APH: For Dignity Has No Price [1/6]
Title: For Dignity Has No Price [1/6]
Pairing: Portugal/England, mentions of Austria/Hungary and Spain/Portugal (America/England, Spain/Romano, France/the world, Portugal+Spain and other pairings to be added)
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Gratuitous sex between two Empires orz
Timeline: 1890 - The British Ultimatum/Anglo-Portuguese Crisis/Scramble for Africa
Summary: Gabriel (or the Decline and Fall of the Portuguese Empire). How England defied a 600-year-old alliance and single-handedly drove Portugal to the end of monarchism and the turbulent fascist regime that followed. Pride is a very fickle thing.
Author's note: I thought I'd try writing some more Portugal, since he seemed to be unexpectedly well-received in my other fic Bring Me the Horizon. X)
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Loanda, Angola (South-Central Africa) January 6th 1890
It was pouring down torrents of tropical rain by the time England’s carriage pulled up to Portugal’s colonial Angolan home. The air was steeped in humidity and he swore he would have been sweating had he not already been drenched in between stepping out of his ride and under the umbrella provided by a young servant boy who had dashed to meet him, and then once again all before reaching the front door because the lad was unable to keep up with the nation’s brisk strides.
Portugal’s house was always awash in splendour, whether it was back in Europe or here on the west coast of one of his most prized colonies, and England stepped back to marvel the architecture even as he dripped rainwater all over the pristine marble flooring. He shucked off his coat and handed his pith helmet over to the butler, before walking through to the parlour. The staff let him go; he had been over to a number of Portugal’s overseas houses by now to know them by heart and he was a familiar sight in many of them enough to for them to let him find his own way.
It was always worth it besides, to see Portugal’s tanned face light up in a grin whenever he turned up unannounced. This time was no different. “Inglaterra!” he exclaimed in evident delight, upon noticing the Englishman as he turned the corner that led to the study.
England smiled. “Hullo, Port,” he managed to get out before being enthusiastically accosted by a Portuguese man nearly twice his size and having the wind knocked out of him.
“I do wish you would give me notice before turning up out of the blue as you are wont to do,” he scolded lightly. “I could have had a room prepared.” He tilted England’s face up in his hands and kissed both of his cheeks, as well as fleetingly on the lips. It had always been a habit of his, and England was used enough to it by now to not end up a stammering, blushing wreck. His cheeks turned pink all the same.
Portugal wrinkled his nose then. “Inglaterra, you look like a drowned rat,” he announced, ruffling the Englishman’s damp hair until it stuck up in odd places. “You know better than to run around in the rain, meu caro. You are not as young as you once were.”
Arthur frowned, raising both eyebrows. “Pardon me Port, but if I’m old you must be bloody ancient.”
Portugal’s laughter was loud and jubilant, unlike the dirty sneering chuckle of a certain Frenchman and far from the obnoxious howls of amusement that sometimes overtook America. They were sounds England had heard often over the course of his long life. This was the only one he welcomed.
“Nonsense! I am…how do you say it in your colourful idioms…Oh yes, fit as a fiddle!” He beamed, triumphant. “It is lovely in África don’t you agree?”
“I’d have stayed home if I knew it was going to rain here too,” England remarked a little dryly, moving out of the circle of his arms and fixing his suit accordingly. Portugal put his hands on his hips and regarded him with mock suspicion.
“And yet you didn’t. Pray tell, dearest Inglaterra, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”
“I have never needed a reason to visit you Port, you know that.”
“After five hundred years I should think not!” Portugal exclaimed, and set about immediately steering England into his study. He ushered the other into an overstuffed armchair that was the same green as the ribbon in his long, wavy hair. It bounced a little when England sat in it a little too heavily.
Portugal brought a delicate silver tea set over and set it precariously on his already overcrowded desk. It was covered with various maps and political documentations. “I was just about to start on high tea,” he offered, and lifted the lid of the teapot to inspect the infusion inside. “Could I interest you in a cup of your own Darjeeling, meu caro?”
“Please,” England said and gratefully accepted the teacup on its saucer, noting the dash of milk. Portugal had always been good at remembering the tiny details that he tended to get fussed about. He sat back and drank slowly, savouring the fruity, floral taste as he eyed the gigantic map of Africa Portugal had hung like a tapestry over the widest wall in his study, nestled neatly between two teeming bookcases. He’d stuck little flags over the areas where his colonies were and had, England was amused to see, outlined the borders of other nations’ claims with plainer metal push-pins.
There was Mozambique and Angola, marked out on the east and west coast respectively and he remembered the spark in Portugal’s eyes when his explorers had crossed the lands between them and returned with a cartographic account of the area twenty odd years ago, the first few representatives of any European nation to do so. The incident had made him look taller, magnificent, and when he lifted his chin and said ‘Looks like I haven’t lost yet’ in that sultry, smug tone that reminded England vividly of the 1100s and embarrassing pubescent crushes, it had taken him an ungodly amount of time to remind himself that Portugal was his own Empire, a friendly rival, and not someone to look up to and admire.
England was an Empire himself, and a grand one at that. He was leading the industrial revolution in Europe and he was unmatched on the sea. His lands were growing. With Spain out of the running he would soon have the largest world empire. If anything, he would make Portugal admire him. They were close, closer than any nation had ever been or ever would be. Five hundred years was miraculously long for an alliance to withstand the ravages of time, even for them. Portugal would understand. He had been great too, once upon a time.
He stared at the map once again in all its colours; blue for France, yellow for Britain, green for Germany, orange for Spain, and so on. Portugal’s claim to the continent was outlined in, of all colours, pink. The shading went through not only Mozambique and Angola, but spilled into the unoccupied territory in-between. Specifically, in between England’s two halves, with Cairo in the very north and Cape Town in the south. The sight made him frown a little in contemplation.
“Did you let that bloody frog pick the colour scheme?” he demanded. Portugal blinked over the rim of his own teacup.
“What?” he asked, evidently confused, before following England’s gaze and looking towards the map. His mouth curved into a pleased smile. “Oh, that. Do you like it? I was just looking for something that would stand out. It was getting a little hard to keep track, what with everyone scrambling to plant their flags. You see my dear Inglaterra, my goal is to -”
“You do not own that land, Port,” England said staunchly, cutting him off. He cast his eyes down into his cup, swirling the tealeaves around the sides so as to avoid the curious, baffled way Portugal was looking at him, mouth hanging slightly open as though England had physically blockaded his train of thought.
“I beg your pardon?” His face broke out into a fond, if not amused smile, wiping away all traces of surprise as though it had never been there. “And you say I am getting old, meu caro. Moçambique and Angola have been in my possession since the 16th century. Are you having another one of your strange moments of British humour?”
England shook his head. “Good lord, Portugal,” he sighed, and the forgone use of his nickname was not lost on the other nation, whose entire posture seemed to subtly shift with wariness, even if the smile had not so much as twitched on his face. The Englishman set his teacup down on its saucer and jerked his head towards the map. “Don’t play daft. I know you better than that. I’m talking about that bloody pink map of yours. The territory between Angola and Mozambique. Why have you marked it as though you have already claimed it for your own?”
If possible, Portugal looked even more confused. “Is that what this is about?” he wanted to know. “I thought it was obvious, Inglaterra. Now that the expeditions have been finalized I thought I could make the connection between Angola and Moçambique. I have only been planning the project for half of this century,” he gave England a funny look. “Surely I told you. It would cut my travels short and the girls would be able to visit each other far more often if east and west were joined entirely under my power.”
Portugal had always been good at that, listening only to what he wanted to hear. England sees that, has known him far too long to not realize that Portugal is perceptive and cunning, far more than Spain sometimes he thinks, because at least the younger of the brothers was a good sport and knew how to let things go; even wars and the scraps of his own empire. Portugal is more like America in that respect, proud to a startling degree and never willing to let things slide, and damn if that is a comparison he never wants to make again.
He is deliberately ignoring England’s accusations of his claim to a no-man’s land. He knows he is, watches as Portugal’s lips turn down in a frown that’s almost a pout as he turns his cup in its saucer, three times clockwise, and there is Japan’s own tea ceremony ritual staring him right back in the face. He is momentarily cowed by the gesture, Portugal’s own subtle way of reminding England that he may be a great Empire now, but that he was great long before him, had known Japan centuries before they were ever friends, had influenced his culture, his amongst many others.
It is a silent signal for England to take a step back before the conversation fell into the realm of territorial disputes, because neither of them wanted that, Portugal especially. Portugal, who had mapped Africa during a time when the world was still being discovered, dark curls and hazel eyes lending themselves to his handsome features while he carried himself in a graceful flair very unlike France and with an air of grand, old royalty; even when underdressed in cotton slacks and a crisp, loosely buttoned shirt, a golden pendant of the Sacred Heart resting against his chest.
But Portugal had always been sweet on England, even when they were young and he had regarded him the same way an older teenager regarded a younger peer with an infatuation towards them, coupled with gentle, teasing amusement. And it was a long shot, but that was exactly why England intended to pursue the topic.
“Look, Port …” he began. “I’m not trying to -”
“Surely you haven’t come all this way to visit me just to criticize my cartographers, Inglaterra,’ Portugal exclaimed softly, clucking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He evades the subject smoothly, and while England loves everything about his oldest ally, it is this part of him that frustrates him the most. “I have missed you. Let’s talk about something else, hm?” He pours more tea into England’s cup and then his own, sipping it the way one does to avoid talking, even if the drink is too hot. He does nothing more than run his tongue over his lips though, mouth forming an ‘o’ as he fans it, and England has to look away to avoid the distraction.
“How is your little America?”
That stings a little, and was probably meant to, England thinks, judging by the way Portugal’s eyes regard him flatly now, not without mirth. But he doesn’t laugh. They’ve insulted each other many times in the past, and he knows better than to let the barb get to him and fester.
“Well enough now that his whole Manifest Destiny faze is over and done with, I assure you,” England replied with a roll of his eyes. “Though you’d be better off asking him yourself. Ungrateful bugger thinks he’s all that…” he muttered, though mostly to himself, before regarding Portugal with a cool look of his own. “How’s Brasil?”
Portugal’s perpetual smile crooked a little. “Ah~” he drawled. “Your accent is as terrible as ever. Touché, Inglaterra. That was well played. Though to answer your question I am sure he is still carrying on like the little merda he is, undermining my monarchy and creating his own…honestly. Of all the ridiculously inane things I have witnessed in this lifetime.” He leaned back against his desk. “Has he managed to pay off his debt yet?”
“You know how I feel about having to mediate for you Port,” England snorted. “It rarely ever ends prettily even if it does my economy good. I really must thank you for the silver, though.”
“I would do anything for you, meu Inglaterra.” Portugal blows him a kiss that is entirely too like France in gesture. It makes England’s nose wrinkle a little and the other nation laugh. “We have had too much history between us.”
“Don’t we bloody just,” the Englishman replied, sounding gruffly nostalgic as he shook his head a little; looked at the map again. Contemplated. He couldn’t help but wonder. “Did you know Hungary told me that she hopes to be with Austria as long as we have? She actually used that word, you know. The ‘m’ word. The cheek of her.”
“Fala serio! She ought to be ashamed of herself,” there is no denying the grin on Portugal’s face, and the deliberate way he gestured with his left hand, “Using such a word as casamento.” Two bands glint there, the one on his middle finger old, copper and tarnishing, the other on his ring finger pure Spanish gold. Colour spread across England’s cheeks.
“Y-You…You’re…fuck Port, you’re wearing those on purpose!” he exclaimed, momentarily forgetting about the pink map. “No wonder everyone thinks we’re -”
Portugal only smiled and shrugged lightly. “But we are, Inglaterra. You know it, I know it, and the whole of Europe knows it. Or have you clearly forgotten the utterly charming way you proposed to me on a lovely spring day in May?” He steepled his fingers together and smirked behind them. “Ah yes, it was the year of our Lord, 1373. You were so darling in that suit of golden armour, holding those English roses as your voice cracked awkwardly throughout -”
“I was young and stupid and am not above passing a Treaty of Silence if it would make you shut your gob about that incident,” England said sharply, now redder than said roses. “You just have to bring it up every bloody centenary don’t you?”
“Thirteen years later God put together what no man has torn asunder,” Portugal went on, twisting the old copper ring and looking far too amused for England’s liking. “Or do you not remember that either, Inglaterra? It would be odd, considering how everyone was there and they all seem to recall the incident clearly enough. Shall I recite the words for you? With this ring I thee wed -”
That was almost as bad as the ‘m’ word. England put his hands over his eyes and groaned loudly, feeling his blush prickle all the way to the back of his neck.
There was a ‘clink’ as Portugal sets his teacup precariously on top of a stack of books, and then he is kneeling in front of England, elbows resting on his thighs as he pries his hands away from his face. The humidity has made his curls fan out fetchingly, and England slides his fingers between Portugal’s own to prevent himself from reaching out, to stroke a fingernail over them. His eyes are gentle, lashes long and dark and England’s frown wobbles a little when Portugal squeezes his fingers, lifts them up and frames his face with them even while they are still joined.
“Inglaterra,” he whispered, grazed his mouth, soft and warm, over England’s cheek, “Inglaterra você é lindo.” England pursed his lips a little, shifted in his seat as Portugal kissed his way down his neck, slow and sensual, teeth catching in the stiff fabric of his starched collar. His tongue licked smoothly over the silk of his tie, pulled it apart, and England groaned when he dipped his nose into the pale flesh of his clavicle, breath hot against the damp still sticking to his skin. He nipped at the chain there and all the way down England’s chest until his tongue found purchase in the ring there, gold stolen from Portugal’s brother, and it was both ironic and arousing to think about how it had come into his possession.
“Esto perpetua,” Portugal recited, and ran his tongue over the inscription in such a way it is, surely, blasphemous. England couldn’t bring himself to care. He slips his hands out of Portugal’s, shaking, to rest on top of his head. He pets down his hair; runs his fingers through the curls. Portugal takes the opportunity to wrap his arms around England’s waist, and England spreads his legs open to let him kneel between them, let him kneel and worship and continue to press kisses all over his chest because it feels so good, has been so long. His own teacup falls to the floor with a dull thud, which he takes to mean it had fallen on Portugal’s expensive Moroccan rug. It will probably stain. He’d have to apologize later.
“You know how this ends don’t you, Inglaterra?” Portugal breathed against his neck, chuckled low in his throat when England tilted his face down to kiss the bridge of his nose, eyes closed, still smiling but gentler now, lazier. As though all the masks were off, but there had never been any between them, not ones that they couldn’t see. England sucked on the skin near his temple, trailed down over his eyelids and over his nose. Kissed him everywhere but on the lips, and Portugal was gorgeous, a country of passion just like his brother, whose folklore meant everything to him; Portugal with his gyrating dances that drove even the most proper of men wild and his songs so hauntingly beautiful that they made women cry. He is frustrating and proud and Imperialistic, and for this does England love him all the more.
“For god’s sake Port, I know you like proving a point but…” he trails off, sighs, cradles Portugal’s head in his hands and lets it be.
In sodomy, he says instead, in sodomy and a good glass of wine (Port naturally) and it would be about bloody time because you owe me, but Portugal quivers with laughter underneath his hands and lips and looks up into England’s eyes.
“Of course, meu caro,” he said. “Was there ever any doubt?” Then he touches the Englishman’s lips with fingers calloused and tan, warm like the sun, and England is leaning so far into him that their foreheads keep nudging and adds, “But only after you say ‘I do.’”
“You git, this isn’t our wedding night!” England snapped, and then pauses, shutting his mouth with a curse as Portugal regards him innocently.
England glares. Portugal grins.
“You said it, Inglaterra, not I,” he pointed out in all the unhelpful obliviousness that England would have expected from Spain. It makes him want to strangle something. He sits back in the overstuffed armchair and grunts instead.
“Christ Port, you’re almost as good at ruining the mood as you are at inciting it,” he grumbled, and pointedly ignores the way Portugal carries on his business, undoing his buttons and sliding a hand under his shirt, fingering the cotton and silk thoughtfully, digits dancing over his skin. He looks out the window instead, at the green and grey that is the landscape unfolding beyond the porch. The rain drums hard against the roof, rattling the windows. He turns his head. The map glares back at him, painstakingly obvious and pink, and there is a reason for it probably, something that is idiosyncratic and typically Portugal in its meaning, but England does not have the time to ponder it out. His boss had only given him the luxury of four days in Angola.
He had four days to convince his dearest friend that his presence in undisputed territory is causing strain on their alliance, that his Empire has been showing interest in the highlands for forty years and Portugal has no right to claim it, but Portugal has never liked hearing the word ‘no’, even if it hadn’t been expressly said as such. He wouldn’t have been avoiding a confrontation with England over it for nearly five months now if he had. And England knows Portugal better than anyone, even more than Spain he likes to think, so he knows he has to handle this delicately.
That means letting Portugal have his fun, and it isn’t as if England is a reluctant participant, but Portugal has always been more open to reason after a good shag. The sex has always meant something between them, was an expression of love and fondness, not used as a weapon to humiliate, as it often is with France, or a game like it is with Spain, and England cherishes it, has missed it. They don’t get to see each other nearly as often these days now that the whole of Europe has its eye on Africa, now that they are both Empires with a purpose. The only difference is, England thinks, as Portugal pulls him closer, arching his back and swirling his tongue around his navel, that with Brazil gone, Portugal is crumbling, slowly perhaps, with dignity, but he can still see it. Yet even with America out of the picture (that insufferable gitface) England is still rising, he still has India, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and all of his islands in South-East Asia.
It is a cruel comparison, but he acknowledges it, even if Portugal doesn’t, won’t, is too stubborn to admit that his time has come and past. He is so grand, his Portugal, so beautiful and England doesn’t want to see him fall almost as much as Portugal himself does. But old empires have to give way to the new. That’s the way it has always been for their kind. He smooths wavy brown curls away from Portugal’s forehead, fingers tracing absently until his palm cups his cheek.
Portugal looks up from where he had been halfway to pulling England’s perfectly creased pants off his hips. “Inglaterra?” he asked, confused. England pinches his cheek, pulls the muscles into a lopsided sort of smile.
“I should very much like that wine now, if you have it,” he answered, and Portugal grins under his own power then, turns his face into England’s palm and kisses his hand in a way that makes his stomach squirm and his heart melt, before rising gracefully to his feet and padding across the room to procure an ornate crystal decanter.
“I do hope you realize I shall be wanting cloth in exchange for my port,” he says, and England watches as he pours fine, dark red liquid into a glass goblet. He looks over his shoulder and winks. “Though I don’t think I need you liquored up to tell you that you can bring your ship into my port any day, querido.”
England groans again and slaps a hand to his forehead. “God and the Queen, Portugal,” he grouses. “How many times have I told you to quit attempting to imitate my metaphors? The idea is obviously lost on you. That was terrible.” He is grinning all the same though.
“Almost as terrible as your Portuguese, Inglaterra,” Portugal quips, bringing the glass over and handing it to him. England takes it by the stem, but Portugal is leaning over and kissing him before he can even take a sip. The kiss steals his breath away. Portugal is an utterly greedy kisser, has always enjoyed having England gasping under him, but each pull to his lower lip is gentle, each suck to his tongue tender in its ferocity and he tastes just like the wine he is renowned for, sweet and tawny and worthy of Bacchus. England drinks him in, mutters something incoherent about Portugal getting his own bloody glass next time instead of stealing from his guest’s, that the whole world already treats them like an old couple without them sharing a goblet, but Portugal only smiles, lips at the corner of his mouth and shushes him. England, the wine glass held precariously out to the side in his hand, runs his palm roughly over Portugal’s sharp hips, his thighs, his rump.
“Bloody gorgeous innit?” Portugal murmurs in some heavily-accented bastardization of his language. “Finest arse in the Iberian Peninsula. No wonder that bastard Spain wanted a Union so badly -”
England tears his mouth away and bites at the juncture between neck and shoulder harder than necessary. Portugal utters a quiet moan. His cheeks burn. “I don’t know what it is with you,” he growls. “But I for one am not getting off on listening to you repeat my own drunken drivel back to me. Good god Port, this isn’t conductive for foreplay at all.”
Portugal snickers, rests his cheek against his forehead and ruffles his hair. He kisses the top of England’s head. “Drink your wine, meu caro,” he replies. “I believe I need to collect my cloth. Treaty rules and all that, you understand.” He licks the shell of England’s ear before trailing his tongue down the side of his neck. He pauses to swirl it around a nipple and the wine glass jerks in England’s hand, but then his mouth his kissing wetly down the other nation’s stomach, descending lower and lower. England murmurs his assent weakly and rakes a hand through Portugal’s hair; the sound emerges somewhat strangled.
“Cloth and wine,” he mutters, and takes a slow sip. It burns all the way down his throat. “Christ. That chap Methuen must be turning in his grave.”
Portugal pulls his pants further down his thighs. He nudges England’s knees apart and cups his erection through his johns, whispers “bonito,” in the harsh way he does when he knows what he wants, and he’s bloody welcome to have it, England thinks, bites down on the rim of his glass and digs his heels into the floor as Portugal rubs him generously. He pants against his inner thigh, latches onto the seam between cloth and skin and teases it with his tongue, doesn’t protest when England arches over him, pulls at his hair, pushes him closer to his groin, and worries at the knotted green silk ribbon until it comes loose and Portugal’s long curls spill down over his shoulders, over the centre of his back and into his darkening hazel eyes.
He mutters to himself rapidly in his native tongue, much too fast for the Englishman to catch what he is saying, but he supposes it can’t be anything but praise, the way Portugal is rubbing his cheek against him now, tucking his hair behind an ear and gripping England’s knee in one hand as he licks the wet spot that has formed on his johns.
“Bloody hell,” England says faintly, the air suddenly thick with much more than just the rain and the humidity. He takes a long drink, smoothes Portugal’s curls away from his forehead. He mouths England through the cloth again, holding the base steady with one hand as he traces the shaft with his tongue, the sensation hot and wet and peculiar, as though there were a thin barrier of friction between them. Portugal suckled on the head with heavy-lidded eyes. England drew in tepid air through his teeth. Their eyes met in a flash of heat for all of a second before Portugal lowered his gaze again, taking England further into his mouth.
England leans back heavily in his seat and watches, one hand resting on Portugal’s bobbing head, the other sweaty and gripping a glass of wine tight. He dearly hopes that the door is locked, because he doesn’t know how they’d be able to explain their way out of this one if the servants came in and found their Portuguese lord and master down on his knees, sucking off a British gentleman. Then Portugal gives his cock a particularly deft twist with his wrist and moulds his tongue to the underside, hot and heavy and wanting, and he decides he couldn’t care less about that either.
He leans down to press kisses to Portugal’s hair, to tongue the golden hoop in his left ear, to breathe ‘fuck, oh Gabriel, oh yes’ and the other hums in response, shifts on his knees with his arse in the air, stroking himself to England’s moans, he can see his hand working as it slips past the drawstring tie of his own pants, gasping as he pulls off of England’s cock to breathe, and the cotton is slick now, the air cool as it fans across his arousal and he groans when Portugal lowers his head to take him all over again.
He fists his hair tight, pushes him down and Portugal obliges, humours him, in much the same way he has done with everything else in their relationship. England rolls his hips, shifts his legs, nudges Portugal’s hand aside and presses the heel of his shoe; fine leather and just polished, against the nation’s groin. Portugal moans and the sound vibrates down his cock and back up his spine. He spreads his legs wider, thrusts his hips and whets himself on the friction, hisses “Arthur,” in a voice that is low and trembling and that is all that it takes to break him. They are usually not ones for rushing, but they must have been apart longer than he remembers, because not a minute later he is pulling Portugal up by the shoulders to kiss him, and Portugal is shucking off his pants and kicking them aside, climbing into his lap naked from the waist down, long legs on either side of the armchair. They touch, kiss and explore like they know everything about each other, and sometimes they do, but its okay because the next time is always as fulfilling as the last.
England manages to drink what’s left of the wine before dropping the glass to the floor too, the liquid sloshes against his chin and Portugal laps it up, sucks it off his skin, licks the sweat beading between his eyebrows and cradles him with his kisses, his adoration. He grinds down against England’s cock, wet and clothed against the cleft of his arse, and England sighs out a moan, strokes Portugal’s erection in his own hand, hard and dark and pulsing in rhythm to his own heartbeat. He pets his rump with the other, crooks his fingers under his balls and fondles his entrance, listens to Portugal shudder as he presses his mouth to his ribs, his heaving chest, his Sacred Heart.
“Arthur,” Portugal says again, hoarsely, and tilts his face up in his hands to kiss him again. “Arthur, meu querido,” he sighs, and he looks so becoming when his lashes flutter against his flushing cheeks and his lips curve into a smile. He sweeps his fingers through England’s hair, making a mess and raking his nails against his scalp, and England presses up into him, hums when Portugal whets himself against his belly, pre-come smearing against his skin. “Te adoro. Preciso de você.”
Oh how he loves this all the more though, stripping Portugal down to his core, to the poet inside who had nothing but sweet words to offer, for him, only for him. He teases a finger against his entrance, dips it just so and Portugal wiggles a little, slaps his hand away with a look and calls him a pervert and England does not try to deny it, because he has never tried to be anything less than what he is with Portugal. Never with Portugal.
“Wait,” Portugal says, sounding cheerful and breathless and England loves the sounds he makes when he kisses the ticklish spot under Portugal’s ear. “Inglaterra. Arthur,” he breathes, and sits back a little, pushing his curtain of hair back over his shoulder. “Hold on for just a minute, meu caro. We can’t… I need…” He gropes blindly at the side table as Arthur huffs impatiently and kisses his chin, and hooks an arm around his neck to keep his balance.
“Don’t be a bloody tease Gab,” he growled. “Aren’t you always telling me to finish what you start?” He strokes his cock a little harder for emphasis. Portugal’s toes curl and he drops the bottle he had grabbed triumphantly in the space between them.
“Perhaps I should not start so many things in future then,” he says a little breathlessly, reaching for the vial again and uncorking it with his teeth, “so you will not have so much to finish.” England notes the scent of lavender as Portugal pours a little into his palm; the oil keeps his skin supple when the weather goes dry he explains patiently, before moving up onto his knees, and it looks so awkward to see him do that on the armrests, he only hopes the whole chair doesn’t break, but those thoughts quickly disperse as Portugal rocks his hips down and England realizes he is touching himself.
“Oh you wanker,” he hisses, and tips the oil into his own palm; it spills beneath them, slick and floral and he’ll probably have to borrow a pair of Portugal’s johns after this too, seeing how they’re completely ruined but he’ll worry about that later, moves his hand around to find Portugal is already crooking one of his own fingers inside himself, rocking into the contours of his own body as he seeks out his -
- England doesn’t let him finish, spreads his arse with his index and little finger and shoves up with the middle two. Portugal utters a cry of complete surprise, and surprise looks good on him England thinks, pushing his fingers against Portugal’s, feeling their knuckles brush together as he arches his back and rides them, he should wear it far more often. They kiss a dozen times more, each more bruising, more satisfying than the last, slick and open-mouthed as Portugal clenches around him and his muscles tauten, as he pushes England back against the armchair so hard he almost bounces back, as he reaches for his erection with an oiled fist and pumps, lowers his knees down from the arm rests and shoves England’s hand aside so he can sink down on his - England arches back and pushes his feet so hard against the floor the whole chair moves with a loud, jarring screech that drowns out his own cry.
Portugal pants above him, tenses and relaxes and tenses until his pelvis is seated above England’s groin, and everything is so hot and tight and brilliant that it all dissolves into white noise anyway. He thrusts up and Portugal bounces in his lap, his muscles searing as they milk him and he’s rocking back down, watching England with dark, dark eyes almost invisible under sweaty tendrils of curly hair as his fingers scrabble for purchase by gripping the leather cushions above England’s head, mouth open in a silent cry as they establish a rhythm.
He spreads his legs, wide, so wide and England can see everything, the swollen flesh of his cock and the sight of his own arousal sliding in and out of Portugal’s hot, impossibly tight body, his fingers spread over his balls as he reaches down between them, sliding the digits in every time England pulls out, slow and deliberate. He gasps, “Você e muinto sexi,” and moans, quietly, because Portugal is never loud when getting fucked, rather his voice gets lower, reverberates in the very core of his being and somehow England thinks, somehow that is so much more arousing. His hair curls over his shoulders, sticks to his cheeks and nipples and England gets the sudden urge to lick him all over. So he does. He pulls Portugal flush against him and fucks him slow and deep, kisses him and runs his tongue over his ear and down his neck, licks his nipples and mouths the flush that colours his chest.
Portugal keens, bites down on his lower lip, his cock dripping steadily on England’s stomach and they both buck into each other, fuck with that spot inside him until neither of them can take the heat, the friction, and the slap of flesh on flesh as Portugal throws his head back and rides him in earnest, in building desperation -
“Te amo com todo meu coração,” he whispers, cries out in a voice that breaks as his orgasm peaks, and England feels full inside and hopes he will always mean it.
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He later reflected that they would have been better off to have done the deed on a proper bed, because the chair is not nearly big enough for the two of them, and England’s skin sticks uncomfortably to the leather where sweat has dried. Portugal’s head is tucked under his chin, curled up with his legs dangling over the side, eyes closed even though he cradled the decanter of wine, cold crystal against his skin, to his chest. Too lazy to get up and find the glass that England had, which most probably rolled under the armchair, they share the bottle instead.
He murmurs a confusing mix of Portuguese and English to the man under him, and the British man can only catch snatches of words, praises and adorations and ‘saudade’ among them. He doesn’t know what to make of that last one, because every time Portugal says it, he does so in such a way that it makes England’s heart heavy, makes him think of losing America, of the first time he kissed Portugal, of the Napoleonic Wars and all sorts of things that make him feel like he wants to laugh and cry all at once.
Portugal lifts the decanter to his lips. England leans forward and tilts his head back to swallow; Portugal arches under him to catch the drops he spills. Their lips brush together, kiss-tingled and wine-sweet. The corner of Portugal’s mouth lifts indulgently. England grimaces and buries his face in curls damp with sweat. A hand rises up to pet him gently on the head.
“Inglaterra…” Portugal says softly. England doesn’t respond, just curls around him and presses his mouth hard to his dark hair.
“I love you,” he tells him, just as quietly, enough that the rain washed away his words in its torrential thunderstorm. He doesn’t know why he felt it was so important to say it aloud but Portugal heard him anyway. His hand cupped the side of England’s jaw, and though they cannot turn around fully to face each other in this position, he presses his cheek to the other nation’s, and it is comfort enough.
“Inglaterra,” his voice is gentle but firm. “Arthur, meu caro. I know that.”
I needed to tell you anyway, England doesn’t say, because after what he’s done, what he’s doing, even as they lie here sated and content, he wants Portugal to know that it doesn’t change a thing about how he feels about their alliance, their relationship.
“But next time,” and here Portugal’s voice grows teasing, “Please turn up under advanced notice? I mean, as much as I do love our risqué, lover’s trysts…”
“Oh belt up, Gab,” England grumbled, and red-faced, bent over and kissed a smirking Portugal roughly on the cheek. He tries not to think that this may be the last time he’ll get to do it, at least for a very long while.
There was a knock on the door. They both looked up. After awhile a heavily-accented voice spoke up and said, “Senhor dos Anjos, I have a message from the British Minister of Foreign Affairs.”
Portugal made no move to stand. If anything he only sank further into the armchair. “I’m a little busy right now, Manuel,” he called back and England saw him discretely rub at the bridge of his nose. He kissed him on the cheek again. One more time, one more time before it all went to hell. Portugal smiled.
“I do realize that sir,” the man beyond the door replied hesitantly, “but he says it is of the utmost urgency. Senhor Gomes said I was to send this along straight to you.”
“Como?” Portugal’s eyes were alert almost immediately. “Gomes told you that?” He paused, blinked and turned slowly to give England an odd, uncomprehending look. He met his gaze steadily. Portugal frowned. “I’ll be right there, Manuel,” he said, and England felt the moment die and shrivel up in his stomach as Portugal pulled himself out of their embrace and stretched, skin dark in the soft light, picking up his clothes as he went. By the time he made it to the door he was looking considerably less rumpled, though he hadn’t managed to find his ribbon, and he shot England a semi-apologetic look as he opened the door a crack and slipped outside.
England ran his hand over his face. He looked at Portugal’s pink map between his fingers and felt an odd sense of calm rush over him, like the finality before a decisive battle. It was not a good feeling. He does not want to choose. Not for this.
But he had. It needed to be done.
He runs his thumb over the glass lip of the decanter, thinks it over. “Bottoms up, old boy,” he says bracingly, and drinks what’s left of the port. He’ll probably need it. He hopes Portugal won’t mind. He can hear him talking at full volume in Portuguese outside, muffled by the door, and it’s far from quiet. Why would it be? There are no secrets between them. There is a pregnant pause as the servant replies, and then Portugal exclaims very loudly and in very plain English,
“What?”
England sighs. Oh bollocks, he thinks, and wonders where the whiskey cabinet is.
Portugal is talking very fast now, and England hears his outraged cries of ‘merda’ and ‘after fucking Gibraltar!’ before he goes on to shout that he has already told those damn Bretãos no less than five times that Pinto was conducting strictly scientific expeditions in the area between Angola and Mozambique, so why were they still harassing him?
“I have given them my word!” Portugal is snarling. “Is that not good enough? By the Blessed Virgin, we are mapping the area, not organizing a military operation! I have been allied to Inglaterra long before their great-great-great grandfathers were even thought of and they have the nerve to tell me I’m -”
England tried to shut him out. He doesn’t want to hear another word of it because not only does Portugal sound angry, he sounds hurt and confused and doesn’t know what he did wrong to have his nation’s oldest alliance turn on him with such suspicion, and he can’t believe what he’s doing, what his bosses are doing either. Of all the nations in the world, why did the one who stood in the way of his Empire’s greatest aspiration have to be Portugal? England dragged himself to his feet. He pulled his pants up, and set about getting dressed. He did not want to be hanging around naked and vulnerable when Portugal stormed back in demanding answers. No doubt he’d go straight for his vital regions.
“Oh, que se foda…!” Portugal exclaimed then, “British claims, my arse! I refuse to acknowledge these Bretãos’ attempts to plant their flag on land that is historically Portuguesa soil! You can tell Gomes that!”
He said the last part over his shoulder as he stalked back into the study and slammed the door shut with a loud bang. England hadn’t seen him that red-faced since France’s little emperor had tried to invade him all those years ago. It was one thing when the British man lost his temper, but Portugal was so downright easygoing and flippant at the best of times that when he got in a mood it was bloody terrifying. The glare he fixed England with was even worse though.
“Gabriel…” he said warningly, getting to his feet again and starting towards him. Portugal smiled. It looked like his lips were on the verge of cracking with the effort.
“Seu merdinha,” Portugal growled, and it was so menacing that England stopped dead in his tracks. “I suppose you fuck them before fucking them over eh, Inglaterra? I’m glad to know this visit wasn’t for purely selfish reasons. Your turning up had me hopeful for all of five minutes.”
England wrung his hands and made an exasperated sound in his throat. “Dammit, Gab,” he exclaimed, watching as Portugal crossed his arms over his chest and strode over to inspect the map, to run his hand over the pink, his pride and joy. His Empire. “It’s not like that. If you’d just let me explain! You jolly well know you can’t just go gallivanting around in land that is vital to British interests and not expect repercussions.”
“How dare you. British interests? Does the Portuguese interest pale in comparison then? You are not the only Empire in this room, Arthur Kirkland,” Portugal turned on him then, and this time his voice was openly threatening. “The sun has not set on my time yet.”
Oh but it has Gabriel, England thought miserably, thought of the scale that had once been Portugal’s empire and what he had been reduced to. It has. You just don’t want to admit it. Let it go. Rome did, Spain is; even the Vikings of Northern Europe knew when to move on.
“I expected this from Holanda,” Portugal went on quietly. “I can’t trust that bastard as far as I can throw him. But I never expected it from you, Inglaterra.”
England found his patience was wearing thin, and it didn’t help his guilt any. “Bloody hell, Gab!” he exclaimed. “It’d be one thing if you actually owned that land, but you don’t!”
“The land was mine before these borders even existed,” Portugal said flatly. England rolled his eyes.
“God and the Queen Gabriel,” he said. “You really need to get your head out of the 1400s.”
“You do not intimidate me, Inglaterra,” Portugal replied coldly, promptly turning his back on him.
England rubbed at his temples. He had been right to think this wouldn’t be easy. “Gabriel,” he began again, and he used his given name because he knew how much Portugal liked it, knew how much more intimate it made things between them, “I’m not trying to…” Portugal snorted. England sighed, tried again. “Gab. Have you seen what that wino freak is doing in the north?”
Portugal did not look impressed. “Certamente,” he replied, and promptly drew a line from the Niger River to the Nile with his finger. “Dear França is doing exactly what you seem to be doing, Inglaterra. Expanding his Empire. I do not see why you think there is any difference.” And he drew another line extending from Cairo to Cape Town, pausing momentarily where it travelled through the pink shading. “You already control the lifeblood of this country, meu caro. When are you going to draw your boundaries?”
“When that French bastard stops trying to take Egypt from me!”
Portugal did not respond. He was staring at the map as though looking beyond the inked lines into the land below, at his colonies, his children. England walked up behind him.
“Gab, please. I’m asking you this as a friend. You don’t want to live in an Africa overrun by that frog do you?” he tried to make light of the situation. “At least I’m being a gentleman. You’ve seen what happens to France when the git gets drunk on power.”
“Oh yes,” Portugal said faintly, looking at him sidelong, “Gentlemanly enough to ply me with wine and sex while your soldiers are out there trying to intimidate my people with their sheer numbers. My heart is all aflutter, Inglaterra.”
Before England could counter this accusation he went on, even more quietly, “You’re asking me to compromise my Empire for you.” It wasn’t a question. He sounded resigned.
England couldn’t deny it. He had never lied to Portugal and wasn’t about to start now. “I have to do this Port. I can’t allow you to settle in that territory, (‘Allow me!’ Portugal exclaimed softly as though he had just said a particularly rude word) not when it goes against my plans. You said you would do anything for me,” he pointed out. “Now would be a good time to prove it.” Portugal turned to look at him with eyes that were slightly wide, as if silently conveying his disbelief.
Then he grinned wryly. Portugal did that a lot, England realized. He just never noticed until it actually hurt to watch. “So I did,” he said, so low England almost didn’t catch it, then bitterly “Amigos amigos, negócios à parte. How true that rings.”
“Port…”
“Inglaterra, I do realize you are one of the Greats now but please allow this old Empire the small honour of picking his dignity off the floor,” he said in a snappy, strained voice, finger-combing his hair until it lay neatly over his shoulder. He hugged his arms around himself and rubbed the skin roughly, as though he were covered in invisible dirt. “I think I will retire to my rooms for the rest of the day. I shan’t require your company, unless you wish to fuck me into compliance once again.” He gave England a wounded look that said his vital regions would be in great peril if he even thought Portugal was being anything but sarcastic. “We can talk about this tomorrow.”
England didn’t argue when Portugal turned on his heel and stalked out with his head held high. He hesitated half-way out the door when he noticed England dogging his steps though. Portugal took a long slow breath then and turned back around. He put his hands on the other nation’s shoulders and kissed him chastely on the forehead, held him close in an embrace, lips moving softly over the British man’s forehead. “I wonder Inglaterra, if I asked you nicely…would you ever compromise your Empire for me?”
England gripped his arms in white-knuckled fingers, his eyes trained on the hardwood floor. Something hard had stuck in his throat.
Portugal chuckled. It was not a cruel sound, but it was devoid of humour all the same. “I thought so,” he said serenely, as though he had merely inquired about the weather. His arms dropped to his sides, and he walked out without looking back.
England stood there for a long time after that, half-dressed and alone in Portugal’s study on his stained Moroccan rug, in a room that smelled of sweat and rain and lov - no, sodomy. Or perhaps sin. Glory. He can still taste Rome’s Iberian Bacchus on his lips.
He tried to think of what he could have said to Portugal to make him stay, but the words escape him. So he sits in the overstuffed armchair and pours himself a glass of port instead; lifts it up to his eye level until the pink map is distorted and wine-coloured in the crystal.
And Africa will be painted British red.
“Vivat Britannia.”
He doesn’t smile.
-
-
-
On that day all the fountains of the great deep burst forth,
and the windows of the heavens were opened.
And rain fell upon the earth forty days and forty nights.
Genesis 7: 11-12
A/N:
Gabriel Reinaldo dos Anjos - Portugal (You can see my headcanon and crappy character designs for him here) XD; Summary title shamelessly ganked from that album by the Kinks: Arthur (or the Decline and Fall of the British Empire) which is like, the best title ever.
Historical notes:
Anglo-Portuguese Alliance (1373 - Present Day): - As I’m sure everyone knows, or should know by now, England and Portugal have the world’s longest-standing alliance, spanning 600+ years and counting. They’re BFFs with benefits and have known each other since the Middle Ages. They were ‘married’ on the 9th of May 1386, under the Treaty of Windsor, when John I of Portugal was engaged to Philippa of Lancaster to seal the alliance. And they’re still together, a fact which baffles mostly every country in the world. They are also all secretly jealous.
The 1100s - The time period where England and Portugal first met; they were both young, teenage and wild and England was very much boycrushing on Portugal during the Siege of Lisbon (1147) wherein he stopped 200 ships of crusaders on their way to Jerusalem at Porto, Portugal, and helped him kick the Moors out of Lisbon. Talk about trying to impress.
The Iberian Union (1580 - 1640): - When Portugal’s king died without leaving an heir, so his brother Spain leapt in and took control of the country. This put him in the Hapsburg Empire under Austria, and Portugal’s empire started to decline because the the Union pitted him against all of Spain’s natural enemies, such as the Netherlands (and England), who stole his land while he couldn’t do anything about it. It only took Portugal 60 years to rebel, and England stepped in to help him do it.
The Pink Map: - It was actually pink, believe it or not. Way to be classy, Portugal. Anyway, the map represented Portugal’s apparent claim to the land in-between its colonies of Angola and Mozambique and his big project was to join the colonies from east to west via that space. Only problem was, it clashed with England’s plans to build the ‘Cape to Cairo Red Line’ a railway that would extend from the northernmost British colony to the south. So they had a fight over who got to keep it. Spoiler: Portugal gave in to England, as usual.
Portugal and Japan - Portugal was one, if not the first European nation to reach and do trade with Japan in 1543. A number of Japanese words are of Portuguese origin. Portugal also introduced tempura to Japan. Tokugawa Ieyasu, founder and first shogun of the Tokugawa shogunate of Japan, reportedly loved tempura so much that he died after eating too much of it.
Brazil: Brazil was to Portugal what America was to England, though they did not get along nearly as well. He's still outraged that Brazil had the gall to have his own Revolution (1822) and then steal his monarchy. He did get a lot of gold out of him though, and he takes pleasure in knowing he is indebted to England for financing his war. He and England often bicker over their 'children'.
Methuen Treaty: In the most basic form; England would sell cloth to Portugal in exchange for his port wine, while at the same time refusing trade with France. It was a win/win situation. Portugal had been known for his wine since Roma-jii’s time, which associated his country with the god Bacchus.
Anglo-Portuguese Crisis (1889-1890): - The Portuguese explorer Serpa Pinto had begun leading scientific expeditions into the uncharted land between Mozambique and Angola on the 19th of August 1889, and because of this Britain feared Portugal would colonize the area, which would be a threat to its interests. From October all the way to January the next year the British harassed the Portuguese about their attempts to settle there, even going so far as to make themselves look like a big tough Empire not to be trifled with by sending squadrons into the territory to intimidate the Portuguese into leaving.
They sent even more on the 2nd of January, which is why Portugal is complaining about Gibraltar. The British claimed Portugal was infringing on territory they had dibs on, but the Portuguese turned around on the 6th and said that they couldn’t acknowledge that because the land had traditionally been Portuguese soil since the 15th century, when much of that portion of Africa was discovered by them. Oh and Gomes was the Portuguese Minister of Foreign Affairs at the time. This was the lead up to the biggest fight England would ever have with his BFF. :(
The scramble for Africa: - the result of conflicting European claims to African territory during the New Imperialism period, between the 1880s and the First World War in 1914. Basically the whole of Europe was dividing and conquering, but the biggest contenders were England and France. France actually owned a large portion of northern Africa, but England had won the lifeblood of the country, the Nile River, after seizing control of Egypt. France, like Portugal, wanted to connect his colonies from east to west, but England, who wanted to link the north and south, wouldn’t stand for it. Mostly because it was France, but also because he kept trying to steal the Nile away from him. So of course he tried to get plans for his railway started as quick as possible, but Portugal got in the way. Naturally things got ugly on the Imperialistic Bastard front.
And Africa will be painted British red - Cecil Rhodes, the man who proposed the Cape-Cairo railway and telegraph line mentioned this when drawing a red line across a map of Africa, indicating where it would pass through all of Britain's colonies. It was also because a number of British maps had their territories coloured in red. IMPERIALISM FTW. Here's a lovely caricature of him and of course, the obligatory Hetalia parody version featuring jerk-England. :D
Non-English translations:
meu caro - my dear
merda - shit
fala serio! - you’re kidding!
casamento - marriage
você é lindo - you’re so pretty
meu querido - my darling
bonito - beautiful
te adoro - I adore you
preciso de você - I need you
você e muinto sexi - You’re so sexy
Te amo com todo meu coração - I love you with all my heart
saudade - (there is actually no English equivalent but in essence it means a deep sense of longing, of missing someone so terribly beyond words)
como? - What?!
Bretãos - derogatory connotation designating obnoxious British men like a group of hooligans
que se foda - Fuck it, I don’t care
seu merdinha - you little prick
Amigos amigos, negócios à parte - Portuguese proverb, literally: Friends are friends, but business is another matter entirely
Esto Perpetua - Let it be Forever [Latin inscription]
Holanda - The Netherlands. The Dutch stole a lot of Portugal’s colonies while he was under Spanish rule in the 1600s, so you can imagine that they aren’t exactly his most favourite people in the world.
Pairing: Portugal/England, mentions of Austria/Hungary and Spain/Portugal (America/England, Spain/Romano, France/the world, Portugal+Spain and other pairings to be added)
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Gratuitous sex between two Empires orz
Timeline: 1890 - The British Ultimatum/Anglo-Portuguese Crisis/Scramble for Africa
Summary: Gabriel (or the Decline and Fall of the Portuguese Empire). How England defied a 600-year-old alliance and single-handedly drove Portugal to the end of monarchism and the turbulent fascist regime that followed. Pride is a very fickle thing.
Author's note: I thought I'd try writing some more Portugal, since he seemed to be unexpectedly well-received in my other fic Bring Me the Horizon. X)
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Loanda, Angola (South-Central Africa) January 6th 1890
It was pouring down torrents of tropical rain by the time England’s carriage pulled up to Portugal’s colonial Angolan home. The air was steeped in humidity and he swore he would have been sweating had he not already been drenched in between stepping out of his ride and under the umbrella provided by a young servant boy who had dashed to meet him, and then once again all before reaching the front door because the lad was unable to keep up with the nation’s brisk strides.
Portugal’s house was always awash in splendour, whether it was back in Europe or here on the west coast of one of his most prized colonies, and England stepped back to marvel the architecture even as he dripped rainwater all over the pristine marble flooring. He shucked off his coat and handed his pith helmet over to the butler, before walking through to the parlour. The staff let him go; he had been over to a number of Portugal’s overseas houses by now to know them by heart and he was a familiar sight in many of them enough to for them to let him find his own way.
It was always worth it besides, to see Portugal’s tanned face light up in a grin whenever he turned up unannounced. This time was no different. “Inglaterra!” he exclaimed in evident delight, upon noticing the Englishman as he turned the corner that led to the study.
England smiled. “Hullo, Port,” he managed to get out before being enthusiastically accosted by a Portuguese man nearly twice his size and having the wind knocked out of him.
“I do wish you would give me notice before turning up out of the blue as you are wont to do,” he scolded lightly. “I could have had a room prepared.” He tilted England’s face up in his hands and kissed both of his cheeks, as well as fleetingly on the lips. It had always been a habit of his, and England was used enough to it by now to not end up a stammering, blushing wreck. His cheeks turned pink all the same.
Portugal wrinkled his nose then. “Inglaterra, you look like a drowned rat,” he announced, ruffling the Englishman’s damp hair until it stuck up in odd places. “You know better than to run around in the rain, meu caro. You are not as young as you once were.”
Arthur frowned, raising both eyebrows. “Pardon me Port, but if I’m old you must be bloody ancient.”
Portugal’s laughter was loud and jubilant, unlike the dirty sneering chuckle of a certain Frenchman and far from the obnoxious howls of amusement that sometimes overtook America. They were sounds England had heard often over the course of his long life. This was the only one he welcomed.
“Nonsense! I am…how do you say it in your colourful idioms…Oh yes, fit as a fiddle!” He beamed, triumphant. “It is lovely in África don’t you agree?”
“I’d have stayed home if I knew it was going to rain here too,” England remarked a little dryly, moving out of the circle of his arms and fixing his suit accordingly. Portugal put his hands on his hips and regarded him with mock suspicion.
“And yet you didn’t. Pray tell, dearest Inglaterra, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”
“I have never needed a reason to visit you Port, you know that.”
“After five hundred years I should think not!” Portugal exclaimed, and set about immediately steering England into his study. He ushered the other into an overstuffed armchair that was the same green as the ribbon in his long, wavy hair. It bounced a little when England sat in it a little too heavily.
Portugal brought a delicate silver tea set over and set it precariously on his already overcrowded desk. It was covered with various maps and political documentations. “I was just about to start on high tea,” he offered, and lifted the lid of the teapot to inspect the infusion inside. “Could I interest you in a cup of your own Darjeeling, meu caro?”
“Please,” England said and gratefully accepted the teacup on its saucer, noting the dash of milk. Portugal had always been good at remembering the tiny details that he tended to get fussed about. He sat back and drank slowly, savouring the fruity, floral taste as he eyed the gigantic map of Africa Portugal had hung like a tapestry over the widest wall in his study, nestled neatly between two teeming bookcases. He’d stuck little flags over the areas where his colonies were and had, England was amused to see, outlined the borders of other nations’ claims with plainer metal push-pins.
There was Mozambique and Angola, marked out on the east and west coast respectively and he remembered the spark in Portugal’s eyes when his explorers had crossed the lands between them and returned with a cartographic account of the area twenty odd years ago, the first few representatives of any European nation to do so. The incident had made him look taller, magnificent, and when he lifted his chin and said ‘Looks like I haven’t lost yet’ in that sultry, smug tone that reminded England vividly of the 1100s and embarrassing pubescent crushes, it had taken him an ungodly amount of time to remind himself that Portugal was his own Empire, a friendly rival, and not someone to look up to and admire.
England was an Empire himself, and a grand one at that. He was leading the industrial revolution in Europe and he was unmatched on the sea. His lands were growing. With Spain out of the running he would soon have the largest world empire. If anything, he would make Portugal admire him. They were close, closer than any nation had ever been or ever would be. Five hundred years was miraculously long for an alliance to withstand the ravages of time, even for them. Portugal would understand. He had been great too, once upon a time.
He stared at the map once again in all its colours; blue for France, yellow for Britain, green for Germany, orange for Spain, and so on. Portugal’s claim to the continent was outlined in, of all colours, pink. The shading went through not only Mozambique and Angola, but spilled into the unoccupied territory in-between. Specifically, in between England’s two halves, with Cairo in the very north and Cape Town in the south. The sight made him frown a little in contemplation.
“Did you let that bloody frog pick the colour scheme?” he demanded. Portugal blinked over the rim of his own teacup.
“What?” he asked, evidently confused, before following England’s gaze and looking towards the map. His mouth curved into a pleased smile. “Oh, that. Do you like it? I was just looking for something that would stand out. It was getting a little hard to keep track, what with everyone scrambling to plant their flags. You see my dear Inglaterra, my goal is to -”
“You do not own that land, Port,” England said staunchly, cutting him off. He cast his eyes down into his cup, swirling the tealeaves around the sides so as to avoid the curious, baffled way Portugal was looking at him, mouth hanging slightly open as though England had physically blockaded his train of thought.
“I beg your pardon?” His face broke out into a fond, if not amused smile, wiping away all traces of surprise as though it had never been there. “And you say I am getting old, meu caro. Moçambique and Angola have been in my possession since the 16th century. Are you having another one of your strange moments of British humour?”
England shook his head. “Good lord, Portugal,” he sighed, and the forgone use of his nickname was not lost on the other nation, whose entire posture seemed to subtly shift with wariness, even if the smile had not so much as twitched on his face. The Englishman set his teacup down on its saucer and jerked his head towards the map. “Don’t play daft. I know you better than that. I’m talking about that bloody pink map of yours. The territory between Angola and Mozambique. Why have you marked it as though you have already claimed it for your own?”
If possible, Portugal looked even more confused. “Is that what this is about?” he wanted to know. “I thought it was obvious, Inglaterra. Now that the expeditions have been finalized I thought I could make the connection between Angola and Moçambique. I have only been planning the project for half of this century,” he gave England a funny look. “Surely I told you. It would cut my travels short and the girls would be able to visit each other far more often if east and west were joined entirely under my power.”
Portugal had always been good at that, listening only to what he wanted to hear. England sees that, has known him far too long to not realize that Portugal is perceptive and cunning, far more than Spain sometimes he thinks, because at least the younger of the brothers was a good sport and knew how to let things go; even wars and the scraps of his own empire. Portugal is more like America in that respect, proud to a startling degree and never willing to let things slide, and damn if that is a comparison he never wants to make again.
He is deliberately ignoring England’s accusations of his claim to a no-man’s land. He knows he is, watches as Portugal’s lips turn down in a frown that’s almost a pout as he turns his cup in its saucer, three times clockwise, and there is Japan’s own tea ceremony ritual staring him right back in the face. He is momentarily cowed by the gesture, Portugal’s own subtle way of reminding England that he may be a great Empire now, but that he was great long before him, had known Japan centuries before they were ever friends, had influenced his culture, his amongst many others.
It is a silent signal for England to take a step back before the conversation fell into the realm of territorial disputes, because neither of them wanted that, Portugal especially. Portugal, who had mapped Africa during a time when the world was still being discovered, dark curls and hazel eyes lending themselves to his handsome features while he carried himself in a graceful flair very unlike France and with an air of grand, old royalty; even when underdressed in cotton slacks and a crisp, loosely buttoned shirt, a golden pendant of the Sacred Heart resting against his chest.
But Portugal had always been sweet on England, even when they were young and he had regarded him the same way an older teenager regarded a younger peer with an infatuation towards them, coupled with gentle, teasing amusement. And it was a long shot, but that was exactly why England intended to pursue the topic.
“Look, Port …” he began. “I’m not trying to -”
“Surely you haven’t come all this way to visit me just to criticize my cartographers, Inglaterra,’ Portugal exclaimed softly, clucking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He evades the subject smoothly, and while England loves everything about his oldest ally, it is this part of him that frustrates him the most. “I have missed you. Let’s talk about something else, hm?” He pours more tea into England’s cup and then his own, sipping it the way one does to avoid talking, even if the drink is too hot. He does nothing more than run his tongue over his lips though, mouth forming an ‘o’ as he fans it, and England has to look away to avoid the distraction.
“How is your little America?”
That stings a little, and was probably meant to, England thinks, judging by the way Portugal’s eyes regard him flatly now, not without mirth. But he doesn’t laugh. They’ve insulted each other many times in the past, and he knows better than to let the barb get to him and fester.
“Well enough now that his whole Manifest Destiny faze is over and done with, I assure you,” England replied with a roll of his eyes. “Though you’d be better off asking him yourself. Ungrateful bugger thinks he’s all that…” he muttered, though mostly to himself, before regarding Portugal with a cool look of his own. “How’s Brasil?”
Portugal’s perpetual smile crooked a little. “Ah~” he drawled. “Your accent is as terrible as ever. Touché, Inglaterra. That was well played. Though to answer your question I am sure he is still carrying on like the little merda he is, undermining my monarchy and creating his own…honestly. Of all the ridiculously inane things I have witnessed in this lifetime.” He leaned back against his desk. “Has he managed to pay off his debt yet?”
“You know how I feel about having to mediate for you Port,” England snorted. “It rarely ever ends prettily even if it does my economy good. I really must thank you for the silver, though.”
“I would do anything for you, meu Inglaterra.” Portugal blows him a kiss that is entirely too like France in gesture. It makes England’s nose wrinkle a little and the other nation laugh. “We have had too much history between us.”
“Don’t we bloody just,” the Englishman replied, sounding gruffly nostalgic as he shook his head a little; looked at the map again. Contemplated. He couldn’t help but wonder. “Did you know Hungary told me that she hopes to be with Austria as long as we have? She actually used that word, you know. The ‘m’ word. The cheek of her.”
“Fala serio! She ought to be ashamed of herself,” there is no denying the grin on Portugal’s face, and the deliberate way he gestured with his left hand, “Using such a word as casamento.” Two bands glint there, the one on his middle finger old, copper and tarnishing, the other on his ring finger pure Spanish gold. Colour spread across England’s cheeks.
“Y-You…You’re…fuck Port, you’re wearing those on purpose!” he exclaimed, momentarily forgetting about the pink map. “No wonder everyone thinks we’re -”
Portugal only smiled and shrugged lightly. “But we are, Inglaterra. You know it, I know it, and the whole of Europe knows it. Or have you clearly forgotten the utterly charming way you proposed to me on a lovely spring day in May?” He steepled his fingers together and smirked behind them. “Ah yes, it was the year of our Lord, 1373. You were so darling in that suit of golden armour, holding those English roses as your voice cracked awkwardly throughout -”
“I was young and stupid and am not above passing a Treaty of Silence if it would make you shut your gob about that incident,” England said sharply, now redder than said roses. “You just have to bring it up every bloody centenary don’t you?”
“Thirteen years later God put together what no man has torn asunder,” Portugal went on, twisting the old copper ring and looking far too amused for England’s liking. “Or do you not remember that either, Inglaterra? It would be odd, considering how everyone was there and they all seem to recall the incident clearly enough. Shall I recite the words for you? With this ring I thee wed -”
That was almost as bad as the ‘m’ word. England put his hands over his eyes and groaned loudly, feeling his blush prickle all the way to the back of his neck.
There was a ‘clink’ as Portugal sets his teacup precariously on top of a stack of books, and then he is kneeling in front of England, elbows resting on his thighs as he pries his hands away from his face. The humidity has made his curls fan out fetchingly, and England slides his fingers between Portugal’s own to prevent himself from reaching out, to stroke a fingernail over them. His eyes are gentle, lashes long and dark and England’s frown wobbles a little when Portugal squeezes his fingers, lifts them up and frames his face with them even while they are still joined.
“Inglaterra,” he whispered, grazed his mouth, soft and warm, over England’s cheek, “Inglaterra você é lindo.” England pursed his lips a little, shifted in his seat as Portugal kissed his way down his neck, slow and sensual, teeth catching in the stiff fabric of his starched collar. His tongue licked smoothly over the silk of his tie, pulled it apart, and England groaned when he dipped his nose into the pale flesh of his clavicle, breath hot against the damp still sticking to his skin. He nipped at the chain there and all the way down England’s chest until his tongue found purchase in the ring there, gold stolen from Portugal’s brother, and it was both ironic and arousing to think about how it had come into his possession.
“Esto perpetua,” Portugal recited, and ran his tongue over the inscription in such a way it is, surely, blasphemous. England couldn’t bring himself to care. He slips his hands out of Portugal’s, shaking, to rest on top of his head. He pets down his hair; runs his fingers through the curls. Portugal takes the opportunity to wrap his arms around England’s waist, and England spreads his legs open to let him kneel between them, let him kneel and worship and continue to press kisses all over his chest because it feels so good, has been so long. His own teacup falls to the floor with a dull thud, which he takes to mean it had fallen on Portugal’s expensive Moroccan rug. It will probably stain. He’d have to apologize later.
“You know how this ends don’t you, Inglaterra?” Portugal breathed against his neck, chuckled low in his throat when England tilted his face down to kiss the bridge of his nose, eyes closed, still smiling but gentler now, lazier. As though all the masks were off, but there had never been any between them, not ones that they couldn’t see. England sucked on the skin near his temple, trailed down over his eyelids and over his nose. Kissed him everywhere but on the lips, and Portugal was gorgeous, a country of passion just like his brother, whose folklore meant everything to him; Portugal with his gyrating dances that drove even the most proper of men wild and his songs so hauntingly beautiful that they made women cry. He is frustrating and proud and Imperialistic, and for this does England love him all the more.
“For god’s sake Port, I know you like proving a point but…” he trails off, sighs, cradles Portugal’s head in his hands and lets it be.
In sodomy, he says instead, in sodomy and a good glass of wine (Port naturally) and it would be about bloody time because you owe me, but Portugal quivers with laughter underneath his hands and lips and looks up into England’s eyes.
“Of course, meu caro,” he said. “Was there ever any doubt?” Then he touches the Englishman’s lips with fingers calloused and tan, warm like the sun, and England is leaning so far into him that their foreheads keep nudging and adds, “But only after you say ‘I do.’”
“You git, this isn’t our wedding night!” England snapped, and then pauses, shutting his mouth with a curse as Portugal regards him innocently.
England glares. Portugal grins.
“You said it, Inglaterra, not I,” he pointed out in all the unhelpful obliviousness that England would have expected from Spain. It makes him want to strangle something. He sits back in the overstuffed armchair and grunts instead.
“Christ Port, you’re almost as good at ruining the mood as you are at inciting it,” he grumbled, and pointedly ignores the way Portugal carries on his business, undoing his buttons and sliding a hand under his shirt, fingering the cotton and silk thoughtfully, digits dancing over his skin. He looks out the window instead, at the green and grey that is the landscape unfolding beyond the porch. The rain drums hard against the roof, rattling the windows. He turns his head. The map glares back at him, painstakingly obvious and pink, and there is a reason for it probably, something that is idiosyncratic and typically Portugal in its meaning, but England does not have the time to ponder it out. His boss had only given him the luxury of four days in Angola.
He had four days to convince his dearest friend that his presence in undisputed territory is causing strain on their alliance, that his Empire has been showing interest in the highlands for forty years and Portugal has no right to claim it, but Portugal has never liked hearing the word ‘no’, even if it hadn’t been expressly said as such. He wouldn’t have been avoiding a confrontation with England over it for nearly five months now if he had. And England knows Portugal better than anyone, even more than Spain he likes to think, so he knows he has to handle this delicately.
That means letting Portugal have his fun, and it isn’t as if England is a reluctant participant, but Portugal has always been more open to reason after a good shag. The sex has always meant something between them, was an expression of love and fondness, not used as a weapon to humiliate, as it often is with France, or a game like it is with Spain, and England cherishes it, has missed it. They don’t get to see each other nearly as often these days now that the whole of Europe has its eye on Africa, now that they are both Empires with a purpose. The only difference is, England thinks, as Portugal pulls him closer, arching his back and swirling his tongue around his navel, that with Brazil gone, Portugal is crumbling, slowly perhaps, with dignity, but he can still see it. Yet even with America out of the picture (that insufferable gitface) England is still rising, he still has India, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and all of his islands in South-East Asia.
It is a cruel comparison, but he acknowledges it, even if Portugal doesn’t, won’t, is too stubborn to admit that his time has come and past. He is so grand, his Portugal, so beautiful and England doesn’t want to see him fall almost as much as Portugal himself does. But old empires have to give way to the new. That’s the way it has always been for their kind. He smooths wavy brown curls away from Portugal’s forehead, fingers tracing absently until his palm cups his cheek.
Portugal looks up from where he had been halfway to pulling England’s perfectly creased pants off his hips. “Inglaterra?” he asked, confused. England pinches his cheek, pulls the muscles into a lopsided sort of smile.
“I should very much like that wine now, if you have it,” he answered, and Portugal grins under his own power then, turns his face into England’s palm and kisses his hand in a way that makes his stomach squirm and his heart melt, before rising gracefully to his feet and padding across the room to procure an ornate crystal decanter.
“I do hope you realize I shall be wanting cloth in exchange for my port,” he says, and England watches as he pours fine, dark red liquid into a glass goblet. He looks over his shoulder and winks. “Though I don’t think I need you liquored up to tell you that you can bring your ship into my port any day, querido.”
England groans again and slaps a hand to his forehead. “God and the Queen, Portugal,” he grouses. “How many times have I told you to quit attempting to imitate my metaphors? The idea is obviously lost on you. That was terrible.” He is grinning all the same though.
“Almost as terrible as your Portuguese, Inglaterra,” Portugal quips, bringing the glass over and handing it to him. England takes it by the stem, but Portugal is leaning over and kissing him before he can even take a sip. The kiss steals his breath away. Portugal is an utterly greedy kisser, has always enjoyed having England gasping under him, but each pull to his lower lip is gentle, each suck to his tongue tender in its ferocity and he tastes just like the wine he is renowned for, sweet and tawny and worthy of Bacchus. England drinks him in, mutters something incoherent about Portugal getting his own bloody glass next time instead of stealing from his guest’s, that the whole world already treats them like an old couple without them sharing a goblet, but Portugal only smiles, lips at the corner of his mouth and shushes him. England, the wine glass held precariously out to the side in his hand, runs his palm roughly over Portugal’s sharp hips, his thighs, his rump.
“Bloody gorgeous innit?” Portugal murmurs in some heavily-accented bastardization of his language. “Finest arse in the Iberian Peninsula. No wonder that bastard Spain wanted a Union so badly -”
England tears his mouth away and bites at the juncture between neck and shoulder harder than necessary. Portugal utters a quiet moan. His cheeks burn. “I don’t know what it is with you,” he growls. “But I for one am not getting off on listening to you repeat my own drunken drivel back to me. Good god Port, this isn’t conductive for foreplay at all.”
Portugal snickers, rests his cheek against his forehead and ruffles his hair. He kisses the top of England’s head. “Drink your wine, meu caro,” he replies. “I believe I need to collect my cloth. Treaty rules and all that, you understand.” He licks the shell of England’s ear before trailing his tongue down the side of his neck. He pauses to swirl it around a nipple and the wine glass jerks in England’s hand, but then his mouth his kissing wetly down the other nation’s stomach, descending lower and lower. England murmurs his assent weakly and rakes a hand through Portugal’s hair; the sound emerges somewhat strangled.
“Cloth and wine,” he mutters, and takes a slow sip. It burns all the way down his throat. “Christ. That chap Methuen must be turning in his grave.”
Portugal pulls his pants further down his thighs. He nudges England’s knees apart and cups his erection through his johns, whispers “bonito,” in the harsh way he does when he knows what he wants, and he’s bloody welcome to have it, England thinks, bites down on the rim of his glass and digs his heels into the floor as Portugal rubs him generously. He pants against his inner thigh, latches onto the seam between cloth and skin and teases it with his tongue, doesn’t protest when England arches over him, pulls at his hair, pushes him closer to his groin, and worries at the knotted green silk ribbon until it comes loose and Portugal’s long curls spill down over his shoulders, over the centre of his back and into his darkening hazel eyes.
He mutters to himself rapidly in his native tongue, much too fast for the Englishman to catch what he is saying, but he supposes it can’t be anything but praise, the way Portugal is rubbing his cheek against him now, tucking his hair behind an ear and gripping England’s knee in one hand as he licks the wet spot that has formed on his johns.
“Bloody hell,” England says faintly, the air suddenly thick with much more than just the rain and the humidity. He takes a long drink, smoothes Portugal’s curls away from his forehead. He mouths England through the cloth again, holding the base steady with one hand as he traces the shaft with his tongue, the sensation hot and wet and peculiar, as though there were a thin barrier of friction between them. Portugal suckled on the head with heavy-lidded eyes. England drew in tepid air through his teeth. Their eyes met in a flash of heat for all of a second before Portugal lowered his gaze again, taking England further into his mouth.
England leans back heavily in his seat and watches, one hand resting on Portugal’s bobbing head, the other sweaty and gripping a glass of wine tight. He dearly hopes that the door is locked, because he doesn’t know how they’d be able to explain their way out of this one if the servants came in and found their Portuguese lord and master down on his knees, sucking off a British gentleman. Then Portugal gives his cock a particularly deft twist with his wrist and moulds his tongue to the underside, hot and heavy and wanting, and he decides he couldn’t care less about that either.
He leans down to press kisses to Portugal’s hair, to tongue the golden hoop in his left ear, to breathe ‘fuck, oh Gabriel, oh yes’ and the other hums in response, shifts on his knees with his arse in the air, stroking himself to England’s moans, he can see his hand working as it slips past the drawstring tie of his own pants, gasping as he pulls off of England’s cock to breathe, and the cotton is slick now, the air cool as it fans across his arousal and he groans when Portugal lowers his head to take him all over again.
He fists his hair tight, pushes him down and Portugal obliges, humours him, in much the same way he has done with everything else in their relationship. England rolls his hips, shifts his legs, nudges Portugal’s hand aside and presses the heel of his shoe; fine leather and just polished, against the nation’s groin. Portugal moans and the sound vibrates down his cock and back up his spine. He spreads his legs wider, thrusts his hips and whets himself on the friction, hisses “Arthur,” in a voice that is low and trembling and that is all that it takes to break him. They are usually not ones for rushing, but they must have been apart longer than he remembers, because not a minute later he is pulling Portugal up by the shoulders to kiss him, and Portugal is shucking off his pants and kicking them aside, climbing into his lap naked from the waist down, long legs on either side of the armchair. They touch, kiss and explore like they know everything about each other, and sometimes they do, but its okay because the next time is always as fulfilling as the last.
England manages to drink what’s left of the wine before dropping the glass to the floor too, the liquid sloshes against his chin and Portugal laps it up, sucks it off his skin, licks the sweat beading between his eyebrows and cradles him with his kisses, his adoration. He grinds down against England’s cock, wet and clothed against the cleft of his arse, and England sighs out a moan, strokes Portugal’s erection in his own hand, hard and dark and pulsing in rhythm to his own heartbeat. He pets his rump with the other, crooks his fingers under his balls and fondles his entrance, listens to Portugal shudder as he presses his mouth to his ribs, his heaving chest, his Sacred Heart.
“Arthur,” Portugal says again, hoarsely, and tilts his face up in his hands to kiss him again. “Arthur, meu querido,” he sighs, and he looks so becoming when his lashes flutter against his flushing cheeks and his lips curve into a smile. He sweeps his fingers through England’s hair, making a mess and raking his nails against his scalp, and England presses up into him, hums when Portugal whets himself against his belly, pre-come smearing against his skin. “Te adoro. Preciso de você.”
Oh how he loves this all the more though, stripping Portugal down to his core, to the poet inside who had nothing but sweet words to offer, for him, only for him. He teases a finger against his entrance, dips it just so and Portugal wiggles a little, slaps his hand away with a look and calls him a pervert and England does not try to deny it, because he has never tried to be anything less than what he is with Portugal. Never with Portugal.
“Wait,” Portugal says, sounding cheerful and breathless and England loves the sounds he makes when he kisses the ticklish spot under Portugal’s ear. “Inglaterra. Arthur,” he breathes, and sits back a little, pushing his curtain of hair back over his shoulder. “Hold on for just a minute, meu caro. We can’t… I need…” He gropes blindly at the side table as Arthur huffs impatiently and kisses his chin, and hooks an arm around his neck to keep his balance.
“Don’t be a bloody tease Gab,” he growled. “Aren’t you always telling me to finish what you start?” He strokes his cock a little harder for emphasis. Portugal’s toes curl and he drops the bottle he had grabbed triumphantly in the space between them.
“Perhaps I should not start so many things in future then,” he says a little breathlessly, reaching for the vial again and uncorking it with his teeth, “so you will not have so much to finish.” England notes the scent of lavender as Portugal pours a little into his palm; the oil keeps his skin supple when the weather goes dry he explains patiently, before moving up onto his knees, and it looks so awkward to see him do that on the armrests, he only hopes the whole chair doesn’t break, but those thoughts quickly disperse as Portugal rocks his hips down and England realizes he is touching himself.
“Oh you wanker,” he hisses, and tips the oil into his own palm; it spills beneath them, slick and floral and he’ll probably have to borrow a pair of Portugal’s johns after this too, seeing how they’re completely ruined but he’ll worry about that later, moves his hand around to find Portugal is already crooking one of his own fingers inside himself, rocking into the contours of his own body as he seeks out his -
- England doesn’t let him finish, spreads his arse with his index and little finger and shoves up with the middle two. Portugal utters a cry of complete surprise, and surprise looks good on him England thinks, pushing his fingers against Portugal’s, feeling their knuckles brush together as he arches his back and rides them, he should wear it far more often. They kiss a dozen times more, each more bruising, more satisfying than the last, slick and open-mouthed as Portugal clenches around him and his muscles tauten, as he pushes England back against the armchair so hard he almost bounces back, as he reaches for his erection with an oiled fist and pumps, lowers his knees down from the arm rests and shoves England’s hand aside so he can sink down on his - England arches back and pushes his feet so hard against the floor the whole chair moves with a loud, jarring screech that drowns out his own cry.
Portugal pants above him, tenses and relaxes and tenses until his pelvis is seated above England’s groin, and everything is so hot and tight and brilliant that it all dissolves into white noise anyway. He thrusts up and Portugal bounces in his lap, his muscles searing as they milk him and he’s rocking back down, watching England with dark, dark eyes almost invisible under sweaty tendrils of curly hair as his fingers scrabble for purchase by gripping the leather cushions above England’s head, mouth open in a silent cry as they establish a rhythm.
He spreads his legs, wide, so wide and England can see everything, the swollen flesh of his cock and the sight of his own arousal sliding in and out of Portugal’s hot, impossibly tight body, his fingers spread over his balls as he reaches down between them, sliding the digits in every time England pulls out, slow and deliberate. He gasps, “Você e muinto sexi,” and moans, quietly, because Portugal is never loud when getting fucked, rather his voice gets lower, reverberates in the very core of his being and somehow England thinks, somehow that is so much more arousing. His hair curls over his shoulders, sticks to his cheeks and nipples and England gets the sudden urge to lick him all over. So he does. He pulls Portugal flush against him and fucks him slow and deep, kisses him and runs his tongue over his ear and down his neck, licks his nipples and mouths the flush that colours his chest.
Portugal keens, bites down on his lower lip, his cock dripping steadily on England’s stomach and they both buck into each other, fuck with that spot inside him until neither of them can take the heat, the friction, and the slap of flesh on flesh as Portugal throws his head back and rides him in earnest, in building desperation -
“Te amo com todo meu coração,” he whispers, cries out in a voice that breaks as his orgasm peaks, and England feels full inside and hopes he will always mean it.
--------------------------------------------------------------
He later reflected that they would have been better off to have done the deed on a proper bed, because the chair is not nearly big enough for the two of them, and England’s skin sticks uncomfortably to the leather where sweat has dried. Portugal’s head is tucked under his chin, curled up with his legs dangling over the side, eyes closed even though he cradled the decanter of wine, cold crystal against his skin, to his chest. Too lazy to get up and find the glass that England had, which most probably rolled under the armchair, they share the bottle instead.
He murmurs a confusing mix of Portuguese and English to the man under him, and the British man can only catch snatches of words, praises and adorations and ‘saudade’ among them. He doesn’t know what to make of that last one, because every time Portugal says it, he does so in such a way that it makes England’s heart heavy, makes him think of losing America, of the first time he kissed Portugal, of the Napoleonic Wars and all sorts of things that make him feel like he wants to laugh and cry all at once.
Portugal lifts the decanter to his lips. England leans forward and tilts his head back to swallow; Portugal arches under him to catch the drops he spills. Their lips brush together, kiss-tingled and wine-sweet. The corner of Portugal’s mouth lifts indulgently. England grimaces and buries his face in curls damp with sweat. A hand rises up to pet him gently on the head.
“Inglaterra…” Portugal says softly. England doesn’t respond, just curls around him and presses his mouth hard to his dark hair.
“I love you,” he tells him, just as quietly, enough that the rain washed away his words in its torrential thunderstorm. He doesn’t know why he felt it was so important to say it aloud but Portugal heard him anyway. His hand cupped the side of England’s jaw, and though they cannot turn around fully to face each other in this position, he presses his cheek to the other nation’s, and it is comfort enough.
“Inglaterra,” his voice is gentle but firm. “Arthur, meu caro. I know that.”
I needed to tell you anyway, England doesn’t say, because after what he’s done, what he’s doing, even as they lie here sated and content, he wants Portugal to know that it doesn’t change a thing about how he feels about their alliance, their relationship.
“But next time,” and here Portugal’s voice grows teasing, “Please turn up under advanced notice? I mean, as much as I do love our risqué, lover’s trysts…”
“Oh belt up, Gab,” England grumbled, and red-faced, bent over and kissed a smirking Portugal roughly on the cheek. He tries not to think that this may be the last time he’ll get to do it, at least for a very long while.
There was a knock on the door. They both looked up. After awhile a heavily-accented voice spoke up and said, “Senhor dos Anjos, I have a message from the British Minister of Foreign Affairs.”
Portugal made no move to stand. If anything he only sank further into the armchair. “I’m a little busy right now, Manuel,” he called back and England saw him discretely rub at the bridge of his nose. He kissed him on the cheek again. One more time, one more time before it all went to hell. Portugal smiled.
“I do realize that sir,” the man beyond the door replied hesitantly, “but he says it is of the utmost urgency. Senhor Gomes said I was to send this along straight to you.”
“Como?” Portugal’s eyes were alert almost immediately. “Gomes told you that?” He paused, blinked and turned slowly to give England an odd, uncomprehending look. He met his gaze steadily. Portugal frowned. “I’ll be right there, Manuel,” he said, and England felt the moment die and shrivel up in his stomach as Portugal pulled himself out of their embrace and stretched, skin dark in the soft light, picking up his clothes as he went. By the time he made it to the door he was looking considerably less rumpled, though he hadn’t managed to find his ribbon, and he shot England a semi-apologetic look as he opened the door a crack and slipped outside.
England ran his hand over his face. He looked at Portugal’s pink map between his fingers and felt an odd sense of calm rush over him, like the finality before a decisive battle. It was not a good feeling. He does not want to choose. Not for this.
But he had. It needed to be done.
He runs his thumb over the glass lip of the decanter, thinks it over. “Bottoms up, old boy,” he says bracingly, and drinks what’s left of the port. He’ll probably need it. He hopes Portugal won’t mind. He can hear him talking at full volume in Portuguese outside, muffled by the door, and it’s far from quiet. Why would it be? There are no secrets between them. There is a pregnant pause as the servant replies, and then Portugal exclaims very loudly and in very plain English,
“What?”
England sighs. Oh bollocks, he thinks, and wonders where the whiskey cabinet is.
Portugal is talking very fast now, and England hears his outraged cries of ‘merda’ and ‘after fucking Gibraltar!’ before he goes on to shout that he has already told those damn Bretãos no less than five times that Pinto was conducting strictly scientific expeditions in the area between Angola and Mozambique, so why were they still harassing him?
“I have given them my word!” Portugal is snarling. “Is that not good enough? By the Blessed Virgin, we are mapping the area, not organizing a military operation! I have been allied to Inglaterra long before their great-great-great grandfathers were even thought of and they have the nerve to tell me I’m -”
England tried to shut him out. He doesn’t want to hear another word of it because not only does Portugal sound angry, he sounds hurt and confused and doesn’t know what he did wrong to have his nation’s oldest alliance turn on him with such suspicion, and he can’t believe what he’s doing, what his bosses are doing either. Of all the nations in the world, why did the one who stood in the way of his Empire’s greatest aspiration have to be Portugal? England dragged himself to his feet. He pulled his pants up, and set about getting dressed. He did not want to be hanging around naked and vulnerable when Portugal stormed back in demanding answers. No doubt he’d go straight for his vital regions.
“Oh, que se foda…!” Portugal exclaimed then, “British claims, my arse! I refuse to acknowledge these Bretãos’ attempts to plant their flag on land that is historically Portuguesa soil! You can tell Gomes that!”
He said the last part over his shoulder as he stalked back into the study and slammed the door shut with a loud bang. England hadn’t seen him that red-faced since France’s little emperor had tried to invade him all those years ago. It was one thing when the British man lost his temper, but Portugal was so downright easygoing and flippant at the best of times that when he got in a mood it was bloody terrifying. The glare he fixed England with was even worse though.
“Gabriel…” he said warningly, getting to his feet again and starting towards him. Portugal smiled. It looked like his lips were on the verge of cracking with the effort.
“Seu merdinha,” Portugal growled, and it was so menacing that England stopped dead in his tracks. “I suppose you fuck them before fucking them over eh, Inglaterra? I’m glad to know this visit wasn’t for purely selfish reasons. Your turning up had me hopeful for all of five minutes.”
England wrung his hands and made an exasperated sound in his throat. “Dammit, Gab,” he exclaimed, watching as Portugal crossed his arms over his chest and strode over to inspect the map, to run his hand over the pink, his pride and joy. His Empire. “It’s not like that. If you’d just let me explain! You jolly well know you can’t just go gallivanting around in land that is vital to British interests and not expect repercussions.”
“How dare you. British interests? Does the Portuguese interest pale in comparison then? You are not the only Empire in this room, Arthur Kirkland,” Portugal turned on him then, and this time his voice was openly threatening. “The sun has not set on my time yet.”
Oh but it has Gabriel, England thought miserably, thought of the scale that had once been Portugal’s empire and what he had been reduced to. It has. You just don’t want to admit it. Let it go. Rome did, Spain is; even the Vikings of Northern Europe knew when to move on.
“I expected this from Holanda,” Portugal went on quietly. “I can’t trust that bastard as far as I can throw him. But I never expected it from you, Inglaterra.”
England found his patience was wearing thin, and it didn’t help his guilt any. “Bloody hell, Gab!” he exclaimed. “It’d be one thing if you actually owned that land, but you don’t!”
“The land was mine before these borders even existed,” Portugal said flatly. England rolled his eyes.
“God and the Queen Gabriel,” he said. “You really need to get your head out of the 1400s.”
“You do not intimidate me, Inglaterra,” Portugal replied coldly, promptly turning his back on him.
England rubbed at his temples. He had been right to think this wouldn’t be easy. “Gabriel,” he began again, and he used his given name because he knew how much Portugal liked it, knew how much more intimate it made things between them, “I’m not trying to…” Portugal snorted. England sighed, tried again. “Gab. Have you seen what that wino freak is doing in the north?”
Portugal did not look impressed. “Certamente,” he replied, and promptly drew a line from the Niger River to the Nile with his finger. “Dear França is doing exactly what you seem to be doing, Inglaterra. Expanding his Empire. I do not see why you think there is any difference.” And he drew another line extending from Cairo to Cape Town, pausing momentarily where it travelled through the pink shading. “You already control the lifeblood of this country, meu caro. When are you going to draw your boundaries?”
“When that French bastard stops trying to take Egypt from me!”
Portugal did not respond. He was staring at the map as though looking beyond the inked lines into the land below, at his colonies, his children. England walked up behind him.
“Gab, please. I’m asking you this as a friend. You don’t want to live in an Africa overrun by that frog do you?” he tried to make light of the situation. “At least I’m being a gentleman. You’ve seen what happens to France when the git gets drunk on power.”
“Oh yes,” Portugal said faintly, looking at him sidelong, “Gentlemanly enough to ply me with wine and sex while your soldiers are out there trying to intimidate my people with their sheer numbers. My heart is all aflutter, Inglaterra.”
Before England could counter this accusation he went on, even more quietly, “You’re asking me to compromise my Empire for you.” It wasn’t a question. He sounded resigned.
England couldn’t deny it. He had never lied to Portugal and wasn’t about to start now. “I have to do this Port. I can’t allow you to settle in that territory, (‘Allow me!’ Portugal exclaimed softly as though he had just said a particularly rude word) not when it goes against my plans. You said you would do anything for me,” he pointed out. “Now would be a good time to prove it.” Portugal turned to look at him with eyes that were slightly wide, as if silently conveying his disbelief.
Then he grinned wryly. Portugal did that a lot, England realized. He just never noticed until it actually hurt to watch. “So I did,” he said, so low England almost didn’t catch it, then bitterly “Amigos amigos, negócios à parte. How true that rings.”
“Port…”
“Inglaterra, I do realize you are one of the Greats now but please allow this old Empire the small honour of picking his dignity off the floor,” he said in a snappy, strained voice, finger-combing his hair until it lay neatly over his shoulder. He hugged his arms around himself and rubbed the skin roughly, as though he were covered in invisible dirt. “I think I will retire to my rooms for the rest of the day. I shan’t require your company, unless you wish to fuck me into compliance once again.” He gave England a wounded look that said his vital regions would be in great peril if he even thought Portugal was being anything but sarcastic. “We can talk about this tomorrow.”
England didn’t argue when Portugal turned on his heel and stalked out with his head held high. He hesitated half-way out the door when he noticed England dogging his steps though. Portugal took a long slow breath then and turned back around. He put his hands on the other nation’s shoulders and kissed him chastely on the forehead, held him close in an embrace, lips moving softly over the British man’s forehead. “I wonder Inglaterra, if I asked you nicely…would you ever compromise your Empire for me?”
England gripped his arms in white-knuckled fingers, his eyes trained on the hardwood floor. Something hard had stuck in his throat.
Portugal chuckled. It was not a cruel sound, but it was devoid of humour all the same. “I thought so,” he said serenely, as though he had merely inquired about the weather. His arms dropped to his sides, and he walked out without looking back.
England stood there for a long time after that, half-dressed and alone in Portugal’s study on his stained Moroccan rug, in a room that smelled of sweat and rain and lov - no, sodomy. Or perhaps sin. Glory. He can still taste Rome’s Iberian Bacchus on his lips.
He tried to think of what he could have said to Portugal to make him stay, but the words escape him. So he sits in the overstuffed armchair and pours himself a glass of port instead; lifts it up to his eye level until the pink map is distorted and wine-coloured in the crystal.
And Africa will be painted British red.
“Vivat Britannia.”
He doesn’t smile.
-
-
-
On that day all the fountains of the great deep burst forth,
and the windows of the heavens were opened.
And rain fell upon the earth forty days and forty nights.
Genesis 7: 11-12
A/N:
Gabriel Reinaldo dos Anjos - Portugal (You can see my headcanon and crappy character designs for him here) XD; Summary title shamelessly ganked from that album by the Kinks: Arthur (or the Decline and Fall of the British Empire) which is like, the best title ever.
Historical notes:
Anglo-Portuguese Alliance (1373 - Present Day): - As I’m sure everyone knows, or should know by now, England and Portugal have the world’s longest-standing alliance, spanning 600+ years and counting. They’re BFFs with benefits and have known each other since the Middle Ages. They were ‘married’ on the 9th of May 1386, under the Treaty of Windsor, when John I of Portugal was engaged to Philippa of Lancaster to seal the alliance. And they’re still together, a fact which baffles mostly every country in the world. They are also all secretly jealous.
The 1100s - The time period where England and Portugal first met; they were both young, teenage and wild and England was very much boycrushing on Portugal during the Siege of Lisbon (1147) wherein he stopped 200 ships of crusaders on their way to Jerusalem at Porto, Portugal, and helped him kick the Moors out of Lisbon. Talk about trying to impress.
The Iberian Union (1580 - 1640): - When Portugal’s king died without leaving an heir, so his brother Spain leapt in and took control of the country. This put him in the Hapsburg Empire under Austria, and Portugal’s empire started to decline because the the Union pitted him against all of Spain’s natural enemies, such as the Netherlands (and England), who stole his land while he couldn’t do anything about it. It only took Portugal 60 years to rebel, and England stepped in to help him do it.
The Pink Map: - It was actually pink, believe it or not. Way to be classy, Portugal. Anyway, the map represented Portugal’s apparent claim to the land in-between its colonies of Angola and Mozambique and his big project was to join the colonies from east to west via that space. Only problem was, it clashed with England’s plans to build the ‘Cape to Cairo Red Line’ a railway that would extend from the northernmost British colony to the south. So they had a fight over who got to keep it. Spoiler: Portugal gave in to England, as usual.
Portugal and Japan - Portugal was one, if not the first European nation to reach and do trade with Japan in 1543. A number of Japanese words are of Portuguese origin. Portugal also introduced tempura to Japan. Tokugawa Ieyasu, founder and first shogun of the Tokugawa shogunate of Japan, reportedly loved tempura so much that he died after eating too much of it.
Brazil: Brazil was to Portugal what America was to England, though they did not get along nearly as well. He's still outraged that Brazil had the gall to have his own Revolution (1822) and then steal his monarchy. He did get a lot of gold out of him though, and he takes pleasure in knowing he is indebted to England for financing his war. He and England often bicker over their 'children'.
Methuen Treaty: In the most basic form; England would sell cloth to Portugal in exchange for his port wine, while at the same time refusing trade with France. It was a win/win situation. Portugal had been known for his wine since Roma-jii’s time, which associated his country with the god Bacchus.
Anglo-Portuguese Crisis (1889-1890): - The Portuguese explorer Serpa Pinto had begun leading scientific expeditions into the uncharted land between Mozambique and Angola on the 19th of August 1889, and because of this Britain feared Portugal would colonize the area, which would be a threat to its interests. From October all the way to January the next year the British harassed the Portuguese about their attempts to settle there, even going so far as to make themselves look like a big tough Empire not to be trifled with by sending squadrons into the territory to intimidate the Portuguese into leaving.
They sent even more on the 2nd of January, which is why Portugal is complaining about Gibraltar. The British claimed Portugal was infringing on territory they had dibs on, but the Portuguese turned around on the 6th and said that they couldn’t acknowledge that because the land had traditionally been Portuguese soil since the 15th century, when much of that portion of Africa was discovered by them. Oh and Gomes was the Portuguese Minister of Foreign Affairs at the time. This was the lead up to the biggest fight England would ever have with his BFF. :(
The scramble for Africa: - the result of conflicting European claims to African territory during the New Imperialism period, between the 1880s and the First World War in 1914. Basically the whole of Europe was dividing and conquering, but the biggest contenders were England and France. France actually owned a large portion of northern Africa, but England had won the lifeblood of the country, the Nile River, after seizing control of Egypt. France, like Portugal, wanted to connect his colonies from east to west, but England, who wanted to link the north and south, wouldn’t stand for it. Mostly because it was France, but also because he kept trying to steal the Nile away from him. So of course he tried to get plans for his railway started as quick as possible, but Portugal got in the way. Naturally things got ugly on the Imperialistic Bastard front.
And Africa will be painted British red - Cecil Rhodes, the man who proposed the Cape-Cairo railway and telegraph line mentioned this when drawing a red line across a map of Africa, indicating where it would pass through all of Britain's colonies. It was also because a number of British maps had their territories coloured in red. IMPERIALISM FTW. Here's a lovely caricature of him and of course, the obligatory Hetalia parody version featuring jerk-England. :D
Non-English translations:
meu caro - my dear
merda - shit
fala serio! - you’re kidding!
casamento - marriage
você é lindo - you’re so pretty
meu querido - my darling
bonito - beautiful
te adoro - I adore you
preciso de você - I need you
você e muinto sexi - You’re so sexy
Te amo com todo meu coração - I love you with all my heart
saudade - (there is actually no English equivalent but in essence it means a deep sense of longing, of missing someone so terribly beyond words)
como? - What?!
Bretãos - derogatory connotation designating obnoxious British men like a group of hooligans
que se foda - Fuck it, I don’t care
seu merdinha - you little prick
Amigos amigos, negócios à parte - Portuguese proverb, literally: Friends are friends, but business is another matter entirely
Esto Perpetua - Let it be Forever [Latin inscription]
Holanda - The Netherlands. The Dutch stole a lot of Portugal’s colonies while he was under Spanish rule in the 1600s, so you can imagine that they aren’t exactly his most favourite people in the world.