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Portugal would never admit it, not out loud nor written down, but London is in fact, not his favourite English city. It might even be at the bottom of that list, but because he is not yet completely sure that England cannot read minds, he does not dare to admit it even in the safety of his own thoughts.
He supposes he enjoys how time seems to intertwine in the English capital. It’s as if London’s heart beats in two rhythms - one for its past and one for its future. There is a strange beauty in its blend of cobblestones and chrome; in its ancient spires that randomly peek out from between towering modern office blocks. It creates a patchwork skyline that speaks volumes of England’s ambition and that, in itself, is inspiring.
Yet Portugal cannot help but feel unsettled when walking the battlements of the Tower of London, which once framed a picture of sweeping meadows and flowery fields, but now hold a cold grid of offices and shops. There is something haunting about how London, like many European cities, seems to be bending to the will of international tides.
American chains sprout like weeds in every unoccupied crevice, their shiny logos replacing the quirks of corner shops and pubs. Unique cafés have been replaced by the umpteenth Starbucks and Five Guys, all of them with the same brand of sameness, squeezing the charms from what was once so inherently London.
Best not to voice these thoughts. He knows for certain he will be accused of hypocrisy, nostalgia, or worse, jealousy.
And whoever will do the accusing, would be right on all three accounts. Portugal’s own capital has not been immune to international influence, nor to waves of progress, and he is famously known for his bouts of nostalgia.
As for jealousy… it’s not exactly a stranger to him.
Jealousy for Portugal is a quiet, unspoken thing. On the surface, he appears laid-back, calm, with an easy-going charm that people always seem to admire. He is known for his open mind, his long-standing diplomacy and his acceptance to the ebb and flow of time. As such, he’s no stranger to the comings and goings of relationships.
Portugal knows of England’s complicated past with France, of his intense spat with Spain. Portugal himself has… travelled the world, so to speak. He and England have always returned to one another, though, and so Portugal knows how to wear the role of a patient lover.
And yet… deep down, he knows there is a possessiveness that only centuries of history could build. A longing to pull England back into the fold, to remind him of all they have been through together. After all: who could know England better than he, the one who stood by his side when the rest of the world shifted?
But in recent years, he watches as England grows increasingly close with America once more, and it stirs something deep in Portugal. Perhaps it had been Portugal’s own fault for remaining neutral back in the forties, whilst England and America fought side by side as the world teetered on its edge, leading them to forge a powerful bond that many nations envied.
Suddenly, England, who had always leaned on Portugal in his darkest hours, started to confide in America as well. The years that followed saw America swooping in like a white knight, offering economic aid to help rebuild Europe and further solidifying his ‘special relationship’ with his former warden.
It’s not that he fears being replaced or forgotten. The bond they share runs much too deep: they’ve weathered storms together, they’ve lasted longer than kingdoms, there is nothing that could permanently sever their ties, as history has proven again and again.
But it’s the idea that England is giving a part of himself to someone else; the idea that Portugal is no longer the first one he turns to, becoming instead a mere afterthought in the face of shiny, new alliances.
Thus, every now and then, he finds himself glaring across the Atlantic.
Or ahead of him, as circumstances currently permit.
“Are you simply being contrary for contrary’s sake?” England huffs, though his fondness is ill-concealed behind his mask of annoyance. Portugal can tell by the squint of his left eye that England is fighting a smile.
“Look, I get it,” America retaliates, his voice a tad too loud for their surroundings, but that has never stopped him before. “You’ve had your Underground for ages, longest-running metro system in the world, blah blah. But it’s old, man! It’s basically a relic at this point.”
Portugal meanly thinks that the young nation knows nothing of the importance of relics.
“This relic has been moving people around since before your darling Lady Liberty was drawn on paper. And what do your shiny new innovations even have to offer besides a bit of gloss?”
If only he thought the same about all the American franchises consuming the local London quarters, Portugal muses somewhat bitterly.
“Air conditioning, for starters. Have you been on your Central Line in summer? Feels like the gates of hell are opening up down there.”
There is an agreeing, amused snort from a human passing them by, and England sharply elbows America in an effort to quiet him down. Japan smiles placatingly at anyone glancing their way when America yelps, high-pitched.
“Ouch.” America snarks, though he does lower his volume. “And don’t get me started on how cramped it is! You could fit three of my trains in there and still have room for a Starbucks.”
Always with the damned Starbucks.
The argument is momentarily suspended when a train arrives, its approach a thunderous rumble. The four nations quietly make their way into the crowded vehicle, and America, ever the opportunist, quickly spots two empty seats along the sides of the train, parallel to the windows. He all but shoves Japan towards them, opting to stand himself.
Portugal guides England to the remaining seat with a hand on his lower back, not wanting to be outdone by the younger nation. England does not glare at him for it, not exactly, but he does seem a little disgruntled at being treated with such blatant courtesy. Portugal simply smiles disarmingly, coming to a stand in front of him and holding on to the bar above him for stability.
He does not miss the way England’s eyes, however brief, sweep over the expanse of his shoulders; and for a moment, he is thrown back into memories of himself and England riding one of Lisbon’s yellow trams.
Ah, yes, the merits of public transport.
“It’s got its appeal.” Portugal drawls, interrupting yet another one of America’s rants about the Underground’s inefficiencies.
Knowing he would not be lacking warmth in the stuffy, crowded cart, Portugal removes his coat and hands it to England, who folds it over his lap almost instinctively, his eyes tellingly lingering on the way Portugal’s shirt stretches over his chest.
The thing is: Portugal might seem casual and easy to get along with, but one has to have a certain knack for manipulation if they wish to keep up with European politics. As such, he knows how to plant moments in high stake conversations; how to force a reaction. Talk softly to make your adversary lean in, throw your line of sight behind them, make them turn around - it’s really rather easy to assert a little control, once you know how.
And England? England is perhaps his favourite instrument to play.
“There’s a certain charm that feels uniquely… English.” Portugal continues casually, and if he flexes his bicep somewhat whilst gripping onto the bar above him, well, no one would blame him with how the train cart rattles as it travels towards its next destination. “You can feel history in each station, in every twist and turn, every creak of the rails. There’s something wonderfully dependable about it.”
England’s expression softens as the corners of his lips quirk up with satisfaction, reminding Portugal vaguely of a cat who got the cream. He purposefully allows his eyes to drop when England bites on his bottom lip to keep from grinning and waits for England to look up at him before swiping his tongue over his own bottom lip, innocuously wetting it.
He delights in watching how England’s fingers start to fiddle with the lapel of Portugal’s coat, still secured on his lap. With all the casualty he can muster, he hooks a thumb around his own belt to emphasise his standing position in regards to England’s sitting one.
There’s something hotly satisfying about being able to effortlessly grab England’s attention like this, of stealing it from -
“Dependable?” America guffaws and Portugal almost glares at him when England’s attention shifts again. “Dude, people hardly get to work on time. I’m talking cutting-edge automation, self-driving trains, more room! Keep the charm, just let me streamline it. We’re talking fewer delays, more room, less sweat.”
“And odour.” Japan pipes in helpfully, loyal to a fault, and really, should he be the one to talk about the virtues of public transport?
“It works perfectly well, thank you very much.” The British nation grouses. “Not every single bit of infrastructure needs to be turned into a Silicon Valley pet project.”
“Ugh, whatever. If you wanna keep chugging along in your Victorian pipe system, that’s on you, Iggy.” Portugal’s skin itches with how casually America throws a deformity of England’s name around. “Just don’t come complaining when your trains are delayed again because someone tripped over a signal box from the nineteenth century.”
“I would not dream of it.” England drones, deceptively dull. “Ever. Really.”
“I am sorry to interrupt this lively discussion.” Japan interrupts, and even over the deafening screeching of their slowing cart, Portugal could hear he did not sound very sorry at all. “But this is our stop.”
“Far be it for me to complain about any rescue from his insipid rambling.” England says, displaying the sort of sharp biting wit that defines him; and just as Portugal expects England meant for it to do, it triggers America's last-word syndrome.
Japan places a surprisingly firm hand on America’s bicep and all but shoves him out of the train, ensuring any further bickering is cut short, and Portugal manages to gracefully find it in himself to offer them a good-natured smile in lieu of a farewell.
“Do you want to sit down?” England asks, nodding towards the empty seat next to him.
Portugal pretends to think about it, but waits until the seat is taken by a young woman with music quietly sounding through her earphones. More people enter and Portugal easily shuffles a little closer to England, pleased by the show of intimacy England displays as he tucks his knees together in an attempt to give Portugal more room to stand.
“No, I much prefer the view I have standing.” He teases, and he does so in Portuguese, because for this to work, England needs to not be embarrassed by any eavesdroppers. He leans forward a little, enough for England to get the gist as Portugal leers down at him with a smirk. “You look good down there.”
England scoffs, though his perfected mask of nonchalance is unable to hide the slight red creeping up his neck, which is further emphasised by how England tugs at his collar.
“Behave.”
“Or else?” Portugal edges with a smarmy grin.
To anyone looking their way, England probably appears exasperated, but Portugal - Portugal was once a pirate, and when England readjusts in his seat to inconspicuously brush one of his knees against the inside of one of Portugal’s legs, he can smell blood in the water.
If there is one thing Portugal knows about England, it’s that he lives in a constant tug of war between his inherent desire to be a gentleman and his deep-seated need to be a walking aggravation.
Portugal knows that England is aware of what is going on inside the Iberian’s mind - or he has to suspect it, at least. Why else would he be so blatantly playing hard to get? It both soothes him and stokes the fires: England has always been good at discerning what troubles Portugal, as well as being an absolute shit about it when he deems it unserious.
It begins with him keeping a subtle distance from Portugal as they walk over to England’s humble apartment - humble only in appearances, if Portugal is to believe the going rate for apartments in Notting Hill. If Portugal quickens or slows his step to walk alongside him, England would do the opposite, creating an almost unconscious gap that to any outsider would hint at aloofness.
Any attempt at flirtation Portugal throws his way is met with feigned obliviousness, any physical touch Portugal attempts to initiate is brushed off by a sudden need to readjust his bag or check his phone.
Portugal begrudgingly allows England his elusivity, knowing that if he wants to reign victorious, he will need to play along, though his patience is stretched thin when England starts throwing in occasional mentions of America when recounting their previous meeting.
By the time the door to England’s apartment finally falls shut behind him, Portugal is unable to quell the hot burst of possessiveness that flares up his spine. There is a time and place for games, and he decides that here and now is neither, so he walks over to England and plucks his phone out of his hand.
England, who had been mid-text with who knows (he knows), merely raises an eyebrow.
Portugal leans forward to kiss him and hopefully distract him from how harshly he lobs the phone onto a nearby cabinet. There is a sound of protest that Portugal eagerly swallows as he deepens the kiss, forcing his tongue past not-so-reluctant lips.
And well, not to toot his own horn, but kissing is a language Portugal all but perfected. It is the ultimate connection after all, like speaking to one another without any words needing to be spoken.
He hums against England’s lips, gently stroking his jaw and coaxing him to reciprocate. The kiss gradually becomes sloppier, and when he feels England’s hands trailing down his shoulders to his waist, presumably to untuck his shirt, Portugal pulls himself back.
England’s pale skin is delightfully flushed, his lips slick and a little swollen, and although it is tempting to kiss him again…
He turns away to remove his coat and his shoes, before sitting down on the couch and getting comfortable. England watches, somewhat perplexed, as Portugal grabs the remote and turns the television on, which starts a game show about renovating gardens.
Even from the corner of his eye, Portugal can see that England is debating the merits of joining him or of continuing his little act. Obviously he is feeling mean, because he starts to turn away.
“Pick up that phone and I will fly home tonight.” Portugal bristles petulantly.
“I knew it!” England laughs with a wicked glint, and he instead moves to drape his own coat over a nearby chair. “I would say green is an ugly colour on you, but we both know it is not.”
Portugal does not deign to grace him with a reply and instead stubbornly looks at the television, pretending not to notice England sauntering over to sit next to him.
“Please tell me you are not jealous of America, of all people. I dare say I have not been insulted to that degree before.”
Portugal knows England feels nothing but brotherly affection for America; knows that whatever relationship England fosters with the younger nation is similar to the one Portugal has with Brazil, and England certainly has never felt threatened by Brazil. He also knows America’s romantic attentions are currently pointed much further east, and yet…
“Jealous, me? Meu bem, you must confuse me with one of your other trysts.”
“Classy.” England says with a snort, and Portugal has to fight to keep from grinning, because he cannot help but acknowledge that he does not play the part of scorned partner with much dignity. “All right, my darling. Let me make it up to you, I would hate for you to feel neglected.”
Portugal resists the urge to pout at England’s placating voice; he knows his jealousy is unfounded and that all of this is rather unserious, but still… He mutes the television and drops the remote somewhere at his side, before sitting back and widening his legs.
England raises an eyebrow at the gesture, but before Portugal can make any demands, he slings a knee in between Portugal’s legs and leans in to kiss him sweetly. Portugal eagerly indulges, gently brushing his nose against England’s as he turns his head to re-acquaint their lips.
They kiss like that for a while, simple and unhurried. Long fingers unbutton Portugal’s shirt and he leans forward to allow England to shrug it off his shoulders, only melting back into the couch once England’s tracing up and down the bronzed skin of his arms.
A warm, wet tongue flicks across the seam of his lips and Portugal parts them, unhurriedly gliding his own tongue against England’s. He recognizes England’s gameplan when the sweet kissing turns slow and sensual, an unmistakable lewd rhythm set as England all but fucks into Portugal’s mouth with his tongue, and he digs his fingers into England’s hips in retaliation.
He forces them to part, only a little reluctantly, and greedily takes in the sight of England’s flushed cheeks and swollen lips.
“Blow me.” He says, and he delights in how England’s eyes squint with defiance.
“What’s the magic word?”
“Now.” Portugal grunts.
The effect is instantaneous. He all but sees England’s eyes darken, his smile twisting wickedly, and he effortlessly slides down from the couch to kneel before Portugal. Hands glide down Portugal’s ribs, leaving goose bumps in their wake, before settling at his belt. England has many talents, one of them including getting Portugal naked in the blink of an eye, and before he knows it England wraps his fingers delicately around his cock.
He moves it slowly up and down, the tempo in tandem with how every nerve in Portugal’s lower body is lit ablaze. A few, too-loose tugs follow and Portugal wonders if he’d get away with manhandling England a little, but then England leans forward.
England’s clever tongue presses against the underside of his cock, lapping up to flick teasingly over its slit. A hum escapes him as he tastes Portugal’s precum and shivers run up Portugal’s spine in response.
“That’s it,” he praises, groaning as the flat of England’s skilled tongue licks a long stripe up the underside of his dick, hand still wrapped loosely around its base.
England looks up through his lashes as he wraps spit-slicked lips around the head of Portugal’s cock. The moan that escapes England as he gives it a gentle suck almost has Portugal combust and he reaches down to tangle a hand in England’s hair.
A sticky line of saliva drips down his chin and Portugal reaches out to wipe it away, enamoured by how England’s eyes go half-mast, like a cat getting a good scratch. He uses his other hand to guide England up and down, and England lets his mouth fall open, throat lax around his girth, before tapping at his thighs in lieu of an overt invitation.
Pleasure curls over his hips, clawing its way down to his abdomen to pool in a hot glut at the base of his dick as England allows him to thrust up, further into that unbearable warmth as his cock is swallowed down, its head pushing against the back of England’s velvety throat.
Only he will ever get this treatment, he knows.
England is a nation of deep pride, forged in centuries of sovereign rule and independence. His spine is as straight as the ancient oaks that dot his countryside. Over centuries, he has stood defiant before empires, revolutions and wars, always emerging with his head held high, no matter the outcome.
For England, to kneel is to relinquish power; something that makes up a big part of his identity. To kneel is to surrender, and England has never been one to surrender.
He bows only to his kings and queens, but he kneels for no one - no one but Portugal.
Portugal stills and tightens his grip in England’s hair, using it to pull him off before he can climax prematurely. He kisses him instead, intoxicated by the taste of himself on England’s tongue, by how England all but slurps his tongue into his own mouth and sucks on it as if it were the finest delicacy of all.
“I have a perfectly good bed only one room away.” England says against his lips, deviously, and Portugal nips his lower lip in return.
“Refresh my memory.” He husks, despite knowing the layout of England’s apartment as well as his own.
They stumble into the bedroom, clumsily yet efficiently, and by the time Portugal pushes England into his sheets, both of them are stripped of their clothing. He presses their bare bodies together before kissing him, momentarily puzzled when his hand finds one of his wayward shirts under England’s pillow.
“Just how many of my shirts have you pillaged?” He asks, fondly. “Am I due a trip to the mall?”
“I can’t help it.” England says. “Your scent fades too quickly from the sheets when you’ve gone. These help tide me over.”
His shirts. His scent.
“Ugh,” Portugal groans, another flame of possessiveness burning hotly in his abdomen. “Deixas-me louco, Inglaterra.”
“Good.” England says, pulling him down to kiss him. Portugal pushes milky white thighs apart to settle between them and England chuckles knowingly against his lips as Portugal scrambles to find the lube, knowing its location in the second drawer of the night stand on his side of the bed - his, his - before slicking his fingers until they are dripping.
England sighs as Portugal presses a finger against the rim of his hole, circling it until England bucks his hips before he slides it inside. Despite his eagerness and England’s impatience, Portugal takes his time, twisting and easing the tight clench with his finger until it relents and sucks in second and eventually, a third.
Once he deems his lover properly stretched, Portugal removes his fingers and runs his clean hand through England's hair, fingers twisting into the strands so that he can pull him upwards and capture his lips in a searing, hungry kiss.
England puts his own hands under his knees and spreads his legs, putting on such a lewd display that Portugal feels lust roil uncontrollably in his belly. He slicks his cock with some more lube and shuffles forward to nestle it between England’s cheeks, its tip pressing against the hot, waiting entrance. Mind hazy with pleasure and anticipation, Portugal grinds forwards, groaning as his cock catches at the rim but ultimately slides past England’s hole.
“Fuck,” England rasps, hips bucking up and down impatiently. “Get on with it -”
“Patience, Inglaterra.” Portugal chides, and he grabs onto one of England’s knees to manhandle it over his shoulder. The new position makes room for new possibilities and Portugal snubs the head of his cock against England’s entrance, teasingly, before pushing in.
A brief struggle ensues, with Portugal scrabbling to catch England’s frantic hands. He presses them back against the rumpled sheets and kisses the inside of England’s knee where it rests over his shoulder.
The sound that left England as Portugal bottoms out is nothing short of sinful; a low, sultry moan that melts away what little is left of his earlier annoyances. He flexes his fingers, tightening his already tight grip on England’s hand, forcing them further into the bedding below.
“I want you,” Portugal blurts, composure slipping as he watches England writhe underneath him - him, only him, always only him. “All of you. Tudo o que tem para dar pertence-me.”
“Greedy,” England replies, although his breathiness betrays what the words do to him. Portugal knows that England knows he’s right - a part of England does belong to Portugal and vice versa, not in a way that suffocates, but in a way that runs deeper than words.
“Tu és meu,” Portugal continues, grinding his hips but staying completely sheathed, knowing it will drive England mad. “No matter who else comes along, once the dust settles, it’ll be you and me. It’s always been you and me. Say you’re mine.”
The truth is that Portugal cannot stand the thought of anyone, even someone as subjectively harmless as America, laying claim to what has been theirs for centuries. Because that’s where the possessiveness stems from; no one else has the depth of connection he and England share.
Portugal does not mind reminding England of it every now and then.
But England, for all his stiff upper lip, is just as territorial, just as unwilling to share what is his. Portugal feels a rush of satisfaction when he sees England’s eyes flash dangerously - there it is, that possessiveness, that quiet claim that England guards so fiercely.
“Say it.” Portugal repeats, and there is a brief push at his hips, but he refuses to allow England to switch their positions.
The dig of England’s fingers into his biceps borders on painful, but Portugal hardly cares; let England bruise him, mark him. He might wear a sleeveless shirt tomorrow.
“Eu sou teu.” England all but snaps, the sharpness of his voice a stark contrast to how his hips undulate underneath Portugal, his untouched cock straining against his own abdomen. Portugal wonders if he could bring England to climax like this and only this. “And you’re mine.”
Portugal grins, feeling himself burn with devotion and love and utter, utter adoration, as England glares up at him, daring him to challenge this. Portugal does not reply at first, only pulls back slowly before slamming back home.
“I’m yours.” He promises then, reverently, his earlier jealousy all but consumed by the deep, squeezing pleasure of England’s body under him.
England’s lips twist in a smirk and he shifts his hips, teasingly, almost causing Portugal to slip out as he moves to thrust in again. He arches up, biting at his collarbone and digging his fingers into the curves of Portugal’s ass as if to pull him closer, deeper.
“How could I love anyone but you, dearheart?” England purrs into his ear, his teeth briefly catching onto his earlobe. Portugal shudders, petty vindication curling around his heart like a snake. “How could I ever want anyone but you?”
“Caralho, Inglaterra - ”
Portugal finds England’s lips once more and licks inside, kissing him like a man starved as he sets a slow, but thorough, rhythm. They kiss, and kiss, until he adjusts his aim and England all but startles, gasping breathlessly. Portugal peppers kisses along his jaw, down his neck when England lets his head fall back, eyes heavily lidded with satisfaction as Portugal presses open-mouthed kisses against the side of his throat.
“Gorgeous,” Portugal praises, admiring the way red flushes up England’s chest, unevenly splotching his neck and face. He reaches a hand in between them and softly fists England’s neglected cock, delighting in the way England tenses and hisses. “You’re so gorgeous. Quero-te o tempo todo. ”
In the end, it is Portugal who spills first. He bucks down, shoving himself as far as he can go as he spills filthy wet inside of his partner. England follows almost immediately, twitching in Portugal’s hand and spilling in short pulses across his own abdomen. Portugal whines under his breath, waiting for England’s orgasm to squeeze him until he has nothing left to offer, before offering a few more half-hearted thrusts, simply to drive the point home.
Once the overstimulation borders on painful, Portugal tips forward, allowing England’s leg to fall from his shoulder and bonelessly collapse onto the bed. He pays it no mind and instead lowers himself onto England’s chest, smearing England’s spent between them, and shifts just enough for his dick to slip out.
No doubt they made a mess of the bed, but it’s not as if they would be going to sleep anytime soon - England had promised to take Portugal to the Barbican Conservatory that night, and no amount of sex is going to prevent Portugal from watching the sunset up in the hidden tropical oasis.
He wonders if England could arrange for them to be alone, because then they could watch the sunset and have -
“I suppose you want to cancel tomorrow’s brunch with Japan and America, then?” England asks conversationally, his fingers soothingly running through Portugal’s sweaty hair.
Portugal snorts somewhat unattractively, but his face is mostly hidden in England’s warm skin, so he does not attempt to save face. There is some shame that burns inside of him; shame that he allowed something as silly as England’s friendship with his former ward to make him jealous; shame that he so obviously demanded England to reaffirm his claim.
But that flicker of shame holds no candle against the burning forest fire that is his contentment, his satisfaction; he is the one lying in England’s arms, and he’s the one that will be doing so for an eternity to come.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Portugal says, blowing a raspberry on an old scar below England’s collarbone. “I’ve actually come up with some improvements for the Underground that I’m sure America will want to hear.”
The sting of a knee in the side is worth it when England also uses the momentum to topple them over. Portugal’s overworked dick twitches with interest as England, his England, glowers down at him not unlike he did a lifetime ago, when they’d celebrate victories at sea with a good old rump below deck.
“Oh, indulge him, will you?” England threatens sweetly, one of his hands trailing up Portugal’s chest to rest at his neck. “I have always wondered if perhaps America could 3D print your azulejos - it would certainly speed up the production process.”
“Don’t you dare.” Portugal says, and he would be somewhat scandalised if it were not for the way England is grinding his hips down onto his lap. “Those are a symbol of craftsmanship and artistic heritage!”
England laughs and leans down to kiss him and Portugal all too eagerly wipes any thoughts of the Underground and his famous tiles from his mind.