I do not own Prussia (sadly) nor Hetalia, nor any of The Police's song. But I hope you'll still enjoy this.

Also, I tried to write something from an ominous point of view, as a reader you can interpret the narrator as any character you like, really.

It was not a kink, nor an obsession. But I can not get enough of Beilschmidt's opalescent skin, the way it casts shadows when the muscles flex, the way a simple scratch leaves a crimson mark.

There I am, sat behind him, squirming of contained frustration in my chair. But this meeting isn't about that parcel of snow-like epiderma his shirt reveals, nor the provocative caress of the fabric against my precious. I should be listening, really —Oh! if only Ludwig knew what I was fantasizing about instead, he would be so mad. But I can't contain this primal pulsion I feel, I am only just a mammal aren't I? And the flush of testosterones under my skin is calling for his, against mine, grinding with sweat and pleasure.

I have never touched it. Always thought my human hands would ruin such godlike creation, immaculate, pure, perfection made man. And I know I shouldn't touch it, otherwise these growing pulses would break my prey: if I start I might not be able to control myself anymore. I dream always of plunging my teeth into the fair flesh and sensing his body gliding with a little pain against mine, then I will kiss with both lips and fists the waxen doll caught between my thighs— oh! I will love and destroy it as it shall remain mine forever. Surely the sheets after the night of passion will resemble my dear Gilbert: smooth and immaculate at first, and then stained with the same crimson of his beautiful eyes. I wished there was only a few tint of ecchymosis violet added to the blanket, blooming like the earliest spring flowers on the snow.

I shall kiss him goodbye, and dare a lip-bite. This would be the end of our encounter. I will leave him behind astonished by the spectacular night we had, eyes opened wide almost translucent towards the ceiling, the body rudely stamped, deformed by love's heat and crushed by my heart's passionate beats; like a perfect Guernica replica my muse will lie on the bed staggered like Ophelia in the stream! As I am an artist, and he is my chef d'oeuvre, the ultimate notion of perfection and beauty in this dull dull existence!

—but again, I never touched him. I can only look from afar and love those small instants, not even seconds, where our eyes meet, mines furious with passion, his shy, almost frightened to meet mine. And I shall look at him from this wooden dock, admire form afar they say. Oh, if only you knew how much I love you Gilbert! No matter the distance I will always observe you, every step you take, every breath you make, I'll be watching you.

The assembly sat down once again when the grand jury came back after deliberation next door. My darling rose as if one pinched him on his chair, all attention given to the woman who stood up, that fuckfaced whore.

"The grand jury after considering both the accusing and defending parties has decided to sentence the accused to a harassment and stalking restraining order."

Not a kink, nor on obsession as I said. Only fair love.

After reading "Perfume: The Story of a Murderer", "Lolita" and listening to a very well-known Police song I got inspired to write this "thing".

Hope it wasn't too messed up for you guys, hehe-