[ oneshot ] Sleepover [ France/Spain/Prussia ]
Title: Sleepover
Author: frostberryjam
Rating: R
Words: 1100
Pairing: Prussia/Spain, France/Spain.
Warnings: Alternate universe, swearing, lil’ bit of sex. Teenagers. Underage drinking.
Summary: Prussia is looking at Spain differently and he’s disturbed by it.
Author Notes: So this is a sequel to the AU!Doctor Rome/Spain fics (set years into the future) that I have hidden in my journal. The setup for this is straightforward though; basically AU!France, Spain and Prussia getting tanked. They’re about fourteen here, although age, as always, is ultimately left to you.
For youkofujima as her Christmas present. 8D Hahah, I’m sorry, but I figured I should probably finally write this scene.
Also, my laptop is tanked and my muse was shot in the head by a band of Anarchistic blue flamingos. I'm trying but I probably won't get to do all the Christmas fics in time for actual Christmas.
Prussia licks the mouth of the bottle, tasting teardrops of fizzed out beer that’s gone warm, and watches with heavy eyelids as France dumps Spain on the bed.
“I thought,” Prussia clears his throat, the words having come out sotto voce and says; “I thought you said he could handle his booze.”
“He can. You’re having a beer.” France shifts, not as steady on his feet as his calm reply would imply. “He had straight up shots.”
“I wanted straight up shots.”
“I refuse to haul both of your sorry asses to bed.”
“You wouldn’t have to, asshole.” He can handle the vodka just fine. Or whiskey. Or whatever it was that Spain had been sucking down and laughing and wiping tears away from his eyes from. “At least I wasn’t having pansy-assed wine.”
“There is nothing wrong with wine, philistine.”
“What the hell is Phi--philly-…. Phil…Philippines?” Prussia hiccups and burps at the same time and rubs his mouth, wondering if he’s going to throw up. France groans in disgust and flops down bonelessly on the bean bag chair across from him. They’re forming a triangle, they are, with Prussia straddling the desk chair backwards, Spain on the bed and France unbuttoning his shirt on the bean bag because it‘s a hot summer night, cheeks splashed red like the wine bottle he’s been taking sips from all night.
It must be past two AM. It’s hard to read the time when focusing on those tiny glowing digital lights is like staring into the headlights of a car. Prussia blinks and stares at the digital clock. Stares, and stares, and stares like a deer caught, hypnotized, until Spain coughs and rolls over --
And his knees hit the carpeted floor with a thunk but he’s somehow still on the bed, stomach-down, passed out.
“How’s he doing that?” Prussia wonders, trying to figure out how Spain’s hips are bent, somehow, and his jeans are ridding low -- low, and in a TMI moment reveals that he’s not wearing underwear and it’s somehow like poetry or art or dynamic flow, some shit that Prussia doesn’t pay attention to because it’s stupid, the way Spain has lean hips and they’re positioned just so that the eye has to follow the skin beneath the ruched up t-shirt, keep going down until he’s eyeing the hint of ass that the jeans don’t cover.
He could put so much in there. Like… hot sauce. Or something. That’d be hilarious, right? Hot sauce and ice cubes and honey, or ink. Ink, now that’s brilliant.
He doesn’t make the suggestion to France though, who probably knows where Carthage keeps the ink in that mess of an office he has downstairs that they’re absolutely forbidden to go into. (Ironic that it never occurs to Spain’s dad to tell them to not wipe out the bar, and really doesn’t seem to notice when a few bottles mysteriously grow legs and walk off when he goes away for a weekend.)
Prussia eyes the curve of pale buttock rising over the hem of the jean, whiter than the rest of Spain’s sun-soaked skin, and licks the bottle again.
“It’s empty, Prus. Stop trying to give it a rim job.” France jabs at him tiredly, but, Prussia notices, he’s staring at Spain’s ass too.
Prussia doesn’t stop. It’s like he has to keep his mouth busy or he’ll say something monumentally stupid and France won’t let him forget it.
Lick, lick.
The bottle doesn’t lick back. It’s just flat and smooth and still somewhat cool. It has no taste and eventually his tongue is tied of swiping the same surface over and over as he stares at Spain’s ass.
It’s not like he’s gay, damn it, he’s not flamboyant like France is and only God knows what Spain is -- but that is one fine ass. He tightens his grip on the bottle and opens his mouth, blurting out the itch that keeps making his breath shaky. “D’didya ever wonder what’d be like to put your dick in there?”
France doesn’t even pretend for an instant to not know what he’s saying. “God, yes.” He breathes longingly.
Prussia tries to look at him with disgust but he can’t manage it. “Like, not… in, in.” He says awkwardly. “That’s for faggots. Just like, there. Between. Rubbing.” And thrusting, and squeezing the cheeks tighter, and he sets the glass bottle down on the computer desk, unsatisfied. It clatters and the noise is the same as if he’d thrown it across the room against a wall and they both pause and stare again at Spain, who murmurs sleepily -- drunkenly -- and worms himself back on to the bed and turns over, knees hanging off the edge now. He drops a hand over his stomach and Prussia swears that seeing the curve of a hip like that isn’t supposed to be sexy. It isn’t.
France sighs. “Good job.”
“Pervert.”
France’s lips roll into a grin for him. “Yeah. I’ve thought about it.” He’s continuing their thread of conversation, totally secure when Spain starts breathing deeply that he’s out of it. “Between is nice. Inside is hotter.”
Prussia shifts, trying to pull his groin away from the back of the chair. He’s starting to get the urge to rub against something. “I don’t want to know.”
“You brought it up.”
“And now I’m dropping it.”
France shoots him a shifty glance, decadently sprawled over the bean bag with that fucking catlike grace he could get sometimes that creeps the hell out of Prussia. “Your loss.” He says mildly, and rises to his feet.
“What are you doing?” Prussia asks defensively, thinking the blond is coming towards him. France ignores him until he has a hand on the bed and he’s crawling in, barefoot and bare-chested but at least he has his pants on, and is pushing Spain slightly to the side.
“We’re in a sleepover, Pruss. That implies we sleep eventually.”
“I know that!”
“Shh,” The dismissive whisper accompanied by France curling himself around Spain effectively shuts Prussia up. No, it’s not the first time he‘s seen that, they‘ve been best friends all their lives, and it’s always been this way between France and Spain, but suddenly he‘s looking at the way France places a hand on Spain‘s waist differently. “Turn off the lights, will you?”
“… only if you scoot over. I want that side of the bed.”
France snorts and waves at him like he’s stupid. “Cheri, if you want to grind his ass, I’m afraid someone else has a stake on that.”
“Who?” Prussia jerks to his feet like a marionette under the hands of an amateur, all swinging limbs and barely-there balance. Spain grumbles something at the noise and then snores.
“Not me. That’s all you should care to know, Monsieur Heterosexual.” France yawns and turns his back to him.
Prussia turns off the lights and is left praying that he’s drunk enough to forget the conversation when he wakes up with a hangover.
Author: frostberryjam
Rating: R
Words: 1100
Pairing: Prussia/Spain, France/Spain.
Warnings: Alternate universe, swearing, lil’ bit of sex. Teenagers. Underage drinking.
Summary: Prussia is looking at Spain differently and he’s disturbed by it.
Author Notes: So this is a sequel to the AU!Doctor Rome/Spain fics (set years into the future) that I have hidden in my journal. The setup for this is straightforward though; basically AU!France, Spain and Prussia getting tanked. They’re about fourteen here, although age, as always, is ultimately left to you.
For youkofujima as her Christmas present. 8D Hahah, I’m sorry, but I figured I should probably finally write this scene.
Also, my laptop is tanked and my muse was shot in the head by a band of Anarchistic blue flamingos. I'm trying but I probably won't get to do all the Christmas fics in time for actual Christmas.
Prussia licks the mouth of the bottle, tasting teardrops of fizzed out beer that’s gone warm, and watches with heavy eyelids as France dumps Spain on the bed.
“I thought,” Prussia clears his throat, the words having come out sotto voce and says; “I thought you said he could handle his booze.”
“He can. You’re having a beer.” France shifts, not as steady on his feet as his calm reply would imply. “He had straight up shots.”
“I wanted straight up shots.”
“I refuse to haul both of your sorry asses to bed.”
“You wouldn’t have to, asshole.” He can handle the vodka just fine. Or whiskey. Or whatever it was that Spain had been sucking down and laughing and wiping tears away from his eyes from. “At least I wasn’t having pansy-assed wine.”
“There is nothing wrong with wine, philistine.”
“What the hell is Phi--philly-…. Phil…Philippines?” Prussia hiccups and burps at the same time and rubs his mouth, wondering if he’s going to throw up. France groans in disgust and flops down bonelessly on the bean bag chair across from him. They’re forming a triangle, they are, with Prussia straddling the desk chair backwards, Spain on the bed and France unbuttoning his shirt on the bean bag because it‘s a hot summer night, cheeks splashed red like the wine bottle he’s been taking sips from all night.
It must be past two AM. It’s hard to read the time when focusing on those tiny glowing digital lights is like staring into the headlights of a car. Prussia blinks and stares at the digital clock. Stares, and stares, and stares like a deer caught, hypnotized, until Spain coughs and rolls over --
And his knees hit the carpeted floor with a thunk but he’s somehow still on the bed, stomach-down, passed out.
“How’s he doing that?” Prussia wonders, trying to figure out how Spain’s hips are bent, somehow, and his jeans are ridding low -- low, and in a TMI moment reveals that he’s not wearing underwear and it’s somehow like poetry or art or dynamic flow, some shit that Prussia doesn’t pay attention to because it’s stupid, the way Spain has lean hips and they’re positioned just so that the eye has to follow the skin beneath the ruched up t-shirt, keep going down until he’s eyeing the hint of ass that the jeans don’t cover.
He could put so much in there. Like… hot sauce. Or something. That’d be hilarious, right? Hot sauce and ice cubes and honey, or ink. Ink, now that’s brilliant.
He doesn’t make the suggestion to France though, who probably knows where Carthage keeps the ink in that mess of an office he has downstairs that they’re absolutely forbidden to go into. (Ironic that it never occurs to Spain’s dad to tell them to not wipe out the bar, and really doesn’t seem to notice when a few bottles mysteriously grow legs and walk off when he goes away for a weekend.)
Prussia eyes the curve of pale buttock rising over the hem of the jean, whiter than the rest of Spain’s sun-soaked skin, and licks the bottle again.
“It’s empty, Prus. Stop trying to give it a rim job.” France jabs at him tiredly, but, Prussia notices, he’s staring at Spain’s ass too.
Prussia doesn’t stop. It’s like he has to keep his mouth busy or he’ll say something monumentally stupid and France won’t let him forget it.
Lick, lick.
The bottle doesn’t lick back. It’s just flat and smooth and still somewhat cool. It has no taste and eventually his tongue is tied of swiping the same surface over and over as he stares at Spain’s ass.
It’s not like he’s gay, damn it, he’s not flamboyant like France is and only God knows what Spain is -- but that is one fine ass. He tightens his grip on the bottle and opens his mouth, blurting out the itch that keeps making his breath shaky. “D’didya ever wonder what’d be like to put your dick in there?”
France doesn’t even pretend for an instant to not know what he’s saying. “God, yes.” He breathes longingly.
Prussia tries to look at him with disgust but he can’t manage it. “Like, not… in, in.” He says awkwardly. “That’s for faggots. Just like, there. Between. Rubbing.” And thrusting, and squeezing the cheeks tighter, and he sets the glass bottle down on the computer desk, unsatisfied. It clatters and the noise is the same as if he’d thrown it across the room against a wall and they both pause and stare again at Spain, who murmurs sleepily -- drunkenly -- and worms himself back on to the bed and turns over, knees hanging off the edge now. He drops a hand over his stomach and Prussia swears that seeing the curve of a hip like that isn’t supposed to be sexy. It isn’t.
France sighs. “Good job.”
“Pervert.”
France’s lips roll into a grin for him. “Yeah. I’ve thought about it.” He’s continuing their thread of conversation, totally secure when Spain starts breathing deeply that he’s out of it. “Between is nice. Inside is hotter.”
Prussia shifts, trying to pull his groin away from the back of the chair. He’s starting to get the urge to rub against something. “I don’t want to know.”
“You brought it up.”
“And now I’m dropping it.”
France shoots him a shifty glance, decadently sprawled over the bean bag with that fucking catlike grace he could get sometimes that creeps the hell out of Prussia. “Your loss.” He says mildly, and rises to his feet.
“What are you doing?” Prussia asks defensively, thinking the blond is coming towards him. France ignores him until he has a hand on the bed and he’s crawling in, barefoot and bare-chested but at least he has his pants on, and is pushing Spain slightly to the side.
“We’re in a sleepover, Pruss. That implies we sleep eventually.”
“I know that!”
“Shh,” The dismissive whisper accompanied by France curling himself around Spain effectively shuts Prussia up. No, it’s not the first time he‘s seen that, they‘ve been best friends all their lives, and it’s always been this way between France and Spain, but suddenly he‘s looking at the way France places a hand on Spain‘s waist differently. “Turn off the lights, will you?”
“… only if you scoot over. I want that side of the bed.”
France snorts and waves at him like he’s stupid. “Cheri, if you want to grind his ass, I’m afraid someone else has a stake on that.”
“Who?” Prussia jerks to his feet like a marionette under the hands of an amateur, all swinging limbs and barely-there balance. Spain grumbles something at the noise and then snores.
“Not me. That’s all you should care to know, Monsieur Heterosexual.” France yawns and turns his back to him.
Prussia turns off the lights and is left praying that he’s drunk enough to forget the conversation when he wakes up with a hangover.