America Jones and the British Adventure [1a/??]
anonymous
June 30 2010, 16:52:00 UTC
It took tripping over a crashed pillar for America Jones to realize he’d been beaten to the punch.
He picked himself back up quickly and stopped in his mad dash through the tomb’s anterooms to actually look around. Arrows and darts littered the floor, giant stones that fit a bit too well in the black holes above them sat in a cup of hairline cracks and rubble. He stared in shock at a broken poison dart as his feet. How could anyone have gotten here first? He was sure that, even though the news was probably all around the locals’ gossip network, none of them would be brave enough to come in here - they all believed it was cursed, of course-
And then he heard the voices.
He fell into a crouch and crept forward towards the light, careful to stay against the wall and out of sight, peering around the giant, crumbling entrance into an elaborate pit.
It was obviously the place he had been looking for. Almost artistically decayed sandstone ran a yard-wide circuit around the room at his feet, dropping off for a sheer twenty feet into a vast, ancient, lavishly decorated chamber. It would have been the perfect archaeology site if not for the chaos that the contents had been thrown in and the two men arguing in the middle.
He slinked around the entry as crawled along the upper border in the shadows, although his efforts were pointless. He probably could have jumped and screamed his way around the room and neither of them would have even flinched. As he rounded the corner to sit in the shadows profile to the two, he was finally able to discern words from the echoes.
“… the tomb raider,” the taller one with stubble said to the smaller one, leaning over his kneeling form. America realized with a start he was squirming because his wrists were tied.
“How astounding,” the tied up one spat at him in a thick British accent. “I had no idea. Now get out of my way - the Ankh is mine.”
Hey - that was his Ankh! It belonged in a museum! His eyes skittered around the room and finally alighted on the golden artifact displayed prominently behind who he know recognized as a Frenchman.
“I did not travel all the way to Cairo only to be shown up by a spoiled Englishman, monsieur. I’m afraid the Ankh of Akhenaton belongs to me.” A self-righteous smirk. “And you will just have to live with that.”
The British kid just made a face at him and wriggled some more. Frenchie kept going on, but America tuned him out as he watched Brit.
He was interesting looking, to say the least. Short blonde hair that looked soft vaguely covered what looked to be large eyebrows, although his harsh green glare made them work. His backpack was really a mount for impressive but empty ammo holders, loadable from the bottom. His clothes were all cargo and skintight, bunching around thigh holsters and heavy boots and exposing a strip of pale skin around his narrow waist. America wanted to touch it, then frowned at his thoughts. Seriously?
He was shaken out of his staring by Frenchie’s phone ringing. He ducked back into the shadows - he had inched out unconsciously while looking - as he excused himself much too politely and turned away. How did he even get service here?
He started mumbling in a different foreign language - it sounded like Italian, maybe - as America took the opportunity to figure out his battle plan. Enough watching.
The Ankh was just sitting there, perched on its stone pedestal, glinting in the sparse moonlight filtering from the holes in the ceiling and begging to be swiped. For science, of course. He looked around for a discreet way down and caught sight of a handy length of rope, already wrapped around a ceiling beam, hanging a few yards out in empty space to his right. The back of his mind told him it had probably been put there by one of the two down there and forgotten, but he didn’t care. It was convenient, and it gave him one shot.
He crouch-ran over to the rope and aligned himself with the Ankh, then glanced down to the two to see if he had an open shot -
Wait, was Frenchie feeling up Brit? Dude, not cool.
America Jones and the British Adventure [1b/??]
anonymous
June 30 2010, 16:53:28 UTC
Acting on impulse, he took a few steps to the right and ran at an angle, jumping, grabbing, swinging down just perfect to snatch up Brit just as his arms sprang free from their ties. He heard the other let out an ‘oof’ before guns started firing. Whoops.
“What the sodding fuck?” Brit screeched in his ear, and America cringed. “Who the hell are you? Release me this instant!”
Prickly much? “It’s America, America Jones!” he yelled back, grinning. This was an adventure. “Don’t worry, I’m a hero!”
“America? What are you, some stupid wannabe adventurer?” The ledge was approaching.
America grumbled in his head - maybe he was a little wannabe, but it wasn’t from not trying! Outside, he just grinned as he scrambled to keep his balance with the writhing man in his arm as they stepped onto the ledge. “Maybe, but I’m a lot cooler than that!”
Gunfire, and Brit pulled him behind a crumbling wall. “Get your arse out of the way before you get the both of us killed!” he snapped at America as he peered around. He poked his head over his to see a suddenly appearing battalion of French lackeys drop from the ceiling. Crap.
America grabbed his hand and pulled him around their hiding spot and back to the entry, back down the sprung hallway.
“Let me go!” Of course he had to be prickly the entire way. Why would his life be easy?
“I’m trying to save you, idiot!” America yelled back at him, hurdling the pillar he had tripped over earlier. Brit chose to pull at his arm around so he could go around it.
Brit pulled him down a second before he realized that not all of the traps had been sprung. “Save me?!” Climbing and organized yelling echoed up from behind them as they raced on. “I was doing perfectly fine by myself!”
America couldn’t help it; he cracked up, still keeping pace. “Yeah, okay, and that’s why you were tied up and at that guy’s mercy. Now hurry up!”
Brit used the wall to jump around a flying knife from behind them. Goddamn, they had caught up. “Oh, do shut up,” Brit said as he matched him, both unconsciously minding their footing. “Don’t talk about things you don’t understand.”
He smiled and rolled his eyes, although he wasn’t looking. “I understand damsels in distress! Come on, I think they’re gaining on us!”
Brit whipped out his guns and ran backwards to fire into the horde, dancing backward like he knew the layout by heart. Impressive, but unnecessary. America still grinned. “That works too.”
Brit looked over his shoulder, eyes widening as he turned forward. “Look out, you idiot!”
America Jones and the British Adventure [1c/??]
anonymous
June 30 2010, 16:54:30 UTC
America stopped staring just in time to duck and avoid a faceplant with a leaning pillar. “Oh, whoops!”
Brit slid to a halt at the edge of a pit America had forgotten about. Without losing his momentum, he pulled his whip out and snapped it up around a ceiling beam, grabbing Brit by the waist again as he swung across. He turned backwards to empty his magazines at the henchmen, but all too soon they snapped empty. “Bugger,” he breathed, then said louder, “I’m all out.”
“Such a shame.” A forceful landing, duck and roll, still clutching Brit; they stopped with America crouched over him, so close. He was really cute for a guy. He winked down at him. “Hey, good lookin’.”
Brit shoved him away with a huff. “You’re just as bad as he is.” America stood up and pulled Brit up by his hands, then snapped his whip away from the ceiling beam.
“Nah, I’ll never tie you up.” He grinned at him again, but Brit ignored him pointedly. Instead, he watched his hands as he rolled up his whip and clipped it back to his belt.
“That’s a nice whip you’ve got there.”
America looked down at it, then back up. It almost sounded like an implication, but for what? “Comes with the job.” Eh, it was easier to ignore the hidden meanings.
A crash turned their attention back to the pit, where the henchmen were crawling across on ladders. Shit.
Without words, they turned and started running again. They were almost there - starlight! “Hey, look, it’s the exit!” America yelled, pointing.
“Good, now shut up and run faster! I’ve got a bike waiting outside.” They were both breathless by now, but with enough adrenaline for a few more miles, let alone a few more yards.
“Will do! Just try to keep up!” He stuck his tongue out a bit, and Brit glared at him, passing him way too easily.
“You just try to keep up with me, upstart.” Hey, not fair!
“Hey, I’m the hero!” America sputtered, passing him again as they emerged into the night air. “Heroes always go first!”
There’s that bike he was talking about; America jumped on it and found the keys still in the ignition. Brit climbed up behind him, heat on his back and hands on his shoulders. “Go now!” he barked into America’s ear, his presence throwing him off.
America Jones and the British Adventure [1d/??]
anonymous
June 30 2010, 16:56:01 UTC
A bare arm with short, fingerless gloves appeared on his shoulder, pointing to a narrow way through rock a few yards away. “Through there!”
America nodded and turned his wrist to rev up the engine. “Got it!” Wind rushed through his hair and clothes as they sped off, faster than he was used to. It made him grin and laugh, but the Brit was too focused on looking back to hear him.
“I think some of them are after us. Bugger, they’ve got bikes of their own.” Well there’s a downer.
He frowned and growled. “Goddammit! Okay, I’m going to try to lose them! Don’t you have any extra ammo or something?”
Brit huffed into his ear. “I used it all up to shoot the frog.” America assumed ‘the frog’ was Frenchie.
He smirked. “You seem like the type to have a rocket launcher built into his bike.” A snort in his ear; it tickled.
“I like to think I’m a bit classier than that.” Something whizzed by their collective cheeks, and Brit seemed to give up. “Oh, Goddammit all, give me that!” he snapped, and before America could breathe he had wrapped his legs around his waist and leaned around his side and under his arm to grip his hand on the handlebar and swerve to the right, gripping his leather jacket for balance with his other hand. He used his more grounded weight to keep them straight even as his eyebrows went up.
“How did you-?” His hand tightened and he turned the gas, speeding them up past dangerous. “Whoa!”
He could actually see him grin now even as the sounds of their pursuers fell away. “Hold on to your hat, boy. This is how it’s done.” Brit leaned in a bit more, legs sliding around his waist as his left hand covered his. America let him take over; he probably could drive this thing better than him anyway. It let him stare at his impossibly twisted back as he danced around empty stalls and cobblestones. America still wanted to touch that strip of skin.
“Wow, you’re really flexible,” he breathed, trying not to pull his hands away from where Brit’s threaded through his to better grip the controls. He caught the corner of his smirk.
“Thanks. It comes with the job.” Excuse America’s brain while it did a miniature short circuit. He shook his head to get rid of the thoughts.
“I don’t even want to know- hey, watch out!” America yelled as Brit barely avoided hitting a building.
“Oh, belt up, you coward.” That was a building!
“You’re the one who almost ran us into a wall!”
His head moved in an eyeroll as he sighed. “Please, I happen to know what I’m doing. Now shut up and let me drive- have we lost them yet?”
America twisted painfully to look back, Brit’s legs tightening and distracting him. “I can’t see- ah, shit. There’s at least two of them still, and- ah hell, of course they’d be gaining on us.”
America Jones and the British Adventure [1e/??]
anonymous
June 30 2010, 16:57:43 UTC
He tutted and turned his hand even sharper, and America’s head snapped back a little as they zoomed towards a curving stone. He couldn’t even make a sound as they flew off and skidded onto a rooftop, but the vicious bump caused a very unmanly squeal to come out. “If this ends up breaking my baby, remind me to kill you when this is over,” Brit grumbled as they control-fell down a series of rooftops.
America squawked, “Hey, you’re driving! How can you blame me-” His indignant protests fell away to a scream as they drove off the last roof to crunch and bounce on the ground a story below. America felt Brit’s legs falling away, and quickly flashed a hand down to grip his ankles.
Brit (now mentally ‘Batshit Brit’ to America) seemed unaffected by the terror and the near fall. “Are they still following us?” he snapped at him.
God, he was pushy! “How do you expect me to see behind us when you’re wrapped around me like this?!” America screamed at him, at the end of his rope and mentally frayed. He gripped Arthur’s ankles tighter and wished it was skin, not leather.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Batshit Brit mocked him. “If you can’t do it-”
“You’re a bastard, you know that?” America grumbled. Batshit Brit squeezed his fingers.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The crazy was wrapped around his waist by his legs and out of bullets and still managed to sound snotty. What an asshole.
He looked over his shoulder to see one dogged henchman in nondescript black tailing them, with considerably less finesse. At least Batshit Brit did know how to drive a bike. “There’s just one of them now,” he told him, snapping back forward.
“Brilliant.” One final burst of speed made him press back into America’s stomach as they blew up a ramp into an unfinished building, and a steady stream of breathy curses flew from his mouth as he gripped their laced fingers tighter, wait, wait, wait for it-
He clenched his eyes shut just as Batshit Brit pulled them back, America’s weight automatically leaning with him, as they continued the circle the ramp made backwards away from the now exploding building and crashed onto the ground. By a miracle of physics and adrenaline, they landed right side up and Batshit Brit’s hand loosened its hold on America’s, letting the bike coast to a starlit stop.
America Jones and the British Adventure [1f/??]
anonymous
June 30 2010, 16:58:46 UTC
America let go of his ankles. “Okay, you can get off me now,” he said, suddenly too loud in the late night heat. Batshit Brit started unfurling his legs, then grimaced.
“This is - ah - harder than it looks,” he panted, cringing at his stiff muscles.
Of course. Not like the clutching during the chase hadn’t been distracting enough, but now, when he couldn’t get off and was very indecently pressed around his stomach - he needed to get him away before drastic things happened. Dirty drastic things.
“You got us into this!” America whined, then sighed in defeat. He got the feeling that nothing was ever Batshit Brit’s fault. “Here, just let go of my hand- that’s it…” he soothed him as Brit slowly unlaced cramping fingers from America’s right hand so he could wrap his arm around the smaller’s waist and hold him tight as the other hand gently pried his legs apart. He was finally able to breathe (in more ways than one).
America lifted him away gently and set him on his feet, arm sliding away slowly. Batshit Brit stretched his legs and grimaced again, not even paying attention to America’s lingering touch. “Ow. Now I’m a little sore.”
He dismounted and propped up the kickstand, shaking himself out and massaging his stomach. “Yeah, I bet you probably broke a few ribs,” he grumbled. Batshit Brit reached over his head and stretched, and yes, there was a definite tan line around his stomach. America watched.
“Oh, I wouldn’t go as far as to say that.” He pulled his eyes up to his face with force in time to keep Batshit Brit from catching him ogling him. Brain, start working properly. He didn’t even notice it was an awkward silence until Batshit Brit coughed. “So…”
“Yeah.” Eyes flicker down to the flat stomach, back up; fingers itched to touch, but he held out his hand instead to disguise his purposes. Thank you, darkness. “I guess I should properly introduce myself! I’m America Jones.” Back to overcheery.
A pause, then he clasped his hand. “Pleasure.” Of course he wouldn’t take the hint. Why would he do anything the easy way?
America leaned his head forward a bit, tilting it expectantly. “And your name is…?”
America Jones and the British Adventure [1g/??+notes]
anonymous
June 30 2010, 17:02:36 UTC
“Arthur. Kirkland, that is.” A smirk. Lovely name, he thought, didn’t say.
“Well, it was nice running into you, Arthur!” America said with what he called his dazzling smile, adding a wink for good measure as he let his hand go. “Try not to get tied up by any more Frenchmen any time soon, okay?”
Batshit Brit, now known as Arthur, pulled a face. “I don’t plan on that happening ever again.” America snorted as Arthur swung a leg over the bike again and nudged the kickstand up with a heel as he turned the key. He frowned as he checked the bike’s vitals.
“Hey, you aren’t gonna just leave me here, are ya?” America pouted, hands on his hips as he glared at Arthur. He turned to look over his shoulder and America was struck by just how green they were. “You’ve got us both lost! I’ve got no idea where to go!”
Arthur sighed and rolled his eyes, turning back to his dashboard, although he kept a corner of his eye turned to America. “Fine. Get on, then.”
“Thanks, Artie!” America beamed at his back and slid on. He wanted to grab him and stroke that bare stomach, but settled on the tops of his thighs. He thought he saw Arthur’s cheeks tinge pink, but it could have just been a trick of the lighting. “Useless brat.”
He leaned his chin on Arthur’s shoulder, secretly trying to repay a few moments from the chase. “Let’s go!”
Unfortunately, unlike America, Arthur seemed unfazed - even a little annoyed. “Where to, idiot?” Maybe a little more than a little annoyed. It made him grin.
“Adventure!” he cried, cheesy and exuberant and perfect. Arthur just smiled and turned the handlebar, causing America to give a thrilled shout and grab his waist.
Exhilaration.
{Double A/N: So the format of this fill is going to follow this pattern for the rest of the story. Two writers, one for England, one for America. England's post will always go first, but they will be posted at the same time. It isn't two separate fills, it's one fill with two POVs. Hope that's not too confusing :)
Also all of our captchas were amazing - the best being 'and spinoffs'}
Re: America Jones and the British Adventure [1g/??+notes]
anonymous
July 15 2010, 21:20:55 UTC
... I love how you use the fact that Indiana Jones' real name is Henry Jr but he liked Indiana better, so he took it from their dog. Obviously, America must have done the same (well, maybe not his dog but y'know what I mean) and replaced Alfred F with, well, America.
If I didn't already love you two for this fill, I would love you for that. <333
He picked himself back up quickly and stopped in his mad dash through the tomb’s anterooms to actually look around. Arrows and darts littered the floor, giant stones that fit a bit too well in the black holes above them sat in a cup of hairline cracks and rubble. He stared in shock at a broken poison dart as his feet. How could anyone have gotten here first? He was sure that, even though the news was probably all around the locals’ gossip network, none of them would be brave enough to come in here - they all believed it was cursed, of course-
And then he heard the voices.
He fell into a crouch and crept forward towards the light, careful to stay against the wall and out of sight, peering around the giant, crumbling entrance into an elaborate pit.
It was obviously the place he had been looking for. Almost artistically decayed sandstone ran a yard-wide circuit around the room at his feet, dropping off for a sheer twenty feet into a vast, ancient, lavishly decorated chamber. It would have been the perfect archaeology site if not for the chaos that the contents had been thrown in and the two men arguing in the middle.
He slinked around the entry as crawled along the upper border in the shadows, although his efforts were pointless. He probably could have jumped and screamed his way around the room and neither of them would have even flinched. As he rounded the corner to sit in the shadows profile to the two, he was finally able to discern words from the echoes.
“… the tomb raider,” the taller one with stubble said to the smaller one, leaning over his kneeling form. America realized with a start he was squirming because his wrists were tied.
“How astounding,” the tied up one spat at him in a thick British accent. “I had no idea. Now get out of my way - the Ankh is mine.”
Hey - that was his Ankh! It belonged in a museum! His eyes skittered around the room and finally alighted on the golden artifact displayed prominently behind who he know recognized as a Frenchman.
“I did not travel all the way to Cairo only to be shown up by a spoiled Englishman, monsieur. I’m afraid the Ankh of Akhenaton belongs to me.” A self-righteous smirk. “And you will just have to live with that.”
The British kid just made a face at him and wriggled some more. Frenchie kept going on, but America tuned him out as he watched Brit.
He was interesting looking, to say the least. Short blonde hair that looked soft vaguely covered what looked to be large eyebrows, although his harsh green glare made them work. His backpack was really a mount for impressive but empty ammo holders, loadable from the bottom. His clothes were all cargo and skintight, bunching around thigh holsters and heavy boots and exposing a strip of pale skin around his narrow waist. America wanted to touch it, then frowned at his thoughts. Seriously?
He was shaken out of his staring by Frenchie’s phone ringing. He ducked back into the shadows - he had inched out unconsciously while looking - as he excused himself much too politely and turned away. How did he even get service here?
He started mumbling in a different foreign language - it sounded like Italian, maybe - as America took the opportunity to figure out his battle plan. Enough watching.
The Ankh was just sitting there, perched on its stone pedestal, glinting in the sparse moonlight filtering from the holes in the ceiling and begging to be swiped. For science, of course. He looked around for a discreet way down and caught sight of a handy length of rope, already wrapped around a ceiling beam, hanging a few yards out in empty space to his right. The back of his mind told him it had probably been put there by one of the two down there and forgotten, but he didn’t care. It was convenient, and it gave him one shot.
He crouch-ran over to the rope and aligned himself with the Ankh, then glanced down to the two to see if he had an open shot -
Wait, was Frenchie feeling up Brit? Dude, not cool.
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“What the sodding fuck?” Brit screeched in his ear, and America cringed. “Who the hell are you? Release me this instant!”
Prickly much? “It’s America, America Jones!” he yelled back, grinning. This was an adventure. “Don’t worry, I’m a hero!”
“America? What are you, some stupid wannabe adventurer?” The ledge was approaching.
America grumbled in his head - maybe he was a little wannabe, but it wasn’t from not trying! Outside, he just grinned as he scrambled to keep his balance with the writhing man in his arm as they stepped onto the ledge. “Maybe, but I’m a lot cooler than that!”
Gunfire, and Brit pulled him behind a crumbling wall. “Get your arse out of the way before you get the both of us killed!” he snapped at America as he peered around. He poked his head over his to see a suddenly appearing battalion of French lackeys drop from the ceiling. Crap.
America grabbed his hand and pulled him around their hiding spot and back to the entry, back down the sprung hallway.
“Let me go!” Of course he had to be prickly the entire way. Why would his life be easy?
“I’m trying to save you, idiot!” America yelled back at him, hurdling the pillar he had tripped over earlier. Brit chose to pull at his arm around so he could go around it.
Brit pulled him down a second before he realized that not all of the traps had been sprung. “Save me?!” Climbing and organized yelling echoed up from behind them as they raced on. “I was doing perfectly fine by myself!”
America couldn’t help it; he cracked up, still keeping pace. “Yeah, okay, and that’s why you were tied up and at that guy’s mercy. Now hurry up!”
Brit used the wall to jump around a flying knife from behind them. Goddamn, they had caught up.
“Oh, do shut up,” Brit said as he matched him, both unconsciously minding their footing. “Don’t talk about things you don’t understand.”
He smiled and rolled his eyes, although he wasn’t looking. “I understand damsels in distress! Come on, I think they’re gaining on us!”
Brit whipped out his guns and ran backwards to fire into the horde, dancing backward like he knew the layout by heart. Impressive, but unnecessary. America still grinned. “That works too.”
Brit looked over his shoulder, eyes widening as he turned forward. “Look out, you idiot!”
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America stopped staring just in time to duck and avoid a faceplant with a leaning pillar. “Oh, whoops!”
Brit slid to a halt at the edge of a pit America had forgotten about. Without losing his momentum, he pulled his whip out and snapped it up around a ceiling beam, grabbing Brit by the waist again as he swung across. He turned backwards to empty his magazines at the henchmen, but all too soon they snapped empty. “Bugger,” he breathed, then said louder, “I’m all out.”
“Such a shame.” A forceful landing, duck and roll, still clutching Brit; they stopped with America crouched over him, so close. He was really cute for a guy. He winked down at him. “Hey, good lookin’.”
Brit shoved him away with a huff. “You’re just as bad as he is.” America stood up and pulled Brit up by his hands, then snapped his whip away from the ceiling beam.
“Nah, I’ll never tie you up.” He grinned at him again, but Brit ignored him pointedly. Instead, he watched his hands as he rolled up his whip and clipped it back to his belt.
“That’s a nice whip you’ve got there.”
America looked down at it, then back up. It almost sounded like an implication, but for what? “Comes with the job.” Eh, it was easier to ignore the hidden meanings.
A crash turned their attention back to the pit, where the henchmen were crawling across on ladders. Shit.
Without words, they turned and started running again. They were almost there - starlight!
“Hey, look, it’s the exit!” America yelled, pointing.
“Good, now shut up and run faster! I’ve got a bike waiting outside.” They were both breathless by now, but with enough adrenaline for a few more miles, let alone a few more yards.
“Will do! Just try to keep up!” He stuck his tongue out a bit, and Brit glared at him, passing him way too easily.
“You just try to keep up with me, upstart.” Hey, not fair!
“Hey, I’m the hero!” America sputtered, passing him again as they emerged into the night air. “Heroes always go first!”
There’s that bike he was talking about; America jumped on it and found the keys still in the ignition. Brit climbed up behind him, heat on his back and hands on his shoulders. “Go now!” he barked into America’s ear, his presence throwing him off.
“What? Where?” Idiot, he mentally cursed himself.
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America nodded and turned his wrist to rev up the engine. “Got it!” Wind rushed through his hair and clothes as they sped off, faster than he was used to. It made him grin and laugh, but the Brit was too focused on looking back to hear him.
“I think some of them are after us. Bugger, they’ve got bikes of their own.” Well there’s a downer.
He frowned and growled. “Goddammit! Okay, I’m going to try to lose them! Don’t you have any extra ammo or something?”
Brit huffed into his ear. “I used it all up to shoot the frog.” America assumed ‘the frog’ was Frenchie.
He smirked. “You seem like the type to have a rocket launcher built into his bike.” A snort in his ear; it tickled.
“I like to think I’m a bit classier than that.” Something whizzed by their collective cheeks, and Brit seemed to give up. “Oh, Goddammit all, give me that!” he snapped, and before America could breathe he had wrapped his legs around his waist and leaned around his side and under his arm to grip his hand on the handlebar and swerve to the right, gripping his leather jacket for balance with his other hand. He used his more grounded weight to keep them straight even as his eyebrows went up.
“How did you-?” His hand tightened and he turned the gas, speeding them up past dangerous. “Whoa!”
He could actually see him grin now even as the sounds of their pursuers fell away. “Hold on to your hat, boy. This is how it’s done.” Brit leaned in a bit more, legs sliding around his waist as his left hand covered his. America let him take over; he probably could drive this thing better than him anyway. It let him stare at his impossibly twisted back as he danced around empty stalls and cobblestones. America still wanted to touch that strip of skin.
“Wow, you’re really flexible,” he breathed, trying not to pull his hands away from where Brit’s threaded through his to better grip the controls. He caught the corner of his smirk.
“Thanks. It comes with the job.” Excuse America’s brain while it did a miniature short circuit. He shook his head to get rid of the thoughts.
“I don’t even want to know- hey, watch out!” America yelled as Brit barely avoided hitting a building.
“Oh, belt up, you coward.” That was a building!
“You’re the one who almost ran us into a wall!”
His head moved in an eyeroll as he sighed. “Please, I happen to know what I’m doing. Now shut up and let me drive- have we lost them yet?”
America twisted painfully to look back, Brit’s legs tightening and distracting him. “I can’t see- ah, shit. There’s at least two of them still, and- ah hell, of course they’d be gaining on us.”
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America squawked, “Hey, you’re driving! How can you blame me-” His indignant protests fell away to a scream as they drove off the last roof to crunch and bounce on the ground a story below. America felt Brit’s legs falling away, and quickly flashed a hand down to grip his ankles.
Brit (now mentally ‘Batshit Brit’ to America) seemed unaffected by the terror and the near fall. “Are they still following us?” he snapped at him.
God, he was pushy! “How do you expect me to see behind us when you’re wrapped around me like this?!” America screamed at him, at the end of his rope and mentally frayed. He gripped Arthur’s ankles tighter and wished it was skin, not leather.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Batshit Brit mocked him. “If you can’t do it-”
“You’re a bastard, you know that?” America grumbled. Batshit Brit squeezed his fingers.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The crazy was wrapped around his waist by his legs and out of bullets and still managed to sound snotty. What an asshole.
He looked over his shoulder to see one dogged henchman in nondescript black tailing them, with considerably less finesse. At least Batshit Brit did know how to drive a bike. “There’s just one of them now,” he told him, snapping back forward.
“Brilliant.” One final burst of speed made him press back into America’s stomach as they blew up a ramp into an unfinished building, and a steady stream of breathy curses flew from his mouth as he gripped their laced fingers tighter, wait, wait, wait for it-
He clenched his eyes shut just as Batshit Brit pulled them back, America’s weight automatically leaning with him, as they continued the circle the ramp made backwards away from the now exploding building and crashed onto the ground. By a miracle of physics and adrenaline, they landed right side up and Batshit Brit’s hand loosened its hold on America’s, letting the bike coast to a starlit stop.
Pant. Pant. Wheeze. Breathe.
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“This is - ah - harder than it looks,” he panted, cringing at his stiff muscles.
Of course. Not like the clutching during the chase hadn’t been distracting enough, but now, when he couldn’t get off and was very indecently pressed around his stomach - he needed to get him away before drastic things happened. Dirty drastic things.
“You got us into this!” America whined, then sighed in defeat. He got the feeling that nothing was ever Batshit Brit’s fault. “Here, just let go of my hand- that’s it…” he soothed him as Brit slowly unlaced cramping fingers from America’s right hand so he could wrap his arm around the smaller’s waist and hold him tight as the other hand gently pried his legs apart. He was finally able to breathe (in more ways than one).
America lifted him away gently and set him on his feet, arm sliding away slowly. Batshit Brit stretched his legs and grimaced again, not even paying attention to America’s lingering touch. “Ow. Now I’m a little sore.”
He dismounted and propped up the kickstand, shaking himself out and massaging his stomach. “Yeah, I bet you probably broke a few ribs,” he grumbled. Batshit Brit reached over his head and stretched, and yes, there was a definite tan line around his stomach. America watched.
“Oh, I wouldn’t go as far as to say that.” He pulled his eyes up to his face with force in time to keep Batshit Brit from catching him ogling him. Brain, start working properly. He didn’t even notice it was an awkward silence until Batshit Brit coughed. “So…”
“Yeah.” Eyes flicker down to the flat stomach, back up; fingers itched to touch, but he held out his hand instead to disguise his purposes. Thank you, darkness. “I guess I should properly introduce myself! I’m America Jones.” Back to overcheery.
A pause, then he clasped his hand. “Pleasure.” Of course he wouldn’t take the hint. Why would he do anything the easy way?
America leaned his head forward a bit, tilting it expectantly. “And your name is…?”
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“Well, it was nice running into you, Arthur!” America said with what he called his dazzling smile, adding a wink for good measure as he let his hand go. “Try not to get tied up by any more Frenchmen any time soon, okay?”
Batshit Brit, now known as Arthur, pulled a face. “I don’t plan on that happening ever again.” America snorted as Arthur swung a leg over the bike again and nudged the kickstand up with a heel as he turned the key. He frowned as he checked the bike’s vitals.
“Hey, you aren’t gonna just leave me here, are ya?” America pouted, hands on his hips as he glared at Arthur. He turned to look over his shoulder and America was struck by just how green they were. “You’ve got us both lost! I’ve got no idea where to go!”
Arthur sighed and rolled his eyes, turning back to his dashboard, although he kept a corner of his eye turned to America. “Fine. Get on, then.”
“Thanks, Artie!” America beamed at his back and slid on. He wanted to grab him and stroke that bare stomach, but settled on the tops of his thighs. He thought he saw Arthur’s cheeks tinge pink, but it could have just been a trick of the lighting. “Useless brat.”
He leaned his chin on Arthur’s shoulder, secretly trying to repay a few moments from the chase. “Let’s go!”
Unfortunately, unlike America, Arthur seemed unfazed - even a little annoyed. “Where to, idiot?” Maybe a little more than a little annoyed. It made him grin.
“Adventure!” he cried, cheesy and exuberant and perfect. Arthur just smiled and turned the handlebar, causing America to give a thrilled shout and grab his waist.
Exhilaration.
{Double A/N: So the format of this fill is going to follow this pattern for the rest of the story. Two writers, one for England, one for America. England's post will always go first, but they will be posted at the same time. It isn't two separate fills, it's one fill with two POVs. Hope that's not too confusing :)
Also all of our captchas were amazing - the best being 'and spinoffs'}
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You've just made me the happiest girl anon, I've been waiting for a fill like this.
Their personalities are so spot on that I could cry.
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If I didn't already love you two for this fill, I would love you for that. <333
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btw canada is totally going to say 'we named the dog America' YOU DIDN'T HEAR THAT FROM ME
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I know who you are, america!authoranon~~ >DDD No, seriously. I know who you are.
Awesome
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that is even more awesome. YOU SHOULD TOTALLY TELL ME IRL SO I CAN SQUEE MKAY
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