Things hadn't gone quite like he had hoped after addressing Russia the night before. America had thought his placement on the balcony was just fine and dandy but apparently his new friend didn't think so. Russia had come over, since America had failed to fully close his door, and tugged him off the railing. There was some comment about him burning up, something else and...something. America couldn't really recall the night before.

He did remember explaining the odd noises. Paired with a fever and runny nose, the lie had gone over well. After Russia had escorted him to bed with a heavy hand clasping America's upper arm, both nations bid each other farewell before America curled up and drifted off before the high fled. The morning was hell, but America had gotten up, showered, and put on another suit. His trademark jacket and glasses were left behind as he absentmindedly made his way to the conference room. It was going to be a long day, one which his mind was not yet ready for but body felt compelled to endure.

That was earlier and this was now. He had fled the conference room as soon as he was able. The others had filtered out more slowly, wary of his over-excited state. That state had yet to flee as America all but bounced. After the day's meeting he had gone to the downtown streets of Berlin once more and his pockets were weighted with another haul of what he was taking wholeheartedly to cheerfully referring to as his 'friends'.

The sun had set just recently but already the breeze was nipping at the exposed flesh of his arms, face, and neck. The slight discomfort was easily ignored as he trotted along the stone of the sidewalk. He really had no idea exactly where he was going, only that he was going somewhere and needed to be there.

Up ahead, a spew of Technicolor lights spilled across the road as two patrons from the club stumbled out into the night. They were faceless no ones, no names with no past, and America passed them quickly before entering the club. The farther he moved down the hall, the more the music invaded his senses.

Standing just before the dance floor, one hand shoved into the pocket of his jeans and fingering his friends, America could feel the bass bury deep in his bones as his entire frame rocked and shuddered to the beat. Every nerve, every cell, every thought aligned itself with that beat as he laughed brightly, spotting a couple tearing up the dance floor and looking high off their asses but pleased none the less. They were another couple of Does and he wanted to be just like them. A no one. A nothing. Not a man, not a nation, just an it doing whatever it wanted whenever it felt like it.

America had never thought to go clubbing before. The idea of being packed into an all hot room with a mass of intoxicated and madly flailing beings. Since his roof hopping obsession didn't seem to clear his head any longer and with the knowledge that clubs and drugs went together well, he had decided to at least give a try. The music pulsated through his veins was pleasant enough, but still wary and clean, America skirted the dance floor and went to a table in a far, poorly lit corner.

He gracelessly plopped down onto the worn and torn leather seat and scooted close to the wall. Bringing his hand from his pocket, America let the contents spill out across the tabletop. There were pills of all shapes and sizes. He didn't recognize a single one of them, having no idea what they were or what they would do. The only familiar item was the left over powder from the night previous. His shoulders rolled lazily as he took out a credit card and began the task of setting up rails. The bag was empty as he finished.

Leaning back, he just stared at the socially offending items loitering about before him. His mind was oddly blank but he smiled. The music was thrumming all around him, coursing through the leather and wood and plaster and paint. There were no words, only the deafening roar of that dance beat as it pounded and pounded, leaving him numb. America figured it was the music driving away thought but enjoyed it regardless. Beneath the current of the music as it flowed through him, there was a pit of melancholy thoughts trying to claw up into his brain and make themselves known.

As America acknowledged them he couldn't deny the burning urge to completely drive away that irritation in the annals of his mind. The burn beat the itch; it always did. Impulse, control, the latter which America never seemed to possess and the former ever present in his nature. So, he sat forward and took up the piece of cut straw he had brought along as the words Please don't stop the music slipped in and out of his conscious nothingness. Soon, even that thought fled as he finished off five lines and set the straw aside.

On autopilot, his hand went out to snatch up the assortment of pills, mind utterly devoid of everything, anything. As he shoved the small handful into his mouth, the song changed and a new, slower beat rocked him. The sensation was overly pleasant as he waited for the drugs to take effect.

A lightness began to pervade his body soon as his whole being seemed to lift in the booth and soar with the music. It was the feeling of weightlessness, the freeing release from an over flow of fear as his brain subconsciously registered the dangers of the substance beginning to thrum through him. He moved from his seat in the corner, leaving the evidence of his developing habit behind, and went to the dance floor. The intent was to dance till he collapsed or came down from the intense high beginning its constricting grip on his person.

It was getting late by the time America made his way to his favorite place: the center of the dance floor. A scalding need to move racked his body with something akin to pain as he set himself to shaking all the stress, worry and total discontentment away. His head hung low, chin resting on his collarbones, while his eyes went to half mast and body all but shuddered to the beat. He wasn't sure if the sight was really attractive or not, but those closing in seemed to think so as they ground against his hip, thigh, back side, everywhere.

He lifted his head, looking over the crowd. His eyes landed on a young man not far off and surrounded by a gaggle of men and women alike. Something about the other just drew him in. He had no idea why, only that there was an invisible force coaxing him in that direction. When coming to the club, he hadn't really been looking for anyone or anything in particular aside from an intense high and carefree joy. Both were achieved but the more he tuned in to his own body, despite the disconnect that had settled in long ago, he found himself wanting something more, something primal. Whoever the man was, America had found a possible candidate to relieve that animalistic need.

Approaching, America watched with hazy surprise as the man turned and he discovered the reasoning behind the almost mystical pull: it was Prussia. Who would have thought? America had never associated the once nation with clubs or looking as good as the man did as his hips swayed and whole body fluidly wound around the bodies beside his. America found himself drawn to a spot beside Prussia, unable to move as he continued dancing carelessly. The aura coming off Prussia was incredible and as the nation turned to move away, America found himself unwilling to have him go.

His hands flew out and seized the nation by the hips while America's body moved to press against Prussia's back. The rhythm overtaking his system never ceased as he continued dancing, Prussia soon following the lead.

The nation glanced over his shoulder after a few moments of lewd grinding to get a glimpse at who had fastened their hands so firmly on the exposed flesh of his hips. Confusion flooded his features as he registered it was America pressing a very prominent hard on into the side of his thigh. The situation was surprising, but not entirely displeasing as he twisted in that firm grip to face America. Now it was his turn to take charge. A devilish smirk climbed onto his lips as his hands found their way to the hem of America's shirt and lifted it to press the pads of his fingers into the hollow of America's hips.

Their bodies never once stopped rocking against one another.

Leaning in close, Prussia breathed, "Do you know what you've started? I just came here to party and I find you looking like a gussied up whore."

America leaned in as well, body overly sensitive and numb all at once, "But now we're rocking on the dance floor and being naughty, so you must like the gussied whore look."

Prussia's hand went further up the dark tank top, settling on the other's waist. The music played, lights darting across the crowd. They were chest to chest, face to face, and neither really cared. For America, the world was tilting and morphing as red and blue and a whole spectrum of never before colors obscured those around him and made him blind to any crystalline details. To Prussia, this was just an excellent opportunity to have some fun and maybe get a piece of ass he had silently admired for the past few decades.

"I wanna take you away somewhere private," Prussia hissed.

He almost missed the nation's statement as he completely escaped into the music as the DJ let it play. Leaning forward, the fabric of his shirt raking against the flat planes of Prussia's bare chest, he purred back, "I just can't refuse that with the way you're doin' this now. Keep on rockin' it and I won't care if we're in private or not."

When he pulled there, there was a lazy, languid grin settled on his lips. While he didn't want to move away from the music, didn't want the beat to stop as it tore his body to bits and made him nearly moan in ecstasy, the idea of being taken away to alleviate the growing bulge in his pants was just too inviting. They could escape the music for an hour or so and surely, when they were done, the DJ would still be playing the nameless techno tracks. He just couldn't refuse as Prussia ground their hips together. The way Prussia was doing it, rocking continuously and driving him mad, and the way the music never seemed to stop, songs blending effortlessly with those before and after, were driving him mad.

Those wandering hands popped out from beneath America's shirt as Prussia's hand found its way to the small of the other man's back. With practiced ease, he led America to a secluded corner of the club. The same spot America had once sat to be exact. With a distasteful look at the materials littering the table, Prussia pushed them onto the floor before all but tossing America onto the surface. The table groaned under the added weight but did no more.

Leaning down, Prussia's clamped his mouth around America's adam apple and sucked harshly. The action rewarded him with a mewl from America as the nation bucked under him and sought friction. America twisted to the side, hands flying to Prussia's fly as the nation's mouth was pried from his throat. There would be a mark but that fact went unnoticed as his hands shook and struggled to free the erection he knew was there.

Laughing darkly at America's less than coordinated fingers, he pulled the super power's legs over his shoulder and bent him in half as he cooed smugly, "Babe, are you really ready cause I'm pretty fuckin' close and not sure I wanna wait any longer."

To prove his point, Prussia took America's hand and pressed the nation's palm to the still confined tent in his pants. Beneath his fingers, America thought he could feel the other's need pulsing. He could feel the passion and the need. This was happening and, God, did he want it. With more desperation than before, America finally freed Prussia from his fabric prison.

There was no shame in what they were about to do. Even if there were, the environment surrounding his body was too distorted for America to really even process the notion of shame. After all, no one had to know what went on between them; this was a private show in which only he and Prussia served as the audience. He had no idea what he had started with Prussia. The intention to let go and party had driven him into the club, to take the drugs, to dirty dance and get naughty with Prussia on the dance floor. Now it had driven him onto a table in a godforsaken corner of the club with Prussia hastily pulling down his jeans and boxer shorts just enough to get the real party started before those hands were once more on America's waist.

The music played on as, without warning, Prussia pressed into America. Pain blossomed all along the man's spine as his body arched and rocked back down onto the shaft embedded within him. Yes, there was pain, but the information flooding his brain was being sorted improperly. The searing he should have felt came up as a burning along his lower back. The pleasure engulfing his mind was being amplified by four fold. He wasn't exactly sure what was going on, only knowing that he liked it: liked it a lot.

In time with the music, Prussia began to set a steady rhythm as he pounded into America carelessly. The nation growled, hunching forward so they were chest to chest and face to face once more. His hips bucked and spasmed. Hours of dancing against willing bodies had already set him close to the edge and he was almost positive America was in the same position as the ever happy nation twisted and bucked. America's eyes were screwed shut and brows drawn together as his mouth hung slack and mewls, moans, and growls worked out of the younger man's throat unchecked. The sight was too erotic. Prussia once again began suckling and biting at America's neck to avoid that sinfully delicious expression.

Their bodies molded into each other, flesh against flesh as America's shirt rode up and their hips met soundlessly.

The music drowned out everything for America. He wasn't even aware he was making noise. The raw, dry feeling in his throat went unnoticed as his body quaked. It felt so good; it felt so goddamn good. Prussia pounded into him relentlessly and waves of warmth washed over everything he was. His muscled burned pleasantly, tendons aching contentedly as they were unnaturally stretched to provide better angling. The entirety of his body slammed downward to meet every timed thrust. They moved to the music; that was the only thing America could fully comprehend in his altered state.

Unaware, a new chant began to slip past his parted lips between the gasped breaths and shuddering moans. He repeated over and over again, "God, please don't let the music stop."


A/N: This one is Please Don't Stop the Music by Rihanna. When iTunes spat this song out, I raeged a little then saw the lyrics. Granted, I totally wanted to avoid any sort of clubbing scenes, but, whaaatever. So, anyway, I give you Prussia/America. It's a secret pairing I totally support. Side note, don't do pills, cocktails, or coke, kiddies. For those who don't know, a cocktail is just taking an assortment of pills. This chapter and the one previous were very kindly edited by the lovely Shatterdoll, because I'm still search of a viable beta. What am I on, my sixth or something? Lolfail. Anyway, read, review, get me a beer.