USUK to Your Heart's Desire

11. Morning kisses that are exchanged before either person opens their eyes, kissing blindly until their lips meet in a blissful encounter.

Hello Anon who is Definitely Not Mole HAHAHAHA I bring you tender, domestic, lazy morning USUK fluff with a bonus professor AU because academia is basically my life now heh.

Word Count: ~800

Send me a kiss prompt~~

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Most mornings, Arthur is up at dawn.

There is a special kind of beauty in the early mornings, when Arthur can sit out on their back porch overlooking his rows of meticulously cultivated roses, the flashy peony blossoms, lines of vivid tulips all interspersed with elegant irises and lilies throughout. Settled in his rocking chair, Arthur nurses a steaming mug of Earl Grey or Orange Pekoe. Depending on his mood, he will have either a book in hand or a laptop perched on his lap open to a several hundred page long document that he will one day finish and publish as his first novel.

It is a good life that Arthur leads with his strict adherence to his rigid routine and a cosy domestic home to return to after a long day teaching Keats and Byron and Shelley to hoards of ungrateful undergraduates who are only there for the credit.

By contrast, Alfred is none of the sort. 

Heyyyy everyone so i wasnt going to advertise this here but i figured why not. I made merch!! Usuk merch, specifically. Uhhhh heres the link in case yall wanna buy it, just a heads up im p sure im not gonna be printing anymkre of this design so its limited to whatever i have in stock!

https://www.etsy.com/listing/835176826/hetalia-usuk-sticker-sheet?ref=shop_home_active_1&crt=1

Hello fandom that I haven’t written for in four years! Long time no see! 

19. One person stopping a kiss to ask “Do you want to do this?”, only to have the other person answer with a deeper, more passionate kiss.

Send me a kiss prompt~~

~~~

Walking Arthur up the steps to his apartment, Alfred pauses as he suddenly has a realization. This causes him to stumble over a step. 

Arthur, whose slender hand is clasped in Alfred’s, feels Alfred’s sudden hesitation and stops.

“What’s wrong?” Arthur asks, turning so he is facing Alfred.

Standing a step higher, Arthur looks down at Alfred. Reaching down, Arthur grabs Alfred’s other hand so both their hands are intertwined between them.

“This is our third date and I really enjoy being with you,” Alfred says in an uncharacteristically subdued tone. It is dark, and the light from Arthur’s apartment complex casts Alfred’s face in a washed-out yellow tinge. But, Arthur is sure that under the terrible lighting, Alfred’s freckled cheeks are painted in a rosy blush. 

“I find your company rather enjoyable, myself,” Arthur adds with a soft smile, prompting Alfred to continue.

Alfred, whose eyes have been dancing around Arthur for the duration of this exchange, finally raises his gaze so he is looking directly at Arthur. With a shy smile, Alfred grips Arthur’s hands just a little tighter as he asks, “Would it be too forward of me to ask for a goodnight kiss?” 

“That is very bold of you,” Arthur agrees teasingly, leaning down so their foreheads touch. “But I think I can be amenable to such a request.”

With Arthur’s lips right there, Alfred only has to tilt his head up ever so slightly before their lips are brushing against each other. 

It is a brief kiss, barely more than a peck, but Alfred is already dazed. Arthur’s lips are thin, but they are impossibly soft and Alfred can easily imagine lazy afternoons spent stealing kisses from these lips while the TV plays some terrible straight-to-DVD rom-com in the background.

As they pull away, Alfred’s hand rises to cup Arthur’s face. Despite the chilliness of the late night air around them, Arthur’s cheeks are pleasantly warm -- as is Alfred’s hand.

They are both grinning madly.

Behind Arthur, the light from his apartment complex filters through his wheat-coloured hair. It is very angelic, the way the light frames Arthur’s figure like a halo, and Alfred thinks it is a rather apt comparison.

Their kiss was brief, but it ignited a spark between them.

“Do you want to do this?” Alfred asks shyly, pulling back a few inches. The way he tenderly cradles Arthur’s face, how his thumb gently strokes over Arthur’s high cheekbones, is more than enough to convey how much Alfred wants this. Yet, he stands on the lower step, remaining a safe distance so Arthur will not feel trapped.

“Bloody yes I do,” Arthur growls, moving out of Alfred’s grip.

Before Alfred can mourn the loss of Arthur’s hands in his, Arthur has all but thrown himself at Alfred.

His arms are wrapped around Alfred’s neck, his lithe body is pressed against Alfred’s broad chest and shoulders, his lips are on Alfred’s, and Alfred just barely reacts enough to wrap his own arms around Arthur’s slim waist.

Their second kiss is much bolder, a rapid escalation from their innocently tentative first kiss. If their first kiss was a single toe dipped cautiously into the pond, their second is a skydive straight into the Atlantic and neither can catch their breath long enough to scream.

As Arthur nips at Alfred’s lips, Alfred moans into the kiss and Arthur takes advantage of this momentary distraction to slip his tongue into Alfred’s mouth. Releasing a second moan against Arthur’s mouth, Alfred’s arm tightens around Arthur’s waist. His other hand wanders, running up and down the expanse of Arthur’s back. They are already impossibly close, far too close for somewhere so public, but Alfred pulls Arthur in even closer still.

When they finally pull away for air, a string of saliva still connects their mouths. 

“So,” Alfred says with a wide grin, breathing heavily. His arms are still wrapped around Arthur’s waist, warm and protective.

Still close enough to be sharing the same air, Arthur smiles back. His lips are red and wet and very, very obviously kissed. “So.”

“I’ll pick you up at the same time tomorrow?”

Leaning in to place one last quick peck on the corner of Alfred’s mouth, Arthur smiles. “I’ll be here.”

~~~

Pairing: usuk

Rating: T

Summary: England is quite observant, he can tell when America isn’t at a meeting- but the concerning part is how much effort is put into it looking like he is there. England knows, without hesitation, that he needs to find out what’s wrong. 

Rating: T

Warnings: one instance of profanity

Human AU, high school (though I never get specific about their ages)

Summary: Arthur’s given Alfred a ride home many times. But today ends up a little different. Okay, a lot different.

AO3

“Thanks for the ride, again. I swear I’m gonna get my license soon. Just as soon as I, y’know—“

“Stop having a meltdown every time you turn the car on?”

Arthur had said it with a smile, but Alfred fiddled with his baseball cap, wringing it in his hands and flipping it a few times.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

From his hunched shoulders and flat tone, Arthur could tell that he’d struck a nerve. For all his boisterous, outgoing ways, Alfred could be quite sensitive. Arthur was still learning to navigate that

“Don’t apologize, I was only teasing. You’ll be ready when you’re ready.”

“Hmm.”

“And I like driving you,” Arthur added, hoping it sounded casual enough.

Summary: England knows. He has known, for a very long time now, that the looks of unbridled affection America directs him weren’t lingering feelings from his colonisation days, rather they were pure, hushed confessions of love hidden behind snarky words and charming grins.

you can read this on ao3 here

“England!” America bounded up to him much like an overexcited dog as he grinned at England, unabashed. England carefully arranged his expression into one of dismissive neutrality. “Yes?”

“Let’s go out for lunch! There’s a new burger from McDonald’s I wanted to try out!” America said, his eyes soft as he looked at England with such devotion that England felt guilty when he had a sick, twisted, feeling of pleasure derived from the flattery of having someone who loved him so. America, oh, America. If only America knew that England knew how he’s felt, perhaps he might not be as joyful as he was now, and that was exactly why England would not deem it his right to say anything of it, lest he crushes America’s heart beneath his loafers.

“Alright,” England says, instead of what he actually wants to say, which were along the lines of “America, don’t look at me like that, I’m sorry I don’t- I can’t return your feelings. America, I can’t take the way you look at me.”

America smiled at his reply, so obviously delighted at England’s answer that he seemed to radiate happiness, whereas England’s guilt further sent his heart sinking into the abyss of his conscience.

England would say no, if it meant America would get over him, but it had been centuries and America’s feelings hadn’t seemed to lessen at all, rather they seemed to have intensified the longer England spent time with him. The special relationship between them seemed to be for the worst, for even as the relations between their countries strengthened, so had the feelings America held dearly for England. England was a man of his people, and should his people want it, he would not ripple his relationship with America just because the other was deeply in love with him and he couldn’t take the guilt stemmed from centuries of unspoken feelings. He would put aside both of their feelings for his people, he wouldn’t let his selfish desires drive a wedge between that.

And, England thought, watching the way America seemed to shyly edge closer to him as they walked, if it made America happy too, would be so wrong? He pretended not to notice America fidgeting nervously, pretended not to see how America seemed to psych himself up much like he did before a huge speech, and pretended that America wasn’t as nervous as he actually was. If he pretended, perhaps everything would be fine, perhaps it wouldn’t be actually true.

Delusion was a tempting out to the mess England had blindly stumbled in, and continued despite his clumsiness.

America ate the same way he loved, fast and wanting more, and the fact was etched in his behaviour, from when England would indulge him in a pat on the arm he’d ask for more, and England couldn’t resist when America gave him tender, loving looks. Gentle touches on arms turned to hugs that lasted far too long, and America’s face would be red as they parted, and while England pretended his cheeks were red for the same reason as America, that was more so a lie and a facade than an admittance of truth.

England picked at his fries absentmindedly, drifting off to times once passed, when America was but a young child who had only looked at him with platonic affection.

“Hey, England?” America called, dragging England away from his thoughts. England hummed in acknowledgement, eyes following the movement of the people outside the store. Couples milled about, and England sometimes wished he returned America’s feelings. Would it not be perfect? He wouldn’t have to deal with the uncertainty of pretending he didn’t know, and America would not have to suffer under unrequited love either. If only that could be the case, England thought dimly.

“Ah, pardon me. What is it?” America pouted, but even then he didn’t look upset, more pleasantly amused than anything.

“Are you going to eat? You haven’t touched your fries at all,” America said, gesturing to the drooping, abandoned fries in front of England.

“I’m not hungry,” England lied, he felt sick.

America frowned, concern plainly written on the blue of his eyes and the curve of his lips. “Oh. You should’ve said something earlier,” he said, frowning slightly, though the warmth in his eyes didn’t fade. England felt cold all over, why did America have to care about him so much? England didn’t want to drag and play with America’s feelings, but the alternative was too hard to bare. If not admitting the truth meant England would remain a part of America’s life, England would seal his lips. He was both his people and his own person, and both wanted America to stay a friend, stay by his side.

“It’s fine,” England said instead, “I don’t mind. If you’d like, you can have my fries,” he pushed the fries forward. America’s eyes seemed to twinkle in genuine delight, and gratefully, he started chomping down on England’s fries. “Thanks, bro!”

No problem, England thought but didn’t say, just forget your feelings for me and stay an important person in my life.

America finished quickly, and the two of them remained where they were, unmoving. England was fully prepared to leave the second America had finished, but reading America’s body language made him remain in his seat. America seemed nervous, tapping his fingers on the table in a hurried, unrhythmic fashion. The tension between them drew taut akin to the same ones they had felt after the revolution, where they spent bitter years in constant tension. America was growing red, and vaguely, England had a feeling what was going to happen.

America swallowed visibly, a bead of sweat falling from his cheek, and his eyes met England’s, and England was startled by the anticipation and fear in them.

“England,” America started, clearing his throat, “you know tomorrow is Valentines, right? I was just wond-“

England stood up. “I’m sorry, America, I have to leave now,” he said, mustering whatever courage he had lost whenever America looked at him, “My boss is calling,” he continued, breath hitching slightly when he saw the raw hurt in America’s eyes, his utter remorse only intensifying when America’s eyes dimmed, and he looked at the table. America’s fist were clenched, and he looked angry at himself. England was sorry, but the conversation was heading in a direction England didn’t want it to, and continuing on would mean admitting more than he wanted to be put out there.

“Really sorry,” England added in a pathetic attempt to relieve both of them, him of his heavy conscience and America of his being upset.

“Nah, it’s alright. I know what’s it like,” America said, beaming, even though his smile didn’t reach his dull eyes. “I’ll see you next time?” America said, also standing up to leave.

“Next meeting,” England clarified, he didn’t want to meet America outside of meetings or lunch right after meetings, for it would seem too much of a date, and he did not want to intentionally lead the other on.

“Oh. Alright, bye then,” America said, waving him off. England nodded curtly and left, only turning behind when he thought it safe to do so, and seeing America with his face in his hands only made his heart heart and throat clog up.

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The silence was deafening. There was nothing, nothing at all except for the spots of light, too far away to make out. And even then, he was becoming blind to them. They must have meant something up close, but from so far away, they were reduced to meaninglessness.