Summary: Spain/England. "Ne, Arthur, we've never really loved each other, have we? I'm just a replacement; and so are you." For Spain and England, it's never been about love; just blood and lust and a way to pass the time as their beloved grow slowly up.
A more explicit, serious, fic, detailing the relationship between pirate!England and conquistador!Spain.
WARNINGS: Shotacon, inexplicit sex
Please read, enjoy and review!
…
(Niño, ensucia tu cara)
They don't love each other. That much is obvious.
They know this, but they just don't care. Why should they?
The carnal relationship is enough for them. Love will come later, in the form of two innocent children with golden-brown hair and blue-green eyes.
For now, for them, it's always been a liaison of blood, desire and wealth. It was never made to last. They know that, but it's always been okay with them; after all, they're only waiting for their beloved to grow up.
(Con tus lágrimas enfermas.)
England slips in through the unlocked window. He knows it will always be open to him, as long as this alliance holds – but that won't be long now, after he has set his pirates on Spain.
He may be in Spain's bed, but they're still adversaries. They both know that, and it doesn't really bother them.
As he pads through Spain's home, he does not miss the slitted green eyes that watch his every move, cat-like, through a chink in the door. He spies envy and hatred in those little eyes, and snickers silently at the emotion in them. (Though really, he's just jealous that America doesn't see him through those emerald-green eyes; he sees England through a clear, sky-blue gaze, and England loves that too.)
He could tell Spain that darling little Lovi loved him back, but where would the fun be in that?
So he ignores that hot glare (really, what does Spain see in that brat?) before waltzing into Spain's room, making sure to reiterate the locking of the door, just to show what he has and Romano doesn't. (It's the instinct of an empire, after all.)
Spain looks up from god-knows-what, and pastes a shocked mask on his handsome, tanned face.
"¡Dios mío, Inglaterra! You gave me a shock!"
England knows he's faking it – their liaisons have been enduring since the early 16th century, and it has become a (almost tedious) routine.
He's longing for wheat-golden hair and cornflower eyes.
But, for now, Spain will do. He's being doing (him) for a long time.
England smiles seductively (it makes him sick, when he remembers an innocent smile on a radiant face) and looks down at Spain at his desk, licking his lips.
"Mmmm, I like this position. Will we have to clean up your desk again, España?"
He knows Spain loves it when he uses his native language, and says it just loud enough so that little ears pressed up against locked doors can hear.
Spain knows this, and frowns.
"Lovi! Could you give Boss Spain some alone time, please~?" England can practically hear the lovingness in Spain's tone, and decided to have some fun with the little brat.
He presses himself against Spain and moans.
"España…aah..mmm…España!"
There is the pitter-patter of fleeing mice-feet, and then silence.
It's an angry, stormy silence, and England knows exactly why it's looming over the two sometimes-lovers.
Spain speaks first. "Inglaterra…"
It's a warning tone, but England was never one to heed blood-red stop signs.
"But España, it gave you some alone time, didn't it?"
Spain scowls, and England shivers deliciously. Then Spain's frown melts into a seductive leer, and England knows he's in for a good time.
"I think you will need…punishment."
England is nodding ecstatically inside. He lusts for this side of Spain, two-faced enigma that he is.
He moans piteously, and knows even Romano down the corridor can hear him. "P-please, Master España, forgive me! Don't make my punishment – " here his face changes, eyelids drooping, breathing heavy, lips cherry-red – "too harsh…"
Their dance begins.
(Deja tu sangre fluir )
Spain purrs like a cat, satisfied at the punishment England has received. He knows he is quite the sadist, but really, when you're on top of the world, little things like character flaws don't matter anymore (unless, of course, he's dealing with his darling Lovi.)
He glances down at the panting form below him.
Beautiful, but not enough. Never enough.
He prepares himself, clothes long swept away amongst the drowning throes of passion.
Before he can prevent himself from doing it (ingrained and instinctual as it is), Spain spares a cursory glance to the locked door. He hopes that England won't see, but of course he does.
Envy-green eyes sneer up at him.
"Afraid your little boy toy may hear us?"
Spain's eyes darken, and he slams (into) England against the wall.
"Don't ever say that again."
England laughs mockingly at him, but he abruptly understands why so many nations have fallen, broken, at Spain's feet.
Then again, it's the same with England. He wants, he fights, he takes. But he can't force his way into the heart of another, and that's why they're here, now, both deliberately ignoring the fact that their bitter hearts beat for another.
(Llora, llora.)
Spain wakes up to the bitter, harsh morning, England long disappeared into the night.
He runs a hand through his sweat-stained hair, and sighs, knowing Lovino will be upset over his treatment the night before.
Before Lovino, he never felt guilty about his – meetings – with the other empire.
But now, he feels a knife of pain and guilt strike his heart and soul. It's been like this since the first time England returned to his bed, and he still doesn't get it.
He doesn't get a lot of things, like how sleeping with England can feel so good yet so wrong, how seeing Lovi will make him want to sprout wings and fly, how Romano cries in the night against the backdrop of lust-filled moans.
But the sun is shining, the birds are singing and the tomatoes glow happily in the sun; it's too good a day to pollute with depressing thoughts, so Spain pushes them aside and gets ready for a new dawn.
…
Niño, ensucia tu cara
con tus lágrimas enfermas.
Deja tu sangre fluir
Llora, llora.
Niño, rompe tu corazón
con tu retorcida mente.
Deja que tus demonios te posean.
Llora, llora
Child, make your face dirty
With your sickened tears
Let your blood flow from within you
Cry, cry.
Child, make your heart break
With your twisted mind
Let your demons possess you
Cry, cry.
…
The little poem at the end is my property – I made it up in English, and translated it with Google Translate, so forgive me for my gratuitous errors in Spanish!
(A/N: Many thanks to anto90, for pointing out and correcting the errors in the Spanish translation of the poem! It's now been altered to make more sense grammatically. Thanks again, anto90! And please don't say your English is bad; it's actually very good.)