Anonymous sent: just want to tell you that ame/rus/eng was super fantastic and i love it so much.
oh shucks (╯3╰) thanks! i’m glad you enjoyed it. i don’t deserve such praise, but i appreciate it enormously ♥
oh shucks (╯3╰) thanks! i’m glad you enjoyed it. i don’t deserve such praise, but i appreciate it enormously ♥
(i had no idea what 2p was at first, so pardon me if the characterisations are a little off! i flicked through the tag pretty quick: i will not pretend this is perfect h-haha.)
“They’ve only been hanging for three days, you know,” Arthur says, this close to exasperated. “They’ll be tough as old boots.”
The pheasants sway between Ivan’s knuckles, the hooks looped about his fingers.
“… Last time, you left them for so long the necks detached,” he says.
Arthur swoops over, close enough to kiss him on the cheek, gentle, smoothing the frown from his face, “I didn’t forget, sweetheart, that’s just good high game,” he says. He takes the birds into his own hands and sighs. “Well. Want to help with the dry plucking? It will take a short lifetime otherwise.”
The house becomes abruptly noisy. Arthur has pureed the carrots, simmering them with ginger and orange peel until the kitchen is thick with the smell of it. The sweet potatoes, mashed, spiked up with bourban and down with cream, the asparagus hissing in butter. The chot of his knife against the chopping board is almost evocative as Ivan gathers up the glossy feathers, scooping them into the bin.
Arthur’s fingers are quick, well-practised. They are never not moving, from handle to handle, nimble and calloused against the heat. Ivan indulges himself in watching. There’s a simple pleasure in this — that Arthur does it for him, the little smile as he slides it on to the table, how wide it becomes when Ivan compliments the food.
(It is the same sort of smile he gets when he is smoothing out the cavity of someone’s stomach, admiring the clean barrel of their ribs. It’s funny — Arthur keeps the kitchen meticulous but the basement is always a little… redder, perhaps, just in the corners.)
“Tough,” Arthur says, more smug than frustrated as he chews, “I told you.”
Ivan hmphs. He continues forking food into his mouth. “It’s delicious. Just how I like it.”
Across the table, Arthur fidgets. “You have terrible taste, then,” he says, and scowls dark into his glass.
Still — there is pride evident in his rising flush, how he turns his face away, and Ivan is content in knowing that.
currently revising biological molecules and i want tO DIE, so if people could throw fic prompts at my ask as a nice distraction for later, i’d be more than grateful? all pairings/situations are cool — hetalia is my primary thing, but i wouldn’t be opposed to lok either!
aaaaaaaaaaaaa ;_; this is beautiful and perfect. just… arthur and ivan’s faces are so great, so exhausted ugh… i’m gonna cry. i can’t believe anyone would enjoy my fic so much as to draw something from it, i’m seriously speechless. thank you so much — this is wonderful and i’m absolutely in love with it <3
(Source: beekwhy)
based on qichi’s lovely prompt (that i just did not do justice wheeze):
Ivan/Arthur, meeting at Alfred’s funeral, Ivan was Alfred’s secret boyfriend because Alfred was still in the closet, Arthur is Alfred’s brother, they arrange to meet over tea to share stories about Alfred and whatnot, end up sort of tentatively dating, it’s quiet and awkward and Alfred hangs over them, but happy ending eventually.
See, you’ve written that you didn’t do my prompt justice, and you are there — endlessly wrong. (By the by, I’m drunk as shit. Bear with me.)
I’m basically never going to stop marveling over your ability to do description? Like, everything just sounds worded perfectly, like you wandered accidentally into the actual fucking essence of things and dragged the words out of them in a getaway car. I love you!! Oh my god.
Just… the quiet in this, and how much feeling permeates every line; how solemn it is to begin, and then how hopeful?
Like, I’m scrabbling at fucking adjectives here, I can’t actually articulate (1) how amazed I was to wobble to the ruseng tag and see you, again, after seven months (I MISSED YOU) (WE SHOULD CHAT AGAIN ON SKYPE SOMETIME MAYBE?) and (2) how literally perfect this is, for what I wanted.
Because I knew I wouldn’t do it well enough, wouldn’t write it how it deserved to be written.
You? You have.
oh nooo you flatter me too much, seriously ;_;
i am just glad you liked it, despite how long it took me in the end! i mean, the idea itself is beautiful — it was a wonderful prompt to write for. (haha, you are infinitely more eloquent that i am when drunk!)
I missed you too ;3; and YES SKYPE definitely!!! i do have my exams coming up in a couple weeks so i still might not be on that often? but after that, i’d love to <3 i’m just… asfkkjskjhf so happy you enjoyed it so much.
and shush, you would have done it more than well enough! you are an incredible writer, remember, and i won’t stand to hear otherwise. but thank you, regardless — it was an absolute pleasure to do!
based on qichi’s lovely prompt (that i just did not do justice wheeze):
Ivan/Arthur, meeting at Alfred’s funeral, Ivan was Alfred’s secret boyfriend because Alfred was still in the closet, Arthur is Alfred’s brother, they arrange to meet over tea to share stories about Alfred and whatnot, end up sort of tentatively dating, it’s quiet and awkward and Alfred hangs over them, but happy ending eventually.
The assaultive smell of coffee is what jars him: someone is dozing on the bench, their fingers sloping until their station-side cappuccino has dropped between their knees. They jolt at the sound of it splitting dark across the concrete, embarrassed, face flooding with shame; it reminds him of Alfred in the morning, his fondness so ferocious as to knock your teeth out.
(Bacon? he asks. The teaspoon clenched between his teeth jerks as he speaks. He is barefoot, humming along to Elvis on the radio, sleeves hiked up to the rough knob of his elbows. The grin he turns Arthur is dangerous, peeling wide up his face — and it only falters at the grease-spit of the pan.)
London is all powder-blue light, this early, cold in spring. About him the nightworkers are clocking off, wringing their hands to mouth warmth into them. Arthur wonders if his grief is obvious: they are gentle around him, slanting sideways so he can pass. When Arthur lifts his head, there is steam rising from the shifting mass of them, dissolved high into the vaulted ceiling.
wow okay. i suck.
i don’t really think i have a good enough excuse for disappearing for seven months?? i’ll try:
strausmouse:fuckyeahgranadaholmes:
“When I came out of the asylum, the person who collected me was Edward Hardwicke. He took me to an Italian restaurant. I had a pasta and a glass of red wine. He then drove me back to my home where we sat and had a cup of tea. It was Edward Hardwicke. He is one of the loveliest people, and I suppose he is the best friend that any man has ever had….in life. Which is after all how Doyle describes Watson.”
- Jeremy Brett
I have no words to describe what this does to me.
(Source: wewillnotgoquietlyintothenight)
