A/N: Happy Philippine-Spanish Friendship Day! We spent more than three centuries together, and the more you know about our history the more complicated our relationship becomes. I like the way Rizal phrases it in his essay, The Philippines A Century Hence, because he basically envisions the Filipinos talking to Spain and asking: "We've spent our youth to draw a glance of love from you. Must we tell Filipinas that you are deaf to his woes, and that if he wishes to be saved, he must save himself?" He published these propaganda articles in La Solidaridad in 1889-1890, so I imagine that this fic takes place in the same time period.
Title is from the English translations of Racing Into The Night by YOASOBI. Hope you enjoy reading!
The propaganda papers were wet with rain, and blood, and cum.
His legs were shaking, and he was sure that he had bruises from how tight the older nation had grabbed on to him. He would have screamed if his mouth hadn't been covered by the other's hands. But he was stronger now, and he gave as good as he got; he made sure Spain was full of scratches, bite marks, and scars of his own.
You're not fucking me on my knees, he had said.
Spain laughed, then forcefully slammed him against the wall.
This was the wrath of the Spanish Empire, he found out. More than the lashes and stony silences that he remembered from his youth, he was different now—harsher, bolder, angrier than before. He entered him without preparation but whispered filthy nothings into his ear, marked him with hickeys all over his neck then bit his lips until they bled, and he tenderly stroked his cock while edging him to the point of deliriousness. Spain fucked like pain was the same thing as pleasure, and all he could do was get caught up in the thrilling sensation of it.
There was a time when he was gentle. Reverent, almost, as he dressed him up in the finest silks and piña cloths, pure as white and smooth as sin. They were both younger then, of course. And the Spanish house was still full of colonies, full of great power and potential for the empire where the sun never sets. Spain would lay him down in a bed full of carnations and teach him what it meant to be a man. They weren't happier times, but they were simpler. Sweeter, softer.
Today was nothing but roughness. He'd been handing out propaganda papers in favor of his separation, and he'd been caught. They screamed, furiously, in the middle of the plazas of Madrid; it felt like hours before Spain had looked at him with one blazing glare and smacked him until he hit the uneven cobblestone grounds.
Spain beckoned him to go somewhere private, after that. He had been too stunned to do anything but follow.
It had begun to rain, in the middle of it all. Spain didn't give him the dignity of a discreet hotel, or a carriage back home, or even just a table where he could comfortably bend over and present himself. Spain had been courteous enough to lend his coat, but he'd also been stripped to nothing else. Raindrops fell, pitter-patter, to the same rhythm that their skin slapped against each other, echoing in the small alley corner that he'd been led into. There was no more teasing, or foreplay, or any build-up of the kind. There was no need to wait when their touches were hot and their kisses were passionate enough to make their lips bleed. Spain had been courteous enough to lend his coat, but he'd also been stripped to nothing else. As he was being undressed, he almost missed the friction of their cocks rubbing against each other through their pants.
Filipinas, Spain had smiled kindly at him. He felt short of breath as the empire choked him, but even that made him feel needy for more. Do you really think you would be better off without me?
He couldn't speak, but he clamped down tightly on the cock inside him and Spain's surprised moan felt like victory.
The propaganda papers were wet with rain, and blood, and sweat.
It could have been hours before they left that alley, maybe days. All he knew was that Spain wasn't letting him go just yet, and for the sake of what little pride he had learned to cherish, he wouldn't let go of Spain either. For every kiss another bite, for every scratch another bruise, and for every thrust another choked-off scream he could barely hold back anymore. When the older nation came, he would simply replace his cock with his fingers until he was hard enough to put it back in. His ass was full of cum by now, he was sure. He could see it trickle down his leg like a rope, a chain that tied him back to the Castillian city streets.
When he was younger, he wasn't allowed in the city. He used to beg and plead to no avail; he was too small, Mexico had said, too sickly and too frail. The only time he could leave the house was when the galleons sailed, once he was healthier. That was one of the few times that Spain would look at him with unabashed happiness and pride. Now that he was older and finally free to travel around Madrid—hell, even all around Europe—as he wished, all he wanted to do was leave. At least, he tried his best to convince himself of this.
Why don't you just let me go? he couldn't bring himself to ask. Instead, he kept silent, his grip on Spain's shoulders tight as he rode out another orgasm.
At least like this, they were more or less equal. Being held up like this meant he didn't need to look up at Spain anymore. He could see every expression on the other nation's face now: how his cheeks pinked, how his jaw clenched, how his eyes shined vibrant green despite their dark surroundings. Every bead of rain and sweat that rolled down his face he could see. He reached out to push Spain's hair back, and Spain took it as an invitation to greedily bite his neck some more. He felt Spain's breath stutter and suddenly stop as he, with no warning except for barely an exhale, came in him again.
For the first time in a long time, Spain's hold on him loosened. Gently, his feet were laid down back on the ground. The empire straightened up a bit to help him regain his balance, then once he was satisfied, he turned to fix his clothes.
Spain composed himself quickly. All that showed of the time they spent together was the dried blood that dribbled down his chin when he bit his lip too hard. When he finally turned to look at him, all he could do was give him a sad—almost regretful—smile.
Mi hijo, Spain whispered. Look what I've done to you.
He was vaguely aware of the sad sight he was. His lips were plump and red, his neck must be full of bites. His wrists still hurt from when Spain held them over his head, and his back stung from the friction of being held up against a wall and being fucked for hours. If you traced the marks on his hips and ass it would be identical to the shape of Spain's hands. He was wet, shivering, and naked except for the red coat that had been draped over his shoulders. There was cum dripping from his thighs down to his shaking legs. He was a wreck, he knew, and now it finally showed.
Spain crouched down to cradle his face in his hands. Sweetly, he kissed his forehead. Stay with me. You've stayed with me for so long already. Cariño, do you really think you'd be better off without me?
You're too controlling, is what he wants to say.
It's time for me to leave, is what he needs to say.
I just wish you would look at me, is what he can't bring himself to admit.
In the end, he doesn't have the strength to answer. Slowly, he pried the empire's fingers off of him. Raindrops fell, pitter-patter, to the same rhythm that Spain's footsteps took as he walked away. It was all he could do not to cry out after him.
The propaganda papers were wet with rain, and blood, and tears.