#(( i almost wrote cold or lukewarm regards ))

[lalumierel]

【 You find yourself the recipient of a letter that could never be unassuming if it tried.

The royal purple envelope is a backdrop to gilded lettering, lovingly rendered with a steady hand. It shines when you hold it up to the light; to say nothing of the wax seal that sits heavy in a contrasting deep red. Burned into your memory is the Gloucester rose, the summertime fancy and the lovers’ flower, the signature of one noble son.

Should you choose to open this envelope, there is crisp parchment awaiting you. A practiced hand has sent you a missive, and then some. All the words legible, cursive immaculate, but aside from the flourishes, it is, as some say, a lot to unpack.

At the very top, lettering bigger than the rest, begins this invitation—ah, yes, you see now, it is an invitation—with the setting of intentions: 】

❝I, LORENZ HELLMAN GLOUCESTER, am sending you a formal invitation, extending you the distinct honor of attending the Ethereal Moon Ball as my esteemed guest…❞

【 … 】

【 You quickly realize that the letter goes on. And on. Was there ever an end in sight, or was that the twinkle of your golden name?

You will be here all night, should you read the whole spiel, so you skip to the end: 】

❝MOST SAINTLY PRINCESS:  I believe us to be kindred spirits, if you will forgive me for such a sweeping assumption from our first introduction—an introduction long overdue, a grievous error on my own part, as the days have come and gone with swift ferocity! Allow me to extend a symbol of my most revered House Gloucester, on behalf of the Leicester Alliance, as well as extend my most capable hand, should you be in need of any assistance during your time in Fódlan. Should you accept, I look forward to presenting you with the fullest extent of my grace at the Ethereal Ball.

YOURS, ❞

        At first, she is rather flattered. This Lorenz, he had quite the way with words—she knew much better than to swoon at the drop of a hat, or letter for that matter. ( The rose notes were a nice touch though. ) She reads over the letter for only the number of times she was allowed as it was quite lengthy. 

        With the parchment in one hand and a finger twirling a loose, green tendril from her head, she takes a stroll to get some idea of what to write back. How could she match the prose in a simple letter of acceptance? 

        Her gaze shifts upwards and she sees something familiar. More like several things familiar. A student here, another there, a small group gathered, all holding the infamous purple envelope with a rose wax seal. 

        Her cheeks color, but not out of flattery any longer. Was it desperation or was this so-called nobleman after as many he could check off a list? Suddenly, she knows exactly what she intends to send. 

“Dearest Lorenz,

I am most flattered to have received your letter. I must remark how exquisite your penmanship is, but I would expect no less of a noble. Your words moved me in more ways than one. I am glad to know rightfully complimenting a lady on her best qualities is your duty. 

I would have accepted your invitation with honor of being escorted by such a gentleman, if that gentleman was not so bold as to send several letters out. That is enough to be unforgiving! What exactly was your intent? 

I will have you know, I am no second, third, or thirtieth choice. As your first impression, you have shown much of your disposition which I must say leaves much to be desired. 

If you are a true and proper man, then you will apologize, not to just me, but whoever else you have mistakenly led along in your flowery writing and empty nothings! Only then will I consider granting you the honor of having a dance with me. 

Certainly not yours,

L’Aarchel ♡

[pittarchives]

John Hammond and Martha Glaser: A Cold Correspondence

This post was written by Adam Lee, graduate student, Jazz Studies.

Erroll Garner famously won a lawsuit against record production titan Columbia Records in the early 1960s, which allowed him to launch his own label Octave records. While the details of this lawsuit have been covered by news outlets such as Variety (The True Story of Erroll Garner, the First Artist to Sue a Major Label and Win), the fallout of this suit would continue to echo throughout history in the form of a feud between Garner’s manager Martha Glaser and Columbia Records producer John Hammond.

John Hammond was a scion of the Vanderbilt family through his mother and by the 1930s had become one of the most influential promoters and producers of jazz, acting as a patron to such jazz legends as Count Basie, Billie Holiday, and Benny Goodman (who became his brother-in-law in 1942). He is often lauded for his staunch stance against racism through his promotion of jazz in a time in which it was considerably less common to find white people of status working to promote Black artists. Not all jazz artists would receive Hammond’s full support, however, as is made clear with his lukewarm response to Erroll Garner’s work.

Hammond was the producer working for Columbia when the events that led to Garner’s lawsuit came about, and later would become involved again in a Garner reissue project in 1975. Martha Glaser, writing on behalf of Garner, wrote to Hammond expressing her disdain for the way Columbia, and thus Hammond himself, was handling this project in the last few years of Garner’s life.

Image from folder “Correspondence from John Hammond,” Erroll Garner Archive, 1942-2010, Box 1, Folder 62, Archives & Special Collections, University of Pittsburgh Library System.

Glaser writes that Garner and she were reluctant to be involved in a Columbia production, understandable from their previous contentious relationship, but initially thought that Hammond would be supportive of the project: “It was with considerable trepidation that we got into the PLAY IT AGAIN, ERROLL project, because of past experiences at Columbia. However, with your reassurance, and Jim Brown’s support, we thought there would be no problems.” Clearly, there were problems and Glaser had no reservations expressing her feelings later in the letter writing: “We are most dismayed that our good friends at Columbia have so little regard for Erroll or myself, that we can’t reach them, or get a reply.” The venom in her language is clear, the Columbia producers are no friends of theirs.

Image from folder “Correspondence from John Hammond,” Erroll Garner Archive, 1942-2010, Box 1, Folder 62, Archives & Special Collections, University of Pittsburgh Library System.

Several years later, after Garner’s passing, Glaser and Hammond got into another conflict via letters sent between them. We do not have every record in the archive of this correspondence, but by looking at the letters we do have we can extrapolate some of the content, and it is increasingly hostile. The conflict seems to begin with Glaser’s objection to a quote in George Goodman Jr.’s June 28, 1981 article about Miles Davis titled  ”Miles Davis: I Just Pick Up My Horn And Play.” In the article, Goodman attributes a statement to Hammond (which Glaser notes is not written as a quote, but more as a statement of fact): “To John Hammond, the authoritative critic and jazz patron credited with the ‘discovery’ of such greats as Bessie Smith and Louis ''Satchmo'' Armstrong, Mr. Davis is the only major performer of his generation who broadened rather than contracted the appeal of jazz music.” Glaser vehemently objects to this characterization, and overtly questions Hammond on it in a letter dated the next day, June 29, 1981: “Whether it accurately states your opinion, I can’t tell – but I certainly wonder about it.” Glaser goes on to contradict the assertion that only Davis expanded jazz appeal, referring to Garner’s public success with scathing and sarcastic language: “… if he was ‘contracting’ the appeal of jazz, then I wonder who all those people were in all those SRO audiences through the world for all those years…,” and “Indeed, he was sock box office…despite the heavy-handed treatment of CBS Records, and the subsequent results. I can fill you in, but I am sure you know much of what happened.” Obviously Hammond knows what happened, as he was the head of A&R (Artists and Repertoire) for CBS/Columbia Records at that time.

Image from folder “Correspondence from John Hammond,” Erroll Garner Archive, 1942-2010, Box 1, Folder 62, Archives & Special Collections, University of Pittsburgh Library System.

Hammond’s response is dated July 16, 1981 and specifically refutes the Goodman article for the Times, attempting to redirect the ire against him to the Times itself saying, “Why the Times is so sloppy in its music coverage and quotes is beyond belief.” While he could have continued to play diplomat, he instead doubles down on the conflict and writes some very specifically cruel things about Garner and Glaser “…the greatest mistake he ever made was in leaving CBS for purely financial reasons. When I came back there in the very late fifties, I did my best to patch things up, but I must say that I found both you and Erroll greedy, to say the very least.” He follows this with an attack on Glaser alone: “Unfortunately, the nit-picking that went on by you (acting on behalf of Erroll) left you with very few friends in the company. When I tried to sign Erroll in the mid-sixties, I was warned that if I did, I would probably suffer another heart attack and was ordered to cease and desist my efforts.”

Images from folder “Correspondence from John Hammond,” Erroll Garner Archive, 1942-2010, Box 1, Folder 62, Archives & Special Collections, University of Pittsburgh Library System.

Glaser counters the attacks directly: “’Greed’ was not the reason for the litigation. It was at a great sacrifice – including a financial one – that Erroll was pressed into this litigation by some substantial violations of his contract.” Ever the stalwart defender of Garner, Glaser accuses Hammond of hiding this opinion from Garner behind a smiling face: “I wish you had told Erroll, at the time, or in the almost 20 years subsequent to the litigation, that you thought he and I were motivated by ‘greed’. This might have put a different face on how he reacted to the entire situation, and to you, since he always said – ‘Don’t put John in the middle’, and was concerned about your well-being.” Glaser continued to take issues with Hammond’s specific phrase “nit-picking,” and notes the implications of such language: “I sometimes wonder where such an appellation might be sexist. When a man works as hard and carefully as I have to maintain quality standards, he is considered to be on top of things.” The jarring final statement is loaded with a sarcastic feel, like Glaser is writing pleasantries because these things are included in letters by practice but not by meaning: “I hope we can talk one day. In the meantime, thank you for your attention and response. Wishing you the best with your new enterprises. Sounds most exciting.”

Image from folder “Correspondence from John Hammond,” Erroll Garner Archive, 1942-2010, Box 1, Folder 62, Archives & Special Collections, University of Pittsburgh Library System.

To this letter we do have Hammond’s response, dated September 19, 1981. And once again, venomous statements are bookended with pleasantry. Hammond first apologizes about the greed comment, but by the third paragraph he outright tells Glaser that Garner would have been more financially and professionally successful if they had stuck with him and Columbia Records.

(Above) Images from folder “Correspondence from John Hammond,” Erroll Garner Archive, 1942-2010, Box 1, Folder 62, Archives & Special Collections, University of Pittsburgh Library System.   

The final document in this record appears to be a draft of a letter typed by Glaser before the final version dated September 9,1981. While this document does not have a date, it does follow many of the same points of the dated letter and responds point by point to Hammond’s July 16, 1981 document. This draft has numerous redactions and corrections, and the language in it is much stronger than the one that eventually replaced it, (including one parenthetical where Glaser notes “have to change this” after expressing that Hammond’s letter was “character assassination.”) And it is perhaps for the best that it wasn’t sent, but in it we can see the rage that Glaser had for Hammond and the industry, and the vigor by which she was ready to protect Garner’s reputation and status. This draft letter too shows some significant insight into the things that Glaser thought were important, but (in contrast with the final letter) chose to hold back, almost certainly as a result of professional considerations. She writes “That Mr. Garner, a Black – jazz – artist – with a female manager – in those pre-consciousness raised days – both in the fields of race and sex – had the audacity to go up against a major corporation to defend his artistic rights – apparently didn’t sit well with the corporate heads. It was a ‘first’ and they made it clear he had to be broken and punished. Surely, you were aware of that.”

All in all, through these letters, we can see the conflict between Glaser and Hammond, and the not-so-subtle attempts by both of them to conceal resentment and animosity. Hammond’s position of power and reputation in the industry allowed him to feign magnanimity, but Glaser had neither the luxury nor the desire to sugar coat her arguments, although we can see from the differences in her brutal draft letter from her significantly more (but not entirely) diplomatic final letter version that she did take these things into consideration. In the end, Glaser once again proved that she would stand up for Garner against even industry giants like John Hammond, in a way that was uniquely her own.

Works Cited

Erroll Garner Archive, 1942-2010, AIS.2015.09, Archives & Special Collections, University of Pittsburgh Library System.

Goodman, George. "MILES DAVIS: 'I JUST PICK UP MY HORN AND PLAY'." The New York Times. June 28, 1981. Accessed April 27, 2021. https://www.nytimes.com/1981/06/28/arts/miles-davis-i-just-pick-up-my-horn-and-play.html.

Ouellette, Dan. "The True Story of Erroll Garner, the First Artist to Sue a Major Label and Win." Variety. December 02, 2019. Accessed April 27, 2021. https://variety.com/2019/music/news/the-true-story-of-erroll-garner-the-first-artist-to-sue-a-major-label-and-win-1203413083/.

[locallety]

𝐼𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑚𝑒𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒.

Okay, okay. So I'm kinda scared to post this here because first things first, my writing sucks ass and this might not be as accurate to the Dream SMP's canon timeline because I haven't watched all of the streams regarding the storyline (the first stream/video I watched was from tommyinnit's latest smp vid where Schlatt died and Wilbur blew up L'manburg) (I also managed to get a hold of their family tree info soo thats that).

But, at the same time I wanted to post this because 𝑤𝑜𝑤. That was so damn GOOD! I'm so obssesed like- 😳😖😩

Like I've said, this might have innacurate info, but I had written this right after I found about Ghostbur (which is like yesterday night lmao). I might rewrite this in the future once I had finished the entirety of the "series" 😏

_______________________________________

The situation was.... suffocating.

The man was alone with his father. They were talking, while the other celebrated the end of Schlatt's reign of terror. The tyranny's death was enough for his friends to ignite a celebration, reigning Tubbo as the new president of the land. But was Schlatt's death really enough? Had they forgotten about the true goal of their land? His land?

It was almost laughable, because HE too once had that spark of hope whilst building his country from scratch. They were with him too, right from the start. His people, his friends, HIS family was by his side while they go through their hardships and problems. They made so many memories together, both good and bad.

Now, they are out there celebrating their victory. Wilbur took a deep breath, cold air filled his lungs.

His father was looking at him in the eyes now. He just stared back, mellow feeling on his chest. They were on the room, where he had wrote his 𝑠𝑦𝑚𝑝ℎ𝑜𝑛𝑦, ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑢𝑛𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑖𝑠ℎ𝑒𝑑 𝑠𝑦𝑚𝑝ℎ𝑜𝑛𝑦.

The cold atmosphere on the room was truly suffocating. His hand was itching to press the wooden button in front of him. One press from the button will send a signal to detonate the entirety of L'manburg, along with their hardwork and memories within.

He knew that everything within L'manburg is special. He bit his lower lip as he lift his hand in front of the button. There was a moment of slowness, his father's eyes widen in shock and his eyes closing as he slowly feel the wooden surface of said button. There was a gut feeling inside him that he will later regret doing this.

But, everything good must come to an end. And as the traitor said, 𝑖𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑚𝑒𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒.

And if he can't have L'manburg, no one will.

A silent 'click' was heard before the sound of explosions fill their ears. Everyone was taken back by the sudden noises, their once cheerful faces of victory was replaced by the face of despair and disbelief. A huge fog of smoke appeared from the debris, and when that cleared up, the look on their faces become even more fascinating.

Everybody was dying while they try to preserve what was left of what they had worked hard for since the birth of their country. The look of terror and despair on their faces was priceless, their foolish, dirty hands tainting the once pure utopia that is L'manburg. His L'manburg.

Everything was 𝑔𝑜𝑛𝑒. Their home was gone. L'manburg is g o n e.

Screams suddenly filled the air, some of them got shot and started fighting. The two men in the room watches their comrades from the newly formed hole just in front of the button.

Wilbur's eyes suddenly widened. He realized what he had done. He swiftly turned his head to his father's gaze.

"You must murder me Phil! Look at them!" He screamed, his voice was hoarse. Phil looked at him with mixed expression. Wilbur slammed his diamonf sword to his father's chest, forcing Phil to accept the blade.

"But you are my son!" Phil cried, pushing back the blade. This made him angrier. He stomped his feet to the wooden ground, his black eyes looking at his father's gaze with pure madness.

"CAN'T YOU SEE, THEY WANTED YOU TO MURDER ME! DO IT. DO IT!" He screamed, there were tears streaming down his face. 'Everything I've worked for..... Gone in an instant due to my selfish desires....' Wilbur thought,gritting his teeth. Phil gulped and hesitantly accepted the sword, then looked down at his son for a moment.

Phil reminisced their good memories together in that mere moment. Him cradling Wilbur as an infant, The smiles and the laughter from Wilbur's childhood, the making of chinese lanterns with him, watching Techno and Wilbur spar from afar..... He teared up, gripping the diamond sword's leather handle tightly, his hands were shaking and knuckles white. The father doesn't want to do it, but it seems like in that moment.... He had no choice.

Closing his eyes, Phil yelled as he stabbed his own son with the diamond sword, tears stained his clothes. Red covered Wilbur's clothing in an instant. There was an unexplainable guilt and pain on his chest. He slowly opened his amber eyes meeting Wilbur's, his son's, dull grayish blue ones which are fully devoid of life it once has.

He took out the sword out of his son's chest, and hugged his son's corpse tightly. He was screaming in pain, grief and sadness was the only feeling he felt that moment. He was cradling Wilbur, like he once did when Wilbur was a mere infant. He started to hum Wilbur's lullaby, lukewarm tears dropping to the wooden ground.

[richardlawson]

Night Moves

My parents sold their house. The house they bought before my sister and I were born, in that weird slip of time I’m told was the late 1970s. They’re moving to Providence, city of my father’s birth, and a place where a modest condo can be bought, for two people facing next and (yes, we all must admit) maybe final chapters. Over the 4th of July holiday, I spent a teary two nights in the house, going wandering in Boston with a friend and then, just as it was time to leave for the train, taking last passes through the small expanse of the place. I cried. I made myself cry? I don’t know if the tears were real or forced or if forced tears aren’t actually real. But I did. Almost wept. My mom pulled the car out of the driveway and there was my dad, good old Dad, walking the dog up the hill, the last time I’d ever see that. I blubbed, discretely, until my mom asked me a question and then it was hard to hide. “It’s just a building,” she said, which is what I’d told myself, what my therapist had told me. It’s just a building. Just a thing that teemed with all the stuff of our lives for 40 years. And now it’s not.

The day before this goodbye, my family and I went to a wedding. My cousin’s kid got married, an assemblage of people I’d not seen in at least 20 years. It was held at a country club south of the city, and was full of that kind of straight wedding swagger I hate so much—is there no worse sight in the world than groomsmen in suits clutching bottles of beer? That effortful commitment to male casualness amidst the formalness? It speaks to such an ease, the way these men move through the world, that my sister and I were repulsed by it. During the wedding, a long and violent thunderstorm rolled in. But just before that, my family and I wandered the grounds of the country club, walked along the ridge of a hill that offered a view of the city, the whole of Boston laid out there in the hazy, humid distance. The four of us there, lined up and regarding it. It felt like a maudlin farewell. To this city we’ve all been so tethered to, just then rendered so small, so faraway. 

I traveled a lot this summer, more than I had planned. I went to Provincetown for a few nights, my new favorite place, and felt the mid-June thrill of all that. I went to Los Angeles, mostly for work—a grinding reporting assignment that has yet to bear fruit but still could be something good, I hope—but also to see my sister. She’s so good at day trips, feeling so blessed with a car, and we drove up to Ojai, spent a late morning and early afternoon in its clenching, clean heat. We hiked a short distance to a waterfall, where barefoot kids were laughing and dogs were shuffling around. We went into town, roaming an outdoor used bookstore where I searched for my own book and, as ever, came up short. I’d heard so much about Ojai and, while finding it beautiful, was surprised by how little it offered. “You have to be rich to enjoy it,” I said to my sister as we got back in her car and, sealed up in the air conditioning, drove back to the city. 

In Los Angeles, I spent a lot of time holed up in my hotel, a once-trendy place on the Sunset Strip that has a thumping pool club and is just the right amount of uncomfortable to feel cool. It’s a full-service place, so I could take my meals there, do drinks on the patio, barely leave the confines of it. I went a little crazy, swaddled up in the gray blanket of that place—its easy, healthy-ish, sour food, its lukewarm sauvignon blanc mood. I felt like I was there for a whole long Shining winter, growing a beard and going insane and locating some truer kernel of myself than I’d ever known existed. I let myself skitter out into the night on occasion, to see friends and revel, just a bit, in the riot of a city I hate. (I’m sorry, L.A. friends. I have tried so hard to like Los Angeles, but it makes me so stressed and unhappy and full of constant Sunday Scaries that I have to hate it. That said, I can’t wait to visit again.) But mostly I was alone, conducting halting interviews on the phone, pacing around in my cold room while tall trees fluttered in the balcony window. One uneasy afternoon, I watched a bug crawl around the enormous beanbag chair the hotel provided and figured it knew what to do with this lump of furniture more than I did. 

I just got back from Fire Island, another place I have tried to love and—unlike L.A.—might finally be done with. What a dream of an idea that place is, and yet in execution, or at least in my admittedly narrow experience of it, what a drab and horny and exhausting thing it actually is. I don’t fit in there at all, which is a strange sensation for someone who has prided himself on being able to adapt, to quickly recover, to renegotiate physical and social spaces as needed. Fire Island, the Pines in particular, is a bridge past a bridge too far, I’m afraid. Not because I don’t admire its moxie, its Speedo tan-ness, its louche, buggy reverie. I love that people love it. I just feel sad that Fire Island is something like Paris—a beautiful dream I’ll never be able to actually step into, that I’ll never feel filling me like air, like smoke. (I Juul now—another life update.) But it’s good to have that conclusion—to know, because of increasing adulthood and experience, that it, hey, just isn’t for me. I wish it the best. I wanted to blow a kiss to the island as the ferry puttered away back toward Sayville. Goodbye, place! Goodbye, dream! Goodbye all you wonderful people who partied and yearned and grieved and fucked and fell in love there. See you in Ptown, maybe. All you lively ghosts, living and dead.

Fall trips loom. Film festivals, which are so much fun. I’m going to Venice for the first time, next week, and I am so stressed and excited and curious. I booked an Airbnb that’s not near the movies, that’s on the main island with all the canals and handsome gondoliers and luring, leering pasta. (My Fire Island diet nearly killed me, readers.) I chose holistic life experience over festival ease in booking that place and I hope I don’t regret it. And then it’s straight on to Toronto, a festival I love, a town I am growing to like, with people I know and with whom I’m so ready to pretend it’s summer camp again. Fall camp. Autumn camp. What a good time that will be.

But it will keep me away. I’ve been away so much this year, which has been exhilarating—I gave an award out on stage at a loud gay discotheque in Guadalajara, Mexico!—but also lonely, and denying. The thing I’ve sort of stylistically held for the end here is that I fell in love this year, and while it’s a new-ish, only nine-month relationship (“We have a baby,” I said to Andrew tonight), it’s still a totalizing thing. It’s impossible to look at all of this—parents moving, cities roiling, islands churning—not through the lens of that. How terrifically grounded I have felt this year, to something good and happy and intimate and huge in its smallness. This is the first time I’ve really written about him—a scientist, a smiler, a kind and gentle person who calms me and encourages me—and it feels a little scary to type it out. But there he is, suddenly a center. 

When I was home over the 4th, my mom told my sister and me a story about our cousin, the one whose kid got married at the country club. I guess when this cousin was little, a toddler maybe, she would often say, “I need something.” Just that. That quiet little unspecific thing. “I need something,” she’d say in a small voice, tugging at pant legs and looking up at the adults hoping they’d understand and satisfy whatever it was she was asking for. I’ve thought about that a lot since my mom told us about it, there in the backyard I’ll never see again. I need something. I need something! I NEED SOMETHING! 

Of course we all do. Need something. Need so many things. I get corny, thinking about it. I want to say what a mad and blissful and terrible adventure it is, to go chasing after that need. It is. But, again, that’s hokey. So I guess I’ll just end this ramble with a little moment, from Fire Island. I went to bed early one night, and was half asleep when some of the boys of tea came home. I heard them rumbling around upstairs in the living room, muffled laughter and bottles opening. It reminded me of being a kid in the house I grew up in, that will now be lived in by a nice family from Framingham who wrote a heartening letter to my parents about how much they loved the house. That feeling of life happening just beyond the light under the door. And maybe it is. But in that room on Fire Island that night, there was also the beautiful dark, also the hum of the air conditioner, the whine of the mosquito, and there was me, breathing and blinking and alive. That was so much, too. 

[newsalamandertina]

“Forget Me Not” - Chapter 1

First chapter of “Forget Me Not”, written by @newsalamandertina (oceanflights on ao3) and @hidetheteaspoons

March 1927

Tina wasn’t sure when things started going south, but the raid had turned into an all out battle. She was quick to avoid most spells, trying to stand her ground and disarm as many people as she could.

It was getting harder for her to do both--she was struggling between dodging the curses sent her way and then casting her own in a safe manner. The creature she was trying to save wasn’t exactly worth risking her life, but she was going to do everything she could to get it secured and sent to where it needed to be.

For a second everything seemed to calm down, yet the Auror waited a moment before slowly retreating from where she was currently attempting to shield herself. As she fully stood up from her crouched position and walked out, there was a sudden green light and then a sharp pain.

Tina suddenly couldn’t focus on her surroundings and was unable to move when she attempted to look around. The more she fought to gain any control of her body, the more spots appeared in her vision and the more pain she began to feel. After a few seconds, everything went dark.

(Chapter continued under read-more)  

***

January 1927 (Three Months Earlier)

The January following the events of New York brought with it a season of change for Tina Goldstein. Thanks to Newt advocating on her behalf, Tina had been reinstated to her former position as an Auror with MACUSA. However, she did not find out until after the holidays that this reinstatement was conditional.

By order of President Picquery herself, Tina was denied access to more complex and classified cases. Though these types of cases were her strong suit, Tina did not yet have the full trust of MACUSA on her side. It was declared by the President that Tina should be assigned to work with lower level departments in order to diminish the backlog of cases that was continuing to build up. If within six months Tina showed dedication, diligence, and effective reduction of open cases, she would be fully reinstated with access to all Auror assignments.

Tina sighed as she reached her office one cold February morning. She sat down at her desk with a cup of lukewarm coffee and begin reading over her open case files. As she tried to focus on her work, her mind began to wander to the other side of the world, as she daydreamed of her freckle-faced, creature-loving acquaintance. Tina smiled to herself whenever she thought of him and of their adventures in her bright and busy city. December had truly been the most exciting time of Tina's adult life, and she missed it, oh how she missed it!

She was extremely grateful to Newt for speaking with President Picquery and was even more grateful to have her former job back. Although it had not been restored to her in fullness yet, it was far better than working in the Wand Permit office. Tina knew she needed to prove that she was loyal and trustworthy enough to fully re-join the investigative team, but that didn't mean she didn't miss the rush of a raid or the thrill of a capture. Though what she missed far more than anything was a flash of copper, a shy smile, and a gentle touch. At times, she could almost feel the ghost of his fingertips along her temple…

Tina was drawn out of her thoughts by the sound of scurrying and scratching. With a quick flash, she saw something quickly slide under her office door. She wasn't surprised when a rat made of folded parchment presented itself to her by jumping up on her desk. She could tell by the silver and scarlet colors of the parchment that it was a memo from the President. The rat quickly unfolded itself and Tina tapped her wand on the parchment to reveal its hidden message:

Auror Goldstein,

I hope this memo finds you well. I am pleased to inform you that your transition back to the investigative team appears to have been very successful thus far. I was impressed with your acceptance of the terms of your reinstatement and admittedly very curious about your time spent with Mr. Newton Scamander. As you are already aware, Mr. Scamander spoke very highly of you and your investigative skills, for someone who only knew you for a brief time. It would appear that the two of you made quite a team, which leads me to the reason for this memo. As you know Ms. Goldstein, our Department of Magical Creatures here at MACUSA is small, but plays a central role in carrying out Mr. Scamander’s visions regarding magical creatures here in America. At this point, I'm sure you are wondering what this has to do with you - Tina scoffed and rolled her eyes - I would like to assign you to collaborate with the Creatures Division for the remainder of your transition phase. Ever since rumors began surrounding the events that occurred last December, there has been an increase in the illegal breeding and trafficking of magical creatures here in New York. It is my opinion that you possess a unique set of skills of both being an Auror and having worked with Mr. Scamander. You understand both people and animals now Ms. Goldstein, which may be of some advantage in the field. Do this, close all forty-two currently open cases regarding magical creatures and your transition phase will be commuted immediately. This is it your chance Ms. Goldstein; there will not be another one available to you. I hope you will consider and accept this assignment. Please write me when you have made your decision.

All the best,

President Seraphina Picquery

Tina leaned back in her chair and sighed deeply. There was no decision to make; it had already been made for her. Tina wrote a quick response to the President and made her way to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.

***

During the first two weeks of her partnership with the Department of Magical Creatures, Tina closed fifteen cases, which led to the safe recapturing of more than fifty magical beasts. This opportunity had rekindled in her a sense of adventure and, in a way, made her feel closer to Newt. She hadn’t written to him about her new assignment. Tina was humble by nature and though she was proud of herself for taking on this new assignment, she wasn’t going to brag. She preferred to keep her successes to herself and celebrate them quietly.

By March, Tina had settled into a predictable routine. Each morning, she made her way to the third floor which housed the Creature Department. She was given an updated list of open cases and decided which to tackle first. She would then head out with two employees of the Department, who would handle the capturing of whichever magical creatures they were attempting to rescue. Meanwhile, Tina would capture the trafficker, breeder, or owner and disapparate with them back to MACUSA. So far things had gone smoothly and there had been no issues with capturing either creatures or criminals.

One particular morning, Tina had been given her usual list of open cases when she spotted a file with a location that was near the docks. Some local No-Maj shipyard workers had reported unusual sounds, lights, and disappearances surrounding a supposedly abandoned boathouse about five blocks from the shipyard. MACUSA got word of these events through a number of informants interspersed within the No-Maj community. The boathouse was rumored to be occupied by a well-know trafficker and breeder, Laris Youngblood, who had escaped MACUSA’s clutches for well over a decade. Tina rounded up her small team and prepared them for the raid. Though she was sure that this raid would end like many of the others involving Youngblood, Tina at least hoped that her comrades would be able to rescue any creatures that were being held captive there, even if they couldn’t catch Youngblood himself. With a crack, the team disapparated to their destination.

***

Tina wasn’t sure when things started going south, but the raid had turned into an all out battle with Tina and her small team against Laris Youngblood and his followers. She was quick to avoid most spells, trying to stand her ground and disarm as many people as she could.

It was getting harder for her to do both--she was struggling between dodging the curses sent her way and then casting her own in a safe manner. The creature she was trying to save wasn’t exactly worth risking her life, but she was going to do everything she could to get it secured and sent to where it needed to be. After all, her being fully reinstated depended on her helping get the remaining cases within the Division closed.

For a second everything seemed to calm down, yet the Auror waited a moment before slowly retreating from where she was currently attempting to shield herself. As she fully stood up from her crouched position and walked out, there was a sudden green light and then a sharp pain as she fell to the ground.

Tina suddenly couldn’t focus on her surroundings and found herself unable to move when she attempted to look around. The more she fought to gain any control of her body, the more spots appeared in her vision and the more pain she began to feel. After a few seconds of trying to make sense of what was happening, everything went dark.

***

June, 1927 (Three Months Later)  

Newt Scamander looked down at his desk, more specifically the letter he had been writing. He signed the letter and sighed, now debating if he should even send it. For the past couple months, he had been writing to Tina with no response.

As time went on, he sent less and less letters but never gave up on hoping she would eventually respond, if even to tell him that she no longer wished to correspond with him. Regardless, he never heard anything back from her.

The magizoologist had considered writing to Queenie at one point, just to see if he could get a response from at least one Goldstein sister. He never did write to her, deciding that if something bad had happened to Tina, Queenie probably would’ve written him about it already. Maybe the American had simply decided she no longer wanted anything to do with him, and if that was the case he didn’t want to keep bothering her.

Newt looked back down at the most recent letter he had written, still unsure if he wanted to send it or not. If he did send it, it would be the last he would send if he again received no response, he decided.

Miss Tina Goldstein,

I hope you and your sister are doing well. I wanted to write once more and apologize for my constant letters. I have not gotten any response in quite some time, and I can only conclude that this means you no longer wish to stay in contact with me. I again apologize if this is incorrect, but I have no way of knowing what has caused an end to your letters. I hope I haven’t done anything to upset you, but again I have no way of knowing.

I will keep this letter short, having said what I feel needed to be said. Please respond if you feel inclined to, but do not feel obligated. While I would like nothing more than for our correspondence to continue, I fully understand if you do not wish the same.

Newt Scamander

It was more formal than the other letters he had sent, but he felt it had to be written this way. He hoped that he was wrong in his assumption and that Tina was maybe just busy and had never gotten any time to respond, but as more time passed he was unable to convince himself that this was the reason for her silence. Newt worried that maybe something bad had happened to her, but again told himself he probably would’ve heard about it by now. Right? But what if something had also happened to Queenie? Certainly if something big enough had happened to take both sisters down, the news would’ve made it to him.

Right?

Newt folded the letter and decided he would send it in the morning, if he still felt it was the right thing to do. Leaving his desk, he walked around to check on all of his creatures one last time for the night, trying to get his mind off of the witch who more often than not occupied his thoughts now. After he had made his way back into the main part of his house, the magizoologist decided he should also start getting ready to rest for the evening, having no more responsibilities to take care of.

He almost missed the envelope sitting on the floor right in front of the door.

Quickly going to pick it up, Newt’s heart raced at the thought that maybe Tina had finally written him. The handwriting addressing the envelope to him was feminine, but not the feminine handwriting that Newt had come to love. But...it was from America?

Newt’s excitement turned to panic, why would someone other than Tina be writing to him from New York? He tried not to jump to conclusions before he could open the mail; perhaps it was something from MACUSA, asking him to consult on something. But then wouldn’t it have come through the Ministry? He quickly opened it and scanned the letter, his heart dropping.

Newt,

It’s Queenie, I saw that you’ve been writing to Tina. I know you haven’t heard back from her, and I realized that you more than likely haven’t heard. I’m sure things like this don’t make big news in London. You see, my sister has been working with the Department of Magical Creatures at MACUSA, or at least had been...in March, there was a raid to try and stop a well-known trafficker here and it didn’t go very well. There was more people than a single Auror could handle, and the group she had gone with was small to begin with. There was a fight, and at some point Tina somehow fell over and hit her head pretty badly. That’s why you haven’t been hearing from her since then. She’s alive but...she hasn’t woken up yet and nobody can tell me when she might again.

I know you’re a very busy man half a world away, but if you could find time to come visit it would mean so much. Tina thought of you everyday, and I know she missed you. I know it’s a long journey to make to see someone who won’t be able to talk with you, but I know she’d want you here if she were awake, whether she’d admit it or not.

I hope you consider, and I’m sorry it took me so long to tell you, but I was holding out hope that Tina would wake up before I would have to write this.

Queenie Goldstein

[kmorelikegay]

rice, tea and chopsticks

Written for Sarumi Fest, Day 5: Fight/Reconcile. (it’s still the 11th here so I don’t even feel bad this time)

This is a follow-up chapter to another fic I wrote, so you may want to read that first or this might not make a whole lot of sense (it’s not that long though!)

Also on AO3 (first chapter is here).

The first time Yata wakes up in the hospital room, it is to the sight of the Blue King standing over Saruhiko’s sleeping form, lightly touching the back of the hand Yata isn’t gripping. His eyes are closed, and he’s muttering something under his breath, and if Yata concentrates through bleary eyes and a sleep-addled mind he thinks he can see airy blue tendrils drifting into the space directly above where Munakata and his injured friend are touching.

 His immediate reaction is to yank the King’s hand away from Saruhiko and demand an explanation for why he’s touching his Saru, why he’s even here, but – then he really looks at their hands again, really looks at Munakata’s face, and he looks sad, emotional like Yata’s never seem him, and then he really looks at Saruhiko’s face, and even as he watches some of its pallor gives way to a healthier-looking flush, and even the most defensive part of Yata’s brain recognizes that Saruhiko’s King must be using some healing property of the blue aura on him. His body slowly loses its grip on its fight instinct as he recognizes this, and he relaxes, letting the tiredness take over again a little, and turns back to gaze at Saruhiko’s (handsome – has he always been so handsome?) – face.

 A few minutes later, Munakata finishes whatever he is doing, and Yata hears him shift, turns to watch him break out of the trancelike state he was in, watches as his eyes open and sees the worry and fear and relief fill them all at once before he realizes he is being watched. Yata doesn’t think he has ever been this close to the Blue King, and his first thought at he meets that piercing violet gaze is that he doesn’t know how Saruhiko and his coworkers manage it if they have to be the subject of this man’s calculating eyes all the time. But he is Saruhiko’s King, so Yata has some amount of respect for him despite himself, and he forces himself to hold eye contact as Munakata begins to speak.

 “He is recovering well,” he starts, removing his hand from Saruhiko’s as he speaks. “I have helped him where I can, but I believe I have done all I can do. I do not know if they have told you, but he should be able to be released within the week,” he continues, giving Yata a soft smile that Yata thinks should look out of place with his always-professional demeanor but somehow fits him, softens him, makes him look like a concerned parent or older sibling, and Yata relaxes even more; this man is definitely not a threat to Saruhiko, and Yata hadn’t realized how much he cared about his employee. Maybe – and Yata thinks this begrudgingly, but this time with sympathy and even with understanding – maybe this man really was meant to be Saruhiko’s King. Maybe this was always who he belonged with. Yata breaks eye contact at the thought, feeling a confusing mix of contentment for Saruhiko’s happiness, and even his defection from Homra, and of jealousy, for belonging somewhere that isn’t with Yata.

 Before Yata can wallow in his thoughts too much, the man catches him off guard again with an even wider disarming smile, adding, “I think he will be safest and happiest in your capable hands, Yata-kun,” as if he can read Yata’s mind. (Hell, maybe he can; Saruhiko did always say his ability to read people was disconcerting. Maybe he’d meant it literally.)

 Either way, though, Munakata lets his gaze drift from Yata to linger on Saruhiko again, and gives his hand one last gentle pat before turning and striding to the door. Yata notices, then, that he isn’t in his uniform, is wearing jeans and a casual collared jacket instead, and he looks so different and young like that that Yata almost laughs.

 As if the Blue King knew Yata was watching him leave, he turns around after he’s pushed open the door and is standing in the doorframe and says, “I believe you have an apartment nearby, Yata-kun?” He doesn’t wait for an answer before continuing, “Perhaps Fushimi-kun would be best off there until he recovers completely.” He gives Yata a knowing smile before disappearing through the door, and Yata has a moment to think about his words and his smirk, after which he feels his face flush for reasons he cannot understand. In truth, he had been thinking the same thing; but something about how Munakata suggested it gave Yata the impression he knows something Yata doesn’t. It’s a little unsettling, but not unsettling enough to keep Yata awake when he is so tired from staying up to keep an eye on Saruhiko these past couple of days (has it really only been a couple of days?) and as soon as his head hits the pillow he’d snatched from the vacant second bed in Saruhiko’s room he is out like a light again.

 Even in sleep, his grip on Saruhiko’s hand never falters.

-

The second time Yata wakes up in the hospital room, it is because his hand is being squeezed quite roughly, and he lifts his head to find Saruhiko watching him.

 It is so good to see his eyes again. It had been so good just to see his chest moving up and down with his breath that Yata thought that would always be enough, just to have that evidence that he’s alive, but now, seeing his eyes again, Yata doesn’t know how he ever thought anything else would be enough.

 They are so blue, and Yata is so breathless with relief and something else that his first words to Saruhiko then aren’t anything normal at all. Instead, what comes out is, “Oh, good. I thought you were going to let your rice get cold again.”

 Saruhiko had still been staring at him, but at Yata’s words his brow furrows and he looks down at his lap, where indeed a plastic tray stretched across the bed presents to him a bowl of lukewarm rice accompanied by a cup of tea and a pair of chopsticks. While Saruhiko takes in the food, Yata takes the opportunity to study his profile – the line of his nose, the fall of his lashes against his upper cheekbone, the cascade of mussed and unwashed and beautiful hair over the far side of his face, the part of his lips as he breathes before turning back to Yata and saying, “Misaki.”

 Yata’s grip on his hand tightens even more, and he feels Saruhiko respond with a hard squeeze of his own, and then Yata can’t help it, he falls forward against Saruhiko’s chest and lets all of the emotion that fear and lethargy have kept at bay these past two days flow from his eyes onto Saruhiko’s hospital gown. Some distant part of his mind has the awareness to be surprised when Saruhiko doesn’t hesitate, just hugs Yata to him, tilts his head against the top of Yata’s, keeps squeezing Yata’s hand with a desperate grip. It’s as if he is just as afraid of Yata leaving again as Yata is, and that shouldn’t be possible, Saruhiko is the one who’s been asleep, Saruhiko is the one who almost died, but here he is, hugging Yata as if he could disappear at any moment.

 Yata doesn’t know how long they stay like that, but it feels so good to hold each other, even if they haven’t actually talked beyond sniffles and snotty tears and desperate whispers of each other’s names. Eventually he pulls back, wipes his nose on the sleeve of the arm that isn’t still held happily hostage in their mutual death grip, and looks at Saruhiko for real for the first time since he’s woken up.

 He looks pale and exhausted, but mostly he looks hopeful, and it takes Yata’s breath away. Hope looks good on him. Hope looks beautiful on him, and Yata has to ask, has to know, so he starts, “Saruhiko,” he says, “Saru, do you – do you remember what happened? Why you’re here?”

 Saruhiko regards him a moment longer before breaking their gaze and regarding the rice and tea and chopsticks and plastic tray instead. He squeezes Yata’s hand again, nods slowly, then looks away from Yata at the far wall, but not before Yata sees that he’s blushing, and it’s cute as hell but it won’t do, not since Yata knows it’s not out of embarrassment but out of fear, and he doesn’t want fear on Saruhiko’s face, wants to put the hope back on it (hope looks beautiful on him), so he says in a too-fast rush of breath, “I want it.”

 Saruhiko’s head whips back and his eyes start searching Yata’s face for any trace that Yata is joking, just messing with him, as if he would joke about something like this – and doesn’t Saruhiko know, anyway? Doesn’t he know that he makes Yata’s heart pound, that he makes Yata feel smart and loved and needed? Doesn’t he know that he makes Yata’s life interesting, worth living – that even when they fought more than they talked, he was what made Yata get out of bed in the morning, made him look forward to the day? Doesn’t he know that for Yata, he has always, always been it?

 But he knows that Saruhiko doesn’t know, but Yata is still smiling because he will. He will. And as he leans in he sees Saruhiko’s eyes quickly cycle through the stages of acceptance – denial, confusion, anger, confusion again, and then, finally, understanding – and Saruhiko’s eyes that reflect his happiness and that flutter shut as Yata’s mouth closes in on his tell him the rest of what he needs to know.

 I want it, too.

[a-writing-bear]

[England] Oneshot - Oblivion greets them politely.

Ao3 Link:

http://archiveofourown.org/works/13797033

This Has been cross-posted onto FF & Ao3 under Aliases: BearBooper

Fandom: Hetalia Axis Powers

Main Pairing: NONE - Just Character Development for England

Summary:  Arthur Kirkland is not human. Arthur is the Personification of England. Some days he really wishes he wasn't. Some days he dreams of nothingness.

Word Count: 905

Author Note: 

Do you ever dream in white space? I have. - Bear

 "Lift your head and look out the window Stay that way for the rest of the day and watch the time go Listen! The birds sing! Listen! The bells ring! All the living are dead, and the dead are all living The war is over and we are beginning " - In our Bedroom after the war by Stars

Sometimes Arthur would allow his mind to slip into that silly little dream of what he called oblivion. It varies, the depiction in his head is always mumbled and fuzzy unless he sits down and focuses on the feeling of his little imaginary piece of emptiness. It’s not cold, it’s not warm- in fact, the empty space there is just as blank as his current conference notes: blank, lonely and quiet; free from any darkness. He ponders for a minute, sadly smiling at the thought; his idea of oblivion is very much like the notes he writes diligently...changing and rearranging but always conjured by the same broken man. Many days if it’s not blank and bright,  this corner of his mind is organised. Strictly made like a bullet-pointed list, coded with little quirks like plans of tomorrow, plans for today and certainly of plans he never finished. Other days it’s a messy scribble where nothing makes sense and something in him yearns for a colour besides the monochrome film he replays over in this little oblivion he has produced, He detests those days- He always felt queasy after thoughts like those.

Oblivion - his own name for these thoughts - first appeared when he was much too young, no child, personification or not, should be subjected to that locked cell of a psychological mind-trap. Things faded out and in either too quickly or took an eternity to even appear. Isolated and entirely demanding on your trust in yourself to not get carried away with the scary thoughts you lock there, Arthur remembered the first night he felt oblivion, he remembers countless other too of course. The strongest sense of oblivion he had felt must have been after the first world war. The dirt had smudged onto his skin as if it was apart of him. His eyes had been tired, and it felt he would be reborn too many times on this battlefield; every bloody moment in that trench he saw a fresh corpse he had died once more. Too many poets of that era wrote down legacies and the truth that death was no longer a gift of honour in combat, The Englishman could feel it in his own blood that once this was over... the gift of immortality would sour. He had gone many centuries without feeling so despondent, but as his people met modern warfare, when cavalries became parade killings, when the rush of technology soared human destruction to oblivion, he knew Oblivion would greet him again for more nights alone.

He isn’t always thrown into these frozen thoughts involuntarily though, after the issues in Afghanistan he recalled sitting in his office- sipping lukewarm tea, looking at his notes from Russia and allowing himself to question once again what he himself had been doing. Sitting alone, he closed his eyes and walked into oblivion openly, wanting his thoughts to sink in and to come to any decision as he allowed time to seemingly stop in his head. Country Personifications didn’t feel time anyway, but Oblivion made it seem like the concept of time truly was gone. For however long he was there his skin felt untouched, his hair felt free and his lips did not purse or open, only ambivalence marking that expression.

He witnessed someone else experience Oblivion once. A young colony of his, feeling the fear of war so early on. The sudden need to want things to perish, for everything to dissipate as if your doing was just a fleeting nightmare, a sensation which crawled up your spine asking for any bit of control and silence. They had asked him with tears in there wide eyes

“Why does it hurt? What is this? W-why am I feeling this way? It feels so...desolate...so empty..”

It was almost as if he was being choked, suffocating on complex feelings towards the question that had been asked. His lungs empty and heart heavy, he looked at the young one. They hugged close that night- closing his ever-so sleepy eyes Arthur frowned, he retreated into oblivion just like the child did. The empty space where he was alone and nothing happened unless you remembered or you believed. It was almost sadly comforting. It would be much easier, he thought, if he were human. If pain truly did subside. If things didn’t drag on for so long. If he could forget. Immortality was a damaging spell, he never understood the drive humans had to strive for it. This place was a sanctuary but also a significantly powerful nightmare that lured you in...strongly...falling into...nothi-

His desk phone rang loudly as his head nearly collapsed from under his arm, the blonde haired man had been sitting in front of his paperwork, sinking too deeply into Oblivion again and was only awoken by the loud buzzing and obnoxious ringtone. France had just called regarding some economic talks, and that sleek voice was inquisitive enough to wonder about the lack of noise coming from the other end of the line. Arthur’s lips trembled as he turned to look out of his window once more, still breathing into the phone.

“I’m oh-so very tired Francis. Shall we meet for coffee? I’ll take the next train through the channel tunnel.”

Those next 2 hours on his way out of his country, he smiled since he could pretend that he was not England for one...and that Oblivion was far gone.

[wordsturnintostories]

F g h i? Luv u

my sweet anon. i luv you back. :)

F: Share a snippet from one of your favorite dialogue scenes you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

I already answered that on in another ask, back then I chose a snippet of dialogue from Nothing in the Mirror, which I thought was great.But, since I am such a wonderful person (just kidding), I will grace you, dear anon, with another snippet of great dialogue! Woop. Today is your lucky day!

Okay, so this snippet is from Remnants of Time, where it is a littler harder to pick out any detail or phrase, because in Remnants of Time, almost all dialogue is directly tied to action and you mostly need the context to understand the weight of the words and the meaning behind them, but I found this little piece from Chapter 6, which I remember I loved writing (and which I think is kinda okay to understand without the context). (I internally squealed the entire time because in my head it was so cute. Please tell me it’s cute.)

[Natasha stayed at the table with the Russian soldier. He didn’t move much, he had looked at her a few times, with a short but confused gaze. The bowl of salad was empty now, he had eaten.“Take off your shirt”, she said. “I know you’re bleeding under that.”Sam sent her a look, but Natasha moved towards the assassin.He was more than hesitant, but when she stood right before him, he looked up. In her hands, a bowl of water, lukewarm, and a towel. He allowed it, to be washed, but he always made sure to keep Steve in his line of sight. Natasha frowned. Barnes didn’t respond in any way to anything that happened to him, how the towel wiped over open wounds and scars. It should’ve stung, his breathing should’ve hitched a few times, there should’ve been a wince. It was human to hurt. This was like cleaning a gun. An object. Her hands moved through the brunette’s hair, shampooing them thoroughly, scraping the dirt and the blood off his scalp with great care. Steve and Sam were pulling out a map in the background and started to talk about it. She hoped they found a new angle to work from. To get Hydra. Get revenge.

Suddenly, something cold touched her belly and she sent a look downwards. A metal finger softly slid over the scar on her abdomen. The scar the Winter Soldier had created. Barnes’ eyes were completely fixated on the old wound. Natasha continued her cleaning process while watching the man sitting before her. She stood in between his legs now, to get to his neck without having to pull him out of his moment. It was precious, she couldn’t risk ruining this. Then, two hands were carefully placed on her hips. It was a subtle touch, too gentle to be the Winter Soldier’s. Metal caressed skin. James searched her eyes.“Natalia?“She couldn’t help but smile at the man who’d held her this way a hundred times before, but had forgotten every part the affections he’d confessed to her, back then, in the rooms behind the big dance hall, after her ballet performances. In Russian, back then, just like now, but his tongue still made the same sounds, the same soft pronunciation. Sounded familiar like nothing else.“Yasha.”“Where are we?”“In a safe place, for now.”“Good.”Natasha would’ve liked to laugh out loud, but her heart’s joy belonged to her alone, if she shared it with the men in the room, none of them would understand the meaning of what had just happened. She continued to wash his head. Natalia couldn’t help but put more tenderness into her movements. She could tell he enjoyed it, too, because the corners of his mouth were pulled upwards and his eyes almost closed. He trusts me. He’d never close his eyes as the Winter Soldier.“Do you still dance?”“We have more important things to deal with.”This look on his face was different; she saw sympathy on his features. He saw her. Her.He remembered. It wasn’t possible, not with all the wipings, but James had surprised her plenty times before. Natasha held onto all the hope she could reach right now; what else could she do? James whispered, there was a particular gentleness in his words.“You left yourself behind.”“We all did.”]

That was my favorite dialogue from Remnants of Time, I think. Maybe just because it’s the first real interaction that Bucky and Nat have in the story, maybe because it’s a little deeper than the other dialogue, hinting at their past. It’s emotional, it’s sweet. It’s a moment of peace. And it is only theirs, because Steve and Sam do not understand it (Russian), but even if it was in English, their words, their stories, are something unique that only Bucky and Natasha understand. I find dialogue hard to write because you need to know your characters so well that you can anticipate their thoughts. It’s easier on paper than in real life, but still. Especially when you take characters from films and there are incredible actors at work, portraying characters and actually lifiting them into a three-dimensional place. You don’t know what the actors thought or what instructions and background knowledge they got from the directors (and that, my dear friends, is why the directors comments are jewels to me). (Also, I haven’t read the comics, so... yeah.)

But in this scene, I think I did a good job. I love the gentle kindness, the mutual respect, the recognizing on Bucky’s side. I just love this scene.

G: Do you write your story from start to finish, or do you write the scenes out of order?

Oh, definitely the latter. With Nothing in the Mirror, I almost wrote the whole thing in one setting, but that’s very unusual for me. Remnants of Time started with one scene, and that was definitely not the beginning. I feel good with plot building and usually, I look at films and dissect their structure (in my head) to just find how scenes can change the direction of the plot or what effect they have on characters and audience. But usually, I collect scenes (on my phone, on paper, in my head, on my wardrobe, everywhere, sometimes even the same scene double and triple) and then build everything around them.At the moment, I am planning another fic and I dedicated an entire notebook for just the planning of the fic and there is one page that says "Scenes I need to be in there" and i just collect ideas and scenes that I really want to be in there.It’s such a magical process to at one point discover how well some scenes click and some other don’t. When they don’t, you usually have to rearrange or turn a whole setting. But I generally decide on a theme and over time, collect my favorite scenes that I turn into a fic.

H: How would you describe your style?

Crap. That was the question I was most afraid of. Well, maybe not really afraid, but definitely wary. I have no idea if there is a word for my style. (Probably, but I just don’t know it. See, categorizations are not really my thing. I can categorize things/like, scenes and characters, but the categorizations of this world - nuh uh. I just don't get it. Like, for example politics. Took me a looong time to understand the basics.)

Okay, I’ll give it a try. I am very descriptive, I tend to go into detail and describe the scenery or the characters, just everything I can. I have to restrain myself sometimes (now just imagine me coming home from school every day from like, sixth to eleventh grade and my Mom asks the magical question "How was school?” haha. I could tell her almost every snippet of dialogue and all the scenes and sitautions and I’d ruin every joke because of those details, because I just wanted her to understand, not just hear.).

Sometimes, I feel like I am telling you a film. Like, I am writing a film (oh, how I wish to one day sit with Marvel’s filmmakers and just watch them develop the plot for a film. sigh.). And I love it. This is my writing style, I guess.Sometimes, when I am in the flow, I manage to write the perfect balance of action and details. Other times, I just want to show the character’s thoughts and emotions as exactly as possible to bring the reader as close to them as I can.

I: Do you have a guilty pleasure in fic (reading or writing)?

Guilty pleasure, huh?

1) Oxford Dictionary: "Something, such as a film, television programme, or piece of music, that one enjoys despite feeling that it is not generally held in high regard.”

2) Merriam-Webster: "Something pleasurable that induces a usually minor feeling of guilt.”

Which fics are generally not highly regarded? Smut? I don’t read that, I just don’t like it.

I don’t know. You gotta tell me which fics are making you feel guilty when you read them.I really like (and I know, that might sound weird) fics around Bucky, when he loses control in a usually safe situation and it’s nerveracking because you’re constantly on edge. "Will they make it? Will he kill someone? Oh my goodness, what will happen!?" (I like that kind of writing where I get all involved.)I love the fics where there is witty banter, or just banter, lots of banter. I love those, but they gotta go somewhere.Also, I kinda like supernatural fics, but they gotta be well-written (the others too, of course). So, gimme all the shifter and mermaid and monster fics you recommend! ;)

Send me more :)  FanFic Ask Game!

[fester-ing-blog]

unearthly thing (2/?)

a jane eyre inspired AU / read on ao3

Will awoke with a start to a banging on the coach door.

“Sir? We’ve arrived at the inn.”

Stretching his arms, Will dimly recalled stopping for lunch at a quaint pub on the side of the road and eating more than his fill, having forgotten what food could taste like beyond porridge and variations of lukewarm stew. Stuffed and sleepy, he had clambered wearily back into the coach and must have fallen asleep near instantly, despite the bumpy road they travelled.

He took a moment to attempt to straighten his sleep-wrinkled shirt before stepping out of the coach into the cool evening. This was as far north as he’d ever been, and though it may have been his whimsical imagination, he couldn’t help but think that the air felt different here, the ground beneath his feet softer and brighter from days of rain and lack of sun. And still he had a ways north to go.

The porter took his trunk and carried it into the inn, leaving Will to follow behind in a still sleep-dazed state. He found himself being led to his room by a stout, smiling red-faced woman, who offered him food and ale and enquired with interest about what had brought him to Lincolnshire.

“I can tell you’re a ways from home, sir,” she told him while they climbed a narrow staircase, “You’ve the look of the south about you.”

Will smiled a little, eyes trained down on the steps below. “Am I so obvious?”

“’Fraid so, sir,” she chuckled. “You southern boys always are.”

“My family were from the north, but I’ve never strayed beyond Hertfordshire.” They stopped at the top of the stairs and the woman unlocked a door, revealing a comfortable, well-furnished room. Cosy, yet far more space than had been afforded to him in his room at the academy. The bed looked almost decadent, and would undoubtedly be the softest he’d slept in in years.

“Have you come to visit, sir?”

Will looked back with a start, having almost forgotten the presence behind him. “No, they are long dead. I am to take a tutoring position at the Lecter Estate.”

She clapped her hands together delightedly. “Oh, how joyous for you, sir, to work in such a household! The count is a gentleman like no other. A true European man, I’ve heard it said, charming to all. Now, sir, I shall bring your ale, and a warm meal, perhaps?”

He nodded and thanked her, waiting until he heard the door close before falling unceremoniously onto the bed. So many hours in the coach had left his body stiff and aching. Will felt calmness wash over him, a lightness of being he had never truly felt before. Here he was, so many miles away from the cramped quarters where he had crumbled under the weight of so many minds, the cacophony of pain nearly deafening. Here there was nothing but silence, a silence he did not even need to wade into his stream to find.

It was blissful.

After a few moments, he swung his legs to the ground and stood, seeking out the writing materials left on the desk nearby. It may be a little soon to write, but he felt he had so much to say that he simply had to write the words down.

Dear Matthew, he wrote,

How different things are here! You told me, just yesterday evening, that things felt entirely Other in the north. I understand now what you meant, my friend. Truly, the air here feels easier to breathe. Perhaps it is the suddenness of finding myself in a place so utterly open, a place not surrounded by teenaged boys and their woes. The quiet is unlike anything I’ve known, save for the whistle of wind through the trees outside my window.

I have only just arrived at the inn at which I am to spend the night. And the bed, Matt! It’s so unlike those at the academy, stiff and unforgiving. I imagine that tonight I shall sleep more soundly than I have in years.

Tomorrow I shall travel by carriage to the Lecter Estate, as well you know. I am all nerves, yet I cannot deny the underlying hum of excitement. They say that the count is a good man and a good employer. They say that his estate spans over hill and valley. Strange to think, when one has lived on land so flat for so long. Yet here there are hills near as big as mountains, towering above wild horses below – wild!

I shall write again once I have arrived at the place I am to call home. Presently, I wait upon a warm meal, in a charming room in the country, anxiously eager to see what the sun shall bring with him.

Warm regards,

Will

*

The carriage that arrived to bring him to the estate was certainly the finest Will had ever travelled in, with furnishings of soft velvet in crimson as bright as blood. He had seen fine things before at the house he grew up in, but nothing that could compare to the finery he now perched so delicately upon, mindful of marking or denting the fabric. Of course the count must have a great deal of wealth, but to send a carriage so fine for a tutor seemed extraordinary.

Reflecting once more on his wardrobe, he considered the likelihood that it would not match up to what the count expected of his household, and that he would have to travel into town to find something more suitable. The thought was not an appealing one. Will was not one to dress so garishly, finding that the dull tones of hand-me-downs he’d worn as a child allowed him to go about unnoticed, and had continued to adorn himself with the same shades of brown and grey into adulthood.

All at once the carriage came to a halt.

Will turned to look out the window and his breath caught in his throat. There the estate stood, behind wrought iron gates, stately and grand and unlike anything he could have imagined. Dozens of turrets towered above rooms that seemed to be made almost entirely from windows, the glass glittering against the setting sun.

The gardens were so vast he was sure they must span for miles, acres of woodland as far as the eye could see, delicately crafted topiary and statuesque fountains with stone cherubim sitting at their feet.

The porter was opening the door, taking his trunk and leading him through the gates, towards a door several times taller than himself, and all Will could do was look in awe around him.

“You’re lucky you came to us in the spring, sir,” he told Will, “In winter the grounds are so covered in ice the place is practically unreachable. It’s a nightmare to even get beyond the gates when the iron freezes over. Bleak indeed!”

Will listened numbly as they walked through the door, glancing up at the high ceilings and artwork aligning every wall.

“Of course we manage, but it’s never easy, Mr Graham,” the porter continued, placing his trunk unceremoniously on the floor and wiping his brow. “Are you accustomed to the cold, sir? I’m sure your southern winters are like northern summers.”

“Mr Price!” a melodic voice called from above them. “Do not scare the young man off only minutes after he walks through our door, please.” she spoke kindly, and smiled at Will as she descended the staircase to them.

The porter – Mr Price – bowed slightly to the woman. She was beautiful: long hair braided back on her head, blue dress perfectly matched to her pale eyes.

“Alana Bloom,” she introduced herself with a handshake. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance. Mr Price, would you take Mr Graham’s trunk to his room? You’re quite fortunate, Mr Graham, you’ve arrived just in time for supper.”

“Oh, Will, please, Miss Bloom.” he smiled nervously at her, still consciously trying to stop his eyes from darting around the room. Good Lord, it was incredible to behold.

She seemed to sense his nerves as she gently ushered him up the stairwell, to the only slightly plainer servants’ quarters. “Very well then, Will. Alana, then, please. I’m sure you must be hungry after your journey. Would you care to dine with us?”

Will nodded, not entirely trusting his voice. This was beyond anything he could have anticipated. Surely he was not of the standard to work in such a household, with its servants’ quarters as lavish as any prince’s home. Both Miss Bloom and Mr Price were so superiorly dressed, and it was certain that Count Lecter would expect more of his ward’s tutor than his porter and housekeeper. He couldn’t shake of the feeling that he didn’t belong in this place, poor orphan turned lowly teacher, a plain little brown sparrow amongst scarlet pheasants.

Alana led him into a dining room with wide windows and a table of polished oak with several upholstered chairs surrounding it. A woman with dark hair sat in one of the chairs, looking up to give them a grin as they entered.

“Will, this is Miss Beverly Katz. Miss Beverly Katz-“

“Just Beverly, Alana,” she stood, rolling her eyes fondly. “Will Graham, we’ve been waiting for you. Shall I call the rest of our sorry friends for dinner?”

Alana gave Beverly a stern look, but the corners of her mouth were slightly upturned. “Yes, do. “

“I’m sorry if I’ve made you wait,” said Will.

“No apology necessary,” Beverly told him. “I think we could all stand to learn some patience. Zeller must be foaming at the mouth by now.”

“Beverly!” Alana exclaimed. “Whatever will Will think of us?”

Beverly’s returning laugh could be heard from down the corridor.

Turning to Will, Alana sighed softly. “I apologise on her behalf, but in truth, that’s how things always are here. Rather mad, the lot of them.”

“Oh no, don’t apologise. You’ve all been so kind to me.” He spoke earnestly, having expected a much colder welcome from the staff, perhaps a greeting from a withdrawn, middle-aged housekeeper with grey hair and a stern manner. Yet all these people were as bright as the place they lived in. He’d received no more than a barely amenable politeness from those he worked with at the academy, with one notable exception.

Alana sat, indicating for him to do the same. “I hope we shall always be able to offer you kindness, if nothing else.”

He took the chair next to her with a hesitant smile just as Beverly returned with two men in two, one of whom Will recognised as the porter, Mr Price.

“Will, meet Jimmy Price and Zeller. Jimmy and Zeller, Will, our charming southerner.” The three sat just as a round-faced woman brought around china plates piled high with meat and potatoes.

“Mr Graham has already had the pleasure of meeting me – thank you, Eliza – earlier this evening.”

“And how unfortunate for him,” Zeller added.

“Mr Zeller, I’d thank you not to try to diminish my character in front of Mr Graham.“

“I wonder how one’s character can be diminished when one has no character to speak of-”

“Boys!” Alana cut in. “Not at dinner, please. Let us be civilised for our new friend, at least.”

Beverly hummed. “Quite, but would it not be better for Will to learn how uncivilised they are now rather than later?”

The rest of dinner continued much in the same manner, the three of them fondly teasing each other while Alana occasionally interjected, her complaints growing more lacklustre each time. Occasionally, Will would answer a brief question – a “Where were you employed before you came to us, Mr Graham?” or a “Don’t you agree that Mr Zeller chews his food like an animal, Mr Graham?” and he would smile, feeling the warmth of these strange, wonderful people fill him and warm him in turn. So unlike those from his school, where they had eaten meals silently and seriously, exchanging brief ‘good evening’s and not a word more. Of course Will was tired from the journey, and company was always taxing in some manner, yet there was no overwhelming urge to escape that accompanied him in nearly all social situations.

He could see these people, see them right down to the soul as he always could, and they were good. Wholly kind-hearted and good.

“Tomorrow you shall meet Miss Abigail, and start on her education,” Alana said, when their plates had been scraped clean and the candles were dimming. "She's an intelligent girl, if a little behind on her studies. The job of her tutor shall not be a difficult one, pleasant and eager as she is."

“And what about Count Lecter? Shall I be meeting him as well?”

Beverly smiled. “No, he is away at present. He is often away.”

“Oh,” Will murmured. “I see.”

“He’s a good master, and a better man. But not one who tends to stay in one place.” Alana explained with her ever-soft smile.

“It is the vice of every wealthy man,” said Mr Price.

Soon enough they departed, Alana leading Will to his room and bidding him goodnight.

It was beautiful. Of course it was beautiful; a wide canopy bed with soft furnishings, an honest to goodness chaise longue, a brightly painted desk and matching chair, and best of all, windows as tall as him overlooking the endless countryside.

He stood at the window for a moment, lighting the candle left at his bedside as to better look upon the view before him. He could see the swells of the land in rolling hills, the rise and fall of branches dancing in the breeze, the moon dancing on the lake below.

Unpacking his trunk would have to wait until morning, Will decided, undressing and, feeling contented and sleepy, falling into the soft bed below him.

What a wonderful place he had found.

[universeinform-blog]

Sister of blogger killed by out-of-breath

New Post has been published on https://universeinform.com/2017/03/14/sister-of-blogger-killed-by-out-of-breath/

Sister of blogger killed by out-of-breath

A lady hit via a vehicle as she walked on a footpath in Sydney’s north shore has died in the health facility. Heather Croxton had bought an espresso from a Chatswood cafe before she changed into run down by a Toyota sedan on Victoria Ave. The 31-yr-old was taken to Royal North Shore hospital suffering crucial head accidents

Police stated she died in health center yesterday. The out-of-manage automobile also struck a mother with a pram, but fortuitously each has been unhurt inside the incident. It additionally collided with a bike earlier than hanging a close-by pole and flipping onto its face. the day prior to this Ms. Croxon’s family and friends took to social media to express their grief. Her sister, Amanda Andrews, said it become with awesome sadness that she said goodbye to her older sister. “Regrettably matters don’t constantly train session the way we planned,” Ms. Andrews said. “Nowadays I said good-bye to my lovely huge sister who, as I held her hand, took her remaining breath and passed on peacefully.”

She thanked her pals, sanatorium team of workers in addition to her “blog friends for all of the love they have despatched out to her”. She additionally thanked the Penrith Panthers for sending Ms. Croxon a signed jersey: “She had it along with her to the stop – a faithful loving fan.” Sandie Stacey took to social media to pay tribute to Ms. Croxon. “Heather Croxton turned into a vibrant, fantastic young ladies (sic) with the arena at her fat,” she said. Shaina Coogan stated Ms. Croxon became regarded for her kindness and humor. “I’m having a lot of trouble knowledge why, past the truth that there’s no purpose why” she wrote. “I’m taking into consideration how a whole lot better the arena turned into together with her in it and the way now we’ll all should carry her in our hearts to keep her here.” The sixty seven-yr-old motive force of the sedan turned into dealt with for minor accidents and had undergone obligatory blood and urine trying out. Police said officers from the Metropolitan Crash Investigation Unit keep to analyze the crash.

My Irritated Sister

Few people on this global have to get right to entry to all of the mistakes in someone’s lifetime. Siblings had been eyewitnesses to many wrong moves, sins, and missteps that have been made from the early years on. Whilst one sibling turns on another, the results may be disastrous. Life and all of the abilities held by each can be so diminished in an extended-time period emotional war.

A few siblings take ‘hostages’ after they get Irritated. Youngsters, grandkids, nieces, nephews are all off-limits till or if peace is reached. Circle of relatives contributors omits baby showers, weddings, and Life celebrations because of lengthy status feuds.

These inner battles begin small, with a slight or offense at some stage in early life. The injured birthday celebration is constructing a ‘case’ from that point forward. The culprit may also have ignored the harm completely and failed to even file the event in the memory financial institution.

Others re-write history if it would not provide the scenario had to justify Irritated emotions. Jealousy is regularly an underlying motive. Dad and mom do cognizance on Some Kids extra than others. Loss of interest problems is typically corrected When Life affords others-aunts, grandmothers, nieces-to offer the direct cognizance needed to develop into an emotionally healthful person.

lengthy-term, it is the Youngsters who suffer. They’re watching the adults see how to behave. If one’s tribe is susceptible, its members suffer. Addictions abound in this area. human beings attain for some thing-food, alcohol, playing-to provides any correct emotions.

When one has felt bad for lengthy durations, human beings get desperate. Lifestyles don’t make sense whilst you sense mentally and emotionally shut-down. people lash out with anger or flip it inward and increase depression.

In a tribal scenario, turning against one of your very own is a fantastic sin. A tribe is only as sturdy as its weakest hyperlink. The process of each member is to live healthfully and assist others to do the identical. Sibling competition should price the whole group. All electricity is needed to maintain a healthful Life-meals, apparel, the safe haven.

America is a country of multi-layered households. Two-three marriages for a person isn’t always unusual. That collection of Circle of relatives disconnects has far-attaining effects. Many Kids close down at some stage in the divorce manner and never completely come returned.

  How to Use Cayenne To Treatment Bad Breath

Terrible breath or halitosis is a common motive for fear and embarrassment for plenty people in particular while the circumstance turns into continual, meaning the individual suffers from it all the time. It makes them very conscious of their environment and it can hinder the social existence of the person. Those people may additionally need to begin ingesting extra cayenne pepper because it has been validated to be a simple technique to many Horrific breath issues. Even as it’ll likely not paintings as a permanent remedy, cayenne pepper has been cited as a likely substance for treating moderately instances of halitosis.

Bad breath may also have its origin associated with oral issues (teeth and gum issues), systemic issues (Those springing up from the respiratory tract, lungs, stomach and digestive tracts) or from contamination along with cold, infections in the throat, tonsillitis, and so forth. it may additionally be brought on because of drying of the mouth (xerostomia) and due to poor oral hygiene.

If the condition is triggered because of systemic troubles, it could be reduced by means of eliminating or treating the systemic motive. Horrific breath because of problems from the stomach is related to conditions which include gastritis, reflux, coronary heart burn, ulcers, and so on.

Treating such systemic conditions is executed with the help of drugs which are prescribed by using a medical doctor. Similarly to this, there are a few natural therapies and a few home made remedies that help alleviate the trouble to the certain volume. One such choice to Cure systemic situations bobbing up from the stomach is Cayenne Pepper. Cayenne and Bad breath are polar opposites. The chemical compounds on this meals assault and might wreck down most of the internal gastrointestinal chemicals which purpose Awful breath. Once more, While it can now not paintings for absolutely everyone, this is a fast and clean manner to save you Awful breath issues from springing up inside the first location.

Cayenne, whose medical names are Capsicum frutescens or Capsicum annum, is a hot pepper this is derived from capsicum and has an energetic element called capsaicin. It’s far regularly used to deal with a variety of situations which include sinusitis, headaches, asthma, diabetes, pneumonia, arthritis, psoriasis, and so on. It’s miles beneficial in the development of blood circulate and the removal of toxins from the body. It’s also useful in treating a diffusion of gastrointestinal issues and aids in improving the digestion

What Does Ski-in, Ski-out Mean

While you are reserving a vacation apartment property in a ski motel there may be an indisputable magic to the word ‘ski-in, ski out’. It conjures up photos of a loving restored log cabin on the brink of an immaculately groomed piste, of watching fellow skiers carve stylish turns from your residing room window, with the occasional spray of snow towards the window pane. It suggests stepping out of your the front door, clicking in your skis and gliding down the slopes to the carry. You could anticipate warding off the weigh down of human beings expecting a lukewarm and soggy pizza within the mountain restaurant via the usage of your own chalet as … A mountain restaurant. And, perhaps satisfactory of all, You can look ahead to snowboarding lower back to your personal front door at the stop of the afternoon and forget approximately trudging alongside paths and the indignity of crowded travel buses.

The fact can be very special. Understanding the strength of the time period ‘ski-in, ski out’, excursion rental companies are brief to use it to cover a myriad of various arrangements and a variety of proximity to the slopes. Right here are a few things to look at out for:

The ‘ski-in-ski-out’ home that is actually ‘hiking distance’ to the slopes. The economics of housing development on mountainsides Suggest that once an area is evolved next to the slopes, only some of its miles virtually next to the slopes. there’s almost positive to be a hinterland of houses which have to get entry to the slopes…through pathways, steps, roadways and so on. The pathways can be brief, or they may no longer. Make certain you ask exactly how far a selected belonging is from the actual ski slope, and what the path is honestly like: is it a degree walkway or a series of dozens of icy steps?

The ski-in, ski out domestic that is reached through an ungroomed path through the woods. Whilst these homes have been originally built the builders reduce a trail to them in order that they could be sold as ‘ski-in, ski out’. But those trails are very regularly too slim for a snow-cat to use; furthermore, they are very probably personal belongings and the elevate business enterprise which grooms the slopes can also have no obligation to them. Most effective if the proprietors of properties served by that path get together and make personal arrangements for grooming will you locate the path in right sufficient condition for safe usage.

The ski-in, ski out home that gives correct ski-in, ski out access…in case you’ve selected one of the 2 weeks of the 12 months While the snow is all the way down to that degree. Many inns that provide ski accommodation are down within the valley, and global warming has caused a raising of the snow line and a decline in the number of weeks that snow is on the ground at given elevations.