That guy with the Australia fetish (didgeridoodle) wrote,
That guy with the Australia fetish
didgeridoodle

[fanfiction] Relinquished [2/2]


Title: Relinquished

Author: didgeridoodle 
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Smut/PWP
Characters: England, America, and mentions of various other Nations.
Pairings: America/England, hints of World/England here and there.
Word Count: 3,076
Warnings: Swearing, masturbation, and very explicit chair sex.

Summary: After one incident born from curiosity, England manages to find an alternative use for Busby's Chair. A de-anon from the kink meme.

Previous Chapter: Chapter 1 || Chapter 2





Relinquished

_ _ _


This phantom America is truly faithful to the original. Every aspect of him has been sculptured and tailored to mimic the America that England knows from beyond this astral plane. ‘His’ characteristics - that slight pout of disappointment from England’s reaction; those large unusually rough hands that made England’s skin crawl with frenzied anticipation as ‘America’ caresses his back with languid strokes; the bulging sinewy biceps on ‘his’ arms. Just perfect.

Everything is perhaps a bit too perfect.

England sees the blueness of his eyes beyond the identical spectacles that twinkled and shone in the faint lamplight – what little smidgen of light there was in this vision, anyway - and tells himself that there is no way this can be the real one. America will never treat him this lewdly. He expects something more abrasive from ‘him’, even edging to haphazard. Relationships can turn sour in the passage of time – theirs is no exception.

Do not fall for the temptation.

“D’you want me to stop?” ‘he’ asks, voice remorseful and crestfallen. “Did I do something wrong?”

That sheepish naiveté will be the death of England. Whether it is feigned or not, England cannot tell. It doesn’t even matter, really. It shouldn’t matter.

England knows that it is just an illusion, a mere figment fabricated by the curse of Busby’s Chair. A twisted projection of his own desires.

One blink of an eye. Just one peek back into light, however sparse it was, and the whole scene will dissipate with a torrent of color and musty yellow vapor. England will be back in his dingy little secret basement antechamber - sweaty and unsated, but relatively safe on that blasted Chair.

England opens his mouth to retaliate to the advances – perhaps a venomous “Fuck you!” will douse that gusto of ‘America’’s somewhat. A little bit short on the gentlemanly ways England committed himself to perfecting, but if it is indeed a genuine carbon copy of America, then it’d be temperamental enough to lash ba –

‘America’’s soft, soft lips somehow managed to latch onto his own, gently nibbling. Sucking. A broad palm pushes England’s nape forward, tilting his mouth for better purchase. ‘America’ continues his little assault onwards, tongue slowly shimmying its way into England’s hesitant lips. All of England’s thought processes screech to a halt at the silken heat, just enough to ruminate and think what the fuck is happening now.

Before he was even dimly aware of it, England slackens his jaw further, allowing ‘America’ full access to a deeper kiss. ‘His’ left hand is on England’s cock again, the pad of ‘his’ thumb circling, teasing.

The taste of America’s mouth is blissfully indescribable. Hints of chocolate ice cream come to mind – a wee bit sweet but not overpowering.

Everything – just everything – about him is heady and addicting. England doesn’t even know where to start - the apparent sincerity in his eyes, those calloused workman’s hands that sent steaming, crackling heat across England’s spine, or that benevolent smile that can charm anyone into submission. It’s everything that he wanted to see and feel from America.

It’s beyond pathetic, him pining something like this. And from his supposed adversary, no less.

Sighing, England notices that his guard begins to slip lower and lower each second.

‘America’ leans closer to his ear - far, far too close for comfort - and says, “Just trust me, okay?” ‘His’ voice didn’t bide any trace of malice or any bad intentions, as far as England can hear. It’s that serious voice of his, the one that guarantees the assurance England needs from ‘him’. ‘He’ continues, “I’ll never do anything that can hurt you.”

What was left of England’s doubts evaporates in an instant. He is more than aware that this is all inconceivably wrong and immoral on so many different levels. But those words – they remind England of the many unspoken promises he and America had from a while back. The times when they were together. The times England considered himself to be truly happy.

They’ve just fallen apart since that incident. Blood has been shed in tides; tears, too, but America may not have been inclined enough to show them. Or so England hopes.

Everything is beyond reparation now; their relationship is as brittle and fractured as broken glass. Their personalities contrast and clash, a brewing maelstrom in themselves; but England still hopes, still hopes and prays fervently, that everything will work out like the way it used to, when it was Alfred Jones and Arthur Kirkland against the world.

The romantic in England hopes that that vision will come to fruition someday, perhaps a fairy tale ending amidst all that shite they have been through. He couldn’t yearn for anything else. For anyone else.

A bigger and more sinister part of him murmurs otherwise – that such a farcical thing is merely fabrications of the imagination and nothing more. Perhaps he’d been looking at it the wrong way for all these years. He can’t help but think that he’s chasing a dream that can never be - that they would never feel that special way towards each other again.

If that’s indeed the case, then this might be England’s only chance to …

He gulps in a huge breath of air.

Much to his astonishment, the words come as naturally as they go, like any other. “Kiss me again, then, you moron.”

Soon enough, ‘America’ sports a good-natured grin. “I knew you couldn’t resist me, you prehistoric fogey.”

Cocky bastard.

England snorts. “You’re the one who’s been humping me and acting like a demented rabbit,” he chides. “I’m just playing along with your little charade so you can get this act over with.”

“Maybe you’re just sexually repressed and downright horny.”

“Bollocks. I am not the one who is masquerading like a hooker here.”

“Well, apparently, I’m a real sexy hooker if the mere sight of me can cause an old man to get it up.”

“Fuck you.”

“I bet you’d really like that, wouldn’t you?”

This playful banter – most people will readily assume that it’s a definitive indication of that volatile tension between them. Coupled with their narrowed eyebrows and strained, balled fists, everything gives off an impression that they’re pretty much raring to go for each other’s jugulars.

Between them, it’s nothing too short of a game. England is pretty much sure that this America knows it, just like how the real one is aware of it. Or so England hopes that he actually does. Childish as it may come across to some, it’s merely a frivolous display of their masculinity and pride – that no one is ready to completely submit themselves to the other. A sublime attempt at balance, if one must put a finger on it. Words will forever remain just that for them - words.

To many, it’s comparable to a typical scene one would find in a playground. They would have to be those two kids fighting, sneering and flexing their muscles, but not able to do some considerable damage to each other. To England, nothing is more akin to home. It’s an unparalleled sign that they still remain as equals with mutual respect.

America is no longer a child that can be coaxed with a bag of sweets, nor an unruly teenager that can be reprimanded and silenced with raised voices. As America continued to grow up, the farther apart they have become. Now, England can only hold on to what he has left – the bickering.

It’s the closest thing to love that England can squeeze out of him after all these years.

But now, ‘America’’s sculpted body is on his, skin to skin, touch to touch, warmth to warmth. ‘His’ mouth, ‘his’ lips – a mere brush of them on England’s blistering skin causes it to become extremely sensitive, sending little shivers of pleasure. Every nip and lick is a spark that’s waiting to burst and hiss.

England is absolutely positive that his face must be beet red by now, flushed by a racing surge of raw arousal and adrenaline. A string of curses hollowly echo in his head as ‘America’’s lips slide onto the juncture between his neck and shoulders, continuing to suck and lap on England’s soft skin.

It’s damn shameful – the gallant England being reduced to a blubbering, spluttering mass like this – but he finds himself to be enjoying – no, savoring - every passing second of it. His body is acting on its own accord now, relying on baser and wilder instincts, and England is already going along with it.

Deep down, he begins to realize that he really needs this. For the sake of catharsis or for decadent gratification, he can’t exactly pinpoint, but there’s an ache – an inexplicable void - inside him that’s being filled. Even if this is just a fantasy purported by that Chair, England doesn’t care anymore; nor for the possible backlash it may have on him. This can be his only chance to be with America in the most intimate of manners, however inauthentic it may be.

“Slow down, you,” England whispers. His voice starts to jut up and crack in the oddest of places; the enormity of everything happening must be leaving his throat parched. Strangely enough, England doesn’t really experience any discomfort in any form. He is by no means an athletic type, but it seems like can do this forever. He just wants this to last as long as possible.

“Mmm?” mumbles ‘America’. “What? Did you have a cramp or something?”

England scowls for a tenth of a second there. Trust America to ruin the atmosphere with an ill-timed comment. It’s one of his many flaws, but that doesn’t detract from the fact that he’s still much of a head-turner. England will never admit this out loud to anyone, but those imperfections – they make him more unique, more charming, more him. Occasional disappointments aside, England finds everything about him quite endearing. Perhaps it’s the root cause of this unusual attraction to America in the first place. England sees them nothing more as small kinks that doesn't tarnish his appeal whatsoever.

“No. I’m just want to take a closer look at you, git,” hisses England.

‘America’ puffs his chest outwards. “Well, well. Take a look all you want! Awesome men with rippling bodies like mine come once in a lifetime!”

Truly, ‘America’ hasn’t changed, attitude-wise.

Resting his elbows on his knees, England surveys ‘America’ with a hawk’s eye. Much of ‘him’ has grown up - a startling metamorphosis, if you will. Much of his body became broader – his shoulders, his chest, his arms. Everything had an additional touch of well-developed machismo to it. Anyone will be lucky to have him as a partner.

“Stand straight, America,” commands England. His voice squeaks out as a morose croak, barely above a whisper. Apparently, it never lost its touch. For the longest time, England used to use that voice to intimidate America into following his orders when the toddler was being juvenile.

Indeed, some things never do change. England is glad they don’t. At least the pleasant memories of him will always be intact.

‘America’ reels himself into rapt attention. From his position, England finds himself staring at ‘America’’s midsection. Perfectly chiseled to a fault, he notices.

“What’re you doing?” asks ‘America’.

Without so much as a warning, England wraps him arms around ‘America’’s waist, planting butterfly kisses across ‘his’ abdomen. As if under some kind of trance, ‘America’’s body tenses up a bit at the sudden advances.

‘America’’s erect cock pulses a ripe throb. A thick string of pre-come dangles off from the head, glinting in the light.

Tempting. Very much so.

“Ah, shit,” ‘America’ moans. The mere sound of the deep rumble of ‘his’ voice sends titillating chills down England’s spine.

England has never paid witness to America squirm, whether in pleasure or otherwise. Seeing ‘his’ shoulders freeze and heave; that muscular chest pant in tune with shallow, quick puffs of stale air; the way ‘his’ knees trembled and buckled at the slightest contact from England’s lips; the way ‘his’ cock drooled even more pre-come - ‘he’ is simply begging for it.

England doesn’t even give it a second thought.

Steeling himself for such an opportune moment, England licks his way from the washboard abs down to that hard cock. His tongue touches and glides across the left side, running along every inch of it, across every excruciating detail. A thin trail of saliva glistens in its wake. The taste is inexplicably America – musky, inebriating, fucking hot. Nothing else can describe it.

England is so caught up in the moment that he even failed to register that ‘America’’s hands are already resting on either side of his head, fingers clutching tufts of his hair, maneuvering and hinting him to go further.

With one swift swooping motion, England takes what must have been three-quarters of ‘America’’s dick into his mouth. Bobbing his head back and forth, England coats it with a healthy film of spit.

The sucking sounds he’s making can even earn France’s approval. Downright ravenous, that’s what England would call it. It’s like he has been starved and deprived of that cock for the longest time. Perhaps this is the time for his just desserts. Ignoring the protests of his gag reflex, England goes forward even further, taking in what’s left of ‘America’’s exposed dick into his awaiting mouth.

The grip in his hair tightens.

“Fuck!”

England could have smiled through that mouthful of cock. The sighs made by ‘America’ are beyond delicious.

Once he decides that ‘America’ is already well-prepared for the next task, England takes ‘him’ out of his mouth after one final slurp. Excess spit drips off the base of ‘America’’s cock.

England grins. “My, my, it looks like someone is thoroughly enjoying himself here.”

“I didn’t know you could give head so damn well.” ‘America’ bends down to give him a full kiss. Their lips smash together after one united deep-throated groan.

England saw spots before his eyes after he gasped for him. Even a mere kiss already had that much of an effect on him.

Raising his hips and spreading his legs apart, England beckons ‘America’ to come closer with a taunting finger. He rests his ankles on ‘America’’s shoulders, giving ‘America’ a full-view of his arse. His posture on that Chair is horribly contorted for this purpose, but it is imperative that he must remain on it for this to proceed. Cramp or no cramp, this has to go through. Falling off in the throes of passion is not an option. “I assume that you know what to do?”

‘America’ shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly, as if this was perfectly natural for him. “Course, I do.”

England closes his eyes in anticipation. With trembling and sweaty palms, England grasps onto the back legs of the Chair for support. He is cognizant of ‘America’’s strength; this can be a bit of a rough ride.

‘His’ entrance is smooth and sensuous. Maybe even close to agitatedly, teasingly slow. England knows that ‘America’ is doing on this on purpose, just to teeter him off the brink. The real America is impatient and impulsive; he’ll be sure to -

“… Ah, fuck, there!”

‘America’ quickens his pace a little. Before England can even form a coherent string of words, ‘he’ is already sheathed all the way in, haunches bent over at a peculiar angle.

Every thrust of ‘his’ hips makes England feel all of his limbs turn into jelly. England’s nails dig deeper onto the ancient wooden legs of the Chair as ‘America’ increased the tempo of his movement.

All England can hear is the obscene slap of flesh against flesh, their raspy breaths strangling their needy grunts for more. England’s panting degenerates into an erratic rhythm as ‘America’ continues to piston ‘his’ cock in and out of him.

That stirring heat in his loins continues to skyrocket to maddening levels. Judging by the way how ‘America’ gritted ‘his’ teeth and how ‘his’ thrusts are becoming more primal by the second, ‘he’ is nearing completion as well.

America, the real one or otherwise, has never looked so spent before. ‘His’ eyebrows are furrowed in the fiercest form of concentration. A thin film of sweat coats the entire length of his torso. In the meager glow of the honey-colored lamplight, ‘America’ looks far more handsome and tantalizing as ever.

They gaze at each other eye to eye – something that they have not done in the longest time. It’s one of the things England misses the most – those eyes that beheld an incomparable trust, the eyes that saw him at his most vulnerable state.

England reaches for himself once again, stroking fiercely and timing it with ‘America’’s motions. He clenches himself around ‘America’’s cock for one last time and the very last thing England can remember hearing was them screaming each other’s names; the ragged panting; ‘America’ coming inside him, that gush of white, blissful heat, and fuck, here it comes

Then, a searing kind of pain suddenly explodes from his ankles. Like a sack of hammers, gravity has slammed them down back on the moldy floorboards, without ‘America’’s shoulders to support them.

England realizes that he is back in the basement antechamber. In this reality. The vision must have ended when they both came.

Milky white strands of come run on his fingers. Some have also jettisoned and dotted the floor a good few inches directly in front of him. In the faint, mellow glow of his lamp, they look like tiny beacons that stood out from the inky black flooring.

As England stands to clean himself up, he hears one last thing that squeezes the air out of his lungs.

The voice is garbled and disembodied, but England would know whose it is anytime, anywhere.

“I love you, England.”

It’s a faint echo, as if he is listening to it all the way from the other side of the world.

That gnawing ache has somehow wormed its way back to his chest again. He casts one last sidelong glance at Busby’s Chair, once again reduced to its mundane state. His eyes begin to water.

England will be more than happy to relinquish himself to that Chair again, just to hear those same four words together. To experience love and being loved, however carnal it may seem.

In the end, he concludes that he may have already been claimed by the Curse. And yet, England couldn’t even care less.


- fin -



A/N: Astral plane!chair sex for the win? 

Thanks for taking the time to read this all the way through! Comments and constructive criticism will be much adored, of course. :) I really want to improve on writing this kind of stuff so every piece of input, no matter how small, is invaluable to me. 

If you liked what you've read, you can also find a master list of my fics over here!
Tags: category: multi-chapter, character: america, character: england, fandom: hetalia axis powers, fanfiction, genre: smut/pwp
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