OMG FIVE PAGE HETALIA DRABBLE
Title: Let’s Make a Gingerbread-what Now?
Parings: PrAnada (? xD)
Summary: Gilbert indulges Matty in some Yule time joy one Christmas Eve. THIS IS FOR GHOSTIE. MY LOVE IS STRONG. MERRY CHRISTMAS, BETCH.
Additional Notes: Beware. I am so drunk right now.
“Are you sure about this?” a certain loveable albino groused, staring dejectedly at six neatly cut pieces of gingerbread. Canada stood at the sink, strategically mixing the perfect combination of blue and yellow dye into his homemade icing.
“No, I’m not sure about this at all,” the blonde informed the Grinch, his soft voice dripping with sarcasm, “In fact, why don’t we just call this off entirely, shove all of this candy onto the floor and commence to having hot, kinky frosting sex.”
“Now that’s what I’m talking about!” Prussia sang as he tossed the bag of orange gum drops he’d been criticizing back on its pile.
Typical. Canada rolled his eyes.
“You can make one Gingerbread house in your life, Prussia.” Canada scolded sweetly as he dumped red, green and white gumballs into a bowl. “It won’t kill you, I promise.”
“We’ll see,” Prussia muttered, dubious.
“Yes, we shall,” Matty agreed happily as he handed his largest bowl of icing, the white crème cheese, to the brooding ex-nation, presumably to stir. “Here, make yourself useful.”
Prussia complied by handing it off to the patient Kumo who lurked just behind the island, presumably to stir.
The polar bear took the bowl, and sneezed a few seconds later.
Canada made an exasperated sound, upon turning back and discovering his beloved pet (and most of the kitchen floor) covered in powdered sugar.
Prussia had somehow avoided catastrophe by taking a seat on the counter and examining his cufflink. Matty wasn’t so lucky, and had to beat a good deal of confectioner sugar off his good black dress pants.
“Just. Stir something, won’t you?” Canada huffed, piqued. “Please?” He added, as an afterthought and with a pout.
With a cross look, Gilbert stirred the bowl of tri-colored sour candies, defiantly.
Always defiantly, Canada thought, irritated. Always an ass.
God, he’s adorable.
“Be that way,” Canada relented flippantly, his manner 180-ing so abruptly it gave Prussia pause. A very brooding, pissed looking pause. “I don’t need your help.” The commonwealth continued, unimpressed.
Well, it’s ‘bout damn time--Hey wait a second. This had to be some kind of trick…
“You don’t need me?” Prussia inquired, disbelievingly. The notion was preposterous! Of course Matty needed his help constructing his tiny, edible habitats. If Prussia didn’t hold the brown cake-wall, then how could Matty apply the sugary-mortar? They needed team work to accomplish the task. To even suggest…
Canada could see the panic building to a slow crescendo on Prussia’s handsome features, but did nothing to quell the ex-nations fears. Instead, he turned and scavenged through his baker’s cabinet in search of something to use as a snow substitute in the ‘front yard’.
“You know, I could always call America.” Canada suggested, casually, while still facing away. “He loves coming over to my house..”
“America?” Prussia scoffed, indignant. “If that freedom-humper comes within 100 clicks of here I’ll show him the meaning of--Hey, stop laughing!”
“I can’t.” Canada cried, thoroughly incapacitated. “You called him,” gasp, “a freedom-humper.” gasp, hack.
“Well he is!” Gilbert insisted, all together failing to see the humour in his accurate assessment. “He’d hump the fuckin’ Statue of Liberty if you’d let him!”
“Oh, stop! I think I’m going to pee my pants…” Canada begged, his voice trilling as he fought for control of his bladder.
“That’s why France gave it to him, you know.” Prussia conveyed, conspiratorially. “It was that perv’s version of a fuckin’ blow-up doll.”
At the mention of his estranged surrogate father, Canada sobered slightly and pawed the tears from his eyes. “I know what will fix your foul mood,” he chirped brightly, turning to the fridge, only to return a second later to plop a carton on a scarce section of unoccupied counter space.
“Egg nog?” Prussia observed, incredulous. “I’m lactose intolerant,” he groused, only to back petal when Canada procured a bottle of Vanilla Smirnoff from the seldom visited liquor cabinet Prussia pretended not to know existed. “Like I was saying, yum!”
Grinning and shaking his head, Canada produced two glasses from the dish drainer and proceeded to fix their drinks. He was sure to double the alcoholic parts of his counterpart’s drink in comparison to his own.
Prussia beamed approvingly.
They toasted, and Gilbert slammed his like a shot, while Matty sipped daintily. Typical German…
“What else you got?” Prussia asked with a wolfish grinn. He was sure they both remembered what happened last time Canada was drunk.
It was just a crying shame all that the petite blonde claimed to remember was the hang over and the awful back ache he had in the morning...
“Get your mind out of the gutter,” Canada chastised him, half-heartedly.
“How did you--”
“Know what you were thinking?” Canada guessed as he went back to scrounging, this time through his booze collection. “You’re always thinking pervy thoughts when you get that faraway, drooling expression.”
Prussia looked like he was about to interject.
“Which is most of the time,” Canada added, belatedly.
Prussia smirked. “This is true.” When Canada settled on a bottle, the albino promptly snatched it up. “ ’Frangelico liqueur‘?” He read, intrigued.
After collecting lemon juice from the fridge and his stainless steal drink shaker from another cabinet, Canada smiled. “It’s called a Chocolate Cake,” her informed him, amused at the delighted expression that bloomed over the ex-nation’s face at his admission. With carefully measured increments, Canada mixed the juice, vanilla vodka, and hazelnut liquor with ice and poured them a shot apiece.
“Cheers,” Prussia cajoled as they clinked glasses and slung back their shots. “The hell,” he breathed, after the drink had burned its way to his heart. “It really does taste like fucking Chocolate Cake!”
Canada beamed, obviously pleased.
“Hit me again.” Prussia ordered, to which Canada calmly shook his head. “No?” He interpreted, frowning.
“Not until you help fit together the walls and frost the shingles. After that, sure. You can have another.”
“No.” Prussia deadpanned, stonily.
“That’s okay. I’ll call England. He’s been meaning to come over anyway.”
Stone crumbled. “Fine, but they’re going to be manly shingles.”
“Of course they are,” Canada agreed with a laugh as he handed over the pastry bag. “Be a dear and frost the edges of this wall,” he instructed, before claiming its twin and demonstrating what he wanted with speed and finesse.
Prussia squeezed the bag too hard and ended up with a glob. Swearing, he quickly fingered the mess into something trying to resemble Canada’s clean, concise outline.
Canada stared as a gob of frosting oozed onto the counter.
“What?” Prussia snapped, embarrassed. “We can’t all be Martha-fucking-Stewart.”
The commonwealth laughed and traced an outline on a serving dish approximately the size of the finished project. Handing Prussia a house shaped slab, he demonstrated how to properly frost again.
This time, Prussia managed a cleaner outline, though for some reason his hands seemed to shake. As he was staring intently at his handiwork, Prussia missed Canada’s soft smile
The man had slain thousands in Wars with the World, but earning the approval of Mr. Betty Crocker made him nervous. Can this guy be any more adorable? Probably not. It was illegal in most countries.
“That’s really good,” Canada praised, but only after deliberate, exaggerated examination of Prussia’s offering.
The albino preened. What a ham.
“Now hold it like this while I frost the sides.”
Prussia complied with the efficiency of a soldier, his eyes intent on the right angles of the walls, and then the steeple of the roof.
Canada’s shoulders shook with suppressed laughter. “Sorry!” he snickered, having just bumped Prussia’s hand with sticky icing.
Prussia grunted, but didn’t move until Canada withdrew.
“Booze time?” the albino guessed, his tone hopeful.
“After the manly shingles,” the commonwealth stipulated with a laugh. He just couldn’t stop smiling when Prussia was around. It was impossible, unnatural. Like not breathing.
The manliness commenced. Canada’s side of the roof had elegant half circles with dots in the middle for candy and puffy, star shaped snow in the gutters.
Prussia’s shingles were squared and stunted, like the teeth of a pumpkin at Halloween, while his gutters looked like Jack Frost had sneezed on them.
The fact that he seemed happy with it was the only reason Canada didn’t comment.
“Booze time!” he declared, slamming his fist hard enough on the countertop that his frosting sack creamed itself in his hand.
“Booze time,” Canada agreed as he transferred the beginnings of their master piece into the freezer to chill. While he fixed their shots, he tried not to watch too intently as Prussia licked thoughtfully at the frosting covering his hand, lest he be the butt of some raunchy accusation.
Just then, Prussia had a revelation. “This is sweet.” he declared, emphatically.
“Its four parts powdered sugar,” Canada returned, a little unnecessarily.
“I like your frosting better.” The albino continued, sounding genuine.
Canada blushed like a beet, and reserved comment. “H-here’s your shot.” he stammered, his face hot.
Prussia grinned, but pretended not to notice as they clinked glasses again and slammed them.
“Again?” Prussia suggested, figuring he needed another four before he would even start to feel something.
Canada, the precious light-weight that he was, already had a pleasant, inhibition-freeing buzz. “After we finish the house, we’ll see if you really do like my frosting better.” Canada informed the ex-nation flatly, while his mind refused to process that the comment had even come out of his mouth.
Prussia raised one silver eyebrow, but consented anyway. If he had to prove his person preference with a blow job, so be it. “Let’s have it then.”
After extracting the tray from the freezer, Matty set to work on the aesthetic things like the red brick walkway and the balls on the Christmas tree while Gilbert fancied painting the walls white with a spoon instead of implementing useful things like windows or skylights, or, you know, doors.
After affixing a tiny cookie reef to the apex of the building, Canada sprinkled white, large grain sugar over the roof and yard to simulate fresh fallen snow.
Prussia splashed red sprinkles on the walls for effect and called it a day.
“It’s perfect.” Canada smiled as he skirted around Prussia, headed for his camera. He didn’t get that far.
With quick, efficient movements, Gilbert pinned Matty against the counter with his hips. Leaning over the smaller nation’s quivering form, Prussia ghosted his lips against Canada’s as the commonwealth’s vanilla liquor scented breath fanned his face.
“If it’s so great, then where’s my kiss?”
Canada sighed before wholeheartedly accepting Prussia’s assault. The younger nation was already feeling lightheaded from the booze, but that buzz, combined with the heady rush of Gilbert’s attentions, had him staggering against the counter for balance. While Prussia liberated Canada’s shirt tail from his waistband and moved to press kisses down the blonde’s neck, chest and abdomen, Canada wrapped his arms around his lover’s neck and sobbed into his silken hair.
“Gil,” he whispered his consent, he confided his addiction. “Gil. Please.”
With a growl, Gilbert seized both sides of Matthew’s dress shirt and pulled, hard. Buttons clattered to the floor, disturbed the dozing bear, even decorated the cake. Matty hissed as Gilbert bit into the fleshy part of his stomach with minimal foreplay, as was his way, his ritual. The claiming. Matty didn’t care.
I want you to devour me. Start from my lips and work your way down.
Wasn’t that a poem from somewhere?
Prussia was just making serious progress on Canada’s zipper when a clamor sounded loud enough to rouse the noisy commonwealth from his euphoria.
“Kumajiro!” Canada gasped, horrified.
From his kneeling position, Prussia peeped dejectedly over the counter and spied a very happy, extremely messy talking furry companion and what was left (about a third) of their perfect masterpiece.
Plopping back onto his haunches so that Canada could scramble around the island to at least attempt to scold Kumo, Prussia groped for his cigarillos even though he knew Canada wouldn’t approve of smoking in his house.
Fucking pandas.
End Notes: While writing for Prussia, I decided he kind of has a quirky sense of humor. He's sharp but he doesn't /get/ some stuff. Comes with being "dead" I guess. ANYWAY HOPE YOU ENJOYED MY DRUNKEN ESCAPADE. MERRY CHRISTMAS ALL, BUT ESPECIALLY YOU, GIRLY.
PS. Meggy's getting one too. Just. Not tonight. If I can think of more than one random line for Rome to say. Omg..
PEACE OUT.
Parings: PrAnada (? xD)
Summary: Gilbert indulges Matty in some Yule time joy one Christmas Eve. THIS IS FOR GHOSTIE. MY LOVE IS STRONG. MERRY CHRISTMAS, BETCH.
Additional Notes: Beware. I am so drunk right now.
“Are you sure about this?” a certain loveable albino groused, staring dejectedly at six neatly cut pieces of gingerbread. Canada stood at the sink, strategically mixing the perfect combination of blue and yellow dye into his homemade icing.
“No, I’m not sure about this at all,” the blonde informed the Grinch, his soft voice dripping with sarcasm, “In fact, why don’t we just call this off entirely, shove all of this candy onto the floor and commence to having hot, kinky frosting sex.”
“Now that’s what I’m talking about!” Prussia sang as he tossed the bag of orange gum drops he’d been criticizing back on its pile.
Typical. Canada rolled his eyes.
“You can make one Gingerbread house in your life, Prussia.” Canada scolded sweetly as he dumped red, green and white gumballs into a bowl. “It won’t kill you, I promise.”
“We’ll see,” Prussia muttered, dubious.
“Yes, we shall,” Matty agreed happily as he handed his largest bowl of icing, the white crème cheese, to the brooding ex-nation, presumably to stir. “Here, make yourself useful.”
Prussia complied by handing it off to the patient Kumo who lurked just behind the island, presumably to stir.
The polar bear took the bowl, and sneezed a few seconds later.
Canada made an exasperated sound, upon turning back and discovering his beloved pet (and most of the kitchen floor) covered in powdered sugar.
Prussia had somehow avoided catastrophe by taking a seat on the counter and examining his cufflink. Matty wasn’t so lucky, and had to beat a good deal of confectioner sugar off his good black dress pants.
“Just. Stir something, won’t you?” Canada huffed, piqued. “Please?” He added, as an afterthought and with a pout.
With a cross look, Gilbert stirred the bowl of tri-colored sour candies, defiantly.
Always defiantly, Canada thought, irritated. Always an ass.
God, he’s adorable.
“Be that way,” Canada relented flippantly, his manner 180-ing so abruptly it gave Prussia pause. A very brooding, pissed looking pause. “I don’t need your help.” The commonwealth continued, unimpressed.
Well, it’s ‘bout damn time--Hey wait a second. This had to be some kind of trick…
“You don’t need me?” Prussia inquired, disbelievingly. The notion was preposterous! Of course Matty needed his help constructing his tiny, edible habitats. If Prussia didn’t hold the brown cake-wall, then how could Matty apply the sugary-mortar? They needed team work to accomplish the task. To even suggest…
Canada could see the panic building to a slow crescendo on Prussia’s handsome features, but did nothing to quell the ex-nations fears. Instead, he turned and scavenged through his baker’s cabinet in search of something to use as a snow substitute in the ‘front yard’.
“You know, I could always call America.” Canada suggested, casually, while still facing away. “He loves coming over to my house..”
“America?” Prussia scoffed, indignant. “If that freedom-humper comes within 100 clicks of here I’ll show him the meaning of--Hey, stop laughing!”
“I can’t.” Canada cried, thoroughly incapacitated. “You called him,” gasp, “a freedom-humper.” gasp, hack.
“Well he is!” Gilbert insisted, all together failing to see the humour in his accurate assessment. “He’d hump the fuckin’ Statue of Liberty if you’d let him!”
“Oh, stop! I think I’m going to pee my pants…” Canada begged, his voice trilling as he fought for control of his bladder.
“That’s why France gave it to him, you know.” Prussia conveyed, conspiratorially. “It was that perv’s version of a fuckin’ blow-up doll.”
At the mention of his estranged surrogate father, Canada sobered slightly and pawed the tears from his eyes. “I know what will fix your foul mood,” he chirped brightly, turning to the fridge, only to return a second later to plop a carton on a scarce section of unoccupied counter space.
“Egg nog?” Prussia observed, incredulous. “I’m lactose intolerant,” he groused, only to back petal when Canada procured a bottle of Vanilla Smirnoff from the seldom visited liquor cabinet Prussia pretended not to know existed. “Like I was saying, yum!”
Grinning and shaking his head, Canada produced two glasses from the dish drainer and proceeded to fix their drinks. He was sure to double the alcoholic parts of his counterpart’s drink in comparison to his own.
Prussia beamed approvingly.
They toasted, and Gilbert slammed his like a shot, while Matty sipped daintily. Typical German…
“What else you got?” Prussia asked with a wolfish grinn. He was sure they both remembered what happened last time Canada was drunk.
It was just a crying shame all that the petite blonde claimed to remember was the hang over and the awful back ache he had in the morning...
“Get your mind out of the gutter,” Canada chastised him, half-heartedly.
“How did you--”
“Know what you were thinking?” Canada guessed as he went back to scrounging, this time through his booze collection. “You’re always thinking pervy thoughts when you get that faraway, drooling expression.”
Prussia looked like he was about to interject.
“Which is most of the time,” Canada added, belatedly.
Prussia smirked. “This is true.” When Canada settled on a bottle, the albino promptly snatched it up. “ ’Frangelico liqueur‘?” He read, intrigued.
After collecting lemon juice from the fridge and his stainless steal drink shaker from another cabinet, Canada smiled. “It’s called a Chocolate Cake,” her informed him, amused at the delighted expression that bloomed over the ex-nation’s face at his admission. With carefully measured increments, Canada mixed the juice, vanilla vodka, and hazelnut liquor with ice and poured them a shot apiece.
“Cheers,” Prussia cajoled as they clinked glasses and slung back their shots. “The hell,” he breathed, after the drink had burned its way to his heart. “It really does taste like fucking Chocolate Cake!”
Canada beamed, obviously pleased.
“Hit me again.” Prussia ordered, to which Canada calmly shook his head. “No?” He interpreted, frowning.
“Not until you help fit together the walls and frost the shingles. After that, sure. You can have another.”
“No.” Prussia deadpanned, stonily.
“That’s okay. I’ll call England. He’s been meaning to come over anyway.”
Stone crumbled. “Fine, but they’re going to be manly shingles.”
“Of course they are,” Canada agreed with a laugh as he handed over the pastry bag. “Be a dear and frost the edges of this wall,” he instructed, before claiming its twin and demonstrating what he wanted with speed and finesse.
Prussia squeezed the bag too hard and ended up with a glob. Swearing, he quickly fingered the mess into something trying to resemble Canada’s clean, concise outline.
Canada stared as a gob of frosting oozed onto the counter.
“What?” Prussia snapped, embarrassed. “We can’t all be Martha-fucking-Stewart.”
The commonwealth laughed and traced an outline on a serving dish approximately the size of the finished project. Handing Prussia a house shaped slab, he demonstrated how to properly frost again.
This time, Prussia managed a cleaner outline, though for some reason his hands seemed to shake. As he was staring intently at his handiwork, Prussia missed Canada’s soft smile
The man had slain thousands in Wars with the World, but earning the approval of Mr. Betty Crocker made him nervous. Can this guy be any more adorable? Probably not. It was illegal in most countries.
“That’s really good,” Canada praised, but only after deliberate, exaggerated examination of Prussia’s offering.
The albino preened. What a ham.
“Now hold it like this while I frost the sides.”
Prussia complied with the efficiency of a soldier, his eyes intent on the right angles of the walls, and then the steeple of the roof.
Canada’s shoulders shook with suppressed laughter. “Sorry!” he snickered, having just bumped Prussia’s hand with sticky icing.
Prussia grunted, but didn’t move until Canada withdrew.
“Booze time?” the albino guessed, his tone hopeful.
“After the manly shingles,” the commonwealth stipulated with a laugh. He just couldn’t stop smiling when Prussia was around. It was impossible, unnatural. Like not breathing.
The manliness commenced. Canada’s side of the roof had elegant half circles with dots in the middle for candy and puffy, star shaped snow in the gutters.
Prussia’s shingles were squared and stunted, like the teeth of a pumpkin at Halloween, while his gutters looked like Jack Frost had sneezed on them.
The fact that he seemed happy with it was the only reason Canada didn’t comment.
“Booze time!” he declared, slamming his fist hard enough on the countertop that his frosting sack creamed itself in his hand.
“Booze time,” Canada agreed as he transferred the beginnings of their master piece into the freezer to chill. While he fixed their shots, he tried not to watch too intently as Prussia licked thoughtfully at the frosting covering his hand, lest he be the butt of some raunchy accusation.
Just then, Prussia had a revelation. “This is sweet.” he declared, emphatically.
“Its four parts powdered sugar,” Canada returned, a little unnecessarily.
“I like your frosting better.” The albino continued, sounding genuine.
Canada blushed like a beet, and reserved comment. “H-here’s your shot.” he stammered, his face hot.
Prussia grinned, but pretended not to notice as they clinked glasses again and slammed them.
“Again?” Prussia suggested, figuring he needed another four before he would even start to feel something.
Canada, the precious light-weight that he was, already had a pleasant, inhibition-freeing buzz. “After we finish the house, we’ll see if you really do like my frosting better.” Canada informed the ex-nation flatly, while his mind refused to process that the comment had even come out of his mouth.
Prussia raised one silver eyebrow, but consented anyway. If he had to prove his person preference with a blow job, so be it. “Let’s have it then.”
After extracting the tray from the freezer, Matty set to work on the aesthetic things like the red brick walkway and the balls on the Christmas tree while Gilbert fancied painting the walls white with a spoon instead of implementing useful things like windows or skylights, or, you know, doors.
After affixing a tiny cookie reef to the apex of the building, Canada sprinkled white, large grain sugar over the roof and yard to simulate fresh fallen snow.
Prussia splashed red sprinkles on the walls for effect and called it a day.
“It’s perfect.” Canada smiled as he skirted around Prussia, headed for his camera. He didn’t get that far.
With quick, efficient movements, Gilbert pinned Matty against the counter with his hips. Leaning over the smaller nation’s quivering form, Prussia ghosted his lips against Canada’s as the commonwealth’s vanilla liquor scented breath fanned his face.
“If it’s so great, then where’s my kiss?”
Canada sighed before wholeheartedly accepting Prussia’s assault. The younger nation was already feeling lightheaded from the booze, but that buzz, combined with the heady rush of Gilbert’s attentions, had him staggering against the counter for balance. While Prussia liberated Canada’s shirt tail from his waistband and moved to press kisses down the blonde’s neck, chest and abdomen, Canada wrapped his arms around his lover’s neck and sobbed into his silken hair.
“Gil,” he whispered his consent, he confided his addiction. “Gil. Please.”
With a growl, Gilbert seized both sides of Matthew’s dress shirt and pulled, hard. Buttons clattered to the floor, disturbed the dozing bear, even decorated the cake. Matty hissed as Gilbert bit into the fleshy part of his stomach with minimal foreplay, as was his way, his ritual. The claiming. Matty didn’t care.
I want you to devour me. Start from my lips and work your way down.
Wasn’t that a poem from somewhere?
Prussia was just making serious progress on Canada’s zipper when a clamor sounded loud enough to rouse the noisy commonwealth from his euphoria.
“Kumajiro!” Canada gasped, horrified.
From his kneeling position, Prussia peeped dejectedly over the counter and spied a very happy, extremely messy talking furry companion and what was left (about a third) of their perfect masterpiece.
Plopping back onto his haunches so that Canada could scramble around the island to at least attempt to scold Kumo, Prussia groped for his cigarillos even though he knew Canada wouldn’t approve of smoking in his house.
Fucking pandas.
End Notes: While writing for Prussia, I decided he kind of has a quirky sense of humor. He's sharp but he doesn't /get/ some stuff. Comes with being "dead" I guess. ANYWAY HOPE YOU ENJOYED MY DRUNKEN ESCAPADE. MERRY CHRISTMAS ALL, BUT ESPECIALLY YOU, GIRLY.
PS. Meggy's getting one too. Just. Not tonight. If I can think of more than one random line for Rome to say. Omg..
PEACE OUT.