Absolutely pure schmop for USUK. Alfred needs a break. Arthur is making old man dessert. They are both tired and more than a little in love. Very chaste romance below, just stretching writing muscles in the present tense. Enjoy!
Arthur’s house is small. It is small, old, and smells of syrup and plums. When Alfred inquires as to why, England gives him a very funny look, as if the other man is as stupid as Arthur’s frequent insults suggest. He simply states that if Alfred cared to look in the kitchen, he would see the vat bubbling away on the hob.
America ponders how he is to do such a thing, considering he is still standing on England’s porch.
He says as much, and Arthur scrunches his nostrils. There is dirt, America notes, on the bridge of said nose. Most likely mud from the garden (for where else would the plums have come from?), the result of Arthur rubbing his skin, perpetually sniffing as if he has a cold. Alfred suspects it is something akin to hay fever and it would go away if Arthur bothered to take something as simple as an antihistamine. He wouldn’t, of course, because Arthur refuses to take anyone’s advice, no matter its practicality.
Alfred remains under the tiny portico.
“Are you going to let me in? It’s cold.”
“It’s fifteen.”
Alfred nods, as if that number means anything to him. (It does, when he thinks about it for longer than a second. He tries often to not do so).
Still, Arthur steps back, muttering something about making Alfred take off his muddy shoes and leave them at the door. England then disappears down the tight hallway, turning left behind the stairs and returning to his kitchen. The sound of a radio station playing, some odd indie music, seems to be coming from the area.
Alfred follows his nose and ears, and sure enough, a rather large pot is bubbling away, making a sticky sound when Arthur goes to stir. Not burnt. Yet. Arthur lowers the volume of his radio, the announcer declaring it to be one of the multiple BBC channels. There were six?! More?
America drops his weekend bag on the wooden chair sticking out from the round table, then plants himself into the second chair. An excessive amount of crocheted placemats and coasters litter the small surface, and he is unable to help himself from picking one up and inspecting. Perfect, as always.
The silence seems to stretch on. With any other time that Alfred would drop by unannounced, he would be talking Arthur’s ear off. As it is, Arthur notes how utterly melancholic the boy appears to be.
Turning off the heat, Arthur moves the pot to the countertop, pouring the simmering fruit into a large glass bowl. It splatters as he does so, and the contact stings his bare wrists.
His loud, emphatic fuck makes Alfred start, look up from the table and across the cluttered room. Arthur is shaking his arm, as if trying to fling the stinging pain out of his limb.
“Careful,” America says unhelpfully.
The replying glare and bull-like snort are somewhat good-humoured, so Alfred manages a smile.
“Why are you here?” Arthur asks, turning to his sink to cool down the splatter. Alfred watches, quiet.
“Wanted to visit,” Alfred replies. He hears Arthur chuff to himself.
“Wanna coffee?” England asks instead of acknowledging Alfred’s answer.
“Not instant?”
“No. In the French press. I’ll need to microwave it up though.”
America sucks on his tongue, then nods his assent.
“Sure.”
Arthur fills up one of his floral mugs two thirds of the way, then goes to the fridge. He pauses, the door open and his face hidden from view.
“Warm or cold milk?”
“Cold.”
“Weird boy…” but still, Arthur does as bid, pulling out a carton and throwing the mug in the microwave for just over a minute. He returns to his bowl of plums, then inspects Alfred again.
“How long?”
“Huh?”
“How long will you stay?”
“Oh. Until I get found out?”
England’s green eyes spark with glee. “You’re being naughty?”
Alfred’s smile grows, hearing the childish naughtiness that always manages to leak through Arthur’s prim and proper exterior. There was nothing Arthur enjoyed more than a good deception, a practical joke, being a general annoyance. Was it any surprise such traits were also found in Alfred?
When Arthur’s face lit up, when that veneer of bored politeness cracked… Alfred was reminded why people actually tolerated (or worse, loved) Arthur. Alfred would only ever whisper it in the dead of night when he was sure Arthur was not listening. Confessing sincerely and earnestly on how much England had never truly been extracted from America.
More than once, Arthur had in fact, not been asleep, and Alfred had become ashamed to even look the man in the eye for the next three days.
Unabashed openness was a rarity in Arthur too, both in joy, and indeed in love. It was much more his style to simply open his home, offer a drink, and try to be useful. A land of such beautiful words and poets struggles to speak plainly at times, hiding behind inferences, suggestions and looks that Alfred only ever caught in candid photographs or mirror reflections.
Truly, they were as bad as each other. And yet they understood.
“I needed a break,” Alfred finally confesses.
Arthur waves him over, not commenting on his reasoning. “I’m making rice pudding for the plums. You can help. Make yourself useful.”
America could have kissed Arthur. Not for the gift of rice pudding; Alfred feels it is slop - unpleasant in texture and lacking in any flavour - but for Arthur’s immediate understanding. The time of a nation was valuable, and often they were used as endless free labour. It could be physical (Ivan’s railway construction came to mind), but for people like Alfred and Arthur, it was bureaucracy. An office intern with no voice in policy and yet expected to enact decisions to carry them through.
Arthur learned long ago how to bite back; his own workaholic nature would take care of the punishing hours, no effort required from Downing Street whatsoever. Alfred, the perpetual people pleaser, had experienced varied results.
Some years are better than others.
Arthur understands and seems very content - proud even - of his ability to be a bulwark for Alfred. More than once, he has slammed the door shut in the face of some silly-looking man in a suit demanding the world’s superpower to get in the black car.
Arthur knows when not to prod. Some things he will not let drop, badgering and arguing until Alfred cracks. Other times, he will do as he is doing in that moment - hearing the unsaid and knowing exactly what needs to be done.
A distraction, a comfort, an indulgence.
“There’s condensed milk in the pull-out cupboard. Two cans.”
The ping of the microwave leads to Arthur bustling around the tiny kitchen. There is a pile of dishes waiting to be washed in the basin and sticky surfaces of spilt sugar and fruit juice. Arthur hums to himself as he works, matching the quiet radio and its dreamlike rhythms.
Alfred places the cans squarely on the counter, then lays his chin on Arthur’s shoulder, right at the junction of his neck. The warm breath that he exhales visibly causes Arthur to shiver.
Not exactly looking back at America, Arthur raises a hand up to run his fingers through the boy’s golden hair.
“Your coffee’ll get cold,” England gently chides.
Alfred hums, only to wrap his arms around Arthur. England’s cool hands (so perfect for baking those cursed scones) hold on to one of Alfred’s own, the other petting him softly.
“Big baby,” Arthur murmurs right into Alfred’s ear. “Rest up. You’re home now.”
Once, perhaps not too long ago, Alfred would have bitten back an angry and spiteful retort, but now it was not so. Home was an idea, a feeling, many places and many people. His glamorous and large apartment in New York; his ranch in Texas with his wonderful horses; sitting in Montreal with Mattie watching the Canadiens lose to Tampa Bay for the Stanley Cup final (both of them drunk for differing reasons).
Holding on to Arthur like a buoy in the man’s tired and cluttered kitchen, a lukewarm coffee on a dirty counter, an excessive amount of boiled fruit cooling in a bowl.
my submission for @usukustwiceperyear :) the song is Beautiful World by Westlife
I'm not even entirely sure myself how to describe in words why I think of them when I hear this song, it just is. Even though it isn't the "point" of the song I'd like to think "yeah (going through all of that shit, and still being able to forgive the other, enjoying life along the way) that's just how they are"
also around the time I made this I figured out clip studio paint has a timelapse feature
USUKUS Twice Per Year 2023-1: "I Love You Like A Love Song"
With profuse apologies for the extended delay, we now present to you the release of the first half event! Featuring 9 fanfics and 12 fanarts by 19 dedicated creators, this collection clocks in at a whopping 202 pages. Please enjoy the incredible fruits of everyone's labor, and make sure to listen to the real Spotify playlist set up with the songs that inspired it all!
Greetings everyone! Welcome to the shiny new USUKUS Twice Per Year!
First off, apologies for the delay and general radio silence. Behind the scenes here, we had a lot to work through and discuss before we could resume running this event. We're excited to be back, and hope several of the changes we've made will make things easier and more appealing to participate than ever!
Second, I'm sure everyone has some questions, so in no particular order let me try to hit the highlights.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
Passing of the torch
With great respect, we tip our hats to previous TPY event runners Mayumi Sato and Ixie Pixie. Exciting real life things have picked up for them, and they're no longer able to dedicate the time and energy to this like they used to. In their stead, we would like to introduce the new admins:
TheNarcolepticOne & VerusMaya II
TPY is now co-sponsored and run by and from the USUKUS Network Discord, though rest easy - as usual, all relevant information will still be posted and updated here at the tumblr.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
Process changes?
We've taken note of comments, concerns, and critiques of how previous events were run, and we hope the processes we've changed will alleviate several of these issues. Changes include how we accept theme suggestions, how participants submit their work, where information is posted, and overall timeline of each half of the event.
Don't fret, though - after all these changes, for the first half of this year's event, we'll take it slow and explain things step by step instead of dumping all the new stuff all at once. So stay tuned!
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
Wider range
Previously, TPY was run almost exclusively from the tumblr with an isolated Discord. This kept many potential participants in the dark, and obfuscated the suggestion and decision making processes. We are happy to announce that TPY will be expanding its range to multiple avenues of media. Every and all announcement will be crossposted to all of these, so those interested can follow us on multiple sites or just tune in to their preferred!
You can find us at:
Tumblr https://usukustwiceperyear.tumblr.com/
Twitter https://twitter.com/usukusnetwork/
Discord* https://discord.com/invite/QsaWuWCcQt
And contact us directly via:
Email [email protected]
Discord DM Verus#1337 or Narcoleptic#1918
* Instead of an isolated, specialized Discord just for TPY, we will be using the USUKUS Network as our staging ground. Everyone is welcome to join, and we will be happy to point you in the right direction for TPY-relevant announcements or discussion!
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
Thank you everyone for your patience and understanding, and we look forward to many more years of incredible content for this beloved ship!
I've used tumblr before, My other account it's @miauwuf and its been years since I posted something there! And i wanted to start anew so, new post, new account, new life (?)
Here these two drawings, the original template was made by @nushanchel in twitter! I'm not sure if they are here in tumblr too tho
I like thinking the nations are known to a degree by military officials and things like that and are given a whole lot of respect whenever they’re around. *u*
“Who’s that guy?” Private Daniel Rourke whispered to the man beside him as they watched the blond in the leather jacket stride along the lines of new recruits. Even if his hands were shoved into his pockets and the suit he was wearing was more reminiscent of a businessman than it was of a soldier, he carrier with him an air of militant authority.
Before Private Jamieson can do anything more that twitch - it’s a little hard to shrug and salute at the same time - a voice speaks from behind them. To their credit, neither of them jump or start.
“That,” the voice says, “Is Jones. And I hope that you two grow up to be a fraction of the patriot he is.”
As though gifted with preternatural hearing, Jones turned to them when his name was spoken, and the widest, brightest smile any of the recruits had seen stretched his cheeks. Grinning like it was his job, Jones strode towards the voice behind Rourke and Jamieson, throwing his arms out to embrace the whole world.
“Captain Hackman!” Jones said, laughter in his voice. He couldn’t have been a year older than Rourke, “Long time no see!”
“A very long time, sir,” there was a repressed smile in that voice, “It’s Colonel Hackman now.”
“Colonel? Man, where have I been?” Jones had the good grace to look sheepish, even if his smile didn’t dim by so much as a watt. “And who is this fine, upstanding soldier?” Rourke looked straight ahead, but Jones bobbed and weaved himself into his line of vision. The eyes behind those glasses were the most atomic shade of blue, and even more than that sunny smile, Rourke was sure that those eyes were what he was going to remember.
“Private Daniel Rourke, sir!” he barked out, standing stiffly to attention.
“And how are you feeling about the good old U S of A today, Private Rourke?” The way he asked that question, he had to have been an officer. He had to be an officer. But he still looked so young. Except for those eyes.
“God bless America, sir!” Rourke answered promptly, a little smile fighting its way into the twitch of his mouth.
And then Jones said the strangest thing. Terrifyingly blue eyes crinkling happily at the corners and bright with what might have been tears, he said, “And God bless you, too.”
She had been warned there were some… interesting sights the public eye never saw in the royal palace. She expected anything at all, given her new job as a guard in the place she still couldn’t quite navigate. She had expected to get lost many times, see royalty being human, and deal with interesting intruders.
What she didn’t expect was to see a man sat drinking tea with a book under a large portrait of what appeared to be himself. If she didn’t clock the date of the painting, back to the 1700′s, this wildly-browed man would have just looked a little self absorbed. Even his messy blond hair, strangely green eyes, and bushy eyebrows looked the same.
Without looking up from the book he had propped in his hand, he said a muffled “you look like the new guard,” then reached for another sip of his tea. Forgetting her job of not bothering people unless they’re threatening violence in her confusion for a second, she retorted.
“You don’t look like royalty.”
“I’m not.”
“Visiting hours are from 9-30 am to 7 pm.”
“I know.” He had another sip. “I see no one told you who I am.”
She wasn’t warned about this part.
“No. Is that painting your ancestor then?”
“It’s me.” Oh. The date combined with ‘it’s me’ made confusion hit her the way a speeding car hits a wall in the middle of a road. Still holding the cup of tea, he took another sip to hide his smile. He loved it when they forgot to tell new guards about him.
“You don’t look three hundred years old.”
“Yes, I’m actually closer to a thousand.” Often he would laugh at this point, but he managed to suppress laughter by finishing his tea off. If he could take pictures with his eyes, there’d be a whole room dedicated to the face new guards make when he says that.
He stood up, picked up the cup, placed the book in it’s place, and walked into the next room. She decided all manners were out the window if this guy was claiming to be that old while looking just over twenty. Hopping along behind him, she tried to comprehend what he had said so far.
“Wait. How on earth would you live that long? The oldest person to ever live didn’t make it past 150 years, I’m pretty sure. Are you really expecting me to believe the oldest person on the planet, sitting in Buckingham palace, looking under thirty, is right in front of me? I don’t believe you.” Her almost rude curiosity was a welcome change from the usual stiff-upper-lip guards around here.
“Oh, I’m not the oldest. The real oldest is a man in China. Around four thousand. Acts like it, too. Still blames me for some of his opiate problems.” He didn’t bother looking back, busy preparing another cup of tea.
“What? I’ll call some other guards more qualified to deal with insane people if you don’t explain what the hell you are, then.”
Inside his mind, over the course of under a second, his brain cells eagerly watched as one brain cell at the front ruffled through a hat filled with pieces of paper. They held their breath as one was pulled out, and the one at the front announced what it said.
“VAMPIRE!” Everyone clamoured.
“I’m a vampire.” Oh how he treasured the new guards reactions. A shame they knew that and tried to tell them beforehand now. Ruining his fun like that.
Both of them jumped when they heard the queen talk.
“Arthur! Are you tormenting the new guards again?”
“Mum!”
The oath all guards took to not speak of what happens in this palace was going to make far more sense to her in a few minutes.
Summary: Despite a legacy of betrayal, the Prince of North Spades seeks an alliance with the Queen of South Spades to defend against a threat from Clubs. But will the temporary alliance reunite the divided kingdoms or drive them further apart?
Rating: M for violence.
Read Chapter 1 on AO3.
The throne room of South Spades was an opulent chamber with marble floors and high, arching ceilings. Elegant tapestries of unicorns and woodland creatures adorned the walls and muted the echoes of clanking armor.
Queen Arthur of South Spades lounged upon his throne with one leg crossed over the other and surveyed the heavily armored group that sought an audience before him. Most looked ill at ease as they watched animated brooms fly past and sweep the floors without a human hand to guide them. The guards nervously rested their hands on empty sheathes—naturally, they had been forced to relinquish their weapons before entering the castle.
A young man stood calmly at the center of the group and stared straight back at Arthur. His sapphire-studded crown marked him as Prince Alfred of North Spades, King John’s eldest son and heir. Arthur held the prince’s gaze and took his time studying the younger man. Alfred was tall and well-muscled, but a hint of baby fat softened his jawline and suggested that his knowledge of swordsmanship was limited to training fields and not the battleground. Arthur allowed the silence to drag on as the guards continued to shift uncomfortably. Although Alfred’s eyes narrowed in annoyance as he waited impatiently for Arthur to speak, he knew enough to hold his tongue in another monarch’s court.
“You must be desperate indeed to come begging for help from a mage,” Arthur taunted as he finally broke the silence.
I wonder would Arthur leave some legends on the sea, like the time when he got stabbed lethally, revived, freaked out his crewmates and convinced them that tear of the mermaids are real.
Word Count: 1K
----
Their captain died last year.
A bullet caught him right in the shoulder during a raid, shot down from a coward in a crow’s-nest and straight through his heart.
It was unnatural, how long he lived.
He suffered for it, taking in slow, shallow breaths of air many hours after he should have done.
In, out. In out.
Chest hardly moving, body still. Blood pooled and staining his shirt, a sticky billow steadily spreading, hands stiff and cold in the fabric. The bleeding had stopped, when there was nothing left for his heart to beat, but his hands did not unclench.
A stubborn refusal to die even in the face of death itself.
They laid him out on the deck in the sun, right in the heat of the midday as he shivered and grew pale. They had hoped to make his passing easier, one of them until the end, and so as his men stacked their earnings and tallied their prizes to be shared, they folded his expensive coat gently under his head so he could see the fruits of the work he had done in their last haul together. The dead that lay around him, stacked and slumped in darker corners. The gold and arms they had taken, a treasure worthy of the loss of him.
Almost.
Years, men whispered, was how long he had been at sea. Years and years, longer than even the longest serving of their crew.
This could not be. The captain’s skin was smooth and young, not the face of a man who’d served a hard life on the ocean- clothes ragged and torn, stiff with salt. Skin burnt and weathered, hearing deafened.
His face instead was young and his movements were loose, no limp to him, no stiffness. No shake to his hands, no ill health to name. One and twenty years to him at most.
But his eyes were old. They had the look of a man who had seen too much, done too much. Understood too much and more besides. They’d catch you from their corners, sharp and shrewd with the tilt of his head and suddenly you’d know, beyond what was possible, that this was no mortal man. It was an ancient maturity who led them, wisdom gained from years not possible for him to have lived and a confidence which proved that he did.
A forgotten creature lost to the times that bore him.
Then he’d laugh, smile hiding the almost truth of stolen youth and his men would forget, perhaps, almost, that something strange walked amongst them.
Their captain died last year.
Long though it took, his chest did still. His heart did stop. His breath rattled for a final time in his chest and then, finally, he was gone, a quiet, drawn-out succumbing to the end of a noisy life.
They threw him over, as was right. His body weighted down with cannonballs and wrapped in the linen from his fine bed, rings and ornaments tucked about him- his passage paid. Trinkets and tokens into his pockets, a small painting of a baby boy safe in a locket.
And yet, here he is.
Leant against the bar, two great swords at his hip. A coat of deep red and beautifully made dark boots.
He is with other men. New men. They seem to know him well enough, laughing at his jokes and buying him rounds. They’re his men as they themselves once were, leaning in to talk to him and reacting with a deference that speaks of service and place, hierarchy following from the ship to the land for that is obviously where they’re from. The sea surrounds them all, no matter where they are, marking them as owned by the ocean and their captain wears this mark with pride like a medal.
Their captain died last year.
He died at their feet and now he turns and grins. Sees them staring, sees them know. Watches as they take him in, the horrifying, unholy miracle of it. Strong arms and broad shoulders, sharp white teeth in tanned skin. Blood in his heart and no hole near his neck.
Ancient eyes that hold them there.
There aren’t many of their old crew left any more. They lost many in a great storm not long after they lost the captain and then five more in a raid last week but there are enough of them left to know. To remember him.
The captain’s new men see them. There must be something about them that causes them to tense up and surround him like a shield, as if this creature is in any danger at the hands of ordinary men. They do not yet know, as they do.
Hands go to swords; shoulders grow tense but then the captain waves a hand to calm them and beckons his old friends forward.
‘Are you looking for work?’ he says. There is a note to his voice, a quiet ringing of the fae that lure the unwary away to their end, ‘You seem like capable, trustworthy men.’
A noose around their necks, unseen and soft.
‘Yes,’ they say, the words coming before they can think them, ‘Yes, we are.’
One more, one more, because Arthur as a smirking little immortal dying amongst his beloved humans he'll never allow himself to let in more than arm's length, but perpetually resurrects to bask among is v important content
Arthur cringed as his would-be supper went up in flames once again, leaving a charred brick that didn’t even remotely resemble the meat it had been before he’d started to cook it. It wouldn’t go to waste, however. The meat had been a gift from Berwald—a rare treat. He sighed and cut the blackened meat into two portions.
As if on cue, his younger brother Peter came bounding in from outside. He was still a child and so he was not yet weary with their dying world. He still believed their older brothers would return, bringing news of a place that had an abundance of food and clean water, no threats of vicious creatures, and plenty of reasons to keep on living. Arthur knew better. If they weren’t dead, they had long stopped caring about the two little brothers they had left behind.
420 D&D night with the boys.
Matthew: *to Alfred (not pictured) "Dude, what's taking so long?"
Alfred: "I just finished heating up the hot pockets. Now I'm waiting for the pizza rolls." *goes back to spacing out and staring at the light*
Matthew: "You made both of them?"
Alfred: "Not both. All of them."
Arthur is several beers in and hasn't smoked in several years and will accidentally photobomb Gilbert's selfie with Matthew with his coughing fit.
Cute aus: "You're the super hot trainee nurse" usuk with Alfred having the surgery!
One of Arthur’s first hands-on experiences as a nurse was with a man who had just gotten out of surgery to remove his appendix. It had been routine and successful, and he was in recovery. Arthur was tasked with administering his IV fluids under the tutelage of one of the staff RNs, and he was a little ashamed to admit to himself that Alfred was quite attractive, even post-surgery. He seemed out of sorts, understandably, as Arthur prepared the tubing and catheter.
However, as he was pulling on a pair of gloves, Alfred looked right at him and his expression brightened.
“Sweetheart, you came!” The words were slightly slurred, and his whole expression was foggy, but Arthur froze in shock anyway.
“I beg your pardon?”
The staff RN, Ludwig, shook his head with a resigned sigh. “This occasionally happens. He’s a bit off from the anesthesia. Don’t let it distract you.”
Arthur turned from the syrupy look on Alfred’s face to frown at Ludwig. “Does he have an actual significant other we might expect later?”
Ludwig shook his head. “Not that I’m aware of. I believe his brother is the emergency contact.”
“Of course.” Arthur sighed, and he turned to give Alfred a smile. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Mr. Jones. I’m here to give you intravenous fluids. See?”
He motioned to the stand with the fluid bag, but Alfred just stared at him with wide eyes.
“Oh my god, you have the most beautiful smile. Oh my god…I have the most perfect boyfriend. How even…”
Arthur’s face burned, and he resolutely refused to turn around when Ludwig cleared his throat. He grit his teeth, but continued to smile.
“Mr. Jones, you just got out of surgery, and—”
“Like…you are so cute. How are you so cute? Goddamn, I’m a lucky man.”
He felt the burn of Ludwig’s stare in the back of his head, though it was nothing compared to his burning cheeks. “Mr. Jones, please.”
“Sweetheart, why are you calling me Mr. Jones? I’m Al, remember? You gotta remember the name you scream out when we—”
“I’m sorry, I can’t do this.”
Arthur very quickly removed his gloves and marched out of the room past other nurses and doctors who asked him if he was feeling all right. He ducked into the bathroom, where his reflection revealed his face to be as red as a ripe tomato. He quickly splashed some cold water onto his face and then held his head in his hands.
The worst part was that he hoped that he’d have to check on Alfred later, and that Alfred would remember everything he said.
