What felt like an eternity later, Prussia wondered if he should revise his opinion. Although Prussia had long since done away with torture, not-Germany was frightfully good at it: enough that Prussia now lay on the cement floor of his prison, his breath ragged and whimpering. It had taken all his pride and self control to choke back screams, to not beg not-Germany to stop the beating.

He didn't remember when he'd been taken down, although he was quite certain that mercy played no part in not-Germany's actions. Not with the number of times those fucking boots had found his ribs. Several of them were broken, along with most of the bones in his left hand – also courtesy the boots: fingers didn't stand much of a chance when they were crushed between a heavy boot and cement.

"I warned you." Not-Germany's voice seemed to fade in and out.

Prussia couldn't help hoping that he would pass out so he'd at least be unaware while he was conquered. He hadn't even lost a fucking war – he shouldn't be treated like this. He should have had a chance to fight for his people, his freedom.

The sound of thin cotton tearing, a sudden chill against his backside.

Prussia shuddered, teeth clenched around a sob of pain.

"I won't tolerate your insubordination."

It wasn't fucking insubordination when he was supposed to be Germany's equal, but this not-Germany wouldn't see it that way. Didn't see it that way.

Prussia closed his eyes and focused on breathing. He knew what was coming, knew it would hurt in ways being beaten couldn't match.

The invasion was as swift as it was brutal, his brother overwhelming his weakened defenses and claiming his vital regions even as his hands explored the rest of Prussia's lands, callused fingers – when had he taken the gloves off? – finding the scars of old battles, old defeats, probing and claiming, leaving nothing untouched. Each new incursion sent waves of pain through him as his weakened, battered body was driven into the concrete floor and he fought to hold back screams, even as his brother's invasion threatened to tear him open.

A hand curled around the Siegessaule, making Prussia's vital regions stir despite the pain. He shuddered and struggled to suppress any sound, anything that would show weakness to his conqueror despite knowing the battle was lost. He was defeated, betrayed by the one person he'd trusted, and in a way that hurt more than anything else.

He clung to the shreds of his pride, the determination that even beaten and taken Prussia would not submit. Prussia would fight by any means available, even if it was the tiny – and ultimately useless – gesture of not screaming, not begging.

That hand knew what it was doing. He could feel the Siegessaule rising, hardening beneath the rough pumping, the movement timed perfectly with each new thrust of the invasion. Prussia's body could not help but respond, even as he realized this was his fault. He'd taught his brother everything he knew, taught Germany conquest and rule and how to claim a nation and make them utterly his. He'd made Germany, and now he'd be destroyed by his creation.

"See?" That purring, wrong voice didn't show a hint of exertion where Prussia was gasping each time a new thrust drove him into the concrete floor and pushed the breath out of him. "Your body knows its master, subhuman."

Even if he'd been able to find breath to disagree, Prussia knew better than to argue now. It wouldn't get him anywhere.

Then German artillery pounded him into the concrete again and all he could do was try to breathe. And try to breathe.

When his brother's teeth drove into his shoulder so hard he cried out despite himself, Prussia realized there would be no recovery, no rising from the ashes of defeat. Blood and sex to bind a newly conquered territory and force their people to recognize the victor. It was old lore, all but forgotten. Prussia had told Germany so if – God forbid – it was ever used against him he would know not to blame himself, know he had no choice. He'd never thought Germany would use the knowledge to annex him.

Not when Prussia was already the backbone of Germany, the foundation that allowed Germany to be great.

Germany's teeth and tongue battered the wound, keeping it from healing. The pounding heavy artillery overwhelmed his vital regions, and the Siegessaule fell to the assault. Germany's presence surrounded him, absorbed him, taking everything that was Prussia and adding it to what was Germany, leaving him with nothing but the battered pride which refused to scream or beg or weep for everything he'd lost.

When his vision darkened there was a moment of hope that he might be granted the mercy of death, of never living to know how completely he'd been taken, then his connection to his people, his strength, trickled back to him along with a fainter sense of Germany's lands, an awareness that everything he had now, his people, even his life... all of it belonged to his brother and his brother could reclaim it as easily as he granted it.

Prussia had been conquered in the past, lost battles and wars, but never like this. He'd never been bound to another nation so completely that only his death or his conqueror's death could free him.

When, finally, Germany withdrew his forces, and said in that cold voice that wasn't his, "When you've recovered you'll be brought to my home," it was all Prussia could do to hold back his despair until the light clicked off and he heard the door closed and locked, leaving him to lie in blood and semen, too weak and injured to move.

Only then did he let tears fall, releasing shame, loss and betrayal in bitter salt water to run down his face and join the filth on the floor.