Cross-posted from Hetachallenge
Title: Here We Go A-Wassailing
Characters: Germany, Italy, Prussia, Romano, mention of Spain, France & Hungary
Challenge: Bingo Challenge 1
Square Filled: Wassail
Rating: OT for Romano’s dropping the F-bomb
Summary: Italy gets into the wassail at World 8’s Christmas party
For Corner of Madness with love…
The World 8 Christmas party was in full swing. This year, it was a more sedate affair as Prussia, Spain, and especially France were all told that any shenanigans were grounds for being not only kicked out, but banned from future affairs. Apparently no one on the committee that was in charge of organizing the party, except for Hungary, was impressed with last year’s naked and naughty rendition of “Sleigh Ride.” People mingled, kissed under the mistletoe and exchanged token gifts. The food and drink was typical holiday fare; cookies, cakes, finger sandwiches, and regional specialties. Since Germany had brought an assortment of cookies, Prussia decided to bring “Vati’s super awesome wassail” as it was better than the swill England brought to last year’s party.
Prussia set it up in a Crockpot, setting it on low to keep the mulled beverage warm. He leaned over it and breathed deeply, loving the rich, spicy scent. He poured himself a cup, drank, and judging it to be perfectly awesome, he went in search of his friends. Italy, who was tired of the weak “champagne” punch, saw Prussia drinking the wassail. Not a fan of warm beverages unless it was cappuccino, he none-the-less decided to give it a try.
Italy sauntered over to the Crockpot and like Prussia; he leaned over it and inhaled. Liking the way it smelled, he poured himself a cup and drank. It was warm and apple tasting, with a hint of spice. Italy drained the mug and poured himself some more. He was on his third mug, when the warmth seemed to envelop him in a hug on the inside. Italy giggled. Spotting Romano, he called him over. “Hey, Fratello! You gotta try this!”
“Da hell?!” Romano scowled at him. There was no way in Dante’s nine circles of Hell was he going to drink that crap. If he wanted a fruity, girly drink, he would drink Sangria. “Go away!”
“But, Fratello…” Italy whined.
“Fuck off!” And with that, Romano pushed past him.
Italy pouted. He drank his cup of wassail, and feeling a bit sorry for himself, he poured himself another one. While he was sipping it, he spotted Germany. “Hey, Germ*hic*any!” he hiccupped.
Germany, hearing his name, looked over and frowned. His little buddy stood there, swaying in the nonexistent wind, his cheeks flushed with a dopey grin on his face. He hurried over to him. “Italy? Are okay?”
Italy giggled in reply. He grinned when Germany leaned in and peered closely at him. Closing his eyes, Italy stood unsteadily on his tiptoes and planted a big, fat, wet kiss on his best friend’s cheek. He had meant to kiss him on the lips, but the two Germanys he was seeing made that kind of hard.
Germany sighed. “You’re drunk.”
Italy giggled and hiccupped at him as he nodded. He hated the way it made the room spin.
“Come on, let’s get you home.”
“Awe…” Italy pouted.
“Italy.”
“Okay!”
Picking him up, Germany carried him home.
Characters: Germany, Italy, Prussia, Romano, mention of Spain, France & Hungary
Challenge: Bingo Challenge 1
Square Filled: Wassail
Rating: OT for Romano’s dropping the F-bomb
Summary: Italy gets into the wassail at World 8’s Christmas party
For Corner of Madness with love…
The World 8 Christmas party was in full swing. This year, it was a more sedate affair as Prussia, Spain, and especially France were all told that any shenanigans were grounds for being not only kicked out, but banned from future affairs. Apparently no one on the committee that was in charge of organizing the party, except for Hungary, was impressed with last year’s naked and naughty rendition of “Sleigh Ride.” People mingled, kissed under the mistletoe and exchanged token gifts. The food and drink was typical holiday fare; cookies, cakes, finger sandwiches, and regional specialties. Since Germany had brought an assortment of cookies, Prussia decided to bring “Vati’s super awesome wassail” as it was better than the swill England brought to last year’s party.
Prussia set it up in a Crockpot, setting it on low to keep the mulled beverage warm. He leaned over it and breathed deeply, loving the rich, spicy scent. He poured himself a cup, drank, and judging it to be perfectly awesome, he went in search of his friends. Italy, who was tired of the weak “champagne” punch, saw Prussia drinking the wassail. Not a fan of warm beverages unless it was cappuccino, he none-the-less decided to give it a try.
Italy sauntered over to the Crockpot and like Prussia; he leaned over it and inhaled. Liking the way it smelled, he poured himself a cup and drank. It was warm and apple tasting, with a hint of spice. Italy drained the mug and poured himself some more. He was on his third mug, when the warmth seemed to envelop him in a hug on the inside. Italy giggled. Spotting Romano, he called him over. “Hey, Fratello! You gotta try this!”
“Da hell?!” Romano scowled at him. There was no way in Dante’s nine circles of Hell was he going to drink that crap. If he wanted a fruity, girly drink, he would drink Sangria. “Go away!”
“But, Fratello…” Italy whined.
“Fuck off!” And with that, Romano pushed past him.
Italy pouted. He drank his cup of wassail, and feeling a bit sorry for himself, he poured himself another one. While he was sipping it, he spotted Germany. “Hey, Germ*hic*any!” he hiccupped.
Germany, hearing his name, looked over and frowned. His little buddy stood there, swaying in the nonexistent wind, his cheeks flushed with a dopey grin on his face. He hurried over to him. “Italy? Are okay?”
Italy giggled in reply. He grinned when Germany leaned in and peered closely at him. Closing his eyes, Italy stood unsteadily on his tiptoes and planted a big, fat, wet kiss on his best friend’s cheek. He had meant to kiss him on the lips, but the two Germanys he was seeing made that kind of hard.
Germany sighed. “You’re drunk.”
Italy giggled and hiccupped at him as he nodded. He hated the way it made the room spin.
“Come on, let’s get you home.”
“Awe…” Italy pouted.
“Italy.”
“Okay!”
Picking him up, Germany carried him home.