I saw the prompt on the Hetalia Kink Meme, and I just had to write it.

I have no other excuse.


The meetings had been going downhill ever since Germany had let Italy choose the chair patterns. Chairs patterned with embroidered ice creams, somehow, didn't exactly scream 'Powerful World Meeting'. Germany wasn't sure what they did scream, but he was fairly certain it was along completely different lines to what he wanted.

Ever since the chairs had been changed in the meeting room, it was like the countries had thought that was grounds for all kinds of disreputable behaviour. There had been the eating competition, who could eat the most without being noticed by the stricter countries. That hadn't been too bad, and Germany wouldn't have noticed what they were doing if it hadn't been for the fact that Finland was sick all over the rug.

However, that unfortunate incident had paved the way for much worse.

There had been The Epic European Tomato Fight, when Spain challenged Italy over which one liked tomatoes the most, and it had descended into a free-for-all. Germany was still finding tomato pips in his best jacket.

Then there was the time China had somehow convinced everyone to come in fancy dress. The question of how he'd managed to get Switzerland to dress up as a nurse still kept Germany up at nights. And when he did get to sleep, he still had nightmares about France's costume.

So far, this particular meeting had been going surprisingly well. The usual France Britain brawl had been broken up in it's early stages and had sustained very few casualties, the only death had been the lamp Germany had bought from Sweden last week.

Even America, who was usually a crude, loudmouthed idiot, was being unusually quiet. He hadn't said a word all meeting, he just sat there, fiddled with his shirt, and watched the clock with a strange intensity. The clock watching was a little suspicious, but Germany would take any amount of that over the normal idiotic outbursts. I mean, what was it last meeting? Oh yes, a detailed plan of how to build the first underwater Starbucks. Where he even came up with these things was a mystery. Germany supposed he must stay up all night thinking up the most idiotic suggestions possible.

Looking down at the papers in his hand, Germany stood up and prepared to close the meeting. He cleared his throat loudly, and made sure he had the attention of all the countries involved before speaking in a low, calm voice.

"Right. Thank you. If that's all the-"


All heads turned in unison to the spectacled blonde, who stood on the table with one arm raised. Germany tried not to cry. He knew it was useless to hope for one meeting without some kind of idiocy.

"Yes, America?"


There was a general raising of eyebrows, and the silence thickened to a stew like consistency. America grinned dazzlingly, a showman to the last. Eventually, one hand slowly pointed to the clock.

"What does that say?"

"It's four o clock in the afternoon?" Hazarded Canada. Everyone else looked at him

for a moment, having forgotten he was there, before turning their attention back to America and forgetting Canada again.

"EXACTLY! Four o clock! You know what that means, don't you?!"

The silence stretched taut over the room. Despite himself, even Germany was interested in what America had to say. And he had to admit, that man knew how to work an audience. The countries were eating at his every word. Germany made a quick mental note to try and find out how he did that.

"Well apparently you don't. I'm just going to have to SHOW YOU!"

With those last two words something terrible happened. America's shirt seemingly exploded. Buttons flew everywhere, and many countries were forced to flee for safety

under the table.


America paused for dramatic emphasis, and even the more timid nations climbed out from under the desk in curiosity. Germany felt his will to live slowly slipping away, even his anger deserting him in favour of despair. The silence reigned again, America holding the remains of his shirt like a trophy and standing stock still. He opened his mouth, taking in a tremendous gasp of air. All nations involuntarily leaned forward in

anticipation. You could have heard a piece of pasta drop.


As if that was a cue, all of the assembled nations simultaneously ripped off their shirts, Germany being the only notable exception. He gaped at them all, and tried to avoid looking at France, who had taken off more clothes than was strictly necessary, or legal.

"Terrible, isn't it? Ripping off their shirts like barbarians."

Thankful to hear a voice of reason, Germany spun around to face Austria.

"Yes! Tha-ahh"

What Germany had been about to say was cut off by the sight of Austria carefully unbuttoning his shirt.

"I mean, they have no thought for the shirts. I know for a fact that the tatters hanging from the ceiling fan are pure silk."

Austria's disgusted tone made it certain that the wanton destruction of articles of clothing was something that offended him on a personal level, and Germany found it hard to disagree. He choked slightly as a large hand descended upon his shoulder with enough force to buckle his knees.

"Comrade, you will take off your shirt, no?"

Germany turned his head slowly to face Russia, the colour draining from his face. Russia's scarf was still there, obviously, as were both his gloves. However, his coat and shirt were gone and his large chest was bare.

"Germannnyyy! Join usss!"

He looked over to where Italy was standing, eating a piece of pizza he'd seemingly procured from thin air. He swallowed slightly at the sight of Italy's bare chest, the room suddenly seeming slightly warmer than it had been a minute ago.

Slowly, his traitorous fingers reached for the buttons of his shirt, one hand unclasping the fastenings as the other loosened his tie. He discarded the garment, and Italy bounded over.

"Yay! Isn't this fuuun Germany?!"

Germany looked around him.

France and America were dancing on the table, and they seemed to have somehow gotten England to join them. Though, by the suspicious bottle in England's hands, it might not have been entirely his choice. All three were singing some Godawful American pop song in excruciating harmony.

Russia had drifted over to the eastern countries, and was terrorising Japan and China, while simultaneously terrifying Latvia from all the way across the room.

Poland seemed to have found a skirt somewhere, and was wearing that along with what looked like fishnet stockings and kitten heels. He was trying to force Lithuania to wear a bra.

Finland and Sweden were not to be seen, though there were suspicious noises coming from beneath the conference table.

All the other nations were standing around the table, cheering on the three idiots who had moved on to singing some classic French tune. All except England, who, even in his inebriated state, refused to speak France's language and was stubbornly singing the national anthem of Spain.

Germany sunk down to the floor, unable to comprehend how things had descended to these levels so fast.

Those damned chairs were going back first thing tomorrow.