[Drabble collection] 200 words drabbles
This is a collection of 7 drabbles, each of them of 200 words, all of them on the Bad Touch Trio. Please enjoy?
Author: me
Pairings/Characters: France, Spain, Prussia. France/Spain, Prussia/Spain, France/Prussia, France/Prussia/Spain
Rating: varies from K+ to T-ish.
Warnings: BTT :D
---FraSpa
France opens his eyes.
He’s been dreaming of swords and feathered hats, of the sound of cannons exploding and the wooden floor moving under his feet, tilting sideways as the ship steers to the left to avoid being hit.
The stench of smoke and exploding gunpowder is so overpowering that France feels his lungs constrict painfully.
In front of him, on the ship’s deck, Spain is standing still, smirking and tipping his hat at him, a sword already unsheathed and pointed at his neck.
France smirks, his own sword ready, breathes in the salty smell of ocean, and jumps forwards, wide open and ready to-
Then he wakes up.
The bedroom is dark and the heat clutches at his skin, sweat rolling down his face, and he takes a moment to understand what is going on -why his lung are still constricted, his nose still smelling his dream…
He looks down at the mop of hair pressed against his neck and smirks, tongue flickering out to lick at his lips.
That era has long since passed, but the one he wanted to conquer still belongs to him.
France leans forwards and claims Spain’s lips, rousing the man from his sleep.
---
“I’m hungry”.
Looking up, France lets out a soft snort and shakes his head, smiling.
‘You’re always hungry,’ he wants to say, because it is true and not much of a joke, and his lips part to say just this, then stops.
Spain is staring at him, eyes warm and filled with mirth, a smile on his lips that has a teasing edge, and his arms are crossed on his chest; it looks like he’s waiting for something, and France knows he’s waiting for his answer.
It clicks only when Spain’s tongue traces the contours of his own lips, excruciatingly slowly, and France is then far too preoccupied with reaching forwards to grab Spain and slam him against the table to waste time in berating himself for not getting it.
“I could cook you something,” he teases back, tongue already tasting the delicious skin of the other Nation’s neck.
“I’ve always preferred my meals… raw”.
Not for the first time, France wonders if it’s him owning Spain, or if he’s been owned all this time.
As he drawls out soft gasps of pleasure from his lover’s lips, France decides he doesn’t quite care which one it is, in the end.
---PruSpa
“What is this?”
Prussia doesn’t even look up from his book, knowing already that whatever object Spain is holding up comes from the depths of his junk-cupboard. As such, it’s not even worth mentioning.
Seconds later, Spain’s attention has been attracted by something else, sparing Prussia the strain to give a damn.
“Hey, your old outfit! Look, it still has the hole on your ass where Elizav-”
“Why did you visit me again?” there is no real anger in Prussia’s tone, and his words are soothed by the smirk on his lips.
“Because I’ve been missing you? I’ve been left all alone with Francis all the time, and he gets on my nerves sometimes!”
With a chuckle, Prussia offers one hand to Spain, who grabs it with a grin; it takes nothing more than a tug, and then Prussia is sent flying, his knees colliding painfully with the floor, and finds himself staring down at an amused Spain.
“You’re a frigging idiot,” is the only thing he says before leaning down to kiss him.
Neither care for the French Nation looking at them from the door, since well, they are busy kissing .
“You’re both idiots, mes amis”.
---
The first thing Prussia realises as his conscious resurfaces, is that his head hurts.
Fuck, it does.
He’s sprawled somewhere, not even sure where, and around him there’s just crimson.
His head feels like someone has decided to use it as shooting target, his eyes burn so much he might just as well die, and his body feels terribly heavy.
Typical hangover of the morning after.
In front of his eyes, something enormous, red and with a smile too big appears. If he wasn’t this wasted, he’d back away.
“Hnnnngh…hn? Wh’ts’s zaaat?” it’s quite eloquent of him, and he mentally pats himself on the back twice. Just because he’s awesome.
“This is Pedrito!”
It takes Prussia a bit to realise ‘Pedrito’ is a stuffed tomato. With a face. And that it is Spain who answered.
He wants to grumble and express his disconcert, and maybe ask the other why he has a stuffed tomato toy, and why its name is Pedrito. Instead, he just grabs Spain, pushes him down, and kisses him senseless. And since he’s at it, gropes him, too.
“Wait, Gil, I-” a moan, “n-not in front of Pedrito!”
The rest is drowned in the kiss.
---FraPru
“It’s all your fault, stupid Frenchman!”
France barely looks up; he’s clearly not paying attention to him as much as he should. Prussia should be feeling dejected, for his awesome self is lacking the attention he needs, but…
“How so?” France doesn’t really expect an answer, because even without looking, he knows Prussia’s attention is elsewhere.
“Hmm? What did you say…?”
Neither of them can look away, really. The sight is just excessively cute, and it blows their minds away.
So what if France decided to have Gilbird and Pierre XII meet? He felt it would do both birds good. They were only around other animals, like Italy’s cat, Germany’s dogs or Japan’s strange, fluffy dog. Or Canada’s bear.
He couldn’t have known that Pierre XII, proud descendant of Pierre XI, was actually a Pierrette. Nor that Gilbird and her would get along that well.
On the table in front of them, in a small nest decorated with the best tissues France had, five small, adorable little birds chirp up at them as Pierrette I gently rubs her head against Gilbird’s beak.
“They are… so cute…”
Prussia doesn’t protest at all when France intertwines their fingers together.
“Proud parents, huh?”
---
“This is for you, mon cher”.
With a bow, France presents Prussia with his gift, and watches with a smile as Prussia’s eager face is replaced with a confused, almost disappointed expression.
A bottle of wine -of his best wine, at that.
“I don’t drink wine,” Prussia doesn’t mean to sound this whiny, because being whiny is not awesome, but he can’t help himself.
“Oui, I know, you and your beer…”
“Then why would you give me wine, if you know I don’t drink it?”
France chuckles, amused at the other Nation’s tone, and gently pours a glass of the beautiful, expensive wine in a crystal glass.
The albino stares at him, clearly not understanding, almost comical with his sad appearance. Of course he wouldn’t know. Of course he couldn’t get it.
France slowly sips the wine, and closes his eyes tasting it. Then, with languid, slow movements, he sits on Prussia’s lap, and kisses him.
The liquid passes from one mouth to the other without a single droplet wasted, and when he’s done, France pulls away, glancing down at his lover with an expectant face.
Prussia smiles.
“Bon anniversaire,” France murmurs, and leans down to kiss him once again.
---Bad Touch Trio
---
When they get together to drink, it’s a common courtesy of any other Nation not to get anywhere close to the house they choose.
It’s not because they want to be respectful -it’s more like a deep, rooted desire of self-preservation.
It makes Germany leave his own house and take refuge at Italy’s if Prussia announces there’s going to be a get-together night.
It has Romano grabbing Italy and running far, far away, seeking protection elsewhere, when Spain smiles and tells him France and Prussia are coming over.
It is why England locks his front door and all the windows, because you never know what kind of noises might come from France’s house when they crash there.
They have seen it happen, and the sight has blinded them, clinging to their deepest nightmares with images they can’t remove, scarring them for life. Germany still weeps at times, Romano still throws tomatoes everywhere whenever someone mentions that time, and England just gets drunk.
It is all the other Nations see of them -the sex and the alcohol and the perversion.
They never see the morning after, the languid kisses, the smiles.
There are many ways to love, after all.
Author: me
Pairings/Characters: France, Spain, Prussia. France/Spain, Prussia/Spain, France/Prussia, France/Prussia/Spain
Rating: varies from K+ to T-ish.
Warnings: BTT :D
---FraSpa
France opens his eyes.
He’s been dreaming of swords and feathered hats, of the sound of cannons exploding and the wooden floor moving under his feet, tilting sideways as the ship steers to the left to avoid being hit.
The stench of smoke and exploding gunpowder is so overpowering that France feels his lungs constrict painfully.
In front of him, on the ship’s deck, Spain is standing still, smirking and tipping his hat at him, a sword already unsheathed and pointed at his neck.
France smirks, his own sword ready, breathes in the salty smell of ocean, and jumps forwards, wide open and ready to-
Then he wakes up.
The bedroom is dark and the heat clutches at his skin, sweat rolling down his face, and he takes a moment to understand what is going on -why his lung are still constricted, his nose still smelling his dream…
He looks down at the mop of hair pressed against his neck and smirks, tongue flickering out to lick at his lips.
That era has long since passed, but the one he wanted to conquer still belongs to him.
France leans forwards and claims Spain’s lips, rousing the man from his sleep.
---
“I’m hungry”.
Looking up, France lets out a soft snort and shakes his head, smiling.
‘You’re always hungry,’ he wants to say, because it is true and not much of a joke, and his lips part to say just this, then stops.
Spain is staring at him, eyes warm and filled with mirth, a smile on his lips that has a teasing edge, and his arms are crossed on his chest; it looks like he’s waiting for something, and France knows he’s waiting for his answer.
It clicks only when Spain’s tongue traces the contours of his own lips, excruciatingly slowly, and France is then far too preoccupied with reaching forwards to grab Spain and slam him against the table to waste time in berating himself for not getting it.
“I could cook you something,” he teases back, tongue already tasting the delicious skin of the other Nation’s neck.
“I’ve always preferred my meals… raw”.
Not for the first time, France wonders if it’s him owning Spain, or if he’s been owned all this time.
As he drawls out soft gasps of pleasure from his lover’s lips, France decides he doesn’t quite care which one it is, in the end.
---PruSpa
“What is this?”
Prussia doesn’t even look up from his book, knowing already that whatever object Spain is holding up comes from the depths of his junk-cupboard. As such, it’s not even worth mentioning.
Seconds later, Spain’s attention has been attracted by something else, sparing Prussia the strain to give a damn.
“Hey, your old outfit! Look, it still has the hole on your ass where Elizav-”
“Why did you visit me again?” there is no real anger in Prussia’s tone, and his words are soothed by the smirk on his lips.
“Because I’ve been missing you? I’ve been left all alone with Francis all the time, and he gets on my nerves sometimes!”
With a chuckle, Prussia offers one hand to Spain, who grabs it with a grin; it takes nothing more than a tug, and then Prussia is sent flying, his knees colliding painfully with the floor, and finds himself staring down at an amused Spain.
“You’re a frigging idiot,” is the only thing he says before leaning down to kiss him.
Neither care for the French Nation looking at them from the door, since well, they are busy kissing .
“You’re both idiots, mes amis”.
---
The first thing Prussia realises as his conscious resurfaces, is that his head hurts.
Fuck, it does.
He’s sprawled somewhere, not even sure where, and around him there’s just crimson.
His head feels like someone has decided to use it as shooting target, his eyes burn so much he might just as well die, and his body feels terribly heavy.
Typical hangover of the morning after.
In front of his eyes, something enormous, red and with a smile too big appears. If he wasn’t this wasted, he’d back away.
“Hnnnngh…hn? Wh’ts’s zaaat?” it’s quite eloquent of him, and he mentally pats himself on the back twice. Just because he’s awesome.
“This is Pedrito!”
It takes Prussia a bit to realise ‘Pedrito’ is a stuffed tomato. With a face. And that it is Spain who answered.
He wants to grumble and express his disconcert, and maybe ask the other why he has a stuffed tomato toy, and why its name is Pedrito. Instead, he just grabs Spain, pushes him down, and kisses him senseless. And since he’s at it, gropes him, too.
“Wait, Gil, I-” a moan, “n-not in front of Pedrito!”
The rest is drowned in the kiss.
---FraPru
“It’s all your fault, stupid Frenchman!”
France barely looks up; he’s clearly not paying attention to him as much as he should. Prussia should be feeling dejected, for his awesome self is lacking the attention he needs, but…
“How so?” France doesn’t really expect an answer, because even without looking, he knows Prussia’s attention is elsewhere.
“Hmm? What did you say…?”
Neither of them can look away, really. The sight is just excessively cute, and it blows their minds away.
So what if France decided to have Gilbird and Pierre XII meet? He felt it would do both birds good. They were only around other animals, like Italy’s cat, Germany’s dogs or Japan’s strange, fluffy dog. Or Canada’s bear.
He couldn’t have known that Pierre XII, proud descendant of Pierre XI, was actually a Pierrette. Nor that Gilbird and her would get along that well.
On the table in front of them, in a small nest decorated with the best tissues France had, five small, adorable little birds chirp up at them as Pierrette I gently rubs her head against Gilbird’s beak.
“They are… so cute…”
Prussia doesn’t protest at all when France intertwines their fingers together.
“Proud parents, huh?”
---
“This is for you, mon cher”.
With a bow, France presents Prussia with his gift, and watches with a smile as Prussia’s eager face is replaced with a confused, almost disappointed expression.
A bottle of wine -of his best wine, at that.
“I don’t drink wine,” Prussia doesn’t mean to sound this whiny, because being whiny is not awesome, but he can’t help himself.
“Oui, I know, you and your beer…”
“Then why would you give me wine, if you know I don’t drink it?”
France chuckles, amused at the other Nation’s tone, and gently pours a glass of the beautiful, expensive wine in a crystal glass.
The albino stares at him, clearly not understanding, almost comical with his sad appearance. Of course he wouldn’t know. Of course he couldn’t get it.
France slowly sips the wine, and closes his eyes tasting it. Then, with languid, slow movements, he sits on Prussia’s lap, and kisses him.
The liquid passes from one mouth to the other without a single droplet wasted, and when he’s done, France pulls away, glancing down at his lover with an expectant face.
Prussia smiles.
“Bon anniversaire,” France murmurs, and leans down to kiss him once again.
---Bad Touch Trio
---
When they get together to drink, it’s a common courtesy of any other Nation not to get anywhere close to the house they choose.
It’s not because they want to be respectful -it’s more like a deep, rooted desire of self-preservation.
It makes Germany leave his own house and take refuge at Italy’s if Prussia announces there’s going to be a get-together night.
It has Romano grabbing Italy and running far, far away, seeking protection elsewhere, when Spain smiles and tells him France and Prussia are coming over.
It is why England locks his front door and all the windows, because you never know what kind of noises might come from France’s house when they crash there.
They have seen it happen, and the sight has blinded them, clinging to their deepest nightmares with images they can’t remove, scarring them for life. Germany still weeps at times, Romano still throws tomatoes everywhere whenever someone mentions that time, and England just gets drunk.
It is all the other Nations see of them -the sex and the alcohol and the perversion.
They never see the morning after, the languid kisses, the smiles.
There are many ways to love, after all.