The Dare (Countryhumans Spain x UK)

The Dare

What things have you said you desperately wish you could take back? What phrases have you uttered that were so mind-bogglingly stupid, they make you wish scientists would just hurry up and create some magical timey-wimey machine or something, for the express purpose of going back in time and decking yourself across the face, before you have the chance to say whatever idiotic sentence you would have otherwise said?
Well, in Spain's case, it's a bet he made. A silly little dare he hadn't thought much of at the time, that has recently however come back to bite him in the ass, just like a myriad of other things he's said in the past and had forgotten about, to then sorely regret a couple decades later. Really, you'd think he'd have learned by now, but if there's one thing his kind has in common with humans, it's the irredeemable ostentatiousness. 

"So… how are we holding up, señor España?"" damn, that grin, that godawful, shit-eating grin, Spain hates it, he hates it so much he'd have to consult with highly specialized linguists to come up with a new, highly specific word to fully express the sheer, raw, loathing he feels for the expression on that scumbag's face.
Said scumbag that is currently standing in front of him, one hand on his hip and in the other, a longsword. It's only for show and the both of them know it, but it succeeds in its attempts at making it's owner look more intimidating. And by succeeds, Spain means completely fails because the sight of it doesn't affect him the slightest anyways. Obviously.

"Oh, just dandy, capullo." He spits those words out with as much spite as he can muster, eyes narrowing in the dimly lit room. He can feel the ropes straining against him, digging uncomfortably into his skin, and it just adds to his already seething rage.

"Good to know, sweetheart." Britain's grin somehow grows even wider. Spain figures his face must be hurting-he hopes it is. Britain hurting is generally speaking almost always a good thing, no matter the reason why.
Britain takes a few more steps forward, the wooden floorboards creaking with every stomp of his leather boots; Spain then feels a cold blade being held against his throat. He fights down the urge to gulp.

"I must say, I've seen you donning many different robes, but ropes fit you best." 

"What the hell do you want?" Spain gnashes his teeth together-he wishes this asshole would get to whatever point he wants to get to already. Or maybe that's the point of his actions: not getting to the point at all. Seems like something he'd do.

"Oh? But have you already forgotten?" Britain leans in closer, the delight sparkling in his blue eyes impossible to hide-luckily, he's not trying to "-if I won the bet, I'd get one night, one night to do whatever I want with you. Surely, you're not going to back down now, are you?" Spain can feel the other's hot breath ghosting over his lips, as well as the blade sinking into his skin, drawing a thin line of blood across his neck-and no, of course he's not shaking-it's just the nerves! Damn nerves, always being so, well, nervous-

"I could, if I wanted to." Not entirely untrue. The ropes currently binding  him to the chair would only be able to restrain a normal human-if Spain were to flex his muscles hard enough, he could most likely get them to snap in an instant. But-

"Oh? Really? You can? And you think I'd let you? You think you're strong enough to go against me?" Britain snickers in a low voice, and it's like a punch to Spain's gut. He breathes in harshly, squirming in his seat as he tries to put as much distance between him and the Anglo-Saxon bastard as possible.

"Between you and me, Spain, I don't like people who don't keep their promises. And I especially don't like people who are arrogant enough to think they can actually afford not to keep their promises."

"How long do you plan to prattle on like this!?" The Spaniard grows more and more exasperated with every passing second. He doesn't need him saying that, he doesn't need it-the reminder that he...that he-