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#hws engport
engportevents · 3 months
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Get your keyboards ready, your pens, your tablets, your makeup, etc! EngPort week is coming soon!
Yall… It’s almost time!
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I know I’m still early, but May 2024 is right around the corner and I got something new in mind! I’ll let you guys know what’s coming in due time.
Meanwhile…
If anyone has Prompt ideas, I’m 100% all ears! (I’ll give you guys until the 1st of may)
Art by @chiring-art as always, with permission.
All further information in the google doc.
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rosesandalfazemas · 11 months
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Extra day (May 15th) ~ NOT MANDATORY/Free @engportevents
Pink suits you, marido.
Not as good as that black corsette you took from the old lady.
I was jocking!
In bed?
...
C'mon mate I'm being nice! it was romantic and sexy you wore it.
... I will paint your face if you don't shut up. Try to smile like a normal person.
A little recreation of a selfie from the amazing photoshoot of the best EngPor cosplayers on Earth: (England) @rehsunshine and (Portugal) @amitiel-halfm00n (thanks for joining the week!!!). And Pirates, of course; they like to mock everyone and playing around of what they steal.
Thanks for walking with me in this week and sharing my work. Glad about reblogs, comments and likes.
See you next year~
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glitchinnf · 2 years
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they r dense
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snoozerin · 13 days
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nyos :]
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crepegosette · 19 days
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old ppl dancing
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balladofthewhitehorse · 3 months
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#2 for engport please!
Thank you for the prompt <3 I wasn’t sure which prompt list you were referring to, so you get both!
[Set During The Peninsular War] + [Battle of Rolica] 
Portugal stood still, trembling in a brand of sunlight. ‘’Get out-’’ He started, abject fury curling in the back of his throat as he stepped towards France - jabbing his finger at them. ‘’Get out of my house.’’ Heart thudding in his chest, Portugal watched as the taller man regarded him with a cool look (like a fox in a henhouse; And the dog was away). ‘’Did you hear me, Fran-’’ 
‘’I heard.’’ A shrug, as if they had only been discussing the weather - Sunny with a chance of martyrdom, France mused quietly. ‘’Shame. I liked you.’’ Their eyes flashed as they slowly stood up and approached Portugal, arms folded behind their back as they cleared their throat, shrugging lazily. ‘’Spain’s troops are arriving anyday, Portugal. You’re welcome to join him.’’ A lofty smile, France raising their chin proudly. ‘’Brothers are a rare thing to come by.’’ 
‘’Why do you say that-?’’ Portugal retorted testily, hackles bristling. ‘’Is that a threat?’’ 
France almost looked disappointed, brows furrowing as they shook their head. ‘’Only cautioning you.’’ They paced the room - strides long and methodical, France’s expression pinched thoughtfully as a long silence stretched (Portugal dared not interrupt - somehow even the very quietness was envenomed). ‘’Your regent has gone already, hasn’t he?’’ It was a cowardly flight - France hovering on the port, nerves thrumming long after the ship had vanished; Coiled tight, expecting a fight that had ended up never happening.
‘’What a fool.’’ Anger dripped from their tongue, France glaring at Portugal suddenly - eyes boring into them. ‘’This is not what the Nation of Portugal is. This is not what you deserve, I can give-’’ 
‘’I will not accept it.’’ Portugal bit back, a lump rising in his throat (the people were angry, their restlessness only fanning his own - until Portugal could no longer tell what parts of him were them and what parts were him alone). ‘’Fuck you, I am more than just-’’ His face contorted, wild and defiant as he lunged for France - grasping the front of their embroidered shirt with balled fists, jerking France close with a venegful hiss. ‘’-My Crown!’’ Portugal bit his tongue, trembling in place (A heady rush of earth and sea - salt-kissed soil - who was he?) 
France regarded this with a lofty smile, peering over the bridge of their graceful nose. ‘’I assume you’re already aware of the consequences.’’ Something venomous crept into their voice, an adder in a lonesome field somewhere by the Seine - France releasing a frustrated huff as they shook their head. Typical, there was that familiar stubbornness (France had tasted its steel, as Spain tore a bloody hole in their flank) and they almost felt a laugh creep up their throat. ‘’For starters, I have your brother’s head pickling in a fucking wine barrel.’’ 
 “No, you fucking don’t.” He wrestled the urge to tackle France right then and there, as the taller country began to slowly walk away. Forget humans and their elaborate warfare, forget their swords and cannons and ships. Portugal wanted to tear into France, talons and teeth alike, a ferocious animal. 
“Why don’t you find out?” France sneered, casting him a malicious glance over their shoulder. “Or are you waiting for your…what’s his name again?” They scoffed, rolling their eyes loftily. “For Perfidious Albion to come running to your heel again?” 
“He’s-“ 
“He’s a dog, Portugal.” 
As France’s footsteps faded down the hallway, Portugal bit back a rising cry of outrage. He’s my Dog, Portugal wanted to hiss - to grab his sword and run France through right here and now, Napoleon be damned. Where anger rose, there was a pang of grief - Portugal suddenly subsumed in a wave of emotion as the weight began to sink in (an anchor around his throat, hands clawing at the briny rope). He had to fight France. For Spain, for England. 
Furious tears welled up in his eyes, Portugal nodding solemnly to himself. 
For Spain, For England. 
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Up, up and over the horizon - Portugal saw it, a ragged banner, blood-red and white. The face of St George was upon him, and Portugal waited patiently as a figure hovered at the prow of the ship, and did not wait before scrambling over its hull, tumbling into the stormy waters (some soldiers nearby had spotted a few of the British lose their lives as their landing craft tumbled in the water - but he knew England had eyes only for him). “About time.” He ground out as England emerged from the salt and foam, slick with brine and arms outstretched. 
“I can’t leave you alone for one second-“ England breathed out, grasping Portugal’s hands - his knuckles were red and raw, shaking as they cradled his lover’s palms (the imprint of a sword’s handle, a personal desire to kill France up close and personal, rather than the distant fury of a musket gun). “-without you hurting yourself, can I?” He growled, heart thudding in his chest - eyes troved Portugal’s body, searching for wounds or bruises, the tumbling of lost land or burned cities. 
“I’m fine.” Portugal replied stiffly, squeezing England’s hand. He knew they couldn’t waste time, jawline tense as he glanced towards his generals. “I mean, it’s okay-“ What burned in England, Portugal understood now to be something more intense than loyalty - something that could not be bought with gold or spice or the newest thing from afar, and as he watched England (his gaze ragged and worn, a man in a trance - the tireless duty of the Grim to its Church).
‘’Come on-’’ He cleared his throat, frowning solemnly. ‘’-We can’t waste any time.’’ ‘’No-!’’ England barked with frustration, staring at Portugal in a mix of disbelief and distress as the man turned on his heel - England trotting after him in a hurry, jaw set as he tried to resist grabbing Portugal by the shoulder. ‘’-No, it’s not okay!’’ A snarl rushed out of England’s throat, lips curling (red gums and white teeth bared, his shoulders bunched defensively). ‘’Not when I feel like I’m going to go batshit fucking crazy, thinking you’ve gotten yourself hurt or killed.’’ He squeezed his hand tightly around the muzzle of his musket gun and cleared his throat sagely. 
Now ruined from the saltwater, Portugal knew that it was ineffective - but not totally useless, given England’s tendency for melee warfare.
‘’Stop that!’’ Portugal snapped suddenly. He stomped his boot against the sandy earth. ‘’We’ve got France’s army breathing down our necks, and I haven’t got time to deal with you-’’ He faltered, England’s gaze heavy as he shook his head. ‘’-Come on, we’ve…we’ve got a long march ahead of us.’’ His brows twisted together in frustration, Portugal scarcely feeling England’s hand on his shoulder. ‘’Get off me.’’ England opened his mouth to say something - and thought better of it, eyes dark as he nodded stubbornly. Without another word, England skulked onward and Portugal fell in step beside him - the sun sweltering overhead as the two men marched in time with one another. 
Guilt clawed at Portugal’s belly, as he kept his gaze level with the horizon (the visible horizon has long been vital to survival and successful navigation, especially at sea - and although Portugal was not at sea, he hoped that it might give him luck; Both in the war and in personal affairs). ‘’...Thanks, for coming.’’ Portugal cleared his throat as he watched his countryside past him, a quiet dread cold and heavy in his chest. ‘’I wouldn’t have wanted to do this alone.’’ But, I would’ve. If you hadn’t turned up - went unsaid, a defensive flash in Portugal’s eyes. 
‘’Of course.’’ England replied numbly, nodding curtly. ‘’That is the rules of our alliance.’’ A flare of irritation blazed through Portugal, although his eyes betrayed nothing; England was right. Ties of blood and ink traced his veins as much as salt and earth did, and Portugal was at war with someone he had once called a brother. Spain was fighting back where he could, and Portugal felt himself weak for the loyalty and affection he still felt for him.
‘’Good-’’ A man called out towards him, Portugal’s gaze flickering off to the right as he squeezed the hilt of his sabre. ‘’-You know your role. I’ll see you after the battle.’’ The look England casted him was a wounding one, Portugal’s lips thinning with distaste as he tried to say something.
England was gone by then - disappearing with the rest of his men, a tightly-wound figure grasping at the hilt of his sword, at the muzzle of his rifle as England longed to strike something (to tear, to bite - to be a dog). ‘’...What are you looking at?’’ He grumbled softly, glancing at his neighbour with a weary, hallowed look in his eyes. ‘’Keep your eyes forward. The French aren’t gonna give you a warning before they blast your brain out.’’ England cleared his throat - before slowly reaching out a hand, gingerly patting the soldier’s back. It would be okay, the gesture said with each gentle thump. England wouldn’t fail.
He wouldn’t. 
Portugal had gone with Trant and his men towards the West - and each passing second was another noose for England’s throat, pulling tighter as he frowned. If France noticed him approaching - it would spell disaster, and quietly the man (pining - a dog left in the backyard, tied to a post and frustrated) moved slowly towards the front, shouldering his way through the crowded army. ‘’Sir-’’ He licked his lips nervously, staring up at Wellesley. ‘’Sir, can we-’’ Sensing the nation’s impatience, Wellesley nodded curtly - and gave the command. It was just a little after 9am, and England watched the horizon for Portugal. If France was…he shouldered through the foray, a snarl rising in his throat as he lifted the muzzle of his gun, a blast of gunpowder and smoke wreathing the air. With impatience, England rammed a fist into the gut of a soldier - curses thick on his tongue as he peered through the foray of dazzling uniform, eyes wild and furtive (the dog began to howl - baying for its master). 
‘’It’s me, you want-!’’ England shouted desperately, furiously as he slammed the butt of his rifle against the ground, knuckles white with terror. ‘’France-! Come to me! It’s me you want-!’’ It was the same as it had always been, the channel between the warring cliffs - an eye for an eye. 
There was a rush - clumsy and unplanned, England’s teeth grit with frustration as he cursed the foolhardy colonel (and yet, all the same, the man could not bring himself to entirely resent Lake; Did he not yearn for spilled blood? To spill himself into Portugal’s arms?) Shots rang out and men tumbled like stones, rattling down the steep hill-side as England found his feet leaden, dragged through the earth and the men and the blood that seeped through the grass. A familiar voice shot across the battlefield and he jerked forward ( and the Earth shifted with him). 
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Portugal wound himself against France’s body, blade to the nation’s throat as they writhed on the ground (He found himself wrestling with fate; Death gripping the front of his shirt as they slammed the butt of their musket against his nose, a sickly snap of cartilage). Dazed, he gave France a swift kick, thrusting his shin against their groin - a muffled curse of outrage as the other country released their hold, allowing Portugal to scramble to his feet. ‘’Fuck you-!’’ 
France didn’t say anything. A chilling silence amongst the scuffles and swears of soldiers, a figment of legend (Had Jeanne D’arc been this tight-lipped among the flames so long ago? It was hard to say - but France would carry her legacy on), as France lifted themselves from the ground and wiped their shirt, a streak of blood - Portugal’s blood - across their jacket. 
The look on their face was a patient one - a hungry one, la Bête du Gévaudan, as France held their sword before them. There was a flash of steel as they moved (Two roosters in the pit - a pair of spurs between them; France made the first move, sinking their sword into Portugal). Round and round they went, with quick swipes and strikes; A sword lost, a sword shattered as they grappled with one another. 
The men around them knew not to interrupt - knew not to intervene. Portugal bit back a curse as France slammed him against the ground, teeth cracking as they shoved their hands around his throat. There was a faint ringing in Portugal’s ears, a snarl bitten back as he felt France’s palm against the bob of his Adam’s Apple. ‘’Bastard.’’ He ground out wretchedly, jamming the remains of a broken sword against France’s breast - bruise purpling his throat. ‘’Portugal-!’’ England came charging through the crowd with teeth bared, dragging France off - enveloping them in his jaws, England burning with fury (Biting-! Biting down into the neck; A dog making off with the farmer’s prized rooster). He scarcely heard Portugal - calling after him - as they both tumbled, slick with earth and blood down the hill; France had dug a hand in his hair, and tugged while England’s teeth clenched against his throat with a growl.
 ‘’Get off-!’’ France shouted, England’s eyes watering as France jerked a boot into his belly, scrambling to their feet. They didn’t seem to take note of the teeth left in their throat, eyes narrowing as they bent to the wet grass; A discarded sword, one of somebody’s soldiers - whose side they had been fighting for was of no concern to France - and stared down their old enemy (old friend, old family, old neighbour). Without a word, they charged England and collided blade-first, crashing against one another like the choppy tides of the Strait.
Portugal cursed as he ran after England and France. They tumbled through the fray, wild and feral things (Squabbles of Man left behind; History bubbling through Portugal’s veins - forgotten grudges brought to the fore); Portugal, France and England wrestled with the weight of each other’s existence - and they crashed in weary, bloodied heaps. As France rolled away, slowly rising to their feet, Portugal rose too - and glared heavily at them, fists balled. 
France’s gaze flickered towards where his men were slowly drawing into a retreat. A bloody trail flowed down their throat, down their chest - down from their open palms, their face grim as they quietly stepped past Portugal, head held high (hair sticky with blood and earth, all too human for their liking). They fell in line with the rest of their men, and soon they were gone.
‘’...England-’’ Portugal cast his friend a furtive look, once France had slipped over the crest of the hill. Anger and relief thrummed through their veins, hot and heavy and all at once as he bit his tongue, fists trembling (adrenaline tumbled through them - the rush of the currents, pulling him hither and thither, sending him falling over and over). ‘’-What the fuck?’’ Shame plucked at his heart-strings, Portugal frowning solemnly. His friend was ragged and worn, bruises like sunsets, and still England stood before him patiently - expectantly. ‘’You bit France!?’’  ‘’Yes.’’ Came a robotic reply, England’s eyes wide and heavy as he began to croon. ‘’Portu-’’ Portugal held a hand up, shaking his head. ‘’England.’’ He couldn’t do it now, not in the middle of the battlefield; Not with the pair of them still in their soiled uniforms - wretched souls. ‘’You need a wash.’’ Fingers looped around England’s, laced together (Promise that you’ll use the finest soap - Promise that you’ll use the warmest towel - Promise that you’ll look after yourself) as they slowly began to lead the other out of the field, weary and dog-tired.
[ 2 ] - “will you marry me?”
‘’Will you marry me?’’ England’s eyebrows shot up as Portugal spoke, voice faint as it drifted from the sofa; An old thing, he had been meaning to get rid of the raggedy thing for a long time - and had simply never gotten around to it yet. ‘’W-wh…do we need to?’’ He replied, pursing his lips together as Portugal slowly got up (the shuffle of a cushion as it was kicked off onto the floor, and then carefully picked up and swung back down on the sofa). The spatula dandled in his hand for a heart-beat, England mulling over his question - just as Portugal appeared in the doorway.
‘’Do we need to?’’ Portugal replied sarcastically, smiling impishly.
‘’Are you serious?’’ 
England bristled defensively, sticking his tongue out as Portugal approached him; Arms looped around his middle, a red flush racing up the back of England’s neck as Portugal gently tugged him up - as if trying to lift him. ‘’I assumed we were already.’’ He grumbled softly, bumping Portugal with his hips as he gently lifted the spatula to his boyfriend’s lips - Does this taste good? - and smiled lightly; In the bright glare of the kitchen lights, England could follow the lines of his wrinkles and scars, rifts wrought by disaster and battle alike.
‘’You know, treaty of perpetual friendship.’’ He shrugged, looking back towards the pan. ‘’Seems fi-’’ Portugal scoffed, pinching England’s ear gently - leaning up on his tiptoes to press a gentle kiss to his neck. ‘’Friendship.’’ He pointed out, manner-of-factly. ‘’I want something official.’’ A gleam of pride shone in Portugal’s eyes (A sunken treasure - golden and desirable, England’s heart racing as he caught sight of it). ‘’And I have just done something amazing.’’ It had been a long time coming - but Portugal was caught up in the joy of his people. ‘’Before you too.’’ 
‘’I was wondering what got you in the mood all of a sudden-’’ ‘’Edmund-’’ Portugal breathed. ‘’-I just want to pretend we’re just humans for a bit.’’ England blinked at the use of his human name, guilt coiling inside him as he sighed. It was a cute idea - and how many times had they proven their devotion to one another, but by cutting one another into pieces? Portugal was right - and England slowly turned around, shifting so that he could tuck his boyfriend close to his chest, cradling his head in his hand with a oft sigh. ‘’Then yes, I would love to marry you.’’
It was hardly the most romantic way to go about a proposal - England mused wryly that they were both standing around in sweatpants and underwear in the bright glare of the kitchen’s halogen lights. ‘’Not going to start crying with joy?’’ Portugal teased lightly, snorting as he hugged England tightly. In the grand scheme of things, humans were fleeting - finite things in comparison, and Portugal knew that he could not always escape his duty; It thrummed beneath his skin, hungry and protective, the beating heart of his nation and Portugal knew that he would always yearn for his homeland in the end, for the rush of the tumbling sea beneath his feet. Yet, to be able to slake off that heavy burden - even for a brief moment, even for a short wedding, it was truly a precious thing. ‘’You wept the first time that I kissed you. I thought you were a wuss.’’
‘’That’s it, I’m breaking up-’’ 
Portugal let out a bark of laughter, tugging England’s shirt as he pulled the man close into a warm kiss (The forest rising to embrace the dawn; The Sun come again). ‘’Eu te amo.’’
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kaimaciel · 4 months
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wtfbroa · 18 days
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hoofae · 10 months
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Quick something for @shachaai because it was her birthday on the 12th and I am a great friend so I give her sad things (I mean I’ll let you guess what’s happening) Hope you like it! I am so late. 😩
Alternate version under the cut
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needcake · 23 days
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Chapters: 1/? Fandom: Hetalia: Axis Powers Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: England/Portugal (Hetalia), Wales/Portugal (Hetalia), France/Scotland (Hetalia), England & France (Hetalia) Characters: England (Hetalia), Portugal (Hetalia), Wales (Hetalia), Scotland (Hetalia), France (Hetalia), Female Ireland (Hetalia), Northern Ireland (Hetalia) Additional Tags: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Modern Era, Miscommunication, Personal Growth, Adulting is hard, Romantic Comedy, (maybe not much of a comedy) Summary:
Arthur didn’t need dates, or boyfriends, or long-term stable relationships. He didn’t need a handsome bloke on his arm to take to meet his siblings, and he absolutely didn’t envy his brother and sister for having that. No, in fact not only did he not need a boyfriend, he didn’t even want one. His life was perfectly fine as it was.
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koolkat9 · 9 months
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Need canon PortEng interactionssss
There is some
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Arthur teaches him all kinds of stuff *wink*
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engportevents · 1 year
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Another year, another EngPort week
And we are back and ready for this year’s event!
This is our 3rd year anniversary, so I decided to do a little something special: there will be a Giveaway!
We will place all participants’ names in a hat and draw a name at random. The winner will receive a gift in the mail from this blog and their winning post will be pinned until next year!
The contest starts the 8th of May, the first day of ENGPORTWEEK. Any form of art posted before that date will not partake in the contest, however, we will still share it on the blog. It ends on the 15th, not a day later, and the winner will be called within the next week.
Thank you all so very much for your patience and participation, and hope to see you very soon!
Here’s the information and, yes, all the new prompts are written! Read the rules, if you haven’t, and share it to your fellow EngPort lover friends!
Art by @chiring-art
The prompts:
Day 1 (May 8th) ~ Surprise/Gift (opening day)
Day 2 (May 9th) ~ 1386
Day 3 (May 10th) ~ Rebuild
Day 4 (May 11th) ~ Home
Day 5 (May 12th) ~ How to lose
Day 6 (May 13th) ~ Endlessly
Day 7 (May 14th) ~ You made it possible
Extra day (May 15th) ~ NOT MANDATORY/Free (closing day)
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rosesandalfazemas · 11 months
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In the end, love is the strongest force in the universe.
Day 6 (May 13th) ~ Endlessly @engportevents
I think it speaks for itself, so~ hope you like it :D
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glitchinnf · 2 years
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your honor. they are GAY
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owlliehehe · 18 days
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"Well, uhm, alright. Would you like to join me and my friends to a 'ritual' night, it's.. not as scary as you might wonder.. i think heh! For noobs like you-"
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☆~☆~☆
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starfruit-grafitti · 2 years
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arthur kirkland has a thing for romance speakers
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