#canon portugal

[ircc]

The Driver Era / Lisbon, Portugal

[3-14]

[renonv]

been rethinking the canon and thinking about how country personifications came to be and shit... more to come.. for now heres how Antonio and Francis met (and technically Rome)

[rosesandalfazemas]

Watch your tone when you're talking to me...

[ellavei]

I understand, England and Portugal. If I were you guys, I would also chain Spain up and watch him cry.

[dichtefichten]

escalating

[mildoctober]

2023 botanical captures

[lforlimbo]

I am nothing. I'll never be anything. I couldn't want to be something. Apart from that, I have in me all the dreams in the world.

[mangofresca]

anachronism

He’s handsy. More than anything he had been expecting, Romano is handsy, and Portugal does not need to be any sort of psychologist or poet to understand why. What catches him, though—and what he often spends his time considering—is the when, that variable shift from companionable air to congenial leading, amicable to insinuative to bold, before settling somewhere in the vicinity of amatory caressing.

He’s handsy, and Portugal, within his own personal revelations, likes it more than he tolerates it, indulges in it more than he expected, revels in it more frequently than he is willing to count.

And this, he knows, is Romano’s biggest fantasy, the thing that makes him hot and flushed and brazen, steadfast and sure beneath hands that have long since lost their hesitation. For all his blustering and posturing, Romano only ever cared for that which left him unsure, and Portugal understands in his own way, even relates to a certain degree. He expected it and he hadn’t.

It’s a truth that existed long before their paths wove themselves together so intrinsically, bonded in gold and sweetly-scented lavender, one that would exist long after their time in each other’s presence diverged, a truth that was laid out so plainly before him that he all but tripped and fell into it when he actually allowed himself to look. A truth Portugal could pluck from the skies of Alqueva and Lecce, shimmering like stars embedded in the outskirts of unwavering constellations, glittering fantastically before his eyes—a skittish, despairing, lonely truth.

Romano wants to be wanted. Not coveted nor revered nor exalted. Romano wants to be wanted, and Portugal, for reasons that dawned on him slowly at first then entirely all-encompassingly, wants him.

The notion of acting on this newly unearthed want had once been wholly at odds with Portugal’s nature. Romano has long existed within a sphere beyond Portugal’s notice, purview, and grasp, and he never cared to make any motion to extend his interest into that particular area of his brother’s imperium.

The nature of nations, Portugal knows, is that they are bonded to their people first and foremost. The nature of immortals, though, is that they are bonded to each other beyond what any human could ever conceivably fathom. As beings who live in the nebulous middle, their lives are only ever dictated by flux and wavering posture. All the more reason, then, he muses, to understand each other.

He knows Romano would laugh at the very thought of it, of being understood, of understanding those who have only ever burned his bridges. But—or so Portugal likes to believe—that was why they differed: he hadn’t intended to try, and Romano certainly hadn’t intended to deliver. To Romano’s endless annoyance and even more infinite delight, Portugal doesn’t care if he fails. This pleases him, and Romano, in return, gives, because nothing is expected of him and every gift, every action, every physical admiration is received like it’s all Portugal wants, with no expectation of other.

And maybe, Portugal wonders, just maybe, it is.

It’s a small thing, only a tease, a tempt with none of the promise, but as they leave their table from a shared lunch one blinding, blistering afternoon, Romano reaches behind him, pulls the hand from Portugal’s pocket, and places it on the small of his back, beneath the flutter of his pristine suit jacket. His eyes flick over his shoulder, and Portugal is already watching, already receiving, delighted in that way he gets when he makes a particularly good dig or catches an underhanded comment, revelry adorned in equanimity.

Portugal lets his lips turn up into a smile, hand pressing just that much more against Romano’s back, thumb tracing the line of his spine, and Romano grins at him, the keeper of a secret he doesn’t know he’s already shared.

Romano wants to be wanted. Portugal wants to try.

[pedrocobo]

Porto / Oporto

Portugal.

IG: @pedrocobo_foto

© Pedro Cobo

Please don’t reblog to NSFW/18+ blogs

[z1bells]

I guess this is tradition now

I could used this song on the edit again...

But I've already used it on a Nolan/OA edit😭 (Yeah Nolan, the same John Nolan from The Rookie)

So I'll be using another one, possibly a Chappell Roan one, still choosing

[ircc]

Michael & Calum | Sagres Arena - Campo Pequeno | Portugal

[wingedjewels]

Happy find - Hoopoe by Georgie Alexon Via Flickr: I do love these Eurasian hoopoes. We do not get these birds back home in Canada. They are always a treat to see here in Europe. -This was photograph was taken in Lisbon, Portugal -Upupa epops

[lask-owska]

Algarve, Portugal

[rosesandalfazemas]

Oi Gala :D

A question about dragon!port. Does his shed his skin like a reptile? Bc it would be so funny Arthur looking at him in shock while he is peeling his dead skin like if it was nothing.

[moonshutterlab]