LOVER AND A WARRIOR

If possible, could you write (reader x luke castellan) inspired by the song The way I loved you by Taylor?

FIRST LOVE

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pairing: past luke castellan x reader, apollo’s son x reader

summary: you loved your boyfriend, truly, you do. but you can’t help but remember the way you loved Luke. your first love always hurts the most.

warnings: angst, leading on, regret, post tlt

a/n: i don’t listen to taylor swift that much so i hope i did this justice! and yes, i took inspiration from fleabag for the luke and reader scene

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You grabbed your tote bag, filled with items essential for a picnic in the strawberry field. Hiking up your long white skirt, you travel down the steps of your cabin to be met with a smile worth a thousand suns.

“Ready?” Sam asked. He took the tote bag from your grasp to carry it.

“Mhm.” You hummed, paired with a smile.

Sam grasped your hand gently as you walk through camp to the strawberry fields. A mandatory picnic, according to you, after training day after day after day.

Sam had this look on his face. His eyes twinkled in admiration and love. Scarred hand against yours. You found the scar on the palm and back of his hand quite interesting. “How was your morning?” He asked politely.

”Tiring. You would not believe my half-siblings. They—” You went off on a tangent. You always did. Sam seemed to hang on to your every word.

You met Sam at one of the many bonfires the Camp had at the end of the day. The fire was burning a bright purple, climbing over 10 feet. It reflected the joyous energy of the campers.

It had been a month since Percy completed his quest, since Luke left camp.

Sam sat next to you, thinking his jokes and subtle timid charm would win you over. And it did. You found it quite cute.

Sam was perfect in every way. He’d walk you from your cabin (or anywhere for that matter) to the dining hall. He made a bracelet for you with your favorite colors after indirectly learning your favorite colors. He says everything you need to hear. It’s like he was created to be the perfect boyfriend.

But it doesn’t entirely distract you from your past relationship with Luke Castellan.

Albeit messy, your time with Luke was exhilarating. Luke and you would fight and scream about your problems. It wasn’t perfect nor all sunshine and rainbows most of the time, but Luke and you made sure to let the other know you loved them.

No matter the circumstances or the many silent treatments.

Because you can’t have a healthy relationship without problems, right?

You were clueless on the love department. Luke was your first boyfriend and you hardly felt experienced enough now that you were with Sam.

(“Hey, what was that?” Luke asked, concerned. The water shimmering like they were diamonds. Campers from Hermes and various other cabins were swimming. The counselors were the life guards, switching duties in shifts. Currently it was you and Luke.

“What?” You responded, dazed. Slowly, you turn your head to look at Luke.

You were in your head. Luke knew that. “Where’s you just go?” He knew it too well that he pushed and pushed for answers causing and argument. He just wants to help.

You faded from the living world again, stuck in your head. Yet, water splashed on your leg snapped you out. “What?”

“You just went somewhere.” Luke stated firmly and placed a hand on your shoulder. You cursed yourself in your head. Luke was able to read you well, too well.

“I went no where.” You denied.

“You can tell me anything, y’know.” Luke reassured.

“I know.” Your attention was back on the swimming campers. Luke’s hands fell on top of yours.

“So tell me, what’s bothering you.”

“Nothing.”

“Something.”

“Nothing”

“Something.”

“It’s nothing, for fucks sake, Castellan”

“It’s better to get it off your chest, babe.”

“Just—just, drop it. I went no where. Nothing is bothering me.” You felt your temper rise. The back and forth irritating you. This was how it always ended. His concern caused your irritation which eventually ended in either of you walking away to blow off steam. Only to make it up later.)

“And you would not believe it! Kayla and Will had to kick so many campers out because they whined about small cuts. It was all to see our new half-sister!” Sam gestured with his words with you.

“Mhm.” You smiled and nod your head, hoping he didn’t notice you zoning out.

Sam just stares at you, admiration in his eyes. Thankfully, he didn’t notice you zoning out. He just smiles and squeezes your hand. Your heart stung with guilt. Reminiscing about the past when your future was right beside you.

The two of you spent the last hour on a hill overlooking the strawberry fields. The sun was high in the sky, but it wasn’t overbearing nor did it make you sweaty and gross.

You can practically hear Luke’s laugh fading, as if he was right next to you. What was it that Silena and Drew said?

That you could never get over your first love. That they are hard to forget because they the past lover leaves a searing feeling in your mind. That they are your first love.

Yeah, that sounds about right.

And it’s not like you were using Sam to get over Luke, no. You loved Sam, truly, but you were still wrung up over Luke. Sam was everything you could ask for in a guy, but Luke—Luke was the first. He was perfect to you in his own way.

Sure, there were arguments and silent treatments and pettiness, but Luke and you never broke up, it wasn’t a toxic relationship. Not at all.

The conch for lunch blew throughout camp. You wondered what was conjured up in the camp kitchen today. Sam and you packed the blanket back into the bag (he carried the tote bag, no matter how girly it may be).

Hand in hand, you and Sam travel through the strawberry fields to the pavilion for lunch. A comfortable silence stirring between the two of you.

You look up at Sam and move to kiss his cheek. A gesture of reassurance for him and yourself, one to remind you that you loved him along with Luke.

The way you loved is difficult. The way you loved is unpredictable. You know though, you know for certain that no matter how many loves you have, Luke is your first.

Damn him for betraying Camp, for siding with Kronos. Damn your first love for cursing your heart with memories upon memories of him.

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the letter ?! oh my gosh, I never felt my heart beat so fast. i can’t the confession and letter we so sweet.

“allow me to be your poet.” AGHHHSGXJDB— 💋❤️

Lovesick & Lovelorn

Pairing: Luke Castellan x Reader

Summary: You thought that Luke Castellan, your best friend, did not reciprocate your feelings for him. To cope, you wrote letters addressed to him and kept them in a box. What happens when one of your sisters finds it? Inspired by 'To All the Boys I've Loved Before' (fluff, best friends to lovers; you thought it was unreciprocated feelings, happy ending).

Note: Ahh, I'm so happy the show got renewed for season 2.

Word count: 3.3k

You were deeply convinced your fate was tied to one with eternal lovelorn. 

Three years ago, you arrived at Camp Half-Blood and settled into the Hermes cabin before you were claimed by your Godly parent. It was there that you met Luke Castellan - one of your soon-to-be best friends. Though, you knew you were doomed from your first glance into his eyes. Then came his friendly smile and an offer of a handshake, where his hand engulfed yours.

At first, you thought that silly little crush would dissipate. But over time, as you became close friends with the Hermes cabin counselor, you were almost convinced he was faultless. You seemed to adore every little thing about him. Along with the fondness that grew in your heart was also self-pity. At one point, even looking at him hurt because you knew he did not return your feelings.

Hence, the letters.

In between your memories of Luke were letters you wrote throughout those years just to cope with the unreciprocated feeling. It was painful, but what else could you do? You truly believed confessing would put your friendship at risk. Neither did you feel like dealing with the heartache of a rejection. So you never uttered any of your feelings to him, continuing to imprint it on lined papers instead.

You scowled as the pen you were using ran out of ink, leaving the latest edition of unspoken words unfinished. Wordlessly, you fold the incomplete letter into an envelope and shove it into the turquoise box you bought while returning from a quest once. You neatly put the box under your bed.

“Y/N, it’s time to head out,” one of your sisters repeated. Two minutes ago, people were starting to leave, so those on cleaning duties could clean up your cabin. Since you were mid-writing, you hastily asked for a few more seconds. Now, you were the only one left besides two of your sisters.

“Yes, sorry,” you quickly muttered, exiting the cabin and almost immediately bumped into Luke. “Hey, what are you doing here?” you asked.

“I’m here for you. I thought we should hang out,” Luke answered ever so casually. Yet, your heart swelled at the thought that he was there for you. Before you could reply, you two were interrupted by another camper, who told you that one of your other best friends needed you and that it was an emergency.

“I’m so sorry, we’re gonna have to take a rain check on that hangout,” you informed Luke. You slowly started walking backward and away from him. “I’ll see you later, though?”

“Yeah, don’t worry about it. Come find me whenever you’re done, yeah?” Luke requested, hoping to spend time with you later. His soft look made you pause mid-step, almost as if your foot had been cemented to the stones beneath. You nodded absentmindedly before snapping out of that state to comfort your friend.

After two hours of listening to your friend and comforting them, you finally left their cabin to search for Luke, who previously told you to find him after. However, around half an hour later, you slowly gave up at the thought of doing so, feeling almost defeated.

As you turned to head back to your cabin, you spotted the Hermes counselor exiting his. You called out his name, watching his back stiffen before he turned to you. You ignored the odd behavior and recalled, “I’m free now if you’re down to hang out.”

“I’m so sorry, but I’m really busy right now.”

“Uhm, well, I guess I’ll just meet you at our spot whenever you’re done then?” you suggested. You and Luke fell into a routine of star-gazing every night.

Laying under the dark sky that painted your whole horizon often made you feel small. But something about that was so calming, especially considering most of the time, you were suffocated by the weight and duties of being a Demigod. You wondered if it was the moment or if it was Luke’ presence that aided your momentary peace.

“I really, really can’t tonight, I have a lot of things to do.”

“Oh… that’s okay. I’ll see you around?” you replied, watching as Luke fidgeted and gulped while attempting to look normal. It was futile, really, because being best friends meant you could sense when the slightest thing was even off. He nodded, and you retreated to your cabin with thoughts swirling in your head.

Then came the next few torturous and confusing days. For the last two years, Luke would always approach you - almost daily, and vice versa. Being best friends with Luke has been wonderful. Every day together felt like a blessing.

Now, it seemed almost like he was avoiding you. He would find a new excuse whenever you approached. He wouldn’t even look in your direction. Yesterday, you made eye contact with him, and he turned away abruptly, facing his back towards you.

You had enough after day three. You went to your cabin after dinner and reached under your bed with one hand. You did not want to, but this would perhaps be your first-ever letter of anguish about Luke Castellan.

The box…where is the box?

You peered under your bed, mouth hanging open when your eyes could not spot it either. You looked up and around, hoping maybe you had misplaced it somewhere, even though part of you knew you had put it under your bed. You have always done so.

“Hey, have you seen a turquoise box?” you asked your sister as she walked by.

“Oh, the rectangle one, about this big?” your sister reconfirmed, using her hand to show you the size she indicated.

“Yes, that one.”

“Oh, I gave it to Luke.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I was cleaning the cabin three days ago, accidentally knocked it over and saw letters addressed to him. He was right by the door, so I thought maybe I should just deliver them to him.”

Blood drained from your face, and your heart plummeted. Anything else your sister seemed to be talking about started sounding like murmurs, and you could not focus on a word she was saying. Your worst nightmare seemed to have arrived. Somehow, your friendship with him had ended without you knowing. No wonder he has been avoiding you these past few days. He has read them all.

“I need to go,” you quickly muttered, storming out of your cabin. You could feel your body slightly shaking from the panic. No amount of Demigod training had prepared you for moments like these. Then you saw Luke walking over you…with the box in his hands. You took a deep breath and practically forced your voice box to work.

“Listen, Luke—”

“I didn’t think you’d buy birthday gifts that early, Y/N,” he interrupted.

“What?” you questioned and observed the sweet smile gracing his Adonis-like face.

“This?” he gestured to the box. “Your sister gave it to me and said it was from you. Though I thought I should give it back ‘cause it’s not my birthday yet, you might have wanted to give it to me yourself.”

“Oh…” it was the only thing you could utter as it dawned on you what he had perceived the situation as. “Wait, so you haven’t opened it?” you clarified.

“Nope.”

“...So we’re ok?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t we be?” your mouth hung slightly agape at his words. As you scrunch your eyebrows, you could see how his fingers fidget somewhat, almost as if he could tell you would bring his odd behavior up.

“You’ve been acting really odd the last few days, Luke. It had me worried. I thought I did something wrong. It seems like you were avoiding me.”

“I was just really busy with counselor duties,” he dismissed it. However, something about it made you a bit hesitant to believe his words. You did it anyway, nevertheless. You blamed it on your stupid heart.

“Yeah, but—” you stopped, not wanting to stir anything. “Ok then, I’m going to put this away, but I’ll see you later, yeah? Maybe we can finally not rain check again?” You hated how hopeful you sounded. You’re glad that the sun had set a few minutes ago, blessing you with enough degree of darkness to hide your facial expressions from being as evident as they would be in daylight.

“Of course, I’ll see you later, Y/N,” despite the dark and only dim lights from nearby, you noticed there was something different about him. Luke was wearing a nervous smile, almost sheepish like a schoolboy. There was a glimmer of amazement in his eyes like he was in disbelief. Though it was definitely overpowered by a glaring degree of warmth. He was looking at you like all those writers have written down in the books you have read before - something along the lines of adoration and love.

You shook those thoughts away again, refusing to somehow fool yourself into believing he could reciprocate those feelings.

“Yeah, see you,” you muttered, hand gripping tightly on the box as you took it from his hold. As soon as you reached your cabin, you opened the box to peer inside. You immediately sighed in relief upon seeing the copious amount of letters with your handwriting on them, all with Luke’s name on the front.

However, your eyes landed on one unfamiliar one. It had your name on it, written in a familiar wonky handwriting that you have always found endearing.

You sat on your bed, taking the letter out delicately, almost in disbelief. Then, dread overtook any other emotion. Was this Luke’s way of letting you down easy? By pretending to not have read any of your letters and rejecting you through the form that you express your love to him? — you had to physically shake your head at that thought.

You took the letter out of its envelope and started reading: 

‘Dear Y/N,

This is probably the 40th time I tried writing this letter. It feels impossible to try and convey everything onto one piece of paper.

You deserve someone to at least view you as their muse rather than always being the writer. 

Hence why, for the past few days, I had to physically drag myself away from you every time you tried approaching me because I knew if I didn’t, I would just end up spilling my feelings out right then. I knew if I even looked at you, I would have just abandoned this letter idea and run to you. You should have seen me yesterday. When we made eye contact, I had to turn away from you because having the knowledge of you liking me back was enough to knock all the air out of my lungs. I was a flustered mess from just that eye contact.

I doubt my words could rival what you have written about me. You once wrote how it hurts to love someone this much and to always be the poet but never the poem. Well, I’d like to thank you for making me your poems. However, now it is your turn. Allow me to be your poet.

You occupy my mind like it’s your castle. If I had to name everything I love about you, this letter would never end. But for starters, here are some of the first times:

The first time Chiron introduced you to the Hermes cabin, I could not take my eyes off you. Chris had to nudge me away. Just from that alone, a part of me knew I was in trouble. I think I came to the conclusion that I did not want to hold anybody else’s hand after just shaking yours.

2.5 years back during a campfire in June, even when the fire had died and the air grew cold, our voices still filled the air. Conversations just flow when I am with you. I remember never wanting that moment to end. Then you started talking about constellations and told me about the ones above us. Right there and then was the first time I had the urge to kiss you, and to show you that I was just as obsessed with you as you were with stars.

The first time I realized I was in love with you was while coming back from a quest 2 years ago. I remember feeling so numb coming back. The world almost seemed monotone, and I wondered for a second, what if I had made one wrong move? Just as I returned to camp, you bolted and hugged me. Somehow, it felt like I had just taken my first bit of fresh air after drowning for so long. I vividly recall shutting my eyes as I hugged you back because I felt like I was finally home. I remember never wanting to be away or out of your hold as others approached and rushed to get me into the infirmary for checkups.

It was only when I was lying on the infirmary bed that it hit me like a train that lost control. A large proportion of why I fought so hard was to come back to you. You’re my best friend, Y/N, and my place of solace and peace. Then came the realization that I was in love with you. I remember everybody else’s voice drowning out as I focused on that thought. It was strangely calming, as if my heart had known all along but was waiting for my head to catch up. Then I remember just smiling as I looked at the ceiling, unafraid of the new feeling.

Last year, the day we went on a quest together lapsed with Valentine’s Day. Every moment felt extra sweet. Us sitting on the train, staring outside the window together like a couple going on a trip. My mind savoured the small things like you falling asleep on my shoulder with my coat around you and us holding hands as we walked through the crowd to not get lost among couples - which I like to imagine that others had thought we were one as well. It was the first time I allowed myself to pretend this is how it would feel like if you were mine and how our lives together would be if we were not Demigods.

I thought for sure you would have realized something by the way I was staring and acting around you that I was irrevocably in love with you. After reading your letters, I realized that you did see it. But you refused to believe that I could ever be in love with you. Well, I hope my letters will reverse all your doubts, because Y/N, it is so easy to fall in love with you. 

In fact, the world I built up in my head during last year’s quest had consumed my thoughts enough to make me frown at the idea of returning to camp, where it would not just be the two of us anymore. Loving you has never been something I was afraid of. Loving you has been an honour every single day, even if you never knew of it. 

It’s also somewhat funny that I was heavily lovesick while you were lovelorn. But I promise, Y/N, that from this second on, I intend to make you know that you are loved and that I am so deeply in love with you.

Again, I never intended for you to wait for three days, but I ended up throwing away every letter I started because I felt like none had suffice. I didn’t want to mess it up and give you something less than you deserved. I wanted to do something nice for you. I promise I’ll make it up for those three days if you allow me to. But one chance is all I need.

If you are willing to give me that chance, you know where to find me.

Sincerely,

Luke Castellan’

Upon reading his last words, you immediately left your cabin with the letter in hand. You jogged to the spot where the two of you would always meet to stargaze together. Almost instantly, you saw his tall figure under the moonlight. As if he could sense your presence, the Hermes boy turned around and gave you a sweet smile.

“You meant it?” you asked as you raised the letter up, slowly approaching him.

“Every single word, including all the unspoken ones I intend on telling you from now on,” the way he said it felt like he was swearing it on his own heart. “In fact, I would have written more down, but I knew I was keeping you waiting for too long,” he explained as you stopped right before him.

Something about this moment felt cathartic. Three years of dancing around unspoken words and yearning led to this moment. Luke grabbed your hand and rubbed his thumb over your knuckle. You peered up at him, and it was then that you finally accepted what his looks meant: he was in love with you, and there was no doubt about that. There was no more denial on your end that Luke Castellan was enamored with you.

“Will you let me be your poet, Y/N?” he breathlessly referenced the words you and him had both previously written like he had been waiting for this for a lifetime.

“Of course,” you answered almost without hesitation, watching his eyes soften even more, if possible.

“Is it ok if I ask you another question?” he asked again, his other hand caressing your cheek.

“Yeah?” Your face flushed as you saw his brown eyes dart to your lips.

“Can I kiss you?”

This time, you didn’t say anything. You’ve written down way too many words in the past three years. You decided actions would speak louder in this case. So you pulled Luke down by his camp necklace, hands gripping the beads on it as you tiptoed up to reach his lips. 

Luke physically melted as he brought one hand to your waist to hold you up as he leaned down from the height difference. Everything Luke had imagined before could not match the kiss he was finally sharing with you - the kiss that seemed to seal his lips into a spell that would forever leave them unable to belong to anyone else. It felt like heaven and hell combined because he knew that this was going to ruin him forever, and every second he spent with his eyes shut would be one where he had this feeling and moment sown behind his eyelids. 

You had the same line of thoughts. The wait was long, but you felt like it was worth it. Under the stars, you may feel small. But standing there next to Luke, you finally realize it doesn’t matter. Because he was holding you like you were the only thing that mattered.

You were his sun, moon, and everything in between - no constellations could ever measure to you.

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lorenzo berkshire x reader? where it is just fluffy and both of them are hopeless romantics and the slytherin gang is getting annoyed with how much they are pining?

BTW LOVE YOUR WORKS!! SERIOUSLY YOU WORK SO INCREDILY HARD YOU DESERVE A LOT MORE THAN HEARTS ❤️❤️

'like nobody else' - lorenzo berkshire

masterlist

To be a Slytherin is to simultaneously want for everything and give up nothing. You wish for the top grades of your classes, but skive off studying to hang out with your friends. You desire glory, but ignore the burden of playing by everyone else’s rules. And, most pressingly of all, you want Lorenzo Berkshire to love you, but never want to say a word to him about it. 

It is the wanting, you think, that will finally do you in. You want Lorenzo more than you’ve wanted anything before. Every conquest before this, every clutch at a legacy, all fades to grey in the face of a boy like that. And what a face indeed– you’ve seen it smile at you, wink across a crowded room, whisper your name under a caught breath, and you never want to stop looking at it, at him. You have known Enzo since you were small. If all goes well, you’ll be with him until you’re old and grey, too.

The problem with Lorenzo is that he’s your friend. It would be easier if you had never known him at all, you think. If he was a stranger, you might never have fallen for him in the first place. You could have seen him walking down the street, admired him momentarily, and then been able to move on with your life. Once you met him, though, you couldn’t help but love him. You were trapped from the day he introduced himself.

If he was a stranger, even if you did love him at first sight, you wouldn’t have been afraid to lose him. You could have offered up a pickup line like Pansy or Astoria on any boy they thought halfway decent, knowing that the price of rejection would only be a lost opportunity with someone they didn’t care about. Your friends can laugh in the face of boys they would normally ignore, but you can’t pretend you don’t think about Lorenzo. That would be even more impossible than being able to give him up.

This, in the end, is what stops you from confessing your feelings. If Enzo liked you back, he would just smile at you like he does when you get a perfect score on a project you did together for school, or when you choose to walk next to him instead of anyone else in your emerald friend group. He would love you, and you would know it, and for once in your life, the thought of Enzo hooked on a girl wouldn’t cut you to the core because that lucky girl would be you.

If, however, Enzo didn’t feel the same, that would change everything, and make what had once been glorious a terrible thing indeed. Everyone says that you can ‘just be friends’ with someone even if a schoolgirl crush is one-sided, but they’re lying through their teeth. Lorenzo would slowly but surely drift away from you, and instead of running to him on bad days and long nights, your only comfort would be the ghost of the time when he used to trust you unconditionally.

Telling Enzo you loved him could destroy you. Lorenzo is your best friend, your favorite. He knows you better than anyone here, holds more of your secrets locked away in his chest than even the girls in your dorm. All of your secrets, that is, except one, the worst of them all:  even when Enzo offered you the best friendship in your life, you only ever wanted more. Call it a Slytherin’s fatal flaw, call it greed or ego or anything you please, but in the end, no amount of self reflection will save you from the fact that you have finally craved more than you could ever have.

Enzo may not know, but your friends apparently caught on a long time ago. They say it’s insane how he hasn’t picked up on it yet, then pause and look at you with these know-it-all stares. You’re aware that you’re rather hopeless, as Blaise put it one day after getting sick of you daydreaming about the boy you’ll never have instead of working on the Transfiguration essay the two of you were supposed to be completing together, but if you could cut off your feelings, you’d do it in a flash.

The only problem, of course, is that it’s impossible to get your heart unstuck from Enzo. He’s ridiculously charming, always offering you his coat or scarf whenever there’s even the slightest hint of snow, or just so happening to take you by the hand whenever he needs to show you something. He’s flirtatious, but never insufferable. Confident, but never cocky. He walks the fine line of being larger than life and coming off as far too much, and he does so perfectly. You’ve never met a boy like Lorenzo Berkshire before, and at this point, you doubt you ever will.

This does, unfortunately, tend to mess with your head more than a little. It’s one thing to dream of floppy dark hair pushed back to reveal a brilliant smile, or deep brown eyes that always search the crowd for you, but it’s another thing entirely to have to deal with all of his charm turned towards someone else. You’re not completely unrealistic, you know all too well that Lorenzo is perfectly capable of falling in love with any other girl at this school, you just can’t seem to convince yourself that such a thing would be okay.

For instance, just this morning at breakfast, you walked into the Great Hall with your friends to find Enzo already there, avidly talking up a girl from one of your classes. His eyes were alight with enthusiasm, and when she made him laugh with what was no doubt a terrible joke, your entire body felt consumed with desperate jealousy.

You must have lost track of what you were saying, because Pansy had followed your line of sight to see Enzo still locked in conversation with the girl. She had sighed dramatically, and turned to you with an exasperated expression that is slowly becoming quite familiar the more you vex her with your inability to get over your feelings. “Don’t tell me you’re lovesick again. Are you physically capable of going more than five minutes without thinking about Enzo?”

You feel your face heat up and swat her on the shoulder. “Feel free to say that any louder, maybe he’ll hear you.”

“Good,” Pansy mutters, “Maybe then the two of you could finally talk to each other about this.”

Theo swings by, grinning. “Are we making fun of Y/N for her crush on Enzo again? Good, let’s do it some more.”

You turn to him, eyes wide with surprise. “Theo, you insufferable git–”

Theo leans away when you try to swat him, too. “Don’t shoot the messenger! I’m just trying to help you two, I swear it.”

“You’re doing a right awful job of it,” you tell him, pushing closer to him so you can exact your vengeance.

“Hey, hey,” Theo complains, “Don’t hit me too hard now, your loverboy is looking.”

You whip back around to see that Theo is right, Enzo has gotten up from where he was sitting to walk over to your group. This time, though, he looks distinctly annoyed, and whatever good mood he was in while he was talking to the other girl has evaporated from his face. His eyes keep cutting between you and Theo in quick, curt movements, and his hands are tight at his sides.

You move away from Theo unconsciously, like you’ve been pulled into Enzo’s orbit. Lorenzo manages a weak smile to you, then allows Draco and Blaise to coax him into a discussion of the upcoming Slytherin Quidditch game. You’re left to stumble back to the Slytherin table with your friends, constantly glancing over your shoulder in the hopes that maybe, just maybe, he might look back at you even one more time.

Pansy and Theo take seats on either side of you, exchanging hopeless glances over your head. “At this rate, I don’t think they’re ever going to make it,” Theo says gloomily.

Pansy snorts. “Have some faith, Theo. A miracle might happen.”

A miracle would be lovely indeed. Forget turning water into wine or getting all of your end-of-term exams cancelled, you think your brightest hope for a miracle would be Enzo actually feeling even half as strongly about you as you do about him.

You end up floating through that day much as you do any other, zoning out in lecture to think about the boy seated just next to you. Although your little group of Slytherins tends to sprawl across the back rows of any classroom, Enzo always seems to pick the desk right next to you, no matter who he walked in with or what conversation he’s in the middle of entertaining. It’s like all thoughts of sports or other friends go right out of his head the second he gets the chance to sit by your side.

By the time the last class of the day rolls around, you feel just about ready to give in. Whoever scheduled History of Magic in the late afternoon was absolutely insane. In the dark room, lights dim and windows half shuttered, the overwhelming urge to sleep presses in on you, unavoidable and all too compelling. You try to pay attention, really you do, but the material is so dry and Binns is so boring that closing your eyes even just for a few seconds is far too tempting.

The only thing keeping you from passing out is the uncomfortable desk in front of you. You’d think that decades of students falling asleep in this class would have worn down the surface at least a little bit, but the hard edges of the desk keep poking into you, keeping you from relaxing completely.

Enzo laughs quietly after you rearrange yourself for what feels like the hundredth time that class period. “Trouble falling asleep? I thought Binns would have knocked you out half an hour ago.”

“I’m almost asleep, I just can’t get comfortable,” you complain. “This desk is harder than a rock.”

He grins, then shuffles closer to you. Both of you share one long table meant for two students, so Enzo isn’t barred off from you by individual desks. Sitting together on one bench as you are, Enzo can reach out and pull you against his side. “You can fall asleep on me,” he says, “I’d like to think I’m much more comfortable than a desk.”

You giggle faintly. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely,” he tells you. “One of us should be able to get some rest, at least. I’ll wake you when it’s over, don’t worry.”

“Never,” you assure him, but already sleep is coming to claim you. Leaning against him, your head tucked against his shoulder, the last barriers to your slumber have been removed. You can just sense his arm curling around your waist, keeping you close, and then you’re asleep at last.

It feels as if no time at all has passed before Enzo is gently shaking you awake at the end of class. “Sleep well?” He asks, grinning.

You sit up slowly, absentmindedly rubbing one hand against the side of your tired face. “Very.”

Enzo smiles, then adjusts your tie, which has become slightly lopsided during your slumber. “You still look tired. It’s cute,” he tells you, then freezes slightly, as if he hadn’t meant to give that little detail away.

You arch a brow. “You think I’m cute, Enzo?”

“Very,” he admits. “Cuter still when you’re cuddled up beside me. You’ll have to do it again soon, I’m afraid.”

You laugh. “I think I can arrange that. Only if you call me cute again, though.”

Enzo’s smile broadens. “Sweetheart, I’ll tell you’re pretty and gorgeous and anything else you want to hear. It’s all true, anyway. Oh, and to answer your question, I feel the same way.”

You frown as you reach down to grab your bag, ready to leave this class at last for something a bit more exhilarating. “Huh? What question did I ask?”

Enzo winks as he helps you pick up your books. “You might want to be a little more careful what you whisper when you sleep. And if I wasn’t totally clear, I like you too.”

You stand stock-still. Of all the things to admit when you’re asleep on Enzo’s shoulder– but from the way he’s still smiling at you, you realize at last that he doesn’t mind it, not at all. In fact, judging by his little confession just moments ago, Enzo actually likes you back. It’s not something you had allowed yourself to fully contemplate before, but maybe you should reconsider. After all, the two of you have kept your feelings secret for long enough. You certainly have a lot of missed opportunities to catch up on now.

harry potter tag list: @rogueanschel, @cameronsails, @neewtmas, @lovesanimals0000, @with-inked-solace, @sher-lokid7, @eclliipsed, @frenchgirlinlondon, @23victoria, @ilovexavierthrope

all tags list: @wordsarelife

really honored to be on your rec list!!! thank you!!

loba’s 1k celebration! 𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

guys thank you so much for 1k (almost 2k by the time this is out!) props to you guys for putting up with my shitposts cause i yap a lot and post nonsense half the time loll. i’m so so grateful and thankful xx 💖

anyways this post will consist of some of my favourite pjo (mostly luke castellan) works i’ve read so far (in order from the first to most recent ones i’ve read) because i think they deserve so much love and recognition! <3 make sure to check them out and reblog!!

ps! some of the work is nfsw so please respect the author and don’t interact if you are a minor!!

back to navigation. masterlist.

༊*·˚ luke castellan

i hate you by @chaussetteblanche

sly swordsman by @krkiiz

lovers lake by @balletfilmss

a place with you by @supercutszns

something out of my dreams by @celesterayel

the olive theory by @neo-nomatrix

daylight by @tangledinlove

all the stars by @initialchains

how to get a girl’s attention by @scwheeler

deception by @chaussetteblanche

this blurb with child of poseidon!reader by @birdiewriteslit

rotten to the touch series by @supercutszns

bleedin’ me dry by @atlabeth

head over heels by @sayoneee smau!

i won’t say (i’m in love) by @calliopeslyrics

lavender roses by @breadbrobin

parent trap by @sayoneee

where you are by @murdrdocs smut!

one year with luke castellan series by @tangledinlove

you’re beautiful by @ilycosy

rearrange your dreams by @murdrdocs smut!

a wish your heart makes by @mischiefmoons

always an angel, never a god by @cobrakaisb

ghost in the wind by @amoreva

this blurb by @apollos-calliope

this blurb about a bet with luke by @murdrdocs smut!

nobody's business by @voguesriot smau!

you don't know me by @kestisvrse

luke as your mom's friend's son by @too-deviant smut!

Lindsay Atherton, Lillie-Pearl Wildman, Clarice Julianda, Imogen Bailey, Kamilla Fernandes, and Bobbie Chambers in Newsies!: The Musical <3

🎥: @lasagnatrades

tweets with pjo characters (ii.)

content summary: implied luke x reader once again... swearing! percabeth once again! <3 reader goes by she/her prns, reader and clarisse are lowkey a thing on the side LMFAO

part one

SPIDERS AND THREAD

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pairing: racetrack higgins x reader

summary: race has been flaking on dates more and more. you think he’s cheating until he shows up bloody, bruises and in a hero costume, one evening.

warnings: blood, cursing, description of stitching

a/n: ending is a little meh and i couldn’t think of a title. i’ll try to revise it later.

—– ٠ ✤ ٠ —–· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • · —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —–

Race is rushing to your table from the restaurant, tugging on his jacket in a hurry. Your head titled in slight confusion.

“Race…?”

Race snapped his head towards you. The apology written all over his face masking the urgency. “My uh…mom called.” Race explained hurriedly. “She—fell down the stairs and I gotta go to—”

He’s been doing this often, but you shouldn’t throw out accusations. Just be a supportive girlfriend. “Hey, hey—I get it. Make sure she’s okay.” You spoke sympathetically. Your hand on his arm rubbing it comfortingly.

Race gave you a weary smile. He hates leaving you early on dates especially when you look so pretty in your outfit. He felt terribly guilty. You got dolled up for him and he had to go…

“I love you.” Race kissed you quickly and ran out of the restaurant.

Does he though?

You’re sitting at your desk, mindlessly moving the swivel chair side to side. Thoughts running through your head. The events of the day replaying itself out. You were supposed to be studying for your test, but…you can’t help but think about the date.

It’s not the first time Race ended a date early because something important came up. The first time it happened was because Albert was throwing up a lot. Then it was Jack needed him ASAP for a project and so on.

You’ve seen this happen to one of your friends; literally watched the events unfold before you. Your friend’s girlfriend kept canceling dates or leaving earlier because of something that came up. Turns out the girl was hooking up with some other guy behind your friend’s back.

Race wouldn’t do that, right? The sweet, charming guy that brings you little trinkets that remind him of you? No way in hell would Race cheat.

You scoffed just thinking about Race hooking up with another person. So, you rationalized these thoughts, it was late and you were thinking about this too much, overthinking it. Your mind is just making up stuff to keep you awake to study for your exam next week. That’s right.

Suddenly, a quiet creaking from your window grabbed your attention. Your curtains had been closed since you’ve got home from the spoiled date. You grab the nearest blunt object to throw. The dark figure on the other side of the window, slid it open.

A soft groan escaped the figure. It never occurred to you it could be your roommate. Your sleep-deprived, adrenaline filled brain screamed at you, “Robber, thief, murderer, stranger danger—!”

So, you threw your blunt object as soon as you caught sight of a head. A small yelp escaped your lips. You prayed to whoever you wouldn’t die tonight. You haven’t even finished re-watching Superstore yet.

The figure tumbled into your apartment, catching the object without even looking. “Get out, get out, get out!” You shouted and threw one of your textbooks at the person like they were a bug on the walls.

The figure caught it again and quickly put their free hand up. “Hey, hey! I’m not going to hurt ya’!” The figure stated quickly as they saw you holding a second book. “Please, stop throwing things.” You shrunk behind the book you held like a scared child.

“Who—?” You asked nervously. Intricate details of webs on the costume. Red and blue colors. A spider sewn onto the chest. It is a dead give-away. One of their hands was pressed against his abdomen. Blood oozing out, soiling their costume. Holy fuck. Why was Spiderman in your room? How did he even get here? Did he just stumble upon your apartment? Oh god, and he is hurt.

“What—?” Before you can even ask a question, Spiderman tugged off his mask. Soft blonde curls damp with sweat. Blue eyes filled with exhaustion and affliction. A sheepish smile on his lips.

“Suprise.” Race said dryly.

He thought it’d be better for you to know now instead of later and…he doesn’t think he can catch another book.

“Oh my god—Race!” You launch out of your desk chair to the blonde. Panic running through your veins, your hands cupping his face like he’s fragile. Then it clicks, you realize it isn’t anyone’s blood and wounds, it is Race’s. Race is hurt—how can he just…how?

Your boyfriend. The man who can’t stand spiders, especially daddy long legs, is Spiderman. Spiderman. The fucking vigilante swinging around New York. Is this why he ends dates early? Because he is Spiderman?

You don’t want to believe it, but Race is right here in front of you. Your blue-eyed lover subconsciously leaned into your warm touch. “M’okay.” Race mumbled and kissed the palm of your hand. The comfort of your touch distracting him from the pain. “Just…need your help patching up.”

You went into overdrive. The information you learned was overwhelming. How long has he been doing this? How bad are his injuries? Will he be okay? There are so many risks to this. Spiderman? How can he do what he does?

Your hands were too afraid to touch his upper body as you looked over him. “God…oh—how did..? You’re bleeding a lot…and you look so tired and….how bad is—? I don’t know what to do—! Fuck…you’re bleeding a lot. That wound is huge and—”

“Hey, sweetheart.” Race grabbed your attention from your stupor with the nickname. “Calm down. I’ll walk you through everything. Can you help me to the bathroom?”

Your eyes soften, but his words don’t reassure you. “Mhm.” You pressed your lips together, the worry evident in your eyes as you helped Race to the bathroom. He leaned against the counter.

The first aid kit is under the sink. Race is peeling off the top half of his suit. A wince escaped him as the spandex stuck to his large gash. He ripped it away like a bandaid causing you to cringe. There is dried blood, sweat and dust all over his toned body—which you will not admit you stared at a little too long.

“I would’ve done this myself, but—it hurt to swing any more. I mean, it felt like my body was being torn apart.” He softly said, trying to decrease the situation on why he was here in this getup. A soft blush on his face. It is clear he still felt bad about earlier that evening.

Only a man like Race would blush when he has a gaping wound in his side. “I don’t need your excuses—I just need to help patch you up.” Your eyes hardening after you take a shaky exhale.

Questions and thoughts racing (hah.) your mind. Was this convenient or was this pity for earlier? This is kind of ridiculous—you were dating Spiderman. Race is Spiderman. He could’ve told you—said something so you wouldn’t think the worst of the worst. So you could help him from hurting himself further.

“Okay.” Race nodded slowly. He noticed your snappy comments. He masked the worry and guilt. “Douse a rag in rubbing alcohol and—gently clean my wound, please.”

Race walked you through the steps of how to clean a wound. Your boyfriend had bit into a rolled up hand towel to muffle his agony. Tears brimming his eyes at the stinging. Luckily, the bleeding stopped. It looked slightly less gross than it did before, and it was done quickly.

Your annoyance, anger dissipates for a moment. You look at your boyfriend who removed the hand towel from his mouth. “I—I don’t know how to stitch.”

Race nodded, his head glistening with sweat from the enduring the pain. “You know how to sew though. Just—sew.” He mumbled.

“Race…that—that’s not the same, I can’t just—why don’t we go to an actual hospital? They know better than you or I.” You tried to rationalize.

“Can’t.” Race shook his head, looking at you with half-lidded eyes. “I can’t—my blood work and genetics are fucked—please, sweetheart.”

Race begged softly. It seem the blood loss got to him. “I need you to do it. Please. I trust you. Please.”

You grabbed his hand, rubbing your thumb over the back of his hand. “Okay…” You say almost inaudibly. Race brings your hand to his lips, a silent thank you. Just like before, Race has a rag in his mouth. Hand gripping your shoulder. His eyes closed shut as your dominant hand delicately holding a needle. The other was on his side. Race shivered at your touch. “Don’t move to much, okay?”

Race hummed in agreement. You pressed the needle to one end of the wound and punctuate the flesh. Race’s hand gripped your shoulder tightly, muffled sounds of pain escape him. You try to get this done quickly. In and out, through and through.

And pull.

You watch the wound close up together seamlessly. It sealed like a piece of cloth and look up at your tired boyfriend. His head immediately falls on your shoulder. “Thank you, sweetheart.” He whispered and kissed your neck once or twice.

Your eyes soften. You take Race’s face in your hands and bring his head in front of you. Lip quivering now that you finished stitching up your boyfriend. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I—”

“Race, you’re Spiderman—and I didn’t know! You made me think—think that…” Your voice is shaky, overwhelmed with a number of emotions. Race is Spiderman—he could die at any point.“you were cheating—what if you didn’t come back from fighting a villain? I don’t want to go to a funeral. I can’t—not when it’s the love of my life.”

“Oh, Y/N…” Race hugged you tightly despite the pain blooming in his side. “I’m not going anywhere, or dying—god, I wouldn’t even think of cheating on you, y’know that?”

A few moments of silence.

“Help me.” He mumbled and put his arm over your shoulder. The two of you exit the bathroom. Race was doing a little bit better than before, but you still had to support his weight. You both sit on the bed, Race taking your hands.

“I wanted to tell you, more than anything in the world, but—” He paused. “But…I couldn’t let you get hurt or worse for knowing about me.”

His voice cracked slightly. “If—if you got killed because of me…I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. I just—and what if you thought I was a freak. I—I can climb of walls for fucks sake and have a sixth sense—” All of the thoughts that kept him up at night spilling out.

“Race—you’re a superhero, shut up.” You stated bluntly. Sometimes Race just needed to hear things as is. You grabbed some joggers he left here and gave it to him. You were no longer anger or afraid, just tired. So tired.

A soft sight escaped you. “You’re tired, I’m tried—this conversation should be for tomorrow.”

Race’s lips parted slightly to retaliate, but a wave of exhaustion hits him. He changed into the grey joggers and got into your bed. You gravitate towards his body heat and bury your head into the crook of his neck. “My boyfriend is a goddamn superhero.” It sounded more in awe. You leaned up to kiss his lips. Race kissed back with a little more passion than intended. Race and you fall asleep in each others arms, knowing—

—at least for tonight, that everything will be okay.

—– ٠ ✤ ٠ —–· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • · —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —–

Loves Me, Loves Me Not [A.D]

Pairing: Albert DaSilva x Reader

Description: Working as a florist means expressing a person's love for them, writing out their love story in an array of petals and blossoms and messages hidden in between it all. It does not mean falling in love yourself. But then the newsie starts selling outside your shop, and your whole routine goes out the window.

Tags: Oblivious reader, shy reader, flustered Albert, canon era, florist au, flower language/floriography, gender neutral reader, oneshot

A/N: OHHHH you didn't think ol ANGSTY MCGEE could write 10k of sheer toothrotting fluff now didja?? hm?? didja bitch?? well jokes on you cause i wanted to branch out with my reader types and there's nothing i love more than turning the token Tough Guy character into a squirming flustered puddle of a man. anyways i'd say take a shot for every repeated motif in this thing but you'd probably die of alcohol poisoning so just sit back and enjoy the self indulgence!

It is important to note that this happened entirely by chance.

You really can’t stress that enough. There are a thousand things that could’ve caused it, and another thousand things that could’ve led to the whole thing being avoided altogether. But of all things, it had to be chance. And newspapers, you suppose.

Yes, newspapers, har-har. It’s ridiculous, such a simple cause for the whole thing. Something that, again, could’ve been entirely avoided. You know it’s not especially pretty to wrap your painstakingly arranged bouquets in newspapers of all things. It’d be better to use parchment paper – something plain, but rustic, something that drew attention to the blossoms without looking too vulgar, perhaps lined with coloured tissue or lace if you were feeling particularly showy – rather than the same wastepaper the fishmongers used to wrap their catch. But you can’t help it. It’s an in-joke, of a kind; the idea of something growing out of yesterdays news brought you comfort, absurd as that is. So you don’t care if the ladies and businessmen wrinkle their noses at the crinkling paper and running ink wrapped around their lush roses and baby’s breath – they could stand to be humbled some, in your opinion. A rose by any other name, after all.

So, yes. Newspapers. Not the grandest way to start a story, but it’s yours. You like reading them, when the days get long, looking over yesterday’s stories. It became a game, almost – you’d read about the horses favoured to win at Sheepshead and laugh, knowing full well that Admiral Shucker would stumble and come dead last, leaving Zippy Skip to take his first ever victory and render every gambler at Sheepshead penniless. It’s a comfort, knowing exactly what was going to happen. Knowing precisely how the story ended before you read the first line. Which is why, when you ran out of newspapers for your bouquets, you were entirely unbothered – because you knew precisely what you were going to do. You would close for a few minutes, go down Park Row, grab a cheap and terrible hotdog lunch from the park vendor, and then walk until you reached the Promenade, where pack of newsboys would no doubt have stacks of papers ready for the taking as they waited for the double-whammy lunchtime rush of the University and City Hall. And then you’d hurry back, cramming your hotdog into your mouth, and re-open for the lunchtime rush yourself. Same as every Friday.

So you shut your register. You flip your sign to closed. You walk outside and lock the door behind you, and fuss with your pockets distractedly as you cram it back, because that is what you always do at lunchtime on a Friday.

Walking directly into someone’s back, however, is not.

“’Ey, watch where ya-!” Someone snaps as you stumble, tripping over your own feet. You make a rather embarrassing squeak and shut your eyes as you brace for the floor, reaching out blindly for something, anything-

“Whoa – Jesus-!”

You grab the something between your fingers, and then the something grabs ahold of you, hands squeezing your waist tight enough for you to feel rough callouses through your clothes. You open your eyes and – ah.

Well.

That is unexpected.

The boy’s your age, thereabouts. He’s pale, underneath the freckles and sunspots, with eyes cornflower blue. His face is close enough for you to make out the little threads of colour in the iris, like the veins of a petal, and the feather-down of his lashes – orange, you realize, orange and fluffy, like celosia plumes.

You both stare at each other for a moment, as the initial panic subsides. And then you remember the hands on your waist. And you feel the rough wool of a vest clutched between your fingers. And you realize he’s holding you at an angle from where you fell, so you’re dipped just a bit backwards, the way you’ve seen gentlemen dip their lovers for a chaste kiss after they proffer their bouquets.

You clutch your hands to your chest with a small squeak, and the boy leaps back as if you’d burned him.

“Sorry!” He says hurriedly. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t – I wasn’t-“

“No, no!” You say, equally panicked, as you wipe imaginary dust from your clothes. “My fault, entirely my fault, I should’ve been looking, I-“

You both stammer over the other, fumbling apologies and excuses, until you both seem to simultaneously trail off, realizing the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. You laugh sheepishly, and the boy chuckles with you.

“I-I really am sorry.” You say sheepishly. “I, um – people aren’t really around here before lunch, they’re usually working…”

The boy raises an eyebrow and jostles the bag he has slung over his shoulder.

“Well, s’pose I am workin’.”

You frown, glancing from him to the bag of – newspapers!

“You’re a newsie!” You gasp, clasping your hands together. The boy blinks, his cheeks dusting pink, and you bite your lip anxiously – you suppose he must find you quite strange, knocking into him and then getting excited over newspapers, of all things.

“Uh – yeah…” He says awkwardly, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I, um – I was lookin’ for a new sellin’ spot, heard this place was kinda up an’ comin’, and, uh… I like… Lambs.”

You blink at him, turning to glance at the wooden sign that hangs over your shop door. You’d always loved it, the wee lamb snoozing in a meadow with the words Little Lamb Flowers painted below in curly lettering – perhaps some would find it cloying or childish, but you liked it found it adorable. Still, the idea of this newsie, with his big arms and rough hands and his hat on backwards, being drawn to your shop over a painted lamb… You couldn’t help but find it charming.

He's somehow even redder when you turn back to him, looking at the floor like he’s begging it to swallow him.

“Uh – not, not that I, not to say, y’know, I’m not – I ain’t, like-“ He flounders, and you try not to smile. “The sign’s… Good.”

It’s so awkwardly charming that you can’t help but giggle. He full-body jerks, staring at you with wide eyes.

“Yes, well.” You smile, bunching the hem of your shirt between your fingers. “I like pretty things, I suppose.”

The boy makes a stifled noise, something a bit too sheepish to be a laugh.

“Yeah, s’pose you would.”

“Hm?” You cock your head, and he flushes.

“Uh – nothin’!” He says quickly, looking away with a wrinkled brow, as if the sidewalk had personally offended him. “I just – I-“

“No, um – You’re right!” You try to smile reassuringly – you hope you aren’t making him uncomfortable. You know you can be a little over-the-top, but you wouldn’t want to frighten him off, not after he helped you. And, well – perhaps you were a little intrigued by the gruff, abrasive newsie that liked paintings of lambs. “I mean, I’d hardly be a good florist if I didn’t.”

The boy is silent, glancing around at the quiet street. You fidget with your hands, opening your mouth, then closing it, your body quietly reminding you that you’re supposed to be going to Park Row, because that’s what you do every Friday, and if you don’t get back in time you’re not going to have time to eat lunch, but why would you go to Park Row when there’s a newsie right here? It’s not your routine, perhaps, but – even you can’t deny the convenience.

“Could I-“ You say, stuttering over your words. “Could I perhaps – goodness, this is going to sound awful strange, but, um – I-I don’t suppose I could take a hundred, could I?”

The boy’s neck jerks towards you, hard enough to make you wince.

“Only if you have it!” You say quickly. “I-It is a tall order, if – if you don’t, I can just run down to Park Row-“

“A hundred?” The boy manages to splutter. “What’cha need a hundred for, a pape for every flower?”

You’re sure he’s not angry, just confused – it’s a peculiar request – but it’s enough to make you duck your head anxiously.

“I, um.” You try to laugh, but it sounds a bit pathetic. “I-I like to – wrap the bouquets with them? It’s sort of a… Personal joke, I suppose? It’s silly, sorry, I didn’t mean to bother-“

“No!” He says quickly – you chance a glance towards him, and you’re almost shocked at how scarlet his face has become. “I, uh, no, no, I mean – I’d be a lousy newsie if I said no to a hundred papes…”

He pulls his entire stack out of his bag and pushes it into your arms. You grin, cradling the papers like a prize.

“Gosh, you’re my hero!” You laugh without thinking as you fish the change out of your pocket. “I sure hope you stick around, that just saved me twenty minutes!”

You slide your hand over his and slot the coins into his palm. You try not to shiver as you feel his callouses brushing your skin. He’s staring at you, you realize, mouth parted and eyes wide, and you feel your face beginning to warm up. Goodness, what a state you’ve made of yourself – there’s still pollen on your fingers, no doubt there are stray petals in your hair, and you’ve gone running into a newsboy and taking all his papers and – Lord, this is not how Fridays are meant to go.

“Sorry.” You say sheepishly. The boy quirks his brows, chuckling inquisitively.

“F’r what?” He asks. “Ya just sold me out and the lunch rush ain’t even hit yet, I…” He swallows and tangles his hand around the strap of his bag. “Thanks, uh…?”

“Oh!” You gasp. “I beg your pardon, I’m so rude – [Y/N].” You stick your hand out, curtsying as best you can with a stack of papers balanced in the crook of your elbow. “[Y/N] [L/N].”

The boy makes a noise, half-chuckle, half… Something else, and clasps his calloused fingers around yours.

“Albert DaSilva.”

Now that he’s looking at you properly, not ducking his head or avoiding your gaze, you can make out the subtle twinges of bluebeard-grey that dapple around the ring of his iris, little gleams in the sunlight. DaSilva, indeed.

“Well,” you smile sheepishly, “it’s a pleasure to meet you, Albert DaSilva.”

His grip tightens by a fraction as his eyes widen, just a twitch. You frown at his sudden awkwardness, glancing at your hands and-

“Oh!” You pull your hand away – he immediately yanks his own back like you’ve pricked him. “Oh, goodness, I’m sorry, I got pollen all over you!”

Albert blinks, holding up his fingers and peering at the yellow dust clinging to his skin.

“Oh, uh – nah, ain’t no big deal,” he says quietly, glancing at you through his feathery lashes. “I pro’lly-“ he blanches as he looks at your hands. “Aw, shit, I got ink on ya! Ah-!” He tenses again, his whole body going suddenly ramrod straight. “Fuck, I said shit – dammit-!”

You can’t help it – you laugh. It’s all just so absurd, so strange, so not what was meant to happen today. And you like it. It’s ridiculous and stupid and, against all reason, you like it, this bizarre newsboy who’s landed on your doorstep. He watches you as you giggle, positively perplexed, and chuckles awkwardly alongside you.

“I, um,” you manage to say between little giggles. “I-I should really get back inside.”

Albert nods, swallowing hard enough to make his Adams apple bob.

“Yeah, uh – s’pose I should go back to the Square.” He smiles smugly to himself. “Hell, I got a whole day off today!”

You snicker again, feeling just a bit proud of yourself for being the one to make him smile like that.

“Well…” You hug the paper stack to your chest, trying to hide your expression – you must look like a dope, giggling like a fool over a boy you just met. “Perhaps I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

Because it would be convenient, of course. That’s the only reason you ask, for the convenience – it’d beat walking all the way to the Promenade and walking all the way back with a stack of papers, having a newsie so close. That’s why you ask. Not because of lambs or cornflowers or any other ridiculous reason. Still, Albert looks almost surprised that you asked, eyes wide and pretty and nooononono, that’s not what you should be noticing right now!

“I – Yes!” He says it far too loud, and realizes that unfortunate fact quite suddenly, slapping a palm over one red cheek. “I mean, uh, yeah. Cool. Sounds good.”

You bounce on your toes and offer him another sheepish farewell before ducking back into your shop, feeling far too warm despite the breezy spring weather – and you realize with a twinge of fear that your routine is about to become very, very different, in ways that you can’t possibly expect.

You bite your lip as you fuss over your arrangements. This was why you always read yesterdays paper, for goodness’ sake – there’s no surprises when you know what’s coming. Now, you’re going in blind, and it’s – it’s scary.

But then you think about Albert. All the little peculiarities you’ve found out about him in the span of just ten minutes.

It could be a bit fun, too, you suppose.

You go on like that for a while, you and Albert. He becomes a fixture of the store, as permanent as the dried flowers in the window, or the Little Lamb sign swinging overhead. You hear him when the door swings open, barking a headline, and you see him through the window, wandering up and down the storefront, his dandelion-mane ruffling in the breeze.

You try not to get to attached. It’d be like naming a freshly picked flower while knowing full well that within a week, it’d be withered and gone. But you can’t help it. You liked your old routine, you really did – you liked the gentle monotony of your cozy little shop, you liked wandering the shelves and fussing over the flowers, you liked making polite conversation with the customers, from the bashful lovers planning a proposal to the suave businessmen looking to surprise their spouse, to even the flustered housekeepers running errands for their mistresses. But now there’s Albert, rough and unkempt Albert, sprouting between the cracks of your life like a stubborn thistle, prickly and rough around the edges, but… Then he’ll hold the door for you when you’re stumbling out, juggling an armful of flowers. Then he’ll persuade some passer-by on the street to stop in the shop after they buy a paper. Then he’ll lug a whole stack of papers over every Friday and drop them off at the door for you, offering you a stiff smile as he tips his cap.

“You’re an angel.” You say gratefully as you press the dimes into his palm. “I used to have to walk all the way to Park Row and back for these. I’d barely have a lunch break at all!”

Albert nodded wordlessly as he fumbled over the coins, almost dropping one before he shoved them into his bag, face flushed and rosy. Perhaps you were being clingy, but you were beginning to get a bit concerned over how red Albert was all the time – sunburn, perhaps? You knew he was pale, but it didn’t seem right for him to be so flushed all the time…

“Try walkin’ all day,” he chuckles, a bit stiltedly. “M’ready t’keel over by the time the second bell rolls ‘round.”

And that sticks with you as you fidget around your little apartment above your shop. You know Albert didn’t mean anything by it – you’d never heard him complain once, not after a long day’s work, not when he heaved a stack of papers all the way down to the Financial District every week, not even when you got distracted by your keys or your flowers or whatever else and went knocking into him as you exited the Little Lamb. Perhaps he just didn’t want to tell you about stuff like that – it’s not like you know him particularly well, you suppose. Still, it didn’t feel right, having him work so hard for so little.

You frown at your butterknife as you prepare your lunch, and chance a glance towards your open window. If you strain your ears over the bustle of the street, you can hear Albert hawking away.

You shouldn’t get attached. You really shouldn’t. You can pick a flower and sear the stems or press it between books or dry it from the ceiling but eventually, it’ll still wilt.

Against your better judgement, you poke out of your shop with a wrapped sandwich in one hand and a tin mug of coffee in the other.

“Afternoon.” You try to smile away the tension in your shoulders. Albert glances over his shoulder, then double-takes, spinning around like a puppet whose strings have gotten tangled.

“Uh – yeah!” He blurts, then stiffens like he’s stubbed his toe. “I mean – afternoon! Again. Not, not that it’s afternoon again, just I – I already – you already-“

“No, I got it.” You say gently, bouncing anxiously on your toes. “Afternoon, again.”

You bite your lip and, before you can lose your nerve, shove the food towards him.

“For you.” You mumble towards the floor. “Y’know, a – a lunch break. Since you don’t normally… Get one.”

Albert stares from the sandwich to the coffee to you and back again. You can feel yourself sweating. God, this was a ridiculous idea. A newsie doesn’t want charity, for goodness’ sake, they just want to finish their shift and rest, like any other working kid in this city, they don’t want someone – waiting on them like a nursemaid, they-

Albert tentatively wraps his hand around the sandwich, his fingers brushing yours as he does so, leaving a little static twinge in their wake.

“Thank you.” He says softly, staring at you like you’re something he’s never seen before. You can feel your face warming up, and you have to force yourself to look away.

“It’s only chicken.” You ramble. “A-And lettuce, I didn’t – I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I just-“

“It’s good.” Albert smiles at the paltry sandwich wrapped in parchment paper, and glances up at you with those cornflower eyes. “It’s really good.”

You feel your throat go tight. With stiff limbs, you shove the coffee towards him, a drop spilling over the rim.

“And coffee!” You say far too quickly. “I, um – I hope you like milk.”

Albert cups the tin mug between his hands and blinks.

“It’s hot.” He murmurs. His nose twitches – bunny-like, you think distantly, and then you chase away that thought with a stick because that is not what you’re here to do – and he beams. “It smells good!”

“Oh!” You smile. “Well, um – I hope it tastes the same, then.”

“I ain’t ever had coffee that weren’t stale.” Albert looks at you with a wide grin. “You’re… Thank you.”

You can feel warmth blossoming in your chest, bursting outwards like snowdrops after winter-

“Haveagooddayniceseeingyoubye!” is all you manage to blurt out before scurrying back into The Little Lamb.

Not getting attached, you tell yourself as you sweep the shop floor (to no avail, there’s not a speck of dust left, you’ve been sweeping for nearly thirty minutes now to avoid looking out the window). You are not getting attached.

(But if you chance a glance at Albert sipping his coffee and sighing, or smiling as he savours a bite of his sandwich… Well, who’s to say?)

Despite your best efforts, Albert becomes a fixed part of your routine. You bring him lunch every day. Sometimes you’ll even eat together, leaning against the window display and chatting about nothing at all. You’ll usher him into the shop when it rains (“Honestly, Albert, who would buy papers in this weather?” “Someone without an umbrella, I guess.”) and you’ll show him your floriography books, from Floral Poetry to Les langage des Fleurs (although you try not to read that one too often, since Albert’s face goes all funny when you read the French – perhaps it sounds strange to him). You’ll point out the different meanings, the different messages that can be spelt through each blossom, and he’ll nod and watch you like you’re actually saying something important. It was nice, being able to talk to someone and knowing that what you said mattered to them. You’d even brought him an aloe plant one morning.

(“For your skin.” You smiled, breaking off a leaf and scooping sap onto your finger. “See?”

Albert frowned, wrinkling his nose at the gooey gel.

“My skin?”

“You know.” You gestured to his cheeks. “Your sunburn. I’m sure it’s uncomfortable to be selling like that – this’ll clear it right up! Here, just like this…”

You swept your fingers over Albert’s face, rubbing in the gel as gently as you could, so as not to irritate his skin. He was already going crimson, the poor thing – honestly, you loathed to think about how uncomfortable he must’ve been.

“I – uh – yeah!” He squeaked. “Yeah… Sunburn.”)

It’s stupid. It’s so incredibly stupid, you know precisely how this story will go. Albert’s a newsie, the entire nature of his job is temporary. As soon as the spring crowds die down, he’ll go looking for a better place to sell, and then a better place after that, and another after that. It’s simply the way of it. But selfishly, you like having him here. You’ve grown used to your little lunch visits, to the Friday drop-offs, to his permanently red cheeks and his cornflower eyes. You tried to be sensible, you really did, but Albert had gone and nestled himself in your chest anyways, creeping around your heart like morning glory – and you just hadn’t the strength to cut him away.  

Seasons change. People change. Flowers bloom anyways. But you’ve gone and grown around him like ivy on oak, except oak doesn’t get to wander off to greener pastures when it needs to, so… So where does that leave you?

Well, you didn’t know the answer to that question just yet. You suppose you’ll just… Have to cope. So you cope. You go about your day, you tend to your flowers, you arrange your bouquets – and when the Little Lamb sign starts creaking around a patch of rust, you fix that, too.

Replacing the chains is always a pain. It’s finicky work, and you hate having to use the stepladder on the street – it sways with every little breeze, teetering left and right as you sway for balance. You grit your teeth and tighten the chain link around the clasp in the sign, gripping your pliers with white knuckles and pointedly ignoring the painted dandelion in the corner of the sign, absolutely not thinking about what the fluffy orange centre reminds you of.

“Right.” You mutter as you pull gently on the chain. It holds secure, without a creak, and you smile to yourself. “Job done.”

And now to-

“Extry, extry, sweetheart leaves idiot gawkin’ on the sidewalk, read all about it!”

You shriek at the sudden noise, the stepladder lurching beneath you as you stumble backwards, and the sign’s slipped out from under your grasp and your pliers have gone flying and now you’re falling and God, this is why you hate chain-repair days-!

You land with a soft – soft? – flop, a firm something stumbling beneath you as it braces, holding you close. Arms, you realize. Strong, bare arms, which is ridiculous because only a fool wouldn’t wear sleeves in spring, and-

Oh.

Oh, dear.

You glance up, your nose bumping against another, as your eyes meet cornflower blue.

“Y’okay?” Albert asks hurriedly. “I was gonna wait, y’looked busy, but fuckin’ Racer, he’s… Um…”

His rambling begins to slow as he peers down at you, and you’re overcome with a very silly urge to trace a fingertip over his freckles.

“Hi.” Albert says quietly, close enough for you to feel his whisper on your skin.

“Oh…” You manage to squeak around your dry throat. “Hi.”

“Oooh, hold it right there, Albie!” You hear someone say, their smile imprinted in the words, and you know Albert’s realized at exactly the same time you have that he is holding you the same way a groom cradles his newlywed. You both make a similar bastardized shriek as you scramble out of his arms and Albert backs away like he’s about to get attacked, holding his hands up in a gesture of apology or surrender or – oh, hell, who knows?!

“Al-bert!” That same voice whines petulantly – you whip around, face flaming, to see another newsie, tall and curly and grinning like a mischievous sprite, who’s holding his hands in such a way that his fingers make a rectangle, kind of like a camera. “I coulda gotten you’s on the front page with a shot like that! Perfect li’l pit’cha o’ domesticity, eh?”

“Wouldja shaddup?!” Albert snaps, and you don’t have to turn around to know his face is redder than a rosebud. “God, this is why-!”

“Racetrack Higgins, m’darlin’!” The other boy says just on the verge of obnoxiously, striding up to you and proffering his hand with an exaggerated bow. “A veritable pleasure to meet’cha!”

You can’t help laughing awkwardly at the way he stretches his voice over the unfamiliar words – very-table play-sure – and slip your hand into his.

“And, um, you as well, Mister Hig-“

You barely finish before he’s pressing the back of your hand to his mouth with an over-the-top smack of his lips. You squeak and yank your hand away hard enough to make you stumble, bumping into Albert’s front.

“Race!”

“Aw, was that Mister Higginsya called me?” Racetrack – Racetrack, what a peculiar name – grins at you, and you feel rather like a lamb about to be eaten. “Albie, ya hit it outta the park w’this one!”

“Oh, just-!” Albert slaps his shoulder, forcing the other boy away from you. “Lay off’a them, wouldja?!”

“M’only bein’ a gent, Albie! Maybe y’should learn a thing or two, might impress ‘em-!”

“Racer, if you don’t stop talkin’ right now-!”

“Well, whateva’ happened t’romance-!”

You watch, dumbfounded, as the two begin to scuffle, jabbing elbows and kicking shins until Albert manages to lock Race’s head under his arm and Race is snapping his teeth to try and bite at Albert’s wrist (“Ah, ya shit, get offa me!” “Y’gerroffa-mm!” “Quit talkin’ w’my hand in ya mouth, ya freak!”), and then they spin awkwardly in your direction, tangled in their playfighting, and realize you’re still stood there watching.

“Hello.” You wave your hand awkwardly. With the decency to look a little bit ashamed, Race spits out Albert’s wrist.

“Sorry to cause a scene, darlin’!” He laughs sheepishly. “Only that Albert talks about this place so much, I had to see it for myself – and c’mon, have you seen the fella?” He gestures vaguely in Albert’s direction. “Fuckin’ brute. Only natural for him to start wailin’ on a guy, y’know?” He twirls his finger around his temple. “Unhinged.”

“I – Race!” Albert yelps. “Don’t say shit like – stuff like-!”

You laugh, and the two go quiet.

“That’s funny,” you smile, hoping to make a good impression after – all that. “I can see why you’re such good friends.”

“Uh.” Race blinks owlishly. “I weren’t jokin’. He stole my cigar this morning.”

You frown.

“Albert doesn’t smoke.”

“Well – yeah.” Says Race, like it’s obvious. “He just… Takes shit.”

You laugh at his joke, rolling your eyes.

“Yep, that’s Albert!” You giggle. “Reeaaal barbarian, huh?”

Race stares from you to Albert, who’s blush is growing darker by the second.

“What kinda fuckin’ witchcraft have you been sellin’ this kid-“

“Park!” Albert yells, clutching at his friend’s collar as if Race were a priest offering salvation. You stall, taken off guard again – truly, what is happening today? – when Race snaps his fingers with a smile.

“Oh, yeah!” He grins, digging his elbow into Albert’s side. “Yeah, that’s what we came for, ain’t it, Albie?”

Albert’s face drops, as if he’s suddenly realized something terrible.

“Wait, noooo,” he hisses, tugging at Race’s sleeve. “Nonono, Race-!”

“What you came for?” You ask curiously. Of course, it’s Sunday – everywhere’s closed for the Church services, that’s why you chose to do the repairs today. They couldn’t be here to sell. Perhaps they were buying flowers for a sweetheart? You felt your stomach drop. Please don’t let Albert be here for flowers.

“Well,” Race drawls as Albert yanks desperately on his sleeve. “We was just in the neighbourhood, y’know, it bein’ Sunday an’ all, an’ the fellas were all thinkin’ we’d hit up the park! And then Albie here-“ he smirks, draping an arm over Albert’s shoulder, who’s staring at the floor like he’s praying for it to eat him, “goes and mentions how close that is to his new favourite florists! So we was wonderin’-”

“Racer-!”

“If this favourite florist o’ his would wanna accompany some humble newsboys,” he places a hand on his chest and bows comically deep, “to the good ol’ City Hall gardens.”

“Favourite?” You laugh sheepishly – your stomach flips as you fixate on the word. “Well, I – I don’t suppose there are any others, so…”

“Oh, but of course!” Race says emphatically, as if the two of you are telling a joke together. “You’re just irreplaceable, ain’t they, Albert?”

Albert slaps a hand over his mouth and makes a noise like he’s in pain. You wince sympathetically, stepping forward to take a look.

“Albert, your face! Have you been using the aloe I gave you?”

Race’s head perks up like a dog smelling a bone.

“Well, aloe there,” he grins, “what’s this I hear? Givin’ gifts, are we?”

“No, no, not like that!” You say quickly, your voice trilling with nerves. “I just – well, Albert always gets so sunburnt, poor thing-“

“Oh, does he?” Race’s voice pitches high with glee as Albert makes another pained moan. “Well, we can’t have poor Albert getting sunburnt, can we?”

“Racer, I am begging you to shut! Up!” Albert snaps, and you realize – oh, damn it all, you’re embarrassing him. The last thing Albert of all people would want is someone fussing over him in front of his friend.

“Um – the park!” You say quickly, trying to change the subject – Albert shoots you a soft, grateful look, and you can’t help but melt a little. “Yes, I’d love to go, if – if it’s not too much trouble…“ You glance towards your closed-up shop, clicking your tongue. “Would you mind terribly if I brought some work with me? I-I just got some fresh flowers, I wanted to make them into crowns come Monday – it won’t be too distracting!”

“Weeell, we’ll just have to see about that, eh, Albert?” Race smirks, and you frown as you try to decipher what he means – apparently, it’s deserving of a quick smack to the shoulder, though, because that’s precisely what Albert gives him. “Ooh, someone’s testy! Don’tcha worry, I’ll leave ya to it.” He makes his way up the street towards Park Row. “Don’t go gettin’ distracted, though!”

You feel your cheeks warming as he presses on the word, distracted – goodness, had you really been that obvious? – and Albert grumbles under his breath as you duck into your shop for your flowers. You gather the bundles in your arms, your eyes just peeking out over the various blooms, and skitter out the door, not wanting to keep him waiting. You walk in awkward silence, avoiding each other’s gaze as Race prances ahead of you both, and you curse yourself for getting so stupidly attached.

You don’t talk for what feels like ages, not until you reach the park. The newsboys are all eager to meet you, grinning and shaking your hands and making comments that you don’t quite understand, but seem to drive Albert up the wall. You wince every time one of the boys says something to you that makes Albert grit his teeth – you don’t know what you’re doing wrong, but it has to be something.

It's only later, when you’re sat on the grass fidgeting with your flower crowns, Albert sitting cross-legged and stiff next to you, that you just can’t take it anymore.

“Sorry.” You say quickly, stumbling over the words, and Albert looks at you, his tense face suddenly soft.

“F’r what?”

“I, um…” You clear your throat into your fist. “I-I didn’t mean to be so… You know. Clingy? I just – you’re my friend, and I don’t want you getting hurt, I mean, hawking’s got to be hard work, all that walking, and you said you don’t get much lunch-“

“[Y/N],” Albert says firmly, enough to make your voice catch in your throat. He pinks as you look at him and glances at the floor instead. “Don’t go worryin’ ‘bout that, yeah? Just the fellas bein’ jerks is all, never know when to shaddup.”

You hum, not quite a response, and make sure to keep your hands clasped in front of you so you don’t invade Albert’s space. You can feel him watching you, his stare burning your skin, and he sighs frustratedly.

“Aw, c’mon, [Y/N], I…” His voice stops and stutters in his throat. He sighs, choosing instead to knock his shoulder against yours – the touch sets you alight. “You don’t gotta be worried ‘bout that, it… It’s nice. That’cha wanna take care o’me. Ain’t many folks that do, so…”

You smile, warmth blossoming in your chest.

“Well, that’s nonsense, then.” You say matter-of-factly as you weave the stem of a red tulip around your fingers. “Caring for you’s rather easy.”

The two of you go quiet again – a comfortable silence this time, simply basking in each other’s existence. You pluck a lady’s mantle from your collection of blooms, twisting the dusky pink against the red of the tulip.

“Those, uh…” Albert says quietly, so as not to break the peaceful tranquillity that’s grown between you both. “Those mean comfort, don’t they?”

“They do.” You nod, your heart fluttering in your chest – he remembered.

“And the tulips,” he continues, his voice getting a bit steadier, “those mean ‘good health’, right?”

You giggle under your breath.

“Almost. Those were pink tulips – these are red, see?” You hold the crown up to his eyeline. “Red tulips mean, uh – true love.” You have to look away as you say it, can’t bear to look into Albert’s eyes as the word love falls out of your lips. “And I’m going to add some Sweet William, too, for gallantry – the meaning’s a bit more masculine for that one, so if you put them all together, you get…”

Your eyes flick towards Albert, landing on his freckles before you force yourself to look away again.

“You get, um… Well, a hope, I suppose.”

Albert says nothing, only cocks his head towards you in invitation. Keep going. I’m listening.

“A hope for… For someone kind,” you say quietly, “and chivalrous, who – who comforts you and… Keeps you safe.”

You can feel him staring. You grab a Sweet William and start threading it into the crown, out of sheer need for something, anything else to do.

“How d’you do that?” Albert asks curiously. “The crowns n’ stuff.”

Thank God, you think to yourself, eagerly snatching up the subject change.

“It’s quite simple, actually – look, I’ll show you.”

You smile as you press his fingers underneath yours – you so loved sharing your knowledge of flowers with Albert. You were certain he didn’t understand a lick of it, but he always listened no matter what. Like it mattered.

“So, you just twist here,” you murmur as the two of you hold the crown together, “and you sort of – lock it under the second stem there, and you…”

You try to help him weave the stems around each other, your fingertips skimming over Albert’s knuckles, but you suppose doing such finnicky work with two sets of hands overcomplicated the whole thing, because the crown fumbles out from Albert’s grip.

“Ah, shit, sorry!” He winces. “God, it ain’t broken, is it?”

“Don’t worry about it!” You pat his shoulder reassuringly as you rescue the crown. “It’s difficult at first. Oh, I know!” You point at a cluster of sunshine-yellow growing in the park. “Would you grab me those dandelions? They’re much easier to work with. The stalks are more flexible, and they don’t snap so easily – it’s how I learned when I was a kid.”

Albert nods obediently, scurrying off to gather two fistfuls of dandelions.

“There we are – here, do what I do.”

The two of you crowd into each other as Albert follows your movements, looping one stem underneath the other and then weaving it back around the blossom, locking it into place.

“Hey, I did it!” Albert grins triumphantly. You knock your shoulder against his, just as he’d done to you.

“See? Easy.”

You half expect him to leave it after that – most boys didn’t find weaving flower crowns to be a particularly manly activity, and after how embarrassed Albert had been today, you were sure he wouldn’t want his friends to see him playing with flowers – but he stays. He grabs another stem and repeats the movement, chaining them together, one after the other. You smile to yourself – you can’t bring yourself to not be charmed. It’s sweet, how eager he is, the way his tongue pokes out as he threads the stems into loops.

“I just love dandelions.” You say quietly into the breeze, almost unaware that you’d even said it. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

Albert looks up from his work and frowns.

“Seriously?” He quirks a small smile. “Didn’t think you’d like weeds all that much.”

You scoff, the sound drawing his attention.

“Weed is a word made up by debutantes.” You say pettily. “It’s their way of separating what’s common to make pretty things seem prettier. But they’re all plants at the end of the day.”

You glance over at Albert’s clumsy crown and smile, tracing a finger over the fluffy centre of a dandelion.

“And dandelions are so cheerful,” you murmur peacefully, rubbing pollen between your thumb and forefinger. “They grow wherever they like, and no one can get them not to. Ask any gardener – you pull one up, and ten more grow back. They’re resilient. I bet the next time we come back here, they’ll be everywhere.”

You lift a loose blossom to your nose and breathe in the bittersweet scent.

“They don’t even have meanings, you know.” You say wistfully. “Not in any of my books. People just decided, oh, that’s a weed, and now… Now they don’t mean anything.” You brush your thumb over the feathery petals and smile as they tickle your skin. “But they mean something to me.”

Albert’s quiet beside you, and you suddenly feel exposed.

“Sorry,” you chuckle, drawing away from him. “Suppose that’s a bit strange, um – I’ll just-”

You’re about to turn back to your flower crown when a calloused hand slides against your jaw. Your breath hitches as Albert turns your face towards his, his thumb drifting over your cheekbone until it brushes over your nose – and as he pulls away, you see the pad of his thumb’s stained yellow.

“You, uh,” he says quietly, his cheeks going pink in the sun, “y’had some pollen.”

“Oh!” You laugh stiltedly. “Gosh, um – sorry.”

“Nah,” Albert shrugs as he fiddles with his crown. “S’cute.”

You feel yourself going warm, even with the evening breeze. Your throat makes a small squeaking sound, and you try to make yourself focus on your crown when you hear Albert make a dissatisfied noise next to you.

“Problem?” You ask tentatively, and he holds up a little white puffball in response.

“Think this one’s shot.” He mutters, about to chuck it when you grab his wrist.

“Don’t waste it! It’s a clock.”

Albert blinks and turns to frown at the flower.

“Uh…” He tilts his head as he examines the fluffy ball of seeds. “How?”

“No – not that kind of clock,” you explain, “a dandelion clock. Here, hold it here-” You pull the little bloom between the two of you. “We’ll share it, see? Make a wish and, on the count of three, blow off the seeds. Ready?”

“I, uh-“ Albert stammers. “I guess?”

“Great.” You shuffle a bit closer and close your eyes. “Okay – one, two, three.”

You lean forward and blow softly, the tiny seeds billowing away on the breeze. You feel one tickle your nose and you laugh softly, opening your eyes to bat it away when- oh.

Albert’s… Close. Closer than before, even closer than the first time – the naked bud of the dandelion rests between the two of you, the only thing separating your slightly parted lips from his. In the evening breeze, it sways just enough to brush against your lower lip, Albert’s eyes flicking toward the movement, and you can’t help but think about how easy it’d be to just shift forward ever so slightly and-

“Well what’cha waitin’ for, Albie, don’t leave ‘em hangin’!”

You jolt backwards, nearly falling onto the grass as Albert leaps to his feet.

“Racer, I am gonna teach you such a lesson-!”

He sprints across the green to tackle the other boy to the floor, and while you quietly mourn the loss of Albert’s warm weight next to you, you can’t help but be grateful for the distraction – at least this way he won’t notice you flopping into the grass and groaning pathetically.

After you somehow regain your composure (and Albert as appropriately pummelled Racec), he walks you home, the two of you walking dutifully on opposite ends of the sidewalk, as if simply brushing one another’s clothes will set you both aflame.

“I had fun,” you say quietly as you reach The Little Lamb. “Even if it was…”

You try to find a word to describe how being around Albert makes you feel, but nothing seems to capture it.

“Yeah.” Albert nods, smiling sheepishly at the floor. “Um – hey!” He says quickly, just as you turn to open the door. “I, um – I…”

“Albert?” You frown as he flounders. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah!” He nods vigorously. “Yeah, I just – I was wonderin’… Say if I, uh, wanted a flower that – that said, uh…” He stares at the step under your feet so intensely you worry he might shatter it. “That I – liked someone. A-A flower that said I… I really cared ‘bout someone and, and that maybe they cared ‘bout me, too. What…” He swallows, honey-thick, and chances a glance at you through his lashes. “What flower’d I need for that?”

You feel your stomach begin to sink.

Oaks and ivy, alright.

Morning glory around your heart.

“Well,” you try your best to smile, “if you want to be traditional, you’d only need something small – one or two flowers and a couple of herbs. White roses are a good one, they’re very…”

God, it felt like you were choking.

“Innocent.” You manage to say. “Sweet. A sort of – tentative love.”

Albert’s lips quirk into the softest smile.

“Yeah?”

“And – and hyacinths,” you say quickly, because you can’t bear to look at him smiling like that. “Blue ones. Those would work. And then you could cover it all in heather and lavender for good luck.”

“Hope.” Albert says quietly, staring at the flower crowns you have cradled in your arms. You clear your throat and shove yourself against the door, forcing your way inside – you have to get away, you just have to.

“Yes, well,” you slap a tight smile on your face, “perhaps you can come by tomorrow and – and I’ll have some for you.”

Albert stares at you through the threshold like he can’t believe his luck. Your chest aches.

“You’d… You’d do that?”

No, no, no-

“Of course!” You laugh, on the verge of hysterical. “I mean, if you’re going to go – go courting someone,” (the word tastes like ash on your tongue), “then who’s better to help you than your favourite florist?”

Albert blinks, his smile dropping.

“What?”

“Yes, I’ll have the perfect selection for you!” You smile, because you just don’t learn, do you? “Not like it’ll make much difference, of course, they’d be a fool to say no to you…”

“I-“ Albert’s eyes flicker back and forth, as if he’s watching something unravel and can’t quite stop it. “Wait, but-“

“I’ll see you tomorrow!”

You slam the door, and try to shut your stupid, horrid thoughts out with it.

God. You should’ve just gone to Park Row.

You spend that night lying in bed feeling sorry for yourself. It’s pitiful, yes, and painfully childish, but damn it all, you’re sad. You deserve to curl up and wallow for a bit. It serves you right, you suppose, doing exactly what you knew you shouldn’t’ve. It’s better to just stick to what you know. Colours and meanings and silly little facts that no one else but you care about. Getting your papers on Fridays, working alone on Sundays, not going around making lunch and getting attached to newsboys.

Why didn’t you just stick to yesterday’s news? To living in the background? To being the author of someone else’s love story? No one gets flowers for the florist, after all.

But then it’s morning, and… And Albert’s your friend. And if he loves someone, really loves someone, then you’re going to do your darnedest to get that person to love him right back. It’s what he deserves.

“There you are!” You smile as Albert pokes into the shop like a stray who’s unsure if he’s allowed on the furniture. Ugh, damn it all, he’s cute. “I have your flowers right here.”

You present them with a flourish, a pair of white roses entwined around a pale blue hyacinth, decorated with heather and lavender. You’ve trussed them up with lace and pretty pink tissue paper and they look splendid, thank you very much, because Albert deserves the best.

He smiles, something small and private and a little bit sad, and holds them preciously in his hands.

“Beautiful.” He murmurs, looking at you from over the blooms, and you try to keep your pulse from racing.

“Yes, well!” You say quickly, fumbling your fingers over your little pet project. “There’s also, uh-“

You shove it into his vest pocket before you can lose your nerve. Albert blinks, reaching up to brush a petal between his thumb and forefinger, the pads of which come away slightly smudged with ink. It’s a flower – well, not a real one, it’s actually a newspaper you’d fiddled and folded with until it took the shape of a rose, but… Well, you’d thought it’d look charming. Perhaps it was silly.

Albert chuffs out a small, disbelieving laugh, wrinkling his brow at the paper rose.

It was probably silly.

“Any fine gentleman looking to court needs a good boutonniere.” You mumble, a bit defeated. Ridiculous.

“I love it.” Says Albert, voice tender. He purses his lips, glancing from you to the bouquet for a moment before he plucks a sprig of lavender from the arrangement and slips it behind your ear.

“I – oh.” You murmur, feeling suddenly off-kilter as your cheeks begin to warm – and then your sensibilities come back to you. “Albert!” You scold him halfheartedly, swatting at his shoulder. “This is supposed to be for your sweetheart, you shouldn’t just go around wasting it! Go on, now, tell them what you want to say.”

“You’re perfect.” Albert says, then blinks suddenly as if waking up from a dream. “I – I mean-“

“Yes, yes, we can save the camellias for your next gift,” you mutter with a wave of your hand, as if you could brush away all your selfish thoughts. “Off you go, now!”

The next time Albert comes into the shop, you slap a smile on your face and ask him how it went, because you’re a good and not at all selfish friend, and Albert is very pleasing on the eye when he looks so wistfully in love.

“I just – I…” Albert flounders under your gaze, fidgeting with his hands, and your heart aches. Lovely boy, so nervous – you try not to envy whoever gets to see him this way. “What I wanna say – what I need to say-“

He tangles a hand in his puff of dandelion hair and groans.

“God, I just wanna be with ya!”

You’re almost taken aback by how desperate he is – and oh, don’t you just feel terrible now, envying the person who’s driving him so crazy. Honestly, you’re meant to be his friend. You smile sympathetically and pat his hand before you grab a cluster of rockfoil and press it between his fingers.

“It’s a bit peculiar,” you say reassuringly as he stares at the little white bells, “but rather charming.”

Albert makes a wounded noise, staring at you like you’ve just slapped him.

“Yeah, well – you’d know all ‘bout that, wouldn’tcha?” He huffs, more to himself than to you, before rushing out of the store and leaving you with a thousand different questions.

“Good… luck?” You try to say, but he only offers you a frustrated yell in return.

After that, Albert comes into the shop almost every day.

“I’m crazy for ya.”

You’d offer him a yellow pansy.

“I think about’cha all the time.”

You’d smile and hand him a blue salvia.

“I think I like ya more ‘an anyone else I ever met.”

You’d tuck an apple blossom into his vest.

“I’m sure they’ll love it.” You’d say every time, offering him a reassuring grin – and every time, Albert would look at you as if he were drowning and all but sprint out the door.

This goes on for a while – Albert will burst into the shop like a man on a mission, report whatever message he wants to give his love, and you’ll dutifully hand him a flower that matches. You never made him pay – a fact you’d beat yourself up about later in bed, when you’re tired and feeling sorry for yourself – but you can’t help it. It’s sweet, how eager he is to get this right, how badly he wants to impress whoever this mystery person is. You can barely bring yourself to be jealous (which isn’t to say that you’re not, but you at least have the decency to feel bad about it).

And then one day, as you’re fussing over a cluster of stubborn chamomile blossoms, Albert bursts into the shop wielding an armful of flowers. It’s a veritable cacophony of colour, reds and purples and yellows all mixing together in a chaotic muddle of petals, leaves and stamens – and as you note the wrinkles on some of the petals, the bits of blight on some of the leaves, you wonder just how many of the flowers did Albert keep?

“Alright.” Albert says gruffly as he shoves the array of flowers onto your counter. He hovers a hand over it for a moment before grabbing one at random.

“Honeysuckle!” He snaps, shoving the yellow-pink blossom into your hand. “Devotion.”

Before you can ask how many he’d like, he hands you a gillyflower.

“And that – that means ya beautiful.” He picks up stem after stem, slotting them into your fingers. “Pink camellia, I – I-I’m longin’ for ya. White lillies, m’love’s pure, bluebells, my love’s constant, and, um-“ He flounders for a moment, staring stubbornly at the wooden countertop before he shoves a red carnation at you.

“My – m’heart aches for ya.”

You stare at the nimbus of flowers in your hands, glancing from it to Albert. He’s redder than his hair, up to his ears and down to his neck, and he looks downright terrified, fidgeting on the spot, his eyes darting between you and the floor.

“I mean…” You say slowly, and he stares at you with wide eyes. “It’s a little chaotic, but… I can make a bouquet? I-I might have to charge you this time around, ‘cause there’s so many, but-“

Albert shoves his heads into his hands and lets out a noise between a groan and a downright scream.

“Alright!” He snaps, planting his hands on the counter. “What flowers ya got that say I love you, ya stupid florist, now please, God, please can you understand what I’m tryna tell ya, ‘cause I can’t keep on bringin’ flowers t’the lodgin’ house wi’ nowhere to put ‘em!”

You freeze, rigid-still. You open your mouth once, twice, and nothing comes out. Your hands tremble against cool stalks and you realize suddenly that Albert’s muddled bouquet is still in your hands.

“One… One moment.” You say quietly with a raised finger, before scurrying to the door. Cradling your bouquet in the crook of your elbow, you use your free hand to close it, then lock, then latch, then flip the sign to ‘closed’. You take a shuddering breath and turn around – Albert’s still watching you. He’s wide eyed, his fists clenched at his sides and his jaw held tight, as if it’d been wired shut – and you almost laugh giddily because all this time, you’d assumed he was posturing, trying to big himself up because he felt uncomfortable being in such a frilly, dainty shop, surrounded by petals and lace, but no. All this time – all this time – he’d been nervous.

You take careful steps toward him, like approaching a stray dog. His spine goes more rigid with each clip of your foot against the hardwood floors, his entire body bickering between ‘fight’ or ‘flight’ and landing on a confused, frightened ‘freeze’ instead. As you reach him, you pluck a single garden daisy from the fragrant shelves and tuck it behind his ear.

“That, um,” you murmur, realizing a touch too late how close you’ve become. “That means-“

“I share your sediment.” Albert breathes, and you duck your head with a small giggle.

“Sentiment,” You correct – his blush goes ever-darker and, out of fear that he may combust if you don’t, you quickly add, “but yes.”

Albert sways forward, almost unthinkingly, like a reed in the wind. He catches himself and clears his throat, but before he can sway away, you duck forward and, gently, featherlight, press your mouth to his. It’s soft and shy, barely lasting a second – more of a petal-brush than anything else – but the noise it pulls out of Albert – something half-blissful, half-wounded – from deep in the hollow of his throat adds more weight to the gesture than you could’ve ever hoped. The tension rushes out of his shoulders in a heavy breath as he all but staggers, slapping his hand against the counter to keep himself upright and pressing a hand to his forehead.

“Hooooly hell,” he says raggedly. “God, I ain’t dreamin’, am I?”

He says it to his hands, staring at them suspiciously like they’re trying to fool him – you slip your own hand into his and squeeze tight.

“Feels real.” You smile gently, a smile that he returns tenfold.

“God,” he says again, and you’re inclined to agree. He leans in hesitantly, looking carefully into your eyes until you nod, and he kisses you – still chaste and sweet, but firmer than the previous. It’s not a questioning touch, it’s something that roots you to the spot, grounds you, whispers yes, this is real.

Albert’s grinning when you separate. He brushes a fingertip over the daisy in his hair and chuffs out a breathy laugh.

“I weren’t kiddin’, y’know,” he mumbles. “Got too damn many o’ these things.”

You roll your eyes.

“You could’ve just not asked for them.”

“Yeah, well, I tried that, and you thought I was askin’ for flowers anyway!” Albert huffs, pouting at the floor. “The fellas ain’t lettin’ me live it down. Keep sayin’ I’m the one meant t’be gettin’ you flowers, not the other way ‘round.”

You giggle, knocking your forehead affectionately against his.

“So that’s true?” You ask coyly, grinning as he blushes again. “Flowers at the lodging house with nowhere to put ‘em?”

Albert tips his head back and groans.

“They’re everywheeeere!” He whines. “Next to my bed, on the fire escape, in the kitchen-!”

You laugh at the absurdity of it all.

“Why didn’t you just give them away?”

“Wh- I weren’t gonna do that!” Albert says indignantly, as if you’d suggested selling his firstborn child. He blushes once he realizes his overreaction and looks away, pouting at the wall. “They were gifts.”

You giggle, making him groan towards the ceiling.

“This ain’t fair.” He huffs, slumping forward so that his chin rests upon your shoulder. You’re struck by the image of a tired beagle flopping its head on its owner’s lap, and can’t help but giggle again. “I ain’t usually like this.”

With just a touch of hesitation, you reach your hand upwards to fiddle with his dandelion hair. Albert hums, pleased, nuzzling against your temple.

“Like what, petal?” You say quietly against his ear, and with him resting his cheek against you, you can feel the way his jaw clenches.

“Like – argh, c’mon!” He whines. “Y’can’t just – say stuff like that! God, only you…” He mutters petulantly, wrapping his arms around your waist as he hides his face in the crook of your neck. “Swear, if you were anyone else… Jus’ some stranger on the street, I’d have no problem gettin’ ya t’blush, but noooo!” He tips his head back with an exaggerated eyeroll. “No, you just gotta go fallin’ right into me, lookin’ all cute, talkin’ all pretty, makin’ me forget which way’s up!” He glares at you with no true heat. “Unfair.”

“You’re unfair!” You laugh around your astonishment, raising up a hand in a poor attempt to hide your darkening face. “Catching me like something right out of a novel, being so – so…” You close your eyes with a soft sigh and lean forward, bumping your nose against his and savouring the contact. “Unexpected.”

You feel more than hear Albert’s scoff, a warm puff of air against your lips.

“Like you can talk.” He mutters, shifting just enough to nuzzle against you. “Race’s been makin’ fun a’me for days, tellin’ me to get my shit together, but how’m I meant’a do that-!” You laugh against him, so close, the warmth mingling between your mouths. “When you’re always fuckin’ – flower crowns and dandelions and…”

His hands skim over your waist, his callouses brushing your skin through the fabric, and you can’t help but gasp lightly. You’re close enough that the movement brushes your mouth against his, your cupid’s bow just barely catching on his, and another noise blossoms from his chest, wanton and desperate, as he presses your lips together, as if it’s the only thing he could possibly do. You flutter against him, your hands skimming down his shirt, and he hums softly, the noise running through you until it settles inside your chest. He traces the seam of your lips, slow and soft, savouring the feeling, and gently, as if afraid to spook you, brushes the tip of his tongue against yours. You gasp into his mouth, but he doesn’t take advantage – he pulls away, just barely, enough for your cupid’s bow to rest on his bottom lip, not quite breaking the kiss, but not quite continuing. Your eyes slip open – just barely – as his do, the two of you looking at each other for reassurance. He chuckles breathily, looking away in a manner you now realize is shy.

“God’s sake, [Y/N],” he whispers, his lips brushing yours as he speaks, “m’only human.”

Bashfully, all too aware of your inexperience, you nudge forward to meet him again. He hums once more, sweet and low, and presses a rough hand to the back of your head, tilting you just so. Tentatively, as if you’ll fade away if he moves too fast, you feel his tongue brush shyly against yours again. You make a noise you can’t quite describe, something small and soft, clinging to his shoulders while he presses a hand to the small of your back, trading tender, sipping kisses. It’s awkward – a bit foreign, a bit confused – but oh, it’s lovely.

Something sparks as he leans forward enough for you to bend backwards slightly at the waist, supported by his hand – and you can’t help but giggle.

“What?” Albert smiles curiously, the two of you still so close that your nose still bumps against his with every laugh. “Hey! C’mon, what is it? Ya makin’ a fella nervous, here.”

“Sorry,” you smile, and then you realize again, and burst into even more giggles. “It’s just – we did this before.”

Albert blinks at you owlishly.

“I, uh – don’t think we did?” He smiles, brow still furrowed, like you’re a puzzle he’s delighting over solving. “Think I’d remember if we did this-”

“The first time,” you’re wheezing now, because it truly is hilarious, “when we first met, when I fell and you grabbed me, I-“ your giggles trail off as your face begins to warm, “I-I remember thinking…”

You look away nervously, your laughter becoming shy.

“I was thinking it was awfully – awfully similar to, um – to the gentlemen who come into this shop… The way they hold their lovers after they give them their flowers.”

Albert blinks, glancing down at how he’s holding you – one hand behind your head, the other pressing on your spine, the slight bend of your waist – and his face burns red, from his roots to his neck.

“Uh – yeah,” he laughs breathlessly, “suppose it is a li’l… Yeah.” He draws away, making sure you’re upright before quickly stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I-I kinda…”

You smile as he stares stubbornly at the wall, one hand rubbing his neck sheepishly.

“I kinda thought the same thing.” He mumbles. “Not – not when it happened, when it happened I was thinkin’, y’know, wow, this person’s close, a-and beautiful, and – and…” His face looks almost painfully red now, carnation-crimson across the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, um – was on’y when I was havin’ dinner at the lodgin’ house I ach’lly realized that – that it’d – happened.”

You purse your lips into a line, trying to keep your smile from going too wide, and step forward, tapping your shoe against his shin.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, ducking his head. “I, um – I-I was pourin’ the gravy so long I spilled it all over the table. We ran out. Fellas all had to eat their chicken dry. Jack still won’t let me pour my own gravy.”

You laugh again, and so does he, less shy and more… Well, he still seems shy, but less scared, if that counts for anything.

“You, Albert DaSilva,” you grin at him, “are not what I expected you to be.”

He cocks his head.

“Well, now ya got me worried,” he smirks, “what’cha expect me t’be, sweetheart?”

You roll your eyes at the pet-name. There’s really no use in him trying to be suave now, not when you knew the truth.

“Big, bad newsie with his sleeves cut off, wandering around in nothing more than a vest and an undershirt?” You ask with an arched brow. “Wearing his hat backwards in spring, like a show-off, snapping at me to watch where I’m going before you go and catch me… And then you go and say I like lambs, like it’s obvious.”

Albert’s face goes almost comically blank as he remembers.

“God,” he cringes, pressing a hand over his eyes. “Shit, I can’t believe I said that. Only even tried to sell here ‘cause I figured it was a butcher place.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.” He nods shamefully. “Was hankerin’ for a leg o’ lamb, figured if I played my cards right I might land some mutton. Only stayed ‘cause I thought the sign was cute. Jesus, can’t believe I told’ja that.” He laughs beneath his hand. “I like lambs. God, I’m an idiot.”

You roll your eyes at your most ridiculous boy, and wrap your arms around his waist, pulling him close as you nuzzle against his neck.

“My idiot.”

You feel him clench again, as if the words had sent a bolt of lightning through him.

“I – you’re – yeah.” He settles on saying, sounding almost strangled. He holds you, runs his hands down your back, and lets the tension seep out of him. “Yeah…” He chuckles. “Your idiot.”

You both stand there for a moment, enjoying the warmth, swaying slightly as you breathe each other in.

“[Y/N],” you hear him say tentatively, “y’think, maybe – if you want – we could go to Jacobi’s?”

You try to not roll your eyes, because honestly, ‘if you want’, as if you could possibly want anything else. Ridiculous boy. Impossible boy.

“I-I get off work at noon,” Albert rambles, pinching your shirt between his fingers and rolling the fabric, committing every detail of you to memory. “So maybe I can swing by one day when you’re closin’, walk you down… If you want.”

You pull away with an exaggerated gasp and clutch your hand to your chest.

“Why, Albert DaSilva!” You say like a scandalized dame. “Without buying me flowers first?”

He stares at you for a moment as you hold your pose – and then you both laugh, full-bodied and creasing at the sides, and you must look like lunatics, laughing amongst the flowers, with rumpled clothes and messy hair and kiss-sore lips, clinging to each other like you’re about to collapse, but neither of you care. It’s just you two here, unexpectedly, by sheer chance. Chance and newspapers. It’s a ridiculous story, truly, but it’s yours, so who’s to care?

(And if that laughter turns to one, then two, then twenty more kisses – well, who’s to care about that, either?)

stanford!art x reader

some 18+ headcanons below, minors dni

—– ٠ ✤ ٠ —–

STANFORD!ART, who was your blind date during an event between your sorority and his frat—he hit it off with you. You guys talked the night away over dinner (he paid, ofc). The lightning paired with the ambience made you radiant. He swore he fell in love right there and then.

STANFORD!ART, who asked you out with flowers and that sweet, nervous smile of his. You said yes. How could you deny him?

STANFORD!ART, who insisted he walks with you to your classes even when his are across campus (he enjoys your company)

STANDORD!ART, who kisses you like it’s the first time all over again. He holds you like you’re the most precious thing ever. He’d devour you only with your explicit permission and even then…you can’t help but give in when he gives you those puppy eyes begging for you. What is the phrase? A man who yearns is a man who earns.

STANFORD!ART, who lets you stay in his room when the party goes into the early hours of the morning. His frat house is too far from the campus dorms. Staying in his room for a night is better than walking to your dorm half sober.

STANFORD!ART, who began to find your things in his room from your nights over: your lip liner, mascara, your notes for a GE class?? He doesn’t return them right away, instead he makes a small space on his shelf for your stuff. The next time you stay the night—boom! The makeup you’ve left behind is there and awaiting your use. You don’t have to leave early in the mornings, away from his arms, his warmth, his need for you. You can get ready in his room.

STANFORD!ART, who took written notes on your skincare products and takes photos of your makeup and bought a set to keep in his bathroom: minimize the time you have to travel to your dorm and once again you can sleep in and cuddle with him more.

STANFORD!ART, who memorizes what perfume you where on what days when he buries his face in your neck during sex. He fucking you into the bed, deep thrusts to pull those pretty moans from your lips. He gets the sweetest whiffs on your perfume as he mumbles sweet nothings into your neck. The Wednesday one is his favorite.

STANFORD!ART, who admires you (without fail) as you get ready. It starts with small questions of what does what like the different makeup brushes or what your skincare products does. He really is interested in what everything does! You have to trust him! He would NEVER use his curiosity as a chance to annoy or disrupt you. You tell him it’s an art, a routine, you enjoy: looking pretty for yourself and taking care of your skin.

STANFORD!ART, who noticed his skin breaking out after tennis practice. All that sweat and the fact he uses body wash to wash his face—He grumbled and tried the pop the not-ready-yet pimple and winced when it hurts. His eyes avert to your skincare products neatly arranged in the order you use them. He tried to remember what bottle was for what. He gave up and ended up using a small a mouth of each bottle, from left to right, he completed your skin care routine hoping the not-so-ready-yet pimple would go away.

STANFORD!ART, who asked about doing face masks one afternoon. He was laying in your arms after a tennis game against Pepperdine. The pimple hadn’t gone away unfortunately. You couldn’t say no and brought her some over the next day.

STANFORD!ART, who was teased about being pregnant by Patrick because his skin was glowing after all the spa days you and him had in his room. Art stole his churro as payback and made a comment about him wanting to take care of his skin.

STANFORD!ART, who suggested bathing together during a spa day. Bubbles, essential oiled, lush bombs, candles, alcohol—the whole package and…some wandering hands when you massaged his aching muscles, whispering how proud you are of him and how good he was doing at tennis. Art buried his head in your neck and groaned each time your hand moved just right. The bubbles clinging to your body. He places kisses to your skin. He loves those spa days in his shitty bathroom.

STANFORD!ART, who tried to teach you how to play tennis, or at least rally back and forth with him. You’re not the greatest compared to him, but he’s happy he’s getting to show you the thing he loves just as you did for him with your nightly routines.

—– ٠ ✤ ٠ —–

Hey guys…I’ve been thinking of re-writing FFY for a bit. The way I’ve went with the fake dating troupe is kind of weird and I think there’s not enough strong plot points in my story. Overall, it’s not my best work. But if I do a complete factory reset, chapters would take longer to upload + I would changes a lot of things.

ANY FEEDBACK would help me, specifically about FFY. I would love to become a better writer and do this series justice.