The weather was so nice this evening, and I had such a busy + happy day, and then........ Then I watched the most recent episode of The Boys. Are any EngPortiacs watching The Boys? Anyway, that episode made me HELLA SAD... ergo, more willing to write. Which is good because I was struggling with this prompt a little, and very behind on writing it. Anyway, thank ya, love ya <3
@engportevents <3
Nationverse, Victorian Era
˗ˏˋ꒰♡꒱ˎˊ˗
Arthur stood beside candle flame.
The paleness of his skin shined gold under its light. Barring, of course, the small red bruises João had inflicted onto his neck and chest. Arthur's loose, white blouse doing little — if not nothing — to hide them.
João would deny blame come daylight. Arthur — his Arthur — was seasoned and hardened by centuries of war. And yet, he scraped and bruised easily, like a summer peach under hot sun. João was simply not at fault.
The solid oak desk hoisted Arthur's body high above the floorboards, his stance casual in a manner no one beside João would ever see. His legs outstretched. Hands gripping quill, gliding over paper.
"I think this is the one," Arthur exaggerated his completing mark. The scratch of the pen accentuating his excitement.
Candlelight danced over his body as he moved, struggling to coat him. It reached, and reached, but the darkness of the night had doused Arthur plenty. Selfish and persistent. Winning the war over his lover's body. Arthur like the moon in eclipse.
From across the room, João scoffed, "You say that every time."
João, too, was enveloped in his own darkness. The cool linens of their bed covering his skin. The shadows of their room blocking Arthur's peering eyes.
"This time I'm certain," Arthur replied, his gaze intense. He was certain about much as of late.
João lazily rolled in his sheath, like a cat in sunlight. "Forgive me if I need convincing," he droned. Spent, and far too tired to not have his lover within arms reach.
"Convincing I can do."
João groaned into his arm, "I will need a performance."
"But of course," Arthur was ever dutiful with his poetry, "It's only right."
João lifted his head, though he was sure Arthur could not see. "I will need a performance," João repeated, "Tomorrow. Come to bed, Amor."
João watched Arthur with lidded eyes.
He watched him furrow his brows and bite his cheek. Tilt his head and tap his foot against the floor. And then finally, decide to give into João's request.
Tucking his quill into the pages — so as to not lose his artwork later, João was sure — Arthur placed his notebook onto his desk. He then straightened. And blew out the candle. And the room plunged into complete darkness.
"Can you see?" João asked, his smile evident purely through his tone.
Arthur sighed, "Keep talking."
"So demanding."
A clatter came from the direction of the desk. Combined with a quiet noise of surprise from Arthur. João laughed, "Are you alright?"
He heard his lover grumble. Moving the object from his path, it creaking against the wooden floorboards. "I hit the chair," Arthur announced, his feet padding over towards João once again.
"Poor thing," João extended an arm out as far as he could from his leisurely spot between their sheets. "Reach for me," he coaxed, "I'll protect you from these shadows."
João felt Arthur's hand enter his. Cold and callused, and so familiar. He took the chance to pull his lover in, as though he were saving him from a whirlpool at sea.
Arthur gasped slightly, stumbling atop the bed and into João's arms. Their foreheads bumped awkwardly, and he struggled to get his bearings. But João laughed nonetheless. His smile being Arthur's first sight once his eyes adjusted to the dark.
"Not funny," Arthur chided, though he could not stop his own smirk. He pulled at the covers. Unrolling João from their restraints, though the Portuguese merely whined in reply. Comfortable in his silky, soft cocoon.
Eventually, Arthur joined him under the cloth. João closed any space between them quickly. Burrowing his hands under Arthur's blouse, and tucking his face into the crook of his neck. His warmth a welcome addition to the comfort of their bed.
"You'll perform your poetry for me tomorrow?" João asked, feeling somewhat guilty for denying him the time today.
Arthur nodded, his chin grazing João's cheekbone as he spoke, "Certainly, Love."
He was certain about so much as of late.
João peppered kisses against his bruised skin, "When will you return home?"
Arthur sighed, "At night, Love."
And he was busy with so much as of late.
João hummed.
Sleep came for them quickly. The next morning, João kept with tradition. He arose as the sun did. Its morning rays seeping in through their window, coating them in an orange glow.
João kept with tradition. He arose before Arthur. Only to watch him sleep in reverent peace. To soak in Arthur's features unburdened with worry.
His notebook remained in its place on his desk. The wax of the candle melted to its brass guard. The sun chased the shadows from their room. And João placed a kiss to Arthur's temple. Because he, too, was certain about much as of late.
He was certain about Arthur. Without a shadow of a doubt — Certain.
I'm a lil short on time today, so here's a quick story with a bit of a sillier tone! [I laugh maniacally.] Promise me... that you'll like it :3 I'm just playing of course you don't have to
@engportevents <3
Nationverse, sometime in the 16th Century
˗ˏˋ꒰♡꒱ˎˊ˗
"Arthur, this is for you."
From his stance upon the shore, João watched in anticipation as Arthur's face teetered between that of a wince and earnest contemplation. He stared at the item in João's palms, emerald eyes flickering to his partner's face briefly, before returning to his hands in subtle longing.
"A pot?" he asked finally.
João was sure that, perhaps in Arthur's mind, he sounded absolutely thrilled. As though this clay pot were the apex of all his wants. Sun-dried, and sweet as a raisin to his heart. And his question was merely speculative of his lover's clairvoyance.
However to João, Arthur's tone was forced. And ignorant.
João frowned. "No, not just a pot," he spat, "A Cantarinha dos Namorados."
He shoved the clay pot into Arthur's hands. Nimble fingers finding bearing around the dried, orange clay. Gripping onto floral, white indents and protruding ornamentations. João had opted for the largest pot he could find. Unabashedly taking up space and time in several workshops, till he was satisfied with his proposal gift. A large base for their shared prosperity. A thin, but long, snout for their myriad of struggles, but none that they could not face head-on.
What a shame it was, then, that Arthur was oblivious.
"A pot for… lovers?" Arthur spoke, translating the Portuguese words in his mind. As though they were painted artwork, and he, a cheap imitator.
"Do you have a single romantic bone in your body?"
Arthur tutted, "Come now, Port. Were my sonnets not enough?"
His sonnets. João prickled to remember Arthur's sonnets. Imbued in Iambic Pentameter, and performed to him through voice cracks and flushed, full cheeks. Not poorly written, and in truth, quite endearing. Yet innumerable in their collective.
"They were far too much, Amor," João sighed, then immediately moved to close the distance amidst himself and his lover. Knowing much about Arthur's tendency to drift when not aptly secured.
He gripped Arthur's shoulders, the clay pot in his lover's arms being the only separator of the two. Under morning sun, Arthur's hair lit like raging fire. Wild and persistent as he was. Unfettered by that which scared most. Yet in all his bravery, João watched his worry peak like magma through the cracks.
"This pot is a… proposal of sorts," João soothed, rubbing warm friction betwixt Arthur's blouse and skin, "I am promising myself to you. And when I eventually return, all gifts I bring for you may be stored in there. As symbolic of our grand love."
Arthur's eyes searched his, before gazing down at the pot between them, "So you aren't planning to bring me anything larger than this?"
Arthur was shoved away with little regard for if the pot disembarked from his grip. Laughing in reply, but only holding his proposal gift tighter. Apologies escaped with his mirth, placing the pot down gently, protective of their love. Then reaching out to João, who had dug his boot into the sand and crossed his arms in firm denial.
"You are simply ungrateful."
"I love it. I love it," Arthur coaxed, pulling at João's arms and wrapping them around his waist. Arthur cupped his hands around his lover's face, beckoning his gaze, pale fingers lost in umber curls. "I love you. Thank you, it's wonderful."
"You are selfish," João muttered, but let himself be persuaded all the same. The cotton of Arthur's blouse stuck on his palms, pulling the Englishman closer. Close as they could be with bothersome fabric dividing their skin.
"Only when it comes to you, Love," Arthur replied, undaunted by the descriptor, "You are only mine."
Solemn was the wind this morning. With hardly any fight, or any screeching wail. It hung close around their garments, their hair. Entangled their bodies and teased their skin. And served as reminder to João, that it was time to leave.
And Arthur understood too.
"João," he tucked a curl behind his lover's ear. "Promise me…" Arthur's voice wavered, "Promise me you'll come home. Soon."
João smiled, unable to respond.
He tucked his face into Arthur's, aquiline nose trailing freckled cheek. Their skin warm under coastal heat. Arthur's red with burn. João's lips placed a kiss on his jaw, subtle and small, as if hardly there.
"You can go," Arthur sighed, "See the world." His fingers tightened around João's skull, "But don't fall in love with it. Come home."
João laughed into his lover's neck. He arose, determined to memorize Arthur's eyes. "There could be nothing out there more lovable than you."
And beside the clay pot, two lovers kissed goodbye.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
APH Niche Pair Week 2026, Day 1: Power | Love
HIII a little late, I'm so sorry.
Initially, I was planning on doing my glorious EngPort for this day, but then "Love" was one of the themes (like De Liefde !!!), and the Netherlands versed Japan in the World Cup like… I just HAD to do them!
I'm still finding my footing with this pairing, but I love them, and they deserve more content! So I hope y'all enjoy whatever the hell this is <3
@aphnichepairweek Thank you for organizing!
˗ˏˋ꒰♡꒱ˎˊ˗
Late April, 1600
"I've been told to kill you."
From his perch on the floor, Abel grunted in reply. Really, he couldn't be certain as to who was speaking. The disembodied voice seemed to echo around him, rattling against his skull's walls and ringing in his ears.
He was fatigued — Him. A nation.
Abel shuddered to think of his men. Those few who had survived the journey. Sick with melancholy and the Lord's hard hand. Healing — if at all — much slower than Abel. For Abel was chosen.
Chosen, just as Emma was. Just as Antonio, and João. As Francis, and Arthur, and Gilbert, and Roderich. Chosen to heal and survive. To die and resurrect.
Chosen to live. Live despite it all.
"I've been told you are a pirate."
The voice spoke again, seething the last word through grit teeth. Blatant disgust for those as seemingly below him as a pirate were. This time Abel lifted his head, peering up at the speaker through loose strands of his blonde hair.
Small.
The man was small.
Abel figured that if he were healthy, if he were standing, then this man would hardly reach his shoulders.
The man was small.
But he stood as if were Goliath. His chest proud, back straight, shoulders squared. Stalwart beneath his purple silk robe. Porcelain skin radiant under the rising sun.
And Abel began to remember why Goliath was killed. Why Sodom was burned. Why God sent The Flood and The Plagues. Why only one of his ships made to the East shores.
Because His will was absolute. Because His power was ultimate. Because divine intervention came for them all, eventually. For all, it seemed, but the chosen.
Abel tensed his jaw and found that the taste on his lips was metallic. He swallowed harshly. His tongue feeling for the bloodied, red, bruises atop his gums. Then he spoke, with all the energy he could muster, to the beautiful Goliath. For whom he did not wish to be David.
"Do you often believe lies?"
The man's brown eyes flashed with a tinge of interest. Warm and round in a manner Abel had not yet known. "No," he answered slowly, "But you Nanban never stop lying."
Abel shifted his weight, allowing his head to lull back. He bit his cheek as he moved, stifling a wince from the reopening cuts and bruises that marred his skin. Fresh blood began to soak through his tattered sleeve, pooling in the linen, and onto his palm as he attempted to grip the wound shut.
In moments, Goliath was by his side. Crouched to meet Abel's eye, his smaller hand placed over Abel's larger. Pale and cold, and soft but calloused. A warrior. But gentle, such that Abel could not pull away if he tried. He attributed that to his illness, and he hoped God believed him.
In truth, Abel simply lacked the power to deny man's beauty.
Goliath sighed, "You cannot lie about blood."
Though his hand moved away, Abel could still feel the lingering presence of his touch. He frowned, and tasted metal once more as he spoke.
"We are ill," Abel admitted to a fact as true as the clear sky's blue, "But we have no intention to harm you."
"We are weary of outsiders," Goliath replied, his back still straightened as he sat atop his knees in front of Abel, small hands laid in his lap, "And you brought weaponry."
"Not intended for you," Abel spoke quickly. But his mind worked quicker. He wondered if this warrior may benefit from such items. "But you may have them if you'd like," Abel added, nodding.
Goliath raised a brow. Slight, hardly a hair's width above normal. A mere second worth of expression before he composed himself once more. "We already seized them," he said, before standing crisply. Without a fumble, or fold out of place.
Abel attempted to sink into the wall behind him as the man bowed, hinged at the hips, in a greeting Abel assumed only warriors performed.
"Nihon," the man introduced himself, "Honda Kiku."
Kiku.
Yes, that suited him much better than Goliath.
"Nederlanden," Abel replied, introducing his nation. He then introduced his human name, too.
Kiku straightened once more, his brown eyes scanning Abel's grounded body. "Your ship—" he started.
"De Liefde." It seemed Abel's mouth was, for once, working faster than his mind.
His ship. The Love. Though that had not always been her name, once sporting that which was the same as Desiderius Erasmus. And though it changed, Abel found that he could not escape those biblical teachings. Each of her sister ships named after a different virtue — Hoop, Geloof, Trouw; Hope, Faith, Loyalty.
None survived but Love.
"It is beyond repair," Kiku concluded.
Ah.
Were Abel healthy, perhaps he would've torn through the walls if his cell. Perhaps he would've marched to the shore, and caused João to regret his meddling in Abel's trade.
But he was ill. And he was bloody. And he mourned his men. Mourned his Hope, his Faith, his Loyalty. Now he mourned his Love.
"It protected you," Kiku said, cutting through Abel's clouded mind, "Protected you and your men till it could get you to shore."
Love as a protector. Abel supposed it was poetic, in its cruel way. The Lord had used His power against their ships. Provided divine intervention in aid of their enemies. And yet… Love persevered. Love protected. Love brought him to Kiku.
"Kiku," Abel finally croaked, "What protects you?"
Once more, the nation did not falter, "I protect myself."
"Not God?"
Finally, Kiku's face shifted, and Abel felt his breath catch in his throat. Kiku's brows creased, brown eyes narrowed, once soft features drifted into that of a frown. "You are just like João," he spat.
"No," Abel held out his hand, warm and red from the blood of his wound, "He doesn't protect me either."
"Your God?"
Abel nodded, "The way I see it, nothing is divine. All that is real is tangible."
"Believing He's not real is easier than believing He doesn't protect you," Kiku narrated, Abel's words serving as nothing more than a story for him to analyze.
"But I understand," he continued, attempting comfort as Abel frowned, "And if you won't force those beliefs on my people, then… There may be mutual benefit here, yet."
Abel nodded, mesmerized by how orange Kiku's eyes shone with the rising sunlight. And how quick he was to read a person's convictions.
"You should be bandaged," Kiku glanced at Abel's blood-soaked sleeve.
Abel nodded again, before rising — slowly — to follow Kiku out of his cell. Weak from sea and sickness, his legs nearly gave out beneath him. Abel caught himself on Kiku's shoulder, the warrior instinctively wrapping his own arm around Abel's waist to prop him up.
And he was small. Hardly reaching Abel's shoulders. But he was strong, and steady. And Abel had much to mourn. He'd been resurrected as God had done before, healing and surviving as only few could understand. And still, De Liefde chose to bring him here. To Kiku.
OMG... Are we half-way through the event already? Thank goodness every week is EngPort Week! Since 1373!
This is up so much later than I wanted because I've been sick all day, send help!!! Sorry if this story is a little goofy, blame it on the plague </3
I kept it short and sweet, but maybe I'll come back and clean it up later... Anyway see y'all in a couple hours again, LMAO
@engportevents 🧙♀️
Nationverse, sometime in the 16th or 17th Century HAHA 67
˗ˏˋ꒰♡꒱ˎˊ˗
Rats.
João had come to despise the creatures. The ambient patter of their feet along every hall. Reverberating off walls. Cloaked in shadows, yet still haughty enough to deny him the peace of silence.
They were a plague.
And they plagued him now. Running over his boot. Nipping at the leather. Their chirps accenting the moans of the barracks' prisoners. Many marred with red, inflamed bites. And too defeated to complain.
João shook the little monsters off his leg in apathetic disregard. He did not care for if he crushed the vermin like grapes for wine. Rather, he stepped — long, wide, purposeful steps — with little observance over where his feet fell. Flooding the barracks with clicks along the stones. A warning to the earth that he had arrived.
Few prisoners, those with fight still left in them, reached for him through their metal bars. Beckoning his aid.
He did not heed. He had only come for one.
João paused in front of the cell. Small and decrepit, at the farthest end of the hall.
Arthur was crumpled, sheepishly, on the cobbled, damp floor. His head lulled back, and green eyes glazed over. Closely watching a spider in the ceiling's corner, wrapping its most recent prey in silver webbing. Arthur's own red burn of rope still branded into his wrists.
João muttered a curse under his breath. Then thanked his God that Arthur's brother had displayed enough benevolence as to notify João of his lover's crimes. His fingers shook as he unlocked the cell, metal keys clanking against metal bars.
Arthur's eyes lazily drifted towards him, blinking slow. The warm, scarce, candlelight illuminating João's features. "Are you a dream?" he whispered. His lips dry, and voice hoarse.
João hummed in reply, "Quite."
He was a dream for Arthur. In no other reality would this audacious, reckless fool reap the benefits of a lover as attentive and reliable as João.
And yet, João's knees buckled beside him. He too, crumpled to the cobbled, damp floor. Hands instinctively moving to Arthur's body. Investigating his arms, his wrists, his eyes, his neck, his scalp.
It was only with his touch that Arthur spoke again, "How'd you get in here?"
João held back a scoff. There was no need to lie. No daring tale to tell. Alasdair had organized his arrival. Even provided him the keys. It was his land, after all. And his brother. Not that he wished to save him himself, of course. Just wished that he were saved, in general.
Rather than dignify his lover with an answer, João glanced around the cell. "You are a dead man walking," he sighed, "And you haven't even eaten your last meal."
Arthur followed João's ocean eyes to the plate of stale bread, untouched by even the rats. He twisted his mouth, as if holding back a gag. "Look at it," he replied matter-of-factly, "Tastes like shit."
"Couldn't you just magic it better?" João willed his tone to be innocent as a child. Still, the sarcasm dripped through.
Arthur groaned, rolling his head back against the stone wall. "So, then I take it you are upset with me?"
João swatted Arthur on the shoulder. His action earning a wince. More from shock than pain, he reasoned in his mind. But he reached over to massage the spot, nonetheless. Arthur's body relaxing under his hold.
"Why do you insist on doing spells?" João interrogated, desperate to understand his lover's delusional quests.
"I wasn't doing spells," Arthur retorted. Eyes wide, magnetic and hypnotic to a degree in which João, too, questioned his status as a witch.
"Then what did it this time?"
This time. Because it was not Arthur's first foray on death's row. Arthur who, in their moments around a shared fire or star-shaded sleep, had told stories of his encounters with magic. Who would leave gold offerings beside ancient trees, and encourage João to drink his elixirs before battle.
Arthur sighed. His brows furrowing in anger, as if reliving the scenario once again, "The locals didn't want to listen to me about fae traps," he crossed his arms tightly, "Their funeral."
"No, Arthur." João reprimanded, "Not their funeral. Yours. They are planning to hang you at first light."
"Whatever."
João shook his head. "Come," he stood, offering a hand to his lover, "Quickly."
Arthur accepted the assist. Being pulled up onto his feet. And then immediately into a kiss, that remained cloaked in the barracks' darkness.
"One day," João murmured into Arthur's lips, "I'll be too busy to save the witch. What will happen to you then?"
"I'm not worried," Arthur kissed him once more, wanting and hungry, "I know a love spell."
Happy Mother's Day to all celebrating! And especially to Portugal, who has been serving Mother for damn near a thousand years <3
England, please go face the wall, you're in time out forever.
Sorry, that's why this one might seem a lil rushed (and even then, posted later than I wanted)! I love my mommy! <3
@engportevents I hope today's story is sweet as pie! Yeehaw! 🤠
Nationverse, Modern Day
˗ˏˋ꒰♡꒱ˎˊ˗
For humans, when one's partner used their government name, it was cause for alarm. As though they had committed a crime so terrible, they had lost all endearment privileges. By these standards, the lack of a nickname, even if only once, held catastrophic reflections of their character. As though, if they were no longer called "Sweetie", then they were no longer sweet. If they were no longer "Love", then they were no longer loved.
It was silly. Arthur had never really understood the sentiment. Arthur who'd, for the better part of the millennia, struggled to reconcile his status as a human, and as a nation. Arthur who, now, rather liked being referred to by his human name. Especially by his lover.
And as much as he enjoyed his Portuguese pet-names, and how they had evolved over the centuries — at one point being "Cabrão" — he still, often, simply preferred "Arthur". It was intimate. Allowed himself to disconnect from the cognitive dissonance that was his own innate human empathy, and the natural national desire for much more. The pure ecstasy that only an empire could feel, from all the world's riches, and all the world's power.
Perhaps for the better, Arthur had long forgotten that ecstasy. He'd given it up for more simple, human pleasures.
And while João was his most human pleasure of all, he found that, when upset, his lover wouldn't refer to him by his name. He wouldn't even refer to him as "England". Rather he'd seethe—
"Albion."
And it made Arthur's blood run cold.
The use of a nation's first name. First name, ever.
In some ways, it was a blessing. Arthur chose to view it that way for his mental health. How lucky were they to share centuries? To have known each other in their most chrysalis stage. Eyes starry as the ancient skies, and bodies green as the budding trees.
In other ways, it reminded Arthur of being hunted. Of being a nation, young in face and land. With swords too large for his frame, and legs too short to outpace his opponents. Prey, in all manners of the word. An island cast out to die. And reeled in to loot.
He felt much like prey, now.
"Our guests will be here in an hour," João hissed, present in the kitchen doorframe with a splotched, worn apron. His hands on his hips, foot tapping wildly. "An hour," he repeated with heightened intensity, "Where is the dessert?"
Arthur had few fears. War, famine, plague — they did not deter him. Demons, folklore, the undead — that was child's play. João angry, however… that shook the world.
"I've been cooking all day," João wasn't blinking, "Your only job was the dessert. Where is the dessert, Albion?"
Arthur's mouth felt increasingly dry. His throat felt like sandpaper. Placing friction between his head and his heart. Abrading his words into a nonsense shape that João would not care to decode. So he, instead, kept silent. Placed his keys in the bowl beside his front door, and handed João the bouquet of lavender he had hidden behind his back.
It had been intended, yes, for Arthur to grab a store-bought — but expensive, and thus, nice — cake to serve at dinner tonight. But the bakery had been closed, and the cakes in the other shops looked hopelessly dry, and Arthur had made a promise to himself long ago to never skip a florist in his path. To always bring lavender for João.
And it seemed that decision was smarter than returning empty-handed.
João's face twitched. His ocean eyes softening like the waves during a half-moon. Taking hold of the bouquet with feigned apprehension. His face relaxed with its scent, and Arthur felt like he, too, could take a deep breath.
Until João's eyes flashed towards him once again, "You have 2 seconds to get in this kitchen."
At least his tone was gentler?
Arthur was in the kitchen with 0.5 seconds to spare.
João gingerly placed the lavender into a vase, and began their planning session with a recap of his day. How Arthur had lacked the ingredients he needed, and even some of the tools. How he had to make do with what they had. How he changed his recipes on the fly. How the entire dinner was Portuguese, and it would be nice if the dessert didn't have to be his responsibility too.
Arthur nodded along. Fiddling with this fingers. Picking at his cuticles. Conscious now, more than ever, that he needed to file his nails an extra half-millimeter.
"Shall I contact Gordon?" Arthur offered. Like a child, using his most powerful Pokemon first.
João stopped speaking. He stared back at Arthur, blinking slowly. Seemingly putting in a great deal of effort to understand. And once his neurons fired, so did he. "Ramsay?" he nearly yelled.
Arthur nodded sheepishly in reply.
João released an exasperated, sarcastic chuckle. "Oh, sure. Wonderful," he said, "Should we watch The Great British Baking Show, as well? For inspiration's sake?"
Arthur rubbed the back of his neck timidly, "That was going to be my second suggestion."
He wanted to kick himself. Surely, this was not the same King of Strategy and Surveillance that he had boasted to be mere decades ago. The mirror in his mind was cracking.
João sighed, leaning forward against the counter, "You stupid, dense, gorgeous, idiotic, insolent oaf."
And just like that, the mirror was restored.
"Gorgeous?" Arthur's grin was anything but coy. He was prepared to hold onto any semblance of affection he could garner, with a grip stronger than that of Atlas. And like Atlas, he was prepared to hold the world up as well. For João. Just as he had centuries before.
Arthur approached his lover from behind, snaking arms around his waist and resting a chin upon his shoulder. When João didn't flinch or falter, he continued on. Peppering kisses along his lover's tan neck and back. Playfully nipping at his ear.
It was then that João laughed, ever-so-slightly. And gently shook Arthur's teeth from his skin.
"Go rest," Arthur murmured into his lover's hair, inhaling the aroma of his sandalwood shampoo, "I'll handle it. I promise."
João's mouth twisted in contemplation. He turned in Arthur's arms, facing the Englishman. But still denied him touch, hands stuck to the cold counter behind him. "What will you do?" he asked, inquisitive eyes searching emerald.
"Sticky. Toffee. Pudding." Arthur spoke as if the words were a spell that would magically cure all ailments, physical and mental alike. João's gaze drifted to his lips as he spoke. "It's fast and easy. And I'll get Alfred to pick up ice cream on his way."
"Does he even like sticky toffee pudding?"
Arthur sighed and shrugged, "Lately he hasn't been eating anything that's not Dubai Chocolate."
João laughed, this time louder and more content. "Are you sure you can handle this?" he asked once more. It seemed even in his irritation, he wished to ensure Arthur's comfort. It was soothing to see that his vigilance over Albion had not shifted during the millennia.
Arthur nodded.
João's hands warmed his lover's neck and jaw, finally granting him the touch he so craved, "And you won't burn the kitchen down?"
Arthur nodded once more. Inhaling soundly and fluttering his eyes shut. Melting into his lover's hold.
João tapped Arthur's lips with his thumb in a slow, aching tempo. Then trailed down to Arthur's chin. "And you're responsible for clean-up," he charmed, Arthur malleable in his grip. Like the purest gold there ever was.
First time participating... Kinda scared... BOO! 🧛♀️
@engportevents, thank you for organizing!
˗ˏˋ꒰♡꒱ˎˊ˗
Under the shade of his parasol, Arthur could almost feel alive.
From here, the sun could not reach his body. Silk, white gloves and airy, cotton garments sheltering his skin. Protecting him from the rays that the parasol failed to deflect. Safe in all manners of the word, and modest as a nun. Though he did not dare move too drastically, merely stood as pale and cold as a garden statue that marred the lawn.
Lord Kirkland, the Immortal Lord.
How cruel of an alias it was that he'd received. His neighbors and attendants had grown wary of the Lord's seemingly unfaltering beauty. The absence of wrinkles and silver hairs, of aged weakness in his bones. They'd come to miss his presence on weekend hunts and morning tea parties. And yet, that longing had melted to suspicion, and Lord Kirkland had fled his English estate for a quiet, new life along the Algarve. Now simply, Arthur.
And Arthur did not care if his parasol drew attention. He almost welcomed it. The pay-off was more worth than any potential scrutiny.
The Iberian sun was a stronger enemy than most, and he — after causing significant uproar throughout the nation of France during his travels — was only beginning to understand the importance of simple pleasures in every day life. Especially when life was as long and ceaseless as his.
One such pleasure, was João. A sailor with wind-swept curls, and sun-kissed skin, glowing so golden under the heat that Arthur felt like Midas in his presence.
During introductions, Arthur found himself fighting every instinct. Through his silk, white gloves, he had felt João's warmth. Keeping him grounded to the Earth even as his mouth salivated for the red blood pulsing under João's skin. His chest tightening from the rosary hung around João's neck.
Their conversations were easier. Shrouded by moonlight, and doused in rose-scented perfume, to distract Arthur's senses from João's beating heart. He'd hold tightly onto the glass João would provide, to rid the shaking in his fingers. Drinking the blood red wine as if it were sustenance. And though the effects of the alcohol were laughable, he'd pretend all the same.
And soon, Arthur felt that João began to realize he was a sinner in more ways than one. Every meeting in darkness, each time a more brazen action. A graze of the shoulders, a trailing of one's boot up a leg. Softer whispers, longer stares.
Under one starry night, with the moon in hiding and his parasol tucked away at home, Arthur visited as customary.
"May I come in?"
João's head rested against his all-to-familiar door frame. His blouse unbuttoned, curls untied. He gave Arthur a kind smile, "My friends need no invitation."
This was not an answer Arthur was expecting. He shifted his weight, "Are we friends?"
"Why don't you tell me."
Arthur fiddled with the cuffs of his gloves, "I'd much like to be friends."
"Well," João absentmindedly ran a hand over his own unadorned neck, "Then you need no invitation."
Suspicion, it seemed, beget strategy.
Arthur did not feel João's pulse rise in fear, nor notice goosebumps along his toned arms or tanned chest. With his lack of rosary, the strength Arthur had forgotten returned to his own brittle bones. And still, João did not feel tense.
Arthur inhaled deeply. Smelt the metallic sweetness of João's blood, the hints of sea-salt still stuck in his hair. With each passing day, it had grown easier for Arthur to control his appetite, yet harder to control himself.
João did not falter under his gaze. He waited, patiently, for Arthur to step into his home. But Arthur did not. Arthur could not. Rather, he stared, until his century-aged loneliness spoke for him.
"Please, João," he chided, "Invite me in."
João frowned. It was now that Arthur could sense his pulse rise. "You've lied to me, Arthur."
"It is a sin to lie."
"It is," João straightened, "Then why do you?"
"It is not the only sin I commit."
Ocean eyes looked to the stars. They found the North, and traced the constellations before returning to Arthur. "What else?"
"I would never harm you."
"What else?"
"I love you," Arthur's breathing had turned sharp, "Isn't that the worst of all?"
Whether out of fear of being heard, or fear of shared sentiment, João grabbed Arthur by the wrist and pulled him through the door. Whispering a small, fast, "Come in." Unable to hide his smile.
That night was the first time he'd touched João — really touched. And João had shivered.
Slick with wine, and the newfound confidence that only an infallible man could wield, João had teased Arthur on his gloves.
"I've never seen you without them," he laughed. His gentle, bright, rippling laugh. Running his own fingers down Arthur's sheathed palm, he murmured, "You can trust me. Haven't I made that clear?"
Arthur smiled, right and rare, and certain to be flushed if it weren't for his lack of heart. "I run cold," he replied.
"How cold?"
It wasn't a polite question. Rather, like a philosopher, João longed to test his theory.
Arthur's hands, bare and wanting, rested in João's palms. They were cradled, and caressed, and molded by warmth, and yet they still did not heed. They remained cold. Cold as Arthur encircled João's neck. Cold as he felt João's blood pump below his skin. As Arthur held his chest, and gripped his thighs. As João shivered beneath him. No less eager, no less passionate.
And though touching him, João did not turn to gold.
His heart still beat. His eyes still fluttered, and fingers still curled. And he lived, justly. For years, with Arthur by his side.
But in short time, his hair had begun matching the moonlight on the water. And his skin hung loose as a vestment. He'd bargained with Arthur, that an eternity with him would be worth harrowing the End of Days when it came. That together, they two could convince God. Or outsmart the Devil.
But—
"Life is only beautiful in its impermanence," Arthur had replied each time, "Immortality is a punishment. One that you do not deserve."
Arthur, though loved — somehow — by whom he deemed an Angel, knew the hunger and the rot had settled in long ago. Before he became the faithless monster he now was. His sins racing to catch up with his unremitting afterlife.
And yet, under the shade of his parasol, Arthur felt alive.
Because he was loved, evenly if briefly, despite it all.
APH Niche Pair Week 2026, Day 4: War | Conversation
My fair, niche pair enjoying, fine shyts. I am so stupid. I wrote a whole thing for Day 3, and then realized after that the pair I wrote for (PruHun) was no longer niche! It's still posted, hehe, just over on AO3!
Anyhow, for Day 4's theme of "War | Conversation", I just KNEW it had to be NedCan!!! I've actually had part of this sitting in my drafts for like… months. Them post-WWII is just so delicious. I'm loving this pair more and more every day.
I hope you enjoy!!!
@aphnichepairweek <3
˗ˏˋ꒰♡꒱ˎˊ˗
May, 1945
The cigarette between Abel's fingers shook like a leaf, though he tried his hardest to steady his hand. Lit, and the last of his pack, Abel savored the rolled tobacco as best as he could. But the nicotine did little to calm him. Instead causing his head to spin, and his nausea to return.
He was home now. On his own land for the first time in five years. The rubbled streets of London now replaced with his own muddy earth. Sticky from constant rainfall, and the massaging of soldiers' boots.
And yet, Abel wanted to lay in it. Sink into the dirt head first, as though he were being swallowed by ocean water. Become one with his land again, because he wasn't sure it remembered him. And he wasn't sure if he remembered either.
It was all different now. Gray from storm and smoke.
And he was different, too. Thinner. Not for a lack of food — Arthur made sure he had his share, even through the rationing and general unsavoriness. No, Abel was thinner because his people were. Because he felt their hunger deep his bones, eating away at his marrow, tearing through his skin.
And if he could have, if they'd have allowed it, Abel would've given them his marrow. Would've given them his whole soul. The skin off his back, and all of his muscles. Each lung, his whole heart. Whatever they wanted. Whatever helped.
But he was only home, now. Now that the war had ended in Europe. Now that his nation was his again. So why then, didn't he feel relief?
He took another drag, though each inhale of the smoke made him more light-headed. And as he swayed a bit, swept by the nicotine and slight chill of the air, Abel almost didn't notice the presence by his side.
"Mr. Netherlands," the voice spoke cheerily, "Welcome home!"
The presence was larger than Arthur's. It's accent different, too. And most damningly, Arthur would've never referred to him as "Mister".
So Abel turned to view the presence at his side.
Matthew.
Matthew, Matthew, Matthew.
Abel had repeated that name to himself over and over in London. Especially after the Americans had joined the war, when differentiating the brothers had become harder. Matthew, not Alfred. Matthew. Canada. The nation who, temporarily, relinquished part of his land as Dutch territory, so that Abel's princess may be born to the Netherlands.
Matthew. The liberator. The man who shared his land with Abel when he had none. Who gave his marrow. His soul, and skin, and muscles, and lungs, and heart.
Matthew, Matthew, Matthew.
Remembering him was easy.
He wasn't like the others. He didn't speak over people with the arrogance that immortality could have allotted him. Didn't whine, or angrily catastrophize in a drunken state. He was a force on the field, frightening and commanding when need be. But he stayed kind. His eyes stayed soft. He hummed himself to sleep.
Matthew bit his pink lip now, his smile faltering slightly, perhaps at Abel's lack of response. Abel cleared his throat, "It almost doesn't feel real."
And once again, Matthew's smile was back. "Well, you're not dreaming!" he replied, his grin slowly faltering, "Though I get it. Five years is nothing, and yet, everything at the same time." His eyes drifted as he concluded his sentence, taking a moment to gaze around the freshly liberated city.
Abel's eyes didn't follow. They remained locked on Matthew. He was a much better view.
"War works fast," Abel intoned. He'd never noticed how perfectly Matthew's curls rested atop his cheekbones, even with his hair pulled back. Like a puzzle piece.
Matthew turned back towards Abel again. Looking up at him through thick lashes, a smirk pulling at the corners of his lips. "I've been hearing that all my life," his shoulders rose and fell as he exhaled a laugh, "Is that something you… more experienced nations say to scare us?"
"Is it working?"
Matthew shrugged, "War's inevitable. Why fear what's known?"
Well, he was definitely Arthur's ward.
Abel nodded, and brought the cigarette up to his lips, "Fair, Williams. You certainly handled yourself well."
Matthew flushed, ever so slightly. The red of his cheeks unable to hide atop his fair, freckled skin. "Oh, yeah. Well, you know," he said quickly, "It's whatever."
Humility. Abel knew it wasn't for show. With Matthew, it was genuine.
Matthew's gaze focused on Abel's hand. He stuttered a moment, "Um, can I…?" He pointed to the cigarette, but his body moved before his mouth could. In one swift, fluid motion, Matthew plucked the cigarette out of the taller man's fingers, and brought it to his lips. He took a deep drag.
It was then that Abel noticed the sweat around Matthew's forehead. The tapping of his boot against the soil. The shaking in his fingers. The dark circles under his eyes.
As Matthew exhaled, Abel watched his whole body relax. His eyes had fluttered shut, and as they opened, they met with Abel's once more. And he could swear they were violet. Sweet and floral, like a field to tend.
Matthew smiled, apologetically. Gracious and polite — cute, even — though he looked and acted just as a soldier. Perhaps because he was. "Thanks," he said, sheepishly, holding out the cigarette for Abel to take.
Abel didn't need it anymore. "No," his eyes remained fixated on Matthew's. How was that shade even possible? How was Matthew real? "I should be thanking you."
Inviting as an angel, Matthew laughed, "No need."
He looked down at the cigarette in his grasp. "Finish it," Abel encouraged, "I'm done. I've had a whole pack."
"Of course you have," Matthew flicked ash from the rolled paper, "How else would we celebrate?" He accented his philosophy with another drag. And it made Abel almost laugh.
It didn't feel much like a celebration. It was rainy. And cold. And there was much to do come tomorrow.
So for now, Abel returned to the earth. His earth. Sitting in the mud with little regard for how he looked. Because there was much to celebrate, if it meant a reunion with his land.
And Matthew joined him. Without word or question.
Not his first time on Dutch soil. But his first in Europe.
APH Niche Pair Week 2026, Day 2: Change of Seasons
THIS IS SO LATE I'M A CHUD PLEASE FORGIVE ME
Trust that more are coming, I'm just like… A day behind on them… Sorry…
Writing this really, really, really solidified my love for NedCan… Like wow.
I'm sick, so the writing might be a lil funky (SORRY!), but trust that I can feel their loving aura. I want to put them in a bottle and shake them around.
Anyhow, I hope you enjoy!!!
@aphnichepairweek <3
˗ˏˋ꒰♡꒱ˎˊ˗
May, Modern Day
Ottawa, Canada
Matthew loved Spring.
He loved the sounds of the returning birds, singing stories of their travels. Loved the sun warming his skin from the cool northern breeze. Loved the new birth, the new flowers.
The tulips.
Abel in the tulips.
Matthew loved Abel.
He loved how Abel, once a herculean empire, now held the tulips with gentle restraint. Cupping the petals softly as he crouched down to inhale their fresh aroma. His head bowed into them as though they were his alter. His hands clean and steady, as though they had never done harm.
For a brief moment, Matthew towered above him. Abel sat in the dirt, surrounded by tourists. They photographed the tulips, admired the colors. Bustled around the pair as though they were hardly there. And paid absolutely no attention to Abel. Which was humorous to Matthew. Because he was sure Abel was a celebrity amongst the flowers.
"Thijs," Abel called up to Matthew, referring to him by his Dutch nickname, "You must see this one."
Matthew already had a smile plastered on his face. Small and polite. Flashed apologetically to the tourists whose shoulders and bags collided with his arms. The smile grew as he knelt down beside Abel, resting a hand on the back of his partner's neck to steady himself.
He knew by now to not say that all tulips looked the same. Because to Abel, each was different. Each had its own charisma, its own personality. Admittedly, however, Matthew did find it endearing how impassioned Abel became over the topic. And as such, would, on occasions with just enough weed and just enough time, tease Abel over tulips. Just a tad.
He was his brother's brother.
But perhaps right now was not the time.
"It's beautiful," Matthew said, rubbing small circles into the nape of Abel's neck with his thumb.
And as beautiful as the tulip was, he admired Abel instead. His usually stoic lover now sporting a small smile of his own. The edges of his lips only slightly curled. His green eyes lost in nostalgic peace.
"Maple Leaf," Abel said eventually, humming contently.
The Maple Leaf Tulip.
Bred specially by the Dutch to look like the Canadian flag.
Red and white.
Matthew knew, of course, the meaning behind those colors on a tulip. But it didn't deter him from asking again.
"White is usually for purity," Abel recounted, "Or respect."
"Purity…" Matthew cringed somewhat at the word. Far too reminiscent of lingering shame, and encouraged chastity.
"Or respect," Abel insisted, turning to face him. He lifted a large, gentle hand to tuck a curl behind Matthew's ear. "And red," Abel started, "Is for love."
Despite a chill in the May Canadian air, Matthew could feel heat rise to his cheeks. Red like the tulip. "When did you get so romantic?" he teased, "I thought I bore that title."
"Just because you speak French, doesn't mean you are French."
Matthew gasped playfully, feigning offense. "So you consider the French to be romantic," he accused, as if he'd caught his partner in a lie. Oh how Matthew did so enjoy baiting Abel for reassurance.
Abel knew this. He released a light chuckle, rolling his eyes. "I consider the French to be perverted," he said, standing. He then held a hand out to Matthew, who placed his own in its grasp and allowed himself to be pulled up onto his feet. "Canadian French on the other hand," Abel whistled, "Romantic."
Both now standing, Matthew no longer towered. Rather, he found himself eye-level with Abel's lips. And he didn't mind it in the slightest. "Merci," he murmured, violet eyes dazed.
Abel merely hummed a reply. Then, amidst the wandering tourists and wind-dancing tulips, Abel cupped Matthew's cheek as though it were the petals of a flower. And kissed him under May sun.
Matthew's hands found bearing atop Abel's sides, gripping onto his sweater and digging for warmth. And just as quickly as he allowed himself to get lost in it, Matthew pushed Abel away.
"We're missing the tulips," he mused, rubbing his nose against Abel's.
"Can't have that," Abel agreed, interlocking his fingers with Matthew's, "Come, Liefje."
