A/n: This story gradually devolves into smut. If you're a darling little child reading this, I hope I scar you forever.

Prussia doesn't realize how much his awesomeness is threatened until the day America gets angry at France for touching Mattie in a 'bad place'; without preamble, the superpower gets up, yanks a table up from the floor, and chucks it at Francis. The thing is, the tables are bolted to the floor, and they also weigh something crazy like four hundred pounds to prevent that very event from occurring, since these meetings can get heated.

Francis is crushed (literally) and spends the next week wailing about it to anyone who will listen.

Prussia is among the nations who gape at America in shock, because Jesus that guy may be an obnoxious idiot, but he's also kinda sexy when he's mad, and most of them haven't seen Alfred in a rage before. He's all wild eyes and dark, angry voice and dear lord, Gilbert bets he's a handful in bed. He can just imagine those muscles writhing, twisting and coiling as he's dominated…

Whoops. Prussia looks up at his bruder across the dinner table and realizes that Ludwig is waiting for him to say something in response to some problem he'd been talking about. "It doesn't matter!" he says happily, "The awesome ME will take care of all your worries, my love! Tell me what is afflicting your heart and I will strike it down in vengeance!"

Feli, on the other side of the dinner table, giggles and piles more pasta on his plate. Ludwig sucks in a breath and closes his eyes for a minute before he tries again. "Listen. I need to talk with America about a fund for-"

"But he doesn't have any time and he needs you to do it!" interrupts Feli happily. "Alfred'll be coming here anyway. Ludwig just doesn't have time to negotiate!"

Ludwig growls at the ditzy Italian, who smiles happily. Eventually, his brother heaves a sigh and continues. "Essentially, yes. I have the paperwork. I know you don't really know Alfred, but would you be able to…?"

"You owe me a favor for this," says Gilbert smoothly. Damn, he's good! He makes himself so proud. Now he can meet with Alfred and examine how much a serious threat to his awesomeness he is, plus Ludwig has to do something for him. Gilbird, on his head, chirps happily. Ludwig, with a defeated sigh, sets his head on the table and says, "Okay," in a tone of doom and despair.

Thus it is that America comes striding in to the Germany's house two days later, a suitcase in one hand and a cage in the other. Prussia is eating ice cream in the other room when he hears an almighty crash and, before he can turn around, something tackles him and throws him to the floor.

Gilbird, with an alarmed shriek, takes shelter on the chandelier. Prussia, meanwhile, is already in action. He may not technically be a nation anymore, but that doesn't mean he doesn't have ages of battle experience, and AWESOME experience at that. He hits the floor and rolls, collecting his knees under him and punching his feet up to throw his attacker off, his hand already scrambling for the spoon that got thrown to the floor. When he locates it, he launches himself to his feet and surges at the fool who dare try to kill his awesomeness, bringing the spoon down with a sure stroke to the eyeball, throwing himself on the prone body to prevent it from struggling during the death throes…which is when he realizes the person is laughing. Hysterically.

Prussia's hand screeches to a stop with the spoon a mere few inches above America's eye. America himself is shrieking with laughter, practically convulsing helplessly on the floor, which explains why he's made no attempt to get Gilbert off.

For the first time in a while, Prussia feels a serious emotion. "Idiot!" he cries, "I was going to push this spoon through your eye into your brain! I could've killed you!"

America's laughter starts up anew. "You…you thought…oh, your eyes got so BIG…you were screaming that old war chant you taught me during the Revolutionary…!" and he dissolves into chuckles.

Prussia, who feels all the adrenaline seeping out, collapses bonelessly on top of America and lets the younger nation's laughter rock them both. He needs to re-evaluate his plans. After a few minutes Alfred calms down and pats Gilbert merrily on the head. "Seriously, though, man, sorry 'bout that. Up you go." He tries to sit up, but Prussia is like a dead weight (an AWESOME dead weight. You couldn't find better dead weight anywhere else.) and he eventually just settles back down, a sputtered giggle erupting now and then. They are like this for perhaps two minutes and then Ludwig walks in.

To be fair, it looks to him like Prussia is making sexual advances on America, and since that isn't too far off the mark, he totally loses it. "BRUDER!" he roars, and throws himself on top of Prussia. Gilbird gives another alarmed cry from on high.

"Gaaah!" shrieks Prussia, arms flailing as Ludwig grips his hair and throws him off Alfred (and into a wall). "FUCK!" he adds, with a pained bellow, when Ludwig chucks a dining chair at him.

"You CAN'T RAPE AMERICA!" Ludwig thunders from the dining room, where he stands above the prone America like Superman.

"I wasn't!" wails Gilbert. "If anything, he was raping me!" Gilbird sails over to inspect the head wound from the chair as America bounces to his feet to quell Gilbert's crazed brother. Gilbert isn't listening to the explanation America gives, but it must be satisfactory because Ludwig breathes out like an enraged bull and comes over to Gilbert. "My apologies, Gil," he finally says. Prussia knows he's worried because of the nickname.

"No worries! I'm awesome enough that I didn't even feel it," lies Gilbert with a big smile. Jesus, what kind of shitty brother would he be for making his little bruder worry? Ludwig gives another heavy sigh and shakes his head again. "I, um, I'm going out with Italy. Or I was, before I found you in a…compromising…position."

America perks up. "Oh! Feli? Tell him I said-"

"I will tell him nothing. Please do your business without lying on top of each other," Ludwig says stiffly, and he marches from the room.

Prussia leaps back to his feet. "You scared the shit out of me!" he informs America cheerfully. America, already on his feet, beams back.

"I brought a present!"

Gilbert squeals and races to the hall, America close on his heels. Gilbert immediately zeroes in on the cage. "What is it?"

"It's to keep Gilbird company!" trills America, and throws the cage open.

There's a guttural shriek and a huge blur explodes out of the enclosure. Gilbert yells in delight and claps his hands because even though he doesn't know what it is yet, it made a cool noise. The blur zooms around the front hall once, then comes to rest on America's shoulder, and HOLY SHIT…

"A BALD EAGLE!" America exclaims triumphantly. "The symbol of grace, dignity, and power! And he's alllllll yours." He nods seriously. Gilbird, perches on Gilbert's hair and gives an apprehensive peep. The bald eagle tracks Gilbird's every movement with beady eyes. Gilbert himself has no idea what to do with it, but since it's really awesome he drags America into the kitchen and sweeps the spice jars off their designated shelf before gesturing and saying, "Put it here!"

America transfers the eagle from his shoulder by making awkward shrugging movements while standing next to the shelf until the eagle almost sighs in resignation and steps onto its new perch. "It's to represent the powers of our countries uniting or something," Alfred explains, flapping his hand dismissively. "Us trusting you with our national symbol or something? I dunno. I'm hungry. What food do you have?"

Prussia, however, is deep in thought. So far, America is proving alarmingly awesome. He can tackle Prussia, calm Ludwig down, and bring eagles to Germany. He's also really strong.

This is going to be a problem. Gilbert needs to find a way to make Alfred less awesome than him.

Inspiration strikes when America is nibbling on frozen pasta he found in the freezer, while in his other hand he holds a gallon of homemade beer that Ludwig keeps on hand in the fridge. Nothing makes you less awesome than being someone's bitch, right?

Well, this is going to be easy. Prussia has centuries of war training, offensive in particular, and he knows how to handle strong men. In more ways than one, if you get his meaning, because while Ivan is terrifying when he's in a rage, nothing calms him down better than a rough quickie and some domination in the closet with Gilbert on top.

So, theoretically, if he sticks Alfred with these principles, America will be under his metaphorical AND literal thumb in just a few seconds. The best method is probably a direct attack, that he won't expect, like…

Right now. Gilbert waits until America has put the gallon of beer down temporarily and has closed the fridge; then, before he has time to turn around, the former nation leaps and pins him against the appliance, knocking America's glasses off in the process. "Hey!" America protests, and then, "Wh—hnng!" Gilbert closes his airways off with one hand while the other hand slides around to caress Alfred's inner thigh. As part of the Bad Touch Trio, it's a given that he knows how to touch someone sexually, and obviously erotic asphyxiation and thigh-caressing are up there on the list. Gilbert also knows a thing or two about superpowers from Russia; they're strong but they melt under rough handling, which is why he stops feeling up America's (beautifully toned) legs to snatch up the Alfred's wrists and pin them behind his back, trapping them between the two nations. He's all ready to get on with some truly mind-blowing awesome Prussian sex when…

Well, Gilbert doesn't quite know what the hell happens. One minute America is struggling under him, making little panicked gasping noises, and the next Gilbert is thrown into the counter behind him. He recovers quickly since he's awesome and awesome people always recover quickly, only to get slammed into the floor (for the SECOND time today) and America is on top of him, both hands on his throat, pinning him to the floorboards. When Gilbert bucks his hips to dislodge him, America retaliates by slamming Prussia's head into the floor using his throat. Gilbert regains his senses when he's being dragged across the floor by his legs, but his head finally clears completely when America is hauling him up the stairs.

"Hey! Not awesome! Put me down!"

America turns around to stare at him, and there's an odd glitter in his eyes. And then he talks. "It's not awesome yet, Gilbert, because I haven't beaten you into submission. You'll see." Gilbert stares at him. Oh, shit. That voice is back; the dark, throaty hissing one that sends shivers all up his very manly spine.

"Uh, I'd rather not get beaten," he says diplomatically. America's response is tightening his grip on his legs and smirking. "And can you stop dragging me by my legs?" Gilbert adds, trying to kick his way free. Unfortunately, he's still a little dizzy and now all the blood is rushing to his head, and also America is freakishly strong. Which is why he hasn't escaped thirty seconds later, when America drags him into Gilbert's bedroom. Still, he isn't putting all his awesome strength into getting away because he doesn't want to hurt the guest. Yeah, that's it.

"This your bed?" America asks, looking at it.

"Yes, now get off, you're being so un-awesome!" Prussia, still on his back, pouts. He stops pouting when America swings him up and slams him into his comforter by his legs. "Jesus fuck!" he yelps. "Give me a little—"

Alfred slides on top of him and has his shirt off in the following moments. "Calm down," he purrs, straddling Gilbert and pinning him to the bed. "Now then…" he pauses, looks reflective, and then suddenly kisses Gilbert with a surprising ferocity. He must've been trained by France somewhere along the line because he's awesome at making out; he can also do that whole bite-the-lower-lip thing that drives Gilbert insane. Just when he's contemplating flipping them over to reverse their positions, America's hands slide up his arms, lifting them into the air, and by the time Gilbert realizes his intentions it's too late; both his hands are tied to his headboard using his own shirt.


"I didn't know you were kinky," Gilbert comments, glancing at America with half-lidded eyes. America grins lazily and pulls back from Gilbert to survey his work.

"It happens," Alfred says. "Actually, I'm not usually. But you've kind of pissed me off, and I figure if I'm going to make you pay appropriately I have to make sure you can't go anywhere."

Gilbert begins to feel the first clouds of doubt. "Listen, this is really great and all, but I don't really like being on bottom, actually, and it's not really very awesome, so you should untie me and we can go about this the right way."

America lifts one eyebrow and runs his hands up Gilbert's bare chest. "Well, the thing is," he begins, sliding his hands up even higher until his fingertips are dancing over Gilbert's face, "I don't really do bottom." He leans down to suck at Gilbert's neck, bringing his hands back down to examine lower. "Ever." And then he sinks his teeth into the hollow of Gilbert's throat.

Gilbert's spine arches, and he tries to jerk back on instinct, and America lets go, only to come back down to lick the puncture marks that are tinted slightly red with blood. The bite seems to have broken any restraint the younger nation has, and he sinks his fingernails into Gilbert's sides as he examines the rest of Prussia's torso using his tongue and lips. It doesn't take long before Gilbert is panting, twisting his hands in their bonds with a building desperation. "Fuck, Alfred," he hisses, "Jesus, just get this over with already!"

"That wouldn't be very sporting," Alfred says, his fingers dipping just below the waistband of Gilbert's pants. "How would that be a punishment if I let you have your way?"

Gilbert's jaw is clenched from suppressing his groans, and when America's fingers finally brush where he aches the most he jolts, throwing his head back against the pillow and surging up into the feather-light touch.

America withdraws instantly. "You're really worked up," he drawls, his Southern accent becoming more pronounced as he gets more aroused. "And I don't even have your pants off yet!" He proceeds to follow through with this action, and since Gilbert goes commando like all awesome people, his erection immediately presents itself. America smirks speculatively at it. "What'll I do with this, Gilbert?"

"Fuuuck," groans Gilbert, hysteria rising with his need for release, "You know exactly what to do with it. Now hurry up and do it, you little bi—motherfucker!" America has just taken his whole (awesomely huge) length into his mouth and is still smirking mischievously up at him. When he doesn't start the obligatory sucking off motions, Gilbert impatiently shifts his hips to try and make him get the message and start moving. America pulls up slowly, but much to Gilbert's dismay he doesn't go back down; instead, he lets it go completely and frowns at the Prussian nation.

"If you pull that shit again I'll leave and I won't untie you," Alfred reprimands with a scowl. "You wanted this, and you're getting it, but if you try to take control again I will make you very, very sorry."

"Fuck you!" Gilbert snaps back, "You can't start sucking me off and then not do anything! Now hurry up!"

America stares at him for a minute and then he shrugs, ducking his head to resume his business. He's wonderfully efficient and Gilbert is so worked up it only takes a few minutes before he's on the brink, and he throws his head back with a wild gasp, finally about to climax…at which point Alfred withdraws again, scraping Gilbert's member very carefully with his teeth as he comes back up. Gilbert shrieks in frustration. He's unbearably turned on and hovering on the precipice but America refuses to actually get him off!

"I'm sorry," says Alfred, "did you need something? You seem a little…tongue-tied." He finishes this annoying, smug statement by drawing one finger up the underside of Gilbert's length. With a muffled groan between clenched teeth, Gilbert bucks his hips again, wildly trying to get more pressure and contact so he can just fucking orgasm. America smirks and withdraws the finger, leaving Gilbert struggling and slowly losing his mind. "Isn't this what you wanted?" the younger nation inquires innocently.

"Damn it," Gilbert manages to gasp out, because his throat feels too tight to breathe, "AmericaaaaaAAAH!" The conniving bastard superpower has changed tactics again and has just inserted a finger into Gilbert using one hand while the other one almost absentmindedly plays with one of Gilbert's nipples and his mouth is busy sucking at his hipbone. It seems one of his goals is to leave as many hickeys as he can in unusual places. Gilbert's mind is too hazy at this point to decide if this is awesome or not.

America preps him by adding another finger, and then a third, slowly pumping in and out, making sure he never provides enough speed or intensity to give Gilbert the orgasm he so desperately wants. He must finally deem Gilbert ready because he asks, "you keep the lube in the nightstand over there?"

"Yes!" Gilbert practically screams, worked up into a frenzy. His wrists ache from yanking at the shirt and he's covered in a fine layer of sweat. America leaves briefly, then returns, pants-less and looking rather pleased with himself.

"You look eager," he says, settling back down between Gilbert's legs and forcing them open a little more. "Haven't you gotten any recently?"

"Yeah, but it's usually quick because it's…hnng…in between meetings and I don't really do the bottom." Gilbert's explanation is jumbled together because he's trying to get it out so fast and he could care less about making sense at this point. "Now hurry up."

This is when he looks at America's expression and sees a look of mischievousness that obviously doesn't bode well. "Not yet," Alfred says, sliding one hand, now slicked with lube, up Gilbert's cock, then pulling it down harshly, eliciting a harsh moan. "First…I want to hear you beg."

Gilbert jerks his head up off the pillow and stares at him. "No!" he says immediately. "FUCK no! I haven't begged for something since I was a kid and I don't ever beg for sex!"

"Well now you do," says America, and he pushes into Gilbert very, very slowly. Gilbert lets out an appreciative hiss at the sensation and waits for the American to start moving.

He doesn't. Gilbert, to remedy this, pulls himself up a little to try and get friction going; then America leans down on top of him and pins him to the bed completely. He's really incredibly fit, and the sensation of Alfred's lithe body twisting around Gilbert's has the former nation throwing his head back and murmuring breathlessly. Then, finally, America begins to move.

It's painfully slow and measured. He needs more and he needs more now . "Faster," he demands, rocking his body a little and glaring at Alfred, "go faster!"

"No," America says, keeping up the infuriatingly steady and slow rhythm. "I want to hear you ask for it."

Gilbert feels like he's about to implode, and it actually aches. "I won't," he insists desperately, "I…oh God, I…I want you to…fuck," he hisses. America looks displeased with how long this is taking and takes matters into his own hands. He does this by sucking and licking Gilbert's jawline and throat while his hands get a firm grip in Gilbert's hair and leave him unable to move his head. It finally just becomes too much; the pressure is building up and he can't think anymore. "…please," he finally manages to choke out, "Please fuck me harder, you motherfucker, I want you to pound me into next week, and if you don't I'm going to-" but he doesn't finish because with a throaty groan, Alfred picks up the pace and suddenly he's thrusting into Gilbert so hard the mattress moves back and forth with them and the headboard hits the wall with each thrust.

Gilbert is finally at the edge again, he can practically feel the orgasm, when America reaches down and gets his cock right at the base, preventing him from climax. Gilbert finally loses it. "Damn it!" he roars, writhing and thrashing under Alfred, their skin sliding due to the film of sweat on both of them, "Fuck you, if you don't let me orgasm I'm going to DIE!"

Alfred lets go and Gilbert sees white. He vaguely registers that America has also climaxed as well and has his face buried in Gilbert's well-marked neck as he moans, biting at the already bruised skin. Still, the pain is distant and Gilbert's vision becomes hazy with white starbursts as he twists against his bonds. He's aware of a high keening noise and it gradually dawns on him that it's him making this noise, but that isn't important at the moment either.

It takes a long time to regain his senses. By the time he does, Alfred has already untied his hands and is laying beside him instead of on top of him, his expression sleepy and thoroughly exhausted. He has put his glasses back on (when did they come off?) and he smiles sleepily at Prussia when he sees that he's awake. "Hey," he mumbles, "You're back. Sorry. Kinda lost it there. It's been a while since I've gotten good sex." He actually looks apologetic, too.

"Are you kidding me?" Gilbert demands. "That was fucking awesome. I normally hate being the bottom, but that was...awesome."

America grins half-heartedly. "I'm glad I got you that eagle for Gilbird to play with. Otherwise he would have been watching us the whole time. That would've been weird."

Gilbert feels…exhausted, which is rare. He yawns and drapes his arms around America, pulling him in closer. America has, at some point, cleaned them both off, and the dirty towel lies on the floor by the foot of the bed. He also has put Band-Aids on some of the deeper bite marks he inflicted. "We'll deal with the work we were supposed to do when we wake up," Gilbert says. "I'm totally done thinking right now."

America mumbles in agreement and curls up against Prussia a little closer before dropping off to sleep.

The first thing Ludwig sees upon entering his house is an eagle, sitting on the spice rack, looking supremely bored. Gilbird is sitting tentatively nearby; they appear to be engaged in a staring contest.

The kitchen is also a mess; his gallon of beer is warming on the counter, some papers have been thrown off the counter onto the floor and…blood.

Immediately, Gilbert wheels around and heads for the upstairs. He isn't sure who the blood belongs to, but this can't be good, and he needs a war with America like he needs another Italian in the house. (He doesn't need it at all. Feli is already too much to handle.) Gilbert's room is the only one with the door closed, and he throws it open, fully expecting to find someone dead.

What he sees is much, much worse. America is curled up against his brother, who is holding the younger nation in his arms. His brother also has numerous bruises, cuts, and bandages.

And they are both completely naked, there's a bottle of lube open on Gilbert's dresser, and Gilbert's wrists are suspiciously red and look like they've got a minor rope burn.

Ludwig stumbles downstairs to drink the memory out of his head.

A/N: My friend issued me a challenge: Write a hetalia fanfiction with Gilbert and Alfred. It must include: Bald eagle


Sexy times

Ludwig being upset

Sooo I did my best, yes I did. Also I had two hours to write the story, so sorry for any mistakes, it probably isn't my best work. Ah well. Smut between the two awesomest nations? I THINK YES.

Also, I could care less about nation names versus human names, because it's annoying to refer to them as just one thing all the time, so it that bothers you I'm terribly sorry, but you can go suck it. (not like America.)


Wait, when the hell did Prussia and Ivan have a thing?

They didn't. I just thought it would work. Alfred and Gilbert seem like the only people who could successfully have sex with Ivan. Because Ivan raping the baltics totally doesn't count.

When was America trained by FRANCIS?

During the revolution, silly goose! And France did give us the Statue of Liberty. I'll bet Alfred repaid him handsomely for that one. Also we have a pretty 'yay toleration' relationship with each other, so if Francis was feeling lonely Alfred would probably welcome the extra sex. He totally would.