Prussia launched himself forward. One boot slammed into the table, and then he was flying through the air. “Deus lo volt!”
They went down.
Prussia caught the pipe in his ribs a hand's breadth above where Russia gripped it, too close to get the full force of the blow. He wrapped his free hand around Russia's pipe arm and slammed his elbow towards Russia's face. Russia jerked his head, the blow glancing off his cheek, but by then Prussia was stabbing up towards his arm, trying to cut the tendons and force him to let go of the pipe.
England sighed and put his feet up. “America, any time you want to jump in.”
America crossed his arms. “I don't liberate on command.”
“Germany?” Canada said. “Germany?”
“Yes, Alfred?” Germany was resorting all the papers he'd grabbed.
“I'm not-” Canada sighed. “Aren't you going to break them up?”
Germany tapped a stack on the table to line up the edges. He peered over his little gilt glasses at Prussia, who had a split lip and was spluttering blood all over Russia's face. “Goodness, no, I haven't seen him so happy since the Preußenschlag.”
“He could get hurt!”
“Well, he should stop trying to annex my brother,” Germany said, placid as a little stream passing through a sun-filled glade on a spring morning.
“You motherfucker, that was my nose-”
“That wasn't what I meant,” Canada said weakly. The pipe spun away across the carpet, and Russia rolled him. He grabbed Prussia's knife hand and started slamming it into the floor.
“Za-- bazar-- otvetish'--”
“You know, I do believe his trousers are coming down,” France said, and stepped on Prussia's cuff, just to make sure.
* * *
"You do it,” the Prime Minister of Canada said.
“No, no, I insist.” The President of the Russian Federation made hand-flapping gestures, no really, I couldn't possibly.
Neither moved. They looked at the door. From inside there was the sound of glass breaking, then a voice screaming for order.
“Putin would have opened the door,” Harper said.
“I am so sick of hearing about what Putin would do,” Medvedev said. He scrunched up his face and made quotations with his fingers. “Putin has song about him, Putin shoots tiger, Putin has black belt, Putin takes off shirt and poses on beach. Any other country be glad to have me as leader.” He thumped his chest. “When is last time I assassinate journalist?”
Harper shrugged. “I'm just saying, Putin would have opened the door.”
Medvedev slumped. “...Do you think we could call him?”
Japan coughed behind them. “Ah?”
Harper smiled. Medvedev smiled. They turned. Japan was holding a short stack of steaming drink carriers and watching them both.
“Japan!” Harper said. “We had just come to tell you all that the meeting is over, it's time to go.”
“How unfortunate.” Japan's expressions were exquisite miniatures. Displayed in the dark. This one might have been relief, or regret, or rage, or screaming orgasmic joy. “I had just returned with our beverages.”
Medvedev took the carriers from him. “Let me help you with that.”
“And a note for Alfred-san,” Japan added, plucking a scrap of yellow paper off one carrier. He handed it to Harper. Harper scanned it.
“That's strange, I didn't know Puerto Rican statehood was being debated again,” he said.
“Probably code,” said Medvedev. “For nukes.”
Japan slid through the gap, murmuring, “Excuse me.” He opened the door.
He halted in the doorway, blinking around at everyone, one at a time, methodical as a census taker. France inspecting the label of Prussia's trousers, blink. England rifling through a red, orange, and black wallet, blink. Germany on his knees with a hand broom, blink. North Italy sleeping, blink. America fondling a faucet with a sick gleam in his eyes, blink. Some guy with ink on his face hovering over- blink- Russia attempting to shove a ball point pen into Prussia's eye.
“Ah. Prussia-san. Are we playing a party game?”
“Dude, I am so not going to any parties at your house,” America said. “Oh hey, guys, is the meeting over?” He dropped the pipe with a clank and stood. England stuffed the now empty wallet back into the pocket of Prussia's trousers. Germany straightened up.
America hopped over the thrashing bodies on the floor and landed surprisingly lightly. “Russia- and I mean this in a totally unpolitical, you're still a commie fuck, kind of way- you're the best, man.”
“Spasiba,” Russia said, and punched Prussia in the ribs. “Medvedev, one moment, I am having discussion.”
Harper nudged Medvedev with his elbow. “Bet you wish Putin was here right now.”
“That guy was boss,” Prussia agreed from the floor. He jabbed his thumb in Russia's eye, who howled and punched him again. “Oof.”
And there you have it! Some notes:
+Deus lo volt is Medieval Vulgar Latin for "God wills it". It was a battle cry of the crusaders, and the Teutonic Knights got their start in the crusader kingdom of Acre.
+Za bazar otvetish'- basically, you'll pay for what you said. (I think. I don't speak Russian.)
+The Preußenschlag is complicated. Short version: a decree that dismissed the cabinet of the Free State of Prussia, bringing Prussia- at the time a German state- under the control of a fun bunch of dudes who would later become the Nazis.