So, this is what it's come to. You've been tied to a chair in your own private room by England, who is holding a thin lacquered pipe inches away from your mouth. His idiot lackey France is standing in a nearby corner as he watches your every move.
England comes even closer and you can feel desperation setting in. You thrash around wildly, hoping to knock the pipe away or maybe knock England away or something, anything besides this. The ropes creak in protest and you just barely manage to stand on trembling legs before a rough hand sends you sprawling to the floor.
"I didn't want to do it this way, Wang, but you're being difficult as usual. Francis, if you please?" England says, glaring down at you. You glare back, matching his anger measure for measure.
You snarl as you watch France move from his spot against the far wall and approach you. There's no way this damn effeminate lǎo wài[1] will get the best of you, even if your hands are tied together. He seems to be smart enough to sense your intent as he backs off slightly.
"What's the matter, you imbecile? He's laying on the floor, hands tied to his sides, and all you have to do is stick this in his mouth!" England snaps, waving the pipe around in the air as he gestures towards you in frustration.
You look at France and bare your teeth in an ugly smile. He pales.
"Mon ami, I am a lover, not a fighter. If you want someone to do your dirty work, look elsewhere," France sniffs as he walks back to his place at the corner.
"Fine, you moron. I'll do this myself."
Suddenly England is sitting on your chest, his knees straddling your sides, and you choke as the metal stem of the pipe is jammed into your mouth, the tip of it jabbing against your palate. You cough and struggle as you hear him curse and feel his fingers digging into your jaw to keep it still.
The fight seems to go on for hours, but finally, you give up. You can feel your lungs burn as your heart pounds in your chest and sweat trickles down the collar of your cheongsam to slide against your spine. England is panting just as loudly as you are, but his green eyes are bright with triumph as he orders you to clench the pipe between your teeth.
You shoot him the dirtiest look you can muster, but obey. The sound of a match striking flint startles you and you can feel your eyes widen in surprise before the acrid smoke makes them run with tears.
"Come, come, give it a suck," England tells you. You cough at the sickly bitter taste as you suck in and smoke comes flying out of your mouth, but as soon as you catch your breath, you suck at the pipe again. It feels good, so, so good, and you feel as if you're floating away. The ache in your jaw caused by England's fingers is gone.
You laugh, exhaling a long cloud of smoke that drifts from your lips to the ceiling, before taking one last suck as England takes the pipe away. A whimper escapes from your throat and you look at him pitifully.
"There's a good lad," England says, smiling as he gives your face a gentle pat. You watch as he turns to France with a scowl. "See, you idiot? Your dangerous tiger is made out of nothing but paper. Now help me get him to bed."
Once they get you to the bed and untie you, you are left alone in your room with the pipe. It doesn't really matter that they left you like this; after all, you've got your new friend and your new friend is all you really need.
When you are done with your first smoke, you fall into a deep and dream filled sleep, a smile on your face.
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It's Not A Habit [2/?]
(Anonymous) 2009-03-29 11:02 pm (UTC)(link)November 13, 1860.
So, this is what it's come to. You've been tied to a chair in your own private room by England, who is holding a thin lacquered pipe inches away from your mouth. His idiot lackey France is standing in a nearby corner as he watches your every move.
England comes even closer and you can feel desperation setting in. You thrash around wildly, hoping to knock the pipe away or maybe knock England away or something, anything besides this. The ropes creak in protest and you just barely manage to stand on trembling legs before a rough hand sends you sprawling to the floor.
"I didn't want to do it this way, Wang, but you're being difficult as usual. Francis, if you please?" England says, glaring down at you. You glare back, matching his anger measure for measure.
You snarl as you watch France move from his spot against the far wall and approach you. There's no way this damn effeminate lǎo wài[1] will get the best of you, even if your hands are tied together. He seems to be smart enough to sense your intent as he backs off slightly.
"What's the matter, you imbecile? He's laying on the floor, hands tied to his sides, and all you have to do is stick this in his mouth!" England snaps, waving the pipe around in the air as he gestures towards you in frustration.
You look at France and bare your teeth in an ugly smile. He pales.
"Mon ami, I am a lover, not a fighter. If you want someone to do your dirty work, look elsewhere," France sniffs as he walks back to his place at the corner.
"Fine, you moron. I'll do this myself."
Suddenly England is sitting on your chest, his knees straddling your sides, and you choke as the metal stem of the pipe is jammed into your mouth, the tip of it jabbing against your palate. You cough and struggle as you hear him curse and feel his fingers digging into your jaw to keep it still.
The fight seems to go on for hours, but finally, you give up. You can feel your lungs burn as your heart pounds in your chest and sweat trickles down the collar of your cheongsam to slide against your spine. England is panting just as loudly as you are, but his green eyes are bright with triumph as he orders you to clench the pipe between your teeth.
You shoot him the dirtiest look you can muster, but obey. The sound of a match striking flint startles you and you can feel your eyes widen in surprise before the acrid smoke makes them run with tears.
"Come, come, give it a suck," England tells you. You cough at the sickly bitter taste as you suck in and smoke comes flying out of your mouth, but as soon as you catch your breath, you suck at the pipe again. It feels good, so, so good, and you feel as if you're floating away. The ache in your jaw caused by England's fingers is gone.
You laugh, exhaling a long cloud of smoke that drifts from your lips to the ceiling, before taking one last suck as England takes the pipe away. A whimper escapes from your throat and you look at him pitifully.
"There's a good lad," England says, smiling as he gives your face a gentle pat. You watch as he turns to France with a scowl. "See, you idiot? Your dangerous tiger is made out of nothing but paper. Now help me get him to bed."
Once they get you to the bed and untie you, you are left alone in your room with the pipe. It doesn't really matter that they left you like this; after all, you've got your new friend and your new friend is all you really need.
When you are done with your first smoke, you fall into a deep and dream filled sleep, a smile on your face.