The first time Russia personally beats the shit out of him, it's because of the a failed uprising and tanks rolling in the streets of East-Germany not even a decade after the end of the war. She's strong, stronger than he remembers her to be, and she strikes like the vicious bitch she is, aiming where it hurts with lethal precision. He doesn't even try to fight back after a while. He knows better than to piss her off even more by staining her clothes with his blood.
It's payback, this whole comedy of errors that his life has become, and he tells himself that he wouldn't be able to bear the commiserating smiles and niceties he knows America likes to shower over West. They've lost the war, the both of them, but it's not a reason for America and England and fucking France to try to change his brother into something Prussia knows he isn't. At least Russia is honest, in her own insane way, and she doesn't offhandedly dismiss him with guilt and pity. Still. Having his head bashed against the concrete floor doesn't exactly feel nice.
Prussia's stuck in bed for a week after that, and he would laugh at the fact that she insists on tending to him personally. He insults her a few times, about her weight, about how her catfight with America is taking a ridiculous turn and about China being a shit fuck. She never takes the bait, but that's just because she's only got to look at him all patched up to know who, exactly, has the upper hand in this little deal they have with each other.
Russia leaves for Berlin, making sure that the operations and the arrests go smoothly, kissing his forehead in a mock gesture of affection before she takes a plane headed West. He mutters something under his breath about her being an insufferable bitch as she does, and it makes her smile even wider.
It's not the only time she kicks his ass into proper communist behaviour, but he manages to give her a fair fight once or twice, or at least to make a comment about the bruises on her face afterwards. Prussia knows that he's nothing at all like Poland, and Russia knows it too. Prussia knows that he's better off obeying if he can get something out of it, and Russia comes to realize that forcing one of the SSR to deliver him Soviet propaganda is more effective to cure Prussia's profoundly cynical nature.
Latvia's stuttering as he delves into the details of marxist theory is harsher on Prussia's ego than a few broken ribs anyway.
.
When she's not busy beating satellite states up, which she doesn't do nearly as often as she'd like everyone to think, Russia isn't any less annoying, with the smiles, the cutesy voice she only uses when she wants to piss him off and the constant touching, be it with awkward embarrasses or unwanted kisses on the cheek. Still, the whole "family business" aspect she tries to give to the Eastern Bloc has some perks, at least for Prussia when Russia calls him in her room to offer him a brand new set of intercontinental missiles or a Datsche to call his own for his birthday.
"It is called a datcha," Russia corrects him as she replaces a strand of her long ash blond hair behind her ear. She'd look almost cute if she wasn't such an insane wench, with her summer dress and how she speaks to him in awful German just to please him.
She's in a good mood today, it shows in the way she doesn't reek of vodka as she hands him a carefully wrapped present. It's probably Lithuania who took care of the wrapping, and Prussia takes a petty sadistic pleasure to ripping it apart.
"I don't care," Prussia says as he pockets the key and pointedly lets his eyes fall over Russia's large chest. She doesn't give him a slap on the face for it, surprisingly enough, only dismissing him with a off-handed gesture and a cat-like grin on her face.
"Don't put your dick in crazy." Hungary tells him, with his deep voice and dumb muscles. He knows what he's talking about, Prussia has to admit it, because if there's anything worse than living in Russia's house, it's probably being stuck with the frigid queen Austria.
They're having one of those midnight drinking parties with Russia's stash of Finnish vodka fresh from Helsinki when everybody is asleep. Hopefully they won't get caught. Prussia is most definitely not in the mood to have Russia's brothers lecture him about the point of collectivisation and the dangers of individualism.
"Russia will chop it off in your sleep, if Belarus doesn't do it first."
Sometimes, Prussia thought that his own family relations were insane, with West refusing to talk to him over some nasty political Cold War bullshit and Bavaria sending him passive-aggressive postcards from the Mediterranean every summer out of old spite. But then he had come to know Belarus and Russia.
"Fuck off."
This is a slippery slope, and it makes Prussia click his tongue disdainfully. He only dismisses him with a non-descript move of the hand and a reminder to mind his own fucking business. Hungary is an idiot, has always been, running after that bitch Austria. He doesn't know Prussia and he doesn't know what he's talking about.
It doesn't matter what Hungary thinks because Russia smacks his face around hard enough to keep him in bed rest for a full month when he tries to leave to join the protests that are happening in Budapest.
"You think Poland's next?" Prussia asks him when he brings him his meal, socialist salutations put aside for a little while.
Hungary shrugs, winces as he realises his shoulders aren't exactly in the proper state for him to do that.
"My money's on Czechoslovakia."
Hungary has always been a little bit psychic, but Prussia hates Czechoslovakia's guts anyway, so he doesn't care all that much. He doesn't follow his advice either.
.
Frankly he doesn't really know how he ends up between Russia's legs eating her out like he actually meant it. There had been heavy drinking involved firsthand, something about celebrating olympic medals or some equally stupid official party-sponsored bullshit that came with booze being sent to the house and Russia throwing a party out of sheer giddiness.
She had kissed his cheek sloppily, then his mouth, with an odd kind of hunger that was both arousing and terrifying.
It had made Prussia realise how much of a thing he has with psychotic bitches. He would have signed himself out of sheer despair, but he's left the catholic guilt-tripping business to Austria somewhere in the 16th century.
That same kind of terror arousal is very much present now that she's sprawled over her desk and firmly holding his hair, giving him the pace she wants him to follow with his tongue. Prussia never thought he'd actually enjoy being subtly used like this, but he'd never thought he'd willingly perform oral sex on Russia of all people. He hates proving Hungary right. Well. He's not technically "putting his dick in crazy", but he's pretty sure that whatever he is doing right now is stupid enough for him to regret getting hammered on the kind of champagne only the higher-ups ever get to drink in this country.
She does those uncharacteristic needy little sounds as she rides his face, stupid long slavic legs shaking in the process. There's a bit of German at first that slowly gets lost in incoherent Russian, and she comes with her eyes closed and a tug to his hair to stop whatever he's doing with his tongue.
In fact, it hits him right away when Russia pulls him up for a kiss with a little smile and asks him for a cigarette. He's still painfully hard when he lights it for her, and she knows it, from the way her hand lingers on his shoulder and her lips close around the filter with unnecessary voluptuousness. She makes a little satisfied sound as she takes the first drag from it, and Prussia wonders idly how she'd react to cigarette burns to her pretty face.
"Thank you very much, dearest East Germany," she says with that infuriating childish tone, and Prussia has to manage all the self-control he can muster not to grab her throat and choke her in a very stupid, very dangerous fit of anger.
He might be a masochist, but not enough to enjoy a week-long lecture about friendship and his duty as a member of the international communist struggle against imperialism delivered by a very unconvincing Lithuania. There's no way he, and the entire household, hasn't heard them.
She dismisses him with a peck on the top of his hair, all smiles and rainbows, as usual. Prussia is too angry to even finish himself off in his room after that. He yells into his pillow out of frustration and wishes everyone dead.
Poland takes the piss out of him after that, as they're working together on making Russia's datcha ready for the summer in one of those ridiculous socialist bonding activities Russia likes to put everyone through. Prussia barely manages not to smack his stupid Polish face with a hammer for it, but that's just because Poland is a better carpenter than him and he doesn't want Poland's replacement to be Belarus in some terrifying twist of fate he knows Russia is very much capable of engineering.
.
She's toying with him, Prussia knows it, from the way she kisses him like she doesn't mean it, covers him in gifts that don't really matter and parades him around like a model student in the dictatorship of the proletariat class. Prussia hates himself for relishing in the attention, but at least it pisses West off whenever he catches his glances, which is a reward in itself. It doesn't change the fact that Prussia isn't a complete dumbass and he knows what is happening to the world, to Japan who got reborn out of the ashes of the war into an economic powerhouse, to America who now lords over the moon and to Russia's desperate attempts to get back at her rival.
They do fuck properly, at one point or another that involves heavy drinking once more, but this time it's about Russia's vodka therapy whenever she's angry at something. It's about the shit storm brewing in Moscow with that new Premier, the one that made her eyes shine with promises for change and a bright new future less than a decade ago.
Prussia usually doesn't do the loving afterglow of orgasm or whatever France talked about when they still were on speaking terms in the last century, but Russia takes what she wants out of him, as always. She's surprisingly good at giving head, with those stupid bangs that fall over her face, practiced devotion all over her face and her tongue working his whole length with practiced efficiency.
"Are you very cross at me?" Russia asks, and she's doing that thing with her eyelashes that pisses Prussia off so much he wants to scream.
She's kissing his neck with little butterfly kisses that are, in Prussia's opinion, for pussies. Still, he doesn't stop her, as her hands wander over his chest and flutter down to his bellybutton to finally rest on his hips. Her fingers are still sticky with come, and Prussia would say something about it if he wasn't so damn tired of her shit.
"Yes."
He doesn't tell her about how he's getting sick of the shit car and the incompetent fucking politicians, and he doesn't tell her about how he wishes he could spend a week in Italy every summer like West, fucking Wirtschaftwunder West does. He's getting tired of waiting lines and fucking Kaffee-Mix and contraband blue jeans. He knows that it is her doing but it isn't so much her doing as it is the way their kind always end up being, in a way.
"Oh, poor little East Germany… Why?" She's using the needy German now, and Prussia closes his eyes in annoyance. "I do everything to make you happy, yes?"
Russia always gets what she wants. She keeps on kissing his neck, and Prussia isn't even surprised when her dainty lady hands go for his cock with fluttering touches that stir something Prussia isn't sure he wants inside of him. Her breasts press against his back, and he knows she's already playing with herself from the way her breath feels uneven against his shoulders.
Fucking crazy bitch. Prussia doesn't grant her a proper answer, even though he can't help but to reach for her stupidly large tits when she climbs on top of him and bites her lips at the idea a second round. It's the remnants orthodox uprising, Prussia tells himself as she lowers herself to kiss his lips with a calculated demure look on her face.
.
Hungary leaves before Prussia does, and Prussia wish he could let go of their past grudges and silent agreements never to do certain things to hug him and his dumb brawny arms, awkwardly and stupidly, as he's about to leave. They exchange a few words that don't matter, really, and Hungary even forgets to mention Russia or Austria or all the shit that stands between him and Prussia. It's a good deal, all in all, and Prussia wonders when it'll be time for him to pack up his things and leave too.
He's surprised to realise that he gets to leave before Poland does, but Poland doesn't really care all that much. Russia's too weary to beat him up anymore anyway, as she nowadays spends most of her time locked up in her room drinking or at her desk arguing in Russian with officials without the usual mock-friendliness she used to have back in the days. Poland gives him a playful punch on the shoulder and a reminder to punch Germany in the face from Poland with love if he gets the chance to. Neither Estonia or Latvia actively care about him leaving, aside from the fact that it means that they might get back to their own place, at last.
He doesn't say goodbye to Russia because he knows neither of them want to have this discussion. A year later, there are fireworks over Potsdamer Platz he gets to watch with West, but there's still something standing between them Prussia can't really put his finger on. West frets, as always, about everything and nothing, and he's grown softer than Prussia would have thought, even though he won't say anything about it out loud, not yet.
He hears from Poland that Russia's kicked everyone out in a fit of rage, and it doesn't even surprise him to learn that Ukraine is actually pretty happy to get his own place in Kiev. Still, he wonders if Belarus won't try to force his way back inside his sister's house, at one point or another in the near future. It all goes to shit for her, as usual, because Russia isn't nearly as smart as she would like to be, with brash changes of mind and fits of anger that made her trash the whole house screaming.
Still, he's not sure he regrets the whole communist deal as much as West thinks he should, as years go by and he realises that this new millenium doesn't belong to him anymore. Sometimes he goes back to the Baltic Sea and looks towards the East, wondering what would have happened had things been different.
It doesn't matter, he tells himself and tries to make it sound true.