Blind Date (Axis Powers Hetalia, Prussia/Poland)
First fic of the new year! In true Puel fashion, I interpret the ficbitathon part of "Saying Yes!" as "hey it still fits in one LJ-post!"
To be fair, though, if you put Poland and Prussia in a room (or a beer garden) together, they will not shut up. This one was just fun to write, and if you thought I couldn't get any nerdier after the Shakespeare fic...well. Read on.
Apparently I really like writing things that are a funnysexy blend, of late. This must come as a shock to all of you.
Title: Blind Date
Author: puella_nerdii
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters/Pairing: Prussia/Poland, with bonus Germany.
Rating: R, for basement lovin', awful puns, Prussia's mouth in general, and more than your recommended daily allowance of World of Warcraft jokes.
Summary: Prussia can't wait to finally meet the girl he's been gaming with online. Too bad he forgot to check for traps first.
Notes: Written for saying_yes_2010, for a prompt asking for Prussia and "that girl he met on World of Warcraft who wasn't a girl after all."
Would it kill Germany to cut down on the scowling?
“Her name’s Magda,” Prussia says for the tenth time that day. Technically it’s Magda Brykblask or something like that; he can never keep all the consonants straight. “She’s a level 65 blood elf mage. Well, most of the time she is, anyway, she rolled up a blood elf death knight a while back after we got Wrath of the Lich King and we’re gonna do some serious level-grinding with her on our next raid and I think she’s got another alt who hit 70 but she never uses that one-”
“Prussia,” Germany says in his the-vein-in-my-forehead-is-about-to-burst voice, “who is she?”
“She’s a Polish chick I met on WoW. Calls herself Magda. Calls her blood elf mage Magda, anyway, so that’s how I remember her.”
“You have not learned her real name?” Germany asks, and wow, even the veins under his wrists are starting to shudder. Hypertension can be a real bitch, huh.
“Well it’s not like I told her mine, either.” He folds his arms. If Germany wants to play the priss game, Prussia can play right the hell along with him.
“Prussia, this venture is ill-advised at best-”
“-and downright fuckheaded at worst, yeah, I know, West.” He claps his hand on Germany’s shoulder, squeezes it the way he used to when Germany was just a little brat with his nose stuck in a book all the time. “Look, she’s in Berlin for the weekend, so we’re gonna meet up, hit up a bar, maybe go clubbing or something, come back, I’ll show her how to work my joystick-”
“Brother!”
“What?” says Prussia, blinking. Man, that was loud. “My 360 controller’s custom. It takes a little getting used to if you want to use it right.”
“Oh.” At least he looks chastened now. Then again, he looks chastened most of the time. “I apologize.”
“Accepted.” He grins. “And then I’m gonna fuck her brains out.”
Germany groans.
Prussia spreads his hands wide. “What? Hot Polish chick. In town for the weekend. Looking for a good time. What would you do? Plus she’s a weapon of fucking mass destruction when you take her to Warsong Gulch, there was this one time I dropped the flag ‘cause I had to kill this one guy and I was going shit, this is the end but she timed this Dragon’s Breath fucking perfect-”
“I would exercise caution,” Germany says, tries to get his voice louder than Prussia’s, “especially as you intend to bring her home-”
“Oh right,” Prussia says, snaps his fingers. “About that. You mind clearing out for the night? Crash at Italy’s or Austria’s or something? It’s gonna get loud in here.”
-huh, he can’t remember the last time the muscles in Germany’s cheek twitched that hard.
“Well it is. She’s going to help me rig up the sound system I got off eBay. Don’t worry,” he says before Germany can lecture him about deficit spending and balancing the household budget and all that crap, “I used Austria’s credit card, not yours.”
Germany groans again.
“Best little bro,” he says, and gives Germany a good whack on the back for old time’s sake. “Besides, Polish girls are screamers, and I wouldn’t want you to wake up in the middle of the night, would I? Nah, you need your rest, you’re all tired and shit lately.” He beams as broadly as he can, and Germany just kind of collapses into the couch and sinks down, which proves Prussia right, doesn’t it? “Catch you on the flip side.”
“Prussia-” Germany starts, but Prussia’s already snapping him a little salute, snatching his scarf off the coat rack, and practically marching out the door. Hell, he could start whistling to himself, the world just feels that right right now. This weekend’s gonna be a more legendary ride than the Black Qiraji Battle Tank.
Well, technically the Black Qiraji Battle Tank’s a legendary mount, but Prussia’s pretty sure there’s going to be some legendary mounting going on this weekend, too.
***
The beer garden is fucking overcrowded as it ever is in the summer, and the tourists are thicker than locusts, but one of the great things about waving around Germany’s name (and Austria’s credit card) is that you get to cut any lines you want, no questions asked, right this way sir. Prussia stakes out a table right under a cluster of hanging lanterns, snatches up as many sausages as he can carry at the self-serve queue, wonders if he should try to scrounge up a salad for Magda or something but nah, she’s Polish, she can deal. This is almost classy, Prussia decides, cracks open his Heineken and doesn’t put his feet up on the table. Way better than the taverns in fucking Silvermoon.
Man, how long’s it been since he last went on a date, anyway? Sure, he and Hungary used to sneak off to bars after curfew when they could get away with it, but the damn things kept closing down or shifting location. It’s not like he could lounge around outside like this, couldn’t ever camp out under trees in the summer and just enjoy good music and good beer and good food. Or, heh, check out the sights. He wonders if the blonde girl in that little blue number is Magda. Not like she’s wearing a nametag or anything, but maybe if he got a closer look?
“Hey there,” he says, and gives her his best smile. “Tired of raiding solo?”
-well, someone just put up an Ice Barrier. And looks like Prussia might’ve caught some boyfriend aggro, too. Crap. Back to the table, the sausages are probably getting cold.
And hey, looks like one of the staff here’s escorting someone to his table, too. A someone with fantastic legs. Prussia grins triumphantly. And you thought she’d be a fuckin’ orc or something, Osterreich. Well, shows how much he knows about courting ladies, and Hungary doesn’t count, Prussia’s pretty sure she courted him, and by courted he means.
“Hey there,” Prussia says, and holds out a Heineken. “Heard about a great new quest opening up. Wanna check it out?”
“Oh. My. Fucking. Gawd. No. Way.”
And that would be Poland in the slinky red dress, lifting himself out of his chair just enough so he can plop down in it again, gaping at Prussia all the while.
Prussia sits down, too. Hard. He misses the chair.
Of course that makes Poland double over gasping. It’s not even laughing, he can’t seem to get in enough air for that. He keeps mouthing what Prussia is pretty sure is oh my god over and over again, though, which makes Prussia feel just fucking great.
“You’re Magda?” he finally says, and that came out whinier than he meant it to.
Poland’s almost curled up into a ball now, wheezing, and Prussia isn’t sure if he should ask someone for an inhaler or what. He straightens just enough to wipe the tears from his eyes, and says, “Oh my god this is like seriously too much oh my god wait until Liet hears about this-”
“Hears about what?” Prussia snaps. It’s enough to get him to his feet again. “I was lured here under false pretenses-you know, this is just like how you used to try to trick my Grand Masters into paying homage to you when they visited-”
“Oh puh-leeze.” Poland rolls his eyes. “That was so not a trap, you were my lawful frickin’ vassal, and anyway, who the freak did you think you were gonna meet?”
“A hot Polish chick! Magda! Or-well, actually, no, I never asked you what your name was, but I was going to get around to that!”
Poland’s look could peel paint. “Uh, hello? Since when did I ever say I was a girl?”
Prussia opens his mouth, then closes it. Then opens it again. “For fuck’s sake, your armor barely covered your ass, it was hot pink, and your last name meant “Sparklepony” or some shit like that, what the fuck was I supposed to think you were?”
“Dude, like none of the girl characters on WoW are actually girls.” Poland crosses his arms, blows a stray strand of hair out of his face. “I mean, jeez, who do you think they made the little dance command for, anyway?”
“I liked it when you made Magda Brykblask dance,” Prussia mumbles.
“No duh you did. She grinds her ass like Britney Spears.” Poland’s mostly uncurled now; he scoots around sideways in his chair and dangles his legs over its arm, and Prussia tries to be a gentleman and not look up his skirt. Not that he wants to look up Poland’s skirt, but it’s the principle of the thing. “She’s got a nice ass, too,” he continues, which isn’t helping. “For like a whole bunch of polygons and junk. So I figure, hey, why not shake what Blizzard gave ya?”
“‘Cause you trick people into thinking stuff about you, that’s why.”
“Oh grow up already. It’s not like I was shaking my little polygon ass for you. Which is, bee-tee-dubs, why most of the blood elf girls you try to get to ‘buff your sword’ or whatever?” Poland actually does the air-quotes, too, and flicks his fingers to the side like he’s trying to fling muck off them. “Are actually dudes. ‘Cause they’re not shaking their butts to get you to go ‘ooh-la-la,’ they’re shaking their butts ‘cause they like looking at the butt-shaking animation. Dig?”
Prussia knows that smirk of Poland’s all too well; it’d be simpering if Poland’s eyes didn’t spark so much. He thinks of it as the “Lithuania’s right behind you” smirk-he checks over his shoulder to make sure Lithuania isn’t actually right there. You know, just in case. “You could have said who you really were.”
“And you could have said who you really were.” Poland checks his nails, winces. “I mean, jeez, maybe I never let you on about the whole not-actually-a-girl thing, but you never let me on about the whole not-actually-a-multimillionaire-underwear-model-corporate-jetsetter thing. Look at the big picture, will you?”
Prussia can’t decide if the beer in his hand is uncomfortably warm or uncomfortably cool. “I thought I only implied the multimillionaire part.”
“Yeah, if like oh-so-subtly bragging about your private jet and junk is implying. I mean, hello, I didn’t think I was going to meet some nerd who still lived in his brother’s basement.”
The beer sours in his mouth, and it’s all Prussia can do not to spit it out and fling the bottle to the ground, but he’s been brought up better than to waste beer. He swallows, glares. “It’s not a still thing.”
Poland fidgets around; his stilettos are dangling off his toes, the rhinestones sparkling, and the way he keeps jiggling his feet makes Prussia wonder when they’re going to fall off. “Yeah, whatever,” he says. “Hand me my purse, okay? My lipstick’s probably all smudged by now.”
Prussia chucks it at him, wordlessly.
“Well someone’s got their man-panties in a twist.” Poland’s eyeing him over one of those little makeup mirrors, his lips pursed in a soft o. He smacks them together, spreads the color around, licks his finger to wipe off the excess; his tongue’s just a few shades lighter than the lipstick is, and Prussia can’t tell for the life of him why he cares. “You gonna eat the rest of those sausages or what? I’m frickin’ famished. They seriously do not feed you on the train.”
“You’ll smear your lipstick,” he says.
“Oh frick, I should’ve waited,” Poland says, smacking his forehead. “Ow. Whatever. They’re German sausages, they can’t be that good anyway.”
“Way better than the Polish kind,” Prussia counters.
“Uh, no? My sausage is the best sausage ever?”
The opening’s just too good. Prussia looks at Poland’s crotch, or whatever he can see of it under the skirt. “What sausage?”
“Ew, dude.” Poland wrinkles his nose. “You’re acting like America, I swear, next thing you’ll be all like ha ha you said sausage-”
“Will not. Besides, my beer’s better than his.”
“Okay, yeah, fine.” He rolls his eyes again, but he’s smiling a little. “Wanna get me another one?”
Prussia snorts. “What makes you think I’m buying you beer?”
Poland leans forward, and if he actually had cleavage it’d be peeking out of his dress now. “‘Cause if I know you, Austria’s paying. And if I know us, we both think the look on Austria’s face when he sees his credit statement? Will be frickin’ hilarious.”
Aw, hell. “To Austria,” Prussia says, and signals one of the waiters for another round.
“To Austria. Man, I seriously cannot remember the last time I even thought about having a drink in his honor.” Poland snaps the cap of his lipstick back on, pops it off again, snaps it back on, pop-snap, pop-snap. “We drink to some freaky shit these days, huh?”
“Eh.” Prussia shrugs. “Is drinking to Austria’s health any weirder than drinking to the downfall of Kael’thas Sunstrider or the health of Sigisimund?”
“Hey, Siggy wasn’t so bad,” Poland shoots back. “And it’s not like he completely switched allegiances and heel-face-turned on his own people and followers, hello Albert.”
“Hang on, did you just compare Duke Albrecht to Kael’thas Sunstrider?” Prussia frowns. “Because wouldn’t that make you guys the Burning Legion?”
“No, that makes Martin frickin’ Luther and the Protestants the Burning Legion, hello? His sinister new allies?”
And watching Poland toss his hair back and flip his foot up so quick that his shoe goes flying halfway across the lawn and skitters to a halt at the foot of one of the grills-well, Prussia has to laugh. “This is really dumb.”
“Yeah, it kinda is,” Poland agrees. The waiter set down the second round of Heinekens a while back, and he cracks his open. “Plus I totally lost my shoe.”
Prussia cocks an eyebrow. He’s gotten good at doing that over the years. “You want me to go get it?”
“Dunno, how much of a pally are you being tonight?”
“I’m paying, aren’t I? That’s pretty pally.”
“Shyeah, with Austria’s money.”
“You mind?”
“Pff.” Poland blows a raspberry. “Like I ever do.”
***
“-so you were trying to pull aggro then?”
“No shit!” Poland snorts; his throat does this funny jumping thing like he’s trying to swallow a hiccup. “Grunwald gambit. I fake like I’m a squishy and pull aggro so the mob gets way DPSed from behind. Doesn’t even see it coming if I do it right, and I totally did, so there you go.”
“But you are a squishy.” Wait, there’s something wrong about that. Prussia wrinkles his forehead. “Were a squishy. Then, I mean. Could’ve gotten your ass kicked.”
“Yeah but I didn’t. I’m that boss at taunting.”
“You don’t have a warrior.”
“You know what I mean. Point is it worked.” Poland reaches forward and-did he just boop Prussia on the nose? “Worked on you.”
“I should hit you,” Prussia groans. “I should fucking hit you.”
“Yeah but you won’t ‘cause you’re a pally tonight. And I,” Poland says, straightening up as much as he can even when it looks like his chair wants to suck him back in, “am a way classy lady.”
And that, Prussia just has to laugh at that, laugh until he feels ready to collapse from it. “Lady my ass.”
“Hey, it’s a nice friggin’ ass.”
Prussia could argue the point if he really wanted to, he’s sure, but he’s just polished off the last of the sausages, and the beer’s flowing warm and thick through his blood, and fuck it, there are better things to do. Strains of other conversations still drift his way. Hard to avoid them, really; the evening crowd’s mostly cleared out by now but the nighttime crowd’s come to replace them. They’ve flooded the tables and now they’re leaning against the trees, laughing, getting in the way of the people trying to clear the little stage area for when the music starts up in earnest.
Young crowd tonight. It usually is on weekends, but for some reason Prussia’s really noticing it now. It’s the way they shove their hands into their back pockets and stand with their hips popped to the side, the way they cut each other off in rapid-fire German that Prussia can only make out about half of, the way they all whip out their phones every half-second and punch out messages at speeds that’d impress a whole lot of communications officers. Or would have, back when he actually had those.
Fuck, at least half of these kids were probably born after the wall fell.
“So are you turning into Spain now?”
“Huh?”
Poland slurps down the last of his beer. “These kids are like babies, dude.”
“Nah, I’m turning into France.” Prussia smirks. “If I was turning into Spain, they actually would be babies.”
“Okay, point.” Poland hops out of his chair and stretches. One of his straps slips down his shoulder, and Prussia wonders if he should say anything or if he should just nudge it back up himself. The hanging-loose-thing makes Poland look younger, too, like his shoulders are too small for this kind of dress. That and the light; the glow of the lanterns smudges out a lot of details, so if Poland does have wrinkles Prussia can’t see them.
A few guitar chords cut through the chatter, and Poland looks over his shoulder. Prussia looks, too; looks like the band’s taken the stage and is starting to warm up. “They get live music in here after twenty-two-hundred,” he explains. “That’s when the nightclub crowd moves in.”
“Yeah, ‘cause when I hear nightclub I totally think beer hall,” Poland says, but absently. He’s eyeing the crowd, how they’re pairing off and heading towards the cleared-off floor.
Prussia snorts. “Beer garden, not beer hall. Does this look like fucking Bavaria to you? You see any lederhosen? Is that an oompah band up there?”
“Nah.” Poland squints, whistles. “The bassist has wicked sexy shoes.”
“Better than yours?”
“Different sexy,” he says. “I mean, hello, shitkicker boots are totally rad on the right person, but with this dress? Clash central?” He waggles his foot in Prussia’s face to prove it, and great, now Prussia really can see up his skirt. Are those red panties? Prussia shakes his head, mostly to clear it. He’s drunker than he thinks he is, that must be it.
And just as abruptly as before, Poland plants his foot back down and pushes himself out of his chair. “I’m gonna dance.”
“You’re what?”
“Dance? Duh?” He stretches his arms over his head, sways his hips a little, and what do you know, that kind of sashay does kind of work with the slinky lines of the dress. “Seriously, I didn’t wax my legs not to show them off.”
“Thought you said you didn’t shake your little polygon ass for other people.”
“That was my polygon ass, hello? This is my real one.” He tosses his purse into Prussia’s lap. “Besides, I feel fucking fabulous, so you know what? I’m gonna feel fucking fabulous. And other people can see that or not, whatever. Point is? I am megawickedsexy in this dress.” He plants his hands on the table and leans in so his nose is almost touching Prussia’s, close enough that Prussia can smell the perfume or cologne or whatever the fuck he’s wearing, but it’s strong enough to make his head spin for a second when he breathes it in. “And I know it. That’s what matters.”
“I should’ve known Magda was you,” Prussia grumbles-well, he’d be grumbling if he wasn’t half-grinning. “Never met a bigger fucking tease in my life.”
“Not teasing,” Poland says. “It’s like-strategic positioning of assets, yeah?”
“Gotta know when to pull, huh?”
“Dude, you’re the tank, it’s your job to pull.”
“All right,” Prussia says, stands, and yanks Poland onto the dance floor. “Enough pull for you?”
“Oh my god what I don’t even,” Poland says, half-laughing, and stumbles against Prussia as he steers the two of them towards the knot of dancers starting to form. Prussia grabs his wrist to stop him from tripping and they pause there for a second, chests pressed together, Poland’s heel against Prussia’s instep. Poland’s shoulders shudder with laughter, and Prussia can feel the force of his breath behind that before he stops, swivels his wrist around in Prussia’s hand.
“So is this like-what kind of dance do you even do with your arms like this?”
“Beats me,” Prussia says, but he spins Poland around anyway, and Poland collapses into him again, snickering. “Your avatar’s a lot more graceful, you know.”
“No shit, I maxed the freak out of her agility and I am too graceful.”
Before he’s got time to say anything to that, Poland’s arms loop around his neck, pull him down, and Poland’s circling his hips into Prussia’s pelvis. He feels each slow roll, each sway, and he grabs Poland around the waist and grinds right back, grinning. “Not a mazurka,” he says, a little breathless, “but hey.”
“Oh whatever, you couldn’t mazurek for crap,” Poland retorts, pivots sharp on his heel and does a half-step out, his knee solidly between-oh.
“Could too.” The band ends their first song of the set and starts up something faster, pulsing, with a throbbing baseline and a sharp high melody. Prussia spins out so he’s behind Poland, frames his waist and sides when Poland steps forward and pulses his hips, leans back to catch him when Poland dips back, his hands in his hair. Shit, Prussia realizes as Poland spins to face him again, his hips keeping rhythm like a fucking metronome, he’s good at this.
“I picked it up,” Prussia continues, his mouth drying.
“Yeah, just like you picked up all of Mazowsze.” Poland casts him a sharp look over his shoulder, twines his arms over his head like he’s a genie or something. Well, if his hands are going to go high, Prussia’s are going to slip lower, slide down Poland’s sides and stop right above his hips.
“Have I hit Mazovia yet?” he asks.
Poland grinds against him, quick and sharp, and Prussia can’t tell if that’s encouragement or not but the heat pulsing out from the point where their hips clash says it is. The bridge kicks in, the grinding around them grows more frenetic, and Poland says, “No, but hang on, I wanna try something.”
“Huh?”
“Just catch me, okay?” And before Prussia can ask why or what the hell he’s doing, Poland slides his heel out, and the rest of his body bends back along that same line. He arches slightly so he looks suspended instead of locked into place, like something’s holding him up and just letting him brush the floor.
That something’s supposed to be Prussia. Shit. He tries to scoop his hand under the small of Poland’s back, but too late, Poland crashes to the floor, his heel twisting to the side.
“Jesus frickin’ christ!” Poland says, glaring up at him. “You were supposed to hold me up so I could do the dippy thing and then I’d spin around and do it on the other foot and it would have looked really cool but no. Guess it’s too much to inject some style into things around here, jeez…”
Only one thing to do, then. “Need help?” Prussia asks, extends his hand. Some of the kids have stopped writhing to the music, or at least they’re craning their necks over their partners’ shoulders, shuffling and swaying over to get a better look. The band never breaks time, though, Austria’d be proud.
“I can get up on my own, dude-”
“Trust me,” he says. “Take my hand.”
Poland does, and Prussia doesn’t pull Poland to his feet but spins him up to standing, whirls him around and around as the guitar wails and stops when the solo cuts off. And this time when Poland wobbles, Prussia’s there to take him back and turn that into a dip, a real one, with Poland’s arms around his neck and his leg in the air, toes pointed. He’s pretty sure he hears applause break out behind and around him, and he absorbs that for a while, lets all the sound sink in: the pound of the drums, the throb of the bass, the whine of the guitars, the laughter, even the wheezy little breaths Poland’s drawing in.
“Learned that one from Spain,” he says, and grins.
“Not bad,” Poland says, and tucks his leg in, slides it oh-so-slow down Prussia’s chest. “So, like, what other moves have you got?”
“Plenty,” Prussia says, and jerks Poland back to his feet, sends Poland spiraling back into him.
Their lips clash together somewhere along the way, and Poland’s tongue grinds and pulses just like his hips do, slips past Prussia’s teeth like his fingers slip under the sleeves of Prussia’s T-shirt. When Prussia kisses back, it’s with his whole body, teeth and lips and tongue and hips and arms and legs. The baseline pounds through Poland’s spine, and he crushes Poland tighter against him to feel that, to pull all that sound-turned-motion into himself.
They break the kiss eventually, when Prussia starts to dizzy. There’s a thick rich taste in the back of his throat; he doesn’t know if it’s from all the lager or from Poland’s perfume-cologne-thing or what.
“Definitely not bad,” Poland breathes. “Wow, you’ve almost gotten good at this.”
“Practice makes perfect,” Prussia says, and kisses him again.
***
“How the heck were you gonna explain the whole basement thing-hey, quit it, that tickles-to me?”
“Hey, Germany’s the strategist.” Prussia elbows the basement door open and yanks Poland inside; he’s holding his shoes over his shoulder by the straps, and Prussia thinks he hears one of them tumble down the stairs. “I’m the tactician. I’d’ve thought of something.”
“Then shoot,” Poland says, pitches his voice even higher. “Oh my god, Prussia! Why are we heading into this totally grody basement when you’ve got bedrooms and stuff upstairs?”
…good question. Well, the answer is that Germany’d probably have a coronary if he found out Prussia was banging girls in his bed, and that’s not something you pull on your brother. And Germany has sex in that bed, too, so-it’s just weird. Too weird. But he wouldn’t have told Magda that. “All my stuff’s down here. You were going to help me rig up my sound system, remember?”
“Oh! Yeah.” Poland gnaws on his lip. “I thought that was just a lame pickup line or something. So do you still like need help with that?”
“Nah, we can wait.” Their noses touch, and he can’t say how, but he’s pretty sure he feels Poland grin in the dark. “Holy shit, did we just roleplay?”
“Frickin’ Silvermoon, right?” Poland laughs, and Prussia doesn’t have time to respond, because Poland’s mouth is on his again, hungry and hot and urgent. It’s all he can do not to tumble down the stairs; he keeps his back plastered to the wall so that’s less of a danger, snarls his fingers in Poland’s hair to anchor him, too. Poland’s still laughing into the kiss, snickering into Prussia’s tongue.
“What’s so funny?” he asks, pulling away.
Poland busses Prussia’s chin with the top of his head. “It’s funny ‘cause you taste like lager.”
“Whoa whoa whoa hey,” Prussia says, almost sobering up. “We’ve got a rule here, okay? Zone rule. You do not speak ill of lager in Berlin, or you will be banned from life.”
“Don’t you mean banned for life?”
“No. Told you we take lager seriously.”
“Żubrówka’s still the best!” Poland shouts, and scampers down the stairs before Prussia can peel himself away from the wall and chase that little bastard down. They collide at the foot of the stairs and start kissing again-Poland half-seats himself on the banister so his toes skim the steps, and Prussia’s got one hand on the rail and one hand on Poland’s thigh, both squeezing.
“Take it back,” Prussia says, skates his fingers up higher.
“Get it back,” Poland counters, stretches his arms out on the banister and balances on the ball of his foot and hooks a leg around Prussia’s back, draws him in. His straps are slipping again and Prussia decides to make that problem worse instead of better, pushes them as far down Poland’s arms as they’ll go.
“Dude,” Poland says, “do you seriously know how to take off a dress? Like-ah-like at all?” He’s squirming now, like he’s trying to show Prussia how to do it, but Prussia likes the way he squirms so he pins Poland there with his hips, rubs them together. Poland’s dress scrapes over Prussia’s jeans; it’s like cloth tearing but not quite, it’s more like a zip than a scratch. The scratching is Poland’s toenails-he worms his foot under Prussia’s shirt and starts scratch-tickling the small of his back, sneaky little rubs like the ones he does with his tongue.
“Now who’s tickling who?” Prussia asks, pries Poland off the banister before he can answer and carts him off to the pull-out couch. Means to do that, anyway, but Poland locks his knees around Prussia tight and squeezes and they both topple over-Prussia’s back hits the carpet and Poland’s already scrambling around on top of him, swirling his tongue in Prussia’s ear and those wet sucking sounds are fucking sinful. “Oh fuck,” Prussia says, slides his hands up and down Poland’s legs; they feel even slipperier than his dress, shaved smooth and coated with sweat, and Prussia bets they aren’t even the slickest part of him right now.
There’s spit on Poland’s lips when he pulls away and screw lipstick and lipgloss and all that shit, Poland’s lips just need to look like that, that shade, that kind of swollen. Prussia kisses him harder fiercer faster until he’s sure the neighbors can hear the slick sounds their mouths are making. Hell, let them listen in, not like he has to worry about getting sanctioned or reprimanded if he’s too loud. With that thought, he nips Poland’s lip, and Poland moans, “Oh jeez you don’t have to gnaw my freaking face off,” but he’s bucking against Prussia just as hard as Prussia’s bucking against him.
“Bite attack,” Prussia says-and Poland shoves his knee between Prussia’s thighs.
“Okay one you don’t even have a druid and two busting out fricking gaming metaphors during sexytalk is like an instant bonerkill and if you kill my boner right now I swear I am going to kill you.”
“So I won’t kill it,” he says, and slides his fingers under the elastic of Poland’s panties, spreads them.
“Yeah god that’s better yeah-wait!”
“Huh?”
“My knees are gonna get rug burn.”
Prussia lets his head sink into the carpet, doesn’t even try to stifle the groan. “Oh, come on, you used to wear plate mail and you’re complaining about rug burn-”
“I didn’t pair plate mail with little red dresses, okay?” Poland yanks on Prussia’s shirt. “Seriously, you have a bed. Couch. Thing. Japan calls them like futons or something? Anyway. That.”
Untangling himself from Poland takes a lot more time than Prussia’s willing to spend, so the two of them heave themselves onto the bed, legs and arms still mostly entwined. Prussia presses kisses to the parts of Poland he can actually reach, the little squirmer: his nose, his cheeks, his hair, his neck. And hell, Poland might grumble way to aim or something like that, but it feels more like a moan, and the words all have the same kind of slow buzz when Prussia finally finds his mouth, anyway.
“Can’t think of anything-ah-anything better for your mouth to be doing, huh?” Prussia gasps.
“Dunno,” Poland replies, nips Prussia’s ear and neck and collarbone and pushes up his shirt so he can trail the bites even lower, lick a line right down the center of Prussia’s chest and yeah, that’s more like it, even if Poland’s still finding the time to talk in the middle of everything else. “I mean, I guess you probably like this better ‘cause, mm, you’ve always been way into biting-”
He digs his teeth into the skin right above Prussia’s hipbone, twists, and Prussia shouts, “Oh fuck yes-”
“But maybe,” Poland continues, licks that sore spot and lets the words and their heat soak right into Prussia’s skin, “I want to climb up on top and ride you ‘til you can’t see straight.”
-well, those words shoot straight to Prussia’s cock. The ache hits hot and fast enough that he doesn’t breathe for a few seconds, just groans. Whatever Poland does, it had better involve getting him out of these jeans, because he’s already swelling hard enough that the fabric scrapes him every time he shifts his hips, and he’s doing a lot of that. “Fuck,” he says, gritting his teeth.
“Or I could like suck you off and screw you into the bed, I guess you’d be all over that too,” Poland says lightly, like he’s trying to pick out what skirt to wear. He nuzzles Prussia right over his groin and lifts his head before Prussia can shove his head back down there, and Prussia swears his grin gleams. “So whatcha say?”
“Slick your ass up and ride me,” Prussia manages to get out, somehow. “Fucking little minx,” he tries to add, but can’t keep the laughter threaded out of it.
“Yeah, you like it.” Looks like Poland’s found the lube; there’s not a whole lot of light down here, but he doesn’t need it to hear the slick twisting sounds of Poland’s fingers, the even slicker slap of skin against skin. “Seriously, when’s the last time you got to, like, take a fair maiden back to your lair?”
“Thought you said no WoW talk in bed,” Prussia says, steadies his hand on Poland’s thigh.
“Dude, I can say whatever the frick I want. I’m holding your cock.”
He is. Oh god. Prussia’s hips strain up, and the rest of him follows when Poland drags his hand down Prussia’s shaft, slicking it. “See what I mean?” Poland asks, and fuck, Prussia just wants to grab him and seat him where he’s needed, bury himself in all that sweet tight heat Poland’s unlocking.
“Gotta say, though,” Poland continues, and now Prussia can feel the heat threaded in his voice, the raw lines his nails leave on Prussia’s chest, “this beats the hell out of-ah.”
“Yeah,” Prussia breathes, and once Poland sinks onto him, takes him in and tightens and releases in tiny shudders that send shivers coursing through him everywhere-well, how the fuck else should you spend a Friday night?
***
“-sia? Prussia?”
Well, that’s not Poland.
Prussia cracks an eye open; Germany’s hovering over his bed, dishtowel in hand, and he’s wringing it over Prussia’s sheets. Shit. Prussia scrambles up to sitting and looks around for Poland, but the bed’s empty.
Also, the light filtering in through the window hurts like hell.
“Morning to you, too,” he mumbles, shields his eyes as best he can.
“It is already twelve. I thought you would not wish to miss any more of the day.”
“Day’s overrated.” Prussia stretches, yawning. Doesn’t do much to relieve the soreness, but it still feels good. Man. When Poland says he’s going to ride you until you can’t see straight, he’s not kidding. There are still spots swimming in front of Prussia’s eyes, no matter how many times he tries to blink them away.
Where the hell is Poland?
“Prussia?”
“Uh-huh?”
Germany hesitates. “Why is Poland making pierogi in our kitchen?”
So that’s where he went. “Why is Poland ever making pierogi in anyone’s kitchen?”
“I see.” Germany’s still fidgeting with the dish towel. “How was your meeting last night?”
“With Magda?” Prussia’s officially too hung over to think of how the hell to summarize the answer to that one, so he just says, “She’s a rare drop.”
“Ah.” The crease between Germany’s brows deepens. “I will inform you when the pierogi are ready.”
“Thanks, Germany. You’re a bro.” Prussia settles back down into the pillows, ready to drift off for a few more minutes-oh. Wait. “Hey, Germany?”
“Yes?”
Prussia grins. “Quest completed.”
Well, that’s a quick way to get Germany out of the basement. Prussia’ll have to remember that one.
Not bad, he decides. Not bad at all.
---
Prussia and Poland fought a lot back when Prussia was still the Teutonic Knights. All comparisons of Grand Master Albrecht to Kael'thas Sunstrider are entirely facetious and should not be taken seriously.
Żubrówka is a type of Polish vodka. It’s very good.
Prussia’s main alt, by the way, is a blood elf Retribution paladin named Fritz. He never heals anyone. Ever. He’s very excited for Cataclysm, because then he can roll up a Tauren pally and he won’t have to be a fuckin’ elf or, god forbid, play Alliance.
.
To be fair, though, if you put Poland and Prussia in a room (or a beer garden) together, they will not shut up. This one was just fun to write, and if you thought I couldn't get any nerdier after the Shakespeare fic...well. Read on.
Apparently I really like writing things that are a funnysexy blend, of late. This must come as a shock to all of you.
Title: Blind Date
Author: puella_nerdii
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters/Pairing: Prussia/Poland, with bonus Germany.
Rating: R, for basement lovin', awful puns, Prussia's mouth in general, and more than your recommended daily allowance of World of Warcraft jokes.
Summary: Prussia can't wait to finally meet the girl he's been gaming with online. Too bad he forgot to check for traps first.
Notes: Written for saying_yes_2010, for a prompt asking for Prussia and "that girl he met on World of Warcraft who wasn't a girl after all."
Would it kill Germany to cut down on the scowling?
“Her name’s Magda,” Prussia says for the tenth time that day. Technically it’s Magda Brykblask or something like that; he can never keep all the consonants straight. “She’s a level 65 blood elf mage. Well, most of the time she is, anyway, she rolled up a blood elf death knight a while back after we got Wrath of the Lich King and we’re gonna do some serious level-grinding with her on our next raid and I think she’s got another alt who hit 70 but she never uses that one-”
“Prussia,” Germany says in his the-vein-in-my-forehead-is-about-to-burst voice, “who is she?”
“She’s a Polish chick I met on WoW. Calls herself Magda. Calls her blood elf mage Magda, anyway, so that’s how I remember her.”
“You have not learned her real name?” Germany asks, and wow, even the veins under his wrists are starting to shudder. Hypertension can be a real bitch, huh.
“Well it’s not like I told her mine, either.” He folds his arms. If Germany wants to play the priss game, Prussia can play right the hell along with him.
“Prussia, this venture is ill-advised at best-”
“-and downright fuckheaded at worst, yeah, I know, West.” He claps his hand on Germany’s shoulder, squeezes it the way he used to when Germany was just a little brat with his nose stuck in a book all the time. “Look, she’s in Berlin for the weekend, so we’re gonna meet up, hit up a bar, maybe go clubbing or something, come back, I’ll show her how to work my joystick-”
“Brother!”
“What?” says Prussia, blinking. Man, that was loud. “My 360 controller’s custom. It takes a little getting used to if you want to use it right.”
“Oh.” At least he looks chastened now. Then again, he looks chastened most of the time. “I apologize.”
“Accepted.” He grins. “And then I’m gonna fuck her brains out.”
Germany groans.
Prussia spreads his hands wide. “What? Hot Polish chick. In town for the weekend. Looking for a good time. What would you do? Plus she’s a weapon of fucking mass destruction when you take her to Warsong Gulch, there was this one time I dropped the flag ‘cause I had to kill this one guy and I was going shit, this is the end but she timed this Dragon’s Breath fucking perfect-”
“I would exercise caution,” Germany says, tries to get his voice louder than Prussia’s, “especially as you intend to bring her home-”
“Oh right,” Prussia says, snaps his fingers. “About that. You mind clearing out for the night? Crash at Italy’s or Austria’s or something? It’s gonna get loud in here.”
-huh, he can’t remember the last time the muscles in Germany’s cheek twitched that hard.
“Well it is. She’s going to help me rig up the sound system I got off eBay. Don’t worry,” he says before Germany can lecture him about deficit spending and balancing the household budget and all that crap, “I used Austria’s credit card, not yours.”
Germany groans again.
“Best little bro,” he says, and gives Germany a good whack on the back for old time’s sake. “Besides, Polish girls are screamers, and I wouldn’t want you to wake up in the middle of the night, would I? Nah, you need your rest, you’re all tired and shit lately.” He beams as broadly as he can, and Germany just kind of collapses into the couch and sinks down, which proves Prussia right, doesn’t it? “Catch you on the flip side.”
“Prussia-” Germany starts, but Prussia’s already snapping him a little salute, snatching his scarf off the coat rack, and practically marching out the door. Hell, he could start whistling to himself, the world just feels that right right now. This weekend’s gonna be a more legendary ride than the Black Qiraji Battle Tank.
Well, technically the Black Qiraji Battle Tank’s a legendary mount, but Prussia’s pretty sure there’s going to be some legendary mounting going on this weekend, too.
***
The beer garden is fucking overcrowded as it ever is in the summer, and the tourists are thicker than locusts, but one of the great things about waving around Germany’s name (and Austria’s credit card) is that you get to cut any lines you want, no questions asked, right this way sir. Prussia stakes out a table right under a cluster of hanging lanterns, snatches up as many sausages as he can carry at the self-serve queue, wonders if he should try to scrounge up a salad for Magda or something but nah, she’s Polish, she can deal. This is almost classy, Prussia decides, cracks open his Heineken and doesn’t put his feet up on the table. Way better than the taverns in fucking Silvermoon.
Man, how long’s it been since he last went on a date, anyway? Sure, he and Hungary used to sneak off to bars after curfew when they could get away with it, but the damn things kept closing down or shifting location. It’s not like he could lounge around outside like this, couldn’t ever camp out under trees in the summer and just enjoy good music and good beer and good food. Or, heh, check out the sights. He wonders if the blonde girl in that little blue number is Magda. Not like she’s wearing a nametag or anything, but maybe if he got a closer look?
“Hey there,” he says, and gives her his best smile. “Tired of raiding solo?”
-well, someone just put up an Ice Barrier. And looks like Prussia might’ve caught some boyfriend aggro, too. Crap. Back to the table, the sausages are probably getting cold.
And hey, looks like one of the staff here’s escorting someone to his table, too. A someone with fantastic legs. Prussia grins triumphantly. And you thought she’d be a fuckin’ orc or something, Osterreich. Well, shows how much he knows about courting ladies, and Hungary doesn’t count, Prussia’s pretty sure she courted him, and by courted he means.
“Hey there,” Prussia says, and holds out a Heineken. “Heard about a great new quest opening up. Wanna check it out?”
“Oh. My. Fucking. Gawd. No. Way.”
And that would be Poland in the slinky red dress, lifting himself out of his chair just enough so he can plop down in it again, gaping at Prussia all the while.
Prussia sits down, too. Hard. He misses the chair.
Of course that makes Poland double over gasping. It’s not even laughing, he can’t seem to get in enough air for that. He keeps mouthing what Prussia is pretty sure is oh my god over and over again, though, which makes Prussia feel just fucking great.
“You’re Magda?” he finally says, and that came out whinier than he meant it to.
Poland’s almost curled up into a ball now, wheezing, and Prussia isn’t sure if he should ask someone for an inhaler or what. He straightens just enough to wipe the tears from his eyes, and says, “Oh my god this is like seriously too much oh my god wait until Liet hears about this-”
“Hears about what?” Prussia snaps. It’s enough to get him to his feet again. “I was lured here under false pretenses-you know, this is just like how you used to try to trick my Grand Masters into paying homage to you when they visited-”
“Oh puh-leeze.” Poland rolls his eyes. “That was so not a trap, you were my lawful frickin’ vassal, and anyway, who the freak did you think you were gonna meet?”
“A hot Polish chick! Magda! Or-well, actually, no, I never asked you what your name was, but I was going to get around to that!”
Poland’s look could peel paint. “Uh, hello? Since when did I ever say I was a girl?”
Prussia opens his mouth, then closes it. Then opens it again. “For fuck’s sake, your armor barely covered your ass, it was hot pink, and your last name meant “Sparklepony” or some shit like that, what the fuck was I supposed to think you were?”
“Dude, like none of the girl characters on WoW are actually girls.” Poland crosses his arms, blows a stray strand of hair out of his face. “I mean, jeez, who do you think they made the little dance command for, anyway?”
“I liked it when you made Magda Brykblask dance,” Prussia mumbles.
“No duh you did. She grinds her ass like Britney Spears.” Poland’s mostly uncurled now; he scoots around sideways in his chair and dangles his legs over its arm, and Prussia tries to be a gentleman and not look up his skirt. Not that he wants to look up Poland’s skirt, but it’s the principle of the thing. “She’s got a nice ass, too,” he continues, which isn’t helping. “For like a whole bunch of polygons and junk. So I figure, hey, why not shake what Blizzard gave ya?”
“‘Cause you trick people into thinking stuff about you, that’s why.”
“Oh grow up already. It’s not like I was shaking my little polygon ass for you. Which is, bee-tee-dubs, why most of the blood elf girls you try to get to ‘buff your sword’ or whatever?” Poland actually does the air-quotes, too, and flicks his fingers to the side like he’s trying to fling muck off them. “Are actually dudes. ‘Cause they’re not shaking their butts to get you to go ‘ooh-la-la,’ they’re shaking their butts ‘cause they like looking at the butt-shaking animation. Dig?”
Prussia knows that smirk of Poland’s all too well; it’d be simpering if Poland’s eyes didn’t spark so much. He thinks of it as the “Lithuania’s right behind you” smirk-he checks over his shoulder to make sure Lithuania isn’t actually right there. You know, just in case. “You could have said who you really were.”
“And you could have said who you really were.” Poland checks his nails, winces. “I mean, jeez, maybe I never let you on about the whole not-actually-a-girl thing, but you never let me on about the whole not-actually-a-multimillionaire-underwear-model-corporate-jetsetter thing. Look at the big picture, will you?”
Prussia can’t decide if the beer in his hand is uncomfortably warm or uncomfortably cool. “I thought I only implied the multimillionaire part.”
“Yeah, if like oh-so-subtly bragging about your private jet and junk is implying. I mean, hello, I didn’t think I was going to meet some nerd who still lived in his brother’s basement.”
The beer sours in his mouth, and it’s all Prussia can do not to spit it out and fling the bottle to the ground, but he’s been brought up better than to waste beer. He swallows, glares. “It’s not a still thing.”
Poland fidgets around; his stilettos are dangling off his toes, the rhinestones sparkling, and the way he keeps jiggling his feet makes Prussia wonder when they’re going to fall off. “Yeah, whatever,” he says. “Hand me my purse, okay? My lipstick’s probably all smudged by now.”
Prussia chucks it at him, wordlessly.
“Well someone’s got their man-panties in a twist.” Poland’s eyeing him over one of those little makeup mirrors, his lips pursed in a soft o. He smacks them together, spreads the color around, licks his finger to wipe off the excess; his tongue’s just a few shades lighter than the lipstick is, and Prussia can’t tell for the life of him why he cares. “You gonna eat the rest of those sausages or what? I’m frickin’ famished. They seriously do not feed you on the train.”
“You’ll smear your lipstick,” he says.
“Oh frick, I should’ve waited,” Poland says, smacking his forehead. “Ow. Whatever. They’re German sausages, they can’t be that good anyway.”
“Way better than the Polish kind,” Prussia counters.
“Uh, no? My sausage is the best sausage ever?”
The opening’s just too good. Prussia looks at Poland’s crotch, or whatever he can see of it under the skirt. “What sausage?”
“Ew, dude.” Poland wrinkles his nose. “You’re acting like America, I swear, next thing you’ll be all like ha ha you said sausage-”
“Will not. Besides, my beer’s better than his.”
“Okay, yeah, fine.” He rolls his eyes again, but he’s smiling a little. “Wanna get me another one?”
Prussia snorts. “What makes you think I’m buying you beer?”
Poland leans forward, and if he actually had cleavage it’d be peeking out of his dress now. “‘Cause if I know you, Austria’s paying. And if I know us, we both think the look on Austria’s face when he sees his credit statement? Will be frickin’ hilarious.”
Aw, hell. “To Austria,” Prussia says, and signals one of the waiters for another round.
“To Austria. Man, I seriously cannot remember the last time I even thought about having a drink in his honor.” Poland snaps the cap of his lipstick back on, pops it off again, snaps it back on, pop-snap, pop-snap. “We drink to some freaky shit these days, huh?”
“Eh.” Prussia shrugs. “Is drinking to Austria’s health any weirder than drinking to the downfall of Kael’thas Sunstrider or the health of Sigisimund?”
“Hey, Siggy wasn’t so bad,” Poland shoots back. “And it’s not like he completely switched allegiances and heel-face-turned on his own people and followers, hello Albert.”
“Hang on, did you just compare Duke Albrecht to Kael’thas Sunstrider?” Prussia frowns. “Because wouldn’t that make you guys the Burning Legion?”
“No, that makes Martin frickin’ Luther and the Protestants the Burning Legion, hello? His sinister new allies?”
And watching Poland toss his hair back and flip his foot up so quick that his shoe goes flying halfway across the lawn and skitters to a halt at the foot of one of the grills-well, Prussia has to laugh. “This is really dumb.”
“Yeah, it kinda is,” Poland agrees. The waiter set down the second round of Heinekens a while back, and he cracks his open. “Plus I totally lost my shoe.”
Prussia cocks an eyebrow. He’s gotten good at doing that over the years. “You want me to go get it?”
“Dunno, how much of a pally are you being tonight?”
“I’m paying, aren’t I? That’s pretty pally.”
“Shyeah, with Austria’s money.”
“You mind?”
“Pff.” Poland blows a raspberry. “Like I ever do.”
***
“-so you were trying to pull aggro then?”
“No shit!” Poland snorts; his throat does this funny jumping thing like he’s trying to swallow a hiccup. “Grunwald gambit. I fake like I’m a squishy and pull aggro so the mob gets way DPSed from behind. Doesn’t even see it coming if I do it right, and I totally did, so there you go.”
“But you are a squishy.” Wait, there’s something wrong about that. Prussia wrinkles his forehead. “Were a squishy. Then, I mean. Could’ve gotten your ass kicked.”
“Yeah but I didn’t. I’m that boss at taunting.”
“You don’t have a warrior.”
“You know what I mean. Point is it worked.” Poland reaches forward and-did he just boop Prussia on the nose? “Worked on you.”
“I should hit you,” Prussia groans. “I should fucking hit you.”
“Yeah but you won’t ‘cause you’re a pally tonight. And I,” Poland says, straightening up as much as he can even when it looks like his chair wants to suck him back in, “am a way classy lady.”
And that, Prussia just has to laugh at that, laugh until he feels ready to collapse from it. “Lady my ass.”
“Hey, it’s a nice friggin’ ass.”
Prussia could argue the point if he really wanted to, he’s sure, but he’s just polished off the last of the sausages, and the beer’s flowing warm and thick through his blood, and fuck it, there are better things to do. Strains of other conversations still drift his way. Hard to avoid them, really; the evening crowd’s mostly cleared out by now but the nighttime crowd’s come to replace them. They’ve flooded the tables and now they’re leaning against the trees, laughing, getting in the way of the people trying to clear the little stage area for when the music starts up in earnest.
Young crowd tonight. It usually is on weekends, but for some reason Prussia’s really noticing it now. It’s the way they shove their hands into their back pockets and stand with their hips popped to the side, the way they cut each other off in rapid-fire German that Prussia can only make out about half of, the way they all whip out their phones every half-second and punch out messages at speeds that’d impress a whole lot of communications officers. Or would have, back when he actually had those.
Fuck, at least half of these kids were probably born after the wall fell.
“So are you turning into Spain now?”
“Huh?”
Poland slurps down the last of his beer. “These kids are like babies, dude.”
“Nah, I’m turning into France.” Prussia smirks. “If I was turning into Spain, they actually would be babies.”
“Okay, point.” Poland hops out of his chair and stretches. One of his straps slips down his shoulder, and Prussia wonders if he should say anything or if he should just nudge it back up himself. The hanging-loose-thing makes Poland look younger, too, like his shoulders are too small for this kind of dress. That and the light; the glow of the lanterns smudges out a lot of details, so if Poland does have wrinkles Prussia can’t see them.
A few guitar chords cut through the chatter, and Poland looks over his shoulder. Prussia looks, too; looks like the band’s taken the stage and is starting to warm up. “They get live music in here after twenty-two-hundred,” he explains. “That’s when the nightclub crowd moves in.”
“Yeah, ‘cause when I hear nightclub I totally think beer hall,” Poland says, but absently. He’s eyeing the crowd, how they’re pairing off and heading towards the cleared-off floor.
Prussia snorts. “Beer garden, not beer hall. Does this look like fucking Bavaria to you? You see any lederhosen? Is that an oompah band up there?”
“Nah.” Poland squints, whistles. “The bassist has wicked sexy shoes.”
“Better than yours?”
“Different sexy,” he says. “I mean, hello, shitkicker boots are totally rad on the right person, but with this dress? Clash central?” He waggles his foot in Prussia’s face to prove it, and great, now Prussia really can see up his skirt. Are those red panties? Prussia shakes his head, mostly to clear it. He’s drunker than he thinks he is, that must be it.
And just as abruptly as before, Poland plants his foot back down and pushes himself out of his chair. “I’m gonna dance.”
“You’re what?”
“Dance? Duh?” He stretches his arms over his head, sways his hips a little, and what do you know, that kind of sashay does kind of work with the slinky lines of the dress. “Seriously, I didn’t wax my legs not to show them off.”
“Thought you said you didn’t shake your little polygon ass for other people.”
“That was my polygon ass, hello? This is my real one.” He tosses his purse into Prussia’s lap. “Besides, I feel fucking fabulous, so you know what? I’m gonna feel fucking fabulous. And other people can see that or not, whatever. Point is? I am megawickedsexy in this dress.” He plants his hands on the table and leans in so his nose is almost touching Prussia’s, close enough that Prussia can smell the perfume or cologne or whatever the fuck he’s wearing, but it’s strong enough to make his head spin for a second when he breathes it in. “And I know it. That’s what matters.”
“I should’ve known Magda was you,” Prussia grumbles-well, he’d be grumbling if he wasn’t half-grinning. “Never met a bigger fucking tease in my life.”
“Not teasing,” Poland says. “It’s like-strategic positioning of assets, yeah?”
“Gotta know when to pull, huh?”
“Dude, you’re the tank, it’s your job to pull.”
“All right,” Prussia says, stands, and yanks Poland onto the dance floor. “Enough pull for you?”
“Oh my god what I don’t even,” Poland says, half-laughing, and stumbles against Prussia as he steers the two of them towards the knot of dancers starting to form. Prussia grabs his wrist to stop him from tripping and they pause there for a second, chests pressed together, Poland’s heel against Prussia’s instep. Poland’s shoulders shudder with laughter, and Prussia can feel the force of his breath behind that before he stops, swivels his wrist around in Prussia’s hand.
“So is this like-what kind of dance do you even do with your arms like this?”
“Beats me,” Prussia says, but he spins Poland around anyway, and Poland collapses into him again, snickering. “Your avatar’s a lot more graceful, you know.”
“No shit, I maxed the freak out of her agility and I am too graceful.”
Before he’s got time to say anything to that, Poland’s arms loop around his neck, pull him down, and Poland’s circling his hips into Prussia’s pelvis. He feels each slow roll, each sway, and he grabs Poland around the waist and grinds right back, grinning. “Not a mazurka,” he says, a little breathless, “but hey.”
“Oh whatever, you couldn’t mazurek for crap,” Poland retorts, pivots sharp on his heel and does a half-step out, his knee solidly between-oh.
“Could too.” The band ends their first song of the set and starts up something faster, pulsing, with a throbbing baseline and a sharp high melody. Prussia spins out so he’s behind Poland, frames his waist and sides when Poland steps forward and pulses his hips, leans back to catch him when Poland dips back, his hands in his hair. Shit, Prussia realizes as Poland spins to face him again, his hips keeping rhythm like a fucking metronome, he’s good at this.
“I picked it up,” Prussia continues, his mouth drying.
“Yeah, just like you picked up all of Mazowsze.” Poland casts him a sharp look over his shoulder, twines his arms over his head like he’s a genie or something. Well, if his hands are going to go high, Prussia’s are going to slip lower, slide down Poland’s sides and stop right above his hips.
“Have I hit Mazovia yet?” he asks.
Poland grinds against him, quick and sharp, and Prussia can’t tell if that’s encouragement or not but the heat pulsing out from the point where their hips clash says it is. The bridge kicks in, the grinding around them grows more frenetic, and Poland says, “No, but hang on, I wanna try something.”
“Huh?”
“Just catch me, okay?” And before Prussia can ask why or what the hell he’s doing, Poland slides his heel out, and the rest of his body bends back along that same line. He arches slightly so he looks suspended instead of locked into place, like something’s holding him up and just letting him brush the floor.
That something’s supposed to be Prussia. Shit. He tries to scoop his hand under the small of Poland’s back, but too late, Poland crashes to the floor, his heel twisting to the side.
“Jesus frickin’ christ!” Poland says, glaring up at him. “You were supposed to hold me up so I could do the dippy thing and then I’d spin around and do it on the other foot and it would have looked really cool but no. Guess it’s too much to inject some style into things around here, jeez…”
Only one thing to do, then. “Need help?” Prussia asks, extends his hand. Some of the kids have stopped writhing to the music, or at least they’re craning their necks over their partners’ shoulders, shuffling and swaying over to get a better look. The band never breaks time, though, Austria’d be proud.
“I can get up on my own, dude-”
“Trust me,” he says. “Take my hand.”
Poland does, and Prussia doesn’t pull Poland to his feet but spins him up to standing, whirls him around and around as the guitar wails and stops when the solo cuts off. And this time when Poland wobbles, Prussia’s there to take him back and turn that into a dip, a real one, with Poland’s arms around his neck and his leg in the air, toes pointed. He’s pretty sure he hears applause break out behind and around him, and he absorbs that for a while, lets all the sound sink in: the pound of the drums, the throb of the bass, the whine of the guitars, the laughter, even the wheezy little breaths Poland’s drawing in.
“Learned that one from Spain,” he says, and grins.
“Not bad,” Poland says, and tucks his leg in, slides it oh-so-slow down Prussia’s chest. “So, like, what other moves have you got?”
“Plenty,” Prussia says, and jerks Poland back to his feet, sends Poland spiraling back into him.
Their lips clash together somewhere along the way, and Poland’s tongue grinds and pulses just like his hips do, slips past Prussia’s teeth like his fingers slip under the sleeves of Prussia’s T-shirt. When Prussia kisses back, it’s with his whole body, teeth and lips and tongue and hips and arms and legs. The baseline pounds through Poland’s spine, and he crushes Poland tighter against him to feel that, to pull all that sound-turned-motion into himself.
They break the kiss eventually, when Prussia starts to dizzy. There’s a thick rich taste in the back of his throat; he doesn’t know if it’s from all the lager or from Poland’s perfume-cologne-thing or what.
“Definitely not bad,” Poland breathes. “Wow, you’ve almost gotten good at this.”
“Practice makes perfect,” Prussia says, and kisses him again.
***
“How the heck were you gonna explain the whole basement thing-hey, quit it, that tickles-to me?”
“Hey, Germany’s the strategist.” Prussia elbows the basement door open and yanks Poland inside; he’s holding his shoes over his shoulder by the straps, and Prussia thinks he hears one of them tumble down the stairs. “I’m the tactician. I’d’ve thought of something.”
“Then shoot,” Poland says, pitches his voice even higher. “Oh my god, Prussia! Why are we heading into this totally grody basement when you’ve got bedrooms and stuff upstairs?”
…good question. Well, the answer is that Germany’d probably have a coronary if he found out Prussia was banging girls in his bed, and that’s not something you pull on your brother. And Germany has sex in that bed, too, so-it’s just weird. Too weird. But he wouldn’t have told Magda that. “All my stuff’s down here. You were going to help me rig up my sound system, remember?”
“Oh! Yeah.” Poland gnaws on his lip. “I thought that was just a lame pickup line or something. So do you still like need help with that?”
“Nah, we can wait.” Their noses touch, and he can’t say how, but he’s pretty sure he feels Poland grin in the dark. “Holy shit, did we just roleplay?”
“Frickin’ Silvermoon, right?” Poland laughs, and Prussia doesn’t have time to respond, because Poland’s mouth is on his again, hungry and hot and urgent. It’s all he can do not to tumble down the stairs; he keeps his back plastered to the wall so that’s less of a danger, snarls his fingers in Poland’s hair to anchor him, too. Poland’s still laughing into the kiss, snickering into Prussia’s tongue.
“What’s so funny?” he asks, pulling away.
Poland busses Prussia’s chin with the top of his head. “It’s funny ‘cause you taste like lager.”
“Whoa whoa whoa hey,” Prussia says, almost sobering up. “We’ve got a rule here, okay? Zone rule. You do not speak ill of lager in Berlin, or you will be banned from life.”
“Don’t you mean banned for life?”
“No. Told you we take lager seriously.”
“Żubrówka’s still the best!” Poland shouts, and scampers down the stairs before Prussia can peel himself away from the wall and chase that little bastard down. They collide at the foot of the stairs and start kissing again-Poland half-seats himself on the banister so his toes skim the steps, and Prussia’s got one hand on the rail and one hand on Poland’s thigh, both squeezing.
“Take it back,” Prussia says, skates his fingers up higher.
“Get it back,” Poland counters, stretches his arms out on the banister and balances on the ball of his foot and hooks a leg around Prussia’s back, draws him in. His straps are slipping again and Prussia decides to make that problem worse instead of better, pushes them as far down Poland’s arms as they’ll go.
“Dude,” Poland says, “do you seriously know how to take off a dress? Like-ah-like at all?” He’s squirming now, like he’s trying to show Prussia how to do it, but Prussia likes the way he squirms so he pins Poland there with his hips, rubs them together. Poland’s dress scrapes over Prussia’s jeans; it’s like cloth tearing but not quite, it’s more like a zip than a scratch. The scratching is Poland’s toenails-he worms his foot under Prussia’s shirt and starts scratch-tickling the small of his back, sneaky little rubs like the ones he does with his tongue.
“Now who’s tickling who?” Prussia asks, pries Poland off the banister before he can answer and carts him off to the pull-out couch. Means to do that, anyway, but Poland locks his knees around Prussia tight and squeezes and they both topple over-Prussia’s back hits the carpet and Poland’s already scrambling around on top of him, swirling his tongue in Prussia’s ear and those wet sucking sounds are fucking sinful. “Oh fuck,” Prussia says, slides his hands up and down Poland’s legs; they feel even slipperier than his dress, shaved smooth and coated with sweat, and Prussia bets they aren’t even the slickest part of him right now.
There’s spit on Poland’s lips when he pulls away and screw lipstick and lipgloss and all that shit, Poland’s lips just need to look like that, that shade, that kind of swollen. Prussia kisses him harder fiercer faster until he’s sure the neighbors can hear the slick sounds their mouths are making. Hell, let them listen in, not like he has to worry about getting sanctioned or reprimanded if he’s too loud. With that thought, he nips Poland’s lip, and Poland moans, “Oh jeez you don’t have to gnaw my freaking face off,” but he’s bucking against Prussia just as hard as Prussia’s bucking against him.
“Bite attack,” Prussia says-and Poland shoves his knee between Prussia’s thighs.
“Okay one you don’t even have a druid and two busting out fricking gaming metaphors during sexytalk is like an instant bonerkill and if you kill my boner right now I swear I am going to kill you.”
“So I won’t kill it,” he says, and slides his fingers under the elastic of Poland’s panties, spreads them.
“Yeah god that’s better yeah-wait!”
“Huh?”
“My knees are gonna get rug burn.”
Prussia lets his head sink into the carpet, doesn’t even try to stifle the groan. “Oh, come on, you used to wear plate mail and you’re complaining about rug burn-”
“I didn’t pair plate mail with little red dresses, okay?” Poland yanks on Prussia’s shirt. “Seriously, you have a bed. Couch. Thing. Japan calls them like futons or something? Anyway. That.”
Untangling himself from Poland takes a lot more time than Prussia’s willing to spend, so the two of them heave themselves onto the bed, legs and arms still mostly entwined. Prussia presses kisses to the parts of Poland he can actually reach, the little squirmer: his nose, his cheeks, his hair, his neck. And hell, Poland might grumble way to aim or something like that, but it feels more like a moan, and the words all have the same kind of slow buzz when Prussia finally finds his mouth, anyway.
“Can’t think of anything-ah-anything better for your mouth to be doing, huh?” Prussia gasps.
“Dunno,” Poland replies, nips Prussia’s ear and neck and collarbone and pushes up his shirt so he can trail the bites even lower, lick a line right down the center of Prussia’s chest and yeah, that’s more like it, even if Poland’s still finding the time to talk in the middle of everything else. “I mean, I guess you probably like this better ‘cause, mm, you’ve always been way into biting-”
He digs his teeth into the skin right above Prussia’s hipbone, twists, and Prussia shouts, “Oh fuck yes-”
“But maybe,” Poland continues, licks that sore spot and lets the words and their heat soak right into Prussia’s skin, “I want to climb up on top and ride you ‘til you can’t see straight.”
-well, those words shoot straight to Prussia’s cock. The ache hits hot and fast enough that he doesn’t breathe for a few seconds, just groans. Whatever Poland does, it had better involve getting him out of these jeans, because he’s already swelling hard enough that the fabric scrapes him every time he shifts his hips, and he’s doing a lot of that. “Fuck,” he says, gritting his teeth.
“Or I could like suck you off and screw you into the bed, I guess you’d be all over that too,” Poland says lightly, like he’s trying to pick out what skirt to wear. He nuzzles Prussia right over his groin and lifts his head before Prussia can shove his head back down there, and Prussia swears his grin gleams. “So whatcha say?”
“Slick your ass up and ride me,” Prussia manages to get out, somehow. “Fucking little minx,” he tries to add, but can’t keep the laughter threaded out of it.
“Yeah, you like it.” Looks like Poland’s found the lube; there’s not a whole lot of light down here, but he doesn’t need it to hear the slick twisting sounds of Poland’s fingers, the even slicker slap of skin against skin. “Seriously, when’s the last time you got to, like, take a fair maiden back to your lair?”
“Thought you said no WoW talk in bed,” Prussia says, steadies his hand on Poland’s thigh.
“Dude, I can say whatever the frick I want. I’m holding your cock.”
He is. Oh god. Prussia’s hips strain up, and the rest of him follows when Poland drags his hand down Prussia’s shaft, slicking it. “See what I mean?” Poland asks, and fuck, Prussia just wants to grab him and seat him where he’s needed, bury himself in all that sweet tight heat Poland’s unlocking.
“Gotta say, though,” Poland continues, and now Prussia can feel the heat threaded in his voice, the raw lines his nails leave on Prussia’s chest, “this beats the hell out of-ah.”
“Yeah,” Prussia breathes, and once Poland sinks onto him, takes him in and tightens and releases in tiny shudders that send shivers coursing through him everywhere-well, how the fuck else should you spend a Friday night?
***
“-sia? Prussia?”
Well, that’s not Poland.
Prussia cracks an eye open; Germany’s hovering over his bed, dishtowel in hand, and he’s wringing it over Prussia’s sheets. Shit. Prussia scrambles up to sitting and looks around for Poland, but the bed’s empty.
Also, the light filtering in through the window hurts like hell.
“Morning to you, too,” he mumbles, shields his eyes as best he can.
“It is already twelve. I thought you would not wish to miss any more of the day.”
“Day’s overrated.” Prussia stretches, yawning. Doesn’t do much to relieve the soreness, but it still feels good. Man. When Poland says he’s going to ride you until you can’t see straight, he’s not kidding. There are still spots swimming in front of Prussia’s eyes, no matter how many times he tries to blink them away.
Where the hell is Poland?
“Prussia?”
“Uh-huh?”
Germany hesitates. “Why is Poland making pierogi in our kitchen?”
So that’s where he went. “Why is Poland ever making pierogi in anyone’s kitchen?”
“I see.” Germany’s still fidgeting with the dish towel. “How was your meeting last night?”
“With Magda?” Prussia’s officially too hung over to think of how the hell to summarize the answer to that one, so he just says, “She’s a rare drop.”
“Ah.” The crease between Germany’s brows deepens. “I will inform you when the pierogi are ready.”
“Thanks, Germany. You’re a bro.” Prussia settles back down into the pillows, ready to drift off for a few more minutes-oh. Wait. “Hey, Germany?”
“Yes?”
Prussia grins. “Quest completed.”
Well, that’s a quick way to get Germany out of the basement. Prussia’ll have to remember that one.
Not bad, he decides. Not bad at all.
---
Prussia and Poland fought a lot back when Prussia was still the Teutonic Knights. All comparisons of Grand Master Albrecht to Kael'thas Sunstrider are entirely facetious and should not be taken seriously.
Żubrówka is a type of Polish vodka. It’s very good.
Prussia’s main alt, by the way, is a blood elf Retribution paladin named Fritz. He never heals anyone. Ever. He’s very excited for Cataclysm, because then he can roll up a Tauren pally and he won’t have to be a fuckin’ elf or, god forbid, play Alliance.
.