Been on Tumblr since 2010 but haven't been active in years; they still don't let us transfer main blogs status so I made this whole new thing to escape the hellblog of my past.
I am also, like, SUPER sus about anyone randomly DMing me so I probably won't respond to random "hey"/"hi"/"hello" anymore. It's a much better time for both of us if you randomly open with like topical statements or questions that aren't seeking personal info 😅
My Interests
Skyrim / The Elder Scrolls
Star Wars
Writing & Worldbuilding
Team Fortress 2
Fantasy Storytelling
Dungeons & Dragons
The Empyrean Saga
The Dragonriders of Pern
Live-Action Roleplay
Weapons & Combat Training
Space, Astronomy, Astrophysics, Cosmology
History, Archaeology
This blog will contain, along with fandom and writing stuff, political reposts and discussion, commentary on religion, war, and current events, and potential NSFW content. I don't intend to make them the core theme of the blog, but please be aware you may encounter these topics here.
My Creative Areas
(may update with tags later)
Worldbuilding ( #haelsworld )
Original Writings ( #haelstales )
Fanfiction
Photography ( #haelsworld )
Electronic/Synthesised Music
Crappy Art (affectionate)
I don't use AI in any of my creations, I'm just Autistic 😂
My Other Blogs
@wingsdontwork - Fandom, fun
@thebestredscout - Team Fortress 2 RP/Ask blog
@theglitchinmannco - Team Fortress 2 RP/Ask blog, Faultverse content
CW under the cut: Mental Health, Controversial Topic links
My Uniquenesses
AuDHD
Anxiety
Dissociative Tendencies
Physically Disabled
Heart Condition (undergoing diagnostics)
Recovered from Depression but I will still hit extreme lows
Former DID
My Stances
Where a link does not exist, it means I haven't made a post yet - you can either wait or harass me in Asks, about these or literally any other topic, just make sure you mention you want my opinion because unless you specify that I might skirt the question.
Abortion || Artificial Intelligence (1) || Entertainment || Health & Fitness || LGBTQIA+ || News Media || Oxford Comma || Parents || Politics || Racism || Religion || Sexism || Social Media || Therapy || Transgender || Trauma || Vaccines
simply cannot ever resist what i call the little mermaid or the tin man or the pinnochio plot, the one about a character who is either inhuman or human but outside in some way, constantly searching for whatever it is that they consider to be the quintessential proof of humanity, preoccupied by it so deeply that they fail to realize the proof is in the act and fact of the search itself
I do think it’s interesting how the novel Dracula is meant to be a modern setting from its perspective. It’s very much that genre of story about an ancient fantasy archetype finding itself in a modern setting, complete with the rules-lawyering that often comes with modern parodies (that isn’t to say the stories of Olde didn’t have fun with loopholes either though).
Except Dracula is a story that plays itself straight. The vampire himself is not stupid. He’s possibly the oldest vampire of all which means he upgraded from animal instinct and mindless echoes of past memories to someone who’s regained his critical thinking skills. The story begins because he’s already adapted to how the modern world works now by hiring a solicitor who understands modern laws.
He knows now that he doesn’t have to march into London with an army like he used to; He can just buy property and the laws of London are forced to respect that. Similarly he’s already experimented in and discovered loopholes to vampire rules and limitations; Vampires are bound by the permission of owners so he simply uses his solicitor to buy and own a bunch of properties. If he needs to be invited in, Dracula hypnotizes someone to let him in.
Vampires need to return to their grave every dusk/dawn (whichever comes sooner), which causes their coffin to act as an anchor that limits how far from it they can travel? Dracula simply rations the earth of his grave into fifty coffins and spreads them across London so his range becomes exponentially larger.
All of these things make the story almost come across as a deconstruction and it might just be! It’s just that Dracula the novel became such a trendsetter that people nowadays see it as playing things fully straight. It almost feels as if the novel is written with the idea that readers have a basic understanding of vampires and their rules, so part of the thrill comes in the revelation of how the titular vampire is working around these rules. Likewise I’ve heard it used to be a trope in English literature for a traveler to visit some foreign land with a monster and escape by going home. But here the foreign aspect of the story is just the first (and final) arc; The monster’s plan hinges on coming to the UK itself!
So yeah. Dracula isn’t stupid and he reflects the idea that people of the past had just as common sense as the rest of us, they just had access to less/inaccurate knowledge and things worked differently back then. Dracula would be like… That bit of someone showing a medieval peasant a meme as they comprehend it perfectly and aren’t even wowed by the Doritos. If Dracula was set in the 21st century he’d probably understand social media well enough to become an influencer if he wanted to, though the issue of being invisible in cameras wouldn’t help.
writing advice i live by (as someone who writes as a hobby):
your first draft is allowed to be awful. let it be awful, you can always improve it later.
if you’re writing as a hobby, it should be enjoyable and not feel like a chore.
if you’re stuck on a scene and can’t get the words out, skip it. write a note for yourself to come back to it later and move on to the next scene. sometimes you just need to look away from the scene and come back to it with a fresh pair of eyes for the words to flow again.
that also applies to finding the right words and metaphors.
consuming media is one of the best cures for writer’s block.
another thing that helps writer’s block is asking yourself: “what is the most fun/best/most devastating thing that could happen next?”
do not rush your writing. quality work takes time, so don’t ever beat yourself up for being a “slow writer”. it’s always worth taking your time building the right plot and finding the right words to make something you’re proud of.
you’re allowed to take a break from your writing. writing is hard work and burn out happens. take a break if you need, and come back to it when you’re ready. writing is not a race.
writing a story/plot you love > molding your plot to trendy tropes you don’t enjoy.
when you’re writing as a hobby, your work doesn’t need to be perfect. it just needs to make you happy. that’s it.
having more words doesn’t mean higher quality work. don’t feel bad for having a low word count.
if you like your own story, chances are others will too.
the popular western idea of buddhism being known as the peaceful religion is genuinely so dangerous. it's a kind of audacity that basically says "wow, you must have done something REALLY bad to piss off the peaceful BUDDHISTS" which is not only deployed in defence of sri lanka's genocide of tamils but also to be islamophobic about rohingya muslims being persecuted by buddhist myanmar
You know, when I've remarked that a lot of the responses to my posts feel like people are just plucking out keywords they think they recognise based on the shape of them and replying to what they imagine the post says based on that, the possibility never occurred to me that this is actually how many American schools are currently teaching kids to read.
Warnings: Threats of violence, alcoholic references
Rating: M
Tags: Team Fortress 2 | Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence
"Mr. Hale wants to see you."
Shit.
Mr. Bidwell, my departmental supervisor, flicks an imaginary speck of dust off his cuff as he sniffs. He's a bit of a rod-up-the-arse type, cultivated accent and all, and he's determined to pretend that our escapade in San Diego never happened, but I have the photographic evidence, and I'm pretty sure his boss has the voicemails and texts to back it up.
I've been at this company for nearly five years, flying under the radar and using employee status and benefits to further my extra-curriculars. It's been a bit of a breeze, going from mailroom to call centre to where I am now, but I don't need to work my arse off for some multinational corporation to feel fulfilled in life. I've skated by on the bare minimum, sometimes even less - so long as they keep the paycheques coming, I'll keep working here.
But six little words might just be signalling the end of my time at this company.
"Perhaps I should have prefaced that by saying you're not in any trouble," Bidwell adds, glancing at me. "He simply wishes to speak with you."
Yeah, that's not exactly reassuring. "About what?" I ask, slowly rising from my desk. Bidwell shrugs.
"Couldn't say, but he asked for you specifically."
Prick.
My mind is whipping through fifty different things it could be. The Darling-Mann files sit at the forefront of it, files formed from collecting data that may or may not have been illegally obtained, may or may not have cost a hacktivist his identity, and may or may not have already been used as blackmail against Olivia Mann, the CEO of our company.
Well, co-CEO. The other is, of course, the indomitable Mr. "Samuel" Hale.
But what if it's not the files? What if it's about San Diego? What if Bidwell's exacting some sort of revenge for me getting him thoroughly munted on the last night of the trip? Obviously I take no responsibility for anything he did while drunk, he's a grown man and he could have said no to the fourth Long Island Iced Tea I offered him, or the eighth Fireball shot, but I think he was trying to keep up with mine and Flo's drinks record. Still, it was probably a bad look for the company. And it wouldn't surprise me if Bidwell is about to throw me under the bus for his behaviour.
Bloody men.
Breathe. Calm. Bidwell said you're not in any trouble.
Still, it's weird that he's asking for me specifically.
Bidwell doesn't talk as we take the lift, rocketing up twenty floors to where Olivia Mann and Samuel Hale both have their offices on the top floor. I come up here often enough to drop off papers for Mann but I haven't set foot in Hale's office since the renovation. It used to be the main boardroom, but Hale insisted on taking it back after he literally crashed through the skylight into Mann's office and challenged her to a fistfight for the company. Anneliese said it's now filled with hunting trophies of various formerly-endangered species, but I guess I'll find out soon.
"Wait here," Bidwell tells me as we stop in front of the doors, "I'll let you know when he's ready."
Shouldn't he be expecting me, if he wants to see me specifically?
I'm not about to push any kind of goodwill or luck, so I smile and salute as Bidwell slips through the doors. Glancing down, I tug at the hem of the work blouse I'm wearing to make sure it sits somewhat neatly on my frame, and run a hand half a centimetre above my head to make sure I don't have any flyaways or wisps of hair that have escaped my ponytail. I never bother with makeup, and the necklace I'm wearing is a thumbnail-sized pendant that hides just below the collar line. I know I look professional and presentable, which is what you want to be certain of when you have to deal with a guy known for firing on the spot.
"Bidwell! How's that search for the yeti goin'?"
Ah, the sound of Australians - loud and seemingly aggressive, but with just enough warmth in the voice that they can still sound friendly. You don't hear or see too many Australians nowadays - they shut the borders and went full isolationist sometime in the 90s, and now finding an Aussie outside of Australia is rarer than finding a dog turd that smells like lavender.
Hale is Australian, though. More than that, he's old Australian - big, beefy, brutish, even has the patch of Australia-shaped chest hair still. Men like him haven't been common since the 1970s, and the so-called "Samuel" Hale seems to have modelled himself off the manliest man Australia had to offer back then: Saxton Hale.
Of course, the global legend that was Saxton Hale allegedly died in a plane crash in 1974. No body was ever found amongst the wreckage, but it's such an odd coincidence that he went down with his assistant, a man known as "Bidwell". And then, fifty-two years later a guy shows up with all the same traits and mannerisms, calling himself Samuel Hale and served by his assistant, Mr. Bidwell.
"I want that trophy back, Bidwell, you got it? Do whatever it takes. It was my kill, fair and square."
I don't know how many people of the modern era grew up with Saxton Hale posters but it's pretty fucking obvious Samuel and Saxton Hale are the same person. I'm still trying to figure out how exactly that works though - time travel has remained elusive even to the most advanced cultures of the world, and cryogenics is still a shonky rip-off at best.
Bidwell's reply is too soft for me to hear, so I lean against one of the doors to get closer to the gap between them.
"… aware of that, sir."
"Good. Anything else?"
Hale sounds like he's in a mood. Great - perfect time to see the guy. I would roll my eyes internally at my luck if I wasn't trying so hard to eavesdrop.
"Miss Spencer is here, sir."
"Excellent!" Hale pauses for a moment. "Who?"
Who? I'm not sure whether to feel relieved or annoyed that Hale apparently doesn't know who I am, but I have to remind myself I'm just an assistant's assistant. Mann Co might not have had a heirarchy under the reign of Olivia Mann's predecessors, but there's definitely one now - and on the ladder of Mann Co career-chasing, I sit fairly low.
It works for me, thankfully. In more ways than one.
Bidwell manages not to sound annoyed at the response, which only convinces me he's superhuman in some capacity. "The one I spoke with you about yesterday, sir."
He must have moved away from the door or lowered his voice, because I don't catch the next three syllables he says, though there's a sybilant in there. I barely start to run a mental map of the possibilities based on context when Hale replies again.
"Right! Bring 'er in, then!"
As if I'm fucking Anastasia Steele or some shit, the door I was leaning on gives way and I stumble forwards into the office. Unlike Ana Steele, I catch myself before I faceplant into the dark green rug and straighten up, quickly adopting my most professional customer-service smile.
"Ah, Miss Seltzer! Come on in, have a seat,"
"Spencer, sir," I correct him. Don't look him in the eye, don't let him see your nerves. I pull my head up and stride forward as he gestures.
Hale stands at over two metres tall, which completely dwarfs my 167 centimetres. I have no idea what he weighs but every kilogram is pure muscle, and it shows as he stands, extending a hand. He's infamous for going shirtless and, yes, the luxuriously thick patch of chest hair on his chest that looks like it could be shaved and turned into a wig, is indeed shaped like Australia.
I shake his hand, keeping the smile in place even though his hand is almost twice the size of mine, and reflex kicks in before I can stop myself, my pathetically small hand trying to crush his. He nods approvingly though.
I'm still not sure if that's natural or a choice he makes with whatever manscaping he has.
The office still has echoes of the old boardroom, but it's been decked out in the very Australian green-and-gold, and what Annaliese said about the trophies is true - massive creatures line the walls, all arranged in various threatening poses with small nameplates attached to their bases and mounts.
"Strong grip! Love that in a worker, shows you're not as weak as you look. Now," he sits back in his high-backed chair as I draw up a chair opposite him. "Bidwell tells me you've been a bad girl."
Jesus fucking christ, there wasn't a better way you could have said that?
"Not that I'm aware of, sir," I lie, glancing at Bidwell. The accent remains in place, though I notice my usual eastern American slips slightly into a Pennsylvanian lilt. Clearing my throat slightly, I raise my chin, still not directly meeting his gaze, but focusing on the scar above his nose. "I've been performing my work duties to the letter, as required."
"You sure have, Miss Spitzer. And you've been going above and beyond," he adds, grinning behind the bushy moustache covering his upper lip - but his voice drops, going dangerously soft. "But let's cut the crap. You've been diggin' up information you shouldn't be."
Shit.
Shitshitshitshitshit.
Every nerve is on alert as his expression remains the same, but something in his eyes changes with his voice. The office is starting to feel very cold, and that smile looks almost a little... sinister.
It's a game of Texas Hold 'Em and we're on the blind. I've got two choices - play or fold.
This meeting has just turned into a match of wits, and I don't have a read on my opponent.
Fuck, this is why I tried to hand off those files; I hate going into situations without all the information, but I'm sitting right in front of a man I don't know, a face I can barely read. If he were anyone else - Mann, Bidwell, whatever - I'd be fine. But he's not.
And I don't fold before at least seeing the flop.
"With respect, sir," I bow my head slightly, playing off a submissive gesture though I keep my back and shoulders straight. That lilt is definitely slipping southwards, and I steel myself, trying to drag it back to my usual fake voice. "The information was in easily-accessible files. I stumbled across it while trying to dig up the company's history, as part of the project Mr. Bidwell assigned me."
I'm gambling with what little I know about this pair, mainly the fact that neither of them probably knows how to handle a computer. Bidwell seems to have figured out smartphones, but there's no sign of modern tech in this room so I have a sneaking suspicion Hale is still behind on the times. I can use that.
The look he's giving me is a withering one, ice blue eyes narrowed as he studies me silently. Rising from his seat, he leans over his desk, using all two hundred and whatever centimetres of his height to get as up in my grill as he can.
"We both know that's a load of bullshit, Jessica."
Oh. He does know my name.
"You had to get through three firewalls and dig out two data cores from the mainframe to get that information," he tells me, his voice low. There's no warmth to it; it's just pure threat, and though I let the customer service smile fade, I keep my expression schooled to hide the fact that my heart is thundering in my chest like a stampede of emus.
Check.
He's calling the bluff.
Raise, check, or fold.
"I have no idea what you're talking about, sir."
I've played this game before, but never against someone like Hale. The disconcerting glare remains fixed, and I'm forced to meet his eyes as he inhales deeply. Thank fuck this place has good air con, because I'd probably be sweating otherwise.
Hale squints, eyes still locked on mine as I play the part of the confused staffer. I don't blink, though, and I don't glance at Bidwell like I know I should; something instinctual within me demands that I meet this challenge, and I hold his gaze.
"You're not the sharpest tool in the shed, are ya?"
Raise.
"A wrench doesn't need to be sharp to loosen bolts."
He snorts like a bull. He's close enough that I feel the burst of breath, fortunately not so close I have to smell it though.
"Tiny scrap of a thing, too." He tilts his head, gaze shifting enough to look me over with an assessing gaze. "I bet I could snap you in half with one hand. Crack that little spine like a glowstick."
Oh shit, we're escalating to threats now.
There's a reaction - a tiny one, though I try not to let it slip out. My eyes wide as my breath catches somewhere in my chest. My heart is pounding and I am uncomfortably aware that he's right - he could throw me across this room if he felt like it without even trying. I have to try and de-escalate
"Size doesn't confirm danger. A real Aussie would know that."
Fuck - some errant little shitstirrer in me takes a hold of my tongue and says it first. The internal wince at my own dumbassery is overshadowed as I realise - the way those words came out.
No accent.
Well, no faked accent.
"I'll be damned," Hale straightens up, still studying me. He starts to laugh, looking at Bidwell.
Hale's caught it too, because his expression freezes and he stares at me, shifting back a little. A furrow appears between his brows as he tilts his head again.
"You heard it, right?"
"I did, sir,"
"I fucken knew it!" Hale roars with laughter as he slaps his knee, falling back into his seat, "Fuck me, you're a little lyrebird, aren't ya?"
Son of a f—
"Oh, a skippy are ya?" Hale throws his head back laughing, "Fuck, it's good to hear that accent again."
Fuck it. May as well give up the act.
"And ya sittin' over here threatenin' to crack my spine?" I snap back at him. "You should know better than to scrap with a skippy."
He sits forward, wiping his eyes as he shakes his head, still grinning broadly. I let myself relax in the seat, abandoning the rigid upright posture in favour of letting more loose than I have in five years.
"What the bloody hell are ya doing outside the mainland then, Skip?" Hale asks, sobering slightly though he keeps that grin. The harsh aggressive demeanour is gone, and before me sits a man who looks like he was born to fight, eat steak, and drink beer. It's a reminder of home, honestly. "Where ya from?"
"Coffs," I shrug, "Well, just north of it. Great little surf spot but you won't see it on a map."
"I'll bloody bet, 'cos that ain't the voice of someone from a civilised part of the land," Hale chuckles, nodding to Bidwell before shifting again. "Steak? You could do with some filling out."
"Dad's been saying that since I was twelve, I just stopped growin'," I shrug as Bidwell closes the doors, giving us significantly more privacy. "So long as it's Angus, I'll have whatever."
"A woman of taste," Hale nods approvingly as he ducks beneath the desk for a few moments, rising up and dropping two veritable slabs of meat onto the surface of the desk. "Don't touch the top; you'll sear the flesh off those little hands of yours, and I'm gonna need them in top condition."
Right. Negotiations - it was probably too much to hope my identity or the information was the only reason Hale had me dragged up here. The steaks begin to sizzle as I notice the heat starting to radiate from the top of his desk, and arch a brow.
"A grill in the desktop? I always thought that was a myth."
"Nup! Best way to handle a negotiation, over two well-cooked steaks. How do ya like it?"
"Medium-well," I snort, as if any other answer could ever be correct. "So, I'm not just in shit for the files, by the sounds of it."
"Files?" Hale glances at Bidwell, who gives him a small gesture and he reels slightly. "Right, those files! Nah, it actually helped me out a lot. Little 'Liv didn't have my signatures to confirm any of those partnerships so I managed to nip that in the bud," he gives me a nod and grins, prodding the steaks as they hiss. "Nah, you're not in trouble - it got me thinkin', actually."
Ah, of course. I smirk, settling back in the chair as I tilt my head. "Did it? Careful not to think too hard, ya might pull somethin'."
He chuckles again, cracking a beer with one hand as he watches the steaks. "You're good with these modern computers, Spencer. Good enough to get a guy out of trouble, though?"
I smirk as he grabs a second beer and holds it out for me. I'm not usually a beer drinker, but I'm not about to say no if Hale's handing it out. It's bound to be Aussie if it's from his fridge. "Depends on the trouble. Depends on the pay."
He looks up from the steaks, and though the smile's still there his gaze has darkened.
"Careful, missy. You're still a nobody."
"You'd be surprised on the dirt this "nobody"'s dug up," I tell him. "My skills are available, but at a price. Question is, how much are ya willing to pay?"
The steaks sizzle between us as Hale and I lock into a staring competition, but I think he knows that now, with the mask off, I've got a lot less to lose. The moustache shifts as he considers his options.
"You can make this whole prosecution go away?"
"Promotion. You don't work under anybody except me or 'Liv." He turns his gaze back to the steaks, flipping them both. However hot this cooktop is, it's already got them well-browned and smelling amazing. "Pay rise, your own office, freedom to work on whatever projects you think are best, with a couple exceptions," he adds, "Fuck it, I'll even throw in some training. Little waif like you might need it," he looks me up and down again. "All you have to do is make sure I never end up behind bars. I've got people who can handle the physical evidence, but we're still, uh..." he hesitates, eyes still on the steaks. "A little behind on the digital side of things. So that'll be your job - cleaning house digitally."
Of course. The protesters Hale's in trouble for beating the shit out of. Some picketers were causing trouble out the front of the office a few days back, harassing staff and even tried to grab one of the young interns. Hale isn't the most noble of people - obviously, considering the threats he was just levelling at me - but he's got standards.
Apparently those standards go out the window when he's got an excuse to start beating the shit out of people protesting his company.
And obviously when that happens, charges are pressed.
I nod once, not breaking eye contact. "Wouldn't be my first. Or my second. Wouldn't even be top ten," I add, adding a cocky grin. I know what I'm good at and this is one of those things - computers aren't just my job, they're like an extension of me, like I was born to be plugged in. "I can make records disappear, erase all digital copies of evidence, including source files, and even delete entire identities from existence. World's so focused on interconnectedness nobody ever stopped to think about the dangers of it."
Well, a bunch of virus companies did, and most people working in tech, but it's not like what I do directly hurts anybody. Not usually, anyway.
Hale hurts people. His company hurts people. I probably shouldn't be here, offering services to the enemy - but he sent for me first.
"All at your disposal, temporarily or permanently, for the right price."
He chews over his thoughts for a few moments, moustache quivering as he watches me and nods slowly.
"Then this'll be your last meal."
He pulls open a desk drawer and digs out some cutlery, offering me a fork and steak knife.
"And what if I say no?" I ask cautiously, accepting the cutlery. He smirks, but that warmth in his eyes has disappeared again, along with any warmth the office held.
He spears one of the steaks on a carving fork, though he doesn't break eye contact with me as he does so. Sliding the steak across the desk, the smirk fades.
"I have enough trouble trying to keep that bloody woman down the hall in line," he tells me, the warning back in his tone. "I'm already watching my back against her bullshit. But you? You're an ant, Spencer. I could snap that pretty little neck and throw you in the compactor downstairs. It'd take a day or two for anyone to realise you went missing, and a lot longer than that to figure out what happened."
Jesus; he doesn't need to get so graphic about it. Some of my newfound anxiety must show on my face, because he shifts his weight, tilting his head slightly.
"At least I'd send your dad a gift basket with a condolences card - 'Liv wouldn't even give you that," his lips twist into a cruel smirk. "She'd just have you shot down by one of her goons, left for dead in the middle of the street. Or anywhere, really. She keeps her hands clean, but she's got her own team makin' a mess of bodies on her behalf."
"You think she'd fight to keep you out of prison?" I ask, unable to help myself. He chuckles - a dark, unnerving sound, the kind that haunts dreams.
"I think she'd care more that you handed people the info to blackmail her with. But I can protect you from her, too," he adds. settling into his seat and picking up his cutlery. "I strongly advise you take my first offer."
Promotion to Hale's digital lackey, or death.
"Not much of a choice, is it?" I grimace, looking down at the steak in front of me.
"You could also run back to Australia, but I'm guessin' there's a reason you haven't done that already."
Yeah, definitely fuck all of a choice. I sigh, looking up at him as we let the steaks cool to an edible temperature.
"Sounds like an offer I can't refuse," I tell him, forcing a tight smile. "When do I move my things?"
pulling the other in to whisper something... a threat, a promise, a compliment, an innuendo... who knows, but it is sure to feel intimate as hell
the typical moment when they shake hands and both squeeze hard to assert dominance
public figures acting cordial, locked in a handshake while being photographed as one, with a pleasant smile, reveals their betrayal to the other
reaching for a handshake but the other takes it and places a kiss on the back of it. bonus points if it is in a setting where this is not at all expected or typical
a hidden enemy yanking the other close as soon as they grasp hands and putting them into a headlock or pressing a weapon to their skin
secret lovers saying goodbye in public, their hands lingering awkwardly long as neither wants to let go
soulmate!au: in a very conservative society, where casual touches are rarely done, two allies only realise they are destined for each other when one congratulates the other after their wedding
[Prompt Calender: June 25th, National Handshake Day]
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