[fanfiction] Relinquished [1/?]
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: 3,293
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.
Relinquished
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England’s heart drums a fervid rhythm in his ribcage as descends lower down the staircase to his basement. The temperature continues to drop with every step he takes, in harmony with every excited rasp of breath. Motes, dust, and cobwebs flutter in the air lazily. Every bit of speck is familiar to England - they are as ancient as him, after all. He pays no heed to them - minor nuisances they are, surely, but they serve their own purpose.
Everything - the chill, the dirt, the cloying aroma of mold - is unwelcoming as they can be. And with good reason. England takes great effort to make this area of his home as dingy and inaccessible as possible. He doesn’t want any thieving rapscallions to set foot in there. As it is currently the home to an assortment of highly unpredictable magical items, it will only be a matter of time before he discovers a stray corpse in there - an innocent victim of misguided curiosity.
That’s why he takes precautions. England is fully aware that he’s a Nation, but that doesn’t protect him, his home, and his possessions from prying eyes and rumor mills.
The eerie creak of floorboards tells England that he’s nearly at the end of the corridor. Everything in his sight is pitch-black; he only relies at the sounds and smells of his surroundings as his guides. After all, he knows the layout of the place unlike any other - he made regular trips to this special room every so often, so much so that every nook and cranny is already ingrained in him.
Nothing much changes, too, thankfully. England supposes that it helps somewhat.
He twists the tarnished old doorknob located at the very end. The very feeling of it under the pads of his fingers sends gooseflesh across his skin; whether it’s anticipation or arousal - England can’t tell. Perhaps a little of both?
Still trawling through the darkness, England effortlessly finds the gas lamp located at the far corner of the chamber and lights it on. The glow is barely discernible from the rest of the room, but England deems it fit for his intentions. Visibility is the least of his worries with what he’s about to accomplish.
With a furtive glance, he scans the rows upon rows of books stacked on the olden basswood shelves - spell-books, potion formulae, tomes on magical creatures - each with their own diluted history long-forgotten by the modern populace.
But not England.
Everything is as novel as they were years ago. And as dangerous, with the most lethal of them just sitting innocently in the middle of the room.
Faded crimson cushions, smooth and ornate wooden curlicues - Busby’s Chair remains to be as mundane as ever to the naked eye.
England has become acquainted with Busby’s Chair over the centuries; he knows of its mysterious powers, its rap sheet of nearly sixty-one unfortunate victims to date lingering in the back of his mind. Most people whisper and say that Busby’s Chair bestows an inordinate amount of bad luck - a curse - to those who sit on it.
Upon further studying of its arcane intricacies, England already knew better than ‘most people’. ‘Bad luck’ is simply the commoner’s term for it. What they don’t know is that the so-called curse of Busby’s Chair is actually an unlocking spell of sorts.
It releases any semblance of control of the victim over his earthly vices and desires. It endows the victim with a senseless, listless feeling of invulnerability. Invincibility. Immortality. The things that every human seems to yearn for.
The poor chap leaves unscathed, but slowly drowning in that twisted delusion. England likens it to a state of a permanent high.
The unlucky fellow gets overeager; reckless; irrational, in time. Then, things start to take a turn for the worse. Car accidents, crimes of passion, despair over misguided investments, suicides - the usual repercussions of the curse, as people fondly call it, are just the thinly veiled manifestations of the victim’s slow downward spiral to insanity.
The caster of this spell truly had a wicked mind, England muses sometimes.
Evil begets evil. Such a succinct, yet, logical way of explaining it.
Of course, England would know very much about it. Research and morbid curiosity is a powerful combination.
There was a time in the past where England purposefully sat on Busby’s Chair, just to test what it felt like. He rationalized everything at first, of course.
All those human needs - invincibility, immortality, invulnerability - did not apply to him. He was near immortal and invulnerable as any human can be, since his very physical being is attuned to his country. Being the Nation himself, food, income and power comes in a fabulous silver platter. Temptations of that ludicrous sort escaped him.
However, Busby’s Chair was intelligent in its own right. It knew how to pick on weaknesses and to aggravate them. It knew everything.
England shakes his mop of blond hair.
That was then, and this is now.
Still, England cannot help but return and to succumb himself again and again to its own brand of madness. It’s a fucking addiction.
He begins to unbutton his military uniform slowly and steadily. He doesn’t know why he’s feeling nervous over committing an act of decadence that he’s done before. Hints of guilt echo inside his chest from time to time, probably lamenting the loss of something that was irrevocably shattered. England has long learned how to shift these to the side easily.
Frankly enough, he doesn't even know now if he should even be worried at the implications of that fact.
Busby’s Chair suddenly begins to glow its familiar aura, a smoky bluish-green that reminded England of rogue waves and treacherous whirlpools. It’s beckoning him, he knows. If Busby’s Chair had a face, it would have been smiling - no, cackling - with a lunatic glint in its eyes. It just knew that he was coming back for more. Daunting and twisted as it might be, it’s its sick way of greeting him.
His trousers are the next to go. His underwear follows suit moments later after a swift tug of elastic.
England knows he’s falling for the same temptation all over again - but its pull is too damn strong for him to resist. After all, the act is indulging a fancy, something you can easily brush off the second you’re done with it. Something quick, dirty, fucking shameful - but nothing harmful.
The initial contact was always the hardest.
A low, icy hiss drawls from England as he nestles himself into the chair, the chafed fabric covers baking hot on his skin.
That familiar shiver running from the nape of his neck down to the base of his spine slithers its usual course, signaling that the spell has begun to take into effect for the umpteenth time.
England feels the effects right away. Every inch of his skin is suddenly ablaze with unreal warmth - a kind tingling that seems to seep right down to the marrow of his bones.
It’s time to start the fantasy. With a shaky gasp, England closes his eyes and forces his tense muscles to relax and slouch over.
He mentally debates on several candidates - France with his silver tongue, whispering silky sweet nothings into his ear while fucking him through the mattress; Australia with a satisfied, roguish smirk as England goes down and sucks every inch of his cock; Spain with his honeyed, velvety skin and nimble fingers that made England pant his name in wanton ecstasy.
Each scene, right down to the tiniest of sensations, ripples through England’s vision. Everything feels like liquid steam on his skin - every breath, every lick, every word that gnashed through his gritted teeth. They each had a way of making him lose control.
And being the desperate fool that he is, he just craves more of it.
England’s heart beats ten notches higher, each intense pump making his body shiver with arousal.
He ventures a small peek at his current state. After just a few flicks of his imagination, a filmy sheen of sweat already began to coat his body. A thin stream of pre-come trickles down from his hard cock.
Fuck, the damn Chair just knows how to whittle him down into a blubbering mass. And he was just a few minutes into it. It seems that every sense he possessed is magnified a thousand-fold, making each vision life-like and tangible.
Moments of physical rapture with someone else with no emotional attachments whatsoever - it’s what England exactly wanted. Needed - the Chair would have implied. He can have anyone he wanted, and no one will ever know.
It’s just him and the Chair. His and the Chair’s little secrets.
Closing his eyes once more, England lets his mind’s eye wander for a fresh new face to think about.
At first, he tries to consider Germany. Armed with firm musculature, a cold and calculating gaze, and a large bodily frame - Germany is certainly the dominating type. He’s fitting.
England’s imagination enters into overdrive again. He feels the rough caress of Germany’s tongue on his neck, the unusually firm way that he’s holding England down with his bare hands.
Everything’s perfect, except for one thing.
What is Germany like in bed, anyway?
England has next to no ideas, save for some strident hearsays and personal perceptions. Since Germany is all about commandeering his subordinates, perhaps the same behavior translates into his sexual advances. Now that he thought about it, England knows next to nothing about Germany, in general.
He sees Germany as a dangerous opponent in the battlefield - no more, and no less. How he would be as a partner, England has no clue.
It’s always best to test the waters first.
England licks his lips, drinking in the bittersweet flavor of beer, that overpowering aftertaste of Germany, after a bruising kiss. He tries to relish the glide of his sweaty skin across Germany’s hard muscles born from months of rigorous training, the lack of breath in his lungs as Germany’s huge frame lies above him while staring at his eyes.
His little stint as Germany’s precious little captive.
After a few seconds, England already knew that something is wrong.
From some reason, the arousal he’s been having for the past few minutes starts to take a huge drop. England isn’t able to pinpoint why the fuck is this happening, but he clenches his eyes tighter, imagining the probable feel of Germany’s cock inside him, just to save the vision from dissolving. He attempts a few lazy strokes as a last resort, but the arousal just kept fading completely. The wild thrumming of his skin rests to a stop.
England knows he should have been enjoying it; Germany fit all of his criteria, after all - but something is still missing.
He can’t quite put his finger on it, but the point is moot. Germany simply won’t do for some inexplicable reason.
Time to think of a new partner, then.
Italy’s benign expression swims into his mind with a bubbly smile and an innocent demeanor. It’s hardly arousing, for obvious reasons. Japan is pretty much the same. As resilient as he might be, Japan doesn’t seem to radiate that vibe that England is looking for.
Suddenly, from out of nowhere, America’s face suddenly emerges from the blackness. His body materializes seconds later.
He’s naked, too, save for his glasses. The buttery glimmer of the lamplight makes his skin and muscles gleam with a tan-like glow, accentuating his youthful features.
‘He’ walks toward England’s seat with that clunky, awkward gait similar to the real America’s. It’s an exact replica, right down to the boyish cheeks, angular shoulders, and the brawny arms.
But he’s fucking naked. And so is England.
‘America’’s lips twitch into a grin unlike anything England has seen before - it has a wolfish characteristic to it, something fundamentally less of the America that England is familiar with.
With a wave of cold dread, England realizes that the Chair is the one that’s controlling the visions. He tries to smudge America’s image away from his mind, but everything is becoming more and more real by the second. More solid.
England is aware that he can still end everything by just opening his eyes, but something in him - the spell, England blames it on the fucking spell - is making him shut his eyes tighter, just to see what happens next.
Out of the corner of his closed eyes, ‘America’’s large hands entwine around his waist, fingers lightly tracing circles on the small of his back.
The blueness of his eyes is the same. So are the sinewy, muscular contours of his body. That sweet, husky scent that’s reminiscent of pine trees. This illusion could have passed off as the real America.
“You want me, don’t you, England?” ‘he’ murmurs.
Perhaps the Chair’s spell is just tempting him to try this out.
England brushes his own fingertips gently on the skin of his neck, along at the juncture of his left shoulder, imagining the feel of 'America'’s lips on his flushed skin. ‘America’ kisses him on the exact same spot. They’re as warm and soft as England thought they would be; it’s oddly uncharacteristic for a brusque Nation such as America, but it’s fucking there. It must be fucking there.
A stifled moan rumbles from the back of England’s throat.
'America’ answers with a mischievous smile.
England now etches a slow path on his lips with his fingers, looking forward to the electric touch of America’s own that was soon to come. The illusory America follows suit, his lips raking along the path where England’s fingertips were mere moments ago.
That’s the game and always has been. He still has some degree of control over the actions of this America. After all, ‘he’ remains to be an illusion - somewhat incorporeal. ‘He’ still needs something - someone - physical to channel his movements into reality.
The warmth of ‘America’'s breath, the mere nearness of it, is more than enough to make England’s head spin in dizzying circles.
A smile that just about matches America’s unfurls itself from England’s lips.
This is the crux of the spell, isn’t it? Prostrating himself to the mercy of this America isn’t what he intended to happen, but fuck it all - never has he experienced anything like it in all his years as a Nation, not even with the other Nations he had been together with in this domain.
England’s fingers soon splay and latch themselves onto 'America’'s skin. A part of him is aware that he’s scrabbling at thin air, right back at the physical plane at the secret room in his basement. At the same time, he knows that another part of him still remains attached onto the otherworldly consciousness that is being conjured by that wretched spell, with him reaching out to this ‘America’.
The skin of 'America'’s chest is supple and smooth under his touch. Every curve, every taut muscle, hides a portion of that inhumane strength that England is all too familiar with. It’s hypnotic - enticing - now that he dwells on it. So much power in one lithe package …
As if reading his thoughts, 'America' suddenly presses his body onto England’s, his breath hot and misty over England’s right earlobe. With skin pressing against skin, all of England’s nerves explode with ecstasy at the heated contact.
He already saw this coming, and he doesn’t know why, but it somehow still managed to surprise the hell out of him. The excitement, the craving, is practically burning the insides of his chest right now.
He can feel 'America'’s hard cock prodding and pressing underneath the cleft of his left hip, edging closer and closer to his - ah, fuck. Grabbing the opportunity, America begins to smear his own pre-come under England’s thigh with small, random thrusts of his hips.
The squeaks and creaks from the Chair beneath him, along with 'America''s tiny baritone soughs in his ear form a melodic trance that almost made England’s control fall off the brink.
Shite.
'America' licks the outer lobe of England’s right ear, taking great care to delight in the little nibbles he dished out along the way. “Hey, England,” he whispers, breathless and unreal. “Touch me all you want, okay?”
He clasps his fingers around England’s wrist with fine-tuned strength - so, so gently similar to the warm way the real America would have handled him; it’s powerful and unyielding, but not strong enough to hurt.
Bringing the digits closer to his mouth, 'America' takes great care to slowly lick and suck on every finger, savoring their invisible flavor. England can only stare, slack-jawed, at the phantom America’s ministrations. It’s hard to believe that the America he knew would do such a thing - together with that subtle, lustful crinkling of his eyes, that lewd manner he uses to gaze at England’s befuddled expression.
Everything is not what it seemed. The America that England knows is virtuous, innocent, and has the mental capacity of a childish git. Surely such sexual feats are beyond his capabilities?
'America' runs England’s wet, sticky thumb across his lips.
“I’ll do whatever you want with me, if you’d let me to.”
His voice is like the original one, with that exact pitch and that zestful intonation of every syllable, but the mere words themselves - they don’t match. England simply can’t imagine America saying those things, not even in this fantasy vision.
Not to him, anyway.
Still, at the very back of his mind, England can’t suppress the inevitable fact that America must know these things by now; he isn’t a child anymore. He can’t really deny that America should already know how to suck a cock and to fuck a person senseless.
He’s still a handsome, young man with desires, after all.
Besides, England’s own throbbing cock begs him to overwrite any form of logic and sentimentality. Such asinine concepts are of no use here in this realm.
England recognizes the fact that America is fucking attractive, and that’s all that matters.
With much effort and deep gulp of air, he swallows the lump that has managed to wedge itself in his throat. His heart beats just a little bit faster after that acknowledgement, but it’s not as if he can do anything about it now.
Curse these hormones to hell.
Using his left hand, 'America' guides England’s trembling and heavy fingers across his well-muscled body, leaving a narrow trail of saliva along its wake. Slowly down to his Adam’s apple.
Along his tense shoulders, right and left.
Moving south to his chest.
England halts the movement a bit to feel the beat of this America’s heart. He doesn’t know why, but he wishes to familiarize himself with every inch of perfect skin, every skipping pulse, just everything about this new America.
The pounding under his palm is powerful and constant; commanding, even, just like the way England expects it to be.
He doesn’t know whether to be amused or disappointed that he’s using America’s heartbeat of all things for his own assurance of this America’s authenticity.
It’s not like it makes a difference, anyway.
With a nauseating jolt, England suddenly retracts his hand out of America’s grip, as if he was burned by it.
Damn.
He’s losing control of the vision. 'America' is already acting out of his own accord, and apparently, England is hitching along for the ride just fine. He isn’t exactly complaining, but bloody hell, he’s already losing himself bit by bit under the spell’s machinations. It has never before happened with his previous encounters.
He won’t let America take the reins this time.
As the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, he has his own ways of getting what he desired.
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-to be continued-
A/N: Yes, all of this is happening on Busby's Chair. I don't even know anymore.
Thanks so much for reading, everyone! Every single comment and criticism will be very much appreciated on this one, since I kinda sorta lack experience on writing these kinds of scenes. ||OTL