"The Principle of Contagion,” Part 4/10
anonymous
August 7 2011, 21:03:37 UTC
The Principle of Contagion, part 4 of 10
Thankfully they had pulled up to the house; England opened the door before the driver could get to it, trying to get out before America started shitting rainbows. England untied his feet after extracting a promise to do exactly what he said, which was to follow him straight to his basement.
Everyone was excited to see him home, of course, and to see America. The problem was that now America could see everyone back as they followed England and America through the house.
“So many things I don’t wanna see,” America said, and finally stopped making the fucking butterflies.
***
America waited. It was only about ten minutes before England was back, in his ‘clothes for the job,’ as he called them. He’d run up to change after he’d installed America in the basement don’t go anywhere, don’t touch a fucking thing, don’t even move, not a muscle, and his working clothes consisted of an old, black tee-shirt, a pair of faded jeans, and bare feet. He looked comfortable, which was more than America could say; he was still wearing his button-down shirt and suit pants, his hands were still tied behind him, and he was sitting on the cold basement floor. And the weird, burning, bubble thing was still inside him. But now, at least, he felt that if he breathed deeply enough and concentrated hard enough on something- England and what he was doing, maybe- he could keep it from going all explodey again.
He shuddered all over at the memory and watched England work. England was crawling around America on his hands and knees, scritching a piece of white chalk along some faded white lines that covered the floor. Some of the old lines he refreshed, and some he rubbed into the concrete with the side of his fist. America shivered again, and took a long, shaky breath.
“Uh. Where’s my jacket? It was super-expensive.”
“Likely someone has it and you can retrieve it later,” England said without looking up. He was concentrating, his tongue sticking out of his mouth.
“Ha, I hope so. Um.” America took another deep breath. He was feeling better every second; whatever England was doing seemed to be helping. Or maybe it was just England, who was actually helping by simply being there and being mostly unfazed by all the weird shit. “What does everyone think happened?”
“Hmm. As far as about ninety-eight percent of them are concerned, a heat wave in the central United States. The other two percent have their mobile phones at the ready, so do not even think of causing me trouble.”
“Not me! I’m a helper. I help people. Heroic-like.” America knew he was babbling, but he couldn’t help it. He’d made the mistake of looking up. Things were floating around up there, things he’d always been able to convince himself were imaginary; things caught from the corner of one’s eyes on a dark night, and tricks of the light. But at the moment the tricks of the light looked all too solid. They saw him seeing them and started zipping around, glowing and laughing, sometimes making looping arcs through the air to whizz around England’s blond head. England’s hair was sticking up and his huge eyebrows were pointing down, making his forehead look like a face of its own.
“I’m so freaked out right now,” America said.
“How is that different from any other time?” England mumbled. He pushed from his knees to a stand and ambled over to grab a book off a dusty, cobweb-covered shelf. It was one of his huge, old books, the ones that were all crusty and grumpy-looking. Something that deserved the name ‘grimoire.’
“Usually I think you’re a dork for believing in this stuff. But right now I’m glad you have those creepy old books and a basement pentagram.”
“What did you say?”
America looked at the floor, to avoid having to look at everything else. A bubble of panic low in his stomach threatened to burst out like a belch, promising to blacken it all; he swallowed the panic down. He felt his forehead and the back of his neck break out in a sweat. “Do you really think- what do you really think is happening to me?”
"The Principle of Contagion,” Part 5/10
anonymous
August 7 2011, 21:04:23 UTC
“That you’re an ass. That you’re an ass with a wellspring of raw power within you.” America glanced up to see England looking at him, his green stare level and thoughtful. “Truthfully, my best guess is that you always have this magic, but suppress it through unbelief. Things disappear when most people don’t believe in them. But that doesn’t stop them from existing, and existing under their own terms. Wild.”
“Oh.”
England kneeled again and made a tiny, corrective-looking scritch in the chalk floor-circle. He said something that sounded like bumpkiss and a few dozen candles tucked into sconces on the walls burst into tiny flames, while the lightbulbs popped off. The candlelight surrounded them with warm, flickering-yellow light.
“Oh God,” America breathed. He breathed again. More importantly than anything, the dark and bright bubble within him had suddenly eased off, slunk away, become less of a threat.
England grinned at him, his teeth white in the surrounding yellow. “This is why we use spells and ritual; to impose order on that which is dangerously wild.” He crawled over and behind America, and America felt fingers yanking at the ropes that bound his hands.
America breathed once more and relaxed his fingers, to let England take off the stupid ropes. “How long do I have to stay here?”
“Hmm. Just until we’re sure we can keep you under control. Historically it’s usually a matter of a day or so. Less.”
America rolled his eyes. “Historically. You’re full of it. I would totally remember, you know.”
“Oh! You-” America felt England’s fingers halt in their work. He could almost feel England’s angry blush as it crawled over his face, could see it in his mind’s eye. “You’re such a berk. I’m trying to help you.”
“Gotcha. Sorry,” America said. That didn’t mean England wasn’t fun to tease. He waggled his fingers behind him in reminder, and thankfully, England completed the job of untying him. He held up the rope, which was America’s expensive silk tie. But there were more important things to worry about. “England … I gotta stay in here? This floor is kinda hard.”
“Taken care of.” England smirked and looked up. America’s gaze followed and to his horror, he could see a crowd of little floating girls. They were dragging a floppy kind of pillow-mattress down the basement steps. They didn’t smudge it over the circle but lifted it with visible, flitting-winged effort, and let it thump down inside the circle. Then they zipped off, giggling.
“I gotta sleep here? On that?”
“It’s a perfectly comfortable futon. I acquired it for Japan when he visited.”
America shook his head to get that thought straight in his brain. “Japan sleeps over?”
England’s cheeks were pink even in this low light, yeah, and they got pinker. He turned his head sideways and looked at the walls or something. “Platonically, if you must know.”
“Uh huh.” America was teasing. Sort of. Kind of.
“You ass.” England looked back at him and then, to America’s surprise, leaned forward until his flushed face was only a couple of inches away. “Are you hungry?”
America swallowed. “No.” And strangely, he wasn’t.
“Hmm,” England said, a warm puff of breath on America’s face. Then he leaned closer and kissed him. His lips were soft and his breath just a little smoky. America opened his mouth, sighing into the sudden pleasure of the act. He felt England’s fingers slide up to brush in his hair and pull his face closer, a little authoritative but somehow avoiding the still-sore knot on the back of his head. England’s tongue thrummed with the little hmmms rising up through his throat, or maybe those were America’s.
"The Principle of Contagion,” Part 6/10
anonymous
August 7 2011, 21:05:12 UTC
Without breaking their lip-lock England shifted to kneel-straddle America’s outstretched legs. America’s hands found their way to England’s sides. His tee-shirt was soft, cool under America’s hot and still-heating fingers.
Low in his belly the bubble of something sparked like the candles had, warming him even more from the inside out until he could feel the tingle of sweat filming on his face, his neck, his chest. This part was always weird, but exciting exactly because it was weird, because it was England, who blew hot and cold at him and then did mind-blowing shit like this. England was too important to him sometimes; America wanted to swallow him, to ooze all over him.
As if he read America’s thoughts, England softened his fingers in America’s hair and pulled away. He stared at him with half-closed eyes. He licked his lips.
America shivered a little. “Are you gonna cure me with sex?”
England snorted. “No, the sex is just a bonus.”
“Oh. That’s cool.”
The corners of England’s sexy lips curved up a little. “Though it should help. Controlled release of energy and all that.”
“Sounds awesome,” America told him. His gut was already pulsing, throbbing, and when England kissed him again he moaned and tried to arch his belly into England’s, to push against all of him.
“Good lord,” England mumbled into America’s mouth, a smoky exhalation of lust. America clung to him until England yanked at his hair.
“Ow.”
“Over here,” England said. He crab-crawled backwards a few feet to the mattress and patted it. America followed.
“Yeah,” America admitted. He joined England on the mattress and kneeled there thigh-to-thigh with him. Their size difference was more apparent when they were close like this but England wasn’t a lightweight; he wrapped his arms around America and pulled his face down to kiss him again, and then all was England’s breath, his hands under America’s shirt and on his skin.
The bright expanded to surround them and keep them close and England sucked on his earlobe, breaths puffing through his nose to shiver onto America’s eardrums. America was goo, he was melting hot onto England and his soft lips and moaning breath, unmelting only long enough to let England pull his arms out the sleeves of his button-down shirt. England stripped off his own tee-shirt and made up for the delay by licking along the sensitive skin of America’s jawline and grabbing America’s erection, which tried to break through his Boss pants.
“Unh… just like that,” America breathed.
“Does the magic make it worse?” England asked his throat. His hand squeezed, and every muscle in America’s body tensed with it.
“Better,” America said, shoving his hips forward against England’s hand.
“Hmm,” England said, swaying back to look at him. England himself was something to see, all flushed and shiny and soft around the edges. “I don’t have that- what you have, you know.”
“But you believe in this stuff-”
“Nevertheless. Not like this,” England interrupted. He flattened his palms on America’s chest and pushed until America flopped onto his back. There America waited and watched England loom over him.
England lowered his head until all America could see was the brushy top of his hair. Slowly he licked the long line of dripping sweat from America’s breastbone. America’s hips jerked so hard he bonked England in the chin with his groin.
“Watch that.”
“Hoookay.” America was riveted, would do anything England asked as England started to lick his chest again, his tongue tracing spit-circles in the sweat that coated nearly every inch of him. He dragged his lips over America’s ribs and then up, up his chin to give him a long, salty kiss. In return America traced England’s sides with his fingers, gentle and then desperate when England grabbed his cock, pulling it out through the opened fly of his pants when had those opened?
England gave it a lazy, torturous stroke. “Blimey,” it sound like he whispered.
America choked on his own spit. “Did you just say ‘blimey?’”
"The Principle of Contagion,” Part 7/10
anonymous
August 7 2011, 21:06:03 UTC
“Shut it,” England said, his face growing bright red, visible even in the candlelight. He slipped his thumbs along the dips of America’s abdomen, then grabbed and pulled down the waistband of his pants.
“You want it?” America said. He couldn’t help but grin.
“Do you? You were the one feeling all fulmous.”
America felt incredibly fulmous, hot and effervescent and achey like his skin was willing to do just about anything to get England to touch him. “Yes, please,” he sighed. “Fuck me.”
England seemed to twitch all over for a second or two. “Very well,” he said, and pulled. Once America’s pants were off he kneeled between his legs and laid his open mouth on America’s stomach, breathing a hot and wet circle into it. “You will never last, though,” he whispered to America’s belly.
“Is that any reason not to do it?” America squeaked, and hated that he’d squeaked.
“Hmm,” England said again. His eyes narrowed under his heavy brows and one side of his lips quirked up, giving him that snarky, sly look he got whenever he thought he’d had one over on somebody.
“Don’t move. I’ll be right back,” England said out of nowhere.
“Hey!” America said, but England had already hopped out of the circle and was thumping up the stairs.
America couldn’t not move, though. He was all nude and stretchy and hot and he didn’t even care that the little flying chicks were hanging out on the bookshelves, watching him fidget on the mattress. He had a feeling they’d always been around and he’d just never seen them. And then he had a feeling that he was getting a little too used to having such visions, such strumming sensations throughout his body, to being lit up, like Rockefeller Center at Christmas.
England thumped back down the stairs and noticed the little voyeurs as well. “Shoo,” he said, waving his hands until they scampered away.
America could admit to being happier for having England to himself. He squirmed under England’s smirking, hot gaze.
“I can’t believe you didn’t have a wank while I was away,” England said. He executed a little jump back into the circle.
“Mmm. Maybe I should’ve,” America murmured, happy and horny.
“No need now.” England kneeled and popped open a bottle of lube - what he must have gone to fetch. America was so lumenive he wasn’t sure he’d need it. England was gonna fuck him, England would never hear from America how kind he could be, how important he was.
“I’d rather take my time,” England continued in a murmur. He kissed America again, hard, and America just wanted to lay there and let anything happen. Then England shoved a lube-slicked finger up his ass and jammed it right where he was the most gravital.
“Oh, God,” America breathed, and clutched England’s shoulders. England didn’t really seem to be taking his time and America was going to point that out until England kissed his chin with a wet smacking noise. He moved down and did the same to America’s chest, his belly, and then right over the end of his cock.
“Oh, God,” America said again, and then lest England get any ideas, a plain, old “Oh, England.”
“Mmph,” England said, all sucking softness on America’s cock, his finger up America’s ass stroking inside him with hard intent. For all England loved to fuck, he very rarely gave blowjobs. It was too bad because he was pretty darned good at it, his lips tight, ever sucking breath pulling America’s hips up with it.
And England was right - America would never last. All he could choke out were harsh, breathy moans, which England encouraged with satisfied hums that America felt everywhere.
America curled his fingernails into England’s shoulders, and England whispered encouraging things at him, then licked and sucked until the bright thing sank hard into America’s belly. He grew heavier and heavier, sinking, until he was yanked into a climax of ah ah ahs and quivering hips.
England coughed a little in his throat but was all kindness and care when he slid his lips off America’s cock, all there you go, love, there, and he’d said love and he wouldn’t stop staring at America, who was breathing hard, recovering from a really freaking amazing orgasm.
"The Principle of Contagion,” Part 8/10
anonymous
August 7 2011, 21:06:58 UTC
Still England stared and America felt something well up in him, but not the purple-Carrie-oozy thing: something else that stole his body’s air and squeezed just short of physical pain at his lungs and heart and told him that things could have been bad, things had gotten dark but instead England was here again. When pieces needed to be picked up they always did that for each other, like it was the only thing to do.
America couldn’t bear that sense of inevitability, not on top of everything else. He wanted to stop it, say something meaningless, make things normal again.
“So,” he said. England yelped when America grabbed his erection through his jeans and traced it with his fingers. “Historically, is sexing me always the bonus cure?”
England didn’t scowl as America had expected, but closed his eyes. The edges of his lips softened. “No. This is a new, more experimental method.”
“Well, if I don’t remember later - thanks,” America said.
England smiled for real then, a bright thing, an alive thing in the candlelight, and America couldn’t breathe to say no, I meant thanks for making me your guinea pig, dude, or something. Since he couldn’t breathe he smiled back.
England did scowl then. “I thought we were done with the fucking butterflies?”
***
It was only a minute or so later that they’d cleared the butterflies away. That America had managed to create them even here spoke to what he held inside him. Coupled with his stupid strength, it was frightening. Add the way America was stroking his cock through his jeans-zipper, England thought it was frightening in an incredibly exciting way.
America probably had no idea what he’d given him. Thank you; how many times had England not heard that? Having America rely on him, to need him so - it was almost better than the sex. Almost. The sex had become a near necessity by that point. England cleared his throat.
“Now those thingums are gone. Perhaps I should remove these-- these things, then? And you should- over,” he said with an incomprehensible arm-wave. He hated that he was babbling, but it was difficult to speak with America using his long fingers to such advantage, and grinning at him so.
“Well, professor, it’s your call. Whatever you want,” America said. He correctly interpreted the arm-waving to mean on your knees and shifted till he was on his stomach, then arse-up.
That he was being so accommodating was another shock. They had indeed entered an alternate universe where nothing made sense. England flopped to his back and removed his jeans in record time.
He’d slicked America up fairly well a few minutes ago but spread some lubricant on himself; the lube was a welcome coolness on his skin and the action gave him time to watch America on his knees, the slight rise and fall of his back as his breathing eased. He looked so familiar from certain angles that it hurt.
There was no doubt England would do all he could to make this as pleasurable as possible for America, his America; he always did, and America knew it. But what America didn’t know was that he was a gift like this: irresistibly flushed - practically glowing - and thrumming with something he couldn't understand.
England slid his fingers over America’s hips. He ached terribly for him, all of him. The tight slide of his body as England slid his cock inside was everything it had promised; England felt the thrumming, felt a catch in America’s breath. The collected, inherited power he possessed was only barely contained by the ritual and consecration.
He swirled his hips in a lazy circle, working his way inside, trying to remember to breathe. It was also a good way to investigate again where it was that made America-
“Ahthere,” America huffed, and England knew he’d found it. By twisting America’s hips just so what a gift he could angle that way again, again, and again, answering his body’s demands to move.
“God. Jesus - I mean, England-” America’s knees were shaking. “You are evil, man. I don’t know how you do it-”
That made two of them. England took a few minutes to thrust at that precise pace, drawing out his own pleasure and listening to America whinge about being made to feel good.
"The Principle of Contagion,” Part 9/10
anonymous
August 7 2011, 21:07:41 UTC
A few minutes of that pace was all England could sustain, however, and almost before he knew it he was working his hips faster and faster. He shhh, shhhed over and over in a release of breath or perhaps even a warning to America, because words had power and he should have made love to America so that he could see his face, could kiss him quiet.
America started to flop forward but England caught him around the middle with his forearm. He’d stopped talking, at least, and breathed in short, sharp moans along with England, along with the rhythm of the magic created by their bodies.
England fell forward and pulled America close with that arm. He lost his rhythm for a moment in the slide of sweat between his belly and America’s back, then picked it up again, even faster than before.
America was glowing, even here, and he was hard again. For him, for England, he was all his, he was hyper-aroused and … er, yes, even fulmous, from the magic that had broken through in him. A few minutes more at that pace and England could barely breathe but America cried out when he came again, oh God oh England ah!-
The spasm of his climax broke England’s rhythm again and he never recovered it, just thrust in jerks until he came as well, a release so harsh that it left him gasping.
His strength was drained and he let America fall at last, following a scant few moments later. For a while he made a bed of America, in the sweat that covered him from head to toe. He inhaled America’s damp hair and noted that the thrumming in America’s body had ceased; his breathing was relaxed and even.
America emitted a half-snore and then seemed to catch himself. He swallowed.
“Dude. I think you just sexed me into oblivion.”
England snorted and then took a lazy lick at the sweat on America’s nape. “A successful experiment, then?”
America chuckled. After another couple of breaths, he cleared his throat. “But, well, seriously. Can you maybe get off me?” He jammed England’s ribs with his elbow.
England sighed and crawled off so America could roll over. It seemed he’d shagged America’s accommodating nature into oblivion, as well. He lay next to America anyway, looking at him, and pushed a strand of hair out of his eyes.
“You’re staring at me again,” America said.
Perhaps he was. “How do you feel?”
“Hmm. Normal. Just dead tired. Thirsty. Are you gonna stay down here with me?”
England smiled at being asked. “I’ll get some blankets. And tea,” he promised, and peeled himself from the sticky futon - he’d have to get a new one for Japan - and creaked to a standing position.
“Get my glasses … I can’t see,” America demanded in a sleepy-sounding voice.
“Nonsense,” England told him as he pulled on his jeans. He would get them anyway, just to be kind, and bring them back with the tea.
When England returned a few minutes later, however, America was dead asleep, still naked, his face pressed into the concrete floor. England carried two cups of tea into the circle anyway, along with the promised blankets. He dug America’s spectacles from his jeans-pocket and lay them on the floor next to his head.
He drank his tea, and wondered if, when this was all over, America would remember anything. He had a feeling that America would somehow manage to not remember a thing, no matter how much evidence was presented to him. It was just how he was, and England knew he’d have to live with it, if he and America were to have … what they had.
"The Principle of Contagion,” Part 10/10 (epilogue)
anonymous
August 7 2011, 21:09:30 UTC
The Principle of Contagion, part 10 of 10 (Epilogue)
***
America woke with a killer headache and his face stuck to concrete. He didn’t have to peel his face from the floor to see that England was sleeping next to him, facing away.
He also saw his glasses, laying on the floor next to him. He sat up and put them on and took a look around. look around. First he noticed that in addition to a headache, he had a sore ass. Next he realized that he was in England’s basement, and they’d been sleeping on a mattress on the floor. The smell of sex, tea and burned wax hovered around them. He tapped the back of England’s head.
“England! Why were we screwing in your basement?” he asked. The candles suggested something kinky, but he wasn’t ready to face that possibility so early in the morning.
England didn’t move, but he did emit something that sounded a little like a sob. “Sometimes I hate you so much,” he said, so low as to be barely audible.
America huffed. “Geeze! What did I do now?” Jerk, he said under his breath, and took another look around, a short look. He didn’t like England’s basement much and didn’t want to examine it too closely, in case he saw something he didn’t want to see. He’d heard once that England had a banshee around somewhere, and seeing one of those always meant that someone was dead.
END
Thanks for the awesome prompt, OP, and I’m sorry I didn’t do more with the magic. But I’m just a smut-writer at heart. I also apologize for any errors, as this is un-beta-read.
And oh, I stole the title from Wikipedia’s article on magic: “Another primary type of magical thinking includes the principle of contagion. This principle suggests that once two objects come into contact with each other, they will continue to affect each other even after the contact between them has been broken.”
Re: "The Principle of Contagion,” Part 10/10 (epilogue)
anonymous
August 8 2011, 03:40:57 UTC
This is amazingly written. I love the title and you refreshed the USUK pairing for me. Usually I just skim over fills for that pairing but you just made it amazing again. Here were my favorite parts
“Oh God, I want to be dreaming. I’m gonna explode. I’m all … Ha ha! I dunno. I have to make up words to describe it. Fulmous. Nngh,” America moaned into the seat, long and low.
America shivered again and closed his eyes. “I feel like I’ve entered an evil, crazy mirror universe, where things don’t make any sense. Like it’s Halloween all the time. It’s cold here.”
because it was England, who blew hot and cold at him and then did mind-blowing shit like this. England was too important to him sometimes; America wanted to swallow him, to ooze all over him.
just absolutely amazing. I am bookmarking this and re-reading over and over again. you are an incredibly witty person and I think I would like to marry you.
also have you written other things I can creep on?
Thank you so much - aI'm thrilled if you enjoyed it. :) (And I appreciate all the lovely comments but don't want to eat comment space-- so big, huge thanks to all of you!).
As for other fills, er, yeah, I've sort of gotten addicted to writing UKUS porn over the last couple of years, heh. I will deanon this one after I tweak a few things and have my beta give it a good thrashing, but I was so squeeful that you asked, here are links to just a few of the other UKUS things I've written for the kink meme:
Re: "The Principle of Contagion,” Part 10/10 (epilogue)
anonymous
August 8 2011, 14:38:59 UTC
wow. that is .... seriously epic. I feel sad for England though, that America never remembers. :D so much potential too. this would be an awesome AU!verse. <3 definitely loved this fill!
Re: "The Principle of Contagion,” Part 10/10 (epilogue)
anonymous
August 8 2011, 23:48:08 UTC
Oh man, I love this. It's been a while since I've read Hetalia fic that I really, really enjoyed. Cute, funny, and sexy. Ah, what else can you ask for? Thank you for writing. ♥
Re: "The Principle of Contagion,” Part 10/10 (epilogue)
anonymous
August 9 2011, 01:52:08 UTC
I’m just a smut-writer at heart
Dearest, there's nothing wrong with that! A fellow smut writer salutes you ♥
This was gorgeous. The smut was sexy, America's problem was hilarious and yet you made clear that it was a real problem and your dialogue skills are awesome. Thank you so much for sharing this with us.
Thankfully they had pulled up to the house; England opened the door before the driver could get to it, trying to get out before America started shitting rainbows. England untied his feet after extracting a promise to do exactly what he said, which was to follow him straight to his basement.
Everyone was excited to see him home, of course, and to see America. The problem was that now America could see everyone back as they followed England and America through the house.
“So many things I don’t wanna see,” America said, and finally stopped making the fucking butterflies.
***
America waited. It was only about ten minutes before England was back, in his ‘clothes for the job,’ as he called them. He’d run up to change after he’d installed America in the basement don’t go anywhere, don’t touch a fucking thing, don’t even move, not a muscle, and his working clothes consisted of an old, black tee-shirt, a pair of faded jeans, and bare feet. He looked comfortable, which was more than America could say; he was still wearing his button-down shirt and suit pants, his hands were still tied behind him, and he was sitting on the cold basement floor. And the weird, burning, bubble thing was still inside him. But now, at least, he felt that if he breathed deeply enough and concentrated hard enough on something- England and what he was doing, maybe- he could keep it from going all explodey again.
He shuddered all over at the memory and watched England work. England was crawling around America on his hands and knees, scritching a piece of white chalk along some faded white lines that covered the floor. Some of the old lines he refreshed, and some he rubbed into the concrete with the side of his fist. America shivered again, and took a long, shaky breath.
“Uh. Where’s my jacket? It was super-expensive.”
“Likely someone has it and you can retrieve it later,” England said without looking up. He was concentrating, his tongue sticking out of his mouth.
“Ha, I hope so. Um.” America took another deep breath. He was feeling better every second; whatever England was doing seemed to be helping. Or maybe it was just England, who was actually helping by simply being there and being mostly unfazed by all the weird shit. “What does everyone think happened?”
“Hmm. As far as about ninety-eight percent of them are concerned, a heat wave in the central United States. The other two percent have their mobile phones at the ready, so do not even think of causing me trouble.”
“Not me! I’m a helper. I help people. Heroic-like.” America knew he was babbling, but he couldn’t help it. He’d made the mistake of looking up. Things were floating around up there, things he’d always been able to convince himself were imaginary; things caught from the corner of one’s eyes on a dark night, and tricks of the light. But at the moment the tricks of the light looked all too solid. They saw him seeing them and started zipping around, glowing and laughing, sometimes making looping arcs through the air to whizz around England’s blond head. England’s hair was sticking up and his huge eyebrows were pointing down, making his forehead look like a face of its own.
“I’m so freaked out right now,” America said.
“How is that different from any other time?” England mumbled. He pushed from his knees to a stand and ambled over to grab a book off a dusty, cobweb-covered shelf. It was one of his huge, old books, the ones that were all crusty and grumpy-looking. Something that deserved the name ‘grimoire.’
“Usually I think you’re a dork for believing in this stuff. But right now I’m glad you have those creepy old books and a basement pentagram.”
“What did you say?”
America looked at the floor, to avoid having to look at everything else. A bubble of panic low in his stomach threatened to burst out like a belch, promising to blacken it all; he swallowed the panic down. He felt his forehead and the back of his neck break out in a sweat. “Do you really think- what do you really think is happening to me?”
Reply
“Oh.”
England kneeled again and made a tiny, corrective-looking scritch in the chalk floor-circle. He said something that sounded like bumpkiss and a few dozen candles tucked into sconces on the walls burst into tiny flames, while the lightbulbs popped off. The candlelight surrounded them with warm, flickering-yellow light.
“Oh God,” America breathed. He breathed again. More importantly than anything, the dark and bright bubble within him had suddenly eased off, slunk away, become less of a threat.
England grinned at him, his teeth white in the surrounding yellow. “This is why we use spells and ritual; to impose order on that which is dangerously wild.” He crawled over and behind America, and America felt fingers yanking at the ropes that bound his hands.
America breathed once more and relaxed his fingers, to let England take off the stupid ropes. “How long do I have to stay here?”
“Hmm. Just until we’re sure we can keep you under control. Historically it’s usually a matter of a day or so. Less.”
America rolled his eyes. “Historically. You’re full of it. I would totally remember, you know.”
“Oh! You-” America felt England’s fingers halt in their work. He could almost feel England’s angry blush as it crawled over his face, could see it in his mind’s eye. “You’re such a berk. I’m trying to help you.”
“Gotcha. Sorry,” America said. That didn’t mean England wasn’t fun to tease. He waggled his fingers behind him in reminder, and thankfully, England completed the job of untying him. He held up the rope, which was America’s expensive silk tie. But there were more important things to worry about. “England … I gotta stay in here? This floor is kinda hard.”
“Taken care of.” England smirked and looked up. America’s gaze followed and to his horror, he could see a crowd of little floating girls. They were dragging a floppy kind of pillow-mattress down the basement steps. They didn’t smudge it over the circle but lifted it with visible, flitting-winged effort, and let it thump down inside the circle. Then they zipped off, giggling.
“I gotta sleep here? On that?”
“It’s a perfectly comfortable futon. I acquired it for Japan when he visited.”
America shook his head to get that thought straight in his brain. “Japan sleeps over?”
England’s cheeks were pink even in this low light, yeah, and they got pinker. He turned his head sideways and looked at the walls or something. “Platonically, if you must know.”
“Uh huh.” America was teasing. Sort of. Kind of.
“You ass.” England looked back at him and then, to America’s surprise, leaned forward until his flushed face was only a couple of inches away. “Are you hungry?”
America swallowed. “No.” And strangely, he wasn’t.
“Hmm,” England said, a warm puff of breath on America’s face. Then he leaned closer and kissed him. His lips were soft and his breath just a little smoky. America opened his mouth, sighing into the sudden pleasure of the act. He felt England’s fingers slide up to brush in his hair and pull his face closer, a little authoritative but somehow avoiding the still-sore knot on the back of his head. England’s tongue thrummed with the little hmmms rising up through his throat, or maybe those were America’s.
Reply
Low in his belly the bubble of something sparked like the candles had, warming him even more from the inside out until he could feel the tingle of sweat filming on his face, his neck, his chest. This part was always weird, but exciting exactly because it was weird, because it was England, who blew hot and cold at him and then did mind-blowing shit like this. England was too important to him sometimes; America wanted to swallow him, to ooze all over him.
As if he read America’s thoughts, England softened his fingers in America’s hair and pulled away. He stared at him with half-closed eyes. He licked his lips.
America shivered a little. “Are you gonna cure me with sex?”
England snorted. “No, the sex is just a bonus.”
“Oh. That’s cool.”
The corners of England’s sexy lips curved up a little. “Though it should help. Controlled release of energy and all that.”
“Sounds awesome,” America told him. His gut was already pulsing, throbbing, and when England kissed him again he moaned and tried to arch his belly into England’s, to push against all of him.
“Good lord,” England mumbled into America’s mouth, a smoky exhalation of lust. America clung to him until England yanked at his hair.
“Ow.”
“Over here,” England said. He crab-crawled backwards a few feet to the mattress and patted it. America followed.
“Yeah,” America admitted. He joined England on the mattress and kneeled there thigh-to-thigh with him. Their size difference was more apparent when they were close like this but England wasn’t a lightweight; he wrapped his arms around America and pulled his face down to kiss him again, and then all was England’s breath, his hands under America’s shirt and on his skin.
The bright expanded to surround them and keep them close and England sucked on his earlobe, breaths puffing through his nose to shiver onto America’s eardrums. America was goo, he was melting hot onto England and his soft lips and moaning breath, unmelting only long enough to let England pull his arms out the sleeves of his button-down shirt. England stripped off his own tee-shirt and made up for the delay by licking along the sensitive skin of America’s jawline and grabbing America’s erection, which tried to break through his Boss pants.
“Unh… just like that,” America breathed.
“Does the magic make it worse?” England asked his throat. His hand squeezed, and every muscle in America’s body tensed with it.
“Better,” America said, shoving his hips forward against England’s hand.
“Hmm,” England said, swaying back to look at him. England himself was something to see, all flushed and shiny and soft around the edges. “I don’t have that- what you have, you know.”
“But you believe in this stuff-”
“Nevertheless. Not like this,” England interrupted. He flattened his palms on America’s chest and pushed until America flopped onto his back. There America waited and watched England loom over him.
England lowered his head until all America could see was the brushy top of his hair. Slowly he licked the long line of dripping sweat from America’s breastbone. America’s hips jerked so hard he bonked England in the chin with his groin.
“Watch that.”
“Hoookay.” America was riveted, would do anything England asked as England started to lick his chest again, his tongue tracing spit-circles in the sweat that coated nearly every inch of him. He dragged his lips over America’s ribs and then up, up his chin to give him a long, salty kiss. In return America traced England’s sides with his fingers, gentle and then desperate when England grabbed his cock, pulling it out through the opened fly of his pants when had those opened?
England gave it a lazy, torturous stroke. “Blimey,” it sound like he whispered.
America choked on his own spit. “Did you just say ‘blimey?’”
Reply
“You want it?” America said. He couldn’t help but grin.
“Do you? You were the one feeling all fulmous.”
America felt incredibly fulmous, hot and effervescent and achey like his skin was willing to do just about anything to get England to touch him. “Yes, please,” he sighed. “Fuck me.”
England seemed to twitch all over for a second or two. “Very well,” he said, and pulled. Once America’s pants were off he kneeled between his legs and laid his open mouth on America’s stomach, breathing a hot and wet circle into it. “You will never last, though,” he whispered to America’s belly.
“Is that any reason not to do it?” America squeaked, and hated that he’d squeaked.
“Hmm,” England said again. His eyes narrowed under his heavy brows and one side of his lips quirked up, giving him that snarky, sly look he got whenever he thought he’d had one over on somebody.
“Don’t move. I’ll be right back,” England said out of nowhere.
“Hey!” America said, but England had already hopped out of the circle and was thumping up the stairs.
America couldn’t not move, though. He was all nude and stretchy and hot and he didn’t even care that the little flying chicks were hanging out on the bookshelves, watching him fidget on the mattress. He had a feeling they’d always been around and he’d just never seen them. And then he had a feeling that he was getting a little too used to having such visions, such strumming sensations throughout his body, to being lit up, like Rockefeller Center at Christmas.
England thumped back down the stairs and noticed the little voyeurs as well. “Shoo,” he said, waving his hands until they scampered away.
America could admit to being happier for having England to himself. He squirmed under England’s smirking, hot gaze.
“I can’t believe you didn’t have a wank while I was away,” England said. He executed a little jump back into the circle.
“Mmm. Maybe I should’ve,” America murmured, happy and horny.
“No need now.” England kneeled and popped open a bottle of lube - what he must have gone to fetch. America was so lumenive he wasn’t sure he’d need it. England was gonna fuck him, England would never hear from America how kind he could be, how important he was.
“I’d rather take my time,” England continued in a murmur. He kissed America again, hard, and America just wanted to lay there and let anything happen. Then England shoved a lube-slicked finger up his ass and jammed it right where he was the most gravital.
“Oh, God,” America breathed, and clutched England’s shoulders. England didn’t really seem to be taking his time and America was going to point that out until England kissed his chin with a wet smacking noise. He moved down and did the same to America’s chest, his belly, and then right over the end of his cock.
“Oh, God,” America said again, and then lest England get any ideas, a plain, old “Oh, England.”
“Mmph,” England said, all sucking softness on America’s cock, his finger up America’s ass stroking inside him with hard intent. For all England loved to fuck, he very rarely gave blowjobs. It was too bad because he was pretty darned good at it, his lips tight, ever sucking breath pulling America’s hips up with it.
And England was right - America would never last. All he could choke out were harsh, breathy moans, which England encouraged with satisfied hums that America felt everywhere.
America curled his fingernails into England’s shoulders, and England whispered encouraging things at him, then licked and sucked until the bright thing sank hard into America’s belly. He grew heavier and heavier, sinking, until he was yanked into a climax of ah ah ahs and quivering hips.
England coughed a little in his throat but was all kindness and care when he slid his lips off America’s cock, all there you go, love, there, and he’d said love and he wouldn’t stop staring at America, who was breathing hard, recovering from a really freaking amazing orgasm.
Reply
America couldn’t bear that sense of inevitability, not on top of everything else. He wanted to stop it, say something meaningless, make things normal again.
“So,” he said. England yelped when America grabbed his erection through his jeans and traced it with his fingers. “Historically, is sexing me always the bonus cure?”
England didn’t scowl as America had expected, but closed his eyes. The edges of his lips softened. “No. This is a new, more experimental method.”
“Well, if I don’t remember later - thanks,” America said.
England smiled for real then, a bright thing, an alive thing in the candlelight, and America couldn’t breathe to say no, I meant thanks for making me your guinea pig, dude, or something. Since he couldn’t breathe he smiled back.
England did scowl then. “I thought we were done with the fucking butterflies?”
***
It was only a minute or so later that they’d cleared the butterflies away. That America had managed to create them even here spoke to what he held inside him. Coupled with his stupid strength, it was frightening. Add the way America was stroking his cock through his jeans-zipper, England thought it was frightening in an incredibly exciting way.
America probably had no idea what he’d given him. Thank you; how many times had England not heard that? Having America rely on him, to need him so - it was almost better than the sex. Almost. The sex had become a near necessity by that point. England cleared his throat.
“Now those thingums are gone. Perhaps I should remove these-- these things, then? And you should- over,” he said with an incomprehensible arm-wave. He hated that he was babbling, but it was difficult to speak with America using his long fingers to such advantage, and grinning at him so.
“Well, professor, it’s your call. Whatever you want,” America said. He correctly interpreted the arm-waving to mean on your knees and shifted till he was on his stomach, then arse-up.
That he was being so accommodating was another shock. They had indeed entered an alternate universe where nothing made sense. England flopped to his back and removed his jeans in record time.
He’d slicked America up fairly well a few minutes ago but spread some lubricant on himself; the lube was a welcome coolness on his skin and the action gave him time to watch America on his knees, the slight rise and fall of his back as his breathing eased. He looked so familiar from certain angles that it hurt.
There was no doubt England would do all he could to make this as pleasurable as possible for America, his America; he always did, and America knew it. But what America didn’t know was that he was a gift like this: irresistibly flushed - practically glowing - and thrumming with something he couldn't understand.
England slid his fingers over America’s hips. He ached terribly for him, all of him. The tight slide of his body as England slid his cock inside was everything it had promised; England felt the thrumming, felt a catch in America’s breath. The collected, inherited power he possessed was only barely contained by the ritual and consecration.
He swirled his hips in a lazy circle, working his way inside, trying to remember to breathe. It was also a good way to investigate again where it was that made America-
“Ahthere,” America huffed, and England knew he’d found it. By twisting America’s hips just so what a gift he could angle that way again, again, and again, answering his body’s demands to move.
“God. Jesus - I mean, England-” America’s knees were shaking. “You are evil, man. I don’t know how you do it-”
That made two of them. England took a few minutes to thrust at that precise pace, drawing out his own pleasure and listening to America whinge about being made to feel good.
Reply
America started to flop forward but England caught him around the middle with his forearm. He’d stopped talking, at least, and breathed in short, sharp moans along with England, along with the rhythm of the magic created by their bodies.
England fell forward and pulled America close with that arm. He lost his rhythm for a moment in the slide of sweat between his belly and America’s back, then picked it up again, even faster than before.
America was glowing, even here, and he was hard again. For him, for England, he was all his, he was hyper-aroused and … er, yes, even fulmous, from the magic that had broken through in him. A few minutes more at that pace and England could barely breathe but America cried out when he came again, oh God oh England ah!-
The spasm of his climax broke England’s rhythm again and he never recovered it, just thrust in jerks until he came as well, a release so harsh that it left him gasping.
His strength was drained and he let America fall at last, following a scant few moments later. For a while he made a bed of America, in the sweat that covered him from head to toe. He inhaled America’s damp hair and noted that the thrumming in America’s body had ceased; his breathing was relaxed and even.
America emitted a half-snore and then seemed to catch himself. He swallowed.
“Dude. I think you just sexed me into oblivion.”
England snorted and then took a lazy lick at the sweat on America’s nape. “A successful experiment, then?”
America chuckled. After another couple of breaths, he cleared his throat. “But, well, seriously. Can you maybe get off me?” He jammed England’s ribs with his elbow.
England sighed and crawled off so America could roll over. It seemed he’d shagged America’s accommodating nature into oblivion, as well. He lay next to America anyway, looking at him, and pushed a strand of hair out of his eyes.
“You’re staring at me again,” America said.
Perhaps he was. “How do you feel?”
“Hmm. Normal. Just dead tired. Thirsty. Are you gonna stay down here with me?”
England smiled at being asked. “I’ll get some blankets. And tea,” he promised, and peeled himself from the sticky futon - he’d have to get a new one for Japan - and creaked to a standing position.
“Get my glasses … I can’t see,” America demanded in a sleepy-sounding voice.
“Nonsense,” England told him as he pulled on his jeans. He would get them anyway, just to be kind, and bring them back with the tea.
When England returned a few minutes later, however, America was dead asleep, still naked, his face pressed into the concrete floor. England carried two cups of tea into the circle anyway, along with the promised blankets. He dug America’s spectacles from his jeans-pocket and lay them on the floor next to his head.
He drank his tea, and wondered if, when this was all over, America would remember anything. He had a feeling that America would somehow manage to not remember a thing, no matter how much evidence was presented to him. It was just how he was, and England knew he’d have to live with it, if he and America were to have … what they had.
***
tbc with epilogue
Reply
***
America woke with a killer headache and his face stuck to concrete. He didn’t have to peel his face from the floor to see that England was sleeping next to him, facing away.
He also saw his glasses, laying on the floor next to him. He sat up and put them on and took a look around. look around. First he noticed that in addition to a headache, he had a sore ass. Next he realized that he was in England’s basement, and they’d been sleeping on a mattress on the floor. The smell of sex, tea and burned wax hovered around them. He tapped the back of England’s head.
“England! Why were we screwing in your basement?” he asked. The candles suggested something kinky, but he wasn’t ready to face that possibility so early in the morning.
England didn’t move, but he did emit something that sounded a little like a sob. “Sometimes I hate you so much,” he said, so low as to be barely audible.
America huffed. “Geeze! What did I do now?” Jerk, he said under his breath, and took another look around, a short look. He didn’t like England’s basement much and didn’t want to examine it too closely, in case he saw something he didn’t want to see. He’d heard once that England had a banshee around somewhere, and seeing one of those always meant that someone was dead.
END
Thanks for the awesome prompt, OP, and I’m sorry I didn’t do more with the magic. But I’m just a smut-writer at heart. I also apologize for any errors, as this is un-beta-read.
And oh, I stole the title from Wikipedia’s article on magic: “Another primary type of magical thinking includes the principle of contagion. This principle suggests that once two objects come into contact with each other, they will continue to affect each other even after the contact between them has been broken.”
Reply
Reply
“Oh God, I want to be dreaming. I’m gonna explode. I’m all … Ha ha! I dunno. I have to make up words to describe it. Fulmous. Nngh,” America moaned into the seat, long and low.
America shivered again and closed his eyes. “I feel like I’ve entered an evil, crazy mirror universe, where things don’t make any sense. Like it’s Halloween all the time. It’s cold here.”
because it was England, who blew hot and cold at him and then did mind-blowing shit like this. England was too important to him sometimes; America wanted to swallow him, to ooze all over him.
just absolutely amazing. I am bookmarking this and re-reading over and over again. you are an incredibly witty person and I think I would like to marry you.
also have you written other things I can creep on?
Reply
As for other fills, er, yeah, I've sort of gotten addicted to writing UKUS porn over the last couple of years, heh. I will deanon this one after I tweak a few things and have my beta give it a good thrashing, but I was so squeeful that you asked, here are links to just a few of the other UKUS things I've written for the kink meme:
http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/20706.html?thread=78724066#t78724066
http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/18772.html?thread=72065620#t72065620
http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/17465.html?thread=55977785#t55977785
http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/17465.html?thread=57845305#t57845305
Reply
Reply
i laughed my way through most of it and then enjoyed it immensely there toward the end
*3*
Reply
Reply
And their banter throughout was great :D
America's descriptions of things are hilarious--he should seriously narrate like, everything. XD
Reply
Reply
Dearest, there's nothing wrong with that! A fellow smut writer salutes you ♥
This was gorgeous. The smut was sexy, America's problem was hilarious and yet you made clear that it was a real problem and your dialogue skills are awesome. Thank you so much for sharing this with us.
Reply
Leave a comment