#cardsverse

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My contributions for @corvussei ‘s Springtime Sweathearts zine

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Hey y'all! At the beginning of 2024 I made the goal of writing 25K words, as a sort of return to writing. I'm sitting at about 6k (19K left, and 3 months!) I want to develop my cardsverse AU, but am not ready to narrarate a 100K fic. Instead, could y'all send asks for one shots?

It could be requests to develop certain characters in the universe, a sentence or word prompt, a request to incorporate anything you like into the world. Anything! you can find prev works under #hwsfr cardsverse

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you asked for cardverse requests, so I am contractually obligated to ask if the Spades kingdom has ever come into contact with the Jokers, and what that contact might have looked like? >:3c Thank you!! <3

hehe ty for this delightful ask

Word Count: 458

“Hey.”

Yao jumped, dropping his pen which flew out his hand and splattered the wall with ink. The shape vaguely resembled a fool’s cap n’ bells, and Yao’s shoulders drooped under the weight of his dismay. 

The jester tapped his bell-adorned foot in impatience while the Jack of Spades picked up the pen and whispered away the unintentional wall art. 

Yao was taking his precious time, thought Gilbert.

It was a quiet moment in Spades, and the jack’s staff had yet to call for breakfast. The two men stood in the jack's private quarters surrounded by visible particles of dust, illuminated by the early morning’s light. 

Yao detested people “rifling” through his personal object, and thus cleaning was kept to a minimum. 

The joker fiddled with the cane pipe beneath his cloak, feeling the gentle sun against the white, exposed skin on his cheek beginning to redden.

Moments that felt like eons passed, and the joker was feeling abnormally ignored. “The Clock is ticking,” he laughed, annoyance causing his red eyes to flash beneath the pointy hat. 

Bent over his writing desk and flipping through an illustrated book, Yao peaked over his shoulder with raised brows. “I should hope so, insufferable intruder. If you have nothing else to say, leave,” amber eyes flickered appreciatively at the landscape adorning his canvas. “I am busy.” Yao ignored the following gangling of bells as the jester disappeared, then reappeared with a poof of air just behind yao’s desk, looming over the ancient royal. 

Older than the joker, in fact. 

“You’re no fun to tease, Yao,” Gilbert cleared the books, papers, and inks off the desk in one arm’s swoop, slapping a scroll in their place and using the tip of his pipe and his other hand to hold the paper open. “Fuck you and your atrocious manners,” said Yao mildly, glancing at the spilled inks soaking into the tile grout. The joker broke into laughter, delighted to no longer be ignored, and pointed at the swirling signature at the bottom of, what appeared to Yao, a contract. “The Queen of Diamonds has hired approximately thirty thousand private Heart troops as of last night. Your informant thought you should know, made an offer I couldn’t pass up.”

Gilbert lent in close to Yao, whose curved posture scanned the documents in hopes of false information. When he couldn’t find any signs of forgery, Yao gulped. “That right there,” whispered the joker with reverence, then the fool jangled merrily across the floor and stood in the open window.

“That’ll keep me full for the next fortnight. Thanks, jackass!” 

And the jester was gone. Yao had to find the King and Queen immediately.

Notes

“Cane” is the supposed material of the German tale’s Pied Piper’s pipe

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Art trade with @beilschmidting! Here's their part! Based on a Churchill & Roosevelt World War II newspaper clip.

(^check out their art!!! *holds gun to ear (affectionately)*)

I COULD NOT help cardverseifying so here's some sneaky-peakies of a project in the works. hint- THEYRE MARRIED!

Cheers to a good finals season! Fuck math!

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For @usukweek Day 6: Cardsverse

In the confident stages of Alfred’s convalescence, Queen Arthur dances with his Army General

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Abandoned comic for usukusTPY

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@aphcardverse-week // Day 1: Coronation

Alfred’s POV

Coronation Day

I took so many painkillers that morning I hardly registered the palace servants pulling my uniform on. A detail I do remember from that pruning hour was the sensation of being pulled towards to the ground by the weight of 51 metals pined to my chest. Symbols of my extensive career which sparked immense pride, but at that moment it wad hard to anything but one more burden to push through.

By breakfast the brain-numbing effects of twenty something pills waned. Mattie placed a tower of seven beautiful pancakes on my tablecloth (“My token of good luck,” he’d said with a pat on his shoulders a hug for Queen Arthur before scurrying out before more people began clogging the exits).

Standing set my nerves ablaze and made my tongue a swollen, coppery mess which made it infinitely harder to shape for words. My right knee, the lucky bastard unscathed by Clubian cannons, didn’t dare buckle under Yao and Arthur’s watch. It protested all the same, not quite listening when I commanded it walk without halt every step.

The ceremony proceeded without incident. I felt the cold weight of a silver crown studded with black diamonds, identical to Arthur’s but for the swirling “K” metalworked into its center, flatten my hair. I wanted to puff my chest outward to the cheering crowd of Spadian, to project a stronger image of a compete royal set. To maintain the public presence crafted from years working as the Spadian Army General.

The muscles throughout my body were sluggish, a victim to the drugs keeping a newly amputated leg from breaking headlines with “Loser At Large: New King Alfred Jones Eats Shit at Coronation”

Instead, my chest rose briefly - like a ballon swelling with air. Then someone decided they didn’t like the color and struck a pin through the fresh, deflecting it.

Arthur’s arm remained a solid beam throughout, so that when my foot went numb and I tilted off-balance it kept saved me my headline. Wouldn’t the hungry press love that juicy sell, I mused in bed the morning.

For Fuck’s sake, I wailed internally.

“I, Alfred F Jones, do solemnly affirm to support and defend the Federal Scribes of the Kingdom of Spades against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true alligence to the same; that I take this obligation with honor, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and dutifully discharge of duties of the office on which I am about to enter: So help me Oracle.”

The word “discharge” was less accurate than something along the lines of “I promise to retire if I go senile”. But hey, tradition was tradition.

Jack Yao and Queen Arthur smiled when I finished. I remember attending Arthur’s coronation many years past. The young monarch didn’t stutter a word of his Inauguration Speech, an individual obviously ready to take on his duties of state. It had been a relief to the youthful Alfred of the time, tired with the rest of Spades of the late Queen’s refusal to pass the ceptum when he’d been mentally unfit to rule for at least the last decade.

Traditionally, the King and Queen exchanged a ceremonial dance and handshake to seal their partnership.

My drugged, handicapped loins couldn’t begin to dream of five minuets of complicated footwork atop a new prosthetic leg. Instead, Yao took the dance with more grace than I could’ve exuted at the best of times. I preformed the hand gestures to Arthur’s.

He was incredibly handsome that day. Imbroidered silken waistcoat accentuated a slim waist, and the cream-colored cravat puffing out afixed by a sparkling diamond in the shape of a Spade danced with him under a clear blue sky. His smile was delicate and accentuated his crows’ feet and the speckling of freckles across his nose.

I wanted to kiss those beautiful freckles right there on the stage, for all of Spades to witness.

I retrained myself.

The next moment I froze when the expected handshake came in the form of a close-lipped kiss.

The crowd cheered and laughed at the unexpected break from tradition from their tradition-obsessed Queen. Yells and clapping filled the air with wonderful sounds of human delight and cheer, and my drug-inebriated brain was kind enough to leave the memory the next day.

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Southern Nights and a Balled Up Shirt

AO3: Leave kudos and and comment! Starved for feedback :)

Words: 2k+

Summary: Queen Arthur Kirkland is joined by Army General Alfred Jones for the centenary Royal Southern Spadinan Tour.

Based on the song Southern Nights by Glenn Campbell for 2023 @usukustwiceperyear Zine: “I Love You Like A Love Song” hosted by the amazing and fantastic TheNarcolepticOne and VerusMayaii II!

Beta-ed by the magnificent @corvussei. Thank you so much friend!!!

Alfred Jones grasped the top of his hat to fan his face, blond eyelashes fluttering blissfully over flushed cheeks. Air sweeping across Southern Spades' dusty earth provided momentary cool. When it passed he pried open his eyes with great reluctance.

Replacing the wide-brimmed hat over sweaty hair Alfred peaked over his shoulder as a crumpled figure adorned with inadequate purple fabric swelled with breath.

"Have you ever felt a southern night like this, Your Majesty?"

"Gmungh." Alfred lazily dodged an unmotivated pinch.

No matter how many times Arthur Kirkland set foot in any of Spades’ southern regions, the monarch of an empire spanning several continents never could appropriately pack for the weather. Personal aids, Alfred himself, and Jack Yao’s cajoling to make the man see reason stood against the latest (urban) Spadian fashion.

They had no ghost of a chance in influencing Arthur’s packing.

Three hundred years of rule made anyone accustomed to prioritizing appearance- a ludicrous endeavor traversing lands like these, not running into another soul for days at a time.

"I know you’ve taken these tours before - the people need to see their leader every once and a while. Why pay taxes if you've never heard of the peeps representing you up at Parliament, amirite? Yao and I tried to tell you- YOUCH"

This time, Arthur’s pinch struck its victim with the invigorated purpose of its perpetrator.

“That’s what you get for being a smart-ass.” Arthur straightened and held his reins with more purpose, sniffing his way past America's horse. Eyes stared down his nose at the road. ”I refuse to be seen, the only Spadian royalty these people might ever meet in their eighty-odd years, gallivanting about wearing anything less than a proper shirt.”

He kicked out the leg closest to Alfred for inspection. Alfred smirked at the pristine pair of jeans Arthur submitted to at the castle, after Alfred took every opportunity they spoke to nail in the supreme importance of denim pants during their tour. “Look at these-these… these things,” the queen’s regal lip curled in distaste while Alfred’s eyes laughed behind his glasses. “You couldn’t understand, Alfred,” he intoned, concealing his amusement at Alfred’s scandalized expression.

Arthur continued, “As leader of my most excellent military, public appearance speaks well for Spades in your creased, town-to-earth glory. You need only slip into a uniform for ceremonies. Not present the best Spadian fashion in crisp, tailored form every waking moment.“

Alfred scoffed, stabbing a thumb towards his puffed chest, declaring, “My taste in fashion is the pinnacle of class and culture. With our Jack and Queen and every Royal Guard maintaining Spades’ image of fancy-schmancy puffs and ruffs, it all comes down on my shoulders to show the people that their government, too, drips hip and trendy with Timeless Togue.” (Famous Spadian magazine equivalent to Vogue).

This is why Arthur preferred summers in the capital. Unbearable heat was less unbearable with flash showers to cool the air and wet cobblestone, with morning fog to beat back the sun a few hours before it broke through. Arthur did not want to be here - would not be here but for Yao and Alfred’s insistence. The affection he felt now started budding years ago. He liked being near his Army General so much, it often frightened him.

Many Christannikas ago Arthur addressed a holiday card to his Army General’s office. Then existed a grudging hope in Arthur’s mind that the handsome and highest member of the Spadian Royal Guard should receive said card - unlikely given the honey blond’s habit of not staying in one place longer than duty demanded. A week later Alfred responded with his own motley card. From there, infrequent casual letters greeted their desks. The now-weathered papers signified their first non-diplomatic interactions.

Never terribly personal, but consistently cordial, their exchanges contained areas which held mutual interest: travel, gossip, which fashion trends were lively to survive the decade. Especially gossip. Which members of the military were boning which of Parliament, which international relationships exceeded diplomacy. Occasionally politics, and the general wellbeing of their respective personnel.

Alfred enjoyed his Queen’s company, his quips and snark and resilience in the face of struggle. He knew Spades stood stronger for their royalty (not always a constant in any monarch’s history) and respected Arthur, cared for his well-being.

Every hundred years, the Queen made tours through the southern regions, Spades’ most rural, sparsely-populated towns and farmland. Alfred spent many decades living in the South. Due to homesickness and knowledge of the terrain, combined with concern for his Queen and a desire to be with Arthur (a desire Alfred wasn’t completely conscious of), he offered early on to escort Arthur through this years’ Southern tour.

The Queen struggled to acclimate to the southern region’s dry, humid, dusty plains. His centenary “cultural tour” was a nightmare for someone accustomed to chill to moderate temperatures. Cowboy camping under the stars, baking under an unrelenting sun and swallowing mouthfuls of dust, and watching Alfred charm small-town Spadians with broad smiles, full pockets and good labor at every wooden welcome sign their horses trotted past was their life during the twelve weeks.

Arthur held town meetings, presented state of affairs with overconfidence, shook hands, handed out stickers designed with the Spadian Coat of Arms, answered basic questions, ate (and drank) well, slept in a proper bed, then left for the next town. It was a dull, sweltering business. On the off chance his neck was exposed, mosquitoes ate him alive.

Between towns the occasional tree, Alfred and the horses’ shadows, and the tall slabs of limestone speckling the landscape provided the only shade to be found. SPF 500 did nothing for Arthur’s cheeks and neck, baked a bright red with not even the beginning signs of a tan.

Alfred’s bronze complexion seems to laugh at him and the freckles which dotted his nose. “Freckles look healthy on you,” Alfred offered once, unprompted.

Within the first week, Arthur was ready to return to the Capitol City. Eleven weeks left.

Arthur would never admit to enjoying the sight of Alfred in his element, broad shoulders stretched out in the unconfined outdoors. If the brown and beige ground existed for anything, it was to provide a flattering background to Alfred’s portrait. An eagle riding the wind cast ethereal sun rays over his General, the light bouncing off his lenses so his expression seemed mature. Capable. His relaxed silhouette upon the horse looked free as a breeze.

It was hard to imagine Alfred indoors now that he’d seen him like this. The landscape, although dry and hot as all Oracle’s worst punishment, was beautiful. The clear skies and uncrowded sounds of nature were so different from the crowded stress of urban living and the rolling Spadian countryside he was familiar with. Plants adorned the land even in this heat. Their survival reminded him to straighten his back and keep his chin up. If these resilient plants wouldn’t be caught drooping in this damned heat, neither would he.

Arthur imagined his countryside estate, the twisting mountain range of paperwork bending the thick wood of his desk. Though he shouldn’t be capable of the sensation from deskwork alone, his back ached at the prospect of pouring over thousands of documents, of the weeks it would take to make up for this damned cultural tour.

“- An’ I had a hotshot blast right past my year just five years ago. Seafaring is hard work, Queen Arthur, I commend your take-over of the Royal Navy from my management. The people you selected to run really know what they’re doing, and it gives me a more comfortable bandwidth- Royal Army’s always gonna be my favorite, y’know. Anyways, after that hotshot tore through the beam over my head I swore I’d never step foot in another boat. Besides awful seasickness, I’d much rather kiss the earth goodbye than some crummy wooden deck.”

Arthur tuned into Alfred’s narrative. He raised an eyebrow, though Alfred couldn't have seen it behind him. “If I didn’t know you better, it sounds like you’re running from danger,” he said it was a slow shoulder roll to tell Alfred he was joking. “But I agree. It’s far better to have the Navy under more specified command, and as you know from my early days working as a captain under the previous Queen, I do so enjoy taking more of a role in Spades’ overseas trade.”

Alfred hummed, considering Arthur’s contribution. In casual conversation, Alfred’s expressiveness meant you could perceive him regardless of whether your eyes were on him. He could imagine Alfred tapping his stubble with a dusty, gloved finger, and he could hear the other hand drumming over his saddle. Arthur found the repetitive action more soothing than agitating. Which was… perhaps a strange thought. Arthur further imaged Alfred blue eyes peering at the back of his head behind their lenses, was somewhat disturbed by the detail in which he could recall the likeness. Lost in thought, an unnatural shifting of dust behind them alerted Arthur’s senses.

Gooseflesh rippled over Arthur’s back and he whipped his head around.

“BLAM!”

In a flash Alfred's firearm was pulled an inch from his nose into the belly of a blue wolf. Arthur's ears rang momentarily.

Silver blood met his tongue in the same moment he opened it in shock. So rarely could anything sneak up on him, much less magical beings. Their auras alerted Arthur miles away. Arthur perceived Alfred’s heightened breathing after the encounter and internally berated himself, so distracted by present company he’d endangered them.

Alfred was fussing over Arthur when he broke the silence. “By Oracle, man! Let’s get a wiggle on before we shoot more poor beasts.” He still couldn’t hear so well and fixed it with a thimble of magic. Much better.

Now thoroughly awake, Arthur took his Stallion round and broke into a trot, Alfred coming up alongside moments later. Both men breathed closely as they surveyed their surroundings, Alfred with his natural senses and Arthur with his magic, exhausted though he was. Whispering wind was equivalent to a scream in an otherwise silent landscape.

Alfred spoke, “Poor buddy musta lost his pack, looked awfully skinny.”

Arthur knew that, of course. Even predators as powerful as a blue wolf had to have been starving to attack two humans. On horseback, no less.

“There’s no town for miles, Your Majesty. I’ll start setting up camp.”

Even for the bureaucratically-resentful Alfred Jones, no one ordered monarchs to perform domestic tasks. As the Army General, a high agent of state, the man wouldn't dare ask Arthur to get off his ass and help.

But he wanted to.

A golden sun cast its remaining specks of heat over the horizon and a breeze picked at their skin - Alfred’s unsubtle eyes ran over their stash of firepacks (self-contained fires) before busying himself with the horses' care, their sleeping arrangement, and supper.

Arthur flicked his index and a spark of blue erupted in a circle of rocks, the fire spitting at the air. Arthur watched Alfred labor. When the sun fully set the Queen and Army General sat close, eating their sandwiches and soup in silence. After supper they laid on cots under a clear Southern sky, stars brighter than anything either man was used to in the light-polluted city.

Neither man said a word when Arthur abandoned his cot altogether and buried his nose against Alfred’s warm neck. A chill swept the land, and Alfred had heat to spare.

–

When morning broke their bags were already packed.

Arthur shrugged into his warm long-sleeved, navy blue shirt (the coolest he’d brought) and felt sweat pouring from his pits before he saddled his horse. They went an hour before Alfred stopped them.

Arthur dismounted without question, already exhausted from the heat, irritated by the warm dampness of his torso, and sleepy from getting up earlier than usual.

He didn’t realize what was happening until Alfred’s hand offered a baby blue, light-weight shirt. Arthur looked up into Alfred’s smiling, slightly anxious face. “No use overheating when I packed plenty of tops.”

Arthur didn’t bother to fight that sound statement. He felt beyond grateful as he took the shirts from Alfred’s hands, but the day he displayed weakness to Alfred-Golden-Chucking-Jones was the day his heart stopped.

“Thank you, Jones.” His fingers reached the button over his collarbone on the queen's damp shirt, and Alfred’s ears turned a funny shade of red. He looked away, pretending to watch a cloudless sky and chattering nonsense while Arthur changed.

“King Ivan and Francis’ dispute over Campbell River’s gone south- well not actually but, like, figuratively, y-know. Anyways, the last town we stopped at had a few telegraphs from General Maisie. She’s got a few squadrons keeping an eye on things and looking after Spadian press- not to mention Francis feels safer with someone other than his and Ivan’s men to back up stories if shit really goes down. It’s worse than when we left, not sure quite how bad but we’re gonna have our work cut out when we return to the capital. Fact, I might be flying right back out. Real glad I was able to join you out here through, Yer Majesty. I woulda been worried if anyone else were out here guarding during your tour,” Alfred flicked one eye down to Arthur, who was just buttoning the last shirt.

“Does it feel better?” he asked.

Arthur moved around a bit. The shoulders looked ridiculous and it was very roomy, but he felt a million times better than he had inside that stuffy dress shirt. The collar smelled like Alfred. He was warm for an entirely different reason now, but he ignored it.

“Much,” he paused before adding. “You might know more than I do, right now. Yao insisted I take this tour as a break from diplomacy beyond interacting with these people. He must realize this forced ignorance only causes me more pain. But… it is a possibility we might be taking a more physical presence as Diamond’s ally if this dispute broadens.”

Alfred nodded, still flustered. For a man who didn’t hesitate to take off his own shirt during sparring practices, he went awfully red at the sight of Artur’s bare neck.

They had, of course, engaged in physical relations once or twice. Perhaps, Arthur admitted, with occasions ranging in the 50s (56 times, he knew. But who was counting?). After working alongside one another for over 100 years, who doesn't want to release a bit of tension after a stressful meeting, then and again? Or after a particularly merry holiday ball, or an unplanned run-in in an otherwise empty meeting room?

The detail that neither of these men knew was that this boning had been monogamous. Neither Alfred nor Arthur had engaged with, nor desired, another sexual partner in all their years of intimacy.

As they continued their ride along the humid landscape, Arthur’s gratefulness for Alfred lending his shirt expanded with every breeze which broke through the loose collar and cooled his skin. By the afternoon, thanks to their early start, they reached the next town and conducted their usual business with its population.

The inn-keeper set down a heaping plate of sauteed vegetables and shredded chicken with a liberal portion of gravy, eaten over corn muffins fresh from the oven and slathered with butter before the Spadian officials. They watched behind the counter with a prideful expression as Alfred tore into it with his usual gusto and the Queen polished his own portion at a slower pace, humming appreciatively.

Arthur didn’t bother interrupting Alfred’s fork romance with conversation and took his chewing breaks to watch Alfred enjoy himself. To see someone as expressive as his General unabashedly taking pleasure in a simple, good meal made the Queen’s breast grow warmer than any spiced brandy could hope to. Once you worked past Alfred’s generally animalistic method of consumption (which didn’t include a whole lot of chewing) it was a gratifying sight to see another human take such delight.

The night’s inn, the Blue Wolf, was better than most Arthur had slept in. The hesitant knock on his door was expected and he opened it in the nude, hand on hip and swung Alfred shirt, held between his two hands, around the Army General’s neck.

“These Southern nights felt so good, Your Majesty,” Alfred breathed against Arthur’s forehead, “Wish I could…”

Arthur pulled him inside.

“Bit warm, luv.” Arthur teased gently, “And… you can.”

Alfred shut the door behind him.