Ball and Chain (2/?) [US/UK/US]
anonymous
November 25 2010, 03:14:37 UTC
With a dramatic sigh, England rubbed his head and grumbled. “I don’t know how you ever coerced me into these terms,” he said angrily, echoing his previous thoughts.
“Rum,” America and France answered in unison.
“Lots of rum,” America added.
“Oh.” Suddenly it made a bit more sense. “Well that’s very cowardly, taking advantage of the inebriated. You should be ashamed.”
France shrugged and shot him a cocky smirk. “You should know better than to drink and gamble. I didn’t force the liquor down your throat.”
“Wouldn’t put it past you, filthy frog,” England muttered and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Will you be relieving us of your company anytime soon?”
At this, France’s eyes lit up. “I think perhaps it’s time for a change of clothing, don’t you?”
England froze, hands stiff in his pockets. “Well, we have to get everything ready first, right?”
Leaning against the couch, France pulled the device from behind his back. A unique set of handcuffs with about a foot of thick chain between each manacle. It glinted menacingly in the light.
In an instant, England’s throat went dry. He coughed awkwardly and stared at the floor, face warming at the mere thought of the hurdles to come.
“I’m certainly ready, and I’m sure Amérique is prepared as well. I think it’s time we begin.” The unbridled joy was blatant in France’s tone.
“I’ll bet you’re loving this, you perverted arse.” England’s hands had subconsciously begun to ball themselves into fists.
France sighed. “You are so intent on playing the victim, my dear Angleterre, but you may recall what happened the last time we gambled.”
The memory of France’s payment held a place of high regard in his mind, amongst many similar memories that made him tingle pleasantly. A dreamy look crossed England’s face as he recounted the humiliating details.
“Man, Germany was pissed,” America chimed in. “It took forever to get those stains out.”
England chuckled blissfully and France gave a haughty toss of his head, trying to maintain an air of dignity and pride.
“I paid my wager. Now it is your turn.” That grin crept up again as he shook the handcuffs. The chain jangled and twisted.
England tensed up and gave an angry grunt, but he grabbed his bag from America all the same.
“You can use the bathroom,” America offered. “I’ll change upstairs.” He sounded almost excited.
“Fantastic,” England mumbled, making his way to the empty room without looking back. He turned on the light and closed the door, and was immediately gripped with panic. The costume wasn’t even out of the suitcase yet.
The mirror above the sink showed all of the anxiety written on his face. What had he gotten himself into?
He stayed perfectly still and tried to calm his nerves. When he was finally able to breathe normally, he started undressing. He managed to get his shirt off, and the sight of his pale chest in the mirror made the anxiety start all over again.
There was a small window on the wall, and for a moment he seriously contemplated the mechanics of squeezing through it. Just a few moments of discomfort, and he could be free. Then he would run away, and shed his responsibilities by going into hiding as an antiques dealer, and disappear from the world of politics forever. He would never have to face a situation like this ever again.
But no, he would never do that. He was too proud to surrender so easily. He was going to spend the next three days in a ridiculous costume, chained to a babbling fool. But at least he would still have his pride.
His arms trembled as he took out his costume: a black half-apron, two odd-looking wrist cuffs and a white pressed collar. It was like something straight out of a sleazy hen’s party.
He took off his belt and trousers, and wrapped the apron around his waist. It wasn’t quite what France had specified, but he’d managed to find something with a bit more coverage, with the hope that it would be overlooked. It was still flimsy and short, but when tied tight it only exposed the side of his left thigh. Really, France was lucky that he was wearing anything similar to what had been stipulated. With a bit of fiddling, he managed to put on the peculiar accessories.
Ball and Chain (3/?) [US/UK/US]
anonymous
November 25 2010, 03:16:24 UTC
He stepped back and looked in the mirror. There he stood a lanky, pasty twig of a man, about to be sentenced to what promised to be the most degrading, frustrating experience of his life. To be handcuffed to a man who was as annoying as he was devastatingly attractive, and for whom England held some very deep, very confusing feelings. There was very little chance that this would end well.
Watching his reflection carefully, he touched his face and traced a frown-line with his thumb. “I am never going to drink again,” he said aloud. It was a hollow lie.
He packed his normal clothes into his luggage and sighed heavily. Sooner or later, he would have to go back out there. With a grimace at his reflection and one last furtive glance at the window, he went back into the living room.
France was waiting, of course, with his most patronizing leer. England huffed and crossed his arms, blushing a deep crimson as France circled him. Finally, France nodded his approval, to which England narrowed his eyes.
When England heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs, his breath hitched. His eyes stared straight down at his feet. As soon as America entered the room, France let out a passionate growl.
“My, isn’t this something,” France said, prowling around America like a hungry lion.
“Thanks! I’ve had them for a long time. They’re really worn in and comfy,” America replied, missing France’s lustful connotations entirely.
“Don’t you want to see, Angleterre?” France purred tauntingly.
England refused. The most he could see was a blurry outline in his periphery, and he intended to keep it that way for as long as he possibly could. He didn’t have to look to know that his handsome young companion was the very epitome of temptation.
“What if one of us has to go to the toilet?” England asked, leading them as far away from the subject as possible.
France sidled back over to him and leaned inappropriately close. “This is not my problem,” he said with aggravating smugness.
England could sense France’s wandering hands and promptly slapped them away. “Can I wear my pants, at least?”
“Non. But you may remove as much clothing as you’d like,” he responded melodically.
England rolled his eyes and stopped asked questions.
France stood back, pulled out the handcuffs once more and gestured for America to stand close to England.
Slowly, as if it were the most painful experience in the world, England held out his right arm, extending his wrist. America mirrored this with his left arm. France put one manacle on America’s wrist, touching a bit more than was strictly necessary, in England’s opinion.
Then England watched, seeing as if in slow motion, the shining metal wrap around his own wrist. The clicking of the ratchet as its teeth locked in place was amplified in his mind, echoing throughout the house. And then, suddenly, it was over. They were bound together.
Although the chain looked reasonably long on its own, in practice they had very little distance between them. England felt numb.
“I would love to stay and watch, but I fear that our Angleterre may suffer performance troubles. I’ll return in precisely three days. Au revoir.”
France left rather abruptly after that, before England could fully process his situation. “Wait, performance troubles?” he thought to himself as France shut the door behind him. “How dare he insinuate such a- that filthy, smelly -“
“So…” America interrupted his mental fury. England had to stop himself from looking directly at the man who was now attached to his wrist.
Don’t look. For the love of all that is good and decent, don’t look.
America laughed nervously, shuffling his feet a bit. “…now what?” The question was so innocent, yet so loaded with possibilities.
Oh my! This is superb! I'm so excited for this story, you have set it up incredibly well, I love all the details and how England wont even look at America. You've captured their personalities perfectly!! And Frances little comment at the end! Hoho!
OP is so very happy with how this is going!
Thank you for taking the time to fill, I'm looking forward to reading more! XD
Author!Anon
anonymous
November 26 2010, 12:32:15 UTC
I'm glad you're happy with it so far! It may be a little slow-going in the beginning, but hopefully it'll build up convincingly. I think it's gonna be kinda long. XD
But yeah, thanks for requesting it! I'll try to post more soon.
That's no problem at all, i'm all for plot and making this convincing! Also a fan of long stories so double yay!
Thank you for showing an interest, really. Can't wait to read more, but i understand that there are always other commitments/rl, so no rush, op is patient :)
Re: Ball and Chain (3/?) [US/UK/US]
anonymous
November 26 2010, 10:47:46 UTC
Man, this looks awesome! I like your characterization of everyone, England's fear and anxiety that for once aren't treated too over-the-top and feel real (and I actually felt a bit bad for him, seeing as the other two are consipiring and he's the only one in the dark), and America's maybe-pretend (maybe not) innocence and cheer and nervousness, and of course, your France <3<3<3 (he was probably my favourite, actually; you captured everything about him in a very short and fast appearance)
Ball and Chain (4/?)
anonymous
December 7 2010, 00:00:28 UTC
I'd wanted to finish the first day before posting again, but that's not gonna happen right now. So here's a little bit more for the time being. ---
England looked at the floor and started fiddling with the string holding his apron up. It was the start of a wonderful new habit, compulsively checking his flimsy clothes to avoid an epic wardrobe malfunction.
Truthfully, all he wanted was to shut off all the lights, find the darkest room in the house and sit in silence for the next 72 hours. “I’ve no idea,” he finally responded.
America repeated his response with a murmur. It felt like the chain was getting gradually heavier. “Are you tired? Cause I don’t mind taking a nap, if you want. I do it all the time.”
“No, I slept on the plane,” England lied.
“Okay.” America shifted, and England could feel the echo of movement through the chain. “Are you hungry? We could make sandwiches. OH, WE COULD BARBEQUE!” America waved his arms excitedly, seeming to forget all about the handcuffs. England’s arm was abruptly yanked, and he yelped at the pain.
“AMERICA!” he yelled, rubbing his wrist as America cringed apologetically. “I am attached to you now, so for heaven’s sake would you please try to control your limbs! I am not going to hospital wearing this.” He had a sudden sinking feeling that no matter how many times he gave America this reminder, someone was inevitably going to get injured regardless.
“I’m really sorry! I didn’t even know I was doing it,” America said, biting his lip softly.
It was at this point that England realized he couldn’t prevent himself from looking at America forever. His avoidance would become suspect.
Just the face. Nothing more.
America appeared to be genuinely regretful, and England’s anger softened. “It’s alright. Just keep the gesticulations to a minimum, please.”
“Keep my what to a minimum?”
England sighed and rubbed his forehead, consciously using his left hand. “Please, just pay attention to your body. I’d like to get through this with all my extremit- body parts intact.”
America winked in that charming way he occasionally managed. “Gotcha. Sandwiches it is.”
What? How on earth did he reach that conclusion?
America started to lead him towards the kitchen, and England found it increasingly difficult to avoid staring at the rest of his body. His concentration was so intense that was jerked around by the chain every time he fell behind.
In the kitchen, America opened the fridge and leaned down, almost pulling England straight into the fridge door. He winced at England’s sharp exclamation of pain.
“Sorry. Forgot again,” America said sheepishly, raising his wrist out over the top of the door.
England glared and rubbed his shoulder where the door had attacked him, wondering how many bruises he would acquire over the coming days.
As America gathered the components for their lunch, England was forced to perform a sort of dance, twisting about and trying to keep up while America moved from fridge to cupboard to counter. He’d never realized how many movements, both subtle and sweeping, were required to complete such a simple task. And surely, the fact that it was America didn’t help.
America filled the vacuum of awkward silence with his idle chit-chat, asking meaningless questions, and acting as though he cared about the answers.
“What movies did they have on the plane?” “Have you seen that new show yet?” “Isn’t this some crazy weather?” Blah blah blah, vapid white-noise, etc.
It all flowed through England’s mind like water. His patience had already been used up, and it was just the beginning. He answered every question curtly, somewhat hoping that America would get the hint that he was Not in the Mood for inane chatter. He had no such luck. His focus started to stray as he stood at the counter, wondering how it was that a person could use both hands so vigorously to make a single sandwich.
He shivered when his stomach touched the countertop, and rested his elbows on the smooth surface, allowing his hand to be moved around at America’s whim. As America was still chirping away, and couldn’t be talking about anything very important, his mind wandered. Before he could stop himself, he was staring at America’s stomach.
Ball and Chain (5/?)
anonymous
December 7 2010, 00:02:57 UTC
The chaps hung low on his hips. Very, very low. He couldn’t help but notice the arches of his sculpted hips jutting out, and imagine how his palms might feel pushing against them.. The slant of his figure drew England’s eye to his abdomen, and rows of tanned muscles that were completely exposed and so very close to him. All that skin, just begging to be touched.
“…on your sandwich?”
“Hm?” England glanced up.
“I asked what you wanted on yours. Is something wrong, England?” America was holding a knife covered in mustard next to his monstrously tall sandwich.
Wrong? He was stuck in this house, almost naked, thinking about America’s perfect hips. Everything was wrong.
“No, not really,” England replied. “Of course, these circumstances are a bit stressful. Obviously.”
America nodded and started cutting his sandwich down the middle. A smile grew on his lips.
It was deeply irritating. “What are you so happy about, then?” England asked.
America chuckled and shook his head. “Nothin’.”
“No, you’ve been smiling like a naughty child since I arrived. Is this amusing to you?” England’s tone became slightly dangerous.
America worked the knife through a pickle and the juice squirted on England’s arm, much to his disgust. “Actually, yeah. I think it’s pretty hilarious, you having to wear that outfit. Maybe you should try, y’know, not taking things so seriously all the time. It’s not that bad. You might even have a good time, if you take that stick out of your ass.”
England scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Someone has to take things seriously. Lord knows you don’t. And willful ignorance does not automatically mean I’ll have a ‘good time’.” England waited for America to respond, but then filled in the gap himself. “Besides, I do have my own fun from time to time. I’m not that severe.”
“Right. I just think you’d be happier if you could laugh at yourself sometimes.”
England gaped. “Laugh at myself? Have you ever seen my humor? I’m more than capable of laughing at myself. I just know when it’s appropriate. This is nothing more than an excuse for France to be a complete bastard, and a huge waste of my time.”
America shrugged. “Well, I’ll try to stay out of your way, then.”
The comment came off almost as a sarcastic quip. But…no. America wasn’t that aware.
Piece by piece, the supplies were passed to England. He assembled something that seemed edible, though he couldn’t help but notice the looks of disgust coming from America’s half of the counter. Both completed sandwiches were placed aside so that America could put the perishables back in the fridge without ruining all their hard work. England had to side-step the fridge door to avoid getting hit again, and waited angrily while America put the food back, not at all mesmerized by the way the stark light shone on his muscles.
They sat down at the table with their respective plates in hand. It was England’s first time sitting down on a cold wooden chair in his new ensemble, and it was not an experience he would soon forget. His backside eventually warmed up, but the process of trying to eat with America under their constraints proved to be substantially more difficult than he had imaged.
Of course, he had not necessarily imagined that America would build a giant sandwich that could barely fit in his mouth. Every time America lifted his hands, England’s wrist would be tugged on violently. He quickly switched hands to eat, but it was aggravating to feel the constant pulling at his wrist, and he purposely started to pull back. America was about to take another bite when the sandwich was jerked away from his face by England’s tugging. With an irritated glare, he also pulled back, and England was nearly heaved right off his seat.
Ball and Chain (6/?)
anonymous
December 7 2010, 00:04:39 UTC
Their struggle continued, and by the time they were finished eating, both men seemed exceptionally aggravated. They went into the living room and sat on the couch with a moody disposition. Television seemed like the most logical activity, since neither of them was particularly in the mood to talk. America clicked through various channels before settling on some mindless mid-day action movie. On the couch, they were allowed a bit of distance if they kept their arms outstretched. It was ideal for the time being, and England allowed himself to watch the TV and become distracted.
They sat in relative silence for a while, but after some time America started filling the advertisement gaps with his persistent commentary. When they got up for drinks, England quickly became aware of the way he positioned himself when standing up or sitting down, lest create more embarrassment for himself.
Once England was accustomed to the situation, and fell into his normal habit of ignoring America’s rambling, it wasn’t actually that bad. He wished that he’d brought something to read, but he hadn’t exactly been focusing on entertainment when packing. There was a chance that America might have some books hidden away in his large house, but then again…probably not. He wouldn’t have anything interesting, at least.
After several hours, at least one of which was spent watching a show that seemed to operate on the sole premise of “look how many horrific explosions we can fit into half an hour”, England was feeling restless. Their inactivity seemed to be affecting America as well, who was more twitchy than normal, but it wasn’t as though they had many options. They were pretty much limited to household activities, as England refused to even step into the backyard.
“We could play a game,” America suggested.
“What? Like hide-and-seek? Oh yes, that’ll be a riot.”
America waved his hand dismissively. “Naw, like a board game. I have a shitload of games. I’m sure we could even find something that you would like.”
“Oh. Right. It could be fun, I suppose. Better than sitting around here all day.”
“You just need mental stimulation,” America said with a grin, getting up from the couch.
England followed suit, ignoring the way the brown leather formed perfectly to America’s thighs when his muscles flexed, and the effect of hearing him say “stimulation”, and letting himself be pulled by America’s force.
They walked down a dark hallway until America stopped in front of a door that England hadn’t opened before. It wasn’t as though he’d ever spent a great deal of time exploring America’s home.
He couldn’t see inside, until America pulled a long, thin chain that switched on the light. Suddenly, there was a landscape of color in front of his eyes. It was a walk-in closet filled with board games, some of which appeared to be several decades old. Some of them were torn, with lids that barely held together, and others looked like they had yet to be touched.
“So…what do you feel like playing?” America asked innocently, seeming to take no notice of England’s awe. A small green Monopoly piece served as the end of the light-pull, and it brushed gently across America’s shoulder.
England was overwhelmed. He glanced around, but had no idea where to start. “Erm…” He tapped his chin with his free hand and stood on his toes, where he could just manage to make out the top row of games.
And then he had an idea. A silly, indulgent idea. He chose the farthest box he could see. “I think I’d like to play…Mousetrap.” It was obvious that his decision Not to Look hadn’t lasted long. What was the harm in a little more looking? Nothing terrible had happened yet.
Ball and Chain (7/?)
anonymous
December 7 2010, 00:07:03 UTC
“Ah, okay. Hold tight, this’ll take some work.” America walked as close as he could to the shelves and stood on his tippy toes. England stood back as much as possible to get the most ideal view of America’s behind he ever could have imagined. America was wearing dark blue boxer-briefs that hugged every contour perfectly. England’s mind started to melt into complete incoherence, studying the delicious curves of flesh in front of him while America strained his right arm over the top shelf to grab the box. He was on the verge of feeling guilty when America rested back on his heels.
“Can’t quite get it yet,” America said, rolling his shoulders and stretching. “Gimme another shot, though! I can do it.”
Any commentary on England’s part was effectively silenced by the movement of muscles in America’s back.
Ever the savior, America went in for another try. The second attempt consisted of America clearing part of a lower shelf and using it to hold his knee up, in a completely ill-advised maneuver that would have been dangerous with both arms free. He strained to pull himself up, and his left hand slammed down onto the top shelf for leverage. England’s arm was suddenly tugged in the air, but he was lacking the brain-power necessary to protest, completely entranced by America’s stunning assets. It only took a moment of America hoisting himself up before he managed to grab the box. England was impressed that he’d gotten to it without breaking anything, or anyone.
America whirled around with the box in his hands and started to carry it back to the living room. Still not entirely capable of speech, England pulled on the small plastic house to turn off the light, and nearly stumbled into the door.
The box was set down on the coffee table and America sat down fast, forcing England to bend inappropriately.
“Hey…what’re you doing?” America asked, face going slightly pink.
England used his free arm to hold the front of the apron down. “I’m really not sure I should sit on the floor like this,” he explained, voice soft with mild embarrassment.
“Oh! Sorry, I didn’t think about that.” America leapt up like a spring and started rushing to a nearby closet.
“YOU DON’T HAVE TO DO EVERYTHING SO FAST,” England bellowed along the way, doing his best not to trip as the world moved around him chaotically.
America slowed down as he reached for the closet door. “Heh, oops. I guess I’m just used to doing stuff a certain way.”
“Like a gorilla on meth?” England asked, rubbing at his wrist again.
America took out a folded green blanket. “Well, I definitely don’t shuffle around like I’m in a retirement home.”
England narrowed his eyes as they walked back, but took a seat when America had laid out the blanket on the floor.
“You know, America,” England said, struggling to find a comfortable position, “we don’t have to do what the smelly pervert said. It’s not as though he’s monitoring us. Right?” He had the sudden urge to check for hidden cameras. “R-right?”
“Yeah. No. What?” America was already starting to dump out all the pieces of the game. They clattered against the glossy wooden surface.
“Well, if you think about it, we don’t actually have to wear these ridiculous things. We’d keep the handcuffs, obviously, but I’m certain we could find something more comfortable to wear.” England had a sudden surge of hope, with the chance that his punishment might be improved, if America would cooperate.
America fixed him with a peculiarly cold stare. It was not a look that one saw from him often.
“England. You don’t back out of a bet.” His words were dripping with disapproval. “That is not cool.”
England was somewhat stunned by the severity of America’s reaction. “Alright, don’t persecute me. It was only a suggestion,” he said softly, shifting his legs again.
For another moment or so, America watched him with scorn. However, he soon went back to the game, which was thoroughly scattered across the table. England moved as close as he could, still trying to find a position that didn’t hurt or expose too much. When America started using both hands to arrange the game pieces, England was all but forced to help.
I LOVE IT! It is coming along so nicely, i have really enjoyed this update! The sandwiches part made me laugh and poor England really is struggling with that outfit - hohoho! I loved Americas reaction to his suggestion to change clothes and how he is still bumbling along as normal and England is just getting dragged along here, there and everywhere.
Thank you thank you for taking the time to update this <3 i look forward to more!
“Rum,” America and France answered in unison.
“Lots of rum,” America added.
“Oh.” Suddenly it made a bit more sense. “Well that’s very cowardly, taking advantage of the inebriated. You should be ashamed.”
France shrugged and shot him a cocky smirk. “You should know better than to drink and gamble. I didn’t force the liquor down your throat.”
“Wouldn’t put it past you, filthy frog,” England muttered and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Will you be relieving us of your company anytime soon?”
At this, France’s eyes lit up. “I think perhaps it’s time for a change of clothing, don’t you?”
England froze, hands stiff in his pockets.
“Well, we have to get everything ready first, right?”
Leaning against the couch, France pulled the device from behind his back. A unique set of handcuffs with about a foot of thick chain between each manacle. It glinted menacingly in the light.
In an instant, England’s throat went dry. He coughed awkwardly and stared at the floor, face warming at the mere thought of the hurdles to come.
“I’m certainly ready, and I’m sure Amérique is prepared as well. I think it’s time we begin.” The unbridled joy was blatant in France’s tone.
“I’ll bet you’re loving this, you perverted arse.” England’s hands had subconsciously begun to ball themselves into fists.
France sighed. “You are so intent on playing the victim, my dear Angleterre, but you may recall what happened the last time we gambled.”
The memory of France’s payment held a place of high regard in his mind, amongst many similar memories that made him tingle pleasantly. A dreamy look crossed England’s face as he recounted the humiliating details.
“Man, Germany was pissed,” America chimed in. “It took forever to get those stains out.”
England chuckled blissfully and France gave a haughty toss of his head, trying to maintain an air of dignity and pride.
“I paid my wager. Now it is your turn.” That grin crept up again as he shook the handcuffs. The chain jangled and twisted.
England tensed up and gave an angry grunt, but he grabbed his bag from America all the same.
“You can use the bathroom,” America offered. “I’ll change upstairs.” He sounded almost excited.
“Fantastic,” England mumbled, making his way to the empty room without looking back. He turned on the light and closed the door, and was immediately gripped with panic. The costume wasn’t even out of the suitcase yet.
The mirror above the sink showed all of the anxiety written on his face. What had he gotten himself into?
He stayed perfectly still and tried to calm his nerves. When he was finally able to breathe normally, he started undressing. He managed to get his shirt off, and the sight of his pale chest in the mirror made the anxiety start all over again.
There was a small window on the wall, and for a moment he seriously contemplated the mechanics of squeezing through it. Just a few moments of discomfort, and he could be free. Then he would run away, and shed his responsibilities by going into hiding as an antiques dealer, and disappear from the world of politics forever. He would never have to face a situation like this ever again.
But no, he would never do that. He was too proud to surrender so easily.
He was going to spend the next three days in a ridiculous costume, chained to a babbling fool. But at least he would still have his pride.
His arms trembled as he took out his costume: a black half-apron, two odd-looking wrist cuffs and a white pressed collar. It was like something straight out of a sleazy hen’s party.
He took off his belt and trousers, and wrapped the apron around his waist. It wasn’t quite what France had specified, but he’d managed to find something with a bit more coverage, with the hope that it would be overlooked. It was still flimsy and short, but when tied tight it only exposed the side of his left thigh. Really, France was lucky that he was wearing anything similar to what had been stipulated. With a bit of fiddling, he managed to put on the peculiar accessories.
----
Hen's party = bachelorette party
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Watching his reflection carefully, he touched his face and traced a frown-line with his thumb.
“I am never going to drink again,” he said aloud. It was a hollow lie.
He packed his normal clothes into his luggage and sighed heavily. Sooner or later, he would have to go back out there. With a grimace at his reflection and one last furtive glance at the window, he went back into the living room.
France was waiting, of course, with his most patronizing leer. England huffed and crossed his arms, blushing a deep crimson as France circled him. Finally, France nodded his approval, to which England narrowed his eyes.
When England heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs, his breath hitched. His eyes stared straight down at his feet. As soon as America entered the room, France let out a passionate growl.
“My, isn’t this something,” France said, prowling around America like a hungry lion.
“Thanks! I’ve had them for a long time. They’re really worn in and comfy,” America replied, missing France’s lustful connotations entirely.
“Don’t you want to see, Angleterre?” France purred tauntingly.
England refused. The most he could see was a blurry outline in his periphery, and he intended to keep it that way for as long as he possibly could. He didn’t have to look to know that his handsome young companion was the very epitome of temptation.
“What if one of us has to go to the toilet?” England asked, leading them as far away from the subject as possible.
France sidled back over to him and leaned inappropriately close. “This is not my problem,” he said with aggravating smugness.
England could sense France’s wandering hands and promptly slapped them away. “Can I wear my pants, at least?”
“Non. But you may remove as much clothing as you’d like,” he responded melodically.
England rolled his eyes and stopped asked questions.
France stood back, pulled out the handcuffs once more and gestured for America to stand close to England.
Slowly, as if it were the most painful experience in the world, England held out his right arm, extending his wrist. America mirrored this with his left arm. France put one manacle on America’s wrist, touching a bit more than was strictly necessary, in England’s opinion.
Then England watched, seeing as if in slow motion, the shining metal wrap around his own wrist. The clicking of the ratchet as its teeth locked in place was amplified in his mind, echoing throughout the house. And then, suddenly, it was over. They were bound together.
Although the chain looked reasonably long on its own, in practice they had very little distance between them. England felt numb.
“I would love to stay and watch, but I fear that our Angleterre may suffer performance troubles. I’ll return in precisely three days. Au revoir.”
France left rather abruptly after that, before England could fully process his situation. “Wait, performance troubles?” he thought to himself as France shut the door behind him. “How dare he insinuate such a- that filthy, smelly -“
“So…” America interrupted his mental fury. England had to stop himself from looking directly at the man who was now attached to his wrist.
Don’t look. For the love of all that is good and decent, don’t look.
America laughed nervously, shuffling his feet a bit.
“…now what?” The question was so innocent, yet so loaded with possibilities.
What indeed.
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OP is so very happy with how this is going!
Thank you for taking the time to fill, I'm looking forward to reading more! XD
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But yeah, thanks for requesting it! I'll try to post more soon.
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Thank you for showing an interest, really. Can't wait to read more, but i understand that there are always other commitments/rl, so no rush, op is patient :)
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I like the your pacing--it's nice and brisk and HAHAHA the way you write their banter is great!
Can't wait to read more--this looks so good already :)
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England looked at the floor and started fiddling with the string holding his apron up. It was the start of a wonderful new habit, compulsively checking his flimsy clothes to avoid an epic wardrobe malfunction.
Truthfully, all he wanted was to shut off all the lights, find the darkest room in the house and sit in silence for the next 72 hours. “I’ve no idea,” he finally responded.
America repeated his response with a murmur. It felt like the chain was getting gradually heavier. “Are you tired? Cause I don’t mind taking a nap, if you want. I do it all the time.”
“No, I slept on the plane,” England lied.
“Okay.” America shifted, and England could feel the echo of movement through the chain. “Are you hungry? We could make sandwiches. OH, WE COULD BARBEQUE!” America waved his arms excitedly, seeming to forget all about the handcuffs. England’s arm was abruptly yanked, and he yelped at the pain.
“AMERICA!” he yelled, rubbing his wrist as America cringed apologetically. “I am attached to you now, so for heaven’s sake would you please try to control your limbs! I am not going to hospital wearing this.” He had a sudden sinking feeling that no matter how many times he gave America this reminder, someone was inevitably going to get injured regardless.
“I’m really sorry! I didn’t even know I was doing it,” America said, biting his lip softly.
It was at this point that England realized he couldn’t prevent himself from looking at America forever. His avoidance would become suspect.
Just the face. Nothing more.
America appeared to be genuinely regretful, and England’s anger softened. “It’s alright. Just keep the gesticulations to a minimum, please.”
“Keep my what to a minimum?”
England sighed and rubbed his forehead, consciously using his left hand. “Please, just pay attention to your body. I’d like to get through this with all my extremit- body parts intact.”
America winked in that charming way he occasionally managed. “Gotcha. Sandwiches it is.”
What? How on earth did he reach that conclusion?
America started to lead him towards the kitchen, and England found it increasingly difficult to avoid staring at the rest of his body. His concentration was so intense that was jerked around by the chain every time he fell behind.
In the kitchen, America opened the fridge and leaned down, almost pulling England straight into the fridge door. He winced at England’s sharp exclamation of pain.
“Sorry. Forgot again,” America said sheepishly, raising his wrist out over the top of the door.
England glared and rubbed his shoulder where the door had attacked him, wondering how many bruises he would acquire over the coming days.
As America gathered the components for their lunch, England was forced to perform a sort of dance, twisting about and trying to keep up while America moved from fridge to cupboard to counter. He’d never realized how many movements, both subtle and sweeping, were required to complete such a simple task. And surely, the fact that it was America didn’t help.
America filled the vacuum of awkward silence with his idle chit-chat, asking meaningless questions, and acting as though he cared about the answers.
“What movies did they have on the plane?” “Have you seen that new show yet?” “Isn’t this some crazy weather?” Blah blah blah, vapid white-noise, etc.
It all flowed through England’s mind like water. His patience had already been used up, and it was just the beginning. He answered every question curtly, somewhat hoping that America would get the hint that he was Not in the Mood for inane chatter. He had no such luck. His focus started to stray as he stood at the counter, wondering how it was that a person could use both hands so vigorously to make a single sandwich.
He shivered when his stomach touched the countertop, and rested his elbows on the smooth surface, allowing his hand to be moved around at America’s whim. As America was still chirping away, and couldn’t be talking about anything very important, his mind wandered. Before he could stop himself, he was staring at America’s stomach.
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“…on your sandwich?”
“Hm?” England glanced up.
“I asked what you wanted on yours. Is something wrong, England?” America was holding a knife covered in mustard next to his monstrously tall sandwich.
Wrong? He was stuck in this house, almost naked, thinking about America’s perfect hips. Everything was wrong.
“No, not really,” England replied. “Of course, these circumstances are a bit stressful. Obviously.”
America nodded and started cutting his sandwich down the middle. A smile grew on his lips.
It was deeply irritating. “What are you so happy about, then?” England asked.
America chuckled and shook his head. “Nothin’.”
“No, you’ve been smiling like a naughty child since I arrived. Is this amusing to you?” England’s tone became slightly dangerous.
America worked the knife through a pickle and the juice squirted on England’s arm, much to his disgust. “Actually, yeah. I think it’s pretty hilarious, you having to wear that outfit. Maybe you should try, y’know, not taking things so seriously all the time. It’s not that bad. You might even have a good time, if you take that stick out of your ass.”
England scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Someone has to take things seriously. Lord knows you don’t. And willful ignorance does not automatically mean I’ll have a ‘good time’.” England waited for America to respond, but then filled in the gap himself. “Besides, I do have my own fun from time to time. I’m not that severe.”
“Right. I just think you’d be happier if you could laugh at yourself sometimes.”
England gaped. “Laugh at myself? Have you ever seen my humor? I’m more than capable of laughing at myself. I just know when it’s appropriate. This is nothing more than an excuse for France to be a complete bastard, and a huge waste of my time.”
America shrugged. “Well, I’ll try to stay out of your way, then.”
The comment came off almost as a sarcastic quip. But…no. America wasn’t that aware.
Piece by piece, the supplies were passed to England. He assembled something that seemed edible, though he couldn’t help but notice the looks of disgust coming from America’s half of the counter. Both completed sandwiches were placed aside so that America could put the perishables back in the fridge without ruining all their hard work. England had to side-step the fridge door to avoid getting hit again, and waited angrily while America put the food back, not at all mesmerized by the way the stark light shone on his muscles.
They sat down at the table with their respective plates in hand. It was England’s first time sitting down on a cold wooden chair in his new ensemble, and it was not an experience he would soon forget. His backside eventually warmed up, but the process of trying to eat with America under their constraints proved to be substantially more difficult than he had imaged.
Of course, he had not necessarily imagined that America would build a giant sandwich that could barely fit in his mouth. Every time America lifted his hands, England’s wrist would be tugged on violently. He quickly switched hands to eat, but it was aggravating to feel the constant pulling at his wrist, and he purposely started to pull back. America was about to take another bite when the sandwich was jerked away from his face by England’s tugging. With an irritated glare, he also pulled back, and England was nearly heaved right off his seat.
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They sat in relative silence for a while, but after some time America started filling the advertisement gaps with his persistent commentary. When they got up for drinks, England quickly became aware of the way he positioned himself when standing up or sitting down, lest create more embarrassment for himself.
Once England was accustomed to the situation, and fell into his normal habit of ignoring America’s rambling, it wasn’t actually that bad. He wished that he’d brought something to read, but he hadn’t exactly been focusing on entertainment when packing. There was a chance that America might have some books hidden away in his large house, but then again…probably not. He wouldn’t have anything interesting, at least.
After several hours, at least one of which was spent watching a show that seemed to operate on the sole premise of “look how many horrific explosions we can fit into half an hour”, England was feeling restless. Their inactivity seemed to be affecting America as well, who was more twitchy than normal, but it wasn’t as though they had many options. They were pretty much limited to household activities, as England refused to even step into the backyard.
“We could play a game,” America suggested.
“What? Like hide-and-seek? Oh yes, that’ll be a riot.”
America waved his hand dismissively. “Naw, like a board game. I have a shitload of games. I’m sure we could even find something that you would like.”
“Oh. Right. It could be fun, I suppose. Better than sitting around here all day.”
“You just need mental stimulation,” America said with a grin, getting up from the couch.
England followed suit, ignoring the way the brown leather formed perfectly to America’s thighs when his muscles flexed, and the effect of hearing him say “stimulation”, and letting himself be pulled by America’s force.
They walked down a dark hallway until America stopped in front of a door that England hadn’t opened before. It wasn’t as though he’d ever spent a great deal of time exploring America’s home.
He couldn’t see inside, until America pulled a long, thin chain that switched on the light. Suddenly, there was a landscape of color in front of his eyes. It was a walk-in closet filled with board games, some of which appeared to be several decades old. Some of them were torn, with lids that barely held together, and others looked like they had yet to be touched.
“So…what do you feel like playing?” America asked innocently, seeming to take no notice of England’s awe. A small green Monopoly piece served as the end of the light-pull, and it brushed gently across America’s shoulder.
England was overwhelmed. He glanced around, but had no idea where to start. “Erm…” He tapped his chin with his free hand and stood on his toes, where he could just manage to make out the top row of games.
And then he had an idea. A silly, indulgent idea. He chose the farthest box he could see. “I think I’d like to play…Mousetrap.” It was obvious that his decision Not to Look hadn’t lasted long. What was the harm in a little more looking? Nothing terrible had happened yet.
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“Can’t quite get it yet,” America said, rolling his shoulders and stretching. “Gimme another shot, though! I can do it.”
Any commentary on England’s part was effectively silenced by the movement of muscles in America’s back.
Ever the savior, America went in for another try. The second attempt consisted of America clearing part of a lower shelf and using it to hold his knee up, in a completely ill-advised maneuver that would have been dangerous with both arms free. He strained to pull himself up, and his left hand slammed down onto the top shelf for leverage. England’s arm was suddenly tugged in the air, but he was lacking the brain-power necessary to protest, completely entranced by America’s stunning assets. It only took a moment of America hoisting himself up before he managed to grab the box. England was impressed that he’d gotten to it without breaking anything, or anyone.
America whirled around with the box in his hands and started to carry it back to the living room. Still not entirely capable of speech, England pulled on the small plastic house to turn off the light, and nearly stumbled into the door.
The box was set down on the coffee table and America sat down fast, forcing England to bend inappropriately.
“Hey…what’re you doing?” America asked, face going slightly pink.
England used his free arm to hold the front of the apron down. “I’m really not sure I should sit on the floor like this,” he explained, voice soft with mild embarrassment.
“Oh! Sorry, I didn’t think about that.” America leapt up like a spring and started rushing to a nearby closet.
“YOU DON’T HAVE TO DO EVERYTHING SO FAST,” England bellowed along the way, doing his best not to trip as the world moved around him chaotically.
America slowed down as he reached for the closet door. “Heh, oops. I guess I’m just used to doing stuff a certain way.”
“Like a gorilla on meth?” England asked, rubbing at his wrist again.
America took out a folded green blanket. “Well, I definitely don’t shuffle around like I’m in a retirement home.”
England narrowed his eyes as they walked back, but took a seat when America had laid out the blanket on the floor.
“You know, America,” England said, struggling to find a comfortable position, “we don’t have to do what the smelly pervert said. It’s not as though he’s monitoring us. Right?” He had the sudden urge to check for hidden cameras. “R-right?”
“Yeah. No. What?” America was already starting to dump out all the pieces of the game. They clattered against the glossy wooden surface.
“Well, if you think about it, we don’t actually have to wear these ridiculous things. We’d keep the handcuffs, obviously, but I’m certain we could find something more comfortable to wear.” England had a sudden surge of hope, with the chance that his punishment might be improved, if America would cooperate.
America fixed him with a peculiarly cold stare. It was not a look that one saw from him often.
“England. You don’t back out of a bet.” His words were dripping with disapproval. “That is not cool.”
England was somewhat stunned by the severity of America’s reaction. “Alright, don’t persecute me. It was only a suggestion,” he said softly, shifting his legs again.
For another moment or so, America watched him with scorn. However, he soon went back to the game, which was thoroughly scattered across the table. England moved as close as he could, still trying to find a position that didn’t hurt or expose too much. When America started using both hands to arrange the game pieces, England was all but forced to help.
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It is coming along so nicely, i have really enjoyed this update! The sandwiches part made me laugh and poor England really is struggling with that outfit - hohoho! I loved Americas reaction to his suggestion to change clothes and how he is still bumbling along as normal and England is just getting dragged along here, there and everywhere.
Thank you thank you for taking the time to update this <3 i look forward to more!
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Oh, this was great. I am truly amused--so much fun. I would pay good money to see this with my own eyes, lol.
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