#florist city of london

[everythingne]

cloud circuit - ls2

Y/n Tiffany has always been a woman just outside of Logan's grasp. But a chance encounter at a bus stop and a new neighbor prove maybe somethings are meant to be. As long as he doesn't figure out her real name.

logan sargeant x business owner!student!reader

warnings/notes: I don't think I have any genuine warnings for this chapter specifically? me once again doing a slightly messy trope bc i live for drama

Logan had never assumed he’d be the guy to fall for someone the way he fell for you. It was happenstance, a complete coincidence, but you both kept running into each other. For two years. At least once a week.

He went on a morning jog? You were at a crosswalk he had to stop at.

He was running out to get groceries last minute? You were buying baking supplies.

He had to go visit Oscar? You were also on the bus he had to take.

He went to the gym? You worked at the joint coffee shop, book store, bakery, florist shop, place next door, Cloud Circuit.

One thing he always found though, was there was always a book nestled in your arm. From Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow, to The Silent Patient, to For The Wolf, you always had a book, a black pen, and a highlighter and tabs you color coded to the books cover. It was something so minuscule for him to notice, but when a girl in a busy city like London was constantly curled up in a book—even on the clock, it seemed big.

The first time you spoke to him, outside of ordering him his usual orders—either a matcha latte and breakfast sandwich for the mornings, or a normal latte (sometimes with some extra sweetener) and a pastry for nights, was outside of some department store. He’d dipped in to find a coat his soon to be sister in law was begging anyone to find, and was happy to gloat about having the red jacket tucked securely into his bag, when he spotted you at the bus stop. It was drizzling, and you were tucked neatly under your umbrella, book held open with one hand as you scanned along the words. He noted, however, you were re-reading a fully tabbed book. His gaze must’ve lingered too long because you glanced up and caught his eye, making a flurry of an apology tumble out of his lips while you laughed softly and tucked a bookmark in and shut the book. He watches you tug it against your chest, chafing it to the fabric of your rain coat as you spoke,

“I’m beginning to wonder if you’re following me, Logan.”

Your voice was like honey, smooth and sweet. Your eyes sparkling in the yellow light from the street lamp and a playful smile tugging at the corners of your strawberry chapstick covered lips. He felt an odd pull to you and even with knowing he really needed to get him and get on the sim with the guys…he moved closer to you and lifted his hood against the drizzle. Your eyes flickered down to the Miami Dolphins logo, the hoodie itself an old favorite of his, you assumed from how many times you'd seen it.

“I could say the same to you, miss…” he hums, and before you can go to say your name he grins, “bibliophile.”

“Miss bibliophile?” You echo, eyebrows lifting as a small grin peeks at your mouth, “you make me sound like a criminal.”

“Well, tell me your name and maybe you won’t sound so villainous.” He shrugs as the bus rolls up to a stop. He steps back partly, trying to signal he won’t be following you onto the bus, and you smile as you toss your name over you shoulder with a quick ‘see you soon!’ and tuck into the red bus that’s pulled up. And when he sees you settle in your seat by the window, and reopen the same book you’d had tucked to your chest he takes a moment to read the name on the hot pink cover--Happy Place.

He doesn't see you for a month after that, you're not in any of your usual spots, he can't spot you in any crowds, and he feels a bit dejected. It takes both Alex and Oscar getting on his ass for him to finally admit, yes, okay maybe he has a crush on this girl he's only seen from afar. He knows nothing about her, nothing other than where she works and that she seems to like romance books, he can name every book you've read, every book he's seen you groan and slam shut (and the one time he watched you throw out a Colleen Hoover novel at work) and he can name every time he's seen you and okay, maybe he's a little obsessed but he's in love, damnit.

He's coming back to his apartment when he notices a new mat outside his previously empty neighbors apartment. It's a cute one, a pretty blue color, and as he opens his door and rolls his suitcase in he swears he hears movement in the hall. But he closes his door before he can see anything.

There's mail piled on the floor and he bends to pick it up, some bills he was expecting, spam mail, and then a little handwritten note. He hums, taking the letter in his hand as he drags himself and his bags to his bedroom and drops everything without much care before falling back on his bed. He thumbs the letter open, looking at the pretty handwriting and then read whatever the words say as he tries to not fall asleep.

'Dear neighbor in 221,

Hello! My name is Y/n Tiffany, but you can just call me Tiff! I'm a current uni student and small business co-owner (Circuit Coffee!) who just moved in next door! I'm a double major, Sports Business and Marketing and Advertising and Branding. I have classes at all odd hours of the day, and two cats who like to scream randomly so I'm sorry if me leaving early and coming home late, or Forza or Turi are a bother! If anything ever annoys you, I can make a pretty good matcha latte as an apology.

I would love to get to know my neighbors, so feel free to knock if you hear me inside!

thanks xx

y/n’

It takes Logan two weeks to hear you inside. He's coming back from a race late, letting Oscar crash at his for the night when he hears music from inside your room. As he fumbles for his keys Oscar gawks.

"Someone lives there now?" He asks and Logan nods, opening the door.

"Moved in two weeks ago, names Y/n, I havent had a chance to stop in and talk to her." Oscar nods as he lets his suitcase fall from his hand and slump against the wall with a soft bump. When he sets down his duffle bag, the music next door paused.

“Do you want anything to drink or something?” Logan asks, moving to grab a water as Oscar throws himself down on the couch and calls,

“Please! I think I’m actually dying.” Oscar groans and Logan laughs, tossing a water bottle over purposefully when Oscar not looking—causing a loud groan from the other side of the room. Through the wall, Logan can hear conversations as he kicks Oscar’s legs off the couch and sits down next to him.

“What time do you have to be back tomorrow? I can drive.” Logan leans back on the couch and rolls out his neck, the hours of sitting still on the flight making him sore all over.

“Not until like five, and I can always have Lily get me on her way back from university.” Oscar mumbles into his water bottle before taking a sip, “you don’t need to drive so out of the way.”

Logan goes to say it’s fine before he hears a few knocks at the door, he pauses, praying it’s not the annoying lady across the hall who always is asking him to quiet. Even if he’s silent. He gets up, Oscar leaning back to peek over the back of the couch to see, and neither of them expect to see you.

"Oh! It's you--uhm, shit," You whisper to yourself before snapping and pointing at him, "Logan!"

"Yes! Yeah, hi, hello," He stammers, cheeks bright red, "it's wonderful to finally meet you in a casual way."

"I heard you in here for the first time since moving in so I figured I'd swing by to say hello!" You grin, rocking from foot to foot. Logan looks at you and his throat goes dry, he doesn't know what to say and his face is red. You want to say something to break the silence but he leans forward to pull something off the side of your hoodie. A tab.

"Reading something new?" He hums, sticking the tab to your palm when you hold it up, "Haven't seen you use blue tabs before."

"Blue's the color the company I'm interning for uses," You giggle, but then pause and flicker your eyes up to him, "Wait, how do you know the color of my tabs?"

"You're reading For The Wolf, if I remember right thats a red book." He says softly, then his cheeks flush red when he realizes it is kinda a weird thing to notice, "I-I... you just always have a book on you, I caught on to paying attention to it. Figured I'd read some to give you some sort of real conversation next time I saw you."

"Well, I recommend For The Wolf. The relationship between Red and Eammon is really... sweet but also kinda dark? It's a good read, I can give you my copy with my little annotations..?" You suggest and Logan nods and he rubs his wrist idly.

"I'm not a big reader but I'll read it for you." He grins and you hold up a finger as you disappear into your room, to grab the book and to hide the fact every word he said made your skin bright red and made your heart feel like it was running a marathon. When he turns back to Oscar he gets a confused look, but before he can say anything you've returned to set the book in his hands.

"Enjoy." You whisper, and as he thanks you, your hands snag his arm and use it to elevate up to press a soft kiss on your cheek before you step back. Smiling at him, bright red cheeks in the low light making his stomach swirl, you disappear back into your apartment. Logan shuts the door, presses his back to it and looks at Oscar.

"I think...I think I've just fallen twice as hard." He whispers and Oscar claps, pointing at Logan and calling him down bad from across the room.

Oscar goes to sleep in Logan's bed, being a guest and all, and Logan sprawls out on the couch. He can't help but crack open the book, finding your little key for your tabs in the front, he trails his fingers along your loopy handwriting and grins to himself. The book starts off normal, pretty innocent, but he starts to realize just whats beneath the surface. With a fucked up sleep schedule to help, he ends up making it about halfway through the book before sleep finally takes him.

And when he wakes up, Oscar's making breakfast and teasing him about staying up too late to finish the book. And truth be told, Logan hated reading, but when it came to you he found he was willing to try. And he found even when Oscar poked fun at him, it didn't feel malicious, it made a warmth in his chest spread. Not that he knew why just yet, other than his silly little crush he'd never felt that jittery feeling.

Maybe it was really love?

Two days later he sees you when you're at work. It's right before the store closes and you're softly playing music as you scrub down the counters. Sunday shifts mean deep cleaning, and so you're stuck a bit later than usual.

"Hope it's not too late, Tiff." Logan says as the bell above him dings to signal he's shut the door. You turn down the music to a low hum as you turn to Logan with a bright grin.

"No, not at all. Still an hour on the clock." You move to make him his drinks as he pulls up a bar chair and sits down, digging in his bag to set down the book on the counter. You peek over and hum,

"How far in are you?" You ask and he can tell you expect him to only be a few chapters in when he says,

"Oh, I'm done."

You whip around, nearly spilling his latte on the counter and gawking at him, "after two days? I thought you said you weren't a reader!"

"I'm not, but your little annotations were so interesting I just kept going." He slides the book to you and notices you have a very similar one perched behind the counter, "Made it a bit easier to read, honestly--is that the same one?"

"The sequel, I actually just finished it." You take For The Wolf and replace it on the counter with For The Throne, "If you want another book to read. I need to know what you thought of Nevarah."

"She was kinda annoying."

"Right!" You groan and he laughs as you stir up his latte and hand it over before pulling out one of the last pastries in the container. It's some cinnamon thing, not that he really cares. It's probably not in his food plan either, but he doesn't care about that. He'd abandon all his rules if it meant he could be spending time with you. As you rant about how you didn't like her in the first book, but kinda did in the second, he leans forward to take in ever word that drips from your lips and you find that he's welcome company for your closing shift.

You're finished early, too, so you sit next to him on the only two stools you haven't lifted up. You'll mop tomorrow, you tell yourself as Logan recounts his reactions to Eammon and Red's connection and you blush when you tell him about one of their scenes you particularly enjoyed.

Which he matches your energy with by saying, "It didn't even say anything explicit and I was like--damn!"

Logan helps you lock up, since the coffee shop is open the latest all you have to do is lock the front door with the alarm system and your keys. He walks you home and bids goodbye in the doorway with For The Throne tucked in his arm and your instagram handle and phone number written on the back of his hand.

urusername made a new post!

liked by urbff, heidiberger, logansargeant, and 250 others...

urusername: i need to stop reading romance bc it makes me feel more single than i already am.

urbff: OMG MR WRONG NUMBER SHUT UPPP MY FAVORITE

heidiberger: give me those flowers.

⤷ urusername: bring ur boy to london and then we'll speak.

mickeyrickey: ti amo <3

taglist (thank u for the support!)

@struggling-with-delia

[stylesispunk]

"I couldn't want you anymore" | Part 4

Artist! Joel Miller × Florist! Reader

series masterlist | previous chapter | next

summary: when Sarah's mom comes back into Joel's life to fight for their past relationship, Joel needs to convince her he is in a happy relationship with the florist next to his gallery in order to make her go away. The problem is, that he and the florist can't stand each other's guts or that it's what he thinks.

warning: age gap (Joel is 36 and reader is 28). Remember that "Bee" is reader's nickname, fluff, some feelings are being confessed, smut, angst, EXTREME ANGST. Okay, this is where everything goes to hell.

a/n: This one is more than 7k and is the longest piece of writing I've written here, so please, give it love🥺 Reblogs and comments are appreciated and help a lot be noticed by more people. I love this one, not the writing but the chapter as a piece? Sorry for any grammar mistakes and sorry in advance for the chapter.💌

masterlist

The next morning, it was Sunday and you thanked God for it. You were tired and the events from last night still lingered in your head, Joel, Connell's proposal, and the mix of feelings because of it. 

“Move to London?” you asked Connell, as if you couldn’t believe the words that came out of his mouth.

Connell looked at you with a patient and reassuring smile, understanding the magnitude of the decision he had just proposed. He reached out and gently took your hand, his touch comforting.

"Yes," he replied softly, "Moving to London would be a big step, and I don't want you to say yes right now. Take all the time you need to think about it. I'm willing to wait."

You nodded, appreciating his understanding and patience. The idea of moving to a new city, even for love, was overwhelming. You needed to consider your job, your life, and the ties you had built in your current home.

“Or is there someone?” He asked, “Oh my god”. He covered his face with his hands. “I can’t believe I didn’t ask about that”.

You graced a tiny smile, comforting Connell

“So, is there someone?” 

“It’s complicated.”

Connell's expression softened as he gazed into your eyes. "Bee, I want you to be happy. If there's someone else in your life, I'll respect that. But I just had to be honest with you about my feelings and my intentions."

You appreciated his understanding and his willingness to accept your situation, even if it was complex. The bond you had shared with Connell was strong, but your involvement with Joel had added layers of confusion and uncertainty to your life. It was a tangled web of emotions that you needed to untangle before making any decisions.

Connell leaned in and placed a gentle kiss on your forehead. "Take all the time you need to figure things out, no matter what. You choose me or choose whoever the other guy is, I'll be for you."

With his reassuring words, you felt a weight lifted from your shoulders, knowing you had Connell's unwavering support, whatever decision you eventually made, and that made your heart feel at ease for once. 

Nevertheless, you didn��t remember what happened after that. You both drank wine, you mostly, and you knew that you drunkenly confessed everything about your and Joel's “agreement” to Connell.

You felt embarrassed. Having Connell back helped you to see things clearly, and with your birthday coming soon, you were even more stupid for doing this at your age.

You decided to go back to sleep to avoid overthinking it. However, your attempt to do so was interrupted by a knock on your front door. You groaned and glanced at the clock; it was eight in the morning, and you couldn't bear facing a person at this time. Nevertheless, and still feeling a bit dazed from last night's wine, you dragged yourself out of bed and stumbled to the front door. Last

When you opened the door, you were met with Joel standing there. He looked like he hadn't slept much either. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he appeared slightly disheveled as if he had rushed over to your place first thing in the morning. 

"Joel, what are you doing here so early?" you asked, still rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

Joel hesitated before answering, his face displaying conflictive emotions "I needed to talk to you. Can I come in?"

You felt like this wasn’t a good idea right now, but you stepped aside, allowing him to enter your home.

 As he entered, you couldn't help but notice he was carrying two bags.

"I brought breakfast," he said, offering a faint smile.

You couldn't shake the nagging feeling that this was an attempt to make amends after last night's dinner with Lauren, and you were on guard. You didn’t want to show him he was having an effect on your emotions. 

"Joel, what's all this?" you asked, gesturing at the bags as he placed them on the table.

Joel took a deep breath, his gaze on your eyes. "I know I messed up last night, and I'm really sorry for everything that happened. I was hoping we could talk and sort things out."

Your guard was still up, but the sound of his voice touched your heart. "Joel, last night..."

He cut you off gently, "I know, Bee, I know. I want to explain. Please, let me."

"I won't pretend that last night wasn't complicated," Joel began, keeping his gaze on the breakfast he was preparing. "I know I hurt you by having dinner with Lauren. But please believe me, it wasn't what it looked like."

You remained silent, letting him continue.

Joel's voice held a note of frustration as he explained, "Lauren and I have a history. Yes, but we have something in common and Sarah wants to know her mother. I can’t deny her that right.”

You wanted to believe him, but the doubts lingered. "Actions speak louder, you know?”

“I have nothing with her,” he said, widening his eyes as he looked into her eyes. 

You could see the sincerity in his eyes. You wanted to trust him, to believe that he had good intentions. It was a complicated situation, one you had never expected to find yourself in.

“So, what are you suggesting?" you asked, your voice cautious.

Joel sighed, with relief and anxiety in his expression. "I'm suggesting that we reevaluate our agreement. Maybe we can redefine our boundaries and communicate better about our feelings."

You considered his proposal, thinking about how this might change things between you two. Despite the pain and confusion, a part of you also cared about Joel. It wasn't easy to let go of something that had brought so much comfort into your life. 

“Okay” you smiled in agreement. Knowing you should tell him about Connell’s proposal, but you hadn’t the strength to do it. 

Joel mirrored your actions, and he turned back to the breakfast he was preparing; you felt the weight of the both of you on your shoulders. This situation was far from simple, and your heart was torn between wanting to trust Joel or starting a new life with somebody you already trusted.

“So, you woke up today and decided to come here?” you asked.

“Actually, yes, that’s what I did,” he laughed. “I didn’t know you were in a hangover though, sorry for that. Did you and Lily hang out last night?”

“Actually, I had dinner with Connell,” you said, anticipating his reaction.

“Your ex?”

“Yes.”

Joel's expression shifted, his eyebrows furrowing slightly as he processed the information. He clearly hadn't expected that response.

"Dinner with Connell," he repeated, his voice tinged with a mix of surprise and uncertainty.

You nodded, feeling the need to explain. "He had something important to talk about, and he's leaving for London soon. It felt like the right thing to do."

Joel took a moment to collect his thoughts, then replied, "Well, I guess it's good you two talked. You should figure things out. I mean, he's your ex, and he's moving away."

His words were calm and understanding, which was a relief. You had braced for a more tense reaction.

"Yeah," you said, appreciating his mature response. "We're just trying to be on good terms before he leaves."

Joel gave a small nod, his expression thoughtful. The conversation had taken a different turn, and the complexities of your feelings and relationships weighed heavily on your mind. You hoped that both Joel and Connell could find their respective places in your life, but the path ahead was far from clear.

You just omitted the part when he asked you to leave with him. 

Joel gave a small nod, his expression thoughtful. The conversation about Connell hung in the air and Joel decided to break the tension by returning to breakfast. He finished preparing the meal, and the two of you sat down to eat. The atmosphere was lighter, and you both made an effort to talk about less complicated topics, sharing stories and laughs over your food.

You still found it funny how you both went from not talking at all to talking about anything. 

After breakfast, as you helped Joel with some preparations for his upcoming exhibition, you couldn't help but think about the new direction your life was taking. Joel had proposed reevaluating your agreement, and Connell had asked you to go with him to London. The decisions ahead were daunting, and you knew that clarity would be hard to come by.

Joel was also deep in thought as he arranged some artwork, and eventually, he broke the silence. "Bee, I know things have gotten complicated, but I genuinely want to make this work.”

His words were sincere, and you could sense his determination. It was a lot to process, but you couldn't deny that you also cared about Joel. The choices you had to make in the coming days would be defining moments in your life, and you hoped you could find a path that would lead to happiness and fulfillment, no matter how complex it might be.

With your birthday coming in three days, you felt that your new year of life would be different. 

The timing couldn't have been more challenging as Joel's upcoming art exhibition was just around the corner. The preparations for the event were in full swing, and you were doing your best to help him with the decoration and catering.

The gallery was buzzing with activity. Paintings were being hung, sculptures were being arranged, and the space was being transformed into a captivating display of Joel's artwork. You couldn't help but be impressed by his talent and dedication to his craft.

As for your "relationship," you and Joel were navigating it with care. It was a tricky balance of pretending to be a couple while not letting your true feelings get in the way. Sometimes, the lines blurred, and it became challenging to differentiate between the act and reality.

You worked closely with Joel to ensure that the gallery's decor matched his artistic vision. Together, you chose color schemes and hung string lights to create a warm and inviting atmosphere. The collaboration brought you closer, and as you worked side by side, there were moments when you exchanged genuine smiles and shared laughter that felt far from fake.

Convincing everyone about your relationship was an ongoing challenge. You played the part of the affectionate girlfriend, exchanging hugs, kisses, and sweet nothings with Joel. The outside world saw the two of you as a couple, but you knew the truth lay somewhere between reality and pretense.

As the event drew near, the question that remained was whether you could maintain the charade or if it would evolve into something real.

The day of your birthday dawned, and you couldn't help but feel a mix of emotions. The recent developments in your life, your family and friends’ birthday wishes, and Joel’s upcoming art exhibition made this birthday unlike any other.

As you made your way to the gallery to leave the usual cup of coffee for Joel, you felt a sense of excitement. You couldn't deny that you enjoyed spending time with him, but you also knew that this fake relationship was getting more complicated by the day due to feelings getting involved. 

When you arrived at the gallery, you were greeted by the soft glow of string lights and the familiar scent of freshly brewed coffee. The space looked even more beautiful now with Joel's artwork on display. It was evident that he had put his heart and soul into his work.

Just as you set the coffee on the table, Joel appeared, a warm smile on his face. He walked over to you and pulled you into a gentle hug, pressing a soft kiss on your cheek. "Happy birthday, Bee," he whispered.

The simple gesture was filled with genuine warmth, and it touched your heart. You felt your cheeks blushing at his touch. 

"Thank you, Joel," you replied with a smile.

Joel gestured to a small gift wrapped in a simple but elegant box. "I got you a little something," he said, his eyes filled with anticipation.

You accepted the gift and carefully unwrapped it, revealing a beautiful necklace. It was a delicate piece of jewelry with a pendant in the form of a flower that resembled his art and your essence together. You were taken aback by the beauty and thoughtfulness of the gift.

"It's beautiful, you said, genuinely touched by his gesture. "Thank you, Joel."

He smiled, and for a moment, the line between pretense and reality blurred again. It was a birthday gift that felt meaningful, not just because of the necklace, but because it came from someone who had become an important part of your life.

Joel pulled you into another hug, and you realized that, despite all the complexities and pretense, this connection was becoming real. 

"Thank you for this," you said, gesturing to the necklace. "It means a lot to me."

Joel took your hand and looked into your eyes; his gaze was sincere. "You mean a lot to me."

Your breath sucked in, leaving you breathless as his words hung in the air. You knew that this fake relationship had evolved into something more, something that was real.

Joel's hand in yours felt warm and reassuring. As you stood together in the gallery, you couldn't help but feel a sense of anticipation for the future, even if it remained uncertain. Your birthday had taken an unexpected turn, and you had a feeling that more surprises were yet to come.

"The gallery is closed for the morning because we have someone to celebrate today," Joel said with a playful grin.

You chuckled; the weight of the world momentarily lifted. "Alright, what's the plan?"

Joel leaned in and whispered, "I have a few more surprises up my sleeve. But first, let's enjoy some coffee together."

........................

The day moved forward in a whirlwind of excitement and celebration. Joel had arranged a surprise birthday party for you in the gallery. Your friends, including Lily, and even Sarah, were all there to celebrate with you. It was a beautiful gathering filled with laughter and warmth, and you couldn't help but feel grateful for the people in your life.

Joel played the perfect host, making sure everyone felt welcome and comfortable. You saw how he effortlessly blended with your friends. His charm and genuine smiles seemed to win everyone over.

As the evening progressed, the party was in full swing, but Joel leaned in to whisper in your ear, "I have one more surprise for you. Why don't you come to my place tonight? Tommy won’t be there and Sarah will stay with Lauren tonight, and I was hoping for some alone time."

You couldn't help but smile,"I'd love to."

Joel's eyes sparkled with anticipation, and you realized that there was more of him that you hadn't fully explored. 

The clock ticked away the hours, and eventually, it was time to leave the party behind. You said goodbye and made your way to Joel's place, with him by your side, and the atmosphere completely changed after that.

When you arrived at Joel's home, it welcomed you with the soft lighting and cozy ambiance in his living room. Set the perfect mood for what was to come. Joel's living room was bathed in the soft glow of light, and you couldn't help but feel a warm sensation at the gesture. He excused himself for a moment and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving you wondering what other surprises he might have in store.

As you sat there, Joel returned with a small tray of desserts. On it, there were beautifully plated mini cheesecakes topped with fresh berries, and a bottle of your favorite wine was chilling in an ice bucket nearby.

"This is the second part of your birthday surprise," Joel said with a mischievous smile. "I thought we could end the night with something sweet."

Your heart swelled with affection for his thoughtfulness. As you indulged in the delicious treats and sipped wine, the evening took on an even more romantic tone. The intimate setting, combined with Joel's genuine affection, made your birthday feel like something out of a fairytale.

You found yourself drawn to Joel's eyes, and he to yours. It was a moment when pretense gave way to something authentic, something that had been growing between you for the last two months. With every shared smile and every tender touch, the unspoken emotions between you became stronger.

Joel reached out and took your hand, his fingers gently tracing circles on your palm. The atmosphere was charged with unspoken desire, and it felt like the perfect time to take things to the next level, to explore what was real and true between you. 

“Bee,” he said, looking straight into your eyes. 

They were focused, eye to eye with his lips close to yours. 

You were completely alone. You were in his house and both of your worlds were mixing together to become one. And your heart pulsed at the sound of the nickname he gave you years ago, something that seemed foreign back in those days, but now the tone lacing the sound of his voice sent a shiver down your spine. 

“Happy birthday, Bee” he smiled, attaching his lisp to yours for a passionate kiss, flipping you over so he could be over you.

After that, everything happened so fast. Neither of you knew when you got rid of your clothes, but there was too much desperation in your touch, you wanted to see the way his fingers could make a mark on you, tracing lines of invisible traces over your body.

He was hovering over you, meeting your lips in a passionate kiss. He was in the right between your legs where you wanted him the most now. 

He detached his lips from yours for a moment to look down at you for a moment. To admire the features of your face, and the nature of your body being displayed just for him right now. You felt the crimson color rushing up to your checks and for a moment you felt embarrassed under his stare, but he smiled at you.

“You look beautiful”. He swallowed hard, stroking your cheek with his thumb.

He kissed you again, slipping his tongue past your lips, gasping when he felt your fingers running your fingertips across his bare chest, tracing the lines of a map leading to where you couldn’t stop.

With one of your hands, you pulled him down by his neck to hold you against your lips again. Once you tasted them, you couldn’t get over the taste of them over yours, and you couldn’t get over the whimpers he left in your mouth. 

His hands on your tights only increased the sparks in the place you wanted him the most, you wanted to follow the path even when you knew it was leading to a treacherous destination. 

You continued kissing slowly as he caressed your thighs, as he wanted to worship your body and devour every single sound coming out from your mouth. He kissed you down over your neck, kissing, nipping your skin between his teeth.

And God, he loved the way you were making him feel. The fact this time was different to that night in the gallery some nights ago. At this moment, you weren’t driving for only passionate reasons, but for caring feelings for each other. You weren’t in a rush and that turned him on. He was hard for you and he wanted to meet where religion was, between your thighs. 

Both of you gasped out loud the second he started to push slowly inside you. His hands reached for yours to interlock them together as he kissed you with softness, whispering “You’re so beautiful like this”. He was hypnotized by the way you were nervously laughing as you tossed your head back in pleasure. He bit your neck, causing your hands to follow their way up to his neck and his hands roamed down all of your body without a layer of clothes on you, focusing on every thrust, going deep to make sure he was making you feel good. 

You opened your eyes to stare back at him, looking completely focused on you. You couldn’t help but roll your eyes as his hands caressed your breasts as he kept devouring your lips, your back arched followed by a moan against his lips. Every thrust felt so good you couldn’t help but feel you were in heaven. You could feel you were getting close as you squeezed him and you kept your eyes locked on each other. He pushed faster, with one hand caressing your cheek and the other holding your leg to ensure you fell apart. 

The noises you made drove him crazy, feeling himself coming to the edge of the cliff. He wanted to look at you under him as you came, and with a loud gasp, it happened and he did it at the same time, falling over your bare chest, with your heartbeats becoming one.

Yes, you had sex and you crossed the line you couldn’t, but at that moment, you didn’t care.

You sighed softly under him, and Joel raised his head to look at you, showing him a cute smile that he wasn’t tired of, and you kissed him on the lips. 

“I love you,” you said tiredly before falling asleep.

I love you.

Those three words were echoing in the shadows of his mind. His expression hardened and he felt his blood rushing. He couldn't be sure, but the impact it had on him was undeniable.

Now in the stillness of the room, he looked down at you, nestled in his arms, 

He wanted to respond, to say those words back to him, but he hesitated. The weight of his complicated past with Lauren, the confusion of your fake relationship, and the promise you both had just broken kept him silent.

A few hours later, you woke up alone in Joel’s bed. You can't ignore the heavy feeling nestling on your chest. You made your way to the living room, and you found him sitting on the couch, his gaze lost in the soft light of the lamp.

You walked over and sat down beside him. “Couldn’t sleep?" you asked softly, your voice trembling.

And the way your voice sounded made Joel’s heart break. 

 Joel sighed, his shoulders slumping. He knew he couldn't keep you in the dark any longer. "Bee, I need to be honest with you," he said, his voice low and heavy. "This... relationship we've had, it's been confusing for me. I'm not sure where my feelings stand, and I can't keep pretending."

You listened attentively, your heart pounding. The room seemed to close in on you, and the silence felt suffocating.

Joel finally met your gaze, his eyes filled with regret. "I need to figure things out, Bee. I'm sorry, but I can't continue like this. I can't say those words back to you. Not yet"

You felt tears welling up in your eyes as the weight of his crashed down on you. 

Tears welled up in your eyes as the weight of his confession crashed down on you. The vulnerability of those three words that you had uttered at the peak of the moment was now the breaking point between both of you. 

Joel continued, "We should end this, Bee, for both our sakes. This... fake relationship isn't fair to you” 

“But...but you said you cared about me” you whispered.

Trembling, Joel nodded his head as he reached for your hands, but you stood up from the couch to hide the tears streaming down your cheeks. Joel couldn’t help but feel he was already losing you.

He stood up, quickly grabbing your arms, and tears flickered in his eyes. But she refused to look at him at this moment. 

“I care about you, Bee…You have to trust me, but I-” 

“Do you love Lauren?”  you cut him. 

You could see Joel was taken aback by your question. 

“Bee, no. Look at me…I don’t love her” he said as he shook his head fast as if he was trying to stop the breaking pieces falling from you. 

“But you don’t love me either,” you said, taking a step back to keep yourself away from Joel. “All you wanted from me was to take me to your bed, Joel.” 

He tilted his head to have a glimpse of your face. When you looked up, your eyes shone with the tears dancing inside them. Joel took a step closer to you, holding your face and pressing his forehead against yours. 

“No,” he said immediately “Bee, you have been the best thing that crossed my path-” 

“Do you love me?” you asked in a breathy voice with the last strength you had left. That’s the last answer you need to prevent your falling.  

Your question hung in the air, heavy and unanswerable. When you demanded to know if he loved you, you were met with silence. 

The pain in your eyes was undeniable, and in that moment, you felt nothing but shame and heartache as he held your face in his hands, still keeping your foreheads together as if he was holding onto the last moments, he was going to have you this close.

Joel's heart shattered along with yours, and yet, he remained silent. 

“You made me promise not to love you, Bee,” he said, as his voice didn’t have strength left.

“This is over, Joel,” you whispered. 

Joel felt his soul leaving his body when you removed both of his hands from your face.

At that moment, your heart was glass and he dropped it.

And yet, he didn’t speak. 

He was still there in the middle of his living room, not knowing what to do and how to act. The truth was that he did love you, but he had let his own demons and insecurities build a wall between you and him, and now it was too late to turn back time.

He had built a life with tall banners around his family, to protect them and himself from the people coming into his life. He stopped believing in love and fairy tales the day he and Sarah were abandoned by Lauren, and he didn’t let another one come closer to him in years until you settled next to him with flowers and effortless smiles. 

He found himself smiling at you the very first days, until a bouquet of flowers and a card came to his office, a “gift” from you, and he thought you had second intentions, so he dropped the flowers and the card in the trash. He didn't know, but that was the very first time he broke your heart.

You, on the other hand, were crestfallen when you found the flowers and the card in the trash. You thought you could have brightened Joel’s days with the gesture, not knowing his real behavior. That time, the rejection hurt, and it made you question what was wrong with you. 

That day you stopped talking to him, only keeping a polite distance, and your smiles became more reserved once he appeared in your sight. 

And you become “enemies” after that. 

And in the middle of those memories, Joel lost track of time. The door fell shut. You were gone. 

Once you stepped out of Joel’s house, a sob escaped from your lips, and a heavy feeling settled in your heart. You couldn’t bear the feeling of humiliation consuming you. 

You didn’t have a destination in mind, the heavy steps over cobblestones were breaking the silence of the still night. You were walking in a world that felt foreign and unwelcoming, navigating through a tumultuous mix of feelings you thought you had never had to experience. 

You didn’t know what to do or who to call, you didn’t want to bother Lily because it was one in the morning and she would probably have slept, and you couldn’t face her after you promised her you would keep your heart safe from breaking. 

You thought about calling Connell, but you didn’t want to drag him into this mess. You felt so humiliated and broken on your own birthday night and everything seemed to be falling apart. 

You walked for what felt like hours, unable to find a direction. The tears you had been holding back began to flow freely down your cheeks.

And as the night deepened, you found yourself standing by a park bench, your legs finally giving in to exhaustion. You sat down, looking at the distance, lost in the memories of your time with Joel. And what started in a distant room ended up with you crying on a parking bench in the middle of the night. The pain was unbearable, and the feeling of abandonment cut deep to the bone.

You just couldn’t make up your mind about the thought of a person coming into your life, making you navigate through a lake of turbulent and magical emotions, painting your darker skies in vibrant colors just for them to walk over your own peace of mind, leaving scars they promised they would never leave on you.

Sitting on the park bench in the darkness, you felt vulnerable. The weight of the pain enveloped you. You knew you couldn't stay there forever, but you also couldn't bear to go back to your empty apartment, the place where you had shared moments with Joel.

In your fragile state, you reached for your phone and dialed Connell's number. Your heart ached, and the tears in your voice were unmistakable when he picked up.

Connell's voice was filled with concern when he said your name "What's wrong?"

The sound of his voice provided a small comfort, and you tried your best to steady your emotions. "Connell, I... I don't know where to go, and I didn't want to be alone. Something happened, and I—"

“Hey, easy. Breathe” Connell's reassuring tone came through the phone, "Just tell me where you are and I’ll be there."

You sent him the location of the park, and he promised to be there soon. While you waited, you let yourself cry softly, finding solace in the idea that someone who truly cared for you was on their way.

Connell arrived a short while later, and he wrapped his arms around you, offering comfort in his embrace. He listened as you cried on his shoulder while you tried to erase your memories and take away the pain. 

The next morning, as the sun's first rays peeked through the curtains, Tommy walked into the living room expecting to find you and Joel making breakfast together. 

Once he stepped inside, beaming, he found Joel in the same spot as last night. 

“Bee is still sleeping?” Tommy joked.

But as soon as he saw the state of Joel sitting on the couch, his eyes bloodshot, and an empty bottle of whiskey on the coffee table, he knew something was wrong.

"Joel?" Tommy asked, taking a seat beside him.

Joel finally turned to his brother; his voice heavy with remorse. "I ruined her.” 

Tommy had been through his fair share of tough times with Joel. The first time was the day Lauren walked out of his life, leaving him alone with a baby, Sarah, without any explanation, but now, he could sense the gravity of the situation. Joel was seriously broken this time. 

“What happened?” Tommy asked.

Joel didn't reply immediately, instead choosing to take a long, deep breath.

“What happened?” He urged.

Joel told him the events from last night, how you told him you loved him, how he couldn’t say those words back, and the moment he had broken your heart. As he spoke, the tears welled up in his eyes once again. It was the first time Tommy had seen Joel this torn. 

Tommy let out a deep sigh, and he placed a reassuring hand on Joel's shoulder. "Brother, please tell me you didn’t let her go home alone and break down on her birthday night.” 

Not until then did it occur to Joel that something could have happened to you. He stood fast and ran to his bedroom, to grab his cellphone and call you, but Tommy stopped him before he could do anything. 

“Easy Joel”, he said, reassuring him “She is not going to answer your calls right now.”

Tommy's words only deepened the weight of Joel's remorse. He dropped his phone back onto the coffee table and clenched his fists, feeling utterly helpless. "What have I done, Tommy? I love her” 

Tommy continued to be the voice of reason. "You need to give her space, Joel. Pushing her right now might only make things worse. Let her cool off, and then you can talk to her when she's ready. But you need to give her time to heal."

Joel knew Tommy was right, but it was excruciating to think about leaving you in pain. He shook his head "I’m going to her place," he murmured, already walking past Tommy. 

He couldn't bear the thought of you being hurt and feeling abandoned. Tommy understood his brother's pain but also recognized that this might not be the best time to confront you, especially if you were still reeling from the heartbreak.

"Joel, I get it, but you need to be cautious," Tommy advised as he followed Joel to the door. "Let her have some time to herself. She needs to process what happened, and then you can talk."

Joel turned to Tommy; his eyes filled with desperation. "I can't just leave her like this, Tommy. I need to make this right."

 "You should have seen her face” he murmured; his voice heavy with regret. 

“Listen, I can call Lily and ask about Bee, okay?” Tommy said.

Joel offered a small nod in response, his thoughts consumed by the image of your heartbroken face. As Tommy made the call to Lily, Joel's mind raced with remorse, knowing he had caused you pain.

after a brief conversation with Tommy, and turned to Joel. "She's with Connell. It seems like that's where she went last night."

Joel felt a pang in his chest, knowing that you had sought solace with Connell. He couldn't help but wonder how you had ended up there and what you might be telling Connell about what happened.

As the morning sun began to filter through Connell's windows, you found yourself sitting in his cozy living room. On the previous night, your birthday had ended badly, but Connell's presence had provided you with some sense of comfort. 

Connell, always thoughtful and caring when it came to you, had made you a cup of tea, which you held in your hands as you stared out the window. The silence between you two was comfortable as if words were unnecessary. 

After a while, Connell cleared his throat and said, " I’m not sure what happened last night but I want you to know that I'm here for you, no matter what."

You turned to him, your eyes filled with gratitude. "Thank you, Connell”, you gave him a small smile.

Connell nodded in understanding. Then, he reached behind him and held a small gift-wrapped box out to you. “I got you a little something for your birthday. I hope it brings a smile to your face."

You accepted the gift with a warm smile, feeling grateful for Connell's existence. Unwrapping it carefully, you discovered a beautiful, handcrafted necklace inside. It was an elegant piece of jewel with a delicate design.

"It's stunning," you whispered.

 Connell chuckled softly. "You used to love unique and handmade jewelry, so I thought this might be something you'd like. I bought it in London a few years ago."

As you held the necklace in your hands, you felt a surge of emotion. Connell's kind gesture and the beauty of the necklace warmed your heart and provided a much-needed distraction from the turmoil of the previous night. You thanked him sincerely, realizing that you were fortunate to have him who genuinely cared about you. 

Memories of your past relationship with Connell rushed back to you. There was a time when you and Connell had been a strong team, and those feelings and connection you had shared, and it had been an important part of your life. But that had changed, and you had moved on.

As you sat there with Connell, the temptation to lean in and kiss him was strong, but it was Joel's face and his presence that you couldn't forget. You knew that, deep down, your heart belonged to him.

With a heavy heart, you offered a grateful smile to Connell and thanked him once again for his kind gesture.

"Connell, thanks for your gift” you said, offering a sincere smile. "But I also wanted to talk to you about something important."

Connell nodded; his blue eyes focused on you. "Of course, What's on your mind?"

You took a deep breath, trying to find the right words. "This job in London…

Connell leaned back in his chair, looking at you attentively.

You took a moment to gather your thoughts before asking, "Connell, have you made a decision about that job?"

Connell sighed and leaned in closer, his voice low and sincere. "I have decided to go and I know I asked you to come with me, but you and Joel- “

“I’ll go with you” you said.

Connell's eyes widened with surprise, “Are you sure about this? It's a big step, and I don't want you to feel rushed or pressured into it just because you’re hurt.” 

You met Connell's gaze. "Connell, this isn't just about being hurt; but about an opportunity to start a fresh life. I want to be with you in London."

Connell's surprise gave way to a warm, grateful smile. He squeezed your hand gently and leaned in closer. " I can't express how happy that makes me. We're going to have a wonderful time in London, I promise."

Connell pulled you into a warm embrace, your heart should have been soaring with joy, but a shadow of doubt crept in. At that moment, with his arms wrapped around you and your future looking bright, you couldn't help but think about Joel.

Joel, who had broken your heart. Joel, with whom you had shared an intimate connection that you could never forget. Despite your determination to start fresh, the memories of your time with Joel, the emotions you had felt, and the connection you shared with him echoed in your mind.

Connell pulled back slightly, his eyes searching yours. "Are you sure about this? I don't want you to have any doubts."

You forced a smile, feeling a sense of guilt for letting your thoughts wander. "I'm sure, Connell. Let's make this move and embrace our future together."

A week later, after the painful night with you, Joel was in the gallery, his heart heavy with regret as he finished the final details of his upcoming exhibition. The art pieces were carefully arranged, the lighting adjusted, and he scrutinized every corner, but it was a task that felt empty without you by his side.

He knew, deep down, that you wouldn't be there for the exhibition. The absence of your presence was like a void in the room, and the pain of knowing he had pushed you away was a constant ache in his chest.

No flowers from you this time, not the sound of your laugh echoing through the halls and he felt he was dying inside. 

In the midst of his preparations, Lauren was in the gallery with him. He told her you and him had broken up and it seemed like she was trying to comfort him somehow as she took advantage of Sarah as “something” they had in common. Her presence was a reminder of the choices he had made, and it infuriated him. Joel couldn't help but glance out of the gallery window toward your flower shop. It was a habit, one that he couldn't seem to break, even though he knew it was over between you two.

It wasn’t real, he thought, but for him and you it became the most adventurous story of love. 

"Why is she gifting flowers today?" Joel asked, unable to keep the curiosity from his voice as he saw a group of people gathered outside your shop.

Lauren turned her gaze to the window, following his line of sight. She sighed softly and said, "You don't know?"

Joel shook his head. "What should I know?"

"I think she's selling the place," Lauren explained. Her tone was gentle, and she appeared concerned about the situation.

Joel's brow furrowed as he processed the information. Your flower shop, a place that had meant so much to you, was being sold. The weight of the recent events pressed down on him even more. It was yet another consequence of his actions, and he couldn't help but wonder if this was yet another step in the direction of erasing him from your life.

"Can you excuse me for a second?" he told Lauren, deciding he was going to confront you.

As he left the gallery, Joel's steps were determined, and his thoughts were a mess of remorse, regret, and a glimmer of hope. He knew he had to speak with you, to clear the air, even though he wasn't sure where your conversation might lead.

Joel's heart raced as he approached your flower shop. The sight of it, now decorated with flowers, brought back memories of the moments he had spent there with you. He took a deep breath and pushed open the door, his eyes scanning the interior for a sign of your presence.

"Is it true?" Joel's voice, which had been silent for a week, sent shivers down your spine, memories of his touch still fresh on your skin.

"What's true?" you asked without looking at him.

"That you're selling your shop?"

You nodded, unable to meet his searching gaze.

"Is it because of me?"

"Joel, please," you pleaded, your voice edged with a mix of frustration and pain. "Just let it go."

"Please, just answer me," he implored.

"No," you replied, the weight of your decision heavy in the air. "It's not because of you. I just need a fresh start."

He countered, his voice filled with doubt, "And you think moving to another part of town will give you that?"

"I'm not moving to another part of town," you said, your voice unsteady.

"What do you mean?"

You took a deep breath, and your gaze met his, knowing this would be the final blow. "I'm leaving."

Joel's heart sank, a heaviness that seemed insurmountable. He didn't want to hear the rest, but you continued.

"I'm leaving to London with Connell."

"No—"

"No, Joel, you can't," you replied firmly “You can't come here and tell me what I should do. You have no right."

His frustration was rising, "You're escaping. Can you be more childish?"

 Joel's world crumbled around him. The woman he was in love with, the one who had brought color and life back into his existence, was leaving. And worse, she was leaving for London with her ex-boyfriend. 

You chuckled bitterly, the pain in your heart mingling with your exasperation. "Goodbye, Joel." You said, signaling the door. 

"Bee! Listen to me!" He shouted.

But you were done listening. The years of mixed emotions, the moments of joy and confusion, had finally boiled over. You had made your decision, and you couldn't bear to keep going in circles with him.

"You were my biggest disappointment, Joel."

With those words, you turned away from him and walked behind the counter door, leaving Joel standing there, with a heavy heart.

At that moment, Joel realized the depth of his mistakes and the price he had paid for being an idiot. He felt a burning need to make things right, but it was already too late. Your departure for London with Connell was the beginning of a chapter in your life that he could no longer be a part of. 

With a heavy heart, Joel turned away from the flower shop and walked back to the gallery, his steps heavy with the weight of what he had lost.

And you were left there crying while losing the grip of the hand of the man you felt you would be getting over your whole life. 

a/n: Okay, sorry again. But what's going to happen next? 👀

tags 💌: @joeldjarin @borhapparker @fatima-marisa @kirsteng42 @paleidiot @harriedandharassed @runningmom94 @pedr0swh0r3

[lewkwoodnco]

how did it end? - anthony lockwood x reader

Come one, come all.

She felt vilified, commodified into some grotesque circus show for the sadistic, satisfied smiles of everyone else. Just as much of a spectacle as she was all those years ago.

It's happening again.

Look at them. Safe, and assured, and happy. It was revolting. They didn't understand an ounce of what she went through, they never would. 

And all anyone wants to know is...

After today they would go home to their other friends and family and smugly recount the battered, fragile mess they ran into that afternoon, sick with glee as they described the aimless circles she wore into the floors, a pathetic husk of the agent she once was.

...how did it end?

a/n: will update this once i wake up!

warnings/tropes: tw death, canon divergent, tw death i MEAN it, the empty grave spoilers, hurt/comfort, lotta angst

word count: 4.6k!

MASTERLIST | TAGLIST

The beginning was etched into his ribs. He could never forget it. In the following weeks when everyone wanted to know all about it, they would give the same humorously vague answer, conveniently leaving out the smaller, more important details they held close to their chests. We met at a florist's, they would say, and decided to start an agency. And how they handled the string of hauntings along Mulberry Lane in a week when agencies far stronger than theirs had been at it for months? Well, that was simply the product of her experience and his keen eye.

What they chose to leave out was this: after multiple failed attempts at registering his agency with DEPRAC, Lockwood had reached his wit's end and had decided to give up on the venture. Turns out, DEPRAC wasn't quite tolerant of budding agencies with only one member. With little else to do, he decided to take a mid-morning trip to the all-too-familiar Kensel Green Cemetery. Perhaps something in him sought forgiveness from their hollow husks.

Once he had reached, it felt to be in poor taste to enter empty-handed. He had crossed the street to the florist on the other side and picked out a small bouquet of white chrysanthemums.

"Chrysanthemums?"

Lockwood flinched badly. He looked up to see a surprisingly familiar face critically eyeing the now-battered bouquet, its thin plastic slick in his clammy palms. He recognised her the way half of London did - from the papers. Bright enough to make a name for herself through especially complicated cases, her rise through the ranks from smaller agencies to the Fittes Agency had been sparsely documented through the local media. The last of the glowing commendations even alluded to the position of team supervisor being within her reach at the tender age of fifteen. In a world plagued with fear, she had one of the best lives any parent could wish for their child - that is, until tragedy struck.

Perhaps the most curious detail of it all was the proximity of the incidents. After her first harrowing escape from a badly botched case where she was the sole survivor of her team, the city's sympathies were stirred for the poor, unsuspecting agent who, even now, brimmed with promise. There was a short inquiry, it was an intriguing piece of news, but it all blew over within the week. No matter, thought most people. Perhaps she'd have to wait a year or two more to be team supervisor.

It was barely a month before the next incident, nearly identical to the last, except in the nature of the cases. This time, considerably more eyebrows were raised. It was one thing to explain one incident away, but two? This inquiry lasted a solid month, and in the end, she was declared innocent, but by then she had unfortunately been severed from Fittes. Still, Rotwell Agency had happily snapped her up, until the third incident two weeks later.

As expected, that was the final blow on her strained career, extinguishing any hope of her once again harnessing the renown she once held. As each inquiry progressed, everyone wanted to know: what happened? Why did it happen? How did it all come crashing down so spectacularly? She didn't come out unscathed physically either. A close brush with Ghost Touch in the last incident left the nerves in the outer corner of her right eye paralysed. It not only reduced her normal vision but also left her Sight permanently disfigured. 

In the papers, more than one outlet had the gall to suggest that perhaps it was deserved. Perhaps the incidents weren't as accidental as she would like everyone to believe. While the media spun nauseating defamatory narratives, each one more cruel than the last, the public image of Y/N L/N began to take a life of its own, twisting and warping into something horrid. At this point, Lockwood had not expected Rotwell's to go through the effort or disgrace of letting her go, and twelve days after the inquiry had finished, it was reported that she had resigned. It was almost impressive how long she had stuck it out. Lockwood had heard about these kinds of things through the grapevine - agents being forced into early retirement - but had never seen an example documented as liberally as this.

The saving grace of the events was that the whole ordeal was over in three months. All before her sixteenth birthday. And now here she was, standing feet away from him across a florist's shop, London's most wanted ex-agent. Two years on, she seemed just as lithe and alert as she did in the articles published years back, except for the hard edge of the newfound intensity in her rheumy eyes.

"Quite the hothouse flower, isn't it? Delicate. Fragile."

Lockwood smiled hesitantly. "It just needs a little extra care."

She smiled back, though she seemed unsure, and was quiet for a long time. Her gaze flickered to the chrysanthemums. 

"I'm sorry for your loss."

Lockwood thought back to the articles ripping her to shreds, the ones she never refuted, as if she had been paralysed by...something.

"I'm sorry for yours."

She stared at him blankly for a minute, as if she didn't understand, and then bowed her head. It felt miraculously easy to talk to each other as if they had stumbled through their grief towards this bittersweet meeting.

"You'd be better off with a hardier flower in this weather. Something strong...something tough." She adjusted the bouquet of yellow irises in her arms, bursting with joy against the grey backdrop of Lockwood's pale face, black suit, and white flowers. "Especially with Mulberry Lane being only a street over."

By then, the Mulberry Lane hauntings had picked up significant steam and media attention. Once assigned to only Fittes and Rotwell, it eventually attracted the attention of nearly every agency in the city. What started as a regular haunting in one house became a whole street of hauntings, stemming only once DEPRAC had cordoned the street off with iron barricades. Naturally, only agents were allowed on the premises, not that it stopped Lockwood from making an unofficial visit or two. The problem was, as self-assured as he was in his abilities, even he was forced to admit that this was no one-man job. But maybe, if he played his cards right...

"Yes, what a case that is..." Lockwood wandered down the aisle as she turned around to browse the other bouquets, deceptively nonchalant, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. "...been at it for weeks now."

"You're an agent?"

"Yes. Have my own agency, in fact, as of this morning."

"...is that so?"

Eventually, he persuaded her to work with him on the Mulberry Lane case. At the start of their first meeting, she mentioned that there wasn't any agency registered as Lockwood & Co., and asked if he was planning to harvest her liver, which he vehemently denied before accusing her of trying to harvest his liver in his panic. He took it as an overwhelmingly positive sign that she hadn't walked out right there and then, and was good-humoured enough to laugh about it. But the fact remained that they still weren't registered as agents under DEPRAC, and so the next Saturday night, they snuck to the Mulberry Lane gate with a pair of bolt cutters.

She clearly found the whole thing highly amusing as she held the flashlight while Lockwood struggled with the cutters.

"So...why do you want to start your own agency? Fittes and Rotwell not good enough for you?"

He struggled to catch his breath before responding. "I...I always preferred doing things my way."

"You mean the illegal way?"

"The efficient way."

They snickered quietly in the dead of the night, and with one last heave, he snapped the iron chain clean apart. Lockwood slipped inside and, with a little difficulty, helped her through. She could still make out their surroundings well enough, but in a place as infested as Mulberry Lane, it was safer to err on the side of caution.

After a few weeks of researching by day and breaking into Mulberry Lane by night, they found the Source - a dandelion whose seeds had drifted into the gardens of the other houses. Of course, they weren't about to start looking for individual dandelion seeds, but with a little bit of acid, Mulberry Lane was soon Visitor-free. Lockwood revelled in the following explosion of media attention and, upon resubmitting the application with not one but two members listed, Lockwood & Co. was finally registered under DEPRAC as an official agency.

He remembered having some photographs taken for some publication during their fifteen minutes of fame. She was sitting on a stool with Lockwood standing behind her, and they kept nervously whispering to each other between the shots.

"This is it," he muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

"What?"

"The start of the rest of our lives."

"God, you're so dramatic."

"And you're not being dramatic enough. Wasn't all this...stolen from you?"

"I never asked for it in the first place."

"This is basically your birthright."

"Lockwood."

And then they got told off for chattering away again. They sobered up and fell silent, but not before Lockwood placed a hand on her shoulder. She briefly brushed against his knuckles with her fingertips, and that shot ended up being published as the cover of the publication's issue for the month.

The media frenzy had sent hordes of applicants their way, and to celebrate the successful launch of the agency Lockwood decided to throw a party at Portland Row. He was wandering around the house in his usual button-down folded at the elbow, weaving through the crowds as he peered into the rooms looking for Y/N while being stopped and congratulated by nearly every attendee. He finally found her in the study, at his desk, reading the case journal they had started for the Mulberry Lane hauntings.

With some effort, he slipped inside, a pair of champagne flutes in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other. She looked up and pushed some papers aside as he set the glasses down and uncorked the bottle. They clinked their glasses together before taking a sip, silently toasting to one another, the muffled hubbub outside the door feeling miles away.

"So," she started after her first sip, "between the champagne and the party, do you have any money left from what DEPRAC gave you?"

Lockwood chose to respond by taking another, longer sip. Once he had finished, he conveniently changed the subject.

"Speaking of DEPRAC, I haven't finalised the agency name yet. I was thinking...Lockwood & L/N?"

A piece of her heart breaks as soon as he utters those words. Dread pools in her stomach like acid. She closes the journal and sets it aside.

"Lockwood...I only wanted to help you get your agency off the ground - which, by the way, congratulations. But you don't need me anymore. You have much more reliable agents lining up at your door."

"Do you possibly think I could trust any of them as much as you?"

"I-I'm only going to be a burden." She feels hot tears behind her eyes as the pressure in her chest builds. "You deserve agents who can at least See fine."

He puts his champagne down, frowning. "But there wouldn't be any agency without you. Really, Y/N, don't be daft - what's mine is yours."

She stares at him for a beat and, despite her better judgement, caves. She doesn't say how she doesn't want some diluted, only half-there version of herself lingering on like some stench of formaldehyde in her father's old taxidermy workshop.

"Fine. I'll stay, but only if you keep my name out - I've had enough attention for a lifetime."

Thus, Lockwood & Co. was born. Over time, they took on two new employees, George Karim and Lucy Carlyle. The media followed along on their larger cases: half malice, half morbid fascination. In their downtime, they worked together to fashion a pair of special goggles for Y/N to make her Sight more receptive to supernatural triggers. It was still nowhere as sharp as it once was, but it was enough for her to no longer be solely reliant on the others. Not only did it help Y/N, but it also gave Lockwood greater peace of mind on the cases he had to sit out when his migraines were unmanageable.

As Lucy and George had soon learnt, Lockwood suffered from chronic migraines, which raged on unaffected by the prescriptions Y/N had to practically shove down his throat. While he refused to go for regular tiresome check-ups, he would reluctantly have a lie-down on evenings when the pounding in his head grew too strong. 

He'd shuffle to the living room as the rest of them were heading out, carefully bundled up, and fall into a fitful, drowsy sleep until they returned. He'd listen to them quietly taking their equipment down into the basement, and Y/N would creep in to see how he was doing. He'd ask how the case went, she'd try to take his temperature, and if he was looking especially poorly, she'd press her icy cold hands onto his clammy forehead. In short, life wasn't perfect, but it wasn't terrible, and that was all they could have asked for.

If anyone were to have asked Lucy or George when it had all started to go downhill, they would have pointed to the bet with Kipps. She had been finalising some paperwork with Saunders while Lockwood had provoked Kipps into a bet, and no one had bothered to mention it until she forced it out of George the next day. If the muffled argument from the kitchen was any indication, the revelation hadn't gone over well, and they spent the rest of their day roaming around with faces like thunder. The squabble lasted a couple of days, during which she threatened and begged him to call off the bet, which he adamantly refused. She waited to broach the subject again until George and Lucy had gone to bed and it was just the two of them in the study, Lockwood sitting on the floor leaning against the armchair she had snuggled into.

"What if you lose? What if something goes wrong?"

"I won't lose because I'm the better agent."

"You realise this bet is in no way an indication of your actual skills, right? This is just some pissing contest to stroke both of your overinflated egos."

"Why? You know Kipps?"

"I was on his team for a while, yes. We've talked, but not much. My point is, you're acting like a child."

"I can't exactly back out now. Kipps would be a git about it...and people would talk."

"I thought you didn't care about what people thought."

"Of course I care. It'd be foolish not to."

She opened her mouth to retort but he cut her off, lightly resting his hand on her ghost-patterned sock.

"Just...trust me. Please?"

Again, against her better judgement, she relented and uncharacteristically dropped the topic, biting back her words as she watched Lockwood desperately scramble to make headway in the case over the next couple of days. Things finally came to a head one evening when he, dizzy with lack of sleep, slammed his head into a concrete arch, luckily escaping with only a gash through the eyebrow. 

She sat him down at one of the corners of the kitchen table, first aid kit to the side as she disinfected the wound. Now that his fall had sobered him up enough to dilute his manic adrenaline spree, he was starting to feel a little ashamed. He hissed in pain as his head jerked back with her insistently pressing the antiseptic into the wound, perhaps a little harsher than was entirely necessary. He blinked through his watery eyes as he tried to break the awkward silence with his raspy voice.

"Uh, do you think...stitches?" 

She manhandled his head into a few different angles before responding, her voice ominously clear of any emotion. "You'll survive."

The embarrassment was washing over him in waves now. He hadn't felt this vulnerable or stupid since Jessica's death.

"I'm sorry."

She sighed, discarded the cotton and started dressing the wound slowly, almost thoughtfully. "You don't need to apologise to me. If anything, you owe yourself an apology. That looked like it hurt."

He grimaced, then relaxed into the cold, soothing ointment she was delicately applying.

"I don't know what's gotten into you lately. Or maybe you've always been this competitive." She slipped her free hand into one of his as if holding on for support while her knees buckled underneath her. "But you're going to get yourself killed."

 He folded his fingers over hers reassuringly. Her hand twisted anxiously, clumsily clutching a few of his fingers. It reminded Lockwood of how she had fumbled for his hand on their first night together at Mulberry Lane, all those months back.

"I need you to understand that I can't have it all happen again." Lockwood stared at their entangled fingers in his lap, her fingertips raw and tinged with pink. She had never opened up about the tragedies, and as he sat there, listening to her ill-disguised shaky breaths, he finally understood why. "It was - there isn't a night I don't relive it. My family...they said I was so strong to go through all of that. But I don't think I'm strong enough to go through it one last time."

But it was too little too late. Whatever boulder Fate had rolled in their direction had started to pick up speed, and was dangerously close. Less than nineteen hours later, Y/N L/N walked out of Portland Row and out of Lockwood & Co., for good.

Kipps was nothing if not a strategist, and when news reached that Lockwood & Co. was now down one member, he sent the media hounds close behind them. The front porch of Portland Row became a breeding ground for oily reporters sticking their microphones out into their faces if any of them so much as went out to collect the mail. At her old apartment two streets down, Y/N dealt with a similar infestation the same way she did the first time - dressing inconspicuously, keeping her head down and praying it would all be over sooner rather than later.

She drifted through the days with a nauseating kind of hollowness. She couldn't remember what she had been living for before Lockwood, and all that consumed her were thoughts of how it ached to be missing some phantom limb. Her partner in crime. Her best friend.

Eventually, she pulled herself together enough to make a trip to the grocery store. As soon as she entered, she regretted not making some kind of list beforehand as she aimlessly wandered through the aisles, struggling to think of something as mundane as what to fuel her body with.

"Y/N?"

She flinched badly, before turning to see two old acquaintances from Fittes. They had a short lighthearted chat, all of them ignoring the elephant in the room as they made small talk, until one of them could no longer hold themselves back.

"You know," Isla began in her sharp, piercing voice of hers, "I read the darnedest thing in the papers the other day. Said you left this agency...Look-wood & Co.?"

She gave a pained smile. "You know, you shouldn't believe everything you read."

"Oh. So it's not true?"

"No, it's...yes. I've left."

"Why?"

Her friend not-so-subtly elbowed Isla in the side. Immediately, her face started feeling too hot, and she didn't know how to tear her eyes away from Isla's sinister smile of derision.

Come one, come all.

She felt vilified, commodified into some grotesque circus show for the sadistic, satisfied smiles of everyone else. Just as much of a spectacle as she was all those years ago.

It's happening again.

Look at them. Safe, and assured, and happy. It was revolting. They didn't understand an ounce of what she went through, they never would. 

And all anyone wants to know is...

After today they would go home to their other friends and family and smugly recount the battered, fragile mess they ran into that afternoon, sick with glee as they described the aimless circles she wore into the floors, a pathetic husk of the agent she once was.

...how did it end?

"What? It's one thing to leave one agency. But then two, and now three? It's enough to make people t-"

Her friend finally dragged Isla away, scolding under her breath. Isla rolled her eyes as she was taken away, calling out in a peeved voice. "Enjoy your orange juice!"

Y/N stared blankly after her, trying to put two and two together until she glanced down at the weathered carton of orange juice she was holding. Orange juice with pulp, the kind she had swiped up so many times before, half-distracted while trying to stop Lockwood from running them broke over the many little treats lining the aisles.

She stares at the carton and decides that she just might spend the rest of her life reeling from the loss of his undeniable warmth.

As luck would have it, they did meet again, though it was in less than favourable circumstances.

"You're still working on the case?"

She spun around from where she had been fiddling with the lock to Bickerstaff's mansion. She shielded her eyes from the flashlight aggressively assaulting her retinas, until a harsher version of the Lockwood she remembered came into view.

He held out his flashlight until she reluctantly accepted it, holding it in place while he pulled out that same pair of wire cutters. She sighed, deciding it would be impolite to give him the silent treatment when he was going through all this effort. 

"I freelance now."

"No, I mean, you're working on the case..." With a final loud crack, the chain slithered down the door, now useless. "...alone?"

He tentatively pushed the door open while she exaggeratedly strapped on her goggles with more than a little attitude, making a big show of avoiding his gaze. It was almost enough to make him crack a smile.

"Big talk from someone who nearly got himself killed by Winkman."

If he noticed the sour resentment hidden in his voice, he didn't let on.

"Oh. You heard."

"Of course I heard. Where the hell was Lucy? Or George? Did you even tell them where you were?"

"For the record, I never told you where I was all the time."

"Oh please, you'd just awkwardly stand around all guilty until I forced you to spit it out."

He groaned. "Can't we save this for later?"

"Later? In case it's slipped your mind, I'm not going home with you after tonight." She pulled out her small cloth bag of iron filings, shouldering past Lockwood. "I'm conducting my psychical investigation myself."

"You're being stubborn."

She ripped the goggles off her head painfully, hurling them straight at Lockwood. "So what if I am? I've been biding my time for the past month, closing one eye as I watched you make the worst choices possible. When is it going to be my turn to make bad decisions? I'm done making allowances for you, Lockwood. I'm...exhausted."

She turned away, walking straight into the mansion, blind as a bat. Too blind to see what was right in front of her.

"Wait. Y/N, please, don't - NO!"

His scream echoed like a warning through the rafters. Her dying wish was finally realised. Never again would she have to go through anything like that.

After a short call from Inspector Barnes, Lucy and George hurried down to the hospital with their hearts in their throats, terrified of what awaited them. They felt a rush of relief when they found him sitting outside one of the rooms, face blank and blanched, seemingly unharmed. But that same dread returned when they noticed the goggles he was weakly holding onto. Like he barely had the strength to hold on for much longer. No Source. No Y/N. 

Two weeks later at the funeral, he was standing at the podium, eyes glazed over while he read some media-friendly statement handed to him half a minute earlier. How it happened? Like walking through an icy waterfall. How was he alive? He didn't know. How it ended? The same way it began. He felt numb to the invasive camera flashes, save for an occasional stab of irritation. Even now, they salivated for any and every nugget of information. Would they never let her rest?

Come one, come all.

He was distantly aware that George and Lucy were somewhere in the front row, but at that moment he wished for nothing more than for her to be at his side, holding his hand and holding him up. It reminded him of the night before his parents' funeral when he stayed up all night wishing that Jessica would be there in the morning, ready with a hug to wash away this terrible dream. And yet, twelve years later, he stands there just as alone as he was the first time.

It's happening again.

Her last words echo hollowly inside her skull - not the ones at Bickerstaff's mansion, but from before she walked out of his life. They had got into some stupid fight about some stupid thing, and she had mentioned that all this was enough to make her want to leave, and he had seen red.

"Why? Because of Kipps? The bet?"

"Why don't you figure it out yourself since you're just so bloody brilliant, huh?"

And all anyone wants to know is...

It wasn't like her to be that angry. That was his doing. He had enraged her and pushed her to her very limits until she had finally snapped. Perhaps that was his punishment, a precursor to eternal damnation - living with this disfigured memory of his own doing.

...how did it end?

As he neared the end of his speech, he finally looked up from the script, and for a moment he thought his heart had stopped. There, at the very back of their hastily rearranged living room, was Y/N, or a translucent version of her, at least. It was nearly mid-morning, as was evident by her highly faded image, but he could still faintly make out what she was aggressively mouthing towards him. Tell them. Tell them the truth.

Too late; he's been frozen in fear long enough to imply he's finished his speech. After a light smattering of applause, foreign journalists and executives Y/N once worked with start coming up to him, shaking his hand, and giving him a reassuring pat on the back. All the while, Lockwood stares transfixed at the quickly disappearing shadow at the back of the room, ugly with rage. Coward, she yells with some invisible voice. Fucking coward.

He keeps her spirit in the walls of 35 Portland Row, perhaps because it's the only home either of them has ever known. Maybe one day he'll be strong enough to let her go, and maybe once he does, he'll hate himself for having even held on in the first place. But for now, he chooses to be selfish.

One last time.

TAGLIST: @neewtmas @midnight--raine @ahead-fullofdreams @mitskiswift99 @ell0ra-br3kk3r @houseoftwistedspirits @elenianag080 @mohinithoughts @avdiobliss @snoopyluver20 @mischivana @dangelnleif

[aziraphales-library]

hi guys! just want to start off by saying you are incredible and i am so grateful for this library.

do you know if any frenemies to lovers fics at all? i’ve recently read Camping with your Frenemy: It's F***ing Intense by IneffableMcMuffin and it was so good

thanks again!

You can check our #enemies to lovers, #enemies to friends to lovers and #friends to lovers tags for fics you may enjoy. Here are some more along the lines of rivals to lovers...

The Golden Lion by CrentTrimm (E)

Aziraphale, a privateer in the King's Navy, meets an old rival in Port Royal, and their exchange ends in a hasty tussle in a back alley.

Gods in the Gaslight by Anti_kate & rfsmiley (T)

A mysterious rival and a ghost from the past threaten Fell's magical career.

The Devil's in the Flowers by jjgremlinson (M)

For the last eleven years, A.Z. Fell’s Fantastic Flowers has provided quality bouquets and services to the people of London. Whether it’s weddings or funerals, lovesickness or heartbreak, Aziraphale can find the perfect flower for you. But when Crowley’s Flowers, Houseplants, and Other Assorted Leafy Green Things opens up across the street, everything starts to change—and Aziraphale will be damned if he’s going to let this no-good, profit-hungry Crowley steal all his business. (Or, the one where Aziraphale and Crowley are rival florists working in the same neighborhood).

Would I Lie to You? by FeralTuxedo & TawnyOwl95 (E)

Anthony Crowley and Aziraphale Fell are rival team captains on popular comedy panel show Don't Lie To Me, where they exchange insults and banter to an audience of millions. But behind the scenes, a whole other game of truth and lies is being played. A comedy panel show AU

Angel Face with a Taste for Suicidal by Lor_Lupin (E)

When Crowley spots his replacement on his former band for the first time, he doesn't expect the man to push him against a wall but he's not complaining. The Fallen and Flaming Swords, two rival struggling punk bands, hold a grudge against each other and spend more time fighting and performing crass pranks than actually composing songs. Crowley is hurt, Aziraphale is new, a lot of flirting ensues. INEFFABLE HUSBANDS AS HUMAN PUNK BASS PLAYERS. Inspired by the looks of Peter Vincent in Fright Night and Thorne in Laws of Attraction.

Actuarial Risk by doomed_spectacles (M)

A. Z. Fell, principle salesman for Silver City Financial, never paid much attention to his company's main competition, Fourth Circle, LLC. That is, until he met Anthony Crowley. When the rivalry between their respective head offices heats up, they make an arrangement both know is unsustainable. A rival salesman AU with hijinks, fluff, misunderstandings, and a happy ending.

And the one you mentioned...

Camping with your Frenemy: It's F***ing Intense by IneffableMcMuffin (E)

Silly little romp featuring bitchy Aziraphale and Crowley's hips which are incapable of being untruthful.

- Mod D

[archiveikemen]

Liam Evans Main Story: Chapter 25 (Crazy Love)

This is a fan-made translation solely for entertainment purposes with no guaranteed perfection. I do not own any of the original content. Please support CYBIRD by buying their stories and playing their games. Reblogs appreciated.

❥･• Warnings and FAQ

If life was a fairytale, it’d be easy to be happy.

As long as you refrain from “doing the wrong things”. For example…

Entering a forest that’s off limits, opening a door you shouldn’t, knowing a forbidden secret, and—

…

Kate: Thank you so much for the help you’ve given me all this time.

Colleague: I’m going to be so lonely without you here. But I’ll always be hoping for your success. Take care, Kate.

My colleagues bid me farewell after I told them that I would continue my service to the imperial court.

I reassured them that there were amazing people at the court, and working there would be like a promotion.

They were delighted to hear that. But had I told them what my new job truly entailed and who I was living with, their response would definitely be much different.

At least, that was me a month ago.

I said goodbye to the post office that smelled like ink and walked away, wiping away the small feeling of loneliness.

…

London, the capital of England, was the world’s most prosperous city under the reign of Her Majesty Queen Victoria.

Everyone lived their lives by their own desires, and today was no different.

In a corner of the street, I spotted a poster of my lover.

(Ah… it’s a poster of Liam.)

The poster announced the performance of a new play at The Scala called “The Hunchback of Notre-Dame”, with Liam starring as the main character.

And the premiere was tonight.

— Today, I’m lying to Liam about one thing.

Liam was unaware that I was going to watch the play.

(Liam got me tickets for the closing show, but I bought myself tickets to the premiere without telling him.)

(As a big fan of theatre, of course I have to secure tickets for myself!)

(Also…)

Liam was always gifting me bouquets of flowers, so I wanted to surprise him tonight by buying him flowers too.

(Fufufu, I hope I can give him a surprise.)

…

I went to a flower shop in the ever so lively Leadenhall Market to choose flowers for Liam.

(What kind of flowers should I get him? There's Gerbera, Cosmos… Ah.)

Amongst the various flowers on display, I found some modern roses that resembled the colour of Liam’s hair.

Modern roses were the flowers Liam often gifted me.

(... Yep, I’ve decided. I’ll go with these.)

Kate: Excuse me. Could you kindly put these modern roses into a bouquet for me, please?

Florist: Sure! These flowers are pretty rare and we don't always have them in stock. You’re very lucky.

Florist: By the way, did you know that modern roses have a very wonderful meaning in flower language?

Kate: No… what do they mean?

Florist: Modern roses signify “gratitude”. For example, you’re grateful to have met someone.

(“I’m grateful that I met you”.)

(I don’t think I’ve ever said that to Liam.)

– Flashback Start –

Kate: Thank you so much, Liam. I’ll be sure to cherish them well, so that they’ll keep blooming for a long time.

Kate: If I display them by my room’s window, they’ll definitely bring a smile to my face tomorrow morning…

Liam: If flowers can make you smile every morning, then I’ll give you however many flowers you want!

– Flashback End –

Ever since we met, Liam has gifted me countless bouquets of flowers that signify “gratitude”.

(What was Liam feeling each time he gifted me those flowers?)

(Has Liam… ever received such beautiful flowers from anyone?)

Throughout his life, there was probably not a single person who celebrated his existence.

Liam was physically and mentally wounded, to the point where he felt hopeless and wanted to give up on himself.

But I believed that Liam possessed a pure heart that cherished the people around him dearly.

It must've been so painful for him to live in such a cruel world with that kind heart.

I wished that he would throw his kindness away instead of bear the burden of his pain and suffering, but that was definitely not the kind of person Liam was.

(I can’t turn back time, but I can still express it to him from now on.)

(From now on, I’ll tell him often how grateful I am for him.)

(I’ll continue celebrating his existence.)

…

Seated close to the seats on the first floor of the theatre, I watched the curtains rise for “The Hunchback of Notre-Dame”.

– Flashback Start –

Tom: Liam, overcome your struggles. After “Hamlet”, play the role of Quasimodo in “The Hunchback of Notre-Dame”.

– Flashback End –

Just like he promised to that day, Liam portrayed himself as Quasimodo and overcame all odds as him.

Quasimodo (Liam): “This world I live in can be so cruel that there are times I want to look away from it, abandon it… and even stop living.”

Quasimodo (Liam): “But, even so… I have to keep on living!”

Quasimodo (Liam): “Until the day this heart stops beating…!”

The final lines were followed by an atmosphere so silent you could hear a water droplet fall.

— One second, two seconds, three seconds.

Then came a roar of non-stop thunderous applause.

I stood up from my seat and clapped for Liam as he stood under the spotlight during the curtain call.

(Ah… he shines so bright. So, very, bright.)

His graceful bow towards the audience made him look like a beautiful star people longed for, but I knew that my hands could touch that star.

Curly Haired Lady: … *sniffle*

Freckled Lady: Goodness, why are you crying? … *sniffle* I’m crying too. Something feels different about Liam, don't you think?

Curly Haired Lady: … Yeah. I can’t really say it well… but he seems much happier than before.

Hearing the voices of Liam’s passionate fans made my lips relax into a smile.

(Ah…)

My eyes met Liam’s from afar.

Liam: :D

(H-He noticed me.)

Liam flashed me a broad smile when he saw me, and winked at me.

Liam: ;)

Curly Haired Lady: Kya! H-He just…! Liam just winked at me!

Freckled Lady: Y-You fool! Liam winked at me! ME!

Curly Haired Lady: Nooo, me! Liam~! I love you!

Freckled Lady: Not fair! I love you too…!

Liam: :0

Liam: Haha.

…

One of the theatre members told me to wait for Liam on stage, and so I stood there on the empty stage after all the audience had left the theatre.

The spotlight above was so bright, I involuntarily squinted my eyes.

(... With a light this bright, there’s no escaping from or hiding anything.)

Whether it's in the light or in the pitch darkness, there was no such thing as remaining completely unharmed.

Sometimes, life can be so cruel that we feel like throwing it away.

Liam: Kate.

Kate: … Liam.

Despite that, I never want to let go of this miracle — every moment when our eyes meet, when we're breathing together, and when my heart races with excitement at the sight of him.

However embarrassing it may be, I held tightly onto even the tiniest bits of hope, wanting to live.

Until the day darkness comes for us.

Standing face to face with each other, I held out the bouquet I had hidden behind my back to my lover.

Kate: Congratulations on the premiere, Liam! Also…

Kate: Thank you for being alive.

Liam: T-These flowers…

Liam: … Haha. … It’s my first time hearing someone thank me for being alive.

Liam awkwardly accepted the bouquet.

— He smiled with genuine joy.

Kate: I didn't expect you to see me from the stage. I wanted to surprise you.

Liam: These eyes were made to look for you.

Liam: By the way, what were you looking at just now?

Kate: I was looking at the spotlight. It’s so bright.

Liam: When you lie down here and look up — it’s even brighter.

Liam laid down on the floor and patted his side, motioning me to lie down next to him.

Following him, I joined him on the floor under the bright spotlight.

(Woah…)

Kate: The lights kind of look like the stars in the sky, don't they?

Liam: … Yeah, I know.

Liam: Hey, Kate… do you know of this saying?

Liam: The moment you get to a place where the stars are within an arm’s reach, you’ll find it difficult to breathe. Within seconds, you’ll be on your way to heaven.

Liam: I don’t really understand, but for some reason it’s just always in my head.

I found myself staring at Liam’s profile as he spoke.

Kate: … If you could go to that place where you could touch the stars, would you want to?

Liam: If I could touch the stars… huh.

Liam reached a hand towards the spotlights hanging from the ceiling.

Liam: Even now, I still long to touch something as beautiful as the stars.

I recalled the day when he told me that everything apart from himself was beautiful.

Liam: But…

He pulled me close with an outstretched arm, firmly holding my shoulder.

Liam: Right now, however dirty or ashamed I feel… I much prefer being able to touch you like this.

Liam: I always will.

Liam: Perhaps, this way, I’ll always be happy.

As Liam spoke with a soft smile—

I leaned in and gave him a gentle kiss on the neck.

Liam: … It tickles.

Liam just living on with a beating heart was enough for me to see him as the most beautiful person in the world, like the brightest star in the sky; and yet, he would most likely spend the rest of his life refusing to acknowledge his beauty and wishing to become a star while carrying the burden of his permanent scars.

(Even if you never realise how beautiful you are, I’ll always stay by your side and watch over you.)

Liam: I wonder what tomorrow will bring.

Liam: I don't know what will happen, but I think it’d be nice to have you with me…

Liam: I hope that you’ll have me in your eyes tomorrow too…

Kate: What are you talking about…? I’ll always be waiting for you to spend our tomorrows together, until you get sick of it.

Liam: Then… let’s be together until the very last second of our lives.

Liam: Ahh, I’m looking forward to tomorrow…

Enveloped by the light that resembled the stars in the sky, we waited for our tomorrow to come.

Our hearts beating together.

[gorbalsvampire]

we only come out at night (v:tm city meta, 3/?)

Published World of Darkness material is of... varying usefulness, when you put your city together. Sometimes, your city will have a By Night sourcebook, and a lot of top down design will be done for you, but you'll have to build up from your PCs to do that. Sometimes, your city will have a paragraph or page in something else: you'll know that the Prince of Manchester is named Charles Shawlands, is a seventh generation Ventrue, and rules over a damp and gloomy domain that gets more attention from Changeling writers than Vampire ones.

And that's the way, uh huh, uh huh, I like it.

worked example: building your Prince

I usually start by rattling through the history of the city at surface level. looking for hooks. In this case: Manchester wasn't really a city that warranted a Prince or a Kindred population until the late eighteenth/early nineteenth century, so it's likely that the first Kindred to have settled there ended up Prince by default.

I wanted to roll with an older Prince than I had last time, due to game circumstances. I'm building Manchester for a one or at most two shot game for my sister-in-law and her husbando, and a chronicle for my D&D group, which includes a complete newcomer who's drifted in off LAbN. As such, I want a classic Prince; Ventrue, conservative, and old/powerful/authoritative enough to be scary, but not older than the Camarilla.

When I was looking around on the ol' Wikipedium, I found that Manchester had been a manorial township and, during the Interregnum, was seat to a major-general (a military governor) who achieved a lot for the Parliamentarian cause... but died young. And his name was Charles. He'll do.

So. Embraced 1656, possibly in London. Probably returned home after the Restoration, and squirrelled himself away as an isolated neonate in a backwater domain that abruptly grew a hundred years later, when our man was catapulted to praxis and did well enough at it.

worked example: choosing your Rack

When I studied in Manchester, on and off for three years, I spent a lot of time on Oxford Road. The top end of that fine, bustling, deathtrap-for-cyclists thoroughfare is home to the Gothic Victorian heartland of the University of Manchester, the sprawling postmodern village of Manchester Metropolitan, and the plate-glass elegance of the Royal Northern College of Music.

Where there are students, there is drinking, and underneath the elevated tracks and platform of Oxford Road station, you will find four boozers: the Thirsty Scholar, the Zombie Shack, the Salisbury and the Grand Central. It's an ideal spot for a thirsty Kindred to hang out at the start of a night.

Dead opposite, however, there's the magnificent Refuge Assurance Building, now home to a gallery, restaurant, florist, hotel (in the clocktower). Brick and terracotta, red as a scar, early Victorian grandeur. Architecture of heft and presence. Grade II listed. Room 261 and a back stairway of the hotel are said to be haunted (child ghosts and a suicidal widow). Screams Ventrue.

So, that's the Rack. I don't know if Shawlands resides up there himself, but his Keeper or Sheriff certainly do: some public official who's as high-and-mighty as the hoi polloi playables are ever likely to meet. Someone who needs to keep an eye on the feeding grounds over the road, and pull the occasional wayward little Kindred up for a chat. Maybe this Ventrue has a feeding restriction to do with scholars; maybe it's all a red herring.

Oxford Road doesn't appear on the map I assembled last week; it sits between the Gay Village and Castlefield, not a formal domain that's been granted to anyone, just there.

If I hadn't known about Manchester from first hand experience, I'd probably have started by looking at listed buildings, concentrations of night life, or specifically looking up the districts. Like, say...

worked example: making a domain

NOMA? Never heard of it. Oh, North Manchester. This is like BoJo or RiRi, isn't it? Something annoying invented by journalists, or something-in-marketings. The former Co-Operative buildings sit at the heart of a massive new development, centred on Angel Square, and its No. 1 building - a giant sliced egg shape in glass and steel.

There's a lot of money being ploughed into what was, when I first lived in Manchester, a run-down area (and I've stayed in some right shiteholes further north still). A few ideas suggest themselves for this area.

Second Inquisition (the sourcebook) pitches Gentrifiers as a hunter archetype, using redevelopments like this to undermine the general state of decay favoured by the Kindred. If my players want to go Anarch, it's tempting to site them on the top side of the city, and have their extant domains be whittled away by these Projects with Money behind them that are outside context problems for the Kindred as a whole.

Alternatively, we could give the Anarchs a leg up for a change; give them Angel Square as their crown jewel, a new domain for the new power, contrasting against the weathered Victorian establishment of the Camarilla in the south. They'd need a bankroll, of course. A Kindred of extraordinary wealth and dynamic vision. What has the Anarch movement recently gained that's lending these qualities as vital infrastructure? The Ministry. And a property developer Setite would be a nice change from the usual smut peddler nightclub owner writhing pliant yearning bodies blah blah blah get an imagination. Hubris, ambition, greed, even an element of the gambler's fallacy in investment. Angel Square - a new Eden, with the Serpents at its heart.

Do that for every district on the Central map, come up with either a single Kindred or a Coterie Type who's doing their thing in that domain, remember to leave space for the players...

... oh yeah, space for the players. Next time, we'll break out my handouts: the player packet and domain guides I like to assemble at the start of a chronicle.

[pinksugarscrub]

Heartstrings

Hobie Brown x Black Cat! fem! reader

Recap: Before, you hated the constant lessons. English, math, science. All centered around culture and the history of man. It was unbearable until…it wasn’t. Until you saw him. His voice cracking as he sang and his fingers missing every other chord on his borrowed guitar.  That’s when you finally understood what she meant.  Art, is freedom.

Part(s) 1, 2, ???

Word count: 1k+ (figured I should give y'all a warning)

London’s Black Cat was infamous. The name was etched into billboards, posters, buildings—you name it. But they never really piqued Hobie’s interest. Sure, they defiled government property like any good rebel would but their pieces weren’t really his style.

Usually softer and centered around nature. It wasn’t until he overheard a conversation between locals (more specifically the florist who lived on Eton Avenue) that he re-evaluated his thought process. Apparently, flowers had a language. A secret code.

Irises were a symbol of hope but Begonias? Begonias a warning and aloe vera a sign of grief. Who knew plants could be so...intense. Right?

The artist was trying to be subtle. Hobie could respect that. Not everyone had the privilege of being bitten by a radioactive spider.

The more messages he decoded--- courtesy of the little blue book titled 'botany' webbed to his side---the more he wanted to find them. The Black Cat. He was going to go crazy if he didn't! But whether he asked as Hobie Brown or Spiderman, no one knew who you were. What you looked like. Your real name.

No one ever witnessed their escapades. The only evidence she or he ever left behind (aside from colorful depictions of life) was money. In the form of actual physical cash or banned books and records. Things only the rich and powerful owned. Knew about.

It almost felt like- no, it was a wild goose chase. But it was the only solid lead he had on something else that had been pestering him for a while.

For months now, mostly during his impromptu shows. He was always finding things. Like guitar strings, picks, and on occasion, food. In the oddest places too. His guitar case, the pockets of his jackets and vests.

He had to find them. He had to know if it was them looking out for him the way he did for the rest of the city.

He just didn’t expect it to be today and for her, to be so… feisty. You truly did live up to the name.

“What do you want with me?” You repeat.

Hobie grins, biting on his cheek to hold back his almost comical giggles. “What makes you think I want to do something bad to you love? I could have if I wanted to y’know? Back turned to me and all.”

His eyes rake your form and you seem to tense even more at his words and before he’s realized it you have him falling for you. Quite literally. You’ve swiped your leg under his but before he can hit the ground you catch him by the fabric of his suit. So much for a Spider-sense, right?

Wrong.

Hobie’s elated once he’s realized one simple thing. You don’t intend to hurt him. After such a public display of strength he has no doubt you could snap him like a twig if you wanted to but, you don’t. (Well, not really considering he can lift a car without breaking so much as a sweat but that’s beside the point-)

“How long have you been watching me?” You hiss.

“You gonna keep asking questions darling? Because if you haven’t noticed-” Hobie motions to your arm with his chin,“-You can’t keep this up for much longer.”

And he’s right. Your arm is shaking because damn if this isn’t the heaviest man you’ve held over the edge of a building. What makes matters worse is that he seems to be enjoying this and you’re not sure how much more social interaction you can take.

You should really carry a gun around or something. Unloaded of course. You’re not an animal.

Without a second thought, you tug him forward and he stumbles but you think it’s mostly for your benefit so your ego isn’t crushed. He is six-foot tall boy? No... his voice is too deep for that.

You sigh, stalking over to your bag and with a quick swipe of your hand it’s over your shoulder. “If you’re just going to waste my time I’m leaving.” With a mock bow of your head, arm outstretched. You begin to turn back. Already grumbling under your breath when an irritating voice interrupts.

“Forgetting something love?”

It takes everything within you not to just jump off the building. Slowly, you look over your shoulder and you pale under your hood.

Hobie meanwhile is entertained by how pissed off he seems to make you every five seconds. He shakes the blue envelope in his hand. Bringing it to his ear, or where it should be. You can't tell with the mask. “So where do you get all em’ riches hm?”

“You must be pretty smart to be robbing coppers.” He laughs as you lunge for the cash. Easily holding it over your head. “Or maybe even the president.” Enunciating the ‘t’ so his lips made a popping sound.

“Give it back!” You cry. Jumping to reach his elbow and tug it down. “Dumb Spider- how does anyone put up with you!"

“Quite well I’d say.”

He is unfazed by this constant movement while you’re left panting. Your breath hitting below his neck as you’re too short to reach his face. Then it happens.

You don’t know whether to toss the poor sod off or melt because he’s holding you so gently you feel like a feather. It occurs to you it’s been a long time since you’ve hugged someone and when was the last time someone looked so deeply into your eyes?

Hobie’s voice is a low whisper when he repeats his earlier phrase ‘cat got your tongue’. His fingers brush against the line of your jaw and you feel your heart lurch in your chest.

Your goggles are tinted but he can make out the faint outline of your eyes. He starts to wonder if you would be terribly upset with him if he just...slipped them off.

“Oi!”

You snap out of your daze and direct your attention downward to see the familiar shade of blue of an officer. A "keeper of the peace".

“Well shi-”

You don’t give either of the two in your company time to think as you strategically drop a can of paint which then explodes into a collision of colors.

Hobie lets out a few choice words as pink paint splatters on his vest.

-

When Hobie gets home, or to the place he currently calls home, he’s exhausted. Cursing under his breath as he shrugs off his ruined denim vest. The pins clacking against his makeshift table.

“Bloody cat,” he huffs. Striping his mask off like it's toxic and tossing it on top of his growing pile. His lips so wide in a grin his neighbors would think him insane.

He whistles as he passes by the kitchen (if you can even call it that). Fliers for his next gig strewn about the counter. “Ay Reggie, where are you boy?”

A tiny patter of feet is the only indication said beast heard him. As Hobie waits for him to appear he begins sifting through the mess of papers to try and find that coupon for Joe’s pizza. He doesn't support capitalism but Joe doesn't charge him a cent so is it truly fueling the unjust financial system of Oscorp? The coupon is just for the sake of appearances. No one else knows of his contributions to the rebellion.

He feels a nudge to his leg and when he turns he’s greeted with Reginald aka Reggie. “There you are! Where you been hiding hm?” He chuckles as he scratches behind the beagle’s ear.

Reggie slowly blinks before sauntering off. The studded collar around his neck jingling in addition to the silver tag at the center.

“And where do you think you’re going?” He shrugs to no one in particular before following behind the old dog. Pushing off the counter with a curious look. He stops short as Reggie abruptly turns back. Arching his brow at him before he catches sight of the envelope in his mouth. A blue envelope.

“Well I’ll be damned…” Bending down he takes the envelope from Reggie with his jaw dropped. Sifting through the thick wad of cash with his thumb. Exhaling through his nose before looking back down at Reggie. "This is enough to buy us that boat cross' town."

His shock turns into glee as his mind catches up with him. "She knows me," he laughs. "She knows Hobie Brown."

He jumps up excitedly as he throws the cash onto the counter. Lifting Reggie up as he eyes the fliers with a newfound vigor. The set date practically popping out of the pages. "Silly girl doesn't know what she's gotten herself into. I'm going to find her again and when I do-"

Reggie yawns as he watches Hobie cackle like a madman.

[possibilistfanfiction]

For the one word prompt: allergic

[a small bea & lil (platonic) backstory for tattoo artist/florist au]

//

'so let me make sure i understand you correctly,' you say, trying your best to seem unaffected and annoyed in front of both beatrice's and your parents in beatrice's childhood dining room. everything is austere and the back of your neck prickles in discomfort, years and years of it; you remind yourself to not fidget. 'you want me to, what? fly to oregon —' admittedly, an offense on beatrice's part — 'and... kidnap beatrice back to england?'

'stop being so dramatic,' your mother says, rolling her eyes. 'beatrice needs to come home. she's passing up a job in parliament to go choose to live a sinful lifestyle —'

'fine,' you say, just to stop where you know that would inevitably end up. admittedly, you do think beatrice is running away from, like, every single one of her issues, but you've never been good at talking to each other, and, anyway, no one has ever been able to force beatrice to do anything, especially not you. you doubt it'll start now. 'just send me the flight and hotel info.'

'you leave later tonight.'

'a red eye.' you resist the urge to groan. 'great.'

/

begrudgingly, portland is beautiful — green and lush and quiet for a city its size, the river meandering through its middle, all the bridges and fast-moving clouds on a relatively clear day, a barely-there warmth in the sun that signals the beginnings of real spring. you watch it all go by on your way from the airport to the address beatrice's parents had somehow found — you don't even want to know how; better to leave well enough alone, you've learned — and when you arrive at a small house, navy blue with a red door, a neatly kept pollinator garden in the front, you park your car and allow yourself to acknowledge that, well, it's kind of cute. the sun is sinking beneath the hills across the river and a chill is moving in, but the air is fresh.

you smooth down your hair, try to fix any wrinkles in your shirt, which is, of course, both fruitless and unnecessary as soon as you get out and put your favorite leather jacket on. honestly, you don't even know if beatrice is home, but there's a practical, small hybrid suv in the driveway, and you're pretty sure if you texted or called her that you'd been sent to fetch her back to london by both sets of your parents, she'd never see you. you pocket your phone and keys and walk up the little stone path to the small porch, then knock on the door. you wait while you hear some shuffling on the other side, and then it takes you a few moments to process that beatrice is standing in front of you.

apparently, her too, because she stands perfectly still for some seconds before, 'lilith?'

you take her in fully, because you can: her hair is short now, buzzed on the sides and back, swept back on the top, neat and dark, and you can see part of a tattoo on her forearm from under the soft, loose sweater she's wearing, pushed up to her elbows. she has on casual pants — navy, still well-tailored in a way you expect from her, cropped at the ankles — and blundstones, like she's getting ready to go somewhere. 'it's been, what, ten days? you're really assimilating quickly,' you say, even though you regret it as it's happening. her face goes from surprised to stormy, one you know all too well.

'piss off,' she says, and starts to close the door, but you stick your arm out and she glares but — thankfully, because she could — doesn't slam it in your face. 'if you came to convince me to go back to london, it's not going to work.'

'can you let me inside?'

she waits a beat but then sighs, still glowering, but steps aside. 'i have to leave in seven minutes.'

'hot date?'

the blush that creeps up from her chest, beneath her sweater, and spreads along her cheeks, to the tips of her ears, is also new.

'oh.'

she crosses her arms over her chest, an unspoken dare. you look around at the house: it's small, but it's been remodeled and has a beautiful open floor plan, marble countertops and a big fridge, a comfortable couch and a big tv, all warm woods and easy greens and rich oranges, mirroring the world outside. 'this is yours?'

she clenches her jaw. 'yes.'

'look,' you say, processing the fact that beatrice has apparently also purchased a house here, and hold up your hands, palms toward the ceiling. 'i come in peace.'

'there's about a 100% chance you're here at the bidding of my parents.'

'they want you to come back home, yes.'

she rolls her eyes. 'i'm an adult.'

you're twenty-seven, and beatrice is a year and a half younger than you, so that's sort of debatable, but it's not worth the argument you see written all over her posture, her stiff shoulders and ramrod straight spine, the set of her feet, ready to get into a fight. 'transparently, they did send me here with the purpose of convincing you to come back to london and do your parliament thing.'

she huffs and turns toward the kitchen and motions for you to follow; she opens the fridge and takes out two beer cans, opens them and hands one to you. a local west coast ipa, you take note of. 'no pint glasses?'

'like i said, i have to leave soon.'

'fair enough.' you lift yours in an offer for a salute — an offer of peace, more than anything — and she clinks hers with a resigned little expression, takes a long sip before putting her can down on the counter and leaning toward you.

'you know i'm not going back.'

'i do,' you say; you always had. 'mostly i wanted to see that you were, you know —'

'okay?'

it's kinder than anything that would've come out of your mouth in the moment, a hint of affection seeping in. 'sure.'

'i'm doing great.'

'clearly.'

she frowns, takes another drink. 'if you really believe all of our parents' bigoted —'

'beatrice.' she stills where she'd started to pace. 'you know that i don't. i just don't understand why you can't be a lesbian at home.'

beatrice tips her head back. 'of course you understand,' she says, more intense than you had expected. 'maybe not about being gay specifically, although, whatever, we can get into your proclivities later —'

'bea —'

'but — don't you want to have your own life?'

'you think, what, moving halfway around the world, with no warning, to help run some farm, is — '

'— is what, lilith?'

you feel yourself deflate; you take a sip of your beer because there are tears starting to burn at the corner of your eyes.

'it's a permaculture project — part science, part local politics, part business. it's a good opportunity.' she stills, glances at the time on her phone. 'and, even if it wasn't, i just — you know as well as anyone how suffocating our families are.'

you can't quite look at her yet — her sincere, golden eyes and serious frown, her freckles, things you've known since you were children whenever she was explaining something that hurt, something that mattered — but you nod. 'it's been ten days, beatrice. and you're already —' you swallow, a hurt silence sitting in the air, heavy and swarming.

but beatrice has always been braver than you. 'i need to breathe, lil. it was killing me.'

'you and your fucking flowers,' you say after you're able to gather yourself enough that you're fairly certain you won't cry. thankfully — full of more grace that you have ever been — beatrice grants you a laugh.

'why don't you stay with me,' she offers after a silence when you can't bring yourself to say anything more. 'i have a spare bedroom, and, lil —'

you reach out and squeeze her hand. 'please don't say anything.'

'just because you're allergic to any kind of affection —'

'fine.'

'yes?'

'yes.'

a smile blooms on her face that makes caving far too quickly — you want to breathe too, so badly — much more bearable. 'okay, well, i shouldn't be too late. there's leftover vietnamese food in the fridge if you're hungry, and i recorded the arsenal match from earlier.'

'plying me with katie mccabe?'

'well, i didn't know you would be failing at kidnapping me today.' she rinses out her beer can and puts it carefully in the recycling. 'kismet, if you will.'

you roll your eyes while she grabs a camel wool peacoat — one she's worn for years now, gorgeous and an inexplicable comfort, that she still has it — and then carefully pulls a pale blue beanie on. you gesture helplessly toward, well, whatever this aesthetic is. 'do you feel like, well, you?'

her smile softens. 'i think so.' she shrugs. 'more than i ever have before, at least.'

'well, i won't wait up, and i don't want to know any details.'

'it's a first date, lilith.'

'are these walls soundproof?'

'goodbye,' she says, but there's amusement in her tone and, before she leaves fully, she turns and strides back toward you and wraps you in a hug. 'i'm glad you're here.'

'me too, beatrice.' you hold onto her a moment longer than you normally would. 'she hot?'

she backs up and smacks you on the shoulder.

'have fun, bea.'

she nods. 'i'll text you when i'm headed home.'

[justapoet]

hearts don't break around here

There were flowers on her desk. It was a random Wednesday morning, she had just greeted Bleta and some other workers ‘good morning’, and there were flowers on her desk. A whole, entire, huge bouquet of red— Somethings. She had no idea what flowers those were. Worse: she had no idea how they were there to begin with. Or, Percy is a florist that seems to see the world through the colors that he sees everyday — bright, different and slightly utopic. Annabeth, an overly serious architect that works just across a lovely flowershop, and doesn't really look for the beauty around her world and outside her office's walls. When she starts receiving flowers out of nowhere, with notes signed only with an initial, her biggest plan is to figure out who could possibly be sending them. What she doesn't know is that all she has to do is look out the window.

read it on Ao3

The hostile atmosphere of the city of New York was almost palpable for anyone used to being or living there, hardly masked by the illusion of tourists fascinated by every old building lost among mirrored skyscrapers. The cloudy skies that stretched over people's heads and the cold, albeit gentle, breeze shattered the fantasy that the most famous city in the country could be as welcoming as in the films.

It was fun when one stopped to analyze everything that people have been told and what actually happens when you're there to see it. The hostile climate of New York, or the strange cold that surrounds London; perhaps how pleasant it would be to arrive in any city in Latin America, or the tranquil and strangely cultured air in Amsterdam — and how different it can all be when one switches perspectives.

It was fascinating, in fact, how things are put together in such different ways when placed in the same place. How the old buildings gave off a nostalgic air, more because of the strange feeling that they would soon disappear than because of the amount of time they had stood, or how the newer constructions seemed to carry with them an air of boredom and stress more than any possibility of a well-designed future. Fascinating, and rather hopeless.

Or perhaps the boredom belonged not to the city, but to those who lived in it at a rapid pace, with no time to admire anything other than their own misery or unhappiness. People who walk with their heads down, dragging their feet or marching towards what brings them the tragedy in which they sink daily, ignoring the landscape and cursing anyone who stops to do so.

Whatever was the case, the hostile climate was present at every sunrise as the icy gloom was replaced by warm rays wandering through the blinds that enveloped the wide glass windows of a silent office. Although the sun was up early, breaking the dawn, the grey fog that would sometimes take over the entire urban territory still masked its discreet presence for a few hours, cutting through the atmosphere as the city began to come alive again.

On the dark surface of the rough wooden desk, the faint rays of sun flickered in the reflection of the jug of water, and highlighted the white of organized stacks of sheets of paper. A laptop, two pens and a triangular gold plaque also shone against the light, and the silence was absolute against the noise of the cars, buses and a whole society outside the wide, mirrored building.

Absolute, except for the light, brief snores that cut through the air on the other side of the spacious office.

Covering almost the entire room, a fluffy grey carpet stretched under the desk, only to be interrupted a little further on, next to the immense glass wall from where the city of New York didn't appear so dense. The city itself, however, was hidden behind long white curtains of light, diaphanous fabric, the daylight timidly penetrating the mostly dark environment.

Just before them, a set of armchairs and a sofa in the same shade of grey were elegantly positioned around a round coffee table with a translucent glass top that supported a neatly folded jacket and an equally neat engraving on top of it. Next to the table, on the floor, a pair of black dress shoes rested perfectly aligned, and the only thing seemingly out of place was the woman stretched out on the couch.

One of her arms was over her face, covering her eyes to protect them from the daylight. Her hand hung beside her head, turned uncomfortably away from the windows, her nose almost wedged between the backrest and the seat, and her other arm was folded, hand flat over her stomach, partially trapped between two buttons of her white button shirt.

Her chest rose and fell rhythmically, and her lips parted to mumble something that tried to sound like sentences. The shirt was wrinkled, as were the black trousers, and only one of her feet was covered by a white sock — that also seemed to be about to come off at any movement of her feet. The brown braids of her hair were disorganized and seemingly tangled, making an exquisite contrast with the surroundings.

A few more soft snores sounded in the air until they were interrupted by the double wooden door being opened from the outside, followed by the low click of the lock clicking back into place and soft footsteps, which stopped after no more than two soft ‘knocks’ and were accompanied by a sigh. The next moment, the footsteps sounded again against the floor across the room, only to cease again when near the couch.

“You're the most depressing situation I've ever seen,” a male voice sounded, and the figure stretched out on the sofa jerked upwards in fright. Her brown eyes looked around hurriedly, shoulders tense, and the weight of her torso being lifted by her arms, until her pupils caught sight of the person speaking. She relaxed one more time.

The woman grunted, and the man rolled his eyes.

“What time is it?” she asked, bringing her hands to her eyes and rubbing them over the eyelids.

“Too early to come to work and too late to go home,’ the man replied, sighing and turning round to face the arm of the furniture. “You do remember that you have a house and a bed, don't you? Because I didn't spend hours hopping from shopping center to shopping center so that you'd simply forget that you have at least six pillows, Annabeth.”

The woman laughed softly, yawning and throwing her legs over so that they rested against the tiled floor.

“For starters,” Annabeth retorted, stretching one of her arms above her head. “We spent hours in shopping centers because you wanted to find God-knows-what to put in the living room, Grover. Besides,” she groaned, facing her friend. “Yes, I know.”

Annabeth stood up, putting her hands on her lower back and stretching her muscles, grunting before exhaling in relief. Grover rolled his eyes again.

“And what goes on in your head that you decide to sleep on the couch in your office?” he asked, arching one of his eyebrows. Annabeth shrugged briefly and sat down once more.

“Work,” she replied. “And a surprising laziness to drive anywhere,” she frowned, and Grover shook his head in denial. “Besides, Oliott called.”

Grover raised both eyebrows this time.

“Again?” he asked, his voice surprised and disbelieving. Annabeth nodded. “God, that man is unbelievable,” he continued, crossing his arms in front of his chest and shaking his head.

Annabeth sighed, nodding.

“Tell me about it,” she said. “Can’t really blame him, though. I, too, would be desperate if I bought illegal land in protected territory and needed someone to build in it so I won’t go to jail.”

Grover snorted, suppressing a smile, and shook his head.

“Hope he’ll rot, fucking asshole,” he grumbled. “What did you say?”

Annabeth threw her body backwards, leaning back on the couch and leaning her head on the cushioned backrest.

She sighed again.

“The same thing as the other eight times,” she replied. “That we, first, don’t make business with criminals as a firm; second, I don’t design for assholes as a person. And that we don’t have space in schedule whatsoever to take any more projects.”

“We don’t?” Grover asked. Annabeth smiled mischievously, turning her head and resting her ear against the cushion of the furniture.

“We do,” she mumbled, voice filled with childish playfulness, and Grover laughed at how juvenile his friend sounded. “But he doesn't know that. Or he does, but it doesn't matter anyway,” she shrugged. “Can’t wait to turn on the news and see him being arrested.”

Annabeth yawned, then, long and trying to somehow muffle it. Grover, who had been sitting over the arm of the couch, stood up and straightened himself before turning towards the architect, arms crossed over his chest and one of his eyebrows arched in judgement.

“Get up,” he said, and Annabeth — who hadn’t noticed closing her eyes for a second or more after yawning —, stared at him with clear confusion on her face. When she spoke again, another yawn threatened to leave along her words.

“What for?” she asked.

Grover simply rolled his eyes.

“If you don't sleep in your own bed, do you really think I expect you to look after yourself?” Grover argued, and Annabeth waggled her eyebrows and nodded briefly, agreeing. “Come on, get moving. I’m buying you breakfast.”

Annabeth snorted, and Grover walked round to the back of the sofa once more, standing in line with his friend’s head, only to land a light slap near his ear. Annabeth exclaimed in surprise and cursed quietly, laughing softly before getting up and picking up the jacket from the coffee table.

Grover, who was already near the door, waited for Annabeth to approach and grabbed the handle, opening the door and holding it for her to pass through. She, trying to knot the small bow in her shirt while still tripping over her shoes, took long enough so the man would huff and snatch her hands from the failed attempts and claim she needed to breathe, anyway, so she could deal with it later.

Annabeth laughed, following him to the elevators.

[…]

         Large urban centers rarely had places that hide from the eyes of passers-byes. Everything was too clear, too crowded, too big — things were always extremely visible, and there were always too many things to be seen, to be heard, to be noticed and talked about.

New York was no different, and perhaps was quite too much that stereotype that Hollywood had established globally. Huge shops with bright signs, crowded shop windows and people who were surprisingly not bewildered by so much information; the city was just a huge anthill of people who were desperate, consumerist, bored or all three, in some cases.

There was a narrow side street, however, between two corners — one with a huge Starbucks shop and the other with a bank — which apparently hadn't been overwhelmed by chaos or huge lights. There, simpler shops with vintage content such as vinyl, comics or clothes that didn’t completely care about following the current strange branding, as well as two restaurants and a cozy coffee shop adorned the weathered pavements. In the center, from one of the pavements, one could access a park that was usually empty.

The café faced the park. Its white façade with sash windows and double wooden doors already indicated the comfort that the bright surroundings gave off, the extensive shelves with books only adding to the cozy impression that spread throughout the place. At the back, where a bay window with light cushions made the café even more inviting, was Annabeth’s favorite place to be whenever she found her way there.

Grover and she had discovered the café a few years before, trying to find somewhere they could study without the chaos outside and the noise of the city driving them crazy or completely out of concentration. She would take her drafts and sketches while Grover took his books and notes — and they wouldn’t speak, simply basking in each other’s company and, more often than not, ordering more coffee than anyone should ever consume in a span of eight hours.

         They’d given up the last café they had thought would be a good idea after the fights in the kitchen got too loud and would catch their attention more than whatever they needed to focus on. Sure, Annabeth and Grover loved to know about the chaos — a cheating husband and a best friend and something involving purple dresses, when they last went there —, but, at the time, their finals were nearing and they needed a saving grace.

After a wrong turn, they spotted the façade, which at the time was an aqua green color, and placed one last bet on the place. It was late afternoon, and the orange of the setting sun — and urban pollution — reflected in the windows and accentuated the warm lamps inside the uncrowded and seemingly perfect establishment.

After that day, when they met River, Nicholas and Naomi, who worked there, the two of them decided that it was the right place for them to meet and, since then, that little café — which, honestly, none of them can remember ever asking what it was called — has become one of the best places in the world for unwinding and spending time with a good book.

With time shorter and shorter for them to be there as more than a passage to get coffee, the pair tried to make most of the occasions in which their schedule wouldn’t get in the way of enjoying each other’s company. Sometimes Juniper, Grover’s fiancée, would join them, as would Thalia, one of their best friends. River, Nick and Naomi — who were teenagers fresh into sophomore year when they first met — would also join the conversations whenever they could.

When Grover dragged Annabeth out of the firm, she already knew where they were going, and dropped her jacket on her friend’s car instead of putting it on as she usually did. The man had removed his jacket on the way, while humming any song on the radio and commenting on any news — gossip, if Annabeth was being honest — that was going round the building's departments.

Nicholas greeted them as they entered the cafeteria, always with his animated face that looked like it belonged to someone who hadn't slept in days and said that he would take care of their usual orders — with a little treat on the house, since they were the first customers of the day, as it was usually the case. The pair thanked him, walked to the back of the establishment and took their seats around one of the round tables, the one in front of the bay window.

It was a pleasant view, as the property extended a little further into a small yard surrounded by live fences and various flowers, always well looked after. There were a few tables dotted around, as well as ottomans surrounding lower tables, and the atmosphere was something straight out of a publisher’s portfolio. The hedge divided the café from a costume shop — old, she knew — and a vinyl record shop that Annabeth could not deny having fallen in love with at first sight.

Just a couple of minutes later, Nicholas returned with their favorite coffees on a tray and a smile on his face — for no reason, as the pair knew after so many years. Grover fidgeted in his chair, eager for his first caffeine fix of the day, and Annabeth simply shook her head with a soft giggle.

“A double espresso for you, sir, and a flat white for the beautiful lady,” Nicholas announced, changing his voice to a falsely dismissive tone as he spoke to Grover, and gently tapping his saucer against the table, only to turn to Annabeth, speak with false pomposity and then bend down to place the order in front of the woman.

Annabeth chuckled, and Grover simply rolled his eyes.

“One of these days, I'm going to rat you out to your manager, kid,” Grover grumbled, bringing his cup to his lips and holding back a groan of satisfaction when the strong drink came into contact with his tongue. Nicholas' smile widened, and Annabeth gestured with her hand as if to say that it was just an empty threat.

“Oh, yes; of course,’ Nicholas said, mockingly. “You love me, Grover. You should stop denying it to yourself,” he said, followed by a wink, and Annabeth pressed her lips together not to laugh.

“There's nothing to deny if what you say are lies,” Grover shrugged, and Nicholas made a false expression of offence. “Besides, I've never denied that River has always been my favorite,” he mocked, and Nicholas frowned in fake indignation.

Annabeth took another sip of her drink. And before the waiter could reply, she spoke:

“Where is River, by the way, Nico?” she asked. “You always arrive together,” she pointed out, and Nicholas made a move to tuck the tray under his arm, smiling with satisfaction at whatever he was going to say next.

“Belgium,” he replied, and Annabeth stopped the cup in mid-air, halfway to her lips. Grover straightened his back and narrowed his eyes, while Nicholas just shrugged. “Or on a train on the way to Belgium; I don't know the exact situation.”

“Belgium,” Grover said. “As in the country? In Europe?”

Nicholas nodded happily. Annabeth cleared her throat.

“And since when is River in Belgium?” the architect asked. “Why is he in Belgium on a Thursday morning when we saw him yesterday afternoon?” she frowned.

“Has he finally realized that the world isn't so big when you have money?” Grover asked, also with arched eyebrows.

Nicholas simply shrugged.

“About your question,” Nicholas pointed at Annabeth with his head. “Since last night, apparently. About yours,” he pointed at Grover in the same way. “I think the answer goes together with her other question. The world is definitely not as big when you have money and that, in a way, makes it easier when you want to run away,” he shrugged again, his animated tone faltering a little.

They knew River well enough to know what it was all about. And Annabeth personally understood all too well why the boy had taken a ticket to Belgium in the middle of the night.

“It took him longer than I thought it would, for him to do something like that,” Annabeth said, her eyes downcast, staring at the drawing in the foam of her cup. The two men agreed in silence. “And let's be clear that I'm referring to running away from those two as much as filling that pocket with money and going anywhere in the world. Although, frankly, I always thought he was going to take a boat,” she joked, lightening the mood in the room.

“I think we can all agree on that,” Grover said. “I've never seen anyone so insistent that packing up and travelling around the continent wasn't the best thing to do on a gap year. I'm glad he gave it a chance.”

Nicholas squeaked in amusement.

“Tell me about it,” he agreed. “I nearly put him on a plane myself. Imagine having the world in the palm of your hand and spending your days in a lost coffee shop in the middle of New York! I mean, he can do the most incredible things on this trip! See the Colosseum, the Louvre, the Parthenon, that hooped thing in Warsaw-

“Segovia Aqueduct,” Annabeth interrupted, and Nicholas chose to ignore her.

“... Pantheon, Arc de Triomphe, Eiffel Tower...” Nicholas listed. “And along the way, he could meet the love of his life. Imagine that!”

Grover laughed.

“Why do I think you and Naomi bet on that?” he asked, and Nicholas smiled mischievously once again. “For God's sake, Nico! What are the chances of River simply bumping into the love of his life on a train to Belgium?!”

“There are!” Nicholas argued, and Grover laughed even harder. Annabeth followed, taking another sip of her coffee. “Hey, don't you even start. What were the chances of River travelling anyway? Even more so in the middle of a Wednesday?!”

Annabeth tilted her head slightly to either side, agreeing.

“Well, yeah. You might have a point,” she said, and Nicholas smiled. “And you also have access to food,” she smiled, amused. “And food is always a good idea, don't you think?” she suggested, and Nicholas rolled his eyes before turning in his feet and walking towards the counter and the kitchen.

Annabeth lifted her wrist to look at her watch, then picked up her cup again to take a little more of the drink. After a few minutes, the architect felt a pair of eyes burn into the side of her face. She turned her head around to find Grover, leaning back on his seat, his elbows resting on the window ledge, legs crossed and a look on his face that Annabeth honestly didn't know if she wanted to decipher.

“What's wrong?” she asked anyway. Grover arched one eyebrow again.

“When are you going to give yourself a chance?” he asked, his serious tone and frank countenance staring into the confused expression of his friend, whose frown deepened at the environmentalist’s words. “Just like the one you’re glad River gave himself.”

Annabeth squinted, a little because of confusion over the last sentence Grover had said and a little because of the context of the sentence itself. She also threw his body back, leaning against the comfortable cushion, but leaving her head raised so that she could face the man in front of her.

“I like New York,” she said, as if that were some kind of explanation. “And I've lived alone for years, which frees me from any River-like motives.”

Grover rolled his eyes and grunted.

“You know very well what I mean,” he said, and Annabeth cocked her head to one side. Her friend sighed again. “You live for work, Annabeth, for God's sake. When was the last time you agreed to go out with anyone? Or by yourself?”

“Now?” she asked, pointing her finger at the table, and Grover bit his tongue. “Grover, I'm the director of the firm. I sort of have to work a bit harder than the others, and you know that.”

Grover nodded, but his pose remained the same.

“Oh. ‘A little’, you say. I'd like to emphasize it, then. You've been abusing any hyperbole or augmentation for years,” he retorted. “And it's not just going out with me, Annabeth. When was the last time you had a decent night's sleep in your own bed? Or the last night you even went to bed?”

The architect opened her mouth to say something, but Grover didn't let her speak before taking the floor again.

“When was the last time you left the house without a suit? Or the last time you, I don't know, met someone who wasn't a client?” he asked, and Annabeth chose to close her mouth. “Annie, when was the last time you ever flirted with someone?”

At the last question, Annabeth frowned again. Grover arched his eyebrows again, tilting his head slightly to one side and waving his foot in the air under the table where his legs were crossed.

“And what does that have to do with anything?” she asked, and Grover just sighed loudly, shaking his head. “What does it have to do with anything? I’m serious!”

The man sighed.

“I know! That's even worse,” he pointed out, raising his hands in exasperation. “Do you plan to spend your whole life being miserable and lonely and solving other people's problems?”

Annabeth opened her mouth in indignation, and Grover just lifted his chin, his lips twisting in defiance.

“Ouch,” Annabeth said, placing one hand over her chest. “I'm not miserable, G-Man.”

And if she pouted, Annabeth would deny it completely.

“Hm,” Grover muttered before reaching into his bag and slipping his hand inside, taking out his mobile phone and unlocking it. Annabeth frowned again, alternating her gaze between the man’s face and the mobile phone he was skillfully typing on until he smiled briefly and cleared his throat. “Hm. ‘Miserable’. Adjective and noun of two genders: ‘who or that which, by its misfortune, arouses compassion’,” he recited, and Annabeth sighed briefly before crossing her arms over her chest, too. “There's even a picture!” Grover exclaimed.

Grover turned the mobile phone towards Annabeth, and it took her a few seconds to notice that her friend had switched it off and there was only the black screen reflecting her twisted, confused face. The man had a proud, smug smile on his face, and Annabeth just snorted before pushing Grover’s arm to get the mobile phone out of her face.

“You think you're hilarious, don't you?” Annabeth asked, and Grover nodded in agreement. “And despite your blatant offence towards me, I appreciate your concern, but I don't need any advice. I’m fine, Grover,” she said, his tone serious and extremely formal.

“I know you are, I can see that,” he said. “But being fine doesn't cancel out being miserable, Annie. Come on, haven't you ever wanted to fall in love with someone? I know you have. We grew up together,” Grover said, and Annabeth settled a little further into her seat. “To be given flowers, to smile for no reason, to have someone to hug or to tell unfunny jokes to?”

Annabeth mumbled something, but spoke again before Grover asked.

“Doesn't that sound too cliché? Sugary?” she asked, and Grover just shrugged.

“Love has been love since the world was a world, Annabeth. It may sound repetitive in theory, because it is the theory,” he argued. “What really changes is that you're the one feeling it.”

She arched an eyebrow. And chose not to comment on the poetics, given the smile so sincere on Grover’s lips — thinking of Juniper, she knew, because the glimmer in his eyes was quite obvious.

         “And what's so special about that?” she retorted, and her friend merely repeated her previous gesture, but leaned forward to reach for his cup again.

“Love is a universal concept, but this one anyone could call their own,” he said. “Which, you must admit, is quite something,” he sipped his drink. Annabeth just shrugged, imitating her friend and picking up her cup as Nicholas returned from the kitchen with another tray, spouting words that the two of them were still too slow to decipher.

As she ate the slice of cake Nicholas had brought — and I'm sorry it took so long, but I forgot to make it part of the sweet display and I really don't need to be sacked now, so close to my first semester of Med School — Annabeth pondered some of Grover’s words.

Smiling for no reason? It sounded merely silly. Having someone to hug? Sometimes... It would be nice, but it also sounded too trivial to have at the cost of a possible heart. Telling unfunny jokes? Isn't that what she's in that friendship for starters?

And to receive flowers?

Annabeth laughed to herself.

It was too sweet — and the hope was too foolish — for it to ever happen to her.

“I don’t even know why you brought ‘falling in love’ up, Grover,” she said, then, suddenly. Her friend took his time to savor the piece he was taking to his mouth and ignored her for a minute before swallowing.

“Because I saw your face when Nico joked about River finding love in a train, dipshit. I know you better than you know yourself.”

And she didn’t know how say anything back to him, because there was no way she could deny it, either. Tragically, Annabeth hated to admit, she was a romantic — and she would often daydream of meeting someone and being enchanted and going through every single cliché on the book.

She shook her head, ridding it of the stupid thoughts, and focused on her cake again.

As they left the café to return to the firm, Annabeth left the conversation, her thoughts and unfounded hopes hanging on the glass of the bay window, hoping that the wind or the passing of people would blow them away.

[…]

         Sometimes, he believed New York was quiet for the big city it undoubtedly was.

         Of course, there were lights and noise, and people walked around in their own misery all the time — but it was calmer, from where he stood, because the anguish didn't seem to be constantly in the spotlight. There were more trees here and there, and one could hear the birds every morning, as well as dogs barking and whatever it was that seemed to be screaming when the sun comes up.

         The streets, at least the newer ones, were wide and full of lights, and were crowded as the daylight shone down on them, penetrating through the clouds and shining on the buildings — but quietened down as the moonlight began to replace the golden glow with a pale, soft glow. Things seemed to get a little quieter, and the pace would slow down significantly, making it seem as if the great city had had the courage to fall asleep.

         The New York he lived was quiet for a big city; it was.

         It was the first thing that crossed his mind whenever he woke up in the morning or in the middle of the night, and one could hear the crickets sharpening the silence around the streets. If he tried hard enough, he would be able to hear the sleeping city itself, a few cars and motorcycles from time to time, some owls hiding from the remaining lights of the streetlamps.

         It was a feeling he had forgotten he could ever feel — if he ever had, because growing up in central New York takes away most of the sense of silence. It was soothing, most of the time, and it helped whenever he couldn't fall asleep after a busy, hellish or chaotic day.

         Because, even if New York was quiet for a big city, he could count on his fingers the number of slow days he'd managed since work had started again.

         And wasn’t it surprising when one worked at a flower shop?

         Switching on his cell phone, then, Percy kept a quick pace out of his house, the headphones now loud in his ears and his eyes straying to the hour on the screen once more. He sighed, and his fingers tightened the strap of his bag over his shoulder, his feet moving a little faster.

         And, because his New York was quiet for a big city, it was easy to dodge the crowds as he walked through the people occupying the streets. The sidewalks were long and, although crowded, there were far fewer people than Times Square when it was summer or the very end of the year.

         The drier weather, however, was something Percy still longed to get along with ever since he had mover further from the coast — Montauk, where he spent so much of his childhood and had yet to see for a few years, now. While the streets of New York were crowded and always in motion, the coast always had a gentle breeze every now and then, passing over people's heads and through their clothes as they walked in the shadows of the buildings made. The heat seeped in, the sun being reflected by gigantic buildings, which left the air humid, almost sandy.

         The very core of New York, on the other hand, was not hot, but dry — and Percy should have gotten used to it by now, but his muscles always felt uncomfortable, his nose often ran, and his brain would most likely stop working when the clouds declared a truce.

         Juniper would always make fun of him, as would his mother — but sometimes she also faced the same problems with the cold and drier weather. And then Paul would make fun of her, because someone who did grow up in central New York shouldn’t be so unused to its weather, regardless of how many years she’d spent on the coast.

         Those were funny interactions — except for the time Percy nearly had an asthma crisis, and his father nearly snatched him to Greece just for good measure (with his mother’s permission, that was) — that made him laugh every time he remembered them, especially on the way to the flower shop, not far from his apartment but not exactly near it either. Percy held his breath whenever a funny comment came to mind, so as not to look completely crazy while laughing in the middle of the street, especially when he was half-running to where he needed to be.

         In less than fifteen minutes — running and bumping into a few people — Percy was already able to see the mirrored building opposite the flower shop. The building, an architecture office, was a huge construction with large windows and busy people, although he never paid it any attention. The flowers and the people were better to look at than a skyscraper with ties and walking headaches.

         Apart from that, the architects and engineers who worked there rarely stopped their busy day to talk to anyone — and Percy could swear he'd never heard any of their voices in his entire life. Overall, he could understand; the firm was always bustling with clients and he supposed that being stressed was just a direct consequence of it.

         But he doubted it to be completely true even more after meeting Grover, who was more of an angel than a real person.

         The point was that he had met him before, through Juniper’s stories, the sighs of love and the moon eyes at the mere mention of her fiancé. In later conversations, the shop’s team discovered that he was an environmentalist and worked at New York’s newest influential architecture firm — which wasn't exactly a surprise, as Juniper talked about him as if he were Superman.

         And Percy, although he worked at the shop his entire life, never paid enough attention to see either Grover or Juniper entering or leaving the mirrored building. Neither of them did pay attention to the flower shop, either, and it was a funny Tuesday morning when Grover entered the store only to bump into Percy’s presence behind the counter.

         The environmentalist was leaving the mirrored building early and walked to the flower shop as soon as Juniper let him know she was there. It was flattering how he smiled, and even more so how his comment about how much he had heard about Percy gave away how much Juniper cared about him and the whole team — but the florist couldn't help seeing the woman nearly explode in embarrassment when he offered Grover an entire bouquet.

         The man’s ears turned red, and Percy believes that was the moment they decided to be best friends.

         Ever since they met, then, on Tuesdays, Grover would show up with or without Juniper — the days she didn’t work —, just to chat or keep Percy some company when he wasn't buried up to her neck in piles of paper and work and stress. Sometimes he would talk about how crazy things were, or how much his best friend, who worked with him, could annoy the life out of him — and Percy would doubt it, of course, because Grover had the patience of an angel and a mocking tone in his voice while he pretended to hate whoever she was.

         It was one of Percy’s favorite friendships, if he was honest. Of course, it wasn't rare or difficult for Grover to be someone's favorite person — Juniper herself was the most obvious example — but it was a delightful experience to know and feel that he was also one of his dearest friends.

         But about the mirrored building, that was all Harry knew — Grover. And some of the gossip that went around, of course. Like how Hawks cheated on Bernardez with his superior, Minelli, and still refused to admit that he wasn't one hundred percent heterosexual. Or even how Mendes got angry and broke a few things when Levesque was promoted in his place.

Percy didn't know any of them, but it was particularly amusing to hear Grover tell him with such a conspiratorial tone in his voice. It brightened up his days and got him out of his own head sometimes.

Which was always useful, of course.

Taking the last few steps to the store and slowing down, Percy smiled as he approached the horizontal white wooden fence with vertical black metal bars, stepping onto the wooden walkway that crossed the well-tended garden. Percy tightened the grip on the strap of his backpack, looking around and waving to a couple sitting at one of the tables before stepping through the doors into the cooler atmosphere.

The large windows around the wooden walls gave the flower shop a comforting clarity, and the sophisticated building seemed cozy with all the flowers around it. The arrangement of the tables, the frames, the bouquets, the lights and how warm the whole place seemed — even with the air conditioning on — made it Percy’s favorite place in the whole world.

It was a friendly and danger-free environment, as if nothing outside it could reach anyone inside. The flowers seemed to be a reminder of how much beauty the world could hold, and sometimes being there was all he needed for the tightness in his chest to ease.

“Ma?” he called out, walking up to the counter. Harry put his bag on a coat rack while he still didn't go to his own locker, also picking up the apron he had hung up the day before.

As soon as the apron was around his neck and waist, an older woman came out from behind one of the wooden walls in the middle of the flower shop, with a small flower in a small vase in her hands and a fond smile on her face. Percy arched an eyebrow, a small smile on his face too, and waited for her to notice him.

Sally Jackson was a lovely woman, someone who seemed much younger than she actually was. The only wrinkles on her face were scars of smiles through time, and the kindness of her expression would fool anyone to how much pain the world could hold — and that was something Percy grew up admiring and looking up to. His mother would always have a smile to offer and advice to share with her flowers and whoever needed to hear it, and her arms were the most welcoming place for anyone to ever step into.

The flower shop was practically her home, although Percy obviously knew that Sally didn't live there — anyone could be fooled, considering that she never seemed to leave. She always seemed to be at peace as she strolled through the bouquets and flowers, and everything there seemed to revolve around the woman; the place felt like a safe haven, and the feeling of “home” hung in the air for anyone who wanted to breathe it in.

Percy always took a deep breath, then, and exhaled slowly each time his demons and the noise seemed to try to reach him. The mixed scent of all the flowers could be a little nauseating at first, but the contrast with some other citrus plants would make his lungs feel as fresh as if there was the purest oxygen passing through each of his pores. It was safe, welcoming and almost addictive.

And his mother didn’t ask questions when Percy seemed to breathe more deeply than necessary, and simply invited him to take a walk, taking him away from the throng of people coming in and the noise they carried. It had always been that way; she wouldn’t press on the hurtful matters, trusting him to come to her whenever he felt ready to — and how he loved that woman and everything about her nature.

Most of the time, the days at the flower shop passed the same way — a warm mist covering the dim, welcoming sunlit room, and one of them, lost in their own head, wandering around the flowers as if there were no evil within those walls. A smile would remain on both their faces, suddenly, for no reason, with no time to leave, and it would simply be easy to be there.

Sally kept walking to one of the display tables, but she didn't hear Percy’s greeting as she looked at the flower in her hands. The man arched an eyebrow, placing one of his elbows on the counter and pressing his hip against it, crossing his legs in front of each other as he stared at her.

Percy waited, and it took about three minutes for Sally to look around, searching for something. The man shook his head, stepping away from the counter and then stretching out his arm to reach one of the tools underneath it, on one of the shelves. When his hand reached the pliers, Percy walked closer to his mother, not bothering to call out to her, but just to place the tool closer.

“That’s it, that’s it,” she muttered to herself, accepting the pliers and not sparing a glance at her son, who swallowed a laugh and put his hands behind his back, watching curiously as she cut some branches and leaves from the plant's stalk.

“Which ones are those?” Percy asked, observing the yellow-brown flower that looked a lot like a sunflower in a strange way. Sally, who was concentrating on her task, only answered after a few minutes in silence.

“Gaillardias grandifloras,” she replied. “Also known as Spanish lace,” she said again, and Percy smiled a little at the new piece of information he had been offered.

“And what do they mean?” asked the man, and she let out a happy sigh at that question. It was almost a rule by now that any new flower would result in those two questions coming from Percy, and the flower shop owner couldn't say that it bothered her at all. If anything, it flattered her more than life — that her child grew up to remain as curious as he had been as a little kid.

“Modesty, charm, happiness,” his mother replied, and Percy smiled. “Joy of being together, too. It's a subtle option to give to friends or to that person you have a crush on and never dare say a word about,” she added, and a brief laugh escaped Percy’s lips.

“Not a problem I have, luckily,” Percy joked, shrugging softly.

“Yet,” Sally laughed, the sound soft and charming as Percy always remembered it to be. “I'm counting the days until you climb the walls and want to leave early because there's a pair of eyes you can't get out of your head,” she said, and Percy could only roll his eyes affectionately.

“Where did that come from, uh?” the curly-haired man asked, turning his body when the little bell on the door sounded and looking again at the woman next to him when the guest dismissed his help with a smile and a wave of one of his hands.

His mother, eyes so kind and smile so sweet — welcoming and proud and teasing when looking at him, as if, even if Percy was able to do wrong, there was nothing but goodness in his soul —, shrugged.

“I just have a good feeling, dear,” she decided to say “That love is in the air,” she nearly sung.

Percy arched his eyebrows again.

“Oh, really?” he asked. “And what makes you feel that way?” he wiggled his eyebrows, and Sally smiled, lifting the flower in her hands and smiling at it, ignoring Percy’s condescending look.

“The flowers, Percy,” she said, inhaling the sweet scent close to her nose. “All the flowers,” she added, and Percy couldn't help but smile along with her.

“Let's hope they listen, then,” the man said at last, turning once more as the bell rang again and a trio entered the store. The girl saw him, and Percy smiled, waiting for them to approach so that he could greet everyone. “And you should stop behaving this mystical. Soon enough you and Juniper will be hosting a summer camp to clean souls and vibes.”

“The flowers will listen,” she said. “And you act as if you wouldn’t be right in the middle of the summer camp trying to pretend that you’re the Lord of the Waters and can communicate with fish,” she added in a sharp, teasing voice, narrowing her eyes and causing Percy to stick out his tongue. “Insolent.”

Before he could vocalize his apologies, however — because he was a good son, excuse him —, his mother smiled, and the man just rolled his eyes, knowing then that it had been a joke; mostly.

Sally slapped his arm softly, and Percy took a few more steps, catching up with the group that had entered and stopping after a while. He smiled sweetly, but also frowned when he noticed one of the boys and the girl teasing their other friend, pointing at flowers, and then making a low joke that would give anyone the impression that the boy wanted to disappear.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” said Percy cordially, interrupting the group dynamic a little. “Can I help you today?” he offered, and the boy who was being teased swallowed dryly, clearly nervous about the florist’s presence there.

read the rest on Ao3

[slytherinlives]

I'm two years late to the party but here they are! The core four of my Legacy MC's. (there's two more but I wanted to focus on one from each house)

Kathryn Knight:

Kathryn is a half-blood witch who grew up in a small village in the countryside of France. Her mother Mary is a muggle florist and her father Theodore is a well respected auror within the wizarding community. For the first fifteen years of her life, Kathryn was considered to be non-magical by her father, knowing it was possible for children born of a muggle parent to not have magic. The summer she turned sixteen, Kathryn was helping her mother tend to their garden and got frustrated by a willow tree sapling not growing and a burst of magic flew from her fingertips, causing the tree to grow to full size. The incident caused gossip amongst the villagers and the Knight family moved to London, where she received her admittance letter to Hogwarts to start her fifth year.

You can read Kathryn's story here or here where you can follow along Kathryn's journey as she takes on her Seventh Year as a a Prefect, Hufflepuff Quidditch Seeker and the return of Sebastian and Anne Sallow as she tackles returning feelings and new mysteries.

(Sebastian x Kathryn romance)

(My other Hufflepuff MC Kallum Finchley makes cameo appearances as a beater for the Quidditch team, although he does not have the ancient magic ability for the sake of the story.)

Lyra and Lyle Grey:

Lyra and Lyle grew up in a whirlwind of life. Their mother Marlena uprooted them and their younger brother Luca from their home often, moving to various cities and countries and never staying in one place for too long.

Lyle is very protective of his twin sister, often scolding her for being reckless and putting herself in danger. He can be intimidating and stand-offish toward others, only showing warmth toward his siblings. Lyle loves learning new things and often holds the opposite view of his twin. He prefers to make calculated moves and often chooses more violent methods in a fight. Lyle is fiercely loyal to those he cares about but isn't afraid to be blunt and honest when needed.

Lyra thrives on new adventure and discoveries. She often gets herself into trouble due to her impulsive nature, which adds stress onto her twin brother. Lyra grew up as the only daughter in the family and her mother always scolded her for not being lady-like, often telling her she needed to behave more proper if she were to be wed one day. Lyra wants more for her life than a settled one, which puts her in conflict with her mother.

Their mother Marlena introduced a new fiancé to the twins that ended in a physical altercation, causing both of their magic to present as a means to protect the other.

You can read their story here or here as you follow along their journey of returning to Hogwarts for their sixth year, alongside their younger brother starting his first year. Lyra wants to learn more about the repository magic to help cure Anne Sallow, while her twin brother Lyle wants to open it as a means to protect his family.

(Eventual Sebastian x Lyra romance)

This is a multi pov story with most of the story taking place from Lyra's pov.

Jaina Cleary:

Jaina grew up in an orphanage with her older brother, who disappeared after his twelfth birthday. Jaina spent many years trying to find him but kept getting road blocked. She grew to be bitter and cold toward others and doesn't open up to them easily. Jaina isn't afraid to do what's necessary as opposed to what is right, which causes concern in others. Jaina is loyal to those she finds herself content with, and doesn't mind letting herself wind down and just be kid with them.

Jaina spent most of her life having to be a grown up and often gets annoyed by other children, but with her new friends at Hogwarts, she's slowly come to terms that it's okay for herself to be one sometimes too.

Her story is in the works, but may not come out for some time as I try to finish the others that I am way too behind on.

I hope you guys love them as much as I do <3

[thebibutterflyao3]

Day 13 - Prompt: Beauty @pandalilymicrofics

February Daily Series - 788 words

<<<Previous Part OR Start Here

Pandora wasn’t particularly interested in rejoining the group, but she reluctantly followed Lily back through the festival crowd. She also hadn’t realised how far she’d walked away from the food trucks. In her frustrated state, she’d power-walked to the opposite end of the path to where it forked. It wouldn’t have taken her long to get lost in this maze.

“How long will you be in town?” Lily asked.

“Just a few days. I needed to escape my family for a bit.”

“I can relate. You mentioned a brother, right?”

Pandora nodded, then grinned. “Evan. He was pretty annoyed with me for leaving him at home. I can’t say that I feel that bad about it though.”

“Are you close?” Lily slowed her pace as they worked their way past a group of giggling children. They were watching a dramatic retelling of a fairy tale that Pandora didn’t recognise.

“Yes, but mostly because Evan refuses to leave me be.”

Lily laughed and shook her head. “That sounds about right. I have a sister, but she’s exhausting to be around.”

“Older or younger?”

“Older. Her name is Petunia.”

Pandora arched an eyebrow. “Do your parents have a thing for flowers?”

“Mm-hmm, my mum is a florist. She has a shop in town,” Lily said, waving dismissively. “What about you? Sirius mentioned that Regulus lives in London, so is that where you’re from too?”

“Yes. Reg and I live together, actually. We share a flat near Leicester Garden.”

Lily stopped mid-stride and grabbed Pandora’s arm. “Leicester sounds familiar. Oh! Is that the one with a William Shakespeare statue?”

“That’s the one! I dragged Regulus to the Christmas Market in the square before we left. It’s beautiful,” Pandora said, thrilled that Lily was as charmed by the place as she was. “We share with our friend Dorcas from uni.”

“I’m going to move to London someday.”

Pandora’s heart pounded in her chest as she listened to Lily explain her grand plan to save up for a flat and hire on with a florist or garden until she could find work in her field. A sound plan, except her dream job was a little niche for London. There wasn’t a great need for horticulturists in the city.

“I know it’s a long-shot, but I figured that if I could hire on somewhere plant-adjacent, that would be a start. Don’t you think?” Lily said.

“It could work.”

Pandora didn’t want to dash her hopes, especially if it meant that there was a chance for this to go somewhere a little further than this holiday. She hadn’t really expected more from it than a bit of fun, but now that she’d met Lily, that changed. If Lily moved to London, they could date properly.

“Remus thinks I’m ridiculous for wanting to live in London, but I think it’s exciting.”

“Have you ever been?”

Lily linked her fingers together and nodded. “Once when I was younger. I loved the energy of SoHo.”

Pandora was on the cusp of an idea when Regulus burst through the crowd and rushed to her side. He glanced between them, then cleared his throat.

“James said there’s a party at the end. Are you staying?”

“Yes, are you?”

Regulus nodded as a slow grin slid over his face. “James wants to dance. Who am I to deny him a good time?”

“James dances?” Lily asked. “Why didn’t he join in at the club?”

James appeared behind Regulus and hugged him from behind. “Because Regulus won’t dance with me. He doesn’t want everyone staring at him. I tried to tell him that they wouldn’t be, but he doesn’t believe me.”

“If Sirius is dancing? You don’t have to worry about anything. That man is mesmerising to watch and even better to dance with,” Lily said, shimmying her shoulders.

Pandora lost track of the conversation for a moment while she admired the woman in front of her. Lily’s little shimmy was adorable, but the bouncing afterwards…merde.

“You’re drooling, Panda,” Regulus whispered.

She wiped at her chin, then glared at him. “I was not.”

“Well, you were definitely staring.”

“How can I not? Look at her! I’m only human, Reg.”

James chuckled as he rested his chin on Regulus’s head. “You’re both terrible at whispering. I think she heard you.”

Pandora looked up to find Lily’s cheeks flushed a lovely shade of pink. A mortified laugh bubbled in her chest, but came out in an awkward giggle. Regulus lost it, shaking with silent laughter as he hid his face in his hands.

That was it. It was all over. Once Regulus started laughing, Pandora couldn’t fight it anymore. Soon, they were all lost to the absurdity of the moment and cackled like hyenas.

Next Part>>>

[hlficlibrary]

Do you know any Larry fics where one of them speaks French?

Omg anon, this really brought me back. There was a time when it was a thing to have Louis be French in fics. Maybe you're reminiscing, too? Anyway, here are some fics where one of them speaks French...

as in olden days by @scrunchyharry

Château Frontenac hotel, Christmas 1925   When his father insisted the entire family spend Christmas abroad in one of his new investments, Harry dreaded the prospect of being trapped for weeks in the biting Canadian cold, so far away from the roaring excitement of his London life. As he crossed half of the world to be buried under a thick blanket of snow, he never imagined he would meet a charming bellhop who would do his best to keep him warm.

i know you have a heavy heart (i can feel it when we kiss) by itjustkindahappened

In which Louis is spending New Year’s alone in France but he’s definitely not running away, and Harry is a french florist with an ever present smile who cares a lot. They meet a cold night in the outskirts of Paris.

dans votre cœur by fermentedpotato

Louis was whisked away from his mother when he was young. He was taken to France with his aunt and uncle and spent sixteen years in Bordeaux with them. The summer before his senior year, his mum regains custody of him and he's brought back to England. His senior year is spent in a brand new city with a language he has a basic understanding of. Louis doesn't know if he'll survive, honestly.

[butternuggets-blog]

A man wakes up on the sidewalk in the pouring rain.

He has no memory of who he is, no idea of where he came from. There's no clues either; he's dressed in simple garb, with no wallet or form of id in his pockets. No tattoos or piercings, no distinguishing features at all.

He spends a few days sleeping rough and eating whatever he can find. He's in London, just another lost soul in a sea of lost souls looking for safe harbour.

Eventually, down an alleyway, he stumbles across a tiny abandoned room- a storage closet, really, just big enough for him to sleep in- and a handful of abandoned art supplies from a long-absent art studio where the florist shop on the corner now is.

He feels drawn to the supplies.

A butane torch with a little juice, a few sticks of copper clay. He kneads the clay, moulding it between his palms into something resembling a tiny shitty statue that doesn't look like anything in particular.

Eh, he thinks. It'll do.

The statue sells more out of pity than genuine interest. He gets some food and a nice woman called Huda gives him a blanket she was going to throw away. He makes another shitty statue for her as a thank you present.

Huda knows a person, who knows a person, who knows a person, and now the man has more copper clay and a few sculpting tools. He makes better statues, buys more food and actual supplies that he needs to keep himself warm and clean, and eventually he sets up a stall in his tiny closet and pays Huda back for her kindness.

She pays him back with a name: Ayub.

Ayub still doesn't remember who he was, but who he is now is an artist living out of a shop who sells copper clay statues and kiln-fired clay cups (Huda has a friend who's a potter) and a few friends in the community who swing by to sit and chat with him.

Huda starts taking him out on tours of the city, showing him the various museums and art galleries hidden all over the place. One place they go to is the British Museum, looking at all the stolen artwork and marveling at all the stolen history.

In a tiny case, behind a thick slab of glass, a clay tablet carved with cuneiform stands upright, the words translated for all to read.

And Ea-nāṣir remembers, and smiles to himself, and thanks the gods for his unexpected second chance.

[mariacallous]

This week, as every week, Brexit enfeebled the UK. It was not a one-off disaster, like a fatal heart attack. Rather Brexit is showing itself to be a debilitating disease that never grants us a moment’s peace.

In the past few days

The post-Brexit trade talks between the UK and Canada collapsed. Despite all the promises of global Britain crossing the clear blue oceans and cutting deals with India, the US, Canada and China, we remain isolated.

After years of being too scared to actually take control of the UK’s borders, the government promised checks on imported food from the EU. The effect, according to the food industry, will be to raise prices and produce shortages. (Romantics searching for flowers for Valentine’s Day may well have their work cut out, despairing florists are already warning.)

Brexit took away the right of Brits to live and work where we pleased in the EU. For a while in 2023 it looked as if France would allow British expats to stay for longer than 90 days at a stretch. But the French courts blocked that concession to second home owners in the Dordogne.

Meanwhile the Brexit inspired border in the Irish Sea between Northern Ireland and the rest of the UK continued to enrage Ulster Unionists, who in their hearts must now know that English Tories have played them for fools.

Finally, the Guardian reported that the EU's plans to increase bulk medicine procurement across the bloc risk creating shortages in Britain.

That’s just in the past few days.  

And yet the politicians who promised the electorate that leaving the EU would turn us into a world leader are simply not held to account.

You would have to be 35 or older to remember how the BBC used to deal with politicians who failed to deliver on their promises. In 2003 Tony Blair backed the US invasion of Iraq on the grounds that Saddam Hussein had weapons of mass destruction.

He didn’t.

BBC journalists tore into the then Labour government. Its ministers had taken us to war on a false prospectus, they claimed. Lied, in short.

And yet in a dereliction of journalistic duty the BBC has let the false prospectus of Brexit pass without the smallest attempt to remind its authors of their false promises.

Here is Daniel Hannan, the Zelig of British nationalism. For more than two decades, he popped up at what felt like every right-wing meeting and rally, urging ever more Utopian fantasies on the luckless British public.  

In 2016, he promised the revival of depressed British cities, a Silicon Valley in the East End of London, and falling prices and booming wages for us all.

Is he or any other Conservative or Faragist politician questioned to within an inch of his life by the BBC?

Of course not. Continuous funding cuts and right-wing attacks have destroyed the corporation’s ability to provide a vital news service. It’s given up on democratic accountability.

I can make one argument in its defence. If a BBC presenter were in the room with me now, I am sure they would say that the Labour opposition is giving them nothing to report. It is staying silent for fear of alienating elderly voters. The Liberal Democrats shut up for the same reason.

In its politicians and media, the UK is like the caricature Victorian family that puts on a show of respectability and says nothing about its dirty secrets.

No one, however, can shut up Professor Chris Grey, and our culture is the better for it. His Brexit & Beyond blog is the best source of information on our national malaise, and I was delighted to have him on podcast.

I will write a longer piece, which will bounce off our conversation about the purity spiral on the right Brexit set off. With a bit of luck that should be up tomorrow or on Wednesday. I am also working of a read on the lessons from the 1920s for the 2020s.

[hector-garcia]

– BASIC INFORMATION.

Full name | Aliases: Hector Oscar García Liddell Gender | Sexual orientation: Cis man | Gay Date of birth | Age: 26th of June | 47 Place of birth: Newcastle upon Tyne Current residence: 10 Downing Street Occupation | Affiliation: Prime Minister of the UK | Labour Party Relationship status: Married to Viktor Liddell. Children: / Positive traits: + Charismatic, brilliant, level-headed, incisive, passionate Negative traits: - Calculating, revolted, idealistic, overly empathetic, intense

– PHYSICAL TRAITS.

Hair color: Salt and Pepper Eye color: Dark brown Height | Weight: 5 feet 9 inches (1.77 m) | 72 kg (160 lbs) Distinguishing features: Strong nose, smooth recognizable voice, Newcastle accent (fading) Faceclaim: Raul Esparza

– BIOGRAPHY.

Hector was born in the working class, to parents who had fled Fidel Castro's regime and made ends meet while they raised him far away from home. Every day, after school, he would do his homework at his mother's desk, who worked as a receptionist in a paper company. His father was a florist working on farmer's markets. They were hard workers, who had big plans for their only son and they saved every month to put him in a proper school. While attending high school, Hector came in second in a competition organized by the British Academy for Science, for his research project on reducing water usage in agriculture, he participated to debate competitions and though he was happy to make his club's victory a collective effort, his extensive knowledge of social, political, economical issues was key into getting 1st place, and it was no surprise that he ended up president of this club as well as 3 others.

He joined college and at the same time officially signed up with the Labour Party as a full member and activist. His parents were involved in politics themselves, and from the moment he was old enough to hold flags at rallies and demonstrations, his father would hoist him up on his shoulders. They both took part in a worker's union, though his mother was the one most devoted to helping both workers and those most vulnerable.

He first did a double licence in sociology and political sciences at LSE, studied in Barcelona for a year with the Erasmus program, and got involved in activism there too. Followed two more years during which he worked on his thesis. He focused on the positive impact immigration had on the country, and while his work was applauded by his peers, he reaped a lot of bile and hatred from the opposition. The dichotomous controversial work ended up in the media. While progressive ones applauded his fresh stance on the question and commented on the depth of his analysis. Qualitative research combined with grounded theory made a solid ground to build his political program on. It didn't matter if some called him a ludicrous dreamer or a clown. Ad hominem attacks only confirmed what he already knew: he needed to take things further, he needed to become a candidate to local elected office.

He ran for council in his borough, Barking and Dagenham, in north eastern London. He fought against gentrification in the area, which would be made all the more painful with the 2012 Olympic Games and the quick evolution of the city in the years that preceded the event. Hector spent most of his free time listening to people who dedicated a lot of their energy, time, or even money for the local community. Eventually, when the time came for him to campaign again, this time for MP, he chose to rely only on their donations, refusing any money that came from corporations and lobbies. The people would be who he represented, not the interest of private companies. It was unconventional. It was risky. He might even lost the election because he fought against Goliaths. Fundraising and media relations was usually handled by professionals who saw the world through a lens filled with statistics and polls.

He shouldn't have won those elections, he supposed. When he won, upspent with a margin of 15 to 1 by his opponents, Hector couldn't believe how much support he had managed to gather through his years as a devoted borough councilman.

Hector, who was now a MP for a little over 10 years, was feeling tight in his shoes, and with the help of his husband, threatened his old LSE pal, none other than the Prime Minister, to reveal the contents of the treaty to the public. He knew the time was right for him. He was quite popular among the party, and his husband's ties with the conservatives made him much easier to accept for the Tories.

His party did get this much right: he represented a breath of fresh air, and those always got people talking. What they didn't get right, however, was this idea that Hector was so much better than your typical politician. Not one bit. He wasn't above shoving people under the bus, or using god awful tactics to get ahead of others. He might have been a likeable personality, with the kind of voice that you could have listened to even if it read the phone book, he also knew when crossing the line was necessary. After all, in a city like London, you couldn't possibly hope to survive being a good guy.

[imogenbello]

FULL NAME — Imogen Bello

NICKNAMES — Gen, Bell

FACECLAIM — Greta Onieogou

GENDER & PRONOUNS — Cis woman, she/her

AGE — 32

BIRTHDAY — January 1, 1992

OCCUPATION —Florist at Blue Violet Blooms

NEIGHBORHOOD — Forest Lake

LENGTH OF TIME IN BLUE HARBOR — She has been in Blue Harbor for one month.

trigger warning: parental death, blackmail, pregnancy

Imogen Bello was born and raised in Logan, Utah to a single father. Her mother had died while giving birth to Imogen and her father never remarried. They lived a pretty great life considering all of the hardship that they dealt with and Imogen appreciated all the sacrifices that she knew her father made for her all of those years.

She finished high school a year early and went to a local college for business administration. Four years later, she was getting her bachelors degree and finding her footing on where she wanted to go next. Her best friend convinced her to move to New York city with her and Imogen did just that.

They lived in a small apartment for the next seven years, she worked in various corporate offices where she would help their marketing and job staffing. She was the best of the best when it came to making sure the companies that she worked for had the best staff possible. During this time, she met a guy by the name of Adam and he was everything she thought she wanted.

They dated for a few years, but he was a serial cheater and Imogen had enough. She broke it off with him and they went their separate ways which was the best for the both of them. Once she broke it off, she didn't hear from him and thought that he was gone for good.

It was about a year later when she met Oliver - an up and coming tattoo shop owner and she fell for him quick and hard. It was the first time that she had ever felt love in the way that you see in movies. Everything felt perfect but when things go right, soon they go wrong.

Her ex started blackmailing her. He had some incriminating photos of her that she wouldn't want to see the light of day. He wanted money - and lots of it. She didn't have much to her name. Enough to get her by but not enough to keep him silent.

It was while she was figuring out how to get enough money to pay him, the woman found out that she was pregnant. She was scared of what her ex would do to not only her but to Oliver. It wasn't the smartest decision, but she took the money that Oliver had for his loan shark and ran.

She didn't go back home to Utah, no. She went to London and started her life over there. Months later, she gave birth to her daughter and things started to get better. She was determined to save the money she took and even though it took her longer than expected, once she had it she had to find Oliver.

It took months before she found that he had moved to Blue Harbor, Illinois and Imogen followed suit. She has been in town for a month working as a florist and trying to find the right time - or the right way - to approach Oliver about everything.