The Flight of the Rice Rocket (Hetalia fic)

[djsoliloquy]

Title: The Flight of the Rice Rocket
Words: 9,200
Originally posted: on the Hetalia kink meme
Character(s) or Pairing(s): G8+2 | Russia/America | France/World
Rating: Hard R for sexual content
Warnings: Bondage, orgy, dubcon and breath-play if you squint. "Don't drive like this" should probably also be a warning.
Summary: Two hours; ten nations; a car the size of a hotdog stand. Sounds like it could be a trailer for the next The Fast and the Furious: Veneziano at the Wheel — except for the whole orgy in the backseat. The car gets fantastic gas mileage, though.


====



The Flight of the Rice Rocket
the rice rocket flies again




“Yes sir, we’re on it!” America shouts, so everyone in the room hears and looks up from their tea or coffee or their three a.m. nap before he throws the phone back on the receiver.

“Please do be gentle with my phone—” England says, but America slams his hands on the table and talks over him.

“Alright, that was the bosses!” he announces, and the other nations’ ears perk at that. “They expect us to be over there on the other side of the city as soon as we can!”

Besides Germany, who immediately stands, no one else expresses much liveliness at the news. North Italy continues snoring softly with his face on the table (Romano having left hours ago); with effort, Canada lifts his eyes to show polite interest; Russia sits in his chair with teacup and saucer balanced in his hands, but his eyes are closed and every now and then his chin dips down into his chest.

“Where is your youthful enthusiasm?” China mumbles, blinking his eyes but otherwise not moving. “Even if we have to go the whole way on foot we still have to get there.”

France lifts one of his hands to scratch at the stubble on his jaw. “It wouldn’t be the first time they make impossible demands of us, and we may have to walk at that. With England’s public transportation systems at this hour we’ll be lucky if we make it there at all, much less within the year.”

“Well, you can take your French system and stick it up your arse,” England replies coolly. The bags under his eyes detract somewhat from the otherwise ferocious glare.

“The public transportation system originated from me…” Korea yawns, half-asleep, and the few awake nations groan.

Japan clears his throat delicately. “I have procured a car for my stay in London. Please consider it at your disposal, America-san.”

America claps his hands together. “Sweet, nice save by Japan! Let’s head outside and check it out.”

There is a pause as the two leave the room, broken by Germany’s sigh, and then him inhaling deeply. “That means,” he says, “that everyone should be outside NOW. We were in that car and driving TEN MINUTES AGO.”

Heads jerk up and eyes open at that voice, and slowly the nations begin standing up and stretching, making their way outside. Germany walks over to where Italy is murmuring happily in his sleep and shakes him by the shoulder. “Italy, wake up.”

Italy curls into a ball in his chair. “'M tired, I want to go to bed… will Germany carry me?”

“No,” Germany says, avoiding France’s smirking glance. He leans over to whisper something in Italy’s ear, and suddenly Italy sits up. His eyelids twitch, or possibly he’s blinking. “Ve, really…?” Italy says.

“You’re awake,” Germany says and lifts him by the arm. “Let’s go.”

Outside, Japan and America stand on the sidewalk next to Japan’s new car. “When you said you’d got one, I just thought you’d rented one of England’s,” America says, beginning to frown. “I mean don't get me wrong, it looks way nicer, but don’t you think…”

“I had it brought with me for the trip,” Japan explains. “It is the very newest model and has all the latest safety features. It is also very fuel-efficient.”

“What language are you speaking?” America says, tilting his head to the side and squinting. “There’s barely enough room for two people to sit next to each other! And there aren’t any cup holders! There’s no way this is a car. It’s like a, a glorified golf cart or something.”

Japan looks up at him. “It is possible you are mistaken,” he says carefully.

“No,” America answers as the meeting begins walking outside, all shivering in the early morning cold. “It’s shorter than I am, it’s not a car.”

Canada rolls his eyes and comes to stand beside America on the curb. “Just because it isn’t the size of a bus and doesn’t take up three quarters of the road?”

“I’ll admit it has four black round things on the bottom and something to steer it with,” America says, “but that’s ignoring the fact that the steering wheel is on the completely wrong side—”

“You’re officially incorrigible,” England mutters, walking past him.

America stares at the back of England head a few seconds. “Well, there’s officiously no way we’re all going to fit inside that death trap!”

“America-san, I assure you it is the embodiment of safety. I would not offer it to the remaining members of the G20 to use if I did not think it was safe.”

“Right! No offense Japan, but look at this thing. If we got so much as a pebble through the windshield the thing would crumple like tin foil.”

“Where there is a will there is a way,” Russia says, stifling a yawn. “That is something like your motto, isn’t it, America? Or perhaps it is too early in the morning for optimism.”

America bristles. “You’re still driving cattle carts around at your house aren’t you, Russia? Do you even know what a car is?”

“That was uncalled for,” Germany says, the last outside. He frowns at the car, but sets his shoulders back. “We’re all exhausted, but there is a job to be done regardless of the… unfortunate size of the vehicle.”

America turns his nose up at Russia and the car in one movement. “Then I motion Russia has to sit on top of the golf cart. We won’t fit otherwise. It’s for the good of everybody.”

“If it is for the general good I will of course comply,” Russia says, smiling. “But to help him do his part as well I will say I think America would fit nicely in the trunk, yes?”

America glowers, and Germany says, “The trunk or are we in this together?”

“Together,” America mutters.

“Good. Now wh—great, now where is Italy?” Germany turns around. They all jump when the car’s horn beeps.

“Germany!” Italy says, leaning over England sitting next to him to wave. “Look, I’m going to drive! It smells like new car inside!”

“Safe, huh?” America says, noticing as Japan breaks out in a cold sweat.

Japan swallows. “It is possible the Italian-proof warranty does not come standard on this model.”

“Get in everybody, our bosses are expecting us!” Italy nearly sings, mimicking a revving engine sound and loudly honking the horn.

They all near the car and America looks inside. “Whoa, why does England get the wrong-side passenger seat? I called shotgun!”

“Because I don’t give a damn what you called and I’m the bloody host.” Already inside, England holds down the button that rolls up the window. “Get in the car.”

America’s eyes widen and he looks into the back seat, where everyone has suddenly taken their places. Thank goodness half the G20 had already met up with their bosses, but even with just ten of them their bodies are practically splitting the seams of the tiny vehicle.

The car is only wide enough for two people and Italy and England claim the front. Germany is directly behind Italy on the right side, with Russia sitting next to him behind England. France climbs in the back window, Korea cozies between Germany's knees, and China is on the floor in front of Russia. Japan is attempting to look dignified sitting on Germany’s lap.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” America looks back into the front seat and taps on England’s window. With a heavy sigh, England lowers the glass a single stoic inch. “Uh. Hi. Can I sit in your lap?” America asks, head lowered in shame.

“No,” England says after a moment.

America misinterprets the pause as him actually having a chance. “Please?” he whines.

“No! Whose lap is open?”

“Fuck that, open the trunk!”

“Do not be silly," says Russia. "I will not bite unless you ask me very, very nicely."

“Go to hell!” America flinches away from the car. “China, you’re smaller than me, why don’t you take that spot and I’ll have the floor?”

China laughs. “Fat chance.”

“France…?”

France laughs. “Speaking of fat, you’re going to have to cut back on burgers if you want to have a chance of fitting up here, mon cher. Besides, only the most beautiful of merchandise should go in the window.” He runs his fingers idly through Germany’s hair as he speaks, ignoring it when Germany blushes and retracts his neck into his shoulders to escape the caresses.

“But—”

Germany inhales. Japan covers his ears. “America, get in the car! You’re not the only one who’s being made uncomfortable in this! The sooner we start the sooner we can get out.”

“But I’m not used to being cramped up like the rest of you!”

“America!” The entire backseat yells it at once.

“Okay! Jeez, fine, I’m going.” America hunches to fit his head in but hesitates. Facing Russia would be… wrong. But sitting perfectly on his lap facing away is weird, too. At last he opts for Japan’s tactic, an altered sort of side-saddle approach. Russia reaches around his waist and shuts the door with one hand.

It sort of molds them together and America shudders. “Where’s your other hand?” he says. Russia smiles.

“Okay, everyone ready?” Italy says. He reaches down for the clutch and his hand closes anticlimactically on air. A few seconds looking around and he finally gives up.

England watches him . “Italy, which side of the road do you drive on at your house?”

“Ve, there are sides?”

Japan closes his eyes and, lacking a seat belt, does his best to try to cement himself back against Germany. The engine starts (“Ah, bene!”) and everyone holds their breath.

Very soon after that, the screaming begins.

When Italy floors the accelerator, all myths of personal space are efficiently eradicated. The force of acceleration throws them back in their seats, or back against whomever they are sitting on, and elbows and knees fly everywhere. The curses and protests don't start with earnest until Italy runs the first stop sign, but it's when Italy drives a straight line through a roundabout the yelling truly begins.

"Italy!" England says, hands firmly anchoring him to his armrests. "You just ran a red light! Again! And do you have some sort of vendetta against trash cans and pigeons?"

“Don’t worry! There’s no one else awake this early in the morning, I’m not going to hit anyone!” Italy says.

“I’m more worried about if someone hits us,” America says loudly, and yes it’s true he couldn’t be pulled off Russia with a crow bar, but that's only because he’s afraid if they hit a bump he’ll go through the roof. “Italy, why are you going so fast?”

They centrifuge against one side of the car when Italy takes a corner without breaking. “Germany showed me, this is how you do it!”

The screams turn to groans. England throws a glare over his shoulder into the back seat. “So you're the reason we’re pulling one-thirty down the side roads! You idiot, you took him on your autobahns? What were you thinking?”

“Yeah,” Korea says queasily, struggling to lift his head above the height of Germany’s legs. “Yeah, and next time you, you use your own autobahns instead of stealing all my—” He sinks back into the floor, Japan’s foot firmly planted in his face.

“But I’m driving so much better now, England!” Italy says, looking over and appearing confused when they yell at him to watch where he’s driving. “Germany’s a good teacher. He’s showing me how to stay safer on the roads!”

Japan says, “You just took an illegal hook turn around an intersection that did not require it.”

“But we do hook turns at yours and Germany’s houses all the time,” Italy says, tilting his head to the side. He gets back on the road and shakes himself briefly, as if coming out of a daydream, when the car rides up on the sidewalk.

"We were on bicycles,” Germany says with uncommon patience when the yelling dies to a level he can be heard over.

"Oh, I see! All these rules are confusing... Did you know I have family in London?"

France's hands and legs splay out against the glass and the back of Russia and Germany's heads to keep him from flying out of the back window space. He groans. "There are more of you loose on the streets?"

Just then the car comes to an unexpected halt, throwing everyone forward with a scream, jostling the positions again.

Besides the groaning and the odd If you would kindly extract your foot from my ear it would be greatly appreciated or Get your kneecap out of my kidney! I invented both of those, you know! it is comparatively quiet. For a stunned moment, nobody dares even try to shuffle to a more comfortable position, waiting for the hell to begin again. Italy hums to himself, tapping the steering wheel obliviously.

“Are we there yet?” America gurgles, looking up from Russia’s chest.

England is glaring out the window. “We’re sitting at an intersection.”

“Italy!” Germany looks around Italy’s head. “The light is green!”

With a small whimper, Italy glances over his shoulder. “But Germany!” he says, squirming in his seat. “I told you I have relatives here! And Romano's here somewhere, too!”

“What does that have to do with sitting at a green light? This is dangerous, someone could drive up and hit us.”

“If all Italians drive like him,” a cramped voice says at Russia’s feet, “then maybe it would be safer to wait at the green lights, aru...”

“Is anyone else hungry?” Italy asks suddenly. He raises his head and looks out the windows. “I think we’re a little lost, so I’ll stop somewhere for a second and get something to eat and ask directions, okay?”

“He’s kidding, right?” America says after a beat.

“No,” Japan and Germany answer, and the light turns red.

-

Italy pulls into the parking lot of a late night store and jumps out, saying “I’ll be back in two seconds, okay? Don’t leave without me!” The car starts rolling backwards as soon as the car door shuts and England has to dive across the seat to find the break. “He didn’t put it in park,” he mutters.

The back seat avoids each other’s eyes as if it will somehow offset their outrageously intimate positioning. Somewhere along the way, following a few more violent than usual stops and starts, Japan ended up half over Germany’s shoulders like a mink wrap, and after a short battle with gravity France slides upside-down to the seat with the rest of them.

“Ow,” France says, almost amicable as his neck bends at an unnatural angle. He rests his hand on America’s knee. “Would you move your foot, America? It is smashing against my face a tiny bit.”

“Only if you tell Russia to keep his hands where I can see them.”

“I will show my hands if China does not so much hamper the blood flow to my legs by pressing them against the door.”

“I want room too,” Korea says. “I get carsick if I can’t see out the window so let me have Japan’s spot!”

“I want a beer,” Germany mumbles. “And aspirin, and a bed, and twenty-four hours of quiet time with breakfast afterward, but most of all I want Italy to obey traffic laws and to not harm any innocent pedestrians, and for us all to live through this so we can get work done for a change.”

A slight pause follows that. China sighs. “At least when we’re careening towards our eminent deaths we’re too preoccupied to complain about each other. Right?”

“One large happy family,” Japan says, and at almost four a.m., after an hour in the car, the first hairline crack appears in his usually controlled tone of voice.

“Complain, complain, that’s all any of you are doing,” says England, immediately shot down by hostility from the back seat. “Oh, you’re denying it?” No one answers, and England looks back out the window like he wishes he had something to smoke. “We can’t even put aside our differences in normal situations. Listen to yourselves, how is anything you’ve said that different from what you usually say to each other? Did you honestly believe we’d somehow get along better when we’re tired and cranky and cramped into a space the size of a sardine can?”

They sit and think on that one. America says, “We’re doing okay with the space stations, aren’t we?”

“But the view from here does not compare,” Russia says. They sigh wistfully against each other before America remembers the car isn’t moving and sits up.

“At least there weren’t any more of us,” he says brusquely, straightening his jacket. “Ha. Can you imagine how tense it would be in here with twenty instead of ten?”

England scoffs. “Enjoy it while it lasts. When we get back we’ll be able to get out of this car, but space station vacations or no we’ll still be stuck on planet Earth and then we will have to deal with the other nations, and it’ll be a lot more than another ten. Honestly, I think I prefer the car. At least in here we have a little breathing room.”

America whistles. “What a killjoy. You wouldn’t be talking smack like that if you were in the back seat with the commoners.”

“Excuse me, did you not hear a word I just said? It doesn’t matter where I’m sitting, I’m still making a valid point!”

America rolls his eyes. “Nobody cares about your baww-fest, England. Put a sock in it.” He looks around. It’s been an awkward five minutes waiting for Italy to return. “So we just wait here or what?”

“Unless you have a better idea,” England snaps.

“I mean, how long is he gonna be, seriously? Do we even know for sure he’s coming back?”

“America raises a few interesting and legitimate points,” says Germany.

“Well, opening a window wouldn’t be amiss,” France says, adding pointedly, “England,” when there is no immediate response from the front seat. "I believe you have access to the controls?"

England sighs and starts looking around the side of the door and the armrests and the console, scouring the vast expanses of black buttons. “Damn, I just had it, too… Japan, which one is windows?”

“If memory serves me correctly it is one of the black ones.”

England groans. Germany, with the cavernous tranquility of a bomb technician or ER surgeon, tells him, “Check the glove compartment for a user manual.”

They wait as England fiddles with the tiny handle. His fingers almost don’t fit, but eventually—to the surprise of the other nations—England pulls out a pair of gloves. England stares at the fuzzy black things in his palm as though he’s never seen anything quite like them before in his life. “Japan, did you know there’s gloves in the glove compartment?”

“Of course.”

“Oh… well. I suppose so. Yes. Well done.” England continues digging and pulls out some paper. He makes an aha! sound, but instead of folding apart like a map it falls open in centerfold-like sections.

There’s silence from the front seat. France hums and his legs cross themselves in the air. “England is blushing, I can smell it. What did you find, Eyebrows?”

“N-nothing, just a map of Belgium or something,” England mumbles, not taking his eyes off the paper.

Russia leans forward ever so slightly to look over the seat. It squishes America forward, and it tickles and makes his teeth grind together when Russia gives a low, appreciative whistle right in his ear—

“My, would you look at those windmills,” Russia says and England hastily crumbles the map back up.

When Russia sits back his one hand for some reason remains on America’s thigh, and America senses something inside him snap. He’s sick of all these grabby hands on his legs. He needs room! “Okay, Italy’s not back yet, so I’m just going to wait outside,” he starts, “anyone want to join me getting the hell out of here—just gonna get the fuck out of here for a second—” he says, pumping the door handle behind him uselessly. “Jesus, are you kidding me, child locks?”

A few of the countries groan despairingly, but France gives a contented, slightly satiric sigh as America’s voice loses that edge of self-control. “This is going to be fun, I can tell already.”

“Nobody knows fun like I know fun,” Korea confides to France while France’s head hangs conveniently upside down over the edge of the seat.

France glances at him sideways as he begins to work a silk handkerchief out of his back pocket. “On this particular type of fun I beg to differ.”

“At least we’re not in a plane,” Russia says, sounding quite relaxed, his hand still settled on America’s leg.

“Don’t even joke about it,” China scolds him. “Do not. You know America gets claustrophobic enough as it is, and we’re stuck here with him for better or worse and I’m going to be the one with a boot in the face if he has another episode.”

America laughs weakly and stops trying to paw his way through the window. “We’re all going to die,” he says, and sounds completely reasonable. “I’m the only non-terrorist in the car and we’re all going to die. England, switch me spots. Do it right now, for the love of freedom and apple pie, England, just this one little thing…”

England, slouched down so only the tips of his hair and the tops of his knees are visible over the back of the car seat, is perhaps the only one not responding to America’s mood change. “No,” he says flatly.

“If you’re not with me, you’re against me!”

England appears to think it over. “Someone gag him, please.”

And France, handkerchief successfully retrieved from his pocket, obliges.

Or tries to. He curls out of his upside-down positioning into America’s face, but obviously America isn’t going to just take that sort of thing sitting down. Or he wouldn’t, if the available space in the car allowed for luxuries like standing. “The hell are you doing, France? I don’t think he meant… I mean, I don’t think so, but seriously!”

France smiles at him gently and says to nobody in particular, “It would be much easier if his hands were not trying to claw my eyes out, non?” Everyone but America freezes on an intake of air, waiting for someone else to be the first one to move, and eventually France says, “Never mind, we’ll make do with this first,” and ties America’s hands together. America stares at his wrists.

“What,” he says. One moment he was holding France back and the next his hands were bound in front of him. An equally astonished Russia stares at the knots over his shoulder.

He tugs on the silk, but it seems to tighten the more he pulls. “How did…?”

France tweaks his nose and pulls America’s arms over his head, hanging the silk knots on the pullout hook over the door. “You would not believe how much practice goes into pulling that little trick off. Now all we need,” he says, exchanging glances with all his colleagues in back seat, “is a good spark.”

They just stare. At him. At America. At Russia’s hand riding up on America’s leg. And, slowly, their gazes start shifting to each other as well. If everyone does it at once, then it’s nobody’s fault, right?

England turns so his eyes are visible over the seat. “France, stop it, you stop it right now, you’re… you’re doing it again.”

“Doing?”

“Pushing things past the point they should be pushed,” England says. “And dragging everyone with you. Just, just untie him, and we can just forget this. If we can just… hold out until we get to the—”

The driver’s side door opens and Italy pokes his head in. “Sorry for taking so long! The man at the counter has a daughter who’s getting married this week and—”

“Italy, did you or did you not get directions,” Germany says. His words come out choked, but that could be because he says them just as France turns his attention to the right side of the car. Hands tied and held over his head, America feels almost obliged to watch. Because Russia is watching America, and if America is forced to look away from what’s going on Russia will see it and know. And America doesn’t think his pride can take that.

On top of, you know, being tied up and everything. On top of Russia. Fuck.

France passes Germany by completely. A look of intense relief passes over Germany’s face, but the equilibrium of that side of the car is thrown when France kisses Japan instead. It’s not just a peck on the cheek either. Japan spooks like a cat, eyes wide, hair standing on end, when France thrusts his tongue in without preamble.

Italy says, “Hm? Oh, yes I got directions! Would you believe we were going in the exact opposite direction we were supposed to be going?”

“Fine, just get in the car and let’s go!” England leans over and gestures for him.

“But I wanted to tell you about you how this man says he knows—”

“Jesus Christ it’s a lion get in the car,” England yells.

None of the backseat care enough at this point to give England the odd stare or to even check out the windows, but Italy shrieks and jumps inside, slamming the door behind him. “Where? Where is it, England?”

“Sitting right next to you,” England says, growls, forcing Italy’s head to face forward. “Now, unless you want to see me really agitated I suggest you shut up and put your damn foot down. Now, as fast as you can!”

“What’s wrong, why do you want me to drive fast?” Italy shakes a little. “You didn’t even like it when I was going normal speed!”

England falters at that, but after a second glance into the back seat—at France’s initiative a few significant articles of clothing are already floating freely around the backseat and oh god oh god— “I know what was said, just do it. We need to be there as soon as humanly possible, we need to get out of this vehicle as soon as we can, do you understand? We don’t have much time as it is.”

“Yes, I understand!”

“And whatever you do,” England says, facing forward and securing his seat belt, “don’t look in your mirror.”

-

“How about the radio!” England says, and you can hear his mind whirring as he says it: anything as long as Italy doesn’t notice the back seat. “You like music, Italy?”

“I love music!”

England mashes the console and, miraculously, music fills the car. It’s horrible late night trash techno that makes England and Italy grimace, but it cloaks the activities of the back seat.

“That,” America says, with as much malice as he can, “had better be a bottle of vodka in your coat.” His own common sense is frantically pessimistic. Last he checked vodka didn’t appear out of thin air, and he isn’t so knowledgeable on this but he’s pretty sure it doesn’t expand either. Or if it did it wouldn’t be in quite that purposeful a manner along America’s ass, like it really just wants to be inside there, right now—

“Or perhaps I’m happy to see you?” Russia says. They either have to yell over the music, risk alerting the driver and giving England a stroke, or talk very close to each other. America vies for lip-reading. Anything but getting closer.

Not that he has much of a choice. With a jolt, the car surges forward and America falls back into Russia's arm. "No," he says anyway. The silk snags when he tries to yank himself away, binding him more. Russia smiles and pulls America back again before he can fall off his lap. “You’re not allowed to use that line, it’s so beyond creepy get your hand off nobody touches me, got it?”

“By which he means unzip his fly, I think,” France suggests, lifting his head from Germany’s neck. They’ve unbuttoned his shirt and France guides Japan’s head down Germany’s chest, showing him the nipple, conducting with expert skill. Germany himself looks like he’s never been more uncomfortable in his life.

It's been several minutes and the windows are starting to fog. America almost says something about misquoting, but it’s too difficult to keep the breathiness out of his voice, to disguise what it does to him when Germany’s nipple disappears under Japan’s pink tongue and Japan massages the bulge in the lap he’s straddling, earning him a choked moan.

America’s vision spots. He comes round with Russia’s hand inside his pants. “Ahh! What the hell, don’t touch that!”

“Are you sure?” Amazingly, Russia stops. A little late--the gloved fingers are already molded around America’s growing erection through the flag-motif underwear, but at least he stops.

America’s reason clouds with relief, and he sags on his hook. “Duh, yeah. Just because all of you are suddenly crazy doesn’t mean I want to be a part of it.”

Russia shrugs. America thinks, shit, and hisses as the fingers instead reach around the cock and squeezes his balls through the fabric. He can’t even scream, just gasps repeatedly with his mouth open as Russia pulls almost-too hard and kisses his neck.

All of France’s clothes have vanished as if by magic. Working lower and lower down Germany's chest, Japan continues acting out whatever script he's following in his head, even gently correcting Germany when the blond nation shifts out of place trying to spread his knees. But he's inhibited from moving any lower because of Korea behind him on the floor. And looking away from China for a moment, hands busy between China’s legs, Korea eyes Japan’s back slyly and moves forward in what little room he has. Japan slides to the cramped floor, hands petting Germany’s legs, making for the belt buckle when he spots it. He’s doesn’t acknowledge, or possibly doesn’t realize it, when Korea reaches for the front of Japan’s own trousers.

England keeps turning up the music. Italy remains oblivious, trying to name streets they pass and pointing out England's own landmarks to him. They take some corners too rough, at one point England has to order Italy to run a green light, but there are more important things on everyone's minds then there were before.

With his pants down pinning his legs and his wrists tied uselessly above him, America is feeling a little... restrained. But this feeling of being used is not, is not turning him on, not making him dizzy, lightheaded, flushed all over, not at all. He hates the combination of Russia drawing relentlessly at his sac and how the suckling on his earlobe is sweetly mocking, because Russia doesn’t bite unless you ask nicely. Like fucking hell he doesn't bite. But like fucking hell is America going to sink so low as to ask him.

Out of nowhere, a slightly panting China picks up the job of peeling the back of America’s boxers down over his ass. China pauses to tug off the glove when Russia’s offers his hand, and without the fingers working him America can breathe. “Fuck, wha… what are—?” he asks China, cut off when Russia drives the ungloved fingers into his mouth.

His tongue presses flat against the back of his mouth in an attempt to avoid them but, “It will be in your best interests to suck,” Russia says into his ear, nuzzling the side of his face with infuriating tenderness. Smaller hands replace Russia’s in tormenting his balls, whispering over them and tickling, pulling delicately on the hairs and floating out of reach when he bucks forward. It only increases his torment, there’s nothing but his boxers meeting his thrusts.

It’s such a sickening mixture of pain and pleasure, and not the gratifying kind of either. It’s making him feel sick, but god help him he sucks on those fingers, and he sucks hard. He wants Russia to feel it, his teeth drag along the fingertips stroking his tongue, and Russia must notice because he murmurs his approval into America’s hair.

Despite no longer having pockets, there is suddenly a small bottle in France’s hands. He pops the cap, grabs one of Germany’s hands, and squirts some of the clear fluid onto his palm. The smell of peaches fills the car.

“What am I supposed to do with that?” asks Germany indignantly, or as indignantly as it is possible to be with Japan deep-throating him.

“Oh, I don’t know,” France says, the innocence in his voice absurd combined with the way he turns and looks at Germany over his shoulder. “With that ingenuity of yours I’m sure you’ll think of something.” There’s barely enough room on the seat as it is, and he ends up half sprawled over Germany’s now free lap and half over Russia and America. Germany stares, and France blows him a kiss.

“Has your ass ever been used properly, America?” Russia asks suddenly, and America thinks he might just die. He wants so much to snap--really this time--but it isn’t within his power at the moment, what with his mouth full of fingers. His jaw aches a little, and that definitely doesn’t bode well for wherever it is Russia plans on sticking them next.

His cock aches too, arching almost to his stomach, leaking, and painfully hard, if someone would just touch it—fuck, he dug himself into that one, but he refuses to lose even more face by asking favors.

Sitting directly over what might as well be a bottle of vodka on Russia’s lap gives him pause as well. The fingers come out of his mouth. America… can’t think of anything to say that doesn’t sound like it might get him skewered or be an admission of weakness. He shuts his eyes and pretends to catch his breath, and he leans back as far as he can but Russia pulls his pants the rest of the way down anyway, aided by China.

“By which of us, I wonder,” says Russia, replacing his fingers in America’s mouth a last time. His face turns an even hotter shade of red when Russia licks a stray line of spit from the corner of his mouth. “Or none of us? Tell me then, America, how many fingers do you normally use on yourself?”

England starts practically hyperventilating in the front seat. “Oh god,” he says, somehow able to hear them over the music, and Italy gives him a worried look. “You can’t be serious.”

“What’s wrong, is there someone behind us?” he says and starts to look back.

“No!” England forces Italy’s head forward. “Watch the road!”

America isn’t going to dignify Russia with an answer, and kind of hopes it was just rhetorical anyway, until Russia articulates the filthy words back into him, “How many fingers do you fuck yourself with, America. If you do not answer I will begin with five.”

America’s eyes open. He sees China’s restraint beginning to crack from Korea’s hand, as well as mouth; Japan is moaning over Germany’s erection from the combined efforts of that and Korea’s other hand. France rubs himself against the two seated nations and America’s legs, pressing back on Germany’s fingers, the ones that aren’t stroking Japan’s face.

France makes a contented purring noise and grins, opening his eyes right at America.

Russia playfully wraps part of his scarf around America’s neck, and if gives America and excuse to shut his eyes quickly. He’s exposed enough without a staring contest with a naked France.

“Ah—” The scarf suddenly tightens under his chin. “T-two!” he says, and just as suddenly he can breathe again. Like a love tap, but... strangulation. His cock gives a twitch and America thinks traitor.

Two fingers stroke down America’s back, testing the truth of it. “Two?” Like this? Russia doesn’t have to add. At the touch, the rigidity wracking America’s spine threatens to melt and undo itself, but he tenses, forcing it to stay.

“Two, s-sometimes three, oh god,” he can’t help but moan when a hand finally touches his cock, up and down the length in full, unhurried jerks. Through his underwear still, but at this point he’s not complaining.

“Ah, very good!” Russia’s hand continues exploring America’s lower back—but then, whose hand is on his dick? America cracks open an eye and is met with France’s shameless wink. “Isn’t it so much easier when we cooperate?” Russia adds. “Of course, my fingers are larger than yours…”

“What the hell is wrong with all of you?” America demands. “Why does the rest of the world have to be so crazy? You son of a bitch, when we get out of this car—”

“My dear America,” says France, holding America’s face with his eyes even if America won’t look back. His phrases pause occasionally, interrupted by soft sounds of appreciation at Germany’s work. “I can’t help but believe you’re thinking of someone in particular, when you finger yourself like that. Now who would two, sometimes three fingers be?”

“Shut up!” It gets worse, when Russia’s middle finger works down inside the top of his ass—inside! he screams in his head, me! Although this isn’t even close to inside yet, not really— and he suddenly can’t get enough air in his lungs. “You don’t have proof. Maybe I was just saying that.”

“As an act of self-preservation?” France slides forward on his stomach and pulls America’s knees up over his shoulders, wrapping his arms around America’s legs until he’s head to head with, well, America’s… “Not just because it sounded like fun?”

Does fisting with only spit sound like fun to you? Fisting with just spit, with RUSSIA? he almost asks, but he’s not really sure if he wants to know the answer, especially with France eyeing him hungrily from about an inch away. His erection gets harder under that gaze, like it knows information America isn’t privy to. Maybe it’s some kind of French pheromone.

“I’m sure that’s what someone like you would call it,” America says. It sounded a whole lot cooler in his head.

Russia giggles. That’s the only way to describe it, a giggle. The music almost drowns him out, but America hears loud and clear. “We could still hit a bump and, you know, accidents...”

France kisses America in a very intimate place through his boxers, right before America almost loses his patience for real. “I think I am going to suck you off. Would you like me to describe it?” he asks. America doesn’t, can’t, answer (it's such a weird thing to ask anyway, talk about awkward), but it doesn’t appear to be required of him. He’s torn between paying attention to France mouthing him through his underwear, or his ass and agonizing over whether he should try to relax or try to stop it.

Russia takes his time acquainting himself with the outside without actually entering. It’s somehow worse that way, Russia just loitering there, taking his sweet time familiarizing himself, playing with America at his leisure. America doesn’t notice he’s arching away from it until China slides his arms under him, into the paper-slim space under his ass and Russia’s lap.

He waits miserably, but it’s Russia who finally moans, face coloring with sudden warmth.

America laughs, loving how Russia’s finger suddenly goes rigid, how his chest expands quickly in surprise. He squirms, but can’t maneuver away from China’s dexterous hands with America on his lap.

France sees the whole thing and laughs, too. He nuzzles back against the resisting flesh encased within America’s boxers and says, “The fabric is silky to the touch, warm, glistening.” He murmurs a few other things in French, absentmindedly. “It is well saturated. And sweet,” he adds, taking a deliberate lick from the wet patch soaking through. His eyes dart briefly into the front of the car, he grins, and America really wishes he hadn’t seen that because now he knows exactly for whose torment France is narrating all this.

England lets slips a strangled oath. Maybe. It’s hard to tell after he turns the radio up yet again.

“Okay, I-I want off,” America says. The sensations are bad enough, but the idea, the notion, of who exactly is claiming the most intimate part of him right here, for nearly every nation in the car to see, is making it a challenge to focus very much on anything right now. “I mean of the car. Out of the car. I’ll walk. Really, I’ll just walk, it’s fine—” And it’s probably hard to take him seriously when he’s panting like that.

“Against the rules,” France says. He seems to be the only one who cares, or is capable of answering.

America struggles against the silk, against Russia, infuriated. “What rules?”

“You can’t just exist alone in your own little bubble anymore. Think of it as a… a business training exercise, America. A chance to practice those international relations skills. If this were the real world, would you be able to leave, really leave?”

China mutters something in his own language, partially muffled into Russia’s knees. America has no idea what it means, but it sounds like China’s rolling his eyes while he says it. Korea laughs, making a second remark of his own against China’s thigh, which Japan answers around Germany, and the three Asian nations all chuckle at their secret joke.

“…did that make anyone else nervous, or was that just me,” America says, but shakes his head. “Ah, no! There's no way in hell you’re allowed to talk about ‘real world’, France. Or ‘international relations’ either, not when Russia’s fingers are in my—”

“Green light!” England gasps, and seizes Italy’s hand on the steering wheel. There’s a stroke of pirate in his voice, but mostly it’s desperation. “Run it!”

Italy tries to shake him off without driving them into a light pole, but England won’t let go. “B-but, England!”

“I said run it god damn you.”

With some difficulty, France makes eye contact with America again. Difficult because, with Russia mostly back in control of his hand, America is… decidedly preoccupied elsewhere. Fuck, Russia does have big fingers—

“Want to see another trick?” France says mischievously, rolling down America’s boxers.

America lip-reads, and answers, “I don’t know.” His eyes roll back and close. At first it’s, it’s just owowowOWFUCK whenever they drive over so much as a stone, but he acclimates and it’s easier than it should be with France sucking him off. Any spare brain cell he has left concentrates on keeping his face neutral. If anyone happens to look over he doesn’t want them to see it on his face, what Russia's doing to him. He’d negotiate, he wants to now. With the fingers inside him every nerve ending is very quickly begging for release, either in the nice way or for Russia just to get out, get out, getoutgetoutgetout, but he won’t beg. Not to Russia. Fucking bastard, he’s going out of his way to just barely tickle America’s prostate, just almost not quite everything America wants and needs, son of a fucking—

“We’re almost there!” says England, loudly, making Italy cringe. The car speeds up, pressing them all back into their seats and eliciting a few sudden moans from the slight shift in positions.

“Another trick it is. This is one of my favorites,” France says, his eyes falling on Korea. America hears Korea gasp, and he can’t even begin to guess what France is doing with at least one of his spare limbs. “We’re all connected. I think this is going to be it, so don’t blink. Watch.”

So America watches.

France contorts and he and Korea take turns fucking with their mouths and tongues. At last Korea shudders under France’s touch, and the pleasure passes on as Korea’s hands tighten on China and Japan on either side of him. It ripples out in waves, through Japan into Germany, through China into Russia. America turns back to France, guessing the consequences even before France flushes and arches back like an animal against Germany, before China’s hands beneath him quicken, before Russia thrusts up hard, before the fingers inside him—

—curl, hitting that sweet spot ruthlessly, obscenely deep inside and all at once just one slow merciless drag and press until America breaks open. He thinks, outrageously, of Japan’s damn car and the damn upholstery, but France maintains a presence of mind even through his own orgasm, catching most of the come in his mouth.

America and Germany are the only ones with mouths handy for them, though. It takes about a minute for the last of the aftershocks to abide, and then the car reeks strongly of sex, and is decidedly stickier than it was almost an hour ago.

As the motor slows, they all begin recovering, avoiding faces and putting each other back into their clothes as gently as they can.

America decides he just doesn’t care and lets himself hang on his silk, catching his breath through the material of Russia’s scarf still looped around him, too drained to come up with something cutting and profane when Russia gives his prostate a last playful rub before sliding out of him and kissing him on the cheek. France zips him up and unties his hands, careful of his shoulders and rubbing the circulation back into his wrists.

Cautiously, England turns the radio to a civilized volume. He almost glances into the back seat, but thinks better of it.




“Where’s that everlasting optimism?” France coos to America’s undoubtedly bleary expression. “On the bright side...?”

America hasn’t reopened his eyes. “We’re not actually dead yet. I think. Probably. I'm just guessing.”

“Aww, come now, you sound like Canada,” France laughs.

It takes a few seconds, but it occurs to everyone at roughly the same time. England groans. “We left him behind again.”

Russia isn’t exactly whistling innocently, but he might as well be.

Italy frowns. “Oh, no! Should I turn around?”

“No!” The order comes, perhaps not so surprisingly, from Germany instead of England, although he’s eyeing England’s raised hackles when he says, “No, Italy, keep… keep going. We can make a call when we get there.”

“Okay! I think we’re almost there, anyway.”

America tries to sit up straight, away, pretending there’s an iron rod up his back keeping him up. Without a word, Russia pulls America’s head down to rest on his shoulder, nestle it under his chin. Germany and Japan are reenacting much the same scene on the driver’s side of the car, albeit less forced. Germany turns his face towards Japan, seems to be whispering something into his hair.

“Quit it,” America mutters at Russia.

“Italy says we are almost there. I think you can put up with it until then?” Russia says, amused and unconvinced.

When the car finally slows to a stop it's just as the blue digital clock changes to 4:42 a.m. “We’re here, safe and sound!” Italy says.

“We’re here, anyway,” Germany sighs.

England spits out, “Bloody…” and jumps out of the car. A second later, the left back door is flung open and America is rudely awakened from his doze by England’s hand wrenching him out of the backseat.

Germany, Japan, and Korea exit their side with more grace, but America, Russia and China get yanked out by a practically frothing England, and they sprawl out onto the sidewalk. “What the hell!” England says. He throws his hands up and makes an aargh sound. “Are you trying to put me in an early grave?”

Still dazed and half asleep, America’s head swings around trying to see before pulling Russia’s scarf out of eyes. “What?”

“Don’t what me, you know perfectly well what!”

"I don’t know what you’re whating, but whatever it is it wouldn’t have happened if you had let me sit in the front seat,” America says, interrupted by another aargh. “What? You’re the one who told them to tie me up!”

Italy tilts his head to the side with a curious expression at the state of disarray of Korea’s clothes. “Why…?”

“It’s chilly this morning,” Germany remarks, steering Italy to the side.

Italy forgets instantly, snapping out of his thought process. “Yeah, it is a little, isn’t it?”

Japan pauses on the sidewalk, holding his back like an old man. England stops in front of him, his face coloring red. “Ah, Japan, I think you may have missed a…” he gestures to his own face, the side of his mouth, to demonstrate.

Japan creaks up and blinks before he realizes what is being insinuated. “Oh—!” He catches England’s blush and covers his mouth with the back of his hand, turning a little to the side. “Please excuse me.”

England sighs. “Well come—I mean, get up, we have a meeting. Oh, damn, and we still have to call Canada—”

“Call me for what?”

They start, and look up to see Canada leaning against the building’s stone sign, looking a little chilled in just his slim black suit, and holding a small bag of candy in his hands. His whistles when he gets a full look of the car’s occupants. “What happened to all of— why is France naked?”

Canada flushes scarlet and chokes on his snack when ever-so-naked France throws an arm over his shoulders. “Why I am ever not naked is the real question, wouldn’t you say?”

“Please don’t say such strange things,” Canada says, gingerly picking him off.

Russia steps forward. He continues to stare strangely at Canada, glancing back at the car, then at Canada again. He frowns and raises an eyebrow, to which Canada replies with an arched eyebrow of his own. “Oh, something you wanted to say, Russia?”

Russia recovers beautifully. “I was only surprised.”

“What were you surprised about?”

“To see you here, of course.”

“Where did you think I was?” Instead of waiting for the next polite rapid-fire response, Canada goes to the car and opens the passenger door, wearily removing a flattened inflatable version of himself from the back seat and muttering under his breath. “Fool me once, shame on you…”

“Wait, then what were you doing with your extra hand, Russia?” China says, scratching the back of his neck.

Canada’s shoulders go rigid. “What do you mean what was he doing with his extra hand.”

Russia smiles and shrugs. “It seemed to me about as passive as he usually is. I could not tell the difference.”

“You couldn't… between me and a doll?” Canada’s hands clench into fists. “Well... well, excuse me while I find a corner and go cry, passively,” he adds, and Russia pats his head.

“Who cares about your doll,” America says, the energy back in his voice. “What about me? I just went through hell. They tied me up like fucking terrorists!” he says, shoving Russia out of the way. “I’m amazed they weren’t demanding a ransom.”

Canada stares at America. “What did they tie you with?”

America stutters. “Um. Silk, or something? Why?”

“Silk.” Canada closes his eyes. “You could bench-press that entire car, and you couldn’t get out of silk?”

“It… it got snagged or. Or something,” America says. “Look, whatever. What’s your point.”

“Never mind.”

Japan appears at Canada’s side. “Were you waiting here for us to arrive this entire time?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. I’m, ah, just supposed to let you know everyone’s waiting for you to get here before they can sign the—”

“Sign the what now?” America interrupts.

England hits him over the side of the head. “Do at least try to pay attention, sir.”

Canada finishes folding his plastic double, edging away from Korea who seems to be showing a sudden clinical, businesslike interest in it. “Um. The one concerning energy regulation and carbon emissions? We agreed on it before we left… America?”

They look curiously at America, who is laughing so hard it’s only coming out as a wheeze. “No way am I signing that now.”

“Now?” Canada asks and goes pale. He grabs America’s shoulders. “But we already agreed on it before we left, America! You already said you’d sign it! You promised! You said you were going to change!”

“Well, I’m not stupid, I know ‘energy regulation’ means smaller cars!”

Canada frowns. “Isn’t that part of the point? We already talked about that and you said smaller cars would be a good idea with the rising gas prices.“

“Don’t care. Actually, I do care, and I don’t want smaller cars.” America throws his arms out. “I want huge cars! Huge-ass cars! I want cars so big they have wingspans, miles of leg room! I want the only way to save on gas to be to buy jet fuel in bulk! If I never see another one of those tiny cars again it’ll be too soon, and there’s nothing any of you can do to change my mind!” They watch, disturbed, as America marches into the building. “Alright, who’s with me? Let’s go tell our bosses to call the whole thing off!”

The sidewalk is quiet for a few seconds. Slowly, Canada turns to the nations, somewhere between sobbing and raging. “What did you do?”

The other countries all suddenly find something fascinating to look at in another direction. France draws circles in the sidewalk with his bare toe. “Nothing.”

Canada groans. “Next time see if you can hold off on the nothing for an hour, you guys.”



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It’s possible that after this Germany holds back to make sure nobody "accidentally" wanders off and that they all get in the building, and while he waits Italy not-so-subtly maneuvers him back into the car and sexes him up a bit and makes both of them late. But I'm kind of a romantic like that, so, you know. Whatever's cool with you guys.

My goodness but this thing seemed shorter when it was in pieces.

EDIT: I completely forgot Canada in the tags lmao I'm sorry Canada.