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hetalia2009-06-13 11:09 pm
dracoprncs1310.livejournal.com) wrote in hetalia2009-06-13 11:09 pm
[FIC] Drunken Bad Friends Trio Shenanigans
Title: Drunken Bad Friends Trio Shenanigans
Author/Artist:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dracoprncs1310
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Prussia, Spain, France, Germany, N.Italy, Sealand, Canada (who?), Belarus, Russia, Denmark, Switzerland. Hon. Mentions (they're not actually IN the fic...) to Austria, England, America, Sweden, Finland, and Poland.
Rating: R for Gilbert's mouth. Such a vulgar drunk.
Warnings: Drunkenness, shenanigans, bullets, and crack.
Summary: Prussia, Spain, and France are up to their mischief again... This time it involves lawn ornaments and a van. Inspired by a chat with the Fanime Gang (YOU KNOW YOU YOU ARE YOU DELINQUENTS ♥) on Skype...
“Heeeeeeyyyyyy. You know what would be awesome right now?” The words were emphasized with the pound of the heavy glass hitting the bar top, beer sloshing over the edge of the glass, a grin accompanying the words, along with a glint of what could only be called evil in the crimson-hued eyes.
“Hmm?” Francis’s accent was thick, even when he mumbled, the lecherous grin widening on his own face.
“If we got the van. And fuckin’ drove around. And. Um. Did shit. AWESOME SHIT.” Prussia was standing now, beer raised high above his head.
“I’ve got a whole bunch of those lawn flamingos in my shed,” Spain offered. Nobody thought to ask why.
“WE SHOULD GO PUT THEM IN THAT ASSHOLE AMERICA’S LAWN.” Apparently, Gilbert felt he needed to shout in order to be heard.
“And that English tête de merde,” France chimed, also standing, now.
“I’ll drive!” Spain said, not quite as loudly as his compatriots, but getting there. Of the three, he was the least drunk, and was the only one with the piece of mind to pay their tab as Francis and Gilbert pranced out the door, laughing maniacally. Antonio hurried after them a moment later.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The brakes screeched as they came to a stop in front of the winding driveway up to Austria’s house, a few grunts of pain accompanying the sound of rattling plastic and something heavy hitting the back of the driver’s seat. A few seconds later, though, the van door opened, and two black-clad figures ran out of the back, clutching two pink plastic flamingoes each. It would have been stealthy, had it not been for the shouting.
A light came on in the upstairs window as the third flamingo was being put into the lawn. France immediately ran for the car. As Gilbert turned, the flamingo fell over, and he paused to right it before laughing hysterically and leaping into the van once again, the tires screeching as they peeled away.
After disentangling themselves from the flamingos once again, Francis and Gilbert poked their heads into the cab area.
“We should go put them in fuckin’ West’s yard.”
“Isn’t that your yard too?”
“… Right.” The pause was short. “But we should still do it.”
A sharp turn flung Gilbert into Francis, both of them tumbling across the back of the van. Between Spain’s driving, and their lack of balance, it was a lot harder to stand up than normal.
As the van came once again to a literal screeching halt, the door opened, and halfway out the door, Gilbert paused. His brother was sitting on the porch with Italy, who was pointing up at the stars. Ludwig’s eyes were fixed on the van.
“Hit it,” he said, slamming the door shut so quickly he nearly decapitated France in the process.
So much for that house.
Next stop, England. This time, Spain managed to make a little quieter of a stop, and like special agents, except for their glaringly light hair. Both of them paused for a moment at the sight that awaited them.
“Peter what’re you doin’ here?” Prussia slurred, then looked up at the tree, and grinned.
Toilet paper was streamed from three out of four of the trees in the yard, the fourth very quickly becoming just as coated. Empty rolls littered the yard.
“I’m going to teach that England to underestimate me!” Peter said as he chucked another roll into the air, apparently having perfected the art, as it arced perfectly over the branches and bounced off the grass on the other side.
After a flamingo was placed in the midst of the empty rolls and the fourth tree had been sufficiently coated (with some assistance from Gilbert and Francis, whose aim was not as impressive), they cackled and ran back to the car, this time with Sealand in tow. A roll of toilet paper fluttered off the back as they sped away.
“America next!” shouted Peter, who had crawled into the passenger seat. There were no arguments, so Spain hooked a hard right and they came to a stop in front of the big, white house.
“Man, who’d ever think his goddamn house would be this fuckin’ nice.” Gilbert was first out, clutching a flamingo as he trotted towards the front lawn. Francis followed, and Peter trailed close after.
“At least he has better taste than Arthur,” France said, jamming his flamingo in the yard. Task thus completed, without incident for the first time that night, they leaped back into the van, neither sober enough to notice that they’d left Peter behind.
There was a silence for a few moments, and then France pointed towards a side-street. “That eez Matthew’s street! Nous allons!”
It was only a few minutes later, though, that disaster struck. “So hey which one is it?”
“I could swear… Eet eez here, somewhere.” They’d gone up and down the street four times now.
“Is that him standing outside?” Three pairs of eyes squinted at the figure standing outside of the house, the speed not even registering on the dial anymore they were going so slowly.
“Nope. Fuck this. Let’s do Ivan’s next!” Gilbert shoved Francis out of the way, where he was leaning almost all the way into Spain’s lap to look at the blonde standing in the yard.
As the van sped off, Matthew’s hand dropped, smile fading. “Oh. I thought somebody had come to visit, eh.”
Instead of screeching into Ivan’s driveway, the van was almost creeping along before it stopped fully, and Francis and Gilbert seemed a little more apprehensive this time. It didn’t stop them from jamming four flamingos into the grass, though. There was a loud creak from the direction of the house, and both of them looked up.
Belarus hung from the roof, holding a rope in one hand and a crowbar in the other, poised to smash a window on the second story.
“What the fuck. Let’s get out of here…”
“Mon dieu.”
The door slammed shut and they fell into silence. About a block later, a familiar, quiet voice came from the shadowed back of the van. “Is she following us?” Ivan hissed, eyes wide.
Three simultaneous screams accompanied the swerve into the ditch on the side of the road. After everyone was confirmed all right, including the remaining flamingos, they got out and started to attempt pushing the van back onto the road. The three of them were leaning heavily against the vehicle when a head popped around the edge of it.
“Hey you guys need some help?” Denmark asked with a good-natured grin.
“… Sure,” came the three simultaneous replies. Within a few minutes, the van was righted, and Denmark was going along on his way.
At some point, Russia had slipped off, a fact none of them particularly minded, and they drove off once again, discussing their next victim.
The van came to a stop in front of Poland’s house, all three of them gaping at the yard. There were already flamingos there.
“Hey, we didn’t come by here already did we?” Spain asked, blinking.
“I’m pretty fucking wasted, but I’m not that drunk. Is that flamingo wearing a goddamn skirt?”
“That one’s got a beret…” France said with a note of something between horror and pride.
“God, Poland’s gay,” Gilbert announced loudly as they drove off again.
Streetlights became scarce as they approached their next destination, pulling to a stop in front of Sweden and Finland’s house, repeating the process of sneaking out into the yard and jamming flamingos into the grass.
But this time when they drove off again, Prussia had settled into the passenger seat, boots on the dashboard. “Hey, is it just me, or do you feel kind of… Cursed?”
“Non, it is moi aussi.”
“We have three left.”
There was a pregnant pause, and a devious grin spread across Gilbert’s face. “Let’s put them in Switzerland’s yard.”
“Do you have a death wish?”
“Maybe a little. But it would be sweet if we could do it.”
“Mais oui. It is worth a try, non?” Now Francis wore a similar grin.
The van fell into a deathly hush as they came to a stop, all three peering out for a very long moment before Francis and Gilbert grabbed the last of the flamingos. They slunk onto the yard, and Gilbert was getting ready to jam the flamingo into the grass when a bullet took off the flamingo’s head. They stared at it dumbly for a moment, and then all hell broke loose. Shouts came from the front of the house, along with a flurry of gunfire, words lost in the cacophony. It was a miracle neither France or Prussia got shot as they ran back to the van, bullets leaving holes in the side as they sped off to cries of, "Get off my lawn!"
Fin.
---------------------------------------
Author/Artist:
dracoprncs1310Character(s) or Pairing(s): Prussia, Spain, France, Germany, N.Italy, Sealand, Canada (who?), Belarus, Russia, Denmark, Switzerland. Hon. Mentions (they're not actually IN the fic...) to Austria, England, America, Sweden, Finland, and Poland.
Rating: R for Gilbert's mouth. Such a vulgar drunk.
Warnings: Drunkenness, shenanigans, bullets, and crack.
Summary: Prussia, Spain, and France are up to their mischief again... This time it involves lawn ornaments and a van. Inspired by a chat with the Fanime Gang (YOU KNOW YOU YOU ARE YOU DELINQUENTS ♥) on Skype...
“Heeeeeeyyyyyy. You know what would be awesome right now?” The words were emphasized with the pound of the heavy glass hitting the bar top, beer sloshing over the edge of the glass, a grin accompanying the words, along with a glint of what could only be called evil in the crimson-hued eyes.
“Hmm?” Francis’s accent was thick, even when he mumbled, the lecherous grin widening on his own face.
“If we got the van. And fuckin’ drove around. And. Um. Did shit. AWESOME SHIT.” Prussia was standing now, beer raised high above his head.
“I’ve got a whole bunch of those lawn flamingos in my shed,” Spain offered. Nobody thought to ask why.
“WE SHOULD GO PUT THEM IN THAT ASSHOLE AMERICA’S LAWN.” Apparently, Gilbert felt he needed to shout in order to be heard.
“And that English tête de merde,” France chimed, also standing, now.
“I’ll drive!” Spain said, not quite as loudly as his compatriots, but getting there. Of the three, he was the least drunk, and was the only one with the piece of mind to pay their tab as Francis and Gilbert pranced out the door, laughing maniacally. Antonio hurried after them a moment later.
The brakes screeched as they came to a stop in front of the winding driveway up to Austria’s house, a few grunts of pain accompanying the sound of rattling plastic and something heavy hitting the back of the driver’s seat. A few seconds later, though, the van door opened, and two black-clad figures ran out of the back, clutching two pink plastic flamingoes each. It would have been stealthy, had it not been for the shouting.
A light came on in the upstairs window as the third flamingo was being put into the lawn. France immediately ran for the car. As Gilbert turned, the flamingo fell over, and he paused to right it before laughing hysterically and leaping into the van once again, the tires screeching as they peeled away.
After disentangling themselves from the flamingos once again, Francis and Gilbert poked their heads into the cab area.
“We should go put them in fuckin’ West’s yard.”
“Isn’t that your yard too?”
“… Right.” The pause was short. “But we should still do it.”
A sharp turn flung Gilbert into Francis, both of them tumbling across the back of the van. Between Spain’s driving, and their lack of balance, it was a lot harder to stand up than normal.
As the van came once again to a literal screeching halt, the door opened, and halfway out the door, Gilbert paused. His brother was sitting on the porch with Italy, who was pointing up at the stars. Ludwig’s eyes were fixed on the van.
“Hit it,” he said, slamming the door shut so quickly he nearly decapitated France in the process.
So much for that house.
Next stop, England. This time, Spain managed to make a little quieter of a stop, and like special agents, except for their glaringly light hair. Both of them paused for a moment at the sight that awaited them.
“Peter what’re you doin’ here?” Prussia slurred, then looked up at the tree, and grinned.
Toilet paper was streamed from three out of four of the trees in the yard, the fourth very quickly becoming just as coated. Empty rolls littered the yard.
“I’m going to teach that England to underestimate me!” Peter said as he chucked another roll into the air, apparently having perfected the art, as it arced perfectly over the branches and bounced off the grass on the other side.
After a flamingo was placed in the midst of the empty rolls and the fourth tree had been sufficiently coated (with some assistance from Gilbert and Francis, whose aim was not as impressive), they cackled and ran back to the car, this time with Sealand in tow. A roll of toilet paper fluttered off the back as they sped away.
“America next!” shouted Peter, who had crawled into the passenger seat. There were no arguments, so Spain hooked a hard right and they came to a stop in front of the big, white house.
“Man, who’d ever think his goddamn house would be this fuckin’ nice.” Gilbert was first out, clutching a flamingo as he trotted towards the front lawn. Francis followed, and Peter trailed close after.
“At least he has better taste than Arthur,” France said, jamming his flamingo in the yard. Task thus completed, without incident for the first time that night, they leaped back into the van, neither sober enough to notice that they’d left Peter behind.
There was a silence for a few moments, and then France pointed towards a side-street. “That eez Matthew’s street! Nous allons!”
It was only a few minutes later, though, that disaster struck. “So hey which one is it?”
“I could swear… Eet eez here, somewhere.” They’d gone up and down the street four times now.
“Is that him standing outside?” Three pairs of eyes squinted at the figure standing outside of the house, the speed not even registering on the dial anymore they were going so slowly.
“Nope. Fuck this. Let’s do Ivan’s next!” Gilbert shoved Francis out of the way, where he was leaning almost all the way into Spain’s lap to look at the blonde standing in the yard.
As the van sped off, Matthew’s hand dropped, smile fading. “Oh. I thought somebody had come to visit, eh.”
Instead of screeching into Ivan’s driveway, the van was almost creeping along before it stopped fully, and Francis and Gilbert seemed a little more apprehensive this time. It didn’t stop them from jamming four flamingos into the grass, though. There was a loud creak from the direction of the house, and both of them looked up.
Belarus hung from the roof, holding a rope in one hand and a crowbar in the other, poised to smash a window on the second story.
“What the fuck. Let’s get out of here…”
“Mon dieu.”
The door slammed shut and they fell into silence. About a block later, a familiar, quiet voice came from the shadowed back of the van. “Is she following us?” Ivan hissed, eyes wide.
Three simultaneous screams accompanied the swerve into the ditch on the side of the road. After everyone was confirmed all right, including the remaining flamingos, they got out and started to attempt pushing the van back onto the road. The three of them were leaning heavily against the vehicle when a head popped around the edge of it.
“Hey you guys need some help?” Denmark asked with a good-natured grin.
“… Sure,” came the three simultaneous replies. Within a few minutes, the van was righted, and Denmark was going along on his way.
At some point, Russia had slipped off, a fact none of them particularly minded, and they drove off once again, discussing their next victim.
The van came to a stop in front of Poland’s house, all three of them gaping at the yard. There were already flamingos there.
“Hey, we didn’t come by here already did we?” Spain asked, blinking.
“I’m pretty fucking wasted, but I’m not that drunk. Is that flamingo wearing a goddamn skirt?”
“That one’s got a beret…” France said with a note of something between horror and pride.
“God, Poland’s gay,” Gilbert announced loudly as they drove off again.
Streetlights became scarce as they approached their next destination, pulling to a stop in front of Sweden and Finland’s house, repeating the process of sneaking out into the yard and jamming flamingos into the grass.
But this time when they drove off again, Prussia had settled into the passenger seat, boots on the dashboard. “Hey, is it just me, or do you feel kind of… Cursed?”
“Non, it is moi aussi.”
“We have three left.”
There was a pregnant pause, and a devious grin spread across Gilbert’s face. “Let’s put them in Switzerland’s yard.”
“Do you have a death wish?”
“Maybe a little. But it would be sweet if we could do it.”
“Mais oui. It is worth a try, non?” Now Francis wore a similar grin.
The van fell into a deathly hush as they came to a stop, all three peering out for a very long moment before Francis and Gilbert grabbed the last of the flamingos. They slunk onto the yard, and Gilbert was getting ready to jam the flamingo into the grass when a bullet took off the flamingo’s head. They stared at it dumbly for a moment, and then all hell broke loose. Shouts came from the front of the house, along with a flurry of gunfire, words lost in the cacophony. It was a miracle neither France or Prussia got shot as they ran back to the van, bullets leaving holes in the side as they sped off to cries of, "Get off my lawn!"
Fin.
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