Two times, a certain
the_laurasaur mentioned Prussia/Lithuania on Tumblr, and I got pinged hard enough (for whatever reason) to write her tiny bitty drabbles on the spot. These are those drabbles. 142/248 words.
Pounding on the Duchy’s door gets Lithuania nothing more than a muttered fuck off; Lithuania knows he’s strong enough-this century-to break it down, but it would be a waste. Of a good door, that is, not of time.
"If you’re"-he’s a good Catholic (this century), he shouldn’t even bring it up-"busy, it’s okay," he says. "I just-I just need your signature. It’ll only take a second."
Only his mind catches on an image of Prussia’s pale, rough hand gripping himself, and tugging, and Prussia grinding his teeth, the way he does when he and Poland take an argument out into the courtyard and settle it with steel. Like pagans-and Lithuania’s not sure which image is more arousing. But Prussia shuffles to the door and he’s holding a rosary, of course he’s holding a rosary. Of course.
*
He wakes up next to her and - well, they’re all brothers and sisters in the Communist Party, Russia likes to say (to parrot, more like, but Lithuania’s not bitter or tired enough to judge him for it). All the rhetoric aside, and there’s a lot of rhetoric, Prussia’s going to wake up and strangle him any second now. Any second.
Sure enough, Prussia stirs. All of Lithuania’s bad thoughts always come true. "It was dinky," she says first thing, tugging the blanket up around her chest. "Stop looking at my tits, needledick."
"I-I’m sorry." He says it more out of habit than out of actual contrition. He knows it’s not little, and he doesn’t think she was that good in bed, anyway; not good enough for him to think really hard about it. He’s slept with a lot of countries. Prussia wasn’t memorable, or anything.
She cracks one eye open against the grey Vilnius morning light. "Get me a glass of water."
"Are you hungover?" he asks, because he doesn’t expect a German to hold their liquor, anyway - not real liquor, that is. Beer doesn’t count.
"Shut up." She flings the back of hand over her closed eyes. That's a yes.
He says, "Okay," and he’s going to spill it on her when he gets back. The room is cold; there’s never enough heat, he doesn’t want to get out of bed: therefore, Prussia deserves it. She deserves a lot of bad things. It’s the least he can do.