Told from Spain's perspectives, so Spanish names are used.
It was a strange relationship that they had. Always had been. Currently, things were good.
Maria I and Felipe II made a striking couple – not handsome, exactly, but striking: Maria so pale, but smiling, and Felipe rosy-cheeked yet somber. Inglaterra, following Maria, dressed as a knight, looked far less pleased than his queen. On the other hand, España was always quicker to smile, and he looked much more thrilled by proceedings.
"It's a wedding, Inglaterra! Try to smile," he teased.
"That's not even trying," España laughed.
"My people don't like it. They don't like her, and they certainly don't like you. Why should I smile?"
"Ah, and do you dislike me, as your people do? After so much…history?" España pouted.
Inglaterra shivered. España was much closer to him than he had been a moment ago, and the breath on his ear was disorienting and obnoxious.
"Q-quit that," Inglaterra grumbled. España took the ear into his mouth instead of dignifying him with a response. His hands were groping at the many buttons of Inglaterra's court outfit. Inglaterra hustled him out of the procession and into a back alley, probably to berate him.
España didn't care to listen. "Ahhh, al final te tengo atrapado, mi pajarito."
"Don't speak, that, you bastard," Inglaterra grumbled. "You know I can't…"
"But my Felipe can't read English…so it's Spanish or Latin from now on, querido," España said cheerfully, as he nibbled on Inglaterra's neck. He stripped away the island nation's clothes.
England's fists were clenched. But he wouldn't dare upset the fragile little alliance. España grinned vindictively, taking sadistic pleasure in kissing Inglaterra's wrists and hands until he grudgingly relaxed.
"Lovemaking," España began to lecture seriously, "is a matter of two people finding happiness together…even if it is a shallow sort of happiness. To leave a partner unsatisfied is to have failed utterly at making love."
Inglaterra made a strangled noise. España's hand was doing positively unholy things to Inglaterra's cock. Had he been able to form an intelligible response, España would have had to renounce his mental claims to being the best lover in the world – qualitatively, mind. Francia was without a doubt the most prolific still living. Rome would have been good competition, though.
The marriage was brief. España still enjoyed it to the fullest, playing mind games on Inglaterra whenever he thought he could get away with it.
Then Elizabeth came.
She lit up his life. That was obvious even from their new distance. Inglaterra fell in love with Elizabeth like he never had with Maria. And his people, too, they adored her. Oh, not all of them, of course. But many.
This one, Felipe did want. Elizabeth was fire and risk and danger. He wanted her close, under his control.
But he wasn't the only one. And Elizabeth played at being interested very well. She didn't even have to play with the King of Sweden. Sverige was usually the one delivering the messages of admiration into Elizabeth's court, looking shame-faced at his boss's embarrassing infatuation.
España left the court, and England, on a Spanish merchant vessel bound for the Americas. It didn't get even a hundred leagues from the British Isles.
Pirates, España thought bitterly. English, from the look of them and the screams and curses they made as they fought the ship's pitiful crew. España managed to run a few of them through with his sword before they clubbed him with something and he lost consciousness.
He woke to a pair of furry caterpillars – no, those were Inglaterra's eyebrows. How unfortunate. He would have preferred the caterpillars.
"Good, you're awake," Inglaterra said, with hardly any emotion in his voice.
"Pirates – " España started, and then coughed. His throat was so dry… "How long have I been out?" he croaked.
"Nearly a day. But your skull is thicker than I thought."
"They didn't get you, did they?" España asked, not really worried for England so much as their secret. So far, the rules between the countries were that only bosses could know of a nation's real status.
Inglaterra smiled. It wasn't a very nice smile.
"No, Spain. I'm here of my own free will."
The blood drained from España's face. "They're working on orders…pirates as military shock troops. Maldición de Dios."
Inglaterra smiled wider. "You're not so stupid as your little ward says."
"Don't you fucking touch him, bastardo!"
"Oh, my Spanish friend…you seem to think you're in control here."
It was a very unfortunate time to notice he was tied down and stripped to his underclothes. España shivered.
"And now you start to realize…" Inglaterra purred. He bit España's ear.
"Bastardo!" España hissed again.
"Don't make me gag you. There are much better things to use that mouth for." The kiss was brutal and demanding, and Inglaterra's knife at his throat sapped España of any inkling of biting, or even passively keeping his mouth closed. It probably would not have killed him. It may have hurt a great deal, though.
"A little better," Inglaterra hummed. The clever knife cut away the last of España's garments.
Inglaterra didn't waste any time – actually, he skipped a lot of things that España rather wished he hadn't, such as things that would have relaxed España, or made the coupling easier physically, since he couldn't be bothered with mentally.
España gritted his teeth and reminded himself that Inglaterra had been taught first by bad examples, and hated España entirely too much to have taken his advice.
But at the fifth painful failed attempt at entrance, he had to speak up.
"Oil," he barked at Inglaterra. "Don't be a twit. Do something intelligent instead of trying to fit (through sheer bloody-mindedness) where you were never meant to be."
"The vial I used. What the hell did you think it was for, idiot?"
"Cleanliness…sensitivity…" Inglaterra shrugged. "Rome didn't bother."
"Rome was an idiot too, but not that much of one. You probably just don't remember it. I have a vial in my jacket. Check the right-side pockets."
"Why are you helping me?"
"Because you are so painfully awful at this. Emphasis on painful."
Inglaterra muttered unhappily, but found the vial.
"You start with one finger, and work up to three or four. Your fingers should do everything you anticipate doing with your cock and more – better, too, since you have more motor control. The mimicry also – ah! Excites your partner," España panted as Inglaterra found an important nerve center.
"That's a g-good rhythm. Should be…nearly ready."
Inglaterra took that as an invitation rather earlier than España wanted, and the shock made the Mediterranean nation tighten up immediately.
"Nnnngh," Inglaterra groaned, hips starting to push forward.
"S-stop!" España yelped, eyes wide. "D-don't move yet. Just…give me a minute."
Inglaterra grunted. "Who do you think is really in charge here?"
"If you'd stop thinking of only yourself for half a minute," España grumbled.
"Can I move now, your highness?" Inglaterra snarked.
España glared at him. "Yes."
Inglaterra bucked his hips. This part was not so bad. Oh, Inglaterra had no sense of rhythm, and his palms were sweaty on España's chest, but he found España's prostate more often than not, and he looked delightful, gasping senselessly over España.
No, not so bad…until Inglaterra bit him on the shoulder, clearly meaning to make a mark. He kept biting and moving and España screamed, thrashing. There was blood on Inglaterra's mouth when he pulled away, and he looked viciously gleeful.
"Spain will never be safe in the seas," Inglaterra grinned. "And at least for now, you will be mine."
The humiliation on a merchant vessel was nothing compared to the capture and torture following the defeat of the Spanish Armada. España spent months in English prisons, months being beaten for speaking the tongues of his people, for being Inglaterra's way of venting frustrations.
The closest thing he had to relief was Elizabeth. She came by to reprimand Inglaterra sometimes, to give España food and water and make Inglaterra clean his wounds. She left books – Protestant Bibles, sometimes, but also philosophy, history, and similar things…all in English, of course. She spoke Spanish, he knew, but not to him, nothing except to say, "Calme, España. Calme."
He did not, typically, calm down. Inglaterra was too hostile, and the captivity too abhorrent.
And Dios, the biting. He would have a scar on that shoulder forever.
He was sent home battered and weak.
Romano was the one to put him back together. His lips thinned when he saw the bite mark, but he said nothing.