~ Powers of Nations: A Countryhumans Chronicle

▶Chapter:77◀

The chapter:

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Warning⚠.

3rd person pov:

It was the middle of the day, and Russia could hardly keep his eyes open. The weight of the past few days had left him feeling drained and hollow. He was barely able to focus on anything, his mind swimming with exhaustion. When America strolled in, a smirk playing on his lips, Russia could tell something was up. America’s eyes were glinting with a mix of mischief and anticipation.

“Hey, we’re going out tonight,” America said, his tone nonchalant as if they were just heading out for a casual stroll. “Got a little surprise for you.”

Russia’s heart sank. The prospect of going out was already daunting. His voice was barely a whisper, “Where are we going?”

America’s smirk widened. “To a bar. Thought you could use a change of scenery.” (wow, what a scenery ◔̯◔)

Before Russia could react, America yanked him by the cuffs, pulling him along with him. Russia stumbled, his heart racing as he struggled to keep up. They reached America’s room, where America had a hidden drawer, and with a flourish, pulled out a set of clothes.

Russia’s eyes widened in horror as he took in the outfit America had chosen. The clothes were tight and revealing: a fitted black leather jacket that clung to every contour of Russia’s torso, paired with a pair of sleek, tight-fitting jeans that left nothing to the imagination. The jacket had silver zippers and studs, giving it a sharp, edgy look, while the jeans were so snug that they accentuated every muscle and curve.

America’s amusement was evident as he saw the look of dread on Russia’s face. “Oh, this is going to be fun,” he said with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re going to look perfect for tonight.”

Russia wanted to protest, to refuse to wear such clothes, but America’s hand on his arm was firm and unyielding. He knew better than to argue. With a resigned sigh, Russia slipped into the clothes, feeling the fabric cling uncomfortably to his skin. The jacket felt like it was suffocating him, hugging him too tightly, and the jeans were so constricting that every movement was a struggle.

America watched with unrestrained amusement as Russia struggled to get dressed. His eyes were locked on Russia’s form, a cruel delight evident in his gaze. “You look fantastic,” America said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Perfect for a night out. Couldn’t have chosen a better look for you.”

The jacket was pulled so tight around Russia’s waist that it accentuated every inch of his body, highlighting the stark contrast between his pale skin and the dark leather. The jeans were similarly unforgiving, clinging to his legs and making each step a painful reminder of how exposed he felt.

When they were finally ready to leave, America’s grin was a constant, malicious presence. He taunted Russia as they walked out, his voice teasing and mocking. “You look amazing. Everyone’s going to notice you tonight.”

Russia’s heart was pounding, a mixture of anxiety and humiliation coursing through him. The thought of stepping out into the world, dressed so revealingly and under America’s control, made him feel physically ill. But there was no escape, and he followed America with heavy, reluctant steps.

The bar they arrived at was dark and noisy, a cacophony of clinking glasses and loud conversations filling the air. Neon lights flickered outside, casting an artificial glow on the streets. Inside, the atmosphere was even more chaotic. The bar was packed, with people milling about and loud music blaring from the speakers. The walls were adorned with faded posters and eclectic memorabilia, and the bar itself was cluttered with empty bottles and half-empty glasses.