Misplaced Lens Cap
we're not kids anymore.
Monterey Bay Aquarium
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
titsay
i don't do bad sauce passes
@theartofmadeline
No title available
shark vs the universe
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
hello vonnie
Cosmic Funnies
wallacepolsom
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
Keni
noise dept.
JBB: An Artblog!
No title available
trying on a metaphor
Kaledo Art
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from Saudi Arabia
seen from France
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Portugal
seen from Sweden
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from Australia
seen from Uzbekistan
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
@sorte-de-vida
Ok I had a few people like my idea of multi-blog aus so I'm gonna put down a bunch feel free to vote for your favorites and also ik you can only vote once but feel free to comment/dm/send an ask if you want more than one I most likely still try and do one for any that are voted for ❤️
aus?
pirates
cardverse (tarot edition)
demigods
fantasy/dnd
royalty
spies
famous people
Me every time I come on here trying to remember what was happening in my threads and also trying to remember what I owe
The Fisherman's Dream by Wilhelm Kray
Starter for @brittunculii ♥️
Misery. It's sunk into his very bones, his soul. How stupid, foolish he'd been to think anything would change, that Antonio had grown up for once in their long miserable lives. How pathetic he was, dragging himself back across the North Sea to Arthur.
His stomach churns in anxiety as he shuffles across the icy streets, the home in the distance looming.
It's almost worse to realize what little support he has outside of England, that he only really has one friend once Spain is out of the question. Loneliness has swept up his soul like riptides, leaving a hollow ache deep in his chest where his heart once was.
It's times like this where the worst of his thoughts begin to claw back to the surface of his subconscious. The insecurity, the feelings of inferiority, the self loathing. It's these ideas that have plagued him, that if he'd been better, or, perhaps more desirable, prettier, smarter, kinder...
He flips through a keyring until he finds the proper one, a plain silver before he shoves it into the lock. With a grunt and push of his shoulder he's in. It's quiet, the lights low and João knows instantly that he's not home. There was someone else there tho, the sound of a thick pawed beast barreling towards the door. He swings it shut as he hears the laborious breathing, a short, fat body colliding with his legs.
"Aiii..." He grumbles, leaning down to scratch at the top of his square skull. His bag is tossed off to the side with little regard for where it lands, making his way immediately to the liquor. Swollen eyes sweep over the choices before he plucks a bottle with little care, a wine of some kind that he doesn't bother to look over. The dog follows him like a shadow, seemingly too dense to sense the older nations mood.
When he hits the couch, Winston joins instantly, crushing the Portuguese man under his hefty, wrinkly body. He grunts, but complains little more than a few grumbles about his "lack of personal space", a complaint that the dog surely is used to. That's where, and how he stays, nursing a bottle and crushed beneath Winston. He's not sure when he falls asleep, and it's difficult to discern upon entering the home just who snores louder: João, or the bulldog, but it seems João is too wiped out to rouse immediately when the Englishman returns.
[Uladh]- She did laugh then, bright and cutting like the steel this man brandished so brashly. Curiosity? Afterthought? Adorable, absolutely pitiful that he thought such things would be enough to offend her. Words, after all, were meaningless things when actions spoke so much louder.
One does not arrive looking ready to pick a fight for a mere curiosity. No. The way he spoke to, circled and regarded her all spoke the tale of a man who felt his sensibilities were threatened. So, in the way that all men do when they feel insulted, he came to posture. To present himself as a superior creature and cement the vision he's created of himself in his and his people's minds.
Typical.
"I've seen things in the seas that would leave even the most salt-laden sailor whiter than the sails he travels by. It's not the waters I fear or speak of, but what lies below. Beyond what eyes can see," she replied, approaching him directly now. He'd have made an incredible vulture in another life.
"Does Antonio know of your intentions, or is this going to be a wee secret?" An innocent question enough, and an interesting fact to keep in her back pocket. This person's relations with that creature beyond the channel shouldn't have surprised her; from her interactions with Antonio she quickly learned that men in power were often attracted to other creatures cut from that desecrated fabric. A corrupting play of power and submission, they liked to delude themselves into thinking they had mastered it.
Puppets and fools, the lot of them, she decided.
"'Dragged into?' Perish the thought and give more credit to your better half, friend. I provided an opportunity to let more English blood spill over into the seas we love, and opened our isles to the rest of his enemies. Of which, from what I can tell, he has many," she sighed, stopping just an arm's length away.
Her stature was so demure on first glance, but she stared up at him as if he were so, so much smaller.
"So where exactly do you fall into that equation; are you here as perhaps, a concerned paramour or a spurned comrade, to try and cow me into submission? And you haven't even graced me with your name yet, dear sailor, or asked for mine."
"I do not fear the sea!" The crash of the waves below erupt against her shores in response to the snapped words, in response to his anger. The sea itself seems to be throwing a tantrum like a scorned lover, reaching and battering itself against her rocky coast as it stretches for him with gouging streams like the moon above, eroding and dragging down the rocks with foam-tipped claws.
He takes a deep, calming breath then, and as he exhales the sea retracts with a slow groaning woosh of rushing water, millions of gallons dragging itself home. Then, he smiles. It's a different smile to that of his counterparts, yet there's an eerie familiarity in it, not quite England's smile, and not quite Antonio's. It's some amalgamation of the two, something that looks wrong upon his face in this setting, in spite of his good looks. A familiarity of darkness, dark as the deepest trenches of the Atlantic, of the very things she tries to warn him of. Vulture, perhaps, or maybe shark; razored pointed teeth and bloodied maws.
"Antonio will know what we want him to know." He retorts, and his head tilts as he inspects her. He doesn't shy away as she comes closer, but neither does he advance. There's an unnatural stillness about him then, and suddenly, a flicker of something like amusement in his gaze. "I think we both know the answer to that, não? Or, perhaps you don't know him as well as I assume?"
If there was one thing that Antonio thirsted for, craved, obsessed over more than any other, it would be the man before her now. A derangement of the mind that consumed everything within the Spaniards ever burning soul— whatever tattered remains were left of it. Antonio without João is like the sun with no sky. If his husband has kept João off his lips around her, it is purely for selfish reasons, to hoard the other nation for himself solely like a dragon to coin. If Antonio rte to find out about this visit, they two were culpable. After all, what Antonio does, so too could João in Antonio's jealous mind.
Yet... There are as many similarities with João and the other two as there were differences. When his gaze roams over here, there is no desire within them, there is no greed nor bloodlust. There are far more simple things within his; almost human in nature. Curiosity, suspicion, anxiety and compulsion.
It's fully directed at her, but not for these circumstances they both find themselves in. The anxieties and compulsion doesn't stem from this stand off, but that which he can't see, what Antonio and she get up to behind his back.
There's a sickness in this man's mind; as powerful as João is, he is a slave to his emotions.
"I know your name." He retorts bluntly, and it's clear he expects that she knows his as well. "I do not play these games, you know damn well who I am without me giving my name." He says it in disgust, as if it's beneath him to tell her. He stares down at her, hazel eyes darkened to brown in the low light.
"You are testing patience that I have lost within the journey." He warns. João is typically quite patient, charming, a man that stood by the little man— not in these circumstances though. Not when it involved someone so precious to him.
"You think yourself so wise, so clever, don't you?" He says bluntly. "Even as our support wanes, and far more of your people's blood fall into these seas than Arthur's, you still think yourself a boulder, when you are a grain of sand." He leans in then, not in intimidation, but as if two lifelong friends sharing a secret.
"You make think I don't, but I see you." He says, and when their gazes meet it's almost haunting, as if that ancient look of his has connected something within them far deeper than eyes, like his soul had skimmed hers with the ghostly, skeletal fingers of death. "You place your trust foolishly if you think Antonio to be a help, or even a friend. You are little more than a single, crumbling stepping stone for him to use."
@sorte-de-vida: In this secret curve of the Alentejo coast, the charm of old Portugal endures, which is precisely why Arthur likes it.
The secluded cove lay cradled between rugged cliffs of burnished red, their faces hewn and weathered by centuries of Atlantic wind. The waves rolled in with gentle persistence, their crests catching the light before dissolving into white foam that hissed and whispered across the sand. This was how the morning had unfolded, in brilliant shades of blue and gold, deepening as the sun climbed toward its zenith, the baking heat growing more insistent with each passing hour.
Umbrella pines crowned the edge of the beach, thier old roots having found purchase in the sandy soil where little else would thrive. Their shadows pooled beneath them in patches of blessed shade, dappling and shifting as the branches moved. Arthur lay stretched upon a blanket under the largest one, an arm draped lazily across his brow as his head maintained a dull throb from last night's revelries. That was how it went in João’s company; one or two glasses all too easily became several bottles, as laughter flowed as freely as the port beneath the terracotta eaves of his humble abode.
The sand beneath him felt cool, clinging to his pale shoulders and legs, bare but for the cut of his shorts. Had he been anywhere else, he'd have kept a shirt on, but modesty felt needless beside someone whose familiarity with him had extended countless eras. So Arthur lay bare-chested, battle scars exposed, a book open across his stomach.
Longe da Multidão—Thomas Hardy's ‘Far from the Madding Crowd’. Arthur had been attempting to follow Gabriel Oak's steadfast suffering through the filter of the Portuguese language. The translation intrigued him: competent, even lyrical in places, though something essential had shifted in the crossing. His own command of João's language had undeniably lessened over time, but he still fancied there were bits he could improve. “Farei uma coisa nesta vida—uma coisa certa—que é amá-la, desejá-la e continuar a querer-lhe até morrer.”
The words lingered in his mind, his gaze drifting from the page to find João embracing the waves. I shall do one thing in this life—one thing certain—that is, love you, and long for you, and keep wanting you till I die.
His eyes met the figure standing waist-deep in the shallows, water streaming from his dark hair, bronze skin gleaming in the sun. It was a sight he’d seen a thousand times before, in the Tagus, the Mediterranean, in the cold grey waters off the English coast. Arthur knew the shape of that body as well as his own, yet João looked almost elemental in this light, as if the sea had conjured him from its very depths.
Sailor, explorer, mentor, lover— friend.
The ache lived precisely there, in that last word, friend. The category they’d settled on after everything else had washed away. After the betrayals and ultimatums and the slow, cautious reconstruction of whatever could be salvaged from the wreckage of their... what? Devotion? Possession? Some tangled amalgamation twisted by power and greed and Arthur's damnable inability to hold anything gently? He closed his eyes, pressed his arm more firmly over his face.
João's voice carried across the distance, calling his name and urging him toward the sea. “No, no—” he declined with a languid wave of his book. It was not only the hangover that weighed him down this morning. Though breakfast had been splendid, his appetite had failed to keep pace with the indulgence. “Not a chance! My head's splitting and you've fed me enough food for three men, right now I'm about as buoyant as a sack of cement.” He groaned, shifting onto his side. “Feels like my body’s staging a sodding rebellion.” Surely he’d not already had too much sun.
It was simply for sake of ease that they found themselves upon this particular golden coast, the bright Iberian sun beating down upon them. The airport was just there, and right across the way of Lisbon they can land upon these shores, not too far for either of them regardless of their state of being.
And what a state of being they had been in the night before.
Drinks had flown faster than blood— in fact, their blood might have been more alcohol than plasma by the time they'd rested their spinning heads upon pillows. It was obvious which of the two was hurting more from the festivities; his blond companion shirtless and sprawled out on the blanket like a flattened cat on a road while João floats and wades through the cool Atlantic.
As if feeling those perceptive eyes burning into his form, he turns to meet his gaze. From afar, and within the direct sunlight, João's hazel eyes are piercing, as if his iris's shine clear through his being like windows to reflect the green sea behind him. In this light, it's hard to remember that within the dark and shades his eyes darken to near brown, as if giving off a subtle and silent secret of the complexity of his very being. João within the light is a far different man than the beast he becomes within the dark.
As their gazes meet, it pulls a smile into his face that is nothing short of breathtaking, a radience that is rare for a man of such a grumpy disposition. It's as if he loses centuries with that smile, a flash of a younger man that had been stamped out ages ago. It's in these moments that it's easy to understand why Rome had picked Portus Cale for his name— warm, beautiful port, even after being marred from disaster and war alike for over two millennia.
He shouts for the Englishman with a wave, attempting to beckon him in, but he's only given a grumbling rejection, and a long list of complaints that João easily drowns out with the sound of the sea. The way the water rushes around his own legs is like gasping hands, as if it's trying to pull him back into the tides once more as he starts to trudge back out of the waves to his longest, debatably most beloved confidant.
The poor thing, even under the shade João can see the way Arthur's skin is already colored with warmth, stained pink from the harsh rays beating upon him. If there's one thing João knows, it's that Arthur needed to stay cool in this weather, the Englishman simply not built for such swells of heat.
Arthur is on his side by the time João manages to claw his way up the shore back to their blankets, leaning over the Englishman in a way that makes droplets of saltwater drip onto overheated skin like gentle, but ice cold rain. Then, like a dog, João whips his hair and head back and forth to splatter him with them, laughing as he does.
"Anda lá! Levantar-se!" Come on! Get up! He says once he hears that awful noise leave Arthur upon being sprayed with water. He uses his size and standing to his advantage as he forcibly hauls the Englishman up. "You need to cool off!!" He says as he pulls the writhing, overheated body up and against his own sea-cooled skin. "Don't make me drag you-!" They both know João is more than capable of tossing the skinny man over his shoulder to be thrown into the depths, the question is: would he have to resort to that?
A flash of bright silver caught in the sun and Romulus had his target. A boy, small but older than the others he'd met. This one had some fight in him too as a dart flies past him, he'd seen him before he threw it and had time to dodge, his men on the other hand were less prepared. He doesn't bother looking back when he hears a scream in pain, he doesn't want to lose sight of the boy and if he knows one thing, it's that the soldiers of the Roman Empire were plentiful.
Justification of his lack of sympathy comes when the child turns and bolts through the brush after his attack, a tactical retreat after being discovered but just how long had he been following them? The lack of an attempt to hide his footsteps and pathways a clear indication to the older man that he had an escape route planned already which made the whole thing so much more urgent. Romulus barks orders to his men, "two of you look after him, the rest of you capture that boy." Latin orders from a man very used to giving them and being obeyed as the others rush to mount their horses, the clattering of wooden spears being pulled from their stands and the unmistakable ring of swords landing in their sheathes.
Romulus himself abandons the camp on foot and in well practiced pacing when it comes to hunting down another, he starts after the boy. Determined and relentless in his pursuit mimicking the hungry and calculated chase of a wolf he so often associates himself with, he doesn't bother hiding his chase either, his.
It would not be the first of his kind he had captured, the others had put up a fight too but this one seemed prepared, more experienced and perhaps even a little wilder than the others though Romulus would have to put them next to each other to really assess if that was the case, first he had to catch him though.
"Halt!" Romulus calls, his order like a thunder clap but he does not stop his chase, gaining ground with his longer and more experienced strides but this was not his land and he does not know where this boy is running to. "If you stop, you will not be harmed," he tries again in Latin, warning the boy but there's a slight bloodlust in his tone. He was wild once too and the thrill of the chase is hard for him to deny.
He tears through the arms of bushes and breaks through the lowest of the tree branches with ease after the boy. Obsession takes over, this is another of his kind and one he must capture and his pace gets that bit faster as the sounds of scattered horse hooves starts to close in. Romulus' predatory stare homes in on him not at all that far ahead and not too long from being within reach.
The shout is heard, but it's impossible to tell if it's actually understood by the little barbarian. Regardless of his understanding (or lack there of,) the boy doesn't slow. In fact, he only seems to speed up upon realizing he's being pursued like prey. He pants in exertion, and although he might be bigger than the other children Rome had stumbled upon, he still is tiny comparatively. It feels like three of Lusus's steps equals one of this feral beast of a man's, his heart pounding so hard in his chest the boy is sure they could hear it.
Lusus shows surprising dexterity, not only in how he'd handled the dart, but in how he ducks and weaves through these lands, each step practiced as if he'd run this path dozens of times. It only brings to mind the question once more of just how long he'd tailed these soldiers: days, weeks? Impossible to tell, but one thing is certain: that soldier back there was not his first kill. It was too easy for him, no hesitation on the child's part to rip the life out of some nameless soldier, nor fear to smite.
What was a human to Gods; Viriathus would ask him.
The man behind him is no human though, and Lusus curses himself for missing, for his own sloppy work. Even while in pursuit, all he can think of is how his father will react to the news: disappointment? Fury? The man's voice behind him is like a landslide in heavy rain, tumbling down from the very valley he runs towards. It's a voice that causes goosebumps on the boy's skin, causes those hazel eyes to dilate and his breath to speed up— a voice that carries like thousands speaking at once and hits the listener like a thunderclap.
The boy risks a glance back, a child's move. One should always keep their eyes forward in retreat, a lesson Lusus would learn the hard way on this day. It slows his steps to look back, and he's aware enough in that exact instant that he's made a fatal mistake. In an attempt to stay free, he tries to duck away from the large hand, but it mattered little again someone of Rome's stature and speed. A grip like iron grabs him up by the back of his tunic, and like a pup he's lifted right off his feet with a cry, legs kicking as his hands scramble on his person.
The boy finds what he's looking for quickly, and there's a flash of metal as he takes a swipe at the man, a sloppy one that is pure fear and desperation. A dagger, a pure iron of exceptional quality— double edged, clean, light. Whoever this boy belonged to, it was obvious they took their time with him, that they made him as equipped as possible just in case there was a situation like this, where the boy would need to defend himself.
It's clear in that moment, if not before, that this is not just a simple tribal boy that a nation would hope would survive themselves, one of many of the small congregations which may burn out in the blink of an immortals eye, but a legacy of someone far larger than himself, an investment.
— Nelly Sachs, from The Seeker: "The White Serpent," (tr. Eric Plattner) (via lunamonchtuna)
Arthur’s hand hovered a moment where João had withdrawn, the revulsion in that recoil wounding him more keenly than violence could. At last, he let it fall, his composure rendering the rejection smaller than it was, eyes following João as he took up the fountain pen as though it would scribe his very undoing.
“I realise I'm pressuring you,” he said, voice steady, “but consider the broader picture, João. The whole bloody continent is being groped from every angle. France is pushing eastward with increasing determination, and Germany grows bolder by the month. By assuming responsibility for these territories, I secure their prosperity within our alliance, rather than leaving them to be mismanaged and risking seizure by other powers who owe you nothing.”
He watched as the pen descended upon the page, João’s signature bitterly taking form. Then came words that struck him mercilessly—the declaration that he had become indistinguishable from Charles, that he was merely the instrument of London's greed, and finally, the most damning accusation of all: that he was strangling Portugal just as Charles had strangled his wife.
That name had not passed Arthur’s ears in centuries. Charles certainly never spoke it aloud, and now its utterance drew a visible tightening to his jaw, his fingers pressing into the desk’s edge so hard that the mahogany threatened to yield beneath his grip. In 1348, Charles had smothered his beloved princess to death rather than allow her to escape his plague-ravaged city. This was the night that had claimed the last dregs of his humanity. Arthur had aided the cover-up, had stood before their king and lied about his daughter's tragic demise en route to Spain. Her spirit haunted Charles still; a relentless reminder of the line he had crossed. And now João was inferring Arthur had crossed that same line, had become just as brutal and selfish in his imperial ambitions. Inferring that Arthur was murdering him, choking Portugal's colonial future, its pride, its last grasp at relevance, for Britain's own petty gain.
“That is below the belt,” Arthur remarked, his restraint holding firm despite the tension that had settled into his frame. “What befell Joan was a tragedy wrought by despair. This is statecraft, the orderly management of imperial affairs. It's not personal, love.” He'd never admit it, of course, but the parallels were there, as plain as the signature drying upon his devilish contract.
He claimed the document and brought it to the lamplight, observing how the ink gleamed wetly where João had inscribed his capitulation. This was a strategic necessity, Arthur insisted. Portugal could hardly hope to hold its claims long term, but Britain could, whether the Cape-to-Cairo vision was realised or not.
“And Charles is not alone,” he added at last, folding the parchment neatly between slender fingers that betrayed the faintest tremble; the sole hint of the stormy depths he nowadays kept carefully contained. “He has me. I do not turn from him in disgust. That is what loyalty demands—constancy, even in the darkest hours. Charles understands this, as do you, or at least you did, once. I refuse to believe our bond is so fragile that it could shatter over a few African territories.”
"You realize, you simply don't care." He states firmly, fingers curling into a tight fist to match the bulge of muscle in his jaw. Fury laces every fiber of his being, and he doesn't bother to try and hide it. Instead he stands, chair scraping harshly against the tiles below.
"No, perhaps you have become Spain now." He spat instead. "I am beginning to realize that all of these centuries of defending you is for nothing, you do not respect me. You don't respect anyone! You care for nothing but yourself. I am just one more foot hole for you to stomp down on your way up." The anger only grows, and grows, like watching the waves recede just before a tsunami hits. It's not often that João loses a grip on his emotions, typically he's the calm and collected one, especially within the love-language countries.
He's not sure what possessed him to do it, other than the boiling fury, but in an instant the ink bottle is launched across the room with shocking force. It cracks against the wall with a splintering bang, splattering liquid onyx against pristine porcelain. In a way, it feels representative of them, though João is far too infuriated at the moment to make the comparison, the way it drips down the wall like blood... Like his blood.
He stares at it for a moment too long, a far away look in his gaze as he looks at it before he swiftly turns.
"This is the most disloyal thing you've ever done to me— so don't you dare speak to me about loyalty as you spit in my fucking face!" With a swift movement he tears his jacket from the chair he'd been sitting in, scoffing.
"I can't believe I'd been looking forward to seeing you." The words are muttered, more for himself than for Arthur's ears, though he couldn't care less what reaches the Englishman ears. "If you try anything like this again, you can consider our alliance finished. You have lost a good majority of both my love, and respect. I refuse to have my affections twisted to my demise a second time." His own ultimatum, one that they both know he acutely means.
Anaïs Nin, Mirages: The Unexpurgated Diary of Anaïs Nin: 1939-1947
Sorry to everyone waiting for replies I was trying to get back into it but then my grandfather passed and I haven't written but I promise I am trying 😭
Erica Jong, from a poem titled "Letter to Myselves," featured in Loveroot: Poems, originally published in 1975
💋
Send 💋 for a mistletoe kiss!
She's been talking for quite a while now, blabbing away as João nods, and nods, and nods. His legs are crossed, head leaning lazily into his hand. It's hard to tell if he's paying attention, with how he hums, and ha's at the appropriate moments, his gaze staying on her. But his mind isn't on her words, it's on her red lips, the sparkle in her gaze from the low light of a sparkling tree in the corner.
He can't help but notice how much more relaxed she seems here than in other settings, than with other people. She laughs, and smacks his shoulder playfully, and is simply more... Herself here.dors she even realize it? Doubtful.
Mid conversation, he interrupts with a grip to her hand. He stands with the grunt of an old man, but then he pulls her right up with him. "Come here," he says cryptically as he tugs her into the kitchen.
On the table is a lovely spread of food, and as she looks it over he takes a moment to fish the mistletoe from a pocket, reaching up to stick it in the doorway. Then, he grabs her and dips her dramatically, so she can see the bundle of herbs above them.
"Gotcha!" He says with a laugh, laying a big smooch on her lips. João laugh merrily into it before he pulls her back into a standing position, their kiss breaking with an almost cartoon like pop. He looks like a cat that got the cream, a big large grin on his face.
💋💋💋 - Arthur
Send 💋 for a mistletoe kiss!
England is like a winter wonderland compared to his own home... Though without the snow itself, only the misery of stiff sea breezes that somehow managed to find you no matter how far from the coat you were on this island— gales made from pure ice that sinks into his bones with every step. It's pure misery— and João hasn't stopped complaining for the last hour: his cold fingers, the ache of his hip, it's too windy. He's only quieted down due to the misery, as if he's too chilly to do much more than press as close to Arthur's side as he can get and trudge (read: hobble) through the streets.
The streets are quiet and quaint, most people bustling to their next destination to get out of the cold. Arthur has insisted upon one last stop, some bookstore that he claimed was on the way back. João is positive it's the long way home, but he refrains from much more than a couple of grumbles in his native tongue.
The door chimes as the Englishman pushes it open, the Portuguese man fast on his heels. An exhale of pure relief leaves his lungs at the warmth of the store, looking at his red, stiff hands as he flexes and relaxes them again and again, trying to warm them up. They rub together as he follows the Brit like a loyal dog, looking up as they pass through the romance section.
Then, he spots it.
The mistletoe, lovely green and wrapped in a neat red bow. His hand shoots out to grip the Englishman bicep, twirling him around before pressing him into one of the bookshelves with a grin that is downright naughty.
"You took me here on purpose, didn't you?" He breathes out huskily, accent thickening as his eyes dart up to the plant then back. He watches those lovely, forest green eyes follow his own gaze, the cute red flush that starts to creep across his skin. Arthur's lips part, likely to deny it, but João doesn't give him the chance.
Their lips connect, for the first time in... Well, quite some time. It's almost juvenile, like two teens sneaking off to make out in the library. But João keeps it chaste, and sweet. A rhythmic push and pull of mouths, the moon pushing the tides. He can't help the way he smiles into the lips lock, at the nostalgia that an innocent kiss stirs in his chest.
He pulls back, just a hair— and then he kisses him again, hungrier and needier, pressing him more into the shelves until they're flush from chest to waist. His hands snake around that thin waist of his, pulling him impossibly close. His fingers drag slowly back and forth against the small of his back through his jacket, just enough pressure to be felt minutely through the jacket. When he pulls back this time, there's a soft smack of their lips, João's hazel eyes fluttering open to gaze down at his... Whatever it is they are.
"Feliz natal, leãozinho."
Send me 💋 to get a smooch under the mistletoe
💚 + England
Who do you ship my muse with? Send me 💚 + a character name and I’ll give my thoughts on that ship! (always accepting)
YES we love engport here. It is one of the honestly most stable relationships that Portugal has without question. 652 years of unbroken alliance doesn't lie- staying through the Iberian Union, through colonial empires and their consequential downfalls. Even at their worst, they stuck together, and continue to do so. There are truly none that can compete at this level of loyalty nor time.
Unforunately it hasn't always been good, but they've been through thick and thin, and are still together, even helping one another in ww1+2.
When it comes to personality, I think that they get on well as well. Two washed up old men trying to navigate a rapidly changing world (and likely hiding away from it to some capacity. I picture them as the knitting and book reading in bed type. Portugal will get England drunk and carry him home, and cook him food, and fix up his house and yard and in return England hauls him out of every bad financial problem, protect him in war, and make him tea. I think there's probably few if any that can get Englands temperament steady and pleasant in the way that Portugal does. Truly I love them.
Send 💍 for an arranged marriage au starter
AU Starters (always accepting)
An arranged marriage, it wasn't what João wanted, but what he was always expected to get. His father cared little for his wants, or desires, sending the prince far and wide instead— an attempt to broaden horizons and give teaching moments, he'd been told, but all knew it was an attempt to distance themselves from him. Yet, he found he didn't mind in the slightest, traveling had become his first love.
He'd had quite the reputation, and it was far from stellar. From the second he steps into this castle, all eyes are on him, whispers erupting as their royal entourage is received. It matters little what he brought with him in friendly gesture (wines, the finest clothing made of highest quality silks imported from their eastern colonies and dyed in the most valuable of colors, jewels and gold,) what they saw in his own visage is what they speak of. The earring in his ear: a sign of evil in the eyes of the church, the scar over his left eye, the fact he'd yet to smile even once since stepping foot in this palace.
Hands are shook, a father less than thrilled about this arrangement upon meeting the prince in question, but unable to retract an agreement signed many moons ago. To pull back now would be a slight on the king, and no one wanted that— not even João, who's mind and heart lingers on other far away and out of reach, on places that these stuffy royals could hardly imagine. The Duke squeezes his hand hard, an attempt of intimidation in the face of a man like him. João crushes his hand in his own grip.
The Duke attempts to rip his hand away, but João only pulls him in, speaking into his ear. "It is too late for regrets now, velho." The words are murmured and heavily accented, grip holding him in place for a moment before he finally releases his hand, standing back upright. It's then that the announcement is made, that the dutchess— his future wife— is arriving, soon to be making her way down the grand staircase. He stands more at attention, back straightening and shoulders squaring as his eyes flash to the staircase. The room is still, silent as the night as they await her entrance.
