I'll be the one to protect you from

Your enemies and all your demons

I'll be the one to protect you from

A will to survive and a voice of reason

I'll be the one to protect you from

Your enemies and your choices son

They're one and the same

I must isolate you

Isolate and save you from yourself

Just stay with me,

safe and ignorant,

go back to sleep,

go back to sleep. . .

pos·ses·sive
adj.

Having or manifesting a desire to control or dominate another, especially in order to limit that person's relationships with others.

Where had this all began?

And when will it end?

Had Prussia any free will left to think, she might have turned over these questions in her mind as she peered through the dim, moonlit bedroom window. But her will to think - her identity as a free individual had dissipated into vapor and vanished at the hands of a monster long ago. A demon who slept soundly, wrapped in satin white sheets on the bed behind her. Had she any sense of logical reason and human emotions, she would cut the ties which tightly bound them. Snatched the knife on the nightstand and rammed it into his heart.

But she was a puppet. Soulless and empty. Void of any humanity. Stripped of what made her a single, unique deity and crushed to powdery ash. She couldn't even be considered a being, much less the nation she represented anymore. . .

So what really was she? Where had this decline in individuality began?

Russia knew the answer.

It had started with avarice.

Russia had always been a man who was easy overpowered by his desires. They grappled at his throat; throttled him of sensible reason. Choked him of his very humanity until he could no longer breathe and caved in. And greed was certainly no exception.

From the moment he had laid eyes on Prussia, an overwhelming sense of proclivity had woven it's way into his mind. The beast of lasciviousness that slumbered deep within his chest quietly awoke and begun to stir with interest. Clawing it's way from the dank, desolate hole it occupied and possessing Russia. It would not be satisfied until it had the rambunctious Prussian pinned beneath it's talons and chased after her time after time again.

It's intentions? Were anything but pure. In fact, the demon's single desire was to shatter her. Destroy the superciliousness and arrogance which she carried so strongly. It wanted to watch as she slowly withered to death from the inside out. To revel in the agony and anguish of a broken soul. And then to rebuild her. Construct her into something which won it's approval. Something more to be had than what she was now. An imagine which it wanted. This want became so strong Russia couldn't stand it anymore.

And he kidnapped her.

He took advantage of a moment when she was weakest - the relationship between herself and Germany was quickly deteriorating as he replaced her government, bullied her people to follow Nazism, and even hit her for denying his ideals.

To ensure she could not return home, he sent his armies to invade the 'Eastern Bloc' of Germany and ordered the construction of the Berlin wall, thoroughly preventing any means of escape or reunification with her brother, Germany. It worked. Prussia watched helplessly as the bonds which once held herself and Germany together, now frayed at the seams, were cut with the scissors of greed and finality. Though it certainly did not help her case that even before Russia's intrusion things were spindly and unsteady.

Now, however, with his precious 'zayats' clutched within his unrelenting grasp, Ivan was left to his devices. No one would save her, no one would bother to come find her. She could scream, cry, kick, punch, or hit him and it wouldn't make a difference. And the plan was set in motion.

At first she undeniably fought him, as was expected. It appeared that no amount of venomous words or anger-driven bodily abuse could dissuade her self-righteous arrogance. It was like a wall of egotistical bricks reinforced with concrete hauteur. Russia had a difficult time treading through the glue keeping her together - it took him nearly five years before she finally crumpled under his supervision.

Aa. . .that glorious day. That eminent, illustrious moment. The superior smirk which wore around his lips as she finally crashed and did not move from the floor. Her blood trickling in rivulets and painting the white tiles a sickening shade of desecrated crimson. He laughed. Sharp. Biting. Frigid. Jabbed her cheek with the toe of his boot but she did not even flinch a muscle. And he knew he had won. . .finally. Finally!

"Sweet Julchka. . .my zayats." His voice was like acidic honey when he addressed her by her human name as he crouched down and gathered her into his arms. "Have you finally given in to me? After so long?"

No answer. Just empty, unfocused and dulled crimson irises. They say eyes are the window to someone's soul, so what happened if there was no more soul to be seen. . .?

It didn't matter. Russia had gotten his victory, and it was time to piece the puzzle back together the way he wanted it.

First, he would teach her her place. That she was below his level and would always remain that. No one cared for her; not a single person on this godforsaken planet. Not her brother, not her cousin, and not her once caretaker. But this didn't matter! Oh no, he'd say with a chilling smile as he nuzzled her cheek. Because he loved her. He would always be the one to love her! No one else could love her as much as he could. Russia reminded her of this every day - every moment the opportunity arose to do so. And she would agree, albeit robotically, but his puppeteering was successful.

And in a matter of just a year, she was completely and wholly his toy. It was so easy. The amethyst eyes which once looked upon her with contempt now flashed with mischevious praise. He adored the doll he made, and gave her the attention she warrented.

Footsteps, soft and subtle like a dove echoed through the room. Prussia didn't even flinch as she felt his presence descend upon her like a swooping owl. A hand went around her bandaged and unbandaged eye, the other wrapped around her torso and settled at her injured side. Prices paid for accidentally disobeying him earlier that day; wandering into the gardens without his prior consent. She made no movements. Just breathed.

"Now what am I to do with you?" Russia chuckled sweetly into the calm, night air. "Haven't I told you it is cold at night? You will get sick if you stray from the blankets for too long, dressed as you are. Come now." His hand slipped away from her waist and instead grasped her wrist, bringing the back of her hand to his lips and pressing a chaste kiss to the silken flesh.

"I. . .wonder how Germany is doing." Prussia suddenly voiced aloud. She could feel the muscles of the man behind her jump with tension.

He laughed again, but the sound fringing the tones was of warning. "Do not worry on him now. He is unimportant. Here, in this frozen wonderland, there is only us. Come now." There was a hint of finality in his words as he urged her back over to the bed.

"Ja. She willingly cooperated and took her place back beneath the sheets.

But instead of Russia climbing in next to her, he chose to climb atop her and braced himself on either side of her head. He wore a thin-lipped smirk that spoke of devious intentions swirling about his mind. "It seems you have forgotten that I am the only one you should worry of. Tsk." He clicked his tongue. "I will have to remind you. . ."

Those words once terrified Prussia. Sent waves of horror prickling along her skin. She'd have lashed out and insulted him. Hit him. Done everything in her power to deny him.

But she barely moved a muscle.

She simply lay. Even when his mouth met her own, she used the barest minimal of movements to reciprocate the gesture while his hand worked to effortlessly pop open the buttons on the cotton shirt she borrowed from him. A requirement when they lay together; she wear as little as possible. Not because he was perverted (on the contrary they actually rarely ever had sex unless he deemed it necessary. He seemed to lack a disinterest in such an act), but because he enjoyed to edge a little torture into his 'teachings'. And he was right, it was cold at night in Russia. She'd shiver and shiver and shiver until he'd wrap her up in his arms or give her permission to climb under the bedsheets.

Distinctly, she felt his lips whisper along her jawline and neck. Teeth would begin to lay their marks at the curve of her collarbone. She shuddered. The rush of icy flesh against her own as his flat, open palm would map her torso. Tracing the gentle curve of her sides, and the contours of her chest. Cupping a breast and giving it a small squeeze.

His lips would descend further still. They adopted the ritual, self-appointed task of covering every scar, bruise, and lesion lining her body, down to the very jut of her hip bones with a kiss. He stopped there, however, and moved to meet her lips once more.

There was a rustle of clothing and he murmured softly against her mouth as he kicked his boxers aside. "See. They do not give a fuck about you like I do. They do not matter. I am the only one who matters. . .the only one you need." His breath rolled against her lips.

She closed her eyes and nodded. "Ja. All I need." She parroted in a robotic voice.

"Good girl. Ich bin dein gott." Russia spoke in German as nudged her thighs apart and settled between her legs. Poised. Another ritual which they practised; speaking one another's languages to ensure complete ownership. He knew her language to prove that she wholeheartedly belonged to him.

She saw his lips quirk with a satisfactory smile as her arms wound around his shoulders and she replied. "Дa." His hips jerked forward.

There was a moment of pressure. . .and then bliss. The softest sound of pleasure issued from her lips - this familiar feeling of fullness aching in her loins. A feeling only he could incite from her body. She arched her hips upward and he took it as an incentive to move.

The sounds of skin connecting soon filled the room, accompanied by their ragged, irregular breaths. His large hands cupped and squeezed her surprisingly frail hips, fingernails digging into the flesh. Sure to leave purpling bruises. She clung to him like a drowning man to a piece of driftwood. Their bodies flowing like smooth, ocean waves against one another. Once more their mouths met in a flurry of passion. Tongues danced to the tune of their lovemaking like a choreographed dance. There was synchronicity in their undulating, frenzied connection.

A cry. Russia had touched the most sensitive area within her body. Every muscle in her form tensed around him and he groaned. This tighteness. . .

Heat, a hot, hard ache began to pool in the pits of their stomachs. Gathering. Growing. Mounting higher and higher. Thrashing and boiling until it seemed they would go mad, burn up, and die.

And there it was - the edge. In a flash, they were both thrown over, each releasing a cry of ecstasy as their limbs went rigid with release. A few moments later and they were both panting; struggling to catch their breaths. Russia took a moment to compose himself before pushing to his side with wobbly arms.

Prussia felt herself pulled into his fumbling embrace and she settled against him. Her face buried into his heaving, sunken chest.

He gave a rather shaky chuckle and murmured possessively, "You will not forget now, will you Дa? Ich bin dein gott." His lips met the top of her hair in a touch of a kiss.

"нєт. You are all I need."