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dleatherncigar · 2 months ago

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The invitation came on thick, matte-black paper. No return address. Just a wax seal stamped with a symbol Gregory didn’t recognize—an ouroboros with a key in its mouth.

He was in the middle of negotiating a real estate deal in Singapore when it arrived. The envelope sat untouched on his hotel nightstand for two days before curiosity won. Inside, a single line:

“You’ve been observed. You are a candidate. If you accept, your truth will be unlocked.”

There was a date, a location—an island off the coast of Madagascar—and one final sentence:

“You will leave as someone else. You may never want to return.”

Gregory closed the envelope. His heart pounded harder than it had in years.

The flight was unlisted. The attendants didn’t speak. The window shades were down. When he woke, the world outside looked fictional—glossy, hyper-real, like stepping into a lucid dream.

The compound was subterranean, carved into volcanic rock. Above ground, nothing but jungle and ash fields. Inside, steel, glass, and dim amber lights lined the corridors. No signage. Only hosts—perfect bodies in tailored leather, silent and watching.

The first night, he was stripped. Not by force. By invitation.

“Your name no longer applies,” said a woman with short platinum hair and a leather collar. “You’ll be given a role. A new form. A new truth. And you will become addicted to it.”

He didn’t resist.

There were rules.

Every guest signed a waiver. Their bodies were scanned. Memories recorded. Neural pathways charted like maps.

What followed was called “Descent.”

Gregory stood before a mirrored slab in a stone room deep underground. He was naked. Vulnerable. Pale. His body average. His gaze timid.

“Subject G-11,” came the voice from the speaker. “Chosen role: Madero. Assignment: Underworld enforcer. Age: 42. Race: Afro-Caribbean. Height: 6’4”. Primary vice: control. Secondary vice: pain.”

He blinked. “That’s not… I never—”

“It’s what you wanted when you stopped pretending.”

They strapped him down.

The mask was last. A sleek obsidian polymer that sealed around his face. Cold fluid surged into his veins. Something deep in his chest snapped.

Then came heat. Fire under his skin. Muscles swelled, twisted.

His thighs bulged, calves thickened. Bones cracked. His spine stretched.

Skin darkened—first tan, then deeper, rich brown, thickening in texture. Smooth but taut. Oiled.

He screamed as his hands widened, fingers cracking into new angles. His torso bloomed with mass, pecs thrusting outward, abs etching into a cobblestone wall.

Facial hair exploded from his skin—coarse, black, full. A beard worthy of fear. His nose flared wider. Cheekbones sharpened. His lips thickened, curved into a permanent smirk of dominance.

Teeth fell loose, replaced by new ones—white, square, slightly crooked. A gold cap gleamed on a back molar.

His cock grew. And grew.

He grunted as it slapped wetly against his thigh, heavy and full, framed by thick, low-hanging balls.

New voice. Rough. Low. Sinful.

“Fuckin’ hell… this body’s a weapon.”

A shockwave ran through his brain. Thoughts crashed, reordered. Timid Gregory evaporated. Madero was rising.

They dressed him in leather pants cut low, a sleeveless open vest, boots with steel toes. Gold rings. Nose stud. Thick cigar pressed between his new lips.

He inhaled.

The smoke awakened something ancient.

He walked different now. Stalked. Every step thundered.

Every glance from staff came with deference.

And when he entered the lounge, heads turned.

Other transformed souls watched as he exhaled smoke, rolled his massive shoulders, and smiled.

“Room for one more boss in this pit?” he said, voice pure growl.

He didn’t remember Gregory.

Didn’t care.

Madero had arrived.

The doors to the lower compound slid open without sound—thick steel vanishing into volcanic stone as if the earth itself bowed to Madero

He stepped inside. The air was dense, warm, heavy with leather oil, sweat, and smoke. A rhythm pulsed from beneath the floor—somewhere between a heartbeat and a bassline. Every part of his massive frame responded instinctively, shoulders twitching, thighs tightening with the beat.

There were no guards. No staff. Only cameras tracking him, and behind the glass, silhouettes in white suits—observers. Scientists. Some of them aroused. Some of them nervous. All of them taking notes.

He loved that.

He loved being watched.

The hallway led to the Arena. That’s what they called it.

It wasn’t a place of combat—it was a stage for submission.

Leather-bound men knelt in cages, in chains, on platforms, waiting. Each one a guest like him, transformed, reprogrammed, reborn.

A voice crackled through an overhead speaker. Smooth. Confident.

“Welcome to Subnet Level 4, Madero. Your presence has been anticipated. You are the first of your assignment class to be fully activated.”

He smirked. Drew from his cigar, the ember flaring red against his dark beard.

“You’re goddamn right I am.”

“Tonight, you will begin integration. Your directive: control, discipline, enforce. You will break and rebuild.”

A tall figure stepped from the shadows. Another enforcer, shirtless, leather suspenders tight against his wide chest, tattooed arms thick with veins. Latino. Shaved head. Gold nose ring.

He bowed.

“Madero. They told me I’d feel you coming. Name’s Navarro. You ready to make ‘em beg?”

Madero looked him up and down. Big. Confident. But not dominant.

“You on my side,” he said, voice like gravel and ash, “or under me?”

Navarro grinned. “I take orders real good, papi.”

The room shifted.

One of the cages opened.

Inside, a man—early twenties, lean, smooth, clearly not fully transitioned. His skin was still pale. His eyes wide with confusion. His hair freshly buzzed. He was trembling.

“Candidate T-07,” the voice echoed. “Pre-transformation. His file indicates resistance to full immersion. Your task: initiate his compliance.”

Madero stepped forward. Each footfall echoed like a warning. The boy in the cage crawled backward until his bare back hit the steel.

Madero crouched down. The leather of his pants creaked. His breath, thick with cigar smoke, curled into the cage.

“You scared, boy?”

“I… I don’t know what this is. I didn’t think it’d be like this. I didn’t know—”

“You wanted to be someone else. That’s why you came. But you came still pretendin’ you had a choice.”

Madero reached in. His thick fingers wrapped around the boy’s ankle and pulled. The young man gasped as he was yanked forward.

“I used to be scared too,” Madero said, voice low. “Used to be… polite. Soft. Rich.”

He leaned in close, beard brushing the boy’s jaw.

“But then I let the world take me. Let it remake me. And I’ve never been more fuckin’ alive.”

The boy stared at him, lips parted. Breathing harder.

Madero’s hand came up. Not violent. Just firm. He ran a thumb across the boy’s cheek.

“You’re gonna look so good with a beard and a cigar in your mouth,” he said with a grin. “You don’t even know how bad you want it yet.”

Behind him, Navarro chuckled.

“Think he’ll take the serum?”

“Oh, he’s already beggin’ for it,” Madero growled, reaching into his vest. He pulled out a black vial with a silver snake emblem.

The boy stared at it, trembling.

Madero held it between his fingers. “Once this goes in… ain’t no turning back. You become who you’re meant to be.”

The boy nodded. Barely.

Madero tilted his head back, tapped the side of the vial, and watched as the thick red liquid dropped onto the boy’s tongue.

Within seconds, the boy arched backward, moaning. Muscles spasmed. Skin flushed. Hair coarsened. Madero stepped back, cigar clenched between his teeth, arms folded across his massive chest.

“Welcome to the brotherhood.”

The transformation had begun.

Would you like to see what the boy becomes—and how Madero helps shape him into the perfect enforcer… or submissive?

The boy’s scream wasn’t one of fear. Not exactly.

It was raw, primal—transformative.

The serum surged through him like liquid fire, seizing every nerve. He collapsed onto the stone floor, convulsing as sweat poured from his skin, soaking into the earth.

Madero crouched nearby, puffing his cigar, eyes fixed on the boy’s twitching form. Navarro stood behind him with crossed arms, already hard under his leathers.

“Here it comes,” Navarro muttered. “First wave.”

The boy’s fingers cracked, knuckles swelling, nails dulling to thick squares. His forearms thickened, skin tightening over new muscle.

Madero leaned in.

“Let it fuckin’ burn, boy. Let it take you.”

The boy gasped, rolling onto his back. His chest convulsed, ribs expanding outward—pectorals inflating, nipples darkening and puckering under the strain. A line of black hair surged from beneath his bellybutton down to his waistband.

His moans grew lower, throatier.

“You hear that?” Navarro grinned. “Voice is droppin’. That’s his new self crawlin’ up from inside.”

Veins rippled across the boy’s biceps as they swelled thick and round. His legs, once smooth and slim, exploded with meat—quads like stone, calves flaring, feet twitching as toes cracked outward into broader shapes.

“F-fuck—fuck,” the boy moaned. But it came out deeper—less boy, more beast.

His face began to pulse, bones shifting. The curve of his nose widened. His brows thickened. The softness in his cheeks drained away as his jaw thrust outward, broad and unrelenting.

Madero reached down and stroked the new beard erupting from the boy’s chin with thick, calloused fingers.

“That’s it. That’s it, boy. Let that hair own your face.”

The boy groaned again as his skin deepened in tone—golden-brown warming into a rich espresso brown. Every breath now steamed with heat.

Then came the teeth.

His jaw cracked—teeth clattering loose as new ones slammed into place, thicker, off-white, a gold canine gleaming as his gums swelled to fit the man they now belonged to.

And then the cock.

It surged in size. Veins bulged. The balls dropped, fat and heavy and wet against the stone. The new man grabbed it with one shaking hand, staring in shock.

His voice, when it came again, wasn’t the same.

“Shhhhit… what the fuck is this… why does it feel so fuckin’ good?”

“Because this is you,” Madero whispered, his own cock pressing thick and full against his jockstrap. “This is who you were hiding from.”

The boy’s name had once been Tim. But that was gone now. Forgotten.

Madero tilted his head. “You got a name, brother?”

He blinked up at him, lips now thicker, beard damp with sweat.

“…Call me Tank.”

Navarro howled.

“Fucking hell, papi! Tank’s got a dick like a damn forearm!”

Madero reached down and hauled the new man—Tank—to his feet. He wobbled at first, unused to the sheer mass of his body. His walk had changed, feet wide, stance aggressive, cock swinging, ass tight and bouncy beneath a new leather jock Navarro tossed him from the rack.

“Yeah,” Tank said, flexing one arm, then laughing at the sheer weight of it. “I feel… fuckin’ right.”

He lit the cigar Madero handed him. Inhaled deep.

The smoke curled from his mouth in slow, sensual waves. His new voice rumbled behind it.

“Goddamn. I wanna break somebody.”

Madero grinned wide, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. “You’ll get your turn. First, let’s go show the others what a real man looks like when he stops lying to himself.”

The three men vanished into the corridor—smoke, leather, and swagger trailing behind them.

Would you like to follow Tank as he meets the rest of the secret society?

#leatherman #leather #cigar #leather chaps #beardedgay #cigarpic #cigardaddy #cigarbeard #leather master #cigarman #leather transformation.

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moreummagumma · 1 month ago

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FANFICTION DAVID GILMOUR X FEMALE OC

DUENDE

There was a specific day when he became aware of the existence of duende. It was July 20, 1967, during a stopover in Ibiza.

After wandering far and wide through France and Spain, picking up a little change by playing in the streets, David Gilmour, Willie Wilson and Rick Wills decided to stop on the island. They'd heard it was popular with hippies from all over the world, but they didn't believe it until they saw it for themselves. David glanced at Willie and Rick, who were poring over a map, looking for the address of the house where their friend Marcus was going to put them up.

Calle Paraíso didn't seem too far from where they were, so with their instruments slung over their shoulders, they set off under the scorching sun.

Marcus was waiting for them with a joint between his lips, sitting on the steps of a pretty little house on a hill, with white walls and a flat roof. The stony, almost unkempt garden framed the house with its palm trees, and the bushes and prickly pears scattered here and there looked like splashes of color against the red palette of the clay soil below.

“Welcome!” Marcus greeted each of them with a warm hug and invited them inside, where the temperature seemed to have dropped a few degrees.

“Make yourselves comfortable! I'll show you where you'll be sleeping. You must be tired.”

He showed them the rooms where they would sleep.

David glanced out of the window—the cobalt blue sea merged with the sky and the green of nature stretched out all around. It was very different from his gray and rainy Cambridge. To the left, he could see the street market with its thousand colors, smells, and sounds. He decided then that he wouldn't stay and rest after the long journey like his friends, but would go and explore the island.

He walked through nature, not knowing where he was going, when he was drawn back by the bustle of the town. He passed through a stone archway and suddenly found himself immersed in a hippie market. Stalls of all kinds dominated the scene, where men and women of all ages and nationalities were selling all sorts of things: handmade necklaces, leather bags, clothes, spices, and even a few musical instruments.

A young, blonde girl handed him a brown shoulder bag and smiled brightly. David rummaged through his pockets for change, but when he counted only the few coins he had earned from his last street performance, for which they had almost been arrested for begging, he sighed in resignation.

“Sorry,” he said with a shrug.

He continued on his way, enjoying the freedom the island had to offer, when his ear was drawn, as if by magic, to the sound of guitars.

He let himself be led until he saw a group of people gathered in a small square where half a dozen amber-skinned guitarists, arranged in a semicircle, were singing a song. It was an almost heart-rending sound, halfway between joy and lament, passion and pain. On a platform in the center, several flamenco dancers of indeterminate age moved in time to the music, stamping their feet and clapping their hands with furious vigor.

David's eyes scanned them until his gaze settled on one in particular.

Now she was alone on her small stage.

Her soft curves wrapped in a red gypsy skirt that reached her ankles, her long ebony hair tied loosely in a low ponytail, she danced at first slowly and sinuously to the notes of the Hispanic music, her arms moving like two asps, almost as if they had a life of their own, enchanting the young Englishman who stood watching her as if in a trance.

David noticed the young dancer's face, full of pathos, as she increased the rhythm of her dance, her heels clicking more and more. It was impossible to tell if she was being carried away by the music or vice versa.

David stopped for a moment to look at his arm: the hairs had stood on end and a shiver ran down his spine.

A boy standing next to him noticed and nodded with a mischievous smile and said, “Ella tiene duende.”

He understood immediately. Although the word was unfamiliar to him, he understood instantly—he only had to look at the charm, the elegance, the passion and the transport with which this girl performed her dance. This abstract, unreal and irrational word became concrete and almost tangible just by looking at her.

It was the force that springs from the earth, the blood that boils in the veins, the Dionysian energy, the extreme point that is created between artist and spectator.

How often had he felt it with his music, every time he picked up his guitar and let his fingers run over the strings like a stream of consciousness.

Jimi Hendrix had it, Billie Holiday had it, and last but not least his friend Syd Barrett had it.

And now here she was, the beautiful nymph, writhing in a dance that was at once heavenly and demonic.

He awoke from his trance as the small audience gathered around began to applaud.

The dancers took turns bowing and applauding. The girl picked up a hat and began walking through the crowd asking for change. David searched his pockets again, not even remembering that he only had a few cents, and when the girl came up to him, he put it in her hat.

Then she looked at him—her coffee-colored eyes met his, moved to the change he had left and, without saying anything, rested on him again before resuming to her rounds.

He wanted to ask her something, even her name would have sufficed, but he couldn't. He wasn't usually shy around girls, but this divine creature had managed to steal his words without saying a thing.

“They call her La Niña del Viento, but no one knows her real name,” the same boy replied, as if he had read his mind.

That night he went to bed with a strange feeling. He knew it was because of that girl—the inner turmoil she had caused him kept him awake.

He thought about her all night, staring at the ceiling, and decided that he would search for her the next day, until he fell asleep at the first light of dawn.

***

Willie and Rick woke him early.

He felt as if he had been asleep for half a century, although it had only been a little over two hours since he had managed to close his eyes.

The sun was shining and there was a light breeze from the sea. Willie persuaded him to go down to the square and perform - since the trip to France had been a fiasco - before someone else took the spot. He didn't mind a little extra money, and besides, he wanted to see La Niña again, so he got ready, grabbed his guitar, and off they went.

The Ibiza audience proved to be much more receptive than the rest of Spain. After all, there was one big rule in the hippie community—solidarity. By noon they had managed to make enough money to last them at least three or four days.

But the heat had become stifling. Rick suggested going for a drive to the beach, a proposal that David and Willie agreed to.

When they got there, however, they realized that many other people had the same idea.

Willie and Rick found a place to sit down while David scanned the crowd—no sign of the girl.

He decided he wasn't going to stay and that he was going to look for her.

“Excuse me, where're you going?” Rick shouted as he saw him walking away.

“I'm not staying,” David replied distractedly. “I'm going for a walk.”

“As you wish…”

He walked to the neighboring beaches, into the woods, and returned to the village as the sun was setting. He asked around until someone told him that the group of flamenco gypsies usually stayed in a cove not far from there. He hurried there, and when he arrived at the beach, like a mirage, he finally saw her.

Completely naked and immersed in the amber waters, her skin glowed even more in the last rays of the sun, like tiny diamonds on molten gold. She was playing with the waves, diving in, looking like a little mermaid.

He approached her and she froze for a moment when she saw him; she certainly wasn't expecting to see anyone. She got out of the water to get her towel, walking right past him.

“Hi,“ he said.

She took the towel and wrapped it around her body.

“Are you English?” she asked after a few seconds.

“Yes.”

“I'm sorry, I don't speak English. Do you speak Spanish?”

“Just a few words. I'm more fluent in French.”

“Good,” she said, ”I speak a little French too.”

“I'm David. What's your name?” he finally managed to ask her.

She ignored the question completely. ”I remember you. You were in the square yesterday afternoon.”

“Yes, I saw you dancing. You move beautifully.”

For the first time, he saw her smile.

She was beautiful, otherworldly.

He spent a few seconds studying her face, lingering on the small mole on her nose and her slight squint.

“Where are you from?“ he asked her.

“I'm from many places,” she replied, sitting down on the sand. “Amsterdam, Barcelona, Budapest, Saint-Tropez.”

David sat down next to her.

“But if you want to know where I was born and raised, I'm from Seville. And you?”

“I've been to many places too, but if you want to know where I was born and raised, I'm from Cambridge,“ David replied jokingly.

“Huh... Cambridge...” The way she said it made him laugh, mimicking an English accent.

“And what brought you here to Ibiza, David of Cambridge?”

David smiled at her. “Well, pretty much the same reason that brought many people here—to seek a freedom that home doesn't offer. Then, after our band broke up, I needed a way to figure out what to do with myself... Ibiza seemed like the perfect place. And you?”

“Migration is in my nature.”

The girl couldn't help but notice the guitar he had brought with him.

“Are you a musician, then?”

David nodded.

“What do you play?” she asked.

“Blues.”

“Do you like Spanish guitar?”

“I've never thought about it. At least not until yesterday.”

They looked into each other's eyes, losing themselves in each other's gaze.

“Play something for me.”

David smiled mischievously. “I'll play for you when you tell me your name.”

Touché.

The young woman stood up, took off her towel, and walked softly toward the water.

She turned back to him and motioned for him to join her.

David didn't have to be asked twice. He undressed and joined her. The water was warm and the ripples sang softly.

The sun was setting, painting the horizon before them with shades of orange.

“Don't you feel at home here?” she asked him with a hint of sadness in her eyes.

At that, David took her hand and gently pulled her toward him, brushing his lips against hers as the sun slowly melted into the sea.

***

A few hours later, they found themselves wrapped in white sheets, drenched in sweat and body heat.

The moon now shone high in the sky in all its majesty.

David held her close, gently caressing the skin of her shoulders. “Tell me what it's like. What is it like to live a life without a destination, free from possessions?”

“You are a citizen of the world, a stranger everywhere. You live on art and beauty, dances and rhapsodies, sunsets and moonlight; you have the world in your hands and at your feet without owning anything. Being a gypsy is more a way of life than a way of being. There is something we call Razón Incorpórea: it's something intangible and indefinable. It's our honor, our ancient rituals, our source of inspiration for the song and dance we pass on through…”

“Duende,” he interrupted her.

“Flamenco is not just a dance. It's a book in which the history of a people that has lived for centuries, generation after generation, is written, and the pages are the songs of the gypsies that speak of pain and poverty, of love and destiny. It's the heritage of the gypsy people.”

David held her even closer. He wanted to stop time just to listen to her and enjoy her stories, her voice, her body. They remained silent for a while, only the sound of their breathing and the crickets chirping outside the window in the background.

“Inés,” the girl's voice broke the silence.

“What?”

“Today you asked me my name. My name is Inés.”

David kissed her lips, letting his tongue entwine with hers in a sensual dance. Then, remembering the promise he had made to her on the beach, he stood up, picked up his guitar and began to play, under Inés's confused gaze. He improvised a sweet, melancholy melody, letting his fingers glide over the strings. Inés watched him with rapt attention, lingering on his lips, which hummed softly, and on his sapphire eyes, which occasionally rested on hers. She admired the incredible ability to play that this young man in his early twenties possessed. All her life she had been surrounded by guitarists, but she had never seen such innate talent—it was as if God had revealed himself and was communicating with her through this boy's fingers as they danced softly over the strings - and moments before, over her body.

“You have duende, too,” she said as soon as the song ended.

David set the guitar down on the floor and kissed her again, sliding her underneath him.

***

The next morning he was awakened by a ray of sunlight filtering through the linen curtains.

With one hand he searched for Inés's body, but all he found were the sheets of a half-empty bed.

She was gone.

Just as she had arrived.

He dressed quickly and went down to the street.

He looked for her in the square, on the beach, in the cove where the gypsies were staying, everywhere. But nothing.

She was gone.

Without a sound.

Like a leaf carried away by the wind.

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Notes: hi guys, I hope you enjoyed it, please let me know what you think. Here's the link if you want to read it in Italian too: https://efpfanfic.net/viewstory.php?sid=4088906&i=1

thanks @rogerwatermelons for translating it in English because I'm too lazy to do it myself lol

#pink floyd #Fanfiction #david gilmour #David Gilmour Fanfiction #pinkfloydfanfiction #fanfic #original character #pink floyd fanfiction

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ernmark · 2 months ago

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Ok, for the ask game: I wouldn't mind hearing more about the house you posted about recently as "almost bought, but clearly haunted af."

Thank you so much~

So for context: this was in maybe 2010, we were recovering from the housing crisis, and my partner at the time and I were both deeply entangled with one of those people who considers herself good with money by virtue of not paying people (there were lawsuits). She also had an established habit of buying real estate in really rough shape and getting her volunteers (myself included) to fix and clean said real estate so she could use it.

We were also both in college, had a couple of friends move from across the country to live with us, and that living situation was less than tenable for what we could afford to get, apartment-wise. All of which left me with a very specific problem and a mentor who convinced me that I had the skills and connections to solve it in her favorite way.

So about this house:

It was wreck. An absolute wreck. Built in the late 1800s, I think around the time of the American Civil War, and probably hadn't been inhabited in at least ten years by the time I saw the listing.

Which is probably why it was on the market for $15,000 -- which, even then, was fucking incredible. More than I had, but not more than I could get my hands on with a loan. (It would have cost a hell of a lot more to make it habitable, mind you, but I thought for sure we could live in one room while we fixed up the rest-- and then each of us would be able to have our own separate room, with luxurious common spaces). (Looking back, that price was probably intended only to cover the cost of the land it sat on-- the house itself was probably considered just a loss to be demolished).

This house also had a very long listing history of people buying it, holding onto it for a suspiciously short period of time, and then selling it again.

I since have gotten into urban exploring as a hobby, and this house was in the condition of many of the buildings I've been inside of since. Bowing ceilings, lamentable roof, dubious stairs, a floor that straight up wanted to swallow you whole.

Maybe it was something about the angle of the photos or the shitty lighting or the way that so many of the surfaces seemed to lean in, but every photo in this listing gave the subtle suggestion of anticipation and hunger.

It was also within bus/biking distance to our school. Which in a mid-sized city in the USA is fucking amazing.

My then-partner and I biked to the address to get a look at it from the street. It looked small, almost tiny, on the outside. Like, in a way that the square footage on the listing just plain didn't match. I'm guessing they included the basement and attic both in the square footage, maybe? But even with those, it didn't look from the street that this house could physically contain the rooms on the listing.

I've since gone back to that area looking for it, but despite having been there before, I've never been able to find it since.

It had a fucking ballroom. Maybe this had been a duplex once where they'd removed the central wall, but it had a fucking ballroom. The listed dimensions of that front room were absolutely enormous, it had stairs going up on both sides, it was freaking magnificent.

Said ballroom also had this enormous, majestic fireplace. But it had this metal fireplace screen across the front. Not a mesh or a grate like I'm used to seeing on these, but a metal panel, stamped and embossed with an illustration of a mailman walking away while woman in an 1800s-style dress, slumped in utter despair over an opened letter.

Every single person who got to that image in the listing stopped, looked up at me, and told me some variation of "Well, now we know what the ghost that's going to kill you will look like."

Oh, also, this was not terribly far from where a famous serial killer was caught, and the house would have been already standing when he rolled into town. Which is not something I knew at the time, but I sure as hell do now.

#ask meme #my almost haunted house

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han-nya-bb · 2 months ago

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𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 ꪑꪖꪀꫀ᥅ꫀ ᥇ꪖꪗ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

You can find more information here~ Word Count: 5.4k || Original World + Slow-Burn Genre - Supernatural Mystery, Romantic Undercurrents _________________________________________

Chapter One: Found & Lost Again

The sun hits Manere Bay like a slap, bleaching the whitewashed town until Nyra feels half-melted just walking uphill. Even the shade seems to glare. The streets loop and tangle like the place couldn’t decide where to end—veins twisting toward the sea, then folding back on themselves. Tourists swarm the market square in linen and sunglasses, all open-mouthed awe. Locals slip around them like water around rocks—never touching, never lingering. Every shopfront begs for a photo; every alley is someone’s shortcut.

Nyra hates crowds. But, in spite; she hates being lost more.

Her boots crunch broken shells and shards of blue tile as she checks the ledger’s address—half a street name and a tangle of numbers, more riddle than direction. She trails a finger along stucco walls, scanning for anything familiar. Everything’s painted—sills in cobalt, doors in burnished gold, whole walls in terracotta. The air smells of salt and burning sage, with music threading through it: strings, a woman’s laughter, waves slapping stone.

Near a sun-bleached fountain, she stumbles. A girl—small, frizzy-haired, more shadow than shape—watches her from behind the rim. A shard of glass spins in the water.

“You’re real this time,” the girl says, voice flat, oddly sure. “I wasn’t sure.”

Nyra blinks. A question catches in her throat. But before she can speak, the girl dusts off her knees and slips into a crowd. Nyra stares after her, then tightens her grip on the ledger.

Just a kid, she tells herself. Just a weird, sun-dazed kid.

The path winds deeper into the town’s ribs, past music, into a snarl of side streets where the sea-lavender grows thick and unseen chimes rattle softly. Buildings blur together—white domes, arched doorways—but here the paint peels, the salt heavier.

She slows at the sight of a sign, half-choked in vines, swinging on rusted chains.

Vale & Vine.

She lets out a short, bitter laugh.

“Really, Dad? Couldn’t even name your double life something new?”

She stands still, sea wind twisting around her, the old sign creaking above. She tries to picture her father here. Her mother in the doorway, arms full of flowers. But nothing fits. The place is shuttered, taken back by time and green. Her pulse falters. For the first time since landing, something cracks—recognition, regret, and a sharp, unwelcome ache.

She presses her palm to the door.

Nothing.

She closes her eyes. Breathes in salt, sage, loss.

“I’m here,” she whispers. “So… now what?”

The door doesn’t budge. Not to pressure, not to coaxing. Not even when Nyra mutters her father’s name as if it was a key. She steps back, lips pressed tight, eyeing the salt-stained threshold. Someone—long ago, probably—scrawled a warding.. Glyph?– across the stone in rust-colored ink. It’s cracked now. Faded like it gave up trying to keep anything out.

“Guess I’m not welcome either,” she mutters.

She’s already turning to leave when a breeze slides down the alley—heavier than sea wind, scented with lavender and iron—and drops something small at her feet.

A pressed flower. Sea-lavender. Flat, brittle, and pale as ash.

She bends to pick it up—then freezes.

Tucked behind a loose plank at the base of the doorframe is a folded slip of paper. Hidden so neatly it could’ve been there for years... or just tucked in this morning.

Nyra hesitates. Then reaches in and pulls it free.

The paper is soft with age, sealed with a wax stamp she’s never seen: a vine curling through a crescent moon, pressed into violet-grey wax.

She breaks the seal.

“If you’ve come looking for answers, find the one place we never finished. Bring salt. And don’t trust the smiling ones. — C”

Nyra’s pulse jolts like someone just whispered in her ear. The note is unsigned—but it doesn’t need to be. She knows that crooked tilt in the C. Her father never fixed the way he wrote his name after the break in his hand. She remembers it in receipts, notes, the old grocery list above the counter.

“What the hell, Dad…”

She leans her head against the door. Cool wood. Sun-warmed frame. No sound from inside—but something hums beneath the floorboards. Low and steady. Not fear. Something older. A memory that isn’t hers. She steps back again and looks up at the sign.

Vale & Vine.

Same name. Same letters. But this one came first.

“So what else didn’t you tell me?” she says. “What else did you leave behind?”

Far off, the windchimes stutter. Something creaks behind the building—or beneath it. She folds the note and tucks it into the back of her ledger. Then turns and walks into the light, almost back into the hum of a town that insists nothing here is strange.

The sun won’t shut up. It’s in her eyes, in her mouth, crawling across her scalp like fingers made of sweat and salt. The alley feels tighter now—claustrophobic, like grief that’s gone soft at the edges, the kind that settles in walls like mildew. Nyra’s hands shake as she folds the note. She fumbles it into her ledger’s back pocket, misses, swears, and shoves it in crooked.

“Fuck this place,” she mutters. The sign above the door creaks like it’s laughing. “And fuck you, too.” She kicks the base of the door. It thuds—more insulted than injured. A puff of crushed sea-lavender escapes from under the frame, like a sigh.

“I crossed godsdamn oceans for this? Dug through death certificates, fought with boat schedules, sat through three-hour transfers—for a shack full of fuck-all and riddles?” She paces the alley, tugging her dark brown, almost black hair into a tie that’s no longer there.

“And why wouldn’t it be locked?” she snaps. “That’d be too fucking normal, right?”

She throws her arms wide, spins in a slow, sarcastic circle.

“Oh yes, welcome to Manere—population: liars and floral decay! Here’s your inheritance, NyyYRRaaa: a broken building, a cryptic note, and a town full of strangers who don’t even know your name.” She stops. Breathing hard. Mouth dry. The salt air stings her tongue. Her pulse roars in her ears, but it can’t drown out the whisper in her head:

You shouldn’t have come. He left for a reason.

She leans back against the hot wall and slides down, crouching at the edge of the alley. Arms on her knees. Eyes burning—but nothing falls. Not yet. Maybe later. Maybe never.

“Goddammit, Dad,” she says, her voice small. “You could’ve left a key. A map. One honest fucking sentence.”

Her voice cracks. She swallows it.

Then—sharp breath. Palms slap against her thighs. She pushes up fast, dizzy with it.

“Nope. Nope. We’re not spiraling. We’re problem-solving.”

She points at the door like it’s a witness.

“You left me a building. Buildings have doors. Doors have owners. Owners have records.”

She stalks back toward the main road, weaving past tourists with gelato and loud shirts. None of them see her. They never do.

Halfway up the next street, she stops cold.

“Who the hell even runs this town?” She doesn’t know. But someone does. Someone with a key, a file, a name.

And if they’re not in whatever counts as a city office or Tribunal station around here?

She’ll knock on every door from the market to the sea until one of them admits they knew her father. — — —

The map is crumpled in her fist before she makes it past the bakery.

It’s useless. Half the names are smeared, the handwriting lazy and crooked. More doodle than direction. At the next corner, she chucks it into a rosemary planter gone half-wilted.

“I’ll figure it out without you, thanks.”

Heat rolls off the white stone like breath. Manere Bay exhales slow, heavy—too old to rush, too proud to explain itself.

She weaves through narrow alleys and cobbled slopes, ignoring every color-coded placard and smug painted arrow. Her boots thud against uneven stone, brushing past faded banners singed by salt and time. The air smells like citrus, sun oil, and sharp seaweed. Vendors hawk rosemary-wrapped sardines, coral-carved trinkets, necklaces made of hand-blown salt beads that hum if you listen close. Everywhere she turns, there’s movement—a quiet language of side-eyes, practiced friendliness, and too much silence. Tourists haggle over ceramic gulls. Two old women trace glyphs on their bread before biting. Kids race past a weathered mural, buckets sloshing seawater and plastic crabs.

It’s beautiful. And it makes her sick.

Eventually the alleys open into a circular plaza—uneven, sun-drenched. Two stairways lead down to the marina. Four more twist upward into the town’s ribs. This is the heart of it. The hum beneath the performance of normal.

Nyra spots a bench in partial shade and drops onto it. The marble scorches through her clothes. She pulls out a battered tin, flips it open, lights a half-crushed cigarette with a salt-strike match. It hisses like it knows better.

Bad habit. You said you’d stop.

But her father’s voice is long gone. And habits don’t quit just because the ghosts that shamed them died.

The first drag hits sharp—painful, welcome. A breath she owns. Her foot taps out of sync with the distant mandolin music.

Then the crowd laughs.

Sharp, delighted, sudden.

Nyra looks up.

A man in a pinstriped coat and coal-black bowler hat balances on an upturned bucket—one foot raised, the other barely touching the rim, arms out like he’s steadying an invisible tray.

He doesn’t blink.

Then he drops into a full split, pops back up, and juggles nothing—catching air with exaggerated effort. No paint. No props. Skin pale as bone. The crowd claps. He turns, removes an invisible hat, and pulls out a pressed sea-lavender bloom. Hands it to a toddler like it’s a coronation.

Then he sees her.

Nyra freezes mid-drag. The mime goes still—head tilted, shaded lenses glinting like mirrors.

“No,” she mutters.

He steps off the bucket. The crowd parts around him like they know.

“Absolutely not.” She flicks ash, stands, tries to walk—but he’s already there.

“Jesus,” she breathes, stumbling back.

He doesn’t touch her. Doesn’t even mime hello. Just reaches into one of his many coat pockets and pulls out—

A wooden music box. Palm-sized. Weathered. A salt-cracked winding key. A carved vine curling around the top.

Nyra stares. “You’re joking.”

He offers it again. Head cocked, waiting for a laugh.

“Fine,” she mutters, taking it. “If a clown pops out, I’m setting it on fire.”

The mime grins. Mimes zipping his lips, locks them, swallows the key.

“Charming.”

She motions vaguely toward the rooftops.

“You seem like someone who knows weird shit. How do I get into a building that doesn’t want to open?”

He strokes an imaginary beard. Taps his lips. Mimes knocking. Nothing. Mimes pouring salt. Drawing a glyph. Snaps.

Nyra squints. “Salt. Glyph. Great. Let me just find the nearest wizard kiosk.”

He cups his hand to his ear, inviting more.

“Don’t mess with me, mime-boy. I’m two bad moments from a full breakdown. Be useful, or go back to juggling ghosts.”

He bows.

Then—pulling out a chalk stick from nowhere—he gently tucks it into her vest pocket. Steps back. Taps his chest. Points to her heart. Taps the music box.

Then vanishes into the crowd. Just gone.

Nyra slumps back onto the bench. Lights her second cigarette.

“I hate this town.”

– – –

The box is warm in her palm. It hums faintly—not with music, but with tension. Like something built to play, then forgot how halfway through. Nyra turns it over. No latch. Just a dull brass winding key on the side, and a vine motif clumsily etched into the top.

“Of course it’s a plant,” she mutters, brushing off a bit of lint. “Everything in this town is either floral, cursed, or full of ghosts in drag.”

She glances up.

The mime is half-hidden under a painted awning, miming a tug-of-war with an invisible squid. His face is all pantomimed panic. The tourists howl. Someone claps like it’s genius. A phone snaps a photo.

And yet—he’s still watching her.

Right in the middle of the act.

Nyra narrows her eyes, then looks down at the box again.

“Alriiiggght… Let’s see what your creepy little jack-in-the-box does.”

She cradles it, hooks a finger under the tiny brass key, and winds.

Click. Click. Click. She opens the lid.

Nothing.

Not a note. Not a lock of hair. No sound, no lavender dust, no mystery trinket waiting inside. Just empty wood.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

She stares at it for three more seconds. Then snaps the lid shut and tosses it onto the bench beside her with a loud crack. She stands so fast her knees pop.

“I should’ve stayed home,” she mutters, already moving. “Should’ve taken the ferry the second it looked weird. Should’ve thrown the ledger into the sea and bought an apartment haunted by a normal ghost with decent boundaries.”

She turns, just once.

The mime is mid-routine again, pretending to fish something out of a bucket. And—still—staring straight at her.

He winks.

Nyra raises both hands, flipping him off with both fingers before turning on her heel.

The crowd parts just enough to let her through. One of the staircases rises ahead—narrow, warped, shaded. It curls upward into the tighter coils of the town, where houses cling to stone like salt-stained barnacles. She climbs slow, boots ringing on each step. Her skin itches. Her neck burns. She’s still muttering.

“First the shop’s locked. Then the mime’s a magician. Now I’m out of butts.” She sighs heavily.

The road levels out. A breeze drifts past, cool and brief. The higher streets are narrower, cluttered. Tighter merchant stalls: woven talismans, carved sigils, bowls of salt-slick marbles. A woman fans herself behind sea-glass earrings that whisper when the wind shifts. Nyra eyes them. And the storefronts ahead—quaint, suspicious. Beads for curtains. Wind chimes. One has a chalkboard sign:

Herbs, Spirits, & Unrelated Advice.

She sighs again.

“Alright, weird little town,” she mutters. “Let’s see what you’ve got behind door number one.” – – –

The door to the apothecary doesn’t creak. It hisses open, like it’s trying a little too hard to be magical. Cool air hits her collarbones. Nyra exhales like she’s been holding her breath since the town swallowed her whole. Inside, the light filters through dusty green glass, soft and bent. A chill clings to the stone floor and fingers her spine. It’s quiet. Cooler. Even kind of… gorgeous.

Still bullshit.

Dried herbs hang overhead like tangled windchimes. Wicker baskets overflow with mystic tea pouches. Jars shimmer with oils and powders labeled in what’s either Latin or a very committed imitation.

A chalkboard by the door reads: Mercury in brew. Mint to settle. Basil for truth.

Nyra mutters, “And overpriced chamomile to scam bored tourists.”

A woman in a wide-brimmed hat hums at a bottle labeled Night-binder Elixir. A couple argues in whispers near a shelf of powders—debating whether mirrorshade dust is edible. A girl with festival braids dabs salt balm under her eyes and giggles.

Nyra rolls her eyes and heads for the back.

The counter curves like a crescent moon—dark wood, rune-burnt drawers, strips of woven sea grass. Behind it, a figure leans over a tray of glowing stones. Sorting, maybe. Or just playing. He looks up as she approaches.

Young. Late twenties. Skin the color of clay after summer rain. Hair tied back in a loose knot, smudged with dust. His eyes are pale-not-pale—like moonstone trying to be friendly.

“Need help?” he asks. Voice calm. Too calm. Rehearsed calm.

“That depends,” Nyra says, matching his tone. “Do you sell crowbars?”

He blinks. “Not exactly.”

“Didn’t think so. I’m not here for tinctures or tea blends named after celestial bodies. I need into a building. My building. Inherited. Locked tight.”

He studies her a moment. “Is it a physical lock?”

“It’s a door… It opens…” She pauses. “Or it’s supposed to…. Unless someone enchanted it to mock grieving daughters, yeah, I’d say physical.”

Without a word, he reaches under the counter and slides forward a dish of wax-wrapped chalk sticks and thyme thread.

Nyra groans. “Oh my god. Not you too.”

“Excuse me?”

“The mime already gave me magic chalk. Or possibly cursed soap.” She stares down at her vest, where he had stashed it earlier in his own creepy mime way. “ This town’s obsessed with chalk, riddles, and whimsical bullshit.” She adds, her face half cracked into a smile before looking back at him.

He doesn’t react. Just watches. Her smile drops.

“So you’re not looking for metaphysical advice.”

“I’m looking for a locksmith. Or a registry. Or literally anyone in charge who doesn’t hand out crystals like coupons.”

He leans on the counter. Doesn’t push the chalk closer. Doesn’t pull it back.

“There’s no registry. Not officially.”

“Of course not.”

“As for a locksmith—try Lyria’s parlour, three streets over. She trades in more than fabric if you know how to ask.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like.”

Nyra pinches the bridge of her nose. “Jesus Christ. Is everyone here allergic to straight answers?”

“Depends who’s asking.”

She meets his eyes again. This time, something flickers at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile—just recognition.

“Name’s Corin,” he says. “I help out here. And you’re…”

“Someone who didn’t ask for a quest, thanks.”

“Good. We’re fresh out of chosen ones.”

That pulls a dry laugh from her—instantly regretted.

“Look. Thanks. For the almost-help. I’ll try Lyria or whatever shadow market locksmith exists in this salt-stained escape room.”

Corin nods, no judgment.

“You’ll want to wait until the ferry bells ring. That’s when people stop pretending.”

She takes a moment to look at him clearly, trying to read his intentions. He stares blankly at her, like what he said wasn’t straight out of a Steven King novel.

“That’s ominous.”

“Everything here is.”

Nyra turns without another word, dazed- confused and a little pissed off. – – –

Outside, the heat hits like a slap. Her cigarette tin rattles in her pocket like a second heartbeat. The wax chalk from the mime taps against it with every step. The town stretches ahead, long and looping, its streets folding in on themselves like ribbons in water. Nyra’s half-convinced the buildings shift when you’re not looking. Signs tilt. Shadows bend the wrong way. The salt in the air clings to her skin like a second shirt—and she’s pretty sure three streets over was two. Or five. Or none at all.

Corin’s words echo in her head: “Wait until the ferry bells ring. That’s when people stop pretending.”

She scoffs. Pretending would be a relief.

Her boots thud against uneven cobbles as she climbs toward where Lyria’s Parlour is supposed to be—old stone underfoot, sea wind nudging her back. Everything smells like lemon peel and dust. Her head throbs from the heat, the crowd, and the lingering thought that none of this is real.

And yet too much of it is.

She’s halfway across a narrow walkway where two roads intersect like a broken compass when she stumbles—catches her boot on something hard, deliberate, out of place.

“Shit—!”

She hits the ground, palm-first. Her ledger spills from her satchel, chalk skittering across stone.

Then—

She looks up.

Right into the eyes of a girl crouched in front of her.

Barefoot. Wild curls. Mirror shard in one hand like it’s priceless.

It’s that kid. Again.

The girl tilts her head. Her pupils are wide and unblinking. Her expression unreadable.

Nyra glances down. The stone she tripped on isn’t a stone at all—it’s carved. Sun-worn. Part of a faint circular rune embedded in the walkway. A threshold marker, maybe. Or something older.

Before Nyra can speak, the girl does.

“This part of the road doesn’t like being walked twice.”

Nyra stares. “What?”

“It remembers. Even if you don’t.”

The girl lifts the mirror shard, one finger extended toward the rune like she might touch it. Then stops. Blinks. Pulls back.

Nyra’s frustration spikes, bitter at the back of her throat.

“Look, kid, I’m not in the mood for cryptic fairytale horseshit today, alright?”

But the girl’s face—still, tilted, watching like a reflection—makes her hesitate.

Not frightened. Not even present. Just there.

Nyra draws back. Her breath catches, rising onto her knees.

“Sorry. I just…”

She reaches out, instinctive—whether to steady the girl or herself, she’s not sure.

Her hand meets air.

The girl is gone.

No footsteps. No retreat. Just absence. The mirror shard spins once on the stone where she stood, then clinks and topples flat.

Nyra’s hand trembles as she stands. Her chalk is scraped. Palms raw.

“This fucking town,” she mutters. Softer now. Less anger. More fear.

She exhales, slow, trying to steady her balance, her pulse.

When she looks up—

The storefront in front of her—the one that wasn’t there a minute ago—bears a sign, curling and weathered:

Lyria’s Parlour — Fine Tailoring, Minor Alterations, Necessary Revisions

The doorway is framed by salt-bleached curtains. The air smells faintly of anise and fabric. Dresses ripple gently just inside, though the wind is still. No bell. Nyra narrows her eyes.

“Right where I fell,” she murmurs. Coincidence.

Definitely coincidence.

She walks through as the curtains part with a hiss — not from wind, but from fabric under tension.

Lyria’s Parlour smells of cloves, old paper, and something metallic — like scissors that’ve seen too much truth. The light is dim, filtered through long strands of dyed linen hanging like seaweed. Some drift lazily in still air. Others shift when she’s not looking. It’s cooler here. Not like the apothecary’s clean chill. This is the cool of basements and velvet-lined secrets, the hush of measuring tape drawn tight around a throat. Garments line the walls — too exquisite for a town like this. Salt-pale dresses stitched with mothbone. Tailored coats with blinking buttons. Scarves that flutter like breath. A mannequin near the door wears a jacket Nyra would’ve stolen as a teen and worn until it fell apart. It looks like it might hiss if touched.

It’s quiet.

Too quiet.

Except for the couple half-draped on a chaise near the back. Tourists, obviously. She can smell the vacation cologne and bad decisions. They’re mid-makeout, laughing, whispering about “private tailoring” like they’re in a hotel hallway, not someone’s shop. Nyra snorts and steps deeper inside.

She’s halfway to a rack of long coats — embroidery so fine it might be moving — when a voice cuts in behind her, smooth as silk pulled over a blade.

“Careful, darling. The last couple who did that left with matching hexes stitched into their hems. Took weeks before the whispering stopped.”

Nyra spins.

Behind a parted curtain stands a woman in onyx-black silk. Sleeves rolled to the elbow. Thread looped through silver rings on her fingers. Cherrywood-red hair, pulled back in a bun so precise it could cut. No shoes — just feet marked with faint salt lines that glint in the dim light. Her eyes — sharp, smoky, almond-shaped — don’t blink when they find Nyra.

“You’re the Vale girl,” she says. Smooth. Indifferent. Like naming a paint swatch.

Nyra bristles. “Is that what people call me now? ‘The Vale girl’? Sounds like a fairytale.. Or a warning label.”

Lyria arches a brow. Glides forward like someone used to tight spaces and tighter conversations.

“You don’t want the fairytales, dear. Not here. They tend to end with offerings, not weddings.”

Nyra folds her arms, voice taut with exhaustion, not fear. “Look, I’m not here for riddles or salt-stitched fortunes. I need a locksmith. Or someone who can open a door. That’s it.”

Lyria keeps walking until Nyra can smell sage and red wine and something older — bitter-sweet and unnamed.

“And what makes you think I’m either of those things?”

“Because some guy named Corin told me so.” She takes a deep breath, chest heaving after being in the sun all day. “Because every time I try to do something normal, someone gives me magic chalk, a cryptic note, or a music box with nothing inside. And I’m out of patience.”

Lyria studies her a beat too long. Then she smiles.

Not kindly.

“You’ll fit in beautifully.”

She turns on her heel.

“Come. If you’re asking for help, I may as well take your measure. No sense being unprepared when the town starts asking for favors in return.”

“I’m not making deals,” Nyra warns, but follows.

“Everyone says that. The clever ones just don’t write them down.”

The curtains swallow them both as the back room yawns open like the inside of a lantern — close, golden, strange. Not warm with heat, but with hush. Velvet-thick and old. Light leaks in from sconces and inverted glass teardrops, glowing amber, then olive, then plum — like the room can’t decide what time it is. Mirrors line the walls. All slightly warped — not enough to feel wrong, just enough to make you look away. Dresses, coats, veils hang between them — dyed in colors without names. Some look stitched from regret. Others hang heavy, drooping low as to kiss the ground beneath it. Nyra steps in and feels it: that chill. Not cold.

Exhaustion.

The kind that smells like her father’s coat. The kind that curls in her knees and tells her to stop pretending she’s not tired. She exhales, slow.

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” she mutters to herself, not so much meaning to say it outloud. Lyria glides past and closes the curtain.

“No one does. That’s what makes you interesting.”

“I’m not trying to be interesting. I just want to open a door.”

“That’s what they all say.”

She gestures to a chalk-marked circle on the floor. Then unspools a tape measure from nowhere — glinting faintly, like starlight caught in thread. Nyra eyes it warily. “Wait — what is this?”

“I said I’d take your measure.”

“Yeah, but like… metaphorically right?”

“Oh no, darling. I meant it exactly.”

Nyra steps into the circle, arms crossed. Lyria is already at her side — swift, practiced. The tape flits from waist to shoulders. She flinches when fingers brush her ribs. Shifts when Lyria kneels to check inseam lines, chalk held like a wand.

“You always this touchy?” Lyria asks.

“I don’t like being handled.”

“Then you’re in the wrong town.”

Nyra glances around — trying not to notice how the wall behind the mirror just shifted color again. Plum. Then dusky lavender.

“How did you know who I was?” she blurts. “Before I said anything?”

“You look like him.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“And yet, it was.”

Nyra groans and steps off the circle. “I just want to know if you can help me or not. I’m tired of riddles. I’m tired of flowers. I’m tired.”

Lyria rolls up the tape and sets it beside a tray of rusted needles and polished buttons.

“Who’ve you spoken to?”

Nyra pauses.

“Why does that matter?”

“It always matters. The order. The tone. Who sees you first.”

“Are you serious—”

“Who.”

Nyra hesitates. The light shifts again — brighter now, but colder.

“A mime,” she mutters.

Lyria lifts a brow. “Pantom. Of course.”

“And an apothecary. Corin.” Nyra continues.

“He gave you chalk?”

Nyra shakes her head, rubbing the bottom of her chin nervously.

“Nah, the other guy did.” After a moment, she continues. “But, he did try to give me some.”

Lyria runs a finger along a bolted glass case. Inside: a cloak stitched from shadow.

“And you thought I’d give you something different.”

“I thought you’d give me something useful.”

“Did it ever occur to you,” Lyria says, softly, “that if two people attempt to give you the same thing, it might be exactly what you need?”

Nyra’s voice snaps. “Did it ever occur to you that not everyone wants to be part of your little town play? That maybe I just want to walk into the building I legally inherited without solving a godsdamn prophecy?”

A beat of silence.

Then:

“You really don’t know what you’ve inherited, do you?”

Nyra stares. Lyria doesn’t blink. Doesn’t press.

Instead, she reaches for a small silk pouch and holds it out.

“Take this. Not chalk. Thread. Red. For grounding.”

Nyra stares at it, a cross between awe and bewilderment.

“Are you helping me, or dressing me for a funeral?”

Lyria smiles — not unkind.

“That depends on which door you open.”

Nyra didn’t say thank you. She didn’t say anything, really — just dropped a crumpled handful of euro notes on Lyria’s counter and left the pouch of red thread sitting there. Unopened. Useless. She didn’t even take it. Just turned and walked out, jaw clenched so tight she thought she might crack a molar.

No chalk. No thread. No more bullshit.

Her boots scraped the stone path like a threat. She wasn’t walking toward anything — just away. Away from the heat and the whispers, the mirrors and the tailor who asked too many questions without offering a single goddamn answer.

“What is this place?” she muttered. “Disneyland for dead people?”

She stormed past faded stalls, shoved through tourists laughing too loudly. Her mouth was dry. Her hands shook — not from fear. From dehydration. From rage. From grief.

She wasn’t paying attention. Not until she heard the laugh. A soft, feather-light giggle.

Nyra looked up.

Vale & Vine.

Confused, her head twisted around her. Unsure exactly how she even came to be here when the walk around town was at least a couple hours of huffing and sore feet. The alley hadn’t changed. Same crooked sign. Same rust-bitten hinges.

And at the base of the steps — just like before — sat the girl. Barefoot. Mirror shard in her lap. Eyes too wide, too still.

Nyra froze. “No,” she whispered. “Absolutely not.”

She took a breath. Then walked down the alley, deliberate, each step heavier than the last.

“Alright, that’s enough,” she called. “I don’t know who you are or what you want, but you need to stop following me.”

No response.

“I’m not good with kids, okay? No snacks, no toys, no patience. I will find your parents and tell them you’re haunting strangers.”

Still nothing. Just the stare.

Nyra rolled her neck, her shoulders drooping at her sides. This was it. Too tired to care anymore, she reached the base of the steps and collapsed beside her. Her body sagged under heat and confusion and something she didn’t have a name for.

“I’m losing my goddamn mind,” she muttered. “I don’t even know why I came here anymore.”

She rubbed her face. Her voice cracked around the edges.

“I just wanted answers. A key. A building that doesn’t hate me.”

Silence.

Then that stare again.

Nyra glanced sideways. The girl hadn’t moved — still watching.

“What?” she snapped. “What do you want?”

Nothing.

“I don’t have candy. I don’t have games. ” She glared at the girl in silence but the girls eyes seemed preoccupied, her coat pockets. Nyra followed and threw her hands in the air in exasperation. “What!” She paused again, the young girl merely repeated the glances again.

“ I’m telling you I have nothing- ..whatever.” She reached into her jacket, pulled out the last scraps she hadn’t lost yet:

Chalk from the mime

A ferry receipt, water-stained and fading

A pressed lavender flower

Her father’s ledger

The creased note

An empty cigarette tin and lighter

She dropped them in a tired little pile.

“That’s it. That’s the grand inheritance. Unless you know how to unlock doors with grief and clutter, be my guest.”

She laughed once — brittle, helpless. The kind that wants to scream but folds inward instead.

And then—

The girl moved.

Silently. Intentionally. And in her hands were two things Nyra hadn’t given her.

The music box. And the red thread pouch.

Nyra stared.

“How—?”

But she didn’t finish. Because the girl was already kneeling at the door.

She placed each item carefully:

The chalk arced in a clean, deliberate line

The lavender set dead center

The red thread unspooled in a perfect ring

The music box, silent, anchored the base

Then she lifted the mirror shard — not like a toy now, but like a blade and drew. Not randomly. Not guessing. She drew like someone who knew. Like someone who couldn’t read words, but could recite an alphabet made of salt and bone. Nyra watched, transfixed.

“This can’t be real,” she whispered. And then—

The door creaked.

A breath. A shudder. A slow, aching groan.

A gap. Just a hair’s width — then more. It opened. Nyra shot to her feet. Stumbled back. The door exhaled a breath of lavender and dust and old, old air. Something like home.

She turned to the girl—

But she was gone. Again.

No footsteps. No shadow. Just gone. Only the chalk line remained. The pressed flower. And the music box. The rest of her belongings still in a pile by the step.

Nyra didn’t move.

She just stood there, staring at the door. Like it had spoken her name for the very first time. ---------------------------------------- Thank you so much for reading! This is my first attempt at a proper chapter. I've only ever written for myself or close friends so, posting this online has me all in my nerves. Next Chapter will be coming within the week, I'm hoping to push 8k words and improve my writing skills and consistency a bit further. Again I'd like to reiterate, this series will be a slow-burn. There will be monster romance and potential smut down the line but I have a lot to do before we get there. Stick with me, I promise it'll be worth it! Han < ^ ^ >

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acornsalessealsstamps · 5 months ago

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Custom Address Stamp with West Highland White Terrier Design

If you're a proud West Highland White Terrier (Westie) owner or a devoted dog lover, this Custom Address Stamp with West Highland White Terrier Design is the perfect addition to your stationery collection. Designed to add a personal touch to your mail, this stamp blends style, convenience, and functionality effortlessly.

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1. Personalized with Your Details

This stamp allows you to customize your name and address, ensuring a unique and professional-looking impression on every envelope, package, or letter. Whether you're sending out invitations, thank-you notes, or business mail, this stamp gives your correspondence a distinct, polished look.

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#Custom address stamp #West Highland White Terrier stamp #Westie address stamp #personalized dog stamp #self-inking pet stamp #custom return address stamp #Westie puppy stamp #mailing stamp #stationery stamp #dog lover gift #pet-themed address stamp #square address stamp #re-inkable stamp #Westie owner gift #custom mailing stamp #personalized stationery #dog-themed gift

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sobeautifullyobsessed · 1 year ago

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Stephen Strange...and a special Blue Morpho butterfly

(Excerpt from my fic,'Friday in the Park with Stephen'; takes place pre-Infinity War. Posting it now simply because it makes me happy to do so.)

...Stephen missed Hope's call again late Sunday morning, growing a bit frustrated that they were left to play phone tag, but within the hour he’d had to assume the full mantle of Master of the Mystic Arts and join several others in the Basque countryside of Spain, to beat back an incursion fire-breathing Wormes; he’d ended up staying there two days longer as the Sorcerers searched for and finally sealed their point of entry into Earth’s dimension. Stephen returned from that foray slightly singed, and in need of a hot shower and a cold beer or two.

He found a large manila envelope waiting on the desk in the study he had commandeered as his own. It was marked in one corner ‘Please Do NOT Bend’, addressed simply ‘Stephen Strange’, and had to have been hand delivered, for there was no stamp or postmark—and in place of a return address was the inked image of a small but vibrantly blue butterfly, leaving him without a doubt whom had left it for him. Intrigued, Stephen carefully slit beneath the sealed flap and pulled out two pieces of 11 x 14 cardstock that had a piece of sketch paper sandwiched between them.

He thought that it must be the portrait Hope had done of him, as they sat on the grass in Washington Square Park, and he smiled broadly despite his exhaustion, recalling the pleasant way they had whiled away the day, of their evening stroll to Hope’s place in Brooklyn, of the starlight kisses they had shared—and most especially of how reverently she had held his hand against her cheek, gingerly kissing his scarred flesh, and of the image that had flashed through his mind of her with her hair undone, looking very like she was ripe for his taking.

Stephen let out a slow breath, and with hands that tremored from his old injury, removed the sketch from its protective cover.

"Whoa,” was all he managed, thunderstruck by a new image which Hope has so faithfully rendered. The paper itself was similar to that in her sketch pad, but even to his untrained eye, of higher quality. She had titled the piece The Nature of Beauty--and had depicted a beauty he had honestly not believed was there. Her Artist’s eye was truly keen, for she had captured his every minutia from memory alone.

The back of his left hand was displayed as though on its side, with his right hand draped across that wrist. She had added both his bracelets (fashioned of bead and leather, gifted to him by the elders of an Indi village after he had vanquished a Blight Demon that had laid waste to nearly half their fields) and his watch; he recalled her curiosity at him wearing a broken timepiece, and how she had only nodded in understanding when he replied it held sentimental value beyond any question of time, respecting his privacy enough not to press for more. Hope had thoroughly filled in the details, even down to the cracks on the watch face. His fingers were relaxed, though his right index finger was held just slightly bent—and upon it sat the Blue Morpho, it’s wings and body so meticulously portrayed that Stephen could almost see it flutter slightly.

She had drawn the piece in blacks and greys, with the subtlest hints of color at the his beaded bracelet and his watchband--though the butterfly held the echo of it’s true color, in sky blue chalk (so like the color of the sky that afternoon) which she had treated with a some kind of fixative to keep it from smudging. He found the sketch reminiscent of DaVinci’s detailed, realistic style, in his multitude of studies of the human form—the perfection of the human form which he had ever worshipped. Lastly, Hope had placed the date in the lower, righthand corner, and her initials bordered on the sketch itself.

But his favorite detail—one he never would have guessed he would find pleasing—was her depiction of the scars upon his hands. Hope had not stinted in depicting the weals that marked them, but she had given them an unexpected softness that left him with a soft appreciation in the center of his chest. Stephen decided on the spot that he would have it framed right away, to hang above the small desk in his quarters; it would be a gentle reminder of that old axiom ‘beauty is in the eye of the beholder ’—and of an extraordinary soul whom fate had somehow sent in his direction on a sunny, spring afternoon. Hope had taped a note loosely on the reverse of the sketch, which he removed with care. It read:

Dear Stephen,

I hope you enjoy this piece as much as I have enjoyed creating it. This is the original, of course--but I have kept a scan of it for my portfolio. At the least, perhaps it will remind you that beauty is well beyond skin deep, and that others often see what we think of as our flaws in a kinder light than we see ourselves. You may not know this, but in many cultures blue butterflies symbolize joy, beauty, and good fortune--most appropriate when I think how lucky it was that our paths came to cross that day. Thank you for allowing me the privilege of trying my best to capture the unique beauty of your hands...scars and all.

Sincerely,

Hope

PS I promised patience, and I swear I am a woman of my word. But please do keep trying, Stephen—as I’m certain that our paths are meant to cross again. xx

Energized by her astonishing gift, Stephen didn’t hesitate. He grabbed his cell from the shelf where it sat charging, sending a silent request unto the universe ‘please—let her pick up in person this time’. And perhaps because his prayer was fervent—perhaps too, because he’d earned himself some good karma—Hope picked up on the third ring. “Stephen,” she exclaimed brightly, “I just knew it would be you this time!”

“I just got back in town, I’m looking at your gorgeous sketch, and I’m thinking we have to get together this afternoon.” Before something calls me away again. “You game?"

“Absolutely,” she averred, “And what do you have in mind?” The note of mischief in her voice caused his pulse to speed its pace.

“There’s this great little pub on East 4th Street, The Four-Faced Liar. Some of the best burgers in the city…”

“Got it…” She sounded as eager as he felt, “Hey, that’s about halfway between our places.”

“Yup.” Stephen was already planning his route—well, where he could discretely portal to, giving him adequate time to shower and get dressed first, “Let’s say an hour, I’ll meet you there?”

“It’s a date, then?"

“You bet’cha it’s a date,” he promised, “And Hope?”

“Yes, Stephen?” He could swear he felt her smile across the miles between them.

“Wear some comfy shoes, okay? There’s no telling what adventures we might get up to today.”

The sigh she gave at that sounded as full of possibilities as his heart was hoping for. Of course, only time would tell—and as a master of time (in his unique way) he knew that time, in this case, was surely on his side.

Hope & Stephen ~ probably my most popular, most widely read, pairing...

Thank you from the bottom of my ❤️ for creating this @fanartka❣️It's a huge and indescribable thrill to see them together outside of my imagination!!😍💙❤️🦋

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songofsilentechoes · 2 months ago

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MAMA!

BABY BLOCKS HAVE QUESTIONS!

Although given that they are covered in stamps, clearly there is silliness afoot!

Baby blocks are trying to figure out how to get to grandmama to give rocks inside rocks! After all, is mama's mama! Realize that packages are square and brown like baby blocks! Have stamps! Baby blocks now have stamps! Baby blocks learned stamps must be on the brown squares! Thus are now affixed with stamps. Did not know how many stamps, so used all of them.

But now have problem! Are told must have an add rest! Do not know how to add ress! Also, not sure how that explains where grandmama is!

Anyway, can tell baby blocks where is?

"Hmm, that is puzzling. I admit, I don't know where her mother's address is. But surely Ava knows. But first...let's handle this part."

She wraps the geodes in parchment paper, tying it off with a string. She removes the stamps from the blocks, placing them on the parcel itself, and writes out the return address.

"Alright. All we need now is the address from Ava's parents."

#snugglyporos

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venusianpulp · 1 year ago

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Ancestral Karma Through Astrology

Lately, I have been wondering why I seem to always experience such heavy karma in situations that are unjust on my side. I examine my actions, recall any wrongdoings or lack of integrity, and evaluate intentions as best as I can, and every time, I come out on the other side feeling as if I have been accountable in all areas and most importantly, aboveboard.

Maybe this isn't just me, or that's the thought that prompted this; So I decided to look into ancestral karma and let me tell you... What I have found to be my personal inheritance of karma that I have been doomed with since birth, completely aligns with issues that go unfavorable for me in this lifetime.

I checked my 4th and 8th house placements, 12th house placements, saturn placement and harsh aspects, pluto placement and harsh aspects, as well as north node. Combining all of these was so incredibly helpful because now, I can actively address these issues if that is my choice, or I can severe chords with inherited karma, knowing exactly what it is I am healing or severing. I'll post a synopsis of what my ancestral karmic inheritances are and how I can go about healing them in case anyone would like a reading.

DM me, it's an $18.00 guide toward healing ancestral karma and will include a chord cutting ritual I have done thorough research on.

If you feel like life just constantly brings you tower moment after tower moment, yet you are living in your purpose, doing right by yourself and others, you may also have pent up karma that needs to be addressed in some capacity!

this is absolutely a form of self love and in perfect time for the full moon we are gearing up for!! this is also an 8 karmic year, universally, so if you take action, with intention, you are for sure likely to receive all the fruits of your labor x10!! I'm so excited for this full moon, who wants to join?!

Ancestral Lineage Signatures:

Jupiter in 12th House Libra - Foreign cultures, global connections, working across divides, issues around truth vs deception.

Moon in 8th House Taurus - Generational resilience, survivalist instincts, loyalty, and possessiveness.

4th House Capricorn/Aquarius Stellium - Legacy/dynasty builders focused on establishment of enduring structures.

Pluto in 2nd House Scorpio - Financial power struggles, regenerative capabilities around resources.

Inherited Psychic Gifts:

12th House Jupiter - Prophetic visions & dreams, spiritual attunement.

8th House Moon - Unconscious psychic absorption abilities.

Water Astrology Emphasis - Intuitive receptivity and emotional intelligence.

Sagittarius North Node - Exponential wisdom over lifetimes.

Karmic Patterns Needing Healing:

Hidden agendas and denial of truth - Jupiter lies

Addictions and avoidance of emotions - Moon

Control issues and power battles - Pluto square Saturn

Past life tyranny and lack of integrity - Pluto

Ancestral Lineage Signatures:

Occultists, healers, strategists and potent mystics rest in your genetics

Executives who forged dynastic outposts

Forces who worked unseen realms behind curtain

Wisest counselors occupying chambers of power

Those governing populous regions stamp your ancestral tree

Healing Directions:

Process pain through rituals and artistic expression

Practice brutal self-honesty

Establish healthy boundaries

Forgive self and predecessors through spiritual practices

Invoke freedom from contracts binding you to past errors

Step fully into destiny as a teacher, healer, guide

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mariacallous · 1 month ago

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It has been 80 years since World War II ended. That historic moment brought celebration, euphoria, and collective relief. The devastating war was finally over; fascism, it seemed, had been defeated. The mood in the United States was perhaps best captured by the iconic photograph of a U.S. Navy sailor kissing a woman in New York City’s Times Square on Aug. 14, 1945, after the news broke that Japan had surrendered.

But it didn’t take long for Americans to realize that international threats were far from over. In the aftermath of World War II, the Cold War between the Soviet Union and the United States quickly took hold. With the advent of atomic and nuclear weapons, the stakes of avoiding a full-scale confrontation increased dramatically.

In response, Presidents Harry S Truman (a Democrat) and Dwight D. Eisenhower (a Republican) promoted a vision of liberal internationalism. Working with Congress, they built a series of institutions and policies that have endured into 2025. This postwar order helped prevent the worst military conflict humankind has imagined and established a degree of stability in Europe that proved essential to America’s national security and economic strength.

Today, that entire post-WWII system is under serious threat. President Donald Trump has launched a systematic attack on what Truman and Eisenhower created. As with so many elements of American politics, Trump has exposed the fragility of long-standing assumptions. Once subjected to a frontal assault by the president of the United States, foundational pillars of foreign policy began to crumble.

Trump has severely strained or ruptured key international relationships in just a few months, even managing to provoke antagonism from Canada. Elon Musk took a chainsaw to the U.S. Agency for International Development. Trump has continually delivered sharp criticism about NATO and raised concerns over how committed he remains to the alliance while also offering words of praise to autocratic countries such as Russia and Hungary. He humiliated Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky on television and made clear that U.S. support for his country in its war against Russia has a fast-approaching expiration date.

The president has hollowed out much of the national security apparatus established in the late 1940s. When Henry Kissinger served as national security advisor and secretary of state under Presidents Richard Nixon and Gerald Ford in 1973 and 1975, it was understood that one person wielded immense influence in the halls of government. When earlier this month Marco Rubio became only the second individual to hold both roles, most observers rationally assumed his function would be to rubber-stamp whatever the president desired.

Even before World War II had ended, President Franklin D. Roosevelt warned that America’s obligations to the world would continue. In his final inaugural address in January 1945, Roosevelt said: “[W]e have learned lessons—at a fearful cost—and we shall profit by them. We have learned that we cannot live alone, at peace; that our own well-being is dependent on the well-being of other nations far away. We have learned that we must live as men, not as ostriches, nor as dogs in the manger. We have learned to be citizens of the world, members of the human community. We have learned the simple truth, as Emerson said, that ‘The only way to have a friend is to be one.’ We can gain no lasting peace if we approach it with suspicion and mistrust or with fear.”

Despite all the challenges and setbacks this vision has faced since 1945, many observers assumed its basic premise endured. Neo-isolationism was presumed dead, and liberal internationalism was the default. Even after Trump’s first term, the infrastructure seemed to have survived.

Yet as Trump uses his second term to dismantle the international system that has guided U.S. foreign policy for decades, the foundation’s weakness has become starkly apparent.

From a historical perspective, the risks were always there. In the early years of building the national security state, liberal internationalists who argued for permanent global engagement faced fierce resistance. During congressional debates over the National Security Act of 1947—which created the Department of Defense, the National Security Council, and the Central Intelligence Agency—proponents had to overcome concerns that a “garrison state” would foster the very kind of totalitarianism America claimed to oppose.

Historian Michael Hogan’s A Cross of Iron detailed the depth of that resistance: from old-guard Republicans like Ohio Sen. Robert Taft, who opposed Truman’s commitments; to progressives like Vice President Henry Wallace, who feared needless escalation with the Soviets; to university scientists worried about the constraints of federally funded research. Between 1945 and 1953, Truman sought a middle path—limiting new institutions and embedding safeguards, such as placing a civilian secretary of defense in charge of the military. Congress mandated a 10-year minimum before a former general or admiral could be eligible for appointment without a congressional waiver.

Truman also accepted budget cuts to domestic programs to satisfy concerns from fiscal conservatives that permanent wartime footing would blow up the budget. Truman settled on the peacetime Selective Service System to raise troops in time of war instead of the more ambitious universal military training (UMT) program he wanted, which would have required all men to undergo military training when they reached 18. A wide-ranging coalition of opponents, spanning from the Socialist Labor Party of America to the National Education Association, had attacked UMT as antithetical to the founding vision of the nation.

Fears about the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) have also been long-standing. In the middle of the Senate debate over the treaty, Taft declared: “It is with great regret that I have come to the conclusion that I cannot vote in favor of ratifying the North Atlantic Treaty because I think it carries with it an obligation to assist in arming at our expense the nations of western Europe, because with that obligation I believe it will promote war in the world rather than peace.”

Even Eisenhower, a military leader who helped establish NATO, privately expressed frustration with European allies, believing they needed to shoulder more responsibility. Criticism of NATO only grew stronger after the Cold War ended in the early 1990s. As the Soviet threat receded, more voices questioned the rationale for binding U.S. foreign policy to other nations’ interests.

Others feared that expanding NATO would unnecessarily provoke Russia. In 1997, the Arms Control Association warned then-President Bill Clinton that “the current U.S.-led effort to expand NATO, the focus of the recent Helsinki and Paris Summits, is a policy error of historic proportions. We believe that NATO expansion will decrease allied security and unsettle European stability.”

The United Nations, too, has long been in the crosshairs. In 1964, Sen. Barry Goldwater, the Republican presidential nominee, dismissed the U.N. as ineffective. The John Birch Society spent the 1960s campaigning for U.S. withdrawal. In 1984, President Ronald Reagan pulled the U.S. out of UNESCO, accusing the body of corruption and anti-Western bias. At the Reform Party convention in 2000, Pat Buchanan called for U.N. eviction from U.S. soil, saying: “Mr. Kofi, I want to be polite, but if you are not gone by year’s end, we will send a few thousand U.S. Marines to help you pack,” referring to then-U.N. Secretary-General Kofi Annan.

Skepticism toward liberal internationalism has never been confined to the right. As Johnson escalated the Vietnam War, many liberals and progressives turned against the foreign-policy consensus. The war discredited the “best and the brightest,” in David Halberstam’s phrase, and undermined confidence that American leaders were truly acting in the name of democracy rather than empire. Student activists and their allies on Capitol Hill railed against what Eisenhower had called the “military-industrial complex” in his farewell address—an unholy alliance of contractors, lawmakers, and defense officials producing bloated budgets and strategic drift.

The end of the draft in 1973 passed with little protest. And when Sen. Frank Church’s committee revealed in 1975-76 the CIA’s and FBI’s secret operations—including domestic surveillance and unauthorized assassinations—public trust cratered. As the final report concluded: “Intelligence agencies have undermined the constitutional rights of citizens, primarily because checks and balances designed by the framers of the Constitution to assure accountability have not been applied.”

Although agency leaders worked to restore trust, it remained fragile. In the post-9/11 era, revelations about surveillance and torture further eroded public confidence. “Americans did this to an Iraqi prisoner,” said CBS’s Dan Rather in a somber voice as 60 Minutes 2 in 2004 showed the image of a prisoner wearing a black cape and hood, forced to stand on a small cardboard box with his fingers connected to a machine. The prisoner was told, Rather said, that if he fell off the small box he would be electrocuted. “Some days we’re not always proud of our soldiers,” admitted Mark Kimmitt, deputy director for coalition operations in Iraq. The anger intensified when it became clear that the revelations from the Abu Ghraib detention facility were not anomalies but part of the government’s strategy.

Like Republican presidents, Democrats have likewise attacked U.S. allies for not doing enough. Then-President Barack Obama, a staunch internationalist, told the Atlantic’s Jeffrey Goldberg in 2016 that “free riders aggravate me.”

The hard truth is that the postwar international order never rested on solid political ground. Resistance has existed from the start. Preserving what Truman and Eisenhower built has always required ongoing effort. Sometimes, critiques targeted the system’s core principles; other times, they stemmed from disastrous policies or institutional abuse. Either way, when Trump targeted this pillar of American governance, it began collapsing more quickly than many foreign-policy veterans had anticipated.

Even with a clear-eyed understanding of liberal internationalism’s shortcomings, its contributions are undeniable. The alliances, institutions, and commitments that emerged after World War II helped prevent nuclear catastrophe, stabilize global affairs, underpin American economic strength, and provide experienced counsel during moments of national crisis.

Supporters of the post-WWII system now face a monumental fight. The opposition is not only vocal—it is deeply rooted. Unless they can defend their vision and respond candidly to legitimate criticisms, they may soon witness the collapse of the world order they spent a lifetime defending, replaced by the abyss of America First.

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burntlikethesun · 1 year ago

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Fic: First Day

Donna Noble embarks on her first day at UNIT, 10 weeks after we left her at the end of The Giggle.

Donna had opted to use the tube for her first day. Did UNIT Tower have an underground carpark? She made a mental note to ask someone. If she was going to be saving the planet every week, she felt she deserved a commute that didn’t involve standing with her face in someone’s armpit.

Maybe she could have her own personal driver- no, that would be pushing it. She could still barely believe she’d talked her way into a £120k a year job when this time last year she was doing admin on a fixed term contract for a recruitment company which made them all fork out for their own Christmas party. Now she was a permanent employee of an international organisation defending the Earth!

She had taken a while to agree on a start date - first of all her house had been demolished in an alien skirmish, so she felt like she needed to be settled in her new home before embracing her new role as Consultant Advisor under Kate Stewart. She did feel slightly nervous about the responsibility awaiting her, but she had done so much already that surely the only difference was now she was being financially compensated for her efforts. She had been sent a welcome pack in the post, containing her contract for signing and the company handbook that had some old country house emblazoned on the cover. Very National Trust, apart from the almost comical wooden sign reading ‘Ministry of Defence. U.N.I.T. Headquarters. KEEP OUT.’. Clearly they needed to update their marketing materials, now they sit at the top of a swish skyscraper in central London, complete with a helipad, and according to Shirley, the best coffee machine this side of the Milky Way.

The house had been quiet as she left that morning. Shaun was dead to the world after a late night taxi shift, and Sylvia had taken Wilf to visit Minnie. The Doctor, having made himself a resident of her back garden, had recently begun reaching out to old friends, now that he had an address to visit. She was charmed to meet Ace, bemused by the robot dog trundling alongside her, and Tegan made her hoot with laughter when she gave the Doctor a dressing down for saying she used to complain a lot. Jo Jones had embraced her so enthusiastically that she knocked her mother’s favourite vase off a table (thank God, it looked hideous), and she’d been overjoyed to host a raucous wine night when Martha finally found out about her getting her memories back and rushed round with a bag of clinking bottles to make up for lost time.

This morning there was a square patch on the grass which the TARDIS had vacated the previous day, as the Doctor had decided to pay a visit to an elderly couple named Ben and Polly in India, and a time space machine is less hassle than Heathrow. Rose had begged to go too but Donna had reminded her that she had mocks soon, and last time she’d gone on a daytrip with the Doctor she’d missed a week of school as they’d ended up in Ancient Athens, returning with their tails between their legs. As consolation, she let Rose stay overnight with another girl from school to revise for their exams. She was doing her A Levels but was disengaged outside of Art and Design. Maybe UNIT had a work experience program? Not out in the field of course, she didn’t want to encourage that; maybe they needed a new logo designing, or a rethink on their uniforms. She could see Rose sketching out a new look for the troops, the current all black look didn’t compare to the chic red berets she remembered from the ATMOS factory. Although knowing Rose’s taste they’d end up all furry with googly eyes on their helmets and pipe cleaners and pom poms on their chests. Maybe not, then.

Walking through the automatic shining glass doors stamped with the organisation’s insignia, Donna’s stomach threatened to do backflips. She refused to let misplaced imposter syndrome spoil this for her. She’d saved the universe, every universe, for crying out loud. If she could survive being locked in with rabid Ood, sneak through a Sontaran battleship undetected, deduct that a generations-long war had only lasted a week, and outthink the Not-things, she was ready for whatever life working for UNIT could throw at her.

“Hello, darling!”, a voice sang out, and Donna looked across the reception area and saw a familiar mane of red hair. “I came down to meet you!” beamed Mel.

“You’ve not come to let me down gently then?” Donna laughed, still slightly nervous, but the butterflies inside her calming in the presence of her friend.

“Don’t be ridiculous, come on, let's get you set up upstairs.”, Mel said, whisking her briskly to the lifts, waving to the receptionist to let them through the security barriers. “There’s so much to do! We need to get your photo ID pass sorted, your hair looks gorgeous by the way, and - oh you’ve arrived just in time, our Shadow Proclamation liaison is off sick and we’ve had communication last night from the Judoon that they need jurisdiction to arrest a minor royal for trafficking Graskes - complete crisis. Kate’s on it but needs support arranging rendition.”

“Judoon? Space Rhinos, yoyo velcro tesco fomo; we’re already acquainted.” Donna replied as the doors slid open with a soft ‘ding’. “Let me at ‘em”.

#doctor who #donna noble #fourteenth doctor #mel bush #dw fic #fic #my fic

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skelavender · 5 months ago

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There’s a letter in Tommy’s mailbox. It’s not a bill, not an advertisement. A bona fide letter, with his name penned carefully across the back. There’s no return address and no stamp. Tommy runs his thumb across the corner of the envelope as he contemplates it. When he flips it over and sees the actual red wax seal holding the flap down, he realizes what it is and drops it onto the counter like it’s burned him. Evan. Buck. OR Reconciliation through a series of letters.

read the center of every poem on ao3, listen to the podfic on gdrive, or find it below the cut!

you can also listen to evan's playlist and tommy's playlist on spotify.

“the centre of every poem is this: i have loved you. i have had to deal with that.”

Letters From Medea, Salma Deera

***

There’s a letter in Tommy’s mailbox.

It’s not a bill, not an advertisement. A bona fide letter, with his name penned carefully across the back. There’s no return address and no stamp.

Tommy runs his thumb across the corner of the envelope as he contemplates it. When he flips it over and sees the actual red wax seal holding the flap down, he realizes what it is and drops it onto the counter like it’s burned him.

Evan.

Buck.

Buck had driven across town to drop this off himself. He had been outside. Was Tommy home? Did he miss his chance to catch one last glimpse of Buck?

Had he wanted to come inside?

Tommy doesn't let himself dwell on that possibility.

A memory comes to him, a few months ago. Chris’s birthday. A couple weeks beforehand, Tommy had knocked on Evan’s door and been greeted with the sight of Evan’s thumb pressed gently against his own lips.

A paper cut, Evan had explained. When Tommy looked past him, the counter top was spread with a mess of different types of papers, envelopes, rubber stamps, pens, and ink pads.

That was when he learned about Evan’s — Buck’s — greeting card habit. Every birthday came with a custom made card, slaved over for hours. Every gift was countered with a thank you note a week later. The card Chris would be receiving had layers of different colors of card stock, and "Happy Birthday!" was nearly stamped across the front.

This is… not a birthday card. Tommy’s birthday isn’t for another three months, and Buck knows this. He doubts it’s a thank you card, because thanks for ripping your heart out by breaking up with me! seems pretty callous. The only other thing Tommy can imagine it being is a postmortem.

Tommy… Tommy’s not sure if he’s ready for that yet.

He’s still too raw. Thinking about breaking the wax seal makes his skin sting like air on muscle, like he’s covered in a thousand of Buck’s greeting card paper cuts.

The letter mocks him from the countertop for two more days before he sits down with it and a beer squarely in front of him. It takes him an hour and another bottle to flip it over and slide his finger under the seal. It pops off in one piece, and Tommy breathes.

He slides the paper out of the envelope, but doesn’t unfold it yet. Its color matches the envelope perfectly, but the texture is different. It’s heavier, and thicker. It’s the nice stuff, the stationary he knows Buck spent way too much money on and saves for important letters. Which means this, to Buck, is an important letter.

Tommy stands and paces the kitchen. The letter keeps screaming at him from the counter, calling him a coward, calling him weak, in a voice eerily similar to that of his father.

Tommy makes it halfway through another beer leaning against the door jamb of the kitchen when he sets the bottle down a little too hard on the counter, slides back into his seat, and flips the paper open before he can back out again.

Tommy,

Tommy tears up immediately, reading just his own name on the page in the same handwriting he would see in good morning notes left on his bedside when Evan had an early morning shift, or stuck to a container of tupperware with reheating instructions and a “see you tomorrow!”

He continues reading.

Tommy,

I’ve tried to write this so many times, but it either comes out too desperate or too pushy. I hope this time I manage to find the balance, because I’m not sure how many more times I can write this before I lose my mind.

I’ve been running every moment with you over and over in my head, trying to figure out where I went wrong, or which interactions I misunderstood, or how we ended up on such different pages, or what I could have changed to hold onto you. If I had chased after you, would you have stayed and kissed me? If I had kept you awake with my research one night less, could I have kept you for one more? I’ve been reading up on chaos theory and the butterfly effect. One minute change could have altered everything. There are infinite different paths we could have taken, and I can’t understand why we ended up on this one. It just doesn’t feel right to me.

I didn’t think I would have to tell you this, but I guess you didn’t get the message: we were serious. Or, at least, I was serious about you. You were my boyfriend, my partner, not an experiment. I’ve had a lot of partners I wasn’t serious about — I think I had slept with a good quarter of the single women in LA at one point, and I’m done with that. I’ve been done with that for years. Realizing that I’m queer hasn’t changed the fact that have no interest in sleeping around anymore; it’s not fulfilling to me. And I have had meaningful emotional relationships, ones that have made me feel cared for and loved, at least for a while. That includes you. None of that changes because men are suddenly an option.

I don’t know why it’s so important to me that you know that. I’m not aiming to make you feel guilty, or regretful, or confused. Maybe it’s selfish, but I needed to get that off my chest.

I wish you the best,

Evan

Tommy is in tears by the time he finishes the letter. God. Tommy had known he had fucked up the second he closed the door of Buck’s loft behind him, but now the pain is sunken far enough into his chest that it lives there now.

***

There’s a letter in Evan’s mailbox.

This fact alone is not particularly unusual. He has a couple friends from his days on the road that he still exchanges letters with. But his name and address are scrawled across the front familiar chicken scratch. Tommy’s chicken scratch. Buck’s breath hitches.

The return address confirms it. His name isn’t there, but Buck knows that address. He’s spent hours there; he’s plugged it into his phone countless times to try to find the quickest way to cross town. He had done so as recently as last week, to drop off…

Oh. The letter.

Buck hadn’t expected a response, to be honest. He had only wanted to voice — or, well, pen — his feelings, which he hadn’t actually been able to do when Tommy had broken up with him because he was so caught off guard. But here he is, holding a letter nestled in an ivory envelope. A suspiciously nice ivory envelope, with a texture similar to the ones he saves for important letters.

Buck hasn’t scrambled up to his loft faster in his life. He beelines for the box that contains the LAFD letter opener he had… liberated… during his fire marshall days and slips it into the flap of the envelope, prying it open as carefully as he can with his trembling hands.

The paper is heavy. It’s not the exact same stuff Buck uses, but it’s nice enough that Tommy must have had to go out and buy it. This is paper that requires intent.

He starts reading it right there on the floor, knelt in front of his stationary box.

Buck –

I’m sorry. I’m sorry I hurt you; I’m sorry I left you reeling.

But you have to understand, baby, this is how it has to be.

I really meant it when I said you’re absolutely incredible. I don’t want you to be feeling like you were too much, or not enough, or anything like that. You are such a wonderful man and you’re going to make an amazing partner once you find someone good enough for you. You’re a precious thing, and you deserve someone equally precious. But that’s not me.

It wasn’t that I wasn’t serious about you, Evan Buck, the problem is that I was. I love I fell was falling far too hard for you. I know you care cared about me, but you have so much love to give, and I’m I was so afraid that you would regret it if you chose to give it to me.

I’m still I think about you I wanted to text I still see you everywhere I miss you I made it all the way to the checkout with a book I thought you would like the other day before I realized what I was doing

You’ve found this whole new side of you, and I’m so, so happy I could help you find it, but it would destroy me to help you keep exploring.

Again, I’m sorry.

Tommy

For the first time since the breakup, Buck is mad.

He’s cycled through every other stage of grief multiple times, sometimes all in one day. He had felt a little better after dropping the letter off, like he was inching towards closure. But now that Tommy is doubling down, insisting that he somehow isn’t enough for Buck…

It’s ridiculous. Buck thought that Tommy would throw it into the trash, if Buck was lucky he might give it a read before he did so and that would be that. But now Buck is stuck with another layer of pain to work through before he can move on.

He squints through the scribbled out bits, but Tommy was too thorough, and Buck can’t read it. Perhaps something that makes sense is hidden under the loops of ink, some key that makes anything that Tommy said make sense with how Buck saw their relationship.

Buck wants to make a photocopy and draw lines between the letters, connect the things Tommy has said to certain interactions. He wants to annotate the letter like a high school student writing an essay on a poem. He wants to break it down to the tiny bits and pieces and weave it into something that makes sense.

Buck’s phone is ringing. He removes it from his pocket and snaps a “what” into the microphone without even checking to see who was calling.

“Jesus, who pissed in your cheerios?” Eddie asks from the other end.

“Tommy.”

Eddie sighs. “Buck, I told you not to call him!”

“I didn’t, but I… I left him a letter the other day. He sent one back.”

“And?”

“He doubled down on it. I’m great, but he’s not good enough for me.”

“Damn.” A beat of silence. “You’re going to ignore it, right?”

“No, I’m going to write a letter back.”

“Ooh, no you’re not.” Eddie says. The sound of a car door slamming comes through the phone. “You are not going to write him an angry letter. If Clipboard Buck is scary, Angry Letter to the Manager Buck is a million times worse. You want to get back together, right? That’s why you sent the letter?”

“I don’t even know!” Buck bursts, “I just wanted closure, one way or another, and he didn’t really give me a chance to say anything before he just… up and left.”

“Well, if you write that letter now, you’re going to close that door for good, and you’ll never know what could have happened if you had waited until you were calmer.”

Buck sighs. “Yeah, yeah, alright.”

“I’m already on my way over. Don’t do anything until I get there. I’ll see you soon.”

“I’ll see you.” Buck hangs up and stares at the letter box, calling out to him.

When Eddie walks through the door of the loft, Buck is sitting at the table with his fancy letter paper in front of him.

“Buck,” Eddie drawls, disappointed.

“I didn’t!” Buck defends. “I’m just thinking about it.”

“Put your stupid $50 paper away and let's go to a museum or something. C’mon.”

“It was only $37.”

“Let’s go, Buck.”

***

Did you know that LA has an all night fine stationery store? Tommy does. Because he had looked it up and Doordashed a set of expensive paper and pens at midnight. The driver had looked at him like he was crazy, but Tommy had written the letter in twenty minutes and dropped it into the blue mailbox down the street before he could sober up enough to second-guess himself. He hadn’t even written a clean copy, instead leaving bits scribbled out on the final page, hopefully thoroughly enough that Buck wouldn’t be able to decipher the parts he had decided were too raw for Buck to see.

Evan, apparently, hadn't been too put off by Tommy's sloppiness, because he's responded. This envelope is the same creamy ivory color as the last, with his name written neatly across the back, with a wax seal. This one, however, has a stamp and Tommy's address below his name. The corner is bent and scuffed, clearly packed into some poor mailman's bag for too many hours. Tommy peels the envelope open delicately, and starts to read.

Tommy,

Eddie talked me down from being too mean to you, but god, you fucking asshole. Did you read a single thing I wrote?

I could never regret you. I’ve never regretted dating anyone, I’ve certainly never regretted caring about someone. Everyone I’ve been in a relationship with has led me to where I am today. That’s part of what I was trying to tell you, with Abby – our breakup sucked, and it really hurt me for a long time, but that relationship transformed me. She was my first – the first person I actually dated instead of just sleeping with. You were my first man, but not my first partner. That was Abby. I’ve had my heart broken and learned how to heal it. I’m not someone who is going to brush you aside for the sake of my own self discovery. Being in a relationship with a man is new to me, and yes, there were some things I had to learn with that, but loving is not.

I’ve spent so much time and energy sprinting through relationships and then holding onto them when I should probably let go – Abby, Taylor, hell, even my parents. I’m sorry I moved too fast for you. I was really, really trying to slow it down this time, to let our relationship grow on its own instead of drawing shapes around where I wanted it to form.

I did not view our relationship as you helping me figure myself out. I viewed us as two people who liked each other and wanted to build a life together. I need you to understand that I cared about you, and that feeling was genuine. What did I do that made you feel otherwise? That I was just using you? I don’t do that. I’ve been nothing but used my whole life. I never want to make someone else feel that way. I need that to get through to you. I can’t have you walking through life thinking that you’re nothing but a stepping stone. You’re not.

You are worthy of love that lasts.

Evan

Reading the first paragraph feels like a shot of ice to Tommy’s veins, how he had misunderstood Buck’s history so terribly. They had never really had a conversation about exes, but they really should have. The second makes the acidic burn of guilt flood through him, that somehow Buck is apologizing as though he has done something wrong. The last bit… well.

Despite everything, it makes Tommy feel warm. Cared for.

A life together.

With three words, Buck has painted a picture that Tommy wants, more than anything. Buck’s bike mounted in the garage. His Jeep in the driveway. His socks between sheets, no matter how many times Tommy complains about them. Sunday dinners with the Hans, or barbecues with the extended family of the 118. A cat. Maybe, if Tommy could convince Evan, a couple kids.

Tommy wishes it were possible. History has said it is not the case.

***

Buck has never checked his mailbox as obsessively as he has this week, waiting for a letter from Tommy to arrive. He had mailed it properly this time, with a stamp and an address instead of a personal drop-off.

With his first letter, Buck hadn’t expected a response. This time, he does. But as the days drag on with only bills and useless coupons, he starts to lose hope. Perhaps he had come on too strong, been too harsh, or too vulnerable, or any other undesirable thing.

It comes two weeks after Buck’s letter had hit the USPS. He’s on his way inside with a couple bags of groceries when he checks his mailbox, and there it sits. The same creamy ivory envelope, the same messy handwriting addressing it to him, the same save the sea turtles stamp.

He makes it upstairs in a far less rushed manner. Very calmly, he puts his groceries away and lets the letter sit on the counter. When everything is away, Buck fetches his letter opener and flicks the letter open.

Buck –

It took me a couple days to respond, but I really wanted to put the thought in to give you a genuine, thought-out answer, not just a knee-jerk reaction.

First of all, I want to apologize again for how I treated you that night. I never should have discounted the relationships you've had in the past. I'm not trying to make excuses for how I acted, it was shitty and wrong, but I want you to understand what was happening in my head and why.

My first response was that you hadn’t done anything wrong to make me feel that way. While I still think that is true, the response has to come from somewhere, and I think it was how I came out. I used a lot of people. I used Abby to help me keep up the macho straight guy facade. I used a bunch of men for sex after I finally admitted to myself that I was gay. We hooked up in the bathrooms in gay bars, and I never told them my name so no one could out me. Many others did the same to me, and that is what I’m used to. I assumed that you would need someone to help you figure yourself out as well, but I understand now that it’s not what you need. That doesn’t reflect how I felt about you, or what I wanted, but it’s what I thought I could get. And I was so hungry for any bit of you, I took what I could – or what I thought you were giving. I still thought you would leave, eventually. I’m sorry that I assumed the worst of you. I’m sorry for assuming you cope in the same ways I did. My experiences are my own, and not applicable to anyone else.

I wish I could do it all over knowing this. Not just that day, but the whole time we were together. I don’t know that I would have changed much, but I would have cherished it differently. I think I did a lot of mourning, even though our relationship was very much alive. I would look at you and think “He’s so beautiful,” and then, immediately, “Someday I won’t get to look at him like this anymore.”

When you asked me to move in, I had this moment of hope. Like everything I could have ever wanted was right there, reaching out to me. You were reaching out to me. But it got overshadowed by all this worry, and this fear, and I couldn’t deal with that. In your first letter, you mentioned infinite possibilities for the future, and that’s exactly what I saw. Infinite timelines where that moment was the flap of the butterfly’s wings that caused a hurricane of heartbreak. A thousand futures were I would think, “God, if only I hadn’t moved in with him, this would hurt so much less.”

But now I’m not so sure that it would hurt less, because I’m so in love with you, Evan. I have been so in love with you, even if I couldn’t identify it before I left. I didn’t know that my love for you was what caused that fear, I only knew that it was choking me, and I couldn’t let that happen. So, like a fool, I hurt both of us because I thought it would protect myself.

Love,

Tommy

Buck takes in a deep breath. Lets it out. Repeats the action.

He’s starting to understand where Tommy’s mind is at. He still doesn’t agree, doesn’t think he was in the right, but Tommy’s mental state is starting to come into focus. This letter is much more insightful than the last one, and Buck just feels…

Well, he feels sorry for the guy. It can’t be easy to be haunted by the man right in front of you.

Buck wishes they had talked about it then, but he also understands how that would be difficult when Tommy is actively trying not to pull him closer or let him in.

He hadn’t even addressed Buck’s assertion that he deserved love, maybe because he disagreed and didn’t want to cause more of an argument, or maybe because it was too raw for him to touch.

But still, it feels like a step in the right direction.

***

Tommy,

First of all, thank you so much for being vulnerable and sharing your past with me, and how it has been affecting you. I feel a lot closer to you now, in a way I didn’t know I was missing when we were dating, and I really, really like the feeling.

That honestly sounds pretty miserable, both the hiding and the mourning. I'm sorry you went through that.

Can we please try to fix it? To work on things together? I want to be with you again, Tommy, I really do, but I’m so afraid of you leaving again. I’ve been left behind so many times, and I can’t do it again. This whole ordeal hit me in a very weak spot. Before we try again, I need you to prove to me that you won’t run away next time you get scared, but that you’ll talk to me. That you know I’m here, and I want to help you through all that. I feel like I was the one guiding us for most of our relationship, driving us in the direction I wanted, and we need to make sure neither of us let that happen again. I need you to check me if I’m pushing too far forward. I need for both of us to feel secure, safe, and close.

Evan

P.S. Please for the love of god stop calling me Buck. It feels so wrong from you.

***

The next letter Buck receives comes on the same stationery as the rest, but the content is one line.

Evan,

I want that more than anything. What can I do to get us there?

With love,

Tommy

Evan smiles and heads for his stationery box.

***

Tommy swears he’s been holding his breath since he sent off his latest letter.

Evan’s latest letter. He can be Evan again.

When he opens his mailbox and sees Evan’s envelope, he’s choked up. He sits on the curb and reads it right there on the street.

Tommy,

I’ll be honest, I’m not entirely sure.

I don’t know when I’ll be ready, or how to get there, but I know I will be one day. This is fixable, if we can both heal.

How about this: we can keep writing letters. We keep our communication here, and when we figure we’re ready, we’re ready. Until then, we’re pen pals. I’m not planning on dating or sleeping with anyone else, but if you decide to, I just ask that you be honest with me about it.

I still want to be with you, I swear I do. I accidentally ordered your coffee on my way home this morning. I didn’t even realize what I had done until I got home and realized that I had two cups. I want to live in a world where I can come home and hand it to you and tell you about the crazy calls from today. But I think it’s best if we work this out before we jump back in and have the same issues again in a couple months, and I honestly think that if I see you right now I’ll fall into your arms without actually fixing anything. I want us to build something strong together, something that lasts.

Evan

Tommy glances over at the tall stack of heavy paper he had bought a couple weeks ago. Yeah, he thinks he can make this work.

***

Evan,

I love that idea. I haven't really written many letters, but I’ve been surprised by how much I’ve been enjoying it. I want to hear about your day and all the weird calls, so tell me here. It doesn’t all have to be the heavy stuff. We can build our foundation on the small moments too, they’re important.

I understand the coffee thing though. I chose the turtle stamps because they seemed like something that would make you smile. A couple weeks ago I made it to the checkout counter with a book I thought you’d like before I realized what I was doing. I put it back, but I’ll go back for it if you let me. It was about a bunch of misconceptions and myths. I mentioned it in my first letter, but scribbled it out because I was afraid it was too much. I guess I didn’t want you to know how badly I missed you. I’m not so afraid of that, now that we’ve talked a bit more.

So, tell me about your weird calls. We picked up a guy who got impaled by a golf club in the middle of the woods. I still have no clue how he managed to do it. We don’t get as many weird calls as you guys do at the 118 — you’re like a magnet for the weirdest of the weird calls. I can’t wait to hear about your day.

Tommy

P.S. I didn’t think it would have to be said, but I’ll be clear just in case – I have no interest in dating or sleeping with anyone else. Ever.

***

Tommy,

I can’t tell you what a relief it is to hear that. I would have made my peace with you being with other people while we’re apart, but it makes me really, really happy that you aren’t.

We do tend to have weirder calls than most other firefighters I’ve talked to. I didn’t realize it when I started at the 118, but after a couple “What do you mean you’ve never cut a premature baby out of a toilet pipe?” conversations, I started to get the message.

This week was like a series of sex mishaps, at least one every shift. Someone got stuck on one of those fucking machines (people use those outside of porn??), someone had an allergic reaction to cherry flavored lube. Some basic accidental handcuffings. I don’t know what’s in the air, maybe it’s because we have a second moon? Did I tell you about the second moon? I will gladly tell you about the second moon. I'm a little obsessed with it, but I think that Hen might slap me if I mention it at work again.

Evan

***

Evan,

You haven’t told me about the second moon — please do. I’ve missed you and your rambling. The house sounds too quiet without you in it. No one has told me a fun fact in weeks.

Yes, people use fucking machines outside of porn. No, I have never used one, and now knowing that it’s possible for someone to get stuck on one, I don’t think I will. I hooked up with someone who had one once, but we never used it.

What's something I might not know about you? I don't think I ever told you about my childhood imaginary friend. His name, oddly enough, was Evan. He was a baseball player and ballerina and had every Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle figurine a seven-year-old could dream of.

Tommy

***

When Tommy pulls the contents of his next letter out of the envelope, two pieces of paper slip out. One is labeled as ‘serious’. The other is labeled as ‘fun’, with a smiley face.

Tommy freezes. He holds one in each hand as if weighing them. The serious one seems to burden his hand a little more, so he opens that one first.

Tommy,

This might not be what you were looking for when you asked for something you don't know about me, but I'll take an opening when I get one, and this is something you should know about.

I told you a couple weeks ago that I had been used my whole life. In order to understand me, I think I need to tell you more about my family, and some of the things I didn’t know about until very recently, but really put the puzzle pieces together about why my childhood was the way it was.

My brother had leukemia. His only hope was a bone marrow transfusion. No one in the family was a match. My parents decided to have another kid in hopes that he would be a match. Genetically, I was. But it didn’t take. Daniel died when I was a year old, and my parents were stuck with a savior kid who couldn’t save anything.

I didn’t understand why they couldn’t stand me growing up. I was the wrong son. I was defective. I grew up in the shadow of a dead nine-year-old I didn’t know existed until I was 28. I have always felt the need to be of use, and never known why.

So when I told you I never intended to treat you as nothing more than a method of self-discovery, it was because I’ve been where you thought you were. I’ve been the one who has put myself in a bad place because that’s where I was needed, where I was useful. You’re a person, Tommy; you’re not a tool.

That’s also why I think I cling on to relationships so badly. I need to be needed. The closer we are, the harder it is for them to untangle themselves from me. I’m really happy you’re still letting me be tangled up with you.

Evan

Every cell in Tommy’s body itches to call Evan. He wants to reach out, to pull him into his arms where Tommy knows he’s safe and warm and loved.

He doesn’t. He can’t. He knows why, and he’s not going to cross that line, no matter how good his intentions. He’s not sure he could hold the line if he got word that Evan had been hurt again, but this is an old hurt, one that Evan knows how to cope with. Tommy has no doubt that if this were something Evan needed support with, he would go to Maddie, Eddie, or Bobby about it.

Tommy takes a deep breath and reaches for the other letter, the one adorned with a smiley face.

Tommy,

We are so not using a fucking machine. I’ll take your normal dick, thanks. I do miss it ;)

Speaking of sex stuff, I finally did some research on the Kinsey scale! I think I'm Kinsey two. Kinsey himself was actually an interesting dude, did you know that he disproved the theory that women have stronger orgasms from vaginal stimulation? He also developed the Kinsey scale while he was studying wasps. He wasn’t the best guy (slept with so many members of his staff and research subjects) but his research is fascinating.

Your childhood best friend was named Evan? Talk about an invisible string. I didn't have many friends other than Maddie growing up, but I never had an imaginary friend either. I didn't have any TMNT figurines, and I certainly wasn't cool enough to be a baseball player/ballerina.

Sorry for breaking this letter into two parts. I’m assuming that you opened the other one first? I had been working on it for a couple weeks, but I had to get my thoughts in order before I sent it because it was something I really needed to say, but didn’t want it to disrupt the flow of our conversation.

I almost forgot about the second moon! It’s an asteroid that is in Earth’s orbit until late November. It was probably a part of the Earth billions of years ago…

***

… so Lena let me walk through the entire day with a smudge of ketchup on my face. I think I saw Kareem hand her $20 after I finally wiped it off…

***

… trying to get Eddie to join a trivia night with me so that he leaves the house every once and a while…

***

… I can't believe you've never seen 10 Things I Hate About You! We'll have to watch it together some day…

***

… It's a date …

***

… I was always a lonely kid, and I've always been a lonely adult, too. I'm so jealous of the family you've built in the 118 and how there for each other you all are. I've never had that with anyone, but I wish I had…

***

… They're there for you too, Tommy. Hen, Chim, Eddie… they're your people too, not just mine…

***

…Here's another conversation we should have had months ago: what are your thoughts on marriage?

***

…My thoughts on marriage are very, very positive. Especially with you…

***

Sorry for the postcard, ran out of paper but wanted to tell you that Lucy enjoyed the lemon loaf recipe. Thank you for sending it. Will send a longer letter when I get off shift

xx T

***

…I just made the best roast chicken. I think I’ve peaked. I wish I could have shared it with you. I’ve missed having you keep me company while I’m cooking…

***

… I was afraid of the power I gave you, and that you gave me…

***

… Cap sprung for a new coffee maker and it's changing our lives…

***

… I know what you mean, I can barely stand to be in the kitchen without you, and meals are way too quiet…

***

… Are you still afraid?…

***

… I think I'll always be a little afraid of it, but I'm learning to sit with that and not it let rule me…

***

Just saw 2:17 on the clock, thought of you <3 E

***

… I swear to god, people have got to stop hiking alone with no water. Are they stupid? Just because LA isn’t boiling alive anymore doesn’t mean you don’t need water. We’ve picked up three this shift alone. Bets going around about how long it’ll be until the next one…

Scrap of paper enclosed in envelope: It was an hour, by the way. Kareem won the bet.

***

Things start to blend together.

There are lots of letters. So many that Evan's drawer in Tommy's dresser is getting hard to close, and the thread of their conversations have gotten so convoluted and hard to follow because their letters overlap. Instead of weekly, envelopes are dropped in mailboxes daily. Some have stamps, having traveled all over LA in mail trucks and distribution centers, and others have a plain top right corner, a sure sign that it had been dropped off in person. Checking his mailbox has quickly become Tommy's favorite part of every day.

Tommy has bought two more packs of fancy stationery and four more packs of stamps. He's also started keeping a pack of postcards and stamps in his duffle bag so he can jot down tidbits from his day and slide them into the mailbox around the corner from Harbor. The first pack had been cheesy LA-themed ones, the second had been a pack of zoo-themed ones he got in exchange for making a donation. He's on the third now, a set of sexy firefighter ones he had found online and that Evan had admitted made him laugh out loud. He imagines Evan opening his mailbox and ten postcards sliding out, each with a text message's worth of information. Tommy doesn't think he minds, but if he does he hasn't let on. Evan just responds to each postcard at some point in his own letter.

Most of their letters are silly, but many are serious. They've talked through their problems at length, and Tommy feels closer to Evan than he ever did when they were dating. Emotionally, at least. Physically, Evan is still across the city.

Until he's not.

It all thanks to happenstance. Tommy doesn't look outside before opening the door to go on a run, but with one foot on the welcome mat he looks up to the end of the driveway and freezes. Because there, parked in front of his mailbox, is Evan's Jeep.

And with one hand on the mailbox, there is Evan.

A minute in either direction and Tommy wouldn't be here. He wouldn't be staring at the love of his life who he isn't supposed to be interacting with in person.

Every part of Tommy is screaming for him, longing to run to Evan and meet him halfway across the yard, to fall into his arms in a moment straight out of a rom-com.

But he doesn't. He stares at Evan and his jaw slightly agape in surprise, and his eyes raw and unblinking, as if he closes them for a millisecond, Evan might be gone.

He's gorgeous. When Tommy's eyes break from Evan's, they drag up and down his body. He looks good, largely the same as he did when Tommy left him in his kitchen — but thankfully, much less torn open.

Evan is the first one to move. He breaks out into a grin, the kind that Tommy knows he couldn't hold back if he tried, and lifts his left hand from the top of the mailbox in a little wave.

That's when Tommy notices it. The new tattoo.

He can't make out what it is — maybe a flower or a tree? — but it lays at the front of Evan's bicep, visible only because he's wearing a sleeveless shirt.

Before the moment escapes, Tommy raises his hand and waves back. Evan's smile grows, and he climbs back into the Jeep, glancing back at Tommy every step of the way like he, too, thinks the man in front of him will disappear if he looks away too long.

The Jeep peels away from the curb and down the street, and Tommy's eyes follow until it disappears around the corner.

He stands there for a moment, dazed, with one foot still inside his house. It was… Evan. He's real. This, their reconciliation… it's real. They're working towards something — towards each other.

Tommy steps out onto his porch and goes to retrieve Evan's note from the mailbox.

Tommy—

Since Eddie is Chris-less and I am… in a not-so-long distance relationship? Whatever. Since neither of us have anyone we have to rush home to, I managed to convince him to join that trivia night with me. We're trying to get Hen and Karen to come so we don't have to take in strangers every week to form a team, but haven't succeeded yet.

Anyways, one of the questions this week was the one that knocked Ken Jennings off of his Jeopardy run. The question is about how H&R Block has a majority seasonal employees, and one of the strangers was being so aggressive and insisting that I was wrong because he works for JP Morgan and was SO sure of himself. I was right (OBVIOUSLY) and when they announced the answer and our team won, I just looked at the guy like "I told you so" and he stood up to walk out, and ran right into a pole. It was hilarious (he was fine). You'll make a wonderful, less asshole-y addition to the team whenever it happens.

Evan

It's mundane. It's all so familiar that it makes Tommy ache for him, ache to hear these stories from his perch on the counter top while Evan stirs a new sauce that Bobby gave him the recipe for, or for the words to sit in the inches between their mouths as they lay facing each other in bed late at night, or be whispered into his chest as Evan lays on top of him on the couch after a shift.

Soon, Tommy tells himself. He will hear Evan's voice again soon enough.

***

Evan,

Of course I'll join trivia night, and I promise not to storm out when you get a question right. I'd much rather kiss you about it, because you're adorable when you're smart, and even more adorable when you're smug.

Sorry if I surprised you the other day when you were dropping off your letter. You kind of caught me by surprise, but god, Evan, it was so good to see you. Did you get a new tattoo? What is it?

Tommy

***

Tommy,

Yes, I got a new tattoo. It's Jee-Yun's birth flower. I've been spending a lot of time with her recently, which has been really fun for me and her but less fun for Chim and Maddie, because they have to deal with the sugar rush I give her when I feed her a ton of cookies.

God, you look good. Did you somehow find a way to get hotter? That shouldn't be allowed.

I miss you. I've been missing you this whole time, but seeing you the other day really made me see it. There was a moment where the hole that's been sitting in my stomach the past few months was filled, and I didn't realize how heavy that emptiness was until it wasn't weighing on me for a moment.

I want to see you again, and be able to talk to you this time. Can we meet up? Do you think we're ready for that?

Evan

Tommy's stomach drops. He wishes this had come two weeks later, so he could say yes. But he hasn't told Evan about Henry, and he doesn't think he will be ready to until they talk.

The letter breaks his heart to write.

***

Buck checks his mailbox on the way out the door, and doesn't crack the seal on the envelope until he's sat on the locker room bench at the station before his shift. In just the first few lines of Tommy's letter, Buck's heart plummets.

Evan,

I'm so sorry, but I don't think I'm ready to see each other in person yet. I don't want you to think I'm still running away, but I actually want to make progress towards being a better partner to you.

I promise you, I just need a couple more weeks. I need closure on something that has nothing to do with you, and I'm not sure how to tell you about it yet. It's not that I don't want to; I just don't know how to even start putting it into words, or what conclusions to reach. I know I'm asking for an exorbitant amount of trust from you, but I'm begging you, Evan. I'm not running away this time; I just need to solve this so that I can explain it to you and can finally let you see all of me. I want to see you so badly, but I don't want to fuck things up further by doing it before I'm ready to do it right.

I want to see you more than anything, I do. But I need to get better, not only for you but also for myself.

Love,

Tommy

Buck tries not to feel completely rejected, but it's hard. He had put his heart on the line and been shot down. For a good reason, but still.

He does want Tommy to be in a better place when they reunite. He doesn't want to push that, and he won't. But god, he misses Tommy with his whole being. Seeing him in front of his house had been the final straw, and made the longing in his chest increase tenfold. It hadn't alleviated in the days since.

Usually, he responds to Tommy's letters immediately. This one, however, he lets simmer in his head through his shift. He wants to give Tommy a measured response, not one tinged by the feeling of rejection still stinging behind Buck's eyes.

Everyone notices that he's a bit off. He's not bouncing around like usual. He gets raised eyebrows (Chimney) and concerned looks (Hen) and sympathetic shoulder pats (Eddie), but no one confronts him until late, when most of the team has settled into the bunk room and Buck remains at the table upstairs.

He's fiddling with a piece of string he found in his pocket when a mug appears in front of him. When his eyes follow the arm that set it there, he is unsurprised to find Bobby sitting in the chair next to him.

"What's going on, Buck?" Bobby says in his caring tone, the one that makes Buck wish he had someone to speak to him like that when he was a kid. "You've been quiet all day."

Buck wraps his hands around the mug and lets the tea warm him, ground him. "Tommy and I have been… writing letters."

"I know," Bobby replies, "You've seemed a lot happier since you two got back in contact."

"It was… it was always meant to be temporary, y'know? We both missed each other, but I needed to learn to trust him again and I needed to learn to go slow this time and not jump all the way in, and he needed to work on himself so that when we do get back together, it's… good."

"That sounds very healthy."

"And it has been! But I was dropping a letter off in his mailbox because I wanted him to get it quickly and I… I saw him."

Bobby's eyebrows shoot towards his hairline. "Oh."

Buck lets out a dry laugh and takes a sip of his tea, "Yeah, oh."

"And how was that?"

"It was…" Buck pauses. "God, Bobby, I didn't think it was possible for me to miss him any more. But there he was, in one of those stupid hot sleeveless hoodies, and it just hit me ten times worse."

"So you're just missing him extra today?"

"No, that was… that was a couple days ago. I realized that I was ready, that I… I want to see him again. So I wrote to him saying that, that I wanted to meet up and he…"

"He's not ready yet."

Buck huffs and shakes his head. "I opened the letter when I got here this morning. I haven't replied yet, I — I don't know what to say." He sighs. "I don't know, Bobby. Maybe this has all been a waste of energy. Maybe I should have never sent that first letter and just let him go."

"Well, I don't think that, Buck."

Buck's eyes shoot to Bobby's. "You don't?"

"No, not at all. Look, you do trust him now, right? That he's going to be honest about where he's at instead of just leaving again?"

"I — I thought I did, but now he's —"

"He's telling you where he is now, Buck. He's being honest with you. He's not saying he never wants to meet up, right?"

"No, he — he just said a couple weeks. Something he has to do, but he didn't say what."

"So there's an end in sight. Trust him, trust that he's telling the truth."

Buck looks up at him, eyes a little watery. "Thank you, Bobby."

Bobby's hand lands firmly on Buck's shoulder. "Anytime, Buck." He rises from his chair. "Now let's go get some rest before—"

The scream of the bell shakes the firehouse.

"Before that happens."

Tommy's hands are shaking when he opens Evan's letter. He's terrified that Evan will take this as a rejection of him, instead of something that Tommy doesn't want to do but has to in order to actually fix the problems that made him ruin things in the first place.

***

Tommy,

I understand. Thank you for your honesty, and I'm glad you're making an effort. I don't think you're running, and I appreciate that you trust me enough to be honest about it.

I won't lie, I felt a little rejected at first. That tends to be my immediate reaction to most things, that I'm the problem — even when I know I'm not. But you explained it the best you could, and I do trust you to tell me more when you have the words for it. Until then, I miss you, and I hope whatever it is you're about to do helps you move on and back towards me.

Evan

Tommy lets out a breath and presses the letter to his chest, letting the pure cold relief wash over his shoulders. It was a boundary, but it had… worked. Evan wasn't calling him selfish for it, or accusing him of making excuses, or any of the other catastrophe scenarios Tommy had been imagining over the past couple days.

There's another paper in the envelope, this one an index card Tommy can only assume was nicked from Bobby's office or Hen's leftover study materials.

We had a call involving one someone who had almost a foot of fingernail on each finger. We all trimmed ours immediately after getting back to the station. Did you know the world record holder's longest nail is like 4.5 feet? How do they do anything?

Tommy makes a face and picks up his pen to respond.

***

… That's so gross. I once came across people who had tried and failed to break the world record for largest pizza, and were giving it away. Hey, I'm not going to say no to free pizza…

***

…You know how they say dogs look like their owners? This guy had twelve identical Dachshunds …

***

… I saw Hen and Karen the other day. Karen made it inside the house before chewing me out for messing things up with you…

***

…It's okay, we're recovering from it. Hen said you seemed like you were on steady feet, and I was so relieved to hear it …

***

…I've got plans for tomorrow, and I'm scared shitless. Wish me luck.

***

That's incredibly vague, but good luck. I love you.

Tommy carries that one in his pocket, and traces his fingers over the ink as he steps through the doorway of the cafe.

***

Evan,

I’m ready.

I want to tell you about that last thing I had to do, but it requires some backstory. A couple years after I broke it off with Abby, I got into what I viewed as my first big gay relationship. It was the first time I had seen someone I had sex with multiple times, and saw them outside of when we were sleeping together. I told my coworkers he was my boyfriend. I was head over heels for him, but we never actually talked about what we meant to each other. We really should have, because he saw me as one of many friends with benefits.

I can’t really blame him. I don’t think it counts as cheating if I assumed a promise of exclusivity that was never actually given, but it felt that way. He wasn’t someone who ever planned to settle down with one partner, which is what I wanted. What I want now, with you.

So I did the stupid thing: I stayed.

I thought that if I were a good enough partner, if I were fun enough and enticing enough and supportive enough, he would dump everyone else. I never outright asked him to leave them, or told him that I wanted to be exclusive. I even let him believe that I knew about the others the whole time.

Eventually, he did decide one person was enough for him; it just wasn’t me. He told me he was breaking it off with all his friends with benefits to be with his childhood best friend. Thy hadn't spoken in years, but the friend had just come out of the woodwork with some grand love confession. That’s hard to measure up to. That relationship is what made me feel like I wasn’t long-term material.

I needed to get closure on that fucked up relationship. We met up, and I got it all off my chest. Hearing from him that it had nothing to do with me being inadequate helped, even more than I thought it would.

I told him about you. He asked to meet you, said we could do a double date with him and his spouse. I told him I wasn’t sure I wanted any further contact with him, but that I would think about it. He was understanding.

Which brings me back to us. I miss you, I love you, can we meet up? The coffee shop we went to after that bad first date? I hear it’s pretty good for second chances. I’ll be there next Monday at 2pm. I think that should be enough time for this to get to you, and you to send something back in case you think it isn’t a good idea.

All my love,

Tommy

A grin bursts across Buck's face.

***

Tommy,

I'll be there. I'll save everything for then.

I love you.

Evan

***

Tommy's already claimed a table when Buck arrives ten minutes early. Buck will always recognize the set of his shoulders, even hunched with nervous tension. He's rubbing his thumb along the rim of his coffee mug, and Buck recognizes his usual order sitting across from him.

Tommy ordered their drinks as dine-in. He plans to talk to Buck long enough for both of them to finish their coffees. He plans to stay.

When Buck approaches, he lays a hand on Tommy's shoulder. Tommy looks up at him with open vulnerable eyes, and something blooms across his face — something like gratitude, something like bliss, something like love.

"Hey, Evan."

#LTWrites #.txt #LTW: the center of every poem #911 #fics

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werewolffeelings · 1 year ago

Note

accidentally started a crazy exgirlfriend rewatch and now I'm thinking about your wip.... might you, perchance, have anything to share 🥺🙏

cheeryos ily!!! 🥺🥺 god i need to do a rewatch too. also thank you for asking, I've been looking for an excuse to post the beginning of this fic lmao. and by the beginning, I mean nearly the whole first chapter uhhh........... enjoy? 💖

When Ronan Lynch was sixteen years old, his family rented a vacation house in Cape Cod. Surly teenager that he was, Ronan wanted nothing less than to be in the heat and the sun and to share a room with his older brother Declan. He spent the first couple of days melting under various umbrellas and eating his body weight in popsicles in an effort to stay cool.

The house next to them was considerably larger and more ostentatious, and it had been empty, at first. Then a family took up residence. Even from down the beach, Ronan could tell they were the kind of stuffy rich that Ronan had no interest in.

Until Gansey.

Gansey was beautiful and sweet, intelligent and really fucking weird. He believed in truth above all else and he thought magic was real. He took to Ronan so quickly that Ronan could hardly remember what had been the catalyst to their friendship. It felt instantaneous. Inevitable.

When they finally kissed, it was all fire and explosions—the fucking Fourth of July in Ronan’s stomach and his heart.

Gansey was Ronan’s first. His first kiss, his first time, his first love.

They spent nearly two weeks together. And then Gansey left. He was always going to leave, of course. Gansey had a life in DC and Ronan’s family lived on a farm in upstate New York, and they were only ever going to be temporary. A summer fling.

But Ronan thought he would have more time. They should have had two more days together. Instead, he woke one morning to find the Ganseys’ summer home vacated, luxury SUV gone from the circular driveway, Gansey nowhere to be found. He hadn’t even said goodbye.

***

In the townhouse he shared with his brothers, Ronan was doing his level best to sink into the uncomfortable and austere living room couch. The townhouse was entirely to Declan’s taste, which meant that it was not at all to Ronan’s taste, which meant that Ronan vehemently hated every square inch of it. Its bland, boring walls and its bland, boring furniture, and its bland, boring artwork.

With his eyes shut and blood-pumping EDM blaring through his headphones, he could almost drown out that expansive hatred. Almost.

Someone pulled the headphones off his ears and around his neck. He turned his head to make sure it wasn’t Matthew before he snapped at them. Sure enough, it was Declan. He was wearing a bland, boring suit, had his curls styled back in a bland, boring fashion and he was holding a stack of bland, boring mail.

Ronan opened his mouth to shout something involving a compound fuck-word based swear, but the shout came out wordless because Declan threw the topmost piece of mail directly into Ronan’s face. Its corner jabbed him in the nose with surprising force. The envelope was heavy with sheets and sheets of paper inside.

He batted the envelope away and said, “Jesus shitting fuck, assface, what’s your fucking problem?”

Declan’s eyebrow raised, pointedly. He said, “Open it. It’s from BU.”

Ronan’s heart dropped into his stomach. He shut his eyes. He crumpled the envelope in his fist.

Declan said, “Come on, Ronan, don’t you want to see if you got in?”

“No.”

He stood up from the couch and went upstairs to his room. He shut the door behind him and sat on the edge of his bed. He uncurled his fist.

The curtain was shut, so it was dark, but unfortunately not dark enough that he couldn’t see the envelope addressed to him and stamped with Boston University’s seal.

He ripped it open. Dear Mr. Lynch, it began. Congratulations—

Ronan's vision swam. He dropped the envelope to the floor. He didn’t know how long he sat there, with stomach acid still eating his insides away, bit by bit.

He couldn’t breathe. He needed—air, or something. Anything.

He was in the foyer with feet jammed into untied boots and leather jacket over his shoulders before he’d even registered the desire as more than an abstract. Declan was saying something. Matthew was saying something else. He slammed the door as if the sound would slam him back into his own body, but it didn’t.

He walked, and walked, unseeing, until he came to the park a few blocks away from Declan’s townhouse. The air always felt clearer there, although Ronan knew it wasn’t. It was the same polluted city air that was all over Boston, but here it was filtered through trees just starting to sprout leaves and lush, green grass, and the closest approximation of wilderness available in a place like this. He dragged in lungful after lungful of it. It smelled of spring-fresh foliage in the rain, and only then did Ronan realize it was raining—dripping down his face and soaking through his clothes.

When he came to the little bridge that crossed over a stream, Ronan stopped, and he stood there, staring at ripples in the water, for a long time.

It was good that he’d gotten in, wasn’t it? That was why he’d applied, after all.

No, it wasn’t. Declan was why he’d applied. He’d finally worn Ronan down, after one too many years of listlessness, and school was at least something to do. Something to occupy the endless hours of the day.

But now it was real. He’d been accepted, and he would have to sit for lectures, trapped in classrooms, condemned to a life of homework and tests and pointless assignments, and for what? A degree that he didn’t want. A job that he didn’t want. A future that he didn’t want.

He couldn’t do this again.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ronan saw someone walking toward him with an obnoxiously purple umbrella and an obnoxiously turquoise polo shirt. He looked back to the river, but something tickled at the back of his mind. He looked back at the stranger and he took in their face.

And it wasn’t a stranger, after all.

Everything in Ronan lit up with recognition, inundated with memories—wet sand between his toes and surf lapping at his thighs. Summer warm hands on his waist. Kisses that tasted like mango gelato.

Breathless, Ronan said, “Gansey?”

The stranger looked up. Ronan met a pair of hazel eyes, bright and curious behind gold, wire-framed glasses. He smiled a big, dimpled smile and said, “Ronan? My God, is that you?”

“Yeah. Fuck.”

Gansey jogged the last few steps to meet Ronan on the bridge, and he wrapped his arms around him—one looped around his ribs and the other stretched up to curl over his shoulders. Ronan had to lean down to return the hug. He pressed his face into Gansey’s shiny, windswept hair. Gansey smelled like fresh mint and he laughed delightedly into Ronan’s ear.

Ronan’s heart was going to explode.

Gansey pulled from the embrace but kept his hand on Ronan’s arm, umbrella lifted up high so Ronan could fit under it with him. He said, “Wow. It’s really you. It’s been so long.”

“Yeah.” Ronan knew he should say something else, but his mind was wiped clean—empty but for every memory he possessed of a single summer nearly ten years ago. And Gansey, glowing and radiant in front of him—the sun shining through dreary, gray clouds.

Gansey smacked Ronan’s arm gently and dropped his hand. “What have you been up to? I didn’t know you lived in Boston!”

“Yeah. Uh, not much,” Ronan said. He needed to divert the conversation away from him so Gansey didn’t find out what a loser he was. “What about you?”

“Oh, I’m just in town for a moment moving the rest of the stuff from my apartment.”

Ronan’s spirits sank nearly as soon as they’d lifted. “You’re moving?”

“Yes! Back to Virginia. Henrietta to be exact. It’s a lovely town. I’ve been living there for a couple of months, I was just waiting for someone to close on my old house so I could make the full leap.”

“Oh. What’s in Virginia?”

“A position opened up at a law firm where a friend of mine works, and he put in a good word for me! I’m rather excited. It’s so nice to be around like-minded people. People who really want to make a difference. And you should see it, Ronan. It’s so beautiful. It’s been so long since I’ve been surrounded by nature’s majesty like that.”

“Yeah, that sounds. Nice.”

“It does indeed! But I do wish we’d run into each other earlier, Ronan. We could have grabbed a drink, caught up properly.”

“We could get one now,” Ronan pleaded.

Gansey’s face fell, like maybe he didn’t want to reject him, but Ronan could see it coming anyway. He said, “I'm afraid I don’t have time, at the moment. My sister Helen is waiting for me to return. You remember Helen, don’t you? She’s helping me move. Well, directing the movers. We really need to get on the road soon. Work in the morning, you understand.”

Ronan did not understand, but he said, “Yeah. Sure.”

Gansey thumbed at his bottom lip. It was only for a second, but it was enough to make Ronan’s stomach flip over. He longed for the taste of mango gelato. Just one more time.

Gansey reached into the pocket of his chinos and fiddled with his phone for a moment before handing it to Ronan. “Listen, give me your number. If you’re ever in Virginia, please let me know. I’d love to see you again. I mean it. We’ll get that drink.”

Ronan nodded, certain he was betraying his eagerness, but he didn’t care. “Okay.” He put his number in and sent himself a text.

Gansey smiled. “We have so much to catch up on.”

And then Gansey’s phone started blaring a generic ringtone. They startled away from each other. “I’m sorry,” Gansey said. “I should get this.” He raised one finger in the air to signal that Ronan should wait, and put the phone to his ear. “Hello Helen.” Gansey shut his eyes. “Yes, I’m on my way back.” He paused while Helen pattered on and on. “I got caught up with an old friend. I’ll be there soon. Not more than a few minutes. All right. I said all right. Bye.”

Gansey hung up and heaved a great sigh. “Sorry about that. I really should go.”

Ronan's throat was tight so he cleared it and said, “It’s fine. Go. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

A sad, private smile lit up his face. “I hope so. Well.” He reached out a hand like he was going for a handshake, but changed his mind at the last moment and pulled Ronan in for another hug.

He let himself sink into his warmth and the soft, solid planes of his body. He couldn’t bring himself to let go, but Gansey could.

Just like old times.

“Goodbye, Ronan,” he said, and then he was gone, and it was as if it had never happened at all.

The entire interaction couldn’t have lasted for longer than a couple of minutes. It shouldn’t have impacted Ronan’s life at all, but something had shifted inside of him. Like Gansey had cracked open a door and some dusty corner of his heart had been exposed to fresh air and morning light for the first time in years.

He drifted back to the apartment in a haze, floating on the high of Gansey’s touch, replaying his words over and over.

I’d love to see you again.

I mean it.

We have so much to catch up on.

And then—Henrietta.

Henrietta.

The first thing Ronan did when he got back to the townhouse was fend off another interrogation from Declan. When he got back to his room, there was no crumpled letter lying discarded on top of piles of dirty clothes. Declan must have taken it, which meant he’d been in his room, which meant Ronan would have to murder him later.

The second thing he did was boot up his laptop. It took him several minutes to figure out his Goddamn Facebook password, and when he managed to log in, he searched for Richard Campbell Gansey III. He sent a friend request, and waited for a solid minute and a half for a follow back.

When none came, he Googled Henrietta, Virginia. It was a quaint, bustling little town sprinkled with old buildings and Victorian houses, nestled in the lush valley between the Blue Ridge mountains. He could see why it appealed to someone like Gansey, who, despite his image, had always come alive surrounded by nature and beautiful old things.

A notification popped up. Ronan swore at it, until he realized that Gansey had accepted his friend request. A surge flooded Ronan’s whole body. He clicked on the tab so eagerly he closed it by accident and then had to reload it.

He looked at Gansey’s profile. He went through every photo and absorbed every scrap of information he could get his hands on. He knew where Gansey worked, knew who his friends were, knew how and where he spent his free time. The most important bit of information, though, was his relationship status—single.

I’d love to see you again.

I mean it.

Gansey had Instagram, too, but the problem was that Ronan didn’t. He couldn’t create a new, empty account for himself, and then follow Gansey immediately. That would look too desperate. So he created a fake one and hoped Gansey wasn’t the type of guy to reject followers he didn’t actually know.

Fortunately for Ronan, Gansey seemed to be something of an influencer for fucking nerds, and he had a few thousand followers. Ronan was just one of the masses, eager to see more of the man posed on a mountain cliff like an intrepid explorer, or a king looking over his sprawling kingdom. It was possible that some of them were genuinely into Welsh history, but Ronan was willing to bet not many.

Then Ronan found himself on Zillow, looking into Henrietta, Virginia’s real estate. Declan might have been proud, if it was for any reason other than this.

***

Incense permeated the air. Holy water was still wet on Ronan’s fingertips. The cushioned wood of the kneeler creaked under his weight. He opened his eyes.

The church was empty and cavernous. Dust motes floated in a haze of kaleidoscopic colored light. Stained glass stretched towards the ceiling and slipped across every surface.

Every pillar was a tree trunk. Vines crept up the walls. Flowers sprouted up between cracks in the marble floor. An archway stood where the altar should have been, made of twisting branches and leaves.

Ronan walked through it, into the forest beyond. It was wild and dense with oak trees—nothing at all like the park by Declan’s apartment. He wandered down the narrow footpath until the ground was taken over by twisting stems covered in thorns. Ronan followed their path with his eyes, up and up, to a throne made out of perfect red roses in full bloom. Sitting on the throne, golden crown on his head, was Gansey.

Even in wire-framed glasses and a turquoise polo shirt, he belonged there—the just ruler of this forest. Of the whole world.

Ronan climbed up the clusters of rose stems. Thorns cut into his palms, over and over, until blood was dripping down his wrists—a distantly familiar feeling.

Gansey looked at him only when he’d nearly reached the throne. He held out his hand, adorned by a golden claddagh ring with a glittering ruby at the center. Ronan took Gansey’s hand in his and touched his lips to the ring.

“Ronan,” Gansey said, amiably. “Get over here.”

In the space of a blink, Ronan was at his side, standing next to the throne, overlooking his kingdom. Henrietta, Virginia. It was the aerial view he’d seen on Google images.

An inexplicable sense of rightness washed over him—belonging. Purpose.

Gansey said, “What do you know about Welsh kings?”

***

Ronan woke up.

He got out of bed and packed all his clothes and his favorite things into three suitcases. He managed to sneak them all into his car without anyone noticing until the very last one.

With a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, he passed by his brothers at the kitchen table on his way to rummage through the fridge. Declan was sipping a latte and Matthew was shoveling a whole piece of burnt toast into his mouth.

Declan said, ”Ronan, what the hell are you doing?”

Ronan said, “Why don’t we have anything to eat?” He slammed the fridge door.

“Ronan.”

Ronan slid his own piece of toast into the toaster and turned it on. Dismissively, he said, “I’m moving to Virginia.”

Declan stood up. “You’re what?”

Matthew said, “What’s in Virginia?”

“Trees and shit, I think.”

Declan said, “What the fuck, Ronan? You’re not moving, you’re starting school in the fall.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Man that shit didn’t work on me when I was a teenager, what makes you think it will now? I already have the trust, there’s nothing for you to hold over my head anymore. I’m a fucking adult—“ Declan interrupted him with a sharp bark of a laugh. “And if I want to move to Virginia, you can’t stop me.”

Declan pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes in disappointment or frustration or hatred. “What is wrong with you? I thought you wanted to go back to school.”

Ronan snorted humorlessly. “Please.”

His toast popped, and he slathered it with butter.

“What are you going to do in Virginia? Do you even have a plan?”

With his mouth full of toast, he said, “Nope.”

Declan stood in the doorway of the townhouse with his arms crossed over his chest. Ronan tossed the duffel bag into the backseat of the BMW.

Hovering on the sidewalk, Matthew said, “You’re really leaving?”

His face was frozen in a childlike pout. Why Matthew cared so much was a little beyond Ronan. Matthew would realize in a few days—how much more peaceful and pleasant his life was without him there.

“Yeah,” Ronan said. “You can come visit when I’ve got a place.”

Matthew pulled him into a tight hug. It hit Ronan, then, how much he would miss him. How he was the only person on earth who could stand him. And how it was likely that Gansey wouldn’t be able to stand him, either, once he’d seen the person Ronan had become.

***

Ronan spent the first night in a hotel, and the following day touring rental properties. The first was a freshly remodeled bungalow with an open floor plan and shiny, new appliances. The second was a shabby, 30-year-old two-story several minutes from town, where every surface was the same shade of greige.

The third rental was a shithole fixer-upper row house four blocks from Henrietta’s sad excuse for a downtown. The wood hadn’t been painted with a fresh coat of blue in years and was starting to rot. The backyard was a fenced-in plot of dirt and crabgrass with one scrawny tree trapped in the far corner.

Ronan signed a month-to-month lease for way more than the place was worth.

When Ronan finished moving in (throwing his suitcases on the floor of the living room), he went for a walk around the neighborhood. The downtown area was all old buildings and quaint little shops.

When he looped back around to the row house, he noticed a bar partially obscured by the flowers and plants crawling all over the brick facing. The sign read Nino’s, and he recognized the name from posts tagged on Gansey’s Facebook and Instagram alike. Gansey hung out here—it was one of his usual haunts, and so Ronan shoved the door open and went inside.

It was 3pm on a Monday, and Ronan knew that Gansey was unlikely to be at a dive bar, but a wave of disappointment hit him, anyway, when he wasn’t.

Ronan took a seat at the bar. The bartender approached him. Her dark skin was very tattooed and very pierced and she looked entirely too city to be in this town.

This was confirmed when she said, in a British accent, “What’ll you be having, mate?”

“Beer, whatever’s on tap.” He’d missed lunch, so he added, “And you got anything to eat in this dump?”

The bartender laughed. “That very much depends on your definition of edible.” She slammed a laminated menu onto the bartop in front of him. He liked her, immediately.

Ronan glanced at the menu, and when the bartender came back with his beer, he could’ve sworn she was wearing a different outfit—something lacy and orange—but he chalked it up to not paying very much attention to women’s clothing. She said, “What’re you having, hotshot?” and it was just flirty enough that Ronan changed his mind. He didn’t like her at all.

He ordered a burger, medium rare, and took in the ambiance. The dark, old wood had grime sticking to it like a second skin, every surface comfortable and worn, barely lit by dim, old-fashioned stained-glass hanging lamps. The place really was a shithole, but like the row house, Ronan basked in it. He always felt more comfortable in shitholes.

When Ronan glanced back towards the bar, there were two identical bartenders. One was in leather, the other in orange lace. Ronan blinked, and another one emerged from the kitchen, tossed a plate in front of Ronan, slipped her apron over her head and left out the front door.

Bewildered, Ronan said, “Why are there so fucking many of you?”

The pair in front of him grinned the same blinding, toothy grin and said, in unison, “Identical sextuplets.”

Ronan popped a French fry in his mouth, and with it still full, said, “There are six of you? And you just decided to work at the same place, to what? Confuse the shit out of people?”

The one in orange said, “Pretty much, yeah.”

The one in leather said, “What’s the point of being an identical sextuplet if not to fuck with people?”

“You’ve got a point,” Ronan conceded.

Some deranged part of him was charmed by this place and this weird fucking chick and her gang of clones. Ronan’s trust covered the house, but he could use some extra cash. More than that, he needed a way to spend his time, he had experience, and most importantly, it would be a built-in excuse to see Gansey.

“Hey, I know you’ve got this whole family business or whatever-the-fuck going on here, but are you hiring?”

“Actually, yes,” the leather one said. “Only three of us work here, and Brooklyn wants to quit. You got experience?”

“Yep.”

The orange one said, “You some kind of serial murderer? A mafioso goon?”

“If I was in the mafia, what the fuck would I want to work here for?”

“No offense meant, mate, you’ve just got that kind of face. And you don’t seem like a local.”

“Neither do you.”

“Touché.”

“I’m not local, I just moved here and I could use a job, are you hiring or not?”

The leather one grinned and said, “All right, fuck it, you’re hired.”

“Just like that?”

“Yeah. You ready to start now?”

“What the fuck, I’m eating.” Ronan gestured to his plate.

“Fine.” She rolled her eyes. “We’ll have to do a background check and all that shit. And the owner will want to meet you. Bring your shit tomorrow and we’ll get you sorted. I have somewhere to be on Friday and I need someone to cover my shift. What’s your name, guy who is definitely not a mafioso goon?”

“Ronan.”

She held out her hand and Ronan shook it. “Hennessy.”

***

Ronan started work on Wednesday. He knew what he was doing, so training was pretty minimal, and the owner didn’t seem particularly hung up on the paperwork side of shit.

He was cleaning up a spill when the front door opened. He glanced at it, only to find another rando instead of a familiar face.

“Are you looking for somebody?”

Ronan jumped, undignified, and bared his teeth at Hennessy. She was hovering over his shoulder with an insufferable smirk on her purple lips.

He said, “Who the hell would I be looking for? I just moved here, remember?”

“Then why are your eyes drawn to the door whenever it opens if you’re not looking for somebody?” Ronan glared in a way that made lesser people back down immediately. She said, “Exactly. Now who is it? Some other goon who you owe money to? Your dealer? Or an ex-lover, perhaps?

Ronan’s jaw clenched. “Shut the hell up.”

“Oh, really?” She grinned. “I didn’t take you for a lover, more of a fighter. You’ve got layers, I see.”

Apparently God was listening to Ronan’s prayers, for once, because they were both flagged to opposite sides of the bar before Hennessy could continue sticking her septum-pierced nose where it didn’t belong.

There was a man sitting at the bar, all but batting his pretty eyes at Ronan. He ignored him for as long as he could, and then sucked it up and stepped in front of him.

The guy was good-looking in an abrupt, startling way. He had an interesting face—gaunt, sunken-eyed, but elegant. Ronan’s heart flip-flopped. His hands tightened into fists until his nails bit into his palms.

The guy tilted his head and gave Ronan a clear once-over. He said, “You’re new.”

Ronan rolled his eyes. “Yep.”

“I don’t think I’ve seen you around town before.”

“Just moved here.”

The guy leaned his elbows on the bartop. He had the sleeves of his slick, corporate button-down rolled to show tanned forearms, sinewy with muscle. “From where?”

“Boston.”

“Oh, I went to school in Cambridge.”

Fuck. It was even worse than he thought. The pretty-boy was a Harvard douche. Ronan growled, “Did you want something, or?”

Ronan only noticed the smile in the guy’s eyes when it vanished. His voice was cool when he said, “Gin and tonic.”

Ronan made him a gin and tonic. He handed it to him, and the guy’s long, knobby fingers wrapped around the glass. He said, “Thanks.”

The door opened again, and helplessly, Ronan looked. It was just a small group of twenty-something girls. Ronan sighed in disappointment for maybe the thirtieth time of the evening.

“Who are you looking for?”

Ronan stilled. How did he keep giving himself away? And more importantly, why was everyone in this bar incapable of minding their fucking business? He turned back to the guy and snapped, “What?”

“You keep looking at the door. You expecting someone?”

“Friend of mine."

“Well, I hope you find them.” The guy held up his glass in a little salute. “I think mine stood me up.”

“Can’t imagine why.”

The guy’s blue eyes narrowed, his pink mouth parted in offense. “You’re awfully rude for a customer service professional, you know.”

Ronan had to work to subdue a grin before it took over his face. “I know.”

As he was making a tequila sunrise for some sweater-wearing local, Hennessy inserted herself into his personal space and stage whispered in his ear, “Is that him?”

“Is who him?”

“Your loverboy. Over there.”

She pointed to the pretty Harvard douche. Ronan scoffed. “No.”

“You’re staring.”

Ronan’s face was very hot. It was so easy to overheat crammed in a bar with a couple dozen people. He said, “No, I’m not.”

He wasn’t. And he wasn’t listening, either, to the guy's phone conversation. Not until he said, “It’s all right, Gansey. See you tomorrow. Have a good night.”

Ronan’s heart kicked into double time. He barely waited for the guy to hang up before he interrupted, “Did you say Gansey? You know Gansey?”

The guy narrowed his eyes at Ronan. “He’s my best friend. You know Gansey?”

He put a lot of emphasis on the you, making the question skeptical and a little accusatory. As if someone like Ronan couldn’t possibly know someone like Gansey. And maybe he had a point, but he didn’t need to be such a dick about it.

Ronan said, “Yeah, I know Gansey.”

“That’s weird. I thought you said you just moved here.”

“I did.” He sighed, annoyed at having to explain himself. “We knew each other when we were kids. I ran into him last week.”

“Last week. In Boston?”

“Yep.”

“And now you’re here?”

Fuck. “Yep.”

Adam traced his fingertip in the condensation his glass was leaving on the bartop. “Why did you move here, again?

Ronan grit his teeth. “Felt like it.”

“What are you, some kind of stalker?”

Ronan hadn’t actually considered what other people would think about him moving halfway down the east coast for a guy, but he'd been an idiot not to. What else would it look like, to someone who didn’t know? He said, “No, I’m not a fucking stalker. Just seemed like a nice place, that’s all.”

“So you moved here? Here?”

“You live here.”

“Yeah, but I—“

“What? Your reasons were so much better than mine? What was it? Your shitty job moved you out here?”

“Something like that.”

Ronan sneered, “Cryptic.”

“Does Gansey know? That you’re here? He hasn’t mentioned you.”

“No, I haven’t told him yet.”

“Why not?”

“I’m—“ Ronan tore the rag from his shoulder and slapped it on the counter to start clearing some of the condensation away. So he could avoid the piercing eyes of this pretty stranger. “I’m working my way up to it, fuck off.”

“Oh,” the guy said, deflating.

“What.”

“You like him.” The guy huffed a humorless laugh. “Figures.”

“Look man, it’s none of your fucking business.”

“I think it is, actually. What was your name again?”

Ronan wanted to not tell him, to be contrary, to buy himself some time, but it would be easy enough to find out. And if this guy really was Gansey’s best friend, he imagined they would be seeing more of each other, anyway. He said, “Ronan Lynch.”

“Ronan Lynch,” he said, thoughtfully. “I know that name.”

“Do you?”

“You’re his ex, aren’t you?”

“I guess,” Ronan said, irritably.

Adam ran a hand through his burnished gold hair. “All right. At least I know you’re probably not here to murder him. It’s almost sweet,” he said, in a way that implied he didn’t much care for sweet things. He took a sip of his drink. “Still creepy though.”

Creepy? Ronan leaned closer than he’d dated up until now, hands on the bar and face close. “Don’t fucking tell him.” The guy didn’t retreat. He just stared, unimpressed, so Ronan added, “Please.”

The guy closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “I won’t. For now. But he’s going to know as soon as he sees you. You’re not exactly being subtle. And I reserve the right to tell him if I think you’re being extra creepy.”

“Fine.”

“Oh, and you should probably know. He has a girlfriend.”

Ronan’s heart stopped. “What?”

The guy rolled his eyes. “He’s bi, not gay.”

“I know that but what the fuck? That’s not what Facebook says.”

The guy’s face creased with barely restrained judgment. “Well, Facebook officiality notwithstanding, he’s pretty serious about her, so don’t be an asshole.”

Ronan snapped, “Thanks for the heads up.”

Ronan was sulking, and he knew it. He was even more terse than usual, and if he weren’t so damn handsome, his tips would have been in the shitter. His phone was in his hand, the fucking Facebook app open on the link to Adam Parrish’s locked profile.

He’d been easy enough to find. Adam Parrish was tagged in most of Gansey’s photos. It was difficult to imagine how Ronan could have possibly not noticed him, even consumed as he was by Gansey. He threw his phone into the sink and hoped it drowned.

While he mixed some dickhead's martini, Hennessy sidled up to him, and before she could open her mouth to pry even more, he said, “He has a Goddamn girlfriend.”

“Who, that random guy?”

“Gansey.”

“Ah. The ex-lover, I presume?”

Ronan slammed the martini glass onto the bar and didn’t give a fuck that it splashed the person who ordered it.

Hennessy didn’t seem to give a fuck, either. She leaned her elbows back on the bar and said, “Ooh, the plot thickens. Is that what your little friend said to upset you so?”

“He’s Gansey’s best friend, apparently.”

“Small world.”

“Small fucking town.”

“Well, them’s the breaks, sailor. Don’t you dare quit before Friday, though. Remember, I’ve got plans.”

“Why would I quit?”

“Because your obsession with your ex is doomed to failure due to him being otherwise involved?”

“Fuck you.”

Hennessy raised both middle fingers and gave him two-handed salute.

Ronan stood at the kitchen island, shoveling furious bite after furious bite of cold, leftover Chinese takeout into his mouth.

Adam Parrish. That asshole. His words played in Ronan’s mind on a continuous loop. Who the hell did he think he was? He might know Gansey, but he didn’t know Ronan at-fucking-all. Creepy.

Gansey wouldn’t think he was creepy, would he?

Ronan snapped his chopstick in half and threw the splinters into the last dregs of his chow mein. His fingers ached, so he stretched them out and then he found himself reaching across the island for a lonely ballpoint pen, and then he was sketching on a brown paper napkin.

It had been awhile since he’d drawn anything. Months. No, years. More, since he’d drawn anything good. This wasn’t good. It was just a sketch—an elegant, bony hand with knobby knuckles and raised veins.

He drew it again, wrapped around a glass, before he realized what he was doing.

“Fuck,” he said, to the empty room. He crumpled up the napkin, threw it across the kitchen, and stomped upstairs to his empty off-white bedroom. He collapsed onto the mattress on the floor and he stared at the ceiling for hours, watching the sun streak pink light across it before finally succumbing to sleep.

***

He was behind the bar at Nino’s, wiping the same glass dry over and over, but he wasn’t looking at it. He was looking at Gansey, handsome and tan, sitting across from an amorphosly beautiful woman. A caricature of a beautiful woman. Gansey was enraptured by her, hearts bursting from his eyes. This was the way he’d once looked at Ronan, so long ago.

He fed his date a bite from the plate of chocolate covered strawberries that sat between them and smiled as if she was the most perfect being on earth. They were bathed in pink light and bracketed by billowing red velvet curtains, like a stage play.

“Ronan,” Gansey said. Ronan was embarrassed at the way he lit up at the sound of Gansey’s voice wrapping around his name, his bid for Ronan’s attention. But even as he spoke, Gansey didn’t take his eyes off of his girlfriend. “Would you please bring us a bottle of your finest champagne? We’re celebrating, after all.”

The girlfriend giggled and flashed a gaudy, sparkling diamond ring. No, a claddagh set with a red ruby.

Ronan seethed. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t move. But they didn’t seem to care that he wasn’t bringing them a bottle of their finest champagne, as if this dump had any champagne to speak of. They were too absorbed in each-other.

Hennessy said, “Them’s the breaks.”

Another voice said, “I told you.”

It was Adam Parrish, sitting further down the bar, alone, nursing a gin and tonic.

Ronan still couldn’t speak. He couldn't breathe past the pressure in his chest.

Adam said, “Just let it go, Ronan. It was never going to be you.”

#pynch fic #my writing #asks #cheeeryos #just this bit was WAY longer than i was imagining lol this fic is a monster 😅#someone force me to finish it please it needs to be exorcised #crazy ex bf

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