#i walk from bookseller to bookseller opening up all of their books

[julijbee]

girlbossing too close to the sun.

[avocado-writing]

hi!! I read your fics and I love your writing style! I was wondering if you could do something with a human reader, maybe she works in a bookshop or she’s a teacher? And it’s all cute because he finds her genuine??? Maybe some angst because she finds herself in danger? Idk sorry I’m rambling I just wanted something with a human reader 🧍🏻‍♀️💐

the place where the pages meet

logan howlett x bookseller!reader

4k words, rated explicit.

cocky!logan; awkward!reader; excessive book references; threat of physical violence (quickly averted); anti-mutant language & sentiments; smut (oral - reader receiving, penetrative sex). minors dni. thank you @saradika-graphics for dividers!

The sky is heavy with the promise of rain, and you suck your breath in through your teeth. It’s fifty-fifty on days like these: either people will seek shelter in your little store, or they’ll scurry away with the fear any purchases they make will get soaked and ruined.

God damn it, what kind of fool opens an independent book shop in New York?

You’re the kind of fool, apparently. Still, it’s your home, both figuratively between all the old paperbacks and literally with your tiny apartment on the top floor. Barely more than a studio, but enough for you. A piece for yourself carved out of this world. 

Outside it starts to pour. You sigh. Well, at least you know you’ll get one visitor today.

Charles, your dear friend and long-time financial supporter of your store, had called earlier to let you know that the usual face wouldn’t be coming to grab his order. It’s a shame, you like Ororo, enjoy sitting and sharing a pot of oolong with her on quiet days. Also she could have chased away this terrible weather for you. Ah well. 

“Who can I expect?” you’d asked. 

Charles had laughed, a warm and friendly sound. 

“Ahh, you’ll know Logan when you see him.”

You don’t know what you’d do without Charles. Between orders of rare books for his personal collections and en-masse copies of classics for the kids, he pretty much keeps this place running for you. Bless that man, honestly, because you’re not sure where you’d be without him. 

The sound of someone pulling up outside has you putting down your book and turning towards the shop window. 

A pickup truck parks up by the kerbside and you watch the man in the driver’s seat emerge into the rain. He cuts a fine figure, tall and strong, but you don’t get a good look at him until he walks through the front door. 

Oh no, you think, he’s handsome. 

Leather jacket now pocked with raindrops, very obvious white vest beneath it showing off his broad chest. He shakes like a dog to get the moisture out of his hair as he stamps his boots on the doormat, pausing only briefly to scrutinise its no admittance expect on party business slogan. 

“Logan?” you ask. He looks up and when his eyes first meet yours? Oh, a fire is sent down your spine. 

“Yeah,” he confirms, looking around to take in the place. You can’t tell if he’s impressed or not. He has a remarkably neutral face, careful, the sort of man who doesn’t want to give anything away about himself. 

“You’re… here for Charles’ books?”

He’s sauntering over to the counter now. Cocks an eyebrow. It goes right through you. Fuck. 

“That’d be me.” There’s a beat. “Why, you think someone’d try and steal them?”

“People can steal books!” you say, defensively. 

“People named Logan who you’re clearly expecting?”

You bristle, because he’s got you. Something flickers over his face for a second: a smile. 

Oh no, you think, he’s handsome and he’s an asshole.

Huffing, you fish the box out from under the desk and groan with effort as you lift it up. Logan takes it from your grasp as if it weighs nothing at all. Your fingers touch as you do. You try to ignore it.

“Thanks,” he says, easily.

“Mm. Mind the rain. It’d be a shame if you slipped.”

A proper smile crosses his face then, but he turns away too quickly for you to let it sink in. The bell on the door chimes as he heads back out into the rain.

Well, you hope you never see him again.

By the same time next week, you’re really hoping you see him again.

You’ve sort of not been able to get him out of your mind. He was kinda prickly, sure, but a welcome break from the mundanity of your life, and pretty good looking to boot. It’s probably just a pipe dream. You’re sure it’ll be Ororo again, and you can go back to the easy pattern of seeing your dear friend. That’s okay. You’re fine with it. Who needs a handsome man? You have your books, you have your store, you’re happy.

Yeah. You’re happy. 

Imagine your surprise, then, when you hear a motorbike outside your shop.

You must be blessed with street parking, because Logan pulls up right outside again. Same jacket, same well-worn jeans. He catches your eye through the window and you’re sure they glisten. You pretend to be engrossed in your book but it’s not fooling anyone, the words swim into soup on the page as you see him approach.

The door goes; he approaches the counter. Closer this time, you can smell him. Tobacco and leather. Fuck it’s good.

“You should wear a helmet,” you say, trying to be flippant. Logan lets out a single, solitary note of a chuckle from deep in his chest.

“I’ll be fine. Thanks for your concern, though.”

You feel your cheeks heat up and try to hide it by looking for Charles’ order again. It’s a single book, a first edition you had to go through the backwater book depositories to hunt down. You’re the best at what you do, though, so it was no real problem. It’s why he always comes to you.

“Here you go. Let him know I’ll try and find the sequel if he’s interested, too.”

“Sure.”

Once again your fingers touch as you hand the book to Logan. No. No, this is too quick! You want to keep him here for a little while longer. He looks so out of place between the wonky shelves and hanging plants, it’s just perfect.

Your mouth tries to say two things at once: can you tell Charles I’ll have his other order ready same time next week, and, do you like to read often? 

Instead what comes out is, “can you read?”

You must wince when you ask the question, because Logan stands there transfixed. Baffled, just for a second.

“Can I… read?” he repeats slowly. 

I’ve failed you, I’m so fucking sorry I didn’t stop your mouth in time, says your brain.

“I didn’t mean… of course you read… I just… I didn’t want to assume… maybe you didn’t like books… erm…”

“Yeah, I read,” he says softly, as if you are an old dog and he is putting you out of your misery. You fucking wish he would. Jesus Christ, it’s like you’ve never spoken to another person before.

You can’t find a way to recover this. Your cheeks are on fire. You’re going to explode and burn down your store. Oh authors, you are so sorry for using all these works as kindling.

You expect Logan to turn on his heel and walk out but he… doesn’t. Instead he takes a step back so that he can look at the shelf nearest to the desk. Runs his fingers across the spines before picking one. It’s slim, no more than the width of his finger; he puts it on the counter and fishes his wallet out of his pocket.

In the Miso Soup by Ryū Murakami. You ring him up, punching the price into your old cash register, give him his change. His palm is soft as you drop coins into it. 

“See you next week,” he says, stashing both his book and Charles’ inside his jacket. 

“Okay,” you say, amazed you’re able to get any words out, and watch him walk away again.

He does see you next week.

The sun’s out, so he’s sans jacket, and oh fuck you can see how his arms are like treetrunks. The way this man has you reacting is unhealthy. You try and focus on the hardback in your hands but all you can picture is those veins which are bulging on his biceps, begging you to come and get to know them better.

“You’re always reading huh?” 

His voice makes you jump a little, you’re not expecting him to be so close. You look up. He slides his sunglasses up into his hair. Fuck it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.

“Would you trust a bookstore owner who didn’t read?” you ask, bristling with the need to defend this little shop and your place in it. He holds his hands up in the universal sign of peace.

“Not an insult, just an observation.”

You sink back from attack mode, walls still a little high, but definitely coming down.

“How did you get on with the Murakami last week?”

Logan takes a moment to consider this, trying to piece his answer together in a way which won’t offend you.

“I liked it until the last chapter.”

You sit up in your chair. 

“Yes! A lot of people say that. It feels like it ends sort of abruptly, but if you just appreciate it for what it is, it’s a good book.”

He smiles a little as you speak. You fucking love talking about books, to a degree some people find absurd. You don’t want to babble though, so you force yourself to end your observations there.

Logan nods at the book in your hands.

“What are you reading now?”

You lift up your book so he can see the cover: A. S. Byatt’s The Djinn in the Nightingale’s Eye. 

“It’s very good! Byatt has such a wonderful way of writing. I love fairy tales and there’s such a wonderful voice in this one. They made the titular story into a movie a couple of years back, it’s quite good actually, it has Tilda Swinton in it.” You’re floundering. Don’t stray too far from the normal lines of conversation. Mouth, for fuck’s sake stay on course, begs your brain. It doesn’t. Instead you ask, “do you… like Tilda Swinton?”

Logan raises an eyebrow and you know this is a man who has never once had to consider the question of whether or not he likes the actress Tilda Swinton. 

Mouth still talking. MOUTH STILL TALKING, your brain screams. It’s true. It is. You were too busy being horrified to notice.

What your mouth says while being unchaperoned is, “There’s a little single-screen theatre nearby doing a showing of it this week, actually, do you wanna come with?”

DID YOU JUST ASK HIM OUT. DID YOU JUST ASK HIM OUT?!

Logan doesn’t seem to know what to make of that. He seems just as shocked that you’ve asked as you are. But then, just as you want to cast yourself into the street so that a passing garbage truck might take pity on you and sweep you away, he smiles. It’s slow, but it makes him look so much hotter.

“Sure, why not.”

Oh mouth you genius. I shall never doubt you again.

“Oh, okay, great! Uhh, are you free Friday?”

“I can be. What time’s the screening?”

“Seven. Meet me here at six-thirty?”

“It’s a date.”

Fuck, it is a date, isn’t it. It’s a date!

Logan stands there, awaiting something. You’re confused for a beat, then go up on your tiptoes, aiming your mouth towards his.

“As much as I appreciate the gesture… Charles’ book, honey.”

Hmmm, okay. Still time for the earth to just swallow you whole then, actually.

You sort of don’t expect him to turn up. You wouldn’t go on a date with you, all awkward edges and uncomfortable words. And he’s… the coolest fucking guy you’ve ever seen. 

Of course he won’t turn up. Of course he won’t. 

He turns up. 

He’s waiting for you outside the store, leaning against a lamppost, dressed in flannel and smelling like subtle cologne. You can’t help lighting up when you see him and hope you’re dressed suitably - your nicest pair of dungarees and a tight-fitting jumper. 

“Hey! You made it,” you say. 

“‘Course I did,” he replies with a little smile. Oh, you’re giddy. 

“C’mon, it’s not a long walk. It’s a nice night too.”

He lets you chatter as the two of you make the brief journey, content to have you talk his ear off about business and books. He’s happy to answer any questions you ask him about himself: what he does for a living, how he knows Charles, if he’s got anything else on his to-read list. The two of you skirt around the most obvious thing: if he lives at the mansion, he’s definitely a mutant. You can’t quite get the courage to ask him about it. Seems easier to just let it lie, so you do. It’s not that important anyway, you think, you like Logan, with or without any extra bits. 

When you arrive at the little hole-in-the-wall cinema, he gets the tickets and the popcorn and the drinks. You do your best not to feel absolutely pathetic by his side. Surely everyone here knows you’re punching above your weight with this absolute grade A specimen of a man? You’re so busy looking around the foyer to make sure nobody is staring that you almost don’t realise when he takes your hand in his.

“You with me, honey?” he asks, soft, low. You swallow thickly and nod because for once, you can’t find the words.

It’s not a very full screening, which is just fine, because you’re happy to be alone with Logan in the dark. You share a bucket of popcorn and a secret little thrill runs up your spine every time your fingers brush together. When that’s finished, he puts his arm around the back of your chair and you snuggle up against his side, cursing the damn plastic cupholder in the middle forcing you to keep a distance. 

One hundred and eight minutes. They’re not enough. You want to be here forever. But eventually the credits roll, the lights come up, and Logan has to pull his arm back; you hope the reluctance in the withdrawal of the gesture isn’t just your imagination. 

“What did you think?” you ask, standing up and stretching. Logan follows suit, mulling over the question. 

“It was… cute,” he decides. “I can see why you like it.” 

You beam. 

“I can lend you the book if you want. It goes into way more detail about the main character’s life at the start, it’s very stream-of-consciousness but I really enjoy it? It’s different to the other stories before it but definitely worth reading. I think that…”

You’re outside now, under the streetlights, fingers tangled easily with his, and when he stills you’re pulled to a stop too. 

“Hmm?”

He drops his grip on your hand so that he can put one under your jaw, tilting your head to get a better look at you. Your heart beats violently. He can definitely feel it. He knows. You don’t care. Fuck, he’s so near. 

“You talk a lot, huh?” he asks. It’s not unkind, the smile on his face is one of fondness, and all of your skeleton turns to jelly as you fucking melt under the affection in his gaze. 

“Please shut me up,” your beg comes out as a whisper, and he does. 

His lips are rough against yours, guiding, but sweet. The hair on his face tickles your cheeks. You wrap your arms around his shoulders and bring him down to kiss him with more enthusiasm. This is not a public-appropriate display of affection, and someone honks their car horn at you both, but it just serves to make you laugh against his mouth and keep going. His hands slide onto your hips and hold you tight against him. Possessive. Wanting. Covetous. 

“You know,” he says when he pulls back for air, still running his lips along the line of your jaw to the hinge beneath your ear, “when Charles told me I should go and get those books, he said I’d like the person who runs the store. Didn’t expect you to be such a gorgeous little thing, though.”

You, gorgeous! Logan thinks you’re gorgeous! You could do a fucking cartwheel in celebration. You don’t though, you’d probably give yourself a concussion. 

His hand goes to his pocket and his brow furrows and, for a second, you panic. Has he started regretting kissing you already? Another quick kiss calms that down though, settling the simmer of worry in your stomach. 

“I think I left my wallet in the theatre. Hold on, I’ll grab it, then I’ll walk you home?”

“Only if you come in with me,” you breathe, and once again your mouth has taken the reins on that one. Logan huffs a laugh, a little incredulous, but mostly pleased at your gumption. 

“Okay, sweetheart. Okay.”

He leaves you standing there, feeling all tingly. This is happening. It’s fucking happening! Sometimes the stars align for a book nerd and a handsome guy wants to come up to their studio apartment. You thank Jesus, Buddha, Arthur C. Clarke - whoever is listening, they fucking deserve it. 

“You gonna fuck that mutant?”

The voice sends a chill down your throat. 

The trio of guys standing behind you do not look friendly. The biggest one, the one standing in the middle, sneers at your panic, crossing thick arms over a broad chest.

“Well? I asked you a question.”

You screw your courage to the sticking place, puffing up a little. 

“Don’t see how that’s any of your business,” you spit back, hoping that vitriol will deter them. It does not. Instead, they close in, hyenas around a cadaver. 

“Never had a human dick you down good enough, huh? Need a little help? C’mon baby, we’ll show you.”

He reaches out to grab your arm. You let out a noise of panic. 

At the same time, Logan’s fist collides with his face. 

The guy is sent stumbling back, spitting out a globule of blood. His friends step away with panic in their eyes. Logan moves in front of you, his bulk your shield, three metal claws extending from between his knuckles. 

Yeah. Mutant, huh?

“I think you were just leaving, pal,” says Logan in a voice which doesn’t bear messing with. The man bares his reddened teeth. 

“The fuck do you think you are, mutant scum--?!”

He lunges for Logan and the breath is sucked from your lungs when you see he’s pulling out a fucking knife, but another punch sends him flat on his ass. The blade clatters across the street and into the gutter. His friends grab either one of his arms and half stand him up, half drag him away.

“Shit, it’s not worth it—!” is their conclusion as they disappear into the night, shouting back expletives, blood trailing from their leader. Logan shakes out his fist, flexes his fingers; claws retract. He turns to you, slowly. 

“You okay?” he asks, hurriedly checking you over. You nod. 

“Y…yeah. Shaken.” you confess. 

“C'mon. Let’s get you home,” he sighs, and from the cadence of his voice you can tell he’s worried the night has been ruined. You place your hand on his bicep. 

“Logan?”

“Yeah?”

“Will you still… will you still come up?”

He softens. 

“If it’ll make you feel safer, sweetheart.”

It does. 

And that’s how you find him sitting on your well-loved couch in between your needlepoint pillows, looking around your tiny home as you make a pot of coffee to share. 

“Jesus, you’ve got more books in here than in the store,” he mutters. 

“Well, some of them I couldn’t part with. I like them too much. And, as you pointed out, I am always reading.”

You look around at the shelves stuffed into your flat, the dozens of them holding hundreds of novels, plays, poems. You love them all dearly. They all hold a special piece of your heart, you can remember where you were when you read most of them. (Downstairs while manning the desk is often the answer). 

“Oh, even this?”

You can hear the smile in Logan’s voice. He’s holding up a copy of Fifty Shades. You scoff, rolling your eyes. 

“Christ, I read that as a professional courtesy to the art of bookselling. Got it for fifty cents at a thrift store. It’s crap. If you want some good erotica I can recommend…”

The sentence lingers unfinished. Logan raises his eyebrows. 

“You can recommend what, huh?”

The coffee is ready. You can smell its rich scent enveloping your little apartment. An idea forms. Creates a heavy anticipation on your tongue. Your brain screams at you. 

Locked. Loaded. Fire, mouth, fire!

“… then I’d recommend you take me to bed,” you say.

Logan stares, eyes wide. You’ve had an immediate effect on him. His pupils dilate. 

“I… honey, after earlier, I’m not sure if you should…”

You cross the room and sit on his lap, an easy feat when his legs are so thick and inviting. His sentence stops as you press your mouth to the pulse in his neck. Kiss. 

“I’m a consenting adult,” a kiss on his cheek, “who’s invited you into their home,” a kiss on his brow, “and is asking you to take them across their painfully tiny apartment and fuck them. If you don’t want to, that’s okay, but Logan? I’ve been game ever since you first walked in from the rain.”

He looks up at you to double check that you’re telling the truth, then kisses you with such ferocity that you squeak. 

You do not make it to the bed. 

He undresses you there on the sofa in the middle of your bookshelves, between Brontë and Austen, beside Carter and Rushdie. Your clothes end up in a messy little pile on the coffee table. It gets kicked and the pile of literary magazines slide to the floor as Logan moves to take off his shoes, letting you drag his jeans down and off of him, cupping his cock in his boxers.

Fuck. Thick, heavy, large, you want all of it. All of him. 

He leans you back against your kitschy little pillows with book quotes on them and pulls your dungarees off, an act both ridiculous and endearing. He catches your knee in his hand and begins to kiss up your thigh towards your underwear.

“Fuck,” you whisper as he presses a kiss to your sex over the fabric. He grins up at you from between your legs. 

“That was the plan.”

He fucks you with his mouth like a man starved, luxuriating in the little sounds you make for him, pressing fingers inside you without any effort at all. You cum all over his knuckles embarrassingly quickly. He looks sorta smug. 

“Baby, when was the last time someone took care of you…?” he asks, licking a stripe along your sex to taste what he’s done. You huff. 

“Too long. You gonna fix that?”

It’s a challenge and he takes it as one. You strip off his shirt, making sure to get a good feel of his muscles as you go, kissing his pectorals and abs just because you can. He slides inside you with one thrust, one of your legs in a crook at his hip; the other with its ankle resting on his shoulder. He starts moving and the couch shakes but all you can do is cling on for dear life to the crocheted blanket. 

“Holy shit… so fuckin’ tight… aren’t you just the most gorgeous thing…” he hisses. You reach up enough to tangle your fingers in his hair and drag him down for a kiss, sloppy and charged with heat. His hand moves in between your legs and you cum for the second time that night, hissing with satisfaction as he spills inside you. 

You collapse onto the sofa together, your heavy breaths harmonising. When he pulls back to kiss you this time it’s softer. With intention. With reference. 

“Uh, you know, they’re showing To Kill a Mockingbird next week. Maybe dinner beforehand, if you’re interested?”

He laughs affectionately and you can feel the rumble in his chest.

“Sounds good. You’ll have to lend me the book first.”

Fuck yeah. You’re never doubting your mouth again. 

Taglist: @falsewordz@malfoys-demigod@belilwen@mildly-salted@tvwebs@childeslegstrap@getmeoutofhell@s1eep-o@just-a-beatlemaniac69@yrthr@momopad@sugarplumz100@captainjinkx@madspads@acrosstheunivcrse@yeethaw13@na-is-salty@florduarte@hunterispunk@starfleetteddybear

[seneon]

MELANCHOLY ──── vampire! touya × fem! reader.

about. you drown in a melancholic pool, waiting for his awaken. vampire! au, set in 1930s, a few decades after bewitched ( part one ) very quick angst to romantic fluff. there's some gore tw all around. wc of 1K.

notes. proofread by @angeliicheartt i heart you

in the thirtieth year of the ninety century, there were countless reports of the lives and blood of the citizens rapidly decreasing. in other words, they were all found dead—body malnourished, skin rotting, gaze locked up to the sky that had seen everything played out before their last breath.

there was one thing they all had in common. two small bites on their neck. or anywhere around their body in general, starting from the head and down to the very tippy toes.

just like that, their soul has been sucked out. it was the work of vampires, vicious bloodsucking creatures who walked the same ground as a human would. except, they only walk during the night.

sunlight burned their skin. the day and brightness made them cry out in pain. their eyes will start to disintegrate at the sight of the brightest of colours.

what would humanity ever do when they found out there was one single vampire that roamed around the streets like any average woman? dressed and disguised as a bookseller in the day, teeth growing out to be a vampire during the dead of night.

to the citizens, you are the young, vintage bookseller who sold the greatest books in all of town. a woman who never ever seems to age, as some rumours have risen over time from the gossiping mouth of the older widows who knew you for decades yet still seemingly younger than them.

even with all these blood consumed in the dead of night, none of them could fulfill the solitude you've been having to embrace lately. the emptiness consumes you whole, just like all the blood of the innocent you have sucked out for your source of living.

when dusk arrived, you slowly walked your way back home where the walls are higher than any ceilings and the windows are dimmer than any reflections.

as always, the first thing you will always do is open the coffin of your slumbering husband and kiss his forehead, or anywhere at all, as a greeting to tell him that you have arrived home.

you sat beside his coffin, eyes gazing at touya's lips which were laid out in one straight line along with his eyes which were sealed shut.

oh, how you've missed those turquoise eyes that brought so much joy to your loneliness. those eyes which only looked your way like you are the only that exists in this world. the eyes that told the moon millions of stories about you.

your fingers moved to gently rest on the cold skin of touya, not before your knuckles caressed and brushed his cheeks ever so lightly. a partial piece of his bone that has been turned into a ring coiled around your ring finger, the cold piece glimmering under the moonlit night.

you might not let it roll out the tip of your tongue, but your soul screams for touya to awaken.

it has been so long since he fell into a deep slumber. of course you knew of this deep slumber, it's something that touya does every few centuries for decades in order to replenish his power.

in this case, he slumbers because he has given you quite the amount of his blood and the unexplained ability to still walk around the day even if your canine teeth have grown longer and sharper.

and it was a personal punishment for him for turning an innocent human girl into something that he is. touya wanted to carve a hole in his chest to offer her his heart just so she could live for an eternity with him in this hell. how selfish.

in the background solemnly and softly played the record of antonio vivaldi's four seasons’ summer. it's a piece you've been indulging in lately, besides the other three seasons.

“ya know? the moon begs me to know when you will open your eyes again. she tells me that she wants to hear more of your stories,” you spoke softly, your fingers never ceasing their movements to gently caress. “i don't think she's very fond of me…”

“i miss you, touya,” you leaned closer to his face where your hair fell over his face and your nose almost touched his own. “please just... wake up. i’m so lonely.”

your forehead pressed against touya's, nose now touching his as your lips caved in to press them against touya's soft and cold ones.

those same lips that used to mold against yours so perfectly. those lips that used to lick and drink your blood like there was no other. those same old cold lips and dying lips that has you addicted with one press against your skin. you never forget the part where it speaks of honey-sweet words that always twists and turns your inside.

in melancholia, it was quickly driven away when you felt fingers weaving themselves into the back of your head, pushing your head further into the kiss as you felt touya's lips moving against yours.

you let out a little gasp as he deepened the kiss before moments later then you pulled away to stare at him with widened eyes.

there it is.

his turquoise eyes that somehow knew how to bring you joy no matter the occasion. the corner of touya's lips slowly cracked into a smile before he slowly sat up from his coffin, tilting his head to the side.

“morning.”

you wasted no second to throw yourself onto him, embracing his awakened body as you once again pressed your lips onto his. your lips have been waiting for this moment, craving for a longing kiss.

touya chuckled before one of his arms slithered around your waist to pull you closer, his free hands moving to cup your cheek. his kisses burned with passion, as if they've been longing for you just as much as you've longed for him.

a few moments later both of you pulled away and he rested his forehead on yours, his pretty turquoise eyes that you missed so damn much staring right into yours.

“i heard you calling out to me, darling. there's so much melancholy in your voice that it broke me on the inside. hurts so much that i couldn't wait for my power to fully restore before i woke up to be graced by your truly wonderful lips.”

like a child, you wailed at the awakening of your slumbering vampire husband for the next few hours into the night and in his arms while he holds you close and tight, telling you promises that he'd never do anything of that sort again.

your little bone that wrapped around touya's ring finger occasionally grazed your cheeks to wipe your salty tears away as he chuckled at your distress.

tonight isn't so melancholic and lonely anymore.

TAGS ★ @saewako @hyoismbbg @rueclfer @sweetheartsaku @lunatiqez @sepptember @loveriotss @bbluefllame @noirflms @anqelically @haunted4kent

© SENEON 2024 ♱ do not repost, alter, or translate.

[oliversrarebooks]

The Rare Bookseller 90s AU: Lily's Rental

This came to me in a dream. I don't know how much of it I'm going to write, but I love the late 90s as a setting and couldn't resist.

Masterlist

tw: hypnosis, kidnapping

September 12, 1998

Lisa shook her can of Mountain Dew, dismayed that there didn't seem to be any more in it. She'd had three sodas tonight and was still struggling to stay awake.

She was working the late shift at the video store again, and she was really more bored than she was tired, the endless preview reel playing on the TV above her head doing little to hold her attention. She'd grown tired of the book she brought with her, she'd already restocked the candy and cleaned out the returns, and as she lived in a city that very much slept, there weren't a lot of customers so late on a weeknight.

Maybe no one would notice if she rested her head on the counter for just a few minutes and…

The sound of the door sliding open had her jerking back awake. "Welcome to Blockbuster, can I help you find anything?" she said on instinct.

"Well, you're a helpful one!" said the customer in an annoyingly cloying voice. "But we're just looking to browse the movies. Don't mind us."

She was wearing a floral sundress and tights, and looked a little too put-together for someone looking to rent a video at 11:40pm on a Tuesday. Trailing behind her was a man with a purple flannel shirt, a long blonde ponytail, and sunglasses perched on his head for some reason.

Far from the strangest people she saw in this job, of course.

"I'm feeling something with a lot of action," said the man as he walked deeper into the store. "What are you thinking?"

"I was thinking of -- ooh, no one told me Titanic was out on video!" The woman had stopped in front of the cardboard Titanic standee, apparently having lived under a rock until today.

"Did you somehow miss the nonstop ads on TV?" said the man, echoing Lisa's thoughts.

"I don't have time to watch that much TV. Some of us work for a living, you know," she said. "We have to rent this."

"Isn't it supposed to be four hours long? You know my attention span sucks."

"It'll be fine. I'll let you know when the interesting parts are happening."

Normally Lisa would mind her own business and not be especially interested in the usual chitchat of customers picking out movies, but right now it was the only thing keeping her alert. She idly flipped through a catalog as they talked.

The man picked up one of the many rental copies of Titanic and flipped it in his hands, a dubious look on his face. "I guess. And Lex might like it, he loves tragedy. It's cute when he's trying not to cry."

"I don't know, does Lex watch movies with color? You might blow his mind."

"I'm pretty sure he's still getting used to talkies."

"Anyway, I'm definitely getting this," said the woman. "And I think there's something else I'd like to take with me…"

Her tone of voice was a little strange. Lisa's brows furrowed in confusion as she pretended to be interested in winter fashion.

"Oh, right," the man said. "Brian wanted some video game. Ah, shit, what was it? I should've written it down. Final something."

"That's not what I'm talking about. Come on, Fitz, I want to show you something."

The two disappeared behind the rack of horror movies, their voices too low for Lisa to hear what they were saying. She was starting to get uneasy now. They were probably planning to shoplift, which was not at all the kind of excitement she was hoping for. Lisa ran her hand over the panic button on the underside of the counter, just in case.

The two split up and seemed to be browsing the movies. Lisa was keeping her eye on the man -- Fitz, what a goofy name -- who was over by the video game rentals, watching if he tried to slip one under his shirt. At the moment, he was staring at the video games as though they were some puzzle he needed to solve. This guy really didn't seem clever enough to get past our security, so maybe he was a distraction while --

"Hello, I had a question!" said the woman cheerfully. She had walked up to the front desk without Lisa even noticing, because she was too focused on the other customer.

It was probably part of their scheme -- the woman would distract the clerk, while the man stole video games. Lisa made a point of keeping her eye on Fitz while talking to her. "Sure, what do you need?"

"I was wondering if you have any good movies to help me sleep at night. Something calm… relaxing…" She yawned, and Lisa had to fight not to yawn along with her. "I have a hard time sleeping, and I take medicine that makes me so drowsy, so I could really use videos that will help me sleep."

"Um…" Lisa blinked slowly, feeling like her head was stuffed full of cotton. "We have some, um… some nature videos. Over there in the nature video section. Those are relaxing." God, she was way too fucking tired for this. She couldn't even think straight.

"Nature videos do sound relaxing. So, so relaxing." The woman's voice was very soothing, and her eyes were soothing too. "I think I might be able to fall asleep to a video of rain or waterfalls. Do you have anything else that would help me sleep? I get so tired this late at night."

Lisa yawned wide, and as oxygen hit her brain, she realized that she was being super unprofessional (not that she would get in trouble or anything) and that she had completely lost track of Fitz. Instead, she was gazing into this stranger's eyes, like that was a normal thing to do. "Well… uh…" she said, trying to tear herself away. "I think we probably have… like, lullaby videos for babies? In the kid videos. And we probably have some meditation videos over in the self-help section."

"Lullabies sound perfect," said the woman, a comforting smile on her face that made Lisa feel warm inside. "Lullabies are perfect when it's time for you to go to sleep. Don't you think so, Fitz?"

"I think you're right, Lily."

Lisa's hand was grasped by hands that were cold but incredibly soft. She realized that Fitz had also come up to the front desk, and was holding her hand for some bizarre reason. Before her sluggish thoughts could catch up to her and she could try to pull away, he began to rub a slow circle into her palm, and Lisa…

…just couldn't…

"There we go, sweet girl. You're so tired, aren't you? Tired and sleepy," said the woman. Lily.

"Mmm, she looks so drowsy. Like she could nod off at any second," Fitz agreed, as he stroked the palm of her hand so gently, a motion that seemed to steal away her focus and muddle her thoughts.

"Drowsy and docile. You'll be drowsy and docile for me, won't you?"

Fitz used his other hand to run his fingers down her jaw and tip her chin into his gaze. "You heard her. Drowsy and docile. Isn't that right?"

Lisa felt herself nod slowly. "Drowsy… and docile…" she said, her voice sounding like it was coming from a million miles away.

This wasn't right. There were alarms going off in the back of her mind, warning her of the danger. They were going to rob her. She was going to be in so much trouble. Why was she acting like this? Why couldn't she wake herself up?

"Shhh, shhh, just relax, dear," said Lily. "Everything's just fine. You're tired, aren't you? You just want to sleep."

"Go to sleep." Fitz's fingers traced down her neck. "Just go to sleep."

"I… I don't…" Lisa's vision was blurring, the buzzing fluorescent lights slipping in and out of her mind as her eyes began to close.

"It's okay, dear. Just have a little nap. You're safe with us. You can sleep."

"You look so, so tired. You want to shut those eyelids, don't you?"

"You do. You want to shut those heavy eyelids and go to sleep. It's time to sleep, dear. Sleep…"

Lisa, making a last ditch effort to resist whatever was happening here, pulled open her leaden eyelids. The new releases shelf was at an angle -- no, her head was tipped over, almost sinking onto the counter. Why couldn't she snap out of it, stay awake? It all felt like a dream -- not even the strangest dream she'd had about the shop.

"Poor sleepy girl," Lily whispered in her ear. "You're going to fall asleep now, all right? No more resisting, no more fighting, just a comfortable deep sleep."

The drowsiness was pouring into her from her hand and face where Fitz was touching her, like she was being drugged. Her thoughts strayed briefly to the panic button under the counter before her eyes shut and she slumped over completely. She just couldn't seem to stop herself from falling asleep…

"I've got her." Hands wrapped around Lisa's waist, and Fitz's voice was much closer now. "I can see why you wanted to take her. She smells delicious."

"I know good merchandise when I see it," said Lily.

Delicious? Merchandise? Lisa tried to stir.

"Shh, don't worry about it," said Lily, brushing hair out of Lisa's face. "Sleep tight. Pleasant dreams."

Lisa could feel herself being lifted in the air and carried, but she was too much asleep to protest or do anything about it.

"So I'm guessing we're taking her to the auction house, then?" said Fitz. "D'you think the Blockbuster's going to charge us a late fee if we don't return her?"

"Very funny, and yes, let's take her to the auction house. We can run a background check to make sure we haven't picked up anything too dangerous. I'm thinking she's going to fetch a nice payday," said Lily. "Oh, is this the video game your thrall wanted?"

"Hell if I know, but it's probably close enough. Could you grab that for me? Thanks."

Cool night air hit Lisa's face, waking her up just slightly as she realized she must be outside. Someone needs to close up the shop, she thought in a bleary daze. She heard a car door open.

"Stay with her in the back and keep her asleep, okay?"

"You're better at keeping thralls asleep. Are you sure you don't want to do it?"

"No, because I'm also better at driving. It'll be easier to keep her calm if we don't have you slamming the brakes and pounding the horn --"

"Oh c'mon, I only do that to people who deserve it."

The next thing Lisa knew, she was laying down. Her legs were only halfway on the seat and her head was in someone's lap. A chilled hand stroked her forehead and combed through her hair, and Lisa couldn't help but sink into it, losing herself.

"…could just take her home, you know."

"…don't think she's…"

"…don't you think she'd be a good match for…"

"…but she'd be worth…"

The voices slowly faded away as Lisa slipped deeper into slumber.

Masterlist

Stay tuned tonight for your regularly scheduled Bookseller update.

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[sebastianswallows]

The English Client — Two

— PAIRING: Tom Riddle x F!Reader

— SYNOPSIS: The year is 1952. Tom is working for Borgin and Burkes. He is sent to Rome to acquire three ancient books of magic by any means necessary. One in particular proves challenging to reach, and the only path forward is through a pretty, young bookseller. A foreigner like him, she lives alone, obsessed with her work... until Tom comes into her life.

— WARNINGS: angst, alienation, and exhaustion

— WORDCOUNT: 3.7k

— A/N: Apology to any Italian readers, Tom gets rather grumpy with how cheerful everyone else is around him 😂 Also, we finally meet our reader in this chapter! 💚

I

It was just as Tom predicted. As soon as Clement saw the state of his hotel, he wouldn't stay there for another minute. He tried to persuade Tom to come with him to some fancier place he had in mind, assuring him he'd pay for all expenses, but Tom wouldn't hear it. He'd spent enough time with people like him to know that nothing came for free.

In the end, Clement took the taxi onward to the Plaza Grand Hotel, but not before writing down Tom’s hotel and room number on the edge of a crumpled napkin.

“I will call you later, yes? Just in case you change your mind,” he winked.

The rest of his day was spent in a blissful void, interrupted by the occasional pang of hunger — which he quieted with water and crackers, before falling asleep again. He was woken in the evening by cheerful shouting from outside, distant music, and peels of laughter down the hallway. The sounds reverberated up the faded frescoes and chipped columns of the building, but he had to remind himself that he was among muggles now — no hexes. At least his pillow was soft... He buried his head beneath it and hoped to suffocate before morning.

When he woke up properly, feeling squeezed and still exhausted, the sun hadn’t yet risen. The streets were quiet save for the hooting of owls resting in the trees and little insects on their flowers. Little lights from faraway buildings lit up the horizon.

Tom had slept nude, too lazy to change into something after taking his clothes off. As soon as he sat up, he felt all weak and dizzy, hair ruffled sticking to his face, body cut through with creases from the sheets and muggy with his sweat. Worst of all, his blood had all seemed to pool into his legs. Standing up like a newborn fawn, he walked over to the windows, opened them wide, and breathed in the cold night air. It made his body shiver. It felt pleasant. It felt a little bit like home.

The early hours passed slowly. He managed to wash himself in the little closet of a bathroom, brushed his hair, and even put a few of his old things in order. After eating a ham sandwich he'd bought from the train's food car and brewing a cup of tea with magic, he felt like a new man. He sat by the window in a loose bathrobe and watched the rising sun, and as his strength returned to him he began mentally revising the events of his journey.

“To think I'll have to go through all of that again on my way back,” Tom groaned. “And I thought the Hogwarts Express was a bore…”

Travelling abroad had been on his agenda for quite a while, once he found all the artefacts he needed through Borgin and Burkes, but he hadn't quite anticipated how physically exhausting it would be to sit in a muggle contraption for hours on end. If he wanted to explore the world in search of rare magical items, he would have to devise a more suitable method. Perhaps Thestrals…

His thoughts turned to Clement again. His wide grin, his bright blue eyes, his utter carelessness of composure... What an annoying fellow. Well, if the need arose to make another Horcrux, at least he'd know where to look.

II

The afternoon found him roaming the streets of the city. He spent a little while acquainting himself with the landmarks closest to the hotel just enough to find his way if lost, but he'd also collected from the concierge a list of local rare book shops and antiquaries to start his investigation. It was with nothing more than this that Tom stepped onto the cobbled streets of Rome and started walking.

The hotel Burke had set him up in, the Gallienus, was among the cheapest. It was nestled in one of the poorer parts of town, where the roads were narrow and beggars slept on the stairs of buildings boarded up. There was at least one pile of dry and darkened animal droppings on every street corner. Trash overflowed from forgotten dumpsters, buzzing vibrantly in the sun.

It took him quite a while to find the first bookstore, and longer still to find a good one. Most of them sold less prestigious stuff than what they advertised. The muggles were cheerful and friendly, if false, and a few tried to barter with him all the way to the door. A couple with fancy window dressing had only the veneer of the authentic, selling new volumes beaten up or rebound with cardboard covers.

Still, he made a few acquaintances, if not outright friends, among the shopkeepers, and his list of options grew larger as he heard from them of more interesting stores, but by evening he had nothing to show for all his exploration.

Moreover, he was thoroughly lost. The cafes frothed with little umbrellas in the streets, the fountains billowed in the air and danced, and all of it started to look the same to him. The fancy suits of people coming back from work and their black voluptuous hairstyles all blended with each other. He'd ambled his way from the Via Domenichino to the Colosseum, then to the chip-toothed ruins of the Roman Forum, higher to the Pantheon, then down, down toward the Tiber.

The air was alight with ages past and everything was moving. The shadows of aged stone, touched by dereliction and decay and the stray shellings of the war that ended just seven years ago, danced at the corners of his eyes together with the throngs of white-dressed women and the scooters zipping by. And at any moment it felt as if some ancient in a toga would walk out from between those columns and shake a bony finger at the careless youth, lamenting, and asking just to die again.

Tom stopped somewhere along the Tiber and gazed out across its murky serpentine flow. If he squinted, he could just about see the Vatican. A flock of nuns passed him by, flowing in quiet black and white against a blue and just as quiet sky. The air was warm, but chilling. He was surrounded on every side by broad buildings in smooth geometric shapes, and yet he’d never felt quite so exposed before.

Now that he had a moment to stop and ponder the experience, he realised that being in Rome felt like being in the world and yet above it, as if the whole city was floating in the sky. A dish on a high pedestal, yawning to the heavens.

“Maddening,” he whispered to himself. “Imagine living here forever…”

Under the shadow of a sycamore, he leaned over the stone walls that enclosed the river. It was a long way down… Its waters seemed about as dark as Thames, but smoother. He wondered, without really caring, whether there were any corpses buried there, some skeletons stuck in the mud, forgotten and unwanted. The chime of churchbells reached him, cutting through the buzzing of the cars.

What would he do tomorrow? Much the same thing as today, he reasoned… Only he’d have far further to go to reach these newer places he just learned about. He reached into his pocket for a little map he’d folded up, and tried to smooth it out over the stone.

“Why does it have to be so complicated?” he mumbled to himself as he planned his pathway back to the hotel. “Even London isn’t this bad, right?” He’d forgotten that it was.

Turning, he looked once more at all the young people that now lined the street. For some reason, all of them were smiling, happy. A couple was shamelessly kissing as they hid behind a tree. When they started sliding down its trunk, tight in each other’s arms, Tom rolled his eyes and started walking back the way he’d come.

III

Sweat had dampened his shirt collar and went down the centre of his chest, but somehow it bothered him less than he expected it would. It was quite a different experience from the Knockturn Alley cellar where he worked, or that pittance of a room he rented above an apothecary shop.

Here all was warm stone, and coffee, and cats that slithered around the corners. Here he was nobody. Not Mr. Riddle, not Lord Voldemort, the terror and equal envy of his schoolmates, not Tom the orphan, Tom the gifted student, Tom the Head Boy. He wasn't even a half-blood or a wizard. Muggles had no idea about such things. Here he was nobody — except maybe ‘bel ragazzo’ when he passed by a hot-blooded madam sipping her red wine. To shed his myriad identities felt light and clean, like an old coat sliding off his shoulders.

So, what was he beneath all that?

Today, he was just a wanderer taking in the sights. Tomorrow, maybe something else.

The paved Roman street branched like a vein of undulating black blood into narrower and ever-winding paths, some leading back to the piazza, others through old buildings nestled so close together they blotted out the sun. He took one such path. It was cooler here than in the open, almost bearable, even with the piling trash and stench of cat piss everywhere.

Tom had never shied away from squalor. If anything, the old stones and the dampness and the hint of sewage reminded him a bit of his old Hogwarts dorm. He smiled at the memory as he walked back the way he came, a hand in his trouser pocket and his mind far away, at how impressive and select and magical — in the most pure, extraordinary way, a way those raised with magic would never understand — it seemed to him when he first arrived at Hogwarts. How plain and pure his happiness had been to be away from wicked muggles, to learn that he was special and that greatness, surely, called to him…

The narrow alleyway he slid through opened into the wide and brilliant Piazza di Trevi. The fountain cast its net of water flowing down like gossamer. Tom stopped to thread his fingertips through its shivering pool and sprinkled a little bit of water over the hot crown of his head before walking on.

He had a vague idea of where he was, and what street he should turn on to return to his hotel before sunset.

His steps stopped almost on their own when his eyes fell on his reflection in the darkened glass of a store window — body tall and lean, chest blushing red, hair falling in his eyes with sweat. Beyond it, a flock of books on stout old wooden shelves. How interesting… Tom shifted his jacket from his elbow to his shoulder as he leaned forward to read. They were quite old volumes, judging by the typefaces and the engravings on display, and some he recognised as classic esoterica.

He looked at the sign above the door: Casa Ur. A reference to ancient Sumer? He looked past the glass more carefully, his every instinct pulling him toward this strange collection. If he was right, and they were real, then they were very old indeed. What carelessness, to keep them in such a place, hot and humid and likely infested by an entomologist’s dream collection of mites and moths and other pests.

Then he looked past his own reflection, past all the books, and there, in the middle of it all like a pale shadow between the shelves, he saw a woman. She was braced against a wooden desk, standing as he often did at Burkes when he was tired. She wore some sort of lady’s suit he couldn’t quite make out, and a string of silver shone dully at her neck like a wet trail of kisses. Her fingers were poised atop the pages of a ledger.

She was staring at him.

Tom let his gaze glide off her figure and back toward the books, keeping his cold and haughty look a moment longer before stepping away again.

How interesting… Why had none of the other shopkeepers mentioned it before? This was perhaps the first store he gave any serious consideration, and to think he’d found it all by accident…

The place had promise, but the building was far too large and far too old for rent there to be cheap — which meant the books were bound to be expensive. If they weren’t facsimiles or forgeries, then they deserved their price, but places like that also tended to be quite selective of their clientele, and Tom knew nobody in Rome who’d vouch for him. And as for his fake muggle money, that would only go so far…

What was worse, he had no way of reaching back to Borgin and Burkes. Knowing no other wizards in Rome, he had nobody to borrow an owl from, if that was even what they used in these climes, and the closest wizarding community he knew was down in Sicily. Muggle modes of communication wouldn’t reach Knownturn Alley, and international phone calls were awfully expensive. Tom was on his own.

“Well, there’s more than one way to skin a Puffskein,” he said to himself.

Before he turned the corner, he looked up at the wall and took note of the street he was just on: Via dell'Umiltà.

IV

She started closing up the shop earlier than usual that day. Maybe it was because they’d only had two customers. Maybe because it was inordinately hot… Or maybe because of that handsome stranger who gazed through her window two hours before.

She felt unprofessional for staring, for letting her eyes wander down his fit frame tall and slender like a serpent… With his crisp white shirt liberally peeled back at the neck, his dark curls falling into his eyes, jacket casually hanging from his elbow and a silver ring around his finger, those charcoal trousers sitting so tightly on his slender hips and —

That was as far as she could see before he walked away.

She gathered her things slowly, waiting for evening to come and the streets to cool a little. She locked everything up and called downstairs to announce that she was leaving.

Stepping forth from that dark hole of history and out into the world again, she was greeted by a Rome painted in royal red. The sun was setting. As she walked by the Trevi fountain she could feel the steam that rose from the sprinkling on the stones playing around her ankles. The pigeons flew up with a fright, rustling through the air. People gathered in the square and cast around her a sea of murmurs in Italian and other foreign tongues. It was all foreign to her, of course, or rather she was foreign to it.

She could never quite fit in with the locals, however comfortable she felt there. Her accent always gave her away, and whatever the Italian “look” was, she didn’t have it — or perhaps strangers stared at her for other reasons, glances lingering behind so heavy she could feel them every time she did her shopping in her little neighbourhood, or went to lunch with her librarian and antiquary friends around the area. No matter what she did, what she wore, or how she did her hair, she remained a ‘straniera’. But that was alright. She didn’t mind being a little strange.

The pretty and ancient parts of Rome disintegrated, façades falling apart, pediments crumbling, cobblestones popping out of the eternal roads. The streets looked very different a few tram hops later as she made her way toward her rented flat. People looked the same though. The young ones were in the street, the women laboured around the house, the nonnas at the market, and the men all off at work.

But no matter the day, whenever she left for the bookshop or returned from it, the cafés were always full. People gazed out from beneath their striped little umbrellas, drinking from a thick white cup of coffee or sipping on a glass of wine, reading the news, petting their dogs, chatting with each other… It made her feel like life was passing by.

Then again, she had no mood for going out for coffee, not when she came home with her feet aching and her back sore. Even though all she had to do that day was sort out the books and fill the ledgers and occasionally deal with clients, the workday left her feeling battered. Besides, she had no one to go out with anyway…

Her work was solitary, and the friends she’d made were few — fellow book dealers and curators, all of whom were as busy as she was. And whenever they did meet during the occasional break, the only thing they talked about was work. There was no room left in anybody’s life for something different.

The cellar bar across the street from where she lived was already rumbling with a hint of lonely jazz, and the solid voice of men. The sound echoed past the old restaurant and bookshop near it that had been closed for years, and the rows of cheap apartments filled with working families. Out from underneath a shrub, a cat cut through her path. She stopped and almost called to it, but it ran through a hole in the wall of the neighbouring building. Getting out of the heat, perhaps.

Her building was cool on the inside for the instant it took to climb the two sets of stairs to her door, but then she stepped into her flat and it was like walking into an oven. Sunlight streamed through her windows all day, and no amount of curtains stopped the heat that built up there.

She peeled her clothes off her body before she even reached the bedroom, limping slightly all the way from the pain at her Achilles heel, and fell upon her bed face first. The shower could wait. Oh, what she would give for a massage… She rubbed her feet together as they hung over the side, and smiled at the fantasy of a pair of cold hands rubbing down her back.

She wondered what that handsome stranger was doing now…

Was he Italian? Unlikely given his pallor, although he had the same dark hair and eyes as all the locals did, and none of the whimsical, lost look of tourists. And he was alone.

His gaze, as much as she could make of it, had been scathing and critical, and he hadn’t even said a word. She turned around on the bed, eyes still closed, as she imagined him there. She saw all manner of people in her work, and although most of them were old, there were a few still young, still handsome… Mostly students at the local universities. But nobody, nobody she’d met so far, had been quite as striking as that stranger.

Was it pointless to hope that he would come again?

It was easier to put herself together after resting for a while. Living alone provided her with no greater luxury than this: there was never any need to rush. Dinner consisted of a cup of tea and biscuits, which was more than what she usually had, paired with a few page flips from a novel she was reading that she could hardly pay attention to. But every paragraph and sentence, any image conjured up by fiction, was haunted by the contours of that young man’s face.

V

Her sleep that night was deep and intoxicating, like a faint, her body giving her up to vague nightmares she would not remember. But she had a fresh enthusiasm when she woke up the next day. She brewed a little coffee with a smile and let it cool while she took a shower, and even the rumbling of the pipes couldn’t scare her mood away.

It was a feeling that entered her like an old tenant returned to a forgotten home. She used to feel alive in a very similar way in the early days of her employment at Casa Ur, when she thought she was so lucky to be chosen to run it for Baron Agarda. And she was lucky, she knew that, but she no longer felt it. The only thing she felt these days was weary.

So why was she smiling today?

As she rode the tram, wind tousling her hair and chilling the heat off of her neck, and walked back to the shop to the happy murmurs of tourists and the flutter of pigeons, she found her thoughts returning to the same idea — would he come today too? She smiled like a besotted schoolgirl all the way to work.

That good mood mellowed as the day went on, and she fell back into the dour ritual of tending to the shop. The same books awaited her as yesterday, the same letters to prospective buyers, invitations, packages, deliveries… Only the visit of Sister Silvia could cheer her up, and they shared a cup of coffee over yesterday’s Corriere della Sera.

By lunchtime, she’d forgotten all about him. As if to distract her further, Federico called to invite her to their usual spot by the fountain for a lunch break, and there he talked about the delicious anxiety he had from his own work. He was nice, she could not deny him that, and harmless, so it was no great effort on her part to listen. She indulged him, grateful not to have to respond at all, and afterwards, Fred walked her back to work with a feeling of deep satisfaction.

Work filled her days. The sort of work that never ends, that you never see the back of. Questions and ingratitude, files and lists and mess that builds up as soon as you misplace the smallest item. There was no hope, there was no end in sight, and she was so deep in these waters that there was no point in looking forward to anything at all.

So she was all the more surprised when three o’clock rolled around and there he was, walking through her door.

[infoactionratio7]

(you) on my arm - s. adamu

summary: sydney is at a wall, she has no ideas when it comes to the new menu at the bear. she decides to go to a bookstore for some new inspiration, she finds it, but not in the way she was expecting.

pairing: sydney adamu x fem! bookseller! reader

word count: 2,514

note: annoying! carmy bc he literally is insane, kinda fluffy meet cute vibes, reader just moved to chicago, inspired by the song (you) on my arm by leith ross cause the song is rlly cute! also sydney gives me sapphic vibes, she definitely would have a crush on a girl!

monday morning -

Sydney was pissed, she had sent at least ten messages to Carmy in the last twenty minutes. Some about the new menu they were working on together, some about the fact that he had been a bitch the night before when he kicked everyone out because Claire just had to see the new restaurant. She ran her hands down her face in frustration as she sat at her dad's kitchen table, the sun streaming in through the blinds into the apartment. It warmed the floor as she got up from the table, debating what to do. She had no ideas left, everything was either not working out, or it just didn't fit the menu for the new revamped restaurant.

"Sydney, where are you headed off to today?" Her dad walked into the room with a steaming cup of coffee, freshly brewed from a new coffee blend she had found shopping the day before.

"Uh well Carm is not responding so I'm gonna head over to The Bear and meet up with him for a little then see where the day goes from there I guess." She walked out of the dining area and put her breakfast dishes away.

"Okay honey, have a good day. Hope he stops being an ass." She laughed, "Me too... me too."

Sydney grabbed her shoes out of the closet she had thrown them in last night, slipping them on and grabbing her bag. "I'll see you later dad." She grabbed her keys, and started making her way to the restaurant where she could deal with Carmy in person.

-

You looked around the bookstore, you had only been open for a month but it had been a hit within the community. You had almost any book anybody could want. There were teens coming from the school a few blocks away to get some cheesy romance novels to bring to the park and read with their friends, and there were grandparents coming in to get their grandchildren a new picture book about god knows what. You even had some people come in and request books you had never heard of before, you promptly ordered two copies of any book you didn't have. One for the customer, and one for you, to read and explore the pages.

It was a beautiful space, tall ceilings strung with fairy lights and lanterns, trying to bring some sense of whimsy to the dull days in Chicago. The books were arranged in every which way, requiring the customers to truly search for a book they wanted to read. You had tables full of recommendations, from people online and the employees of the bookshop. You really enjoyed curating all the titles you had in your collection. Tourists looking for a cute little magnet or souvenir adored the hole in the wall place, a safe space to just cuddle up and read a book.

You had a few customers that day, a mom and her son looking for his first chapter book to read. You had suggested he read The Magic Tree House, a series, about a brother and sister and their time traveling tree house. There was a tall guy with a buzzcut, who said he worked just down the street and was looking for a book about how to get rid of mold in the structure of a building. He seemed in dire need of some help, so you found the best book possible, The Toxic Mold Recovery Guide. You had no idea you had the book but it was meant to be. He thanked you immensely, leaving his name and number just in case you ever needed anything. His name was Richie, he seemed pretty nice.

Low music played as you restocked a shelf, you hated the idea of having Colleen Hoover books in the store but they were a big source of income. They absolutely flew off the shelves. The least touched section of the store were the cookbooks, it seemed like everyone in Chicago was moving too fast to just dedicate one hour of their day to making a meal from scratch. It was disappointing, because you had a large selection, from Mastering the Art of French Cooking by Julia Child to Momofuku by David Chang and Peter Meehan. You knew that someday it might come in handy and you would be lucky to have all the cookbooks.

-

Sydney walked into the restaurant in a sour mood, Carmy had still not responded to any of her texts and she knew he was here. She walked straight into the office, passing the locker room, sans lockers and covered in black powder. Richie furiously flipping through a book that said something about mold on the cover. He glanced up at her

"Shut the fuck up." She was taken aback

"I didn't even fucking say anything Richie," he scoffed at her

"Well I was preparing for you to say something dumb as hell, and you did so I stand by my first statement." He looked back down at the book and mumbled something unintelligible to himself. She rolled her eyes and made her way into the office.

"Carm are you here?" Turning the corner she saw the chef, surrounded by papers and various file folders. He had his phone in his hand and was about to dial a number, "You little bitch, you fucking had your phone this entire time." She couldn't believe what was right in front of her.

"What do you mean chef?" Carmy looked confused, "Of course I had my phone, I'm about to call the fridge guy."

Rolling her eyes she brought her hand up to her face, holding her forehead in her palm. "I texted you at least ten fucking times, you couldn't even bother yourself to respond!" Shaking her head she sank down into the office chair Carmy had abandoned an hour ago.

He looked around the room, trying to get her to understand how much work he had been doing, "Syd I've been trying to make sense of this paperwork for hours, I haven't had time to respond to your messa-"

Fak's head popped into the doorframe, "Carmy I got your text about helping Richie clean up the mold but he's being mean to me." Sydney turned from Fak to the red faced chef sitting on the floor. He had been caught in a lie, of course Fak came in at just the right time for this to happen.

"Okay fuck you chef, I'm leaving." Sydney shrugged, stood up and left the room. She heard heated words from Carmy as she walked out of the office and passed the locker room again, now he was pissed at Fak, as usual. She heard her name as she turned around,

"Sydney, wait a sec come here."

"What do you want Richie, I thought you wanted me to shut the fuck up." She crossed her arms tight and shot him a pointed look.

"You should go to that bookstore a few blocks down, I got this damn mold book earlier and saw a shit ton of cookbooks. You should check it out." She sent him a tight smile and turned her back to him. "Thanks Chef."

-

You had just finished restocking the shelves for the day when the little bell above the door rang. You went behind the desk and called out, "Welcome to The Book Worm, If you need anything let me know!"

You heard no response so you just busied yourself cleaning up the case that was behind the checkout, it housed all your special edition signed or first edition copies of books. It needed to be dusted pretty often because you wanted to keep the quality of the books at their highest, just in case anyone would ever want to purchase one.

You heard a thud come from behind you, and turning around you looked down at the counter. There was a stack of six cookbooks placed on the counter in front of you. Looking up you saw one of the most beautiful women you had ever seen since you had moved in to the city. Her hair was long and perfectly braided, her eyes a beautiful shade of umber catching the light in a hypnotic way. She had a grimace on her face, yet still looked stunning. You had no idea how to react, so instinctively you started to enter the books into the register as you made some small talk,

"So how has your day been," She sighed and looked up to meet your gaze, "If I'm being honest, shitty. My fucking partner wouldn't respond to my messages and when I went to talk to him he had is phone in his hand about to call someone. So yeah really fucking shitty." You looked back down at the book at disappointment, of course she had a partner and of course she was straight.

Awkwardly smiling you tried to think of a good response"Oh, um, wow. That's pretty shitty I'm sorry." She seemed to sense your disappointment, trying to save the conversation, "Shit uh, my business partner I mean, he's a little bitch sometimes. We're uh, opening a business- or I should say um," She rubbed the back of her neck, "We're kinda rebranding his brother's old restaurant, its a lot." You had finished entering all the books into the system, your chest had filled with warmth when she rushed to clarify that he was her business partner. You thought that maybe, just maybe it might be because she wanted to make sure you knew she was single, and not exactly straight.

"I guess that explains the cookbooks then," You looked at her, she had been staring at you in a flustered state of shock. "What, oh, uh, yeah! I'm kinda stuck making the menu so wanted to get some inspiration."

Sharing an understanding smile, you read her total out to her. She grabbed her wallet and pulled out some cash, as she handed it to you her fingers brushed along yours. It sent chills down your spine, no matter how cliche it might be, you knew that she was someone to keep close. Your face flushed red as you took the cash and put it into the register, printing her receipt and giving her any change she needed back.

You decided that since she got so many books you would give her a free tote bag, just so she could carry all the books out of the shop. You pulled one off of a hook behind you and started to put the books into a bag. You decided to quietly slip a business card with your cell number and a little note into a book so she could find it and contact you. A subtle way of screaming, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen I want to spend the rest of my life with you, without being too forward. As you finished packing the bag, the two of you both happened to say something at the same time.

"Do you wanna come see my restu-"

"Do you work at the restura-"

You flushed

"No you can go-"

"No you can go - sorry um. Do you want to come to the opening of the restaurant. It's uh, the one down the street, we're not opening for a while but, if you want to come to the friends and fam-"

You cut her off, wanting her to know you really wanted to go to her restaurant, "I would love to go... what was your name?"

"Sydney, It's uh Sydney" Her face got hot, nervous about the fascinating bookseller she just had the pleasure of meeting.

"Well Sydney, I would love to go. Just let me know the details," You softly smiled as you gave her the bag filled with books. She looked to you and grabbed a bookmark you had as a display that happened to have the shop's phone number on it. "I'll call you, um when we get closer to the open date, promise." You smiled, hoping that she would get in contact with you sooner than she expected to. She turned to leave.

"Thanks for coming in, really good to meet you Sydney." The door rang again and she sent you a wave through the glass, walking away quickly.

You were frozen, you had just given a random girl you just met your number, and had openly flirted with her for all the world to see. You crouched down onto the small stool you had behind the desk, tucked your head into your knees and screamed. You were feeling rushes of emotion and didn't think you would ever recover from that interaction. The bell rang again just as you finished screaming, you shot up and saw a group of teenagers heading to the new books you had just set out.

"Welcome to The Book Worm, If you need anything just holler!"

-

Sydney rushed back to The Bear, she was so utterly mortified, she had never seen someone so radiant and in their element. The chef couldn't contain her emotions as she stormed into the restaurant, Richie was the first person she saw, he started to say something,

"Not right now Richie I swear to God" The tall man was taken aback but threw his hands up in surrender, not wanting to get involved.

She might as well have ran into the office at the speed she was going, throwin the bag of cookbooks on the ground and closing the door, sliding down the back of the door she groaned,

"Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck, fucking, fuck," dragging out the last word as she hit the floor.

Carmy stared at her from the floor a few feet away, "Yo Syd what happened to you? Looks like you just ran a marathon." He chuckled at the expression on her face.

"I just met the most beautiful girl and totally fucked up my chances with her cause I left so quickly." Sydney put her hands into her face and just sat there marinating in her embarrassment.

Carmy had some strong suits, his attention to detail one of them. He noticed something poking out of one of the books. He grabbed it, hoping that it was something that would change Sydney's mood before he had to work with her for more hours than they could count. He grinned taking the note out of the book and reading it,

"Hey Syd," He reached out to give her the note.

She looked up from behind her fingers, "What?"

He shook his hand, implying he wanted her to take the note from his grip. She groaned, then leaned forward to forcefully take it out of his hand.

She read the note, and smiled. Thank God you slipped her this note.

cookbook girl -

i hope you enjoy your SIX cookbooks, i have some more you could borrow for some inspiration. text me

Sydney's face heated up as she leaned back into door and scoffed.

Carmy had saved the day, one again.

[theonevoice]

Rumination n. 6 - It was all Jim's fault

Well, not all his fault. He walked right into a 6000yo situation of unspoken "do I... would you... could we...", but I think, since he fills the role of comic relief, we are not fully taking into account his impact on the whole ineffable miscommunication mess.

Because he is not just a plot device, he is a character that pushes Aziraphale and Crowley to act in unplanned ways and - most of all - brings some of their worldview biases and traumas out of their dark corners. And I am increasingly convinced that his presence plays a major role in the final breakup, acting as a catalyst for their millennia-long misalignment of hopes and fears.

Sure, he is there to make us smile and Jon Hamm is a joy to watch (I cannot get to his line in ep 1, when Aziraphale tells him that he can see that he's naked, and he goes "Oh! Well, what do you know? Ahahah!" without burst out laughing, even after countless rewatches), but that humor is mainly for us viewers to detect. From Aziraphale's and Crowley's point of view, he doesn't appear as funny as he does to us. For them, he is a source of worry and danger, and I would argue that he is also an incarnation of different desires. And that's the point.

Let's consider for a moment Aziraphale's perspective. He sees his former boss, "most holy archangel" Gabriel, pop up one day at the bookshop, reduced to the mental capacity of a smart dog, vaguely aware that someone was planning to do "something terrible" to him. It is a terrifying spectacle to behold. It's not just the mere danger of having one of the most powerful entities in the universe, possibly still in posess of all his powers, acting like a child. It's the terror of witnessing what Heaven can do to your identity and your mind: imagine Aziraphale - book-lover, diary-writer, Antichrist-locator Aziraphale with the capacity, as per the book, to solve math problems that only people with Nobel prizes could master - trying to process the idea that his former boss doesn't know the alphabet anymore. The idea that he could be reduced to that degree of utter ignorance and unawareness if Heaven decided that their truce is over.

At the same time, what Aziraphale sees is that, once stripped of all the layers of Heaven's legalism, Gabriel is legitimately a great guy. 

We all love Muriel to death, of course, but the more I watch s2 the more I believe that Jim is the most similar "angel" to Aziraphale out of all the ones we see. He is jovial (think at whatever that cheeck squishing thing is that he does during the ball), he is enthusiastic (think at his reaction at his first sip of hot chocolate, and also his genuine "hurray! Let the bookselling commence!"). He is affectionate and open about it ("You're funny, I love you"). He is caring (sure he was struggling to read the room during the demon attack, but still in that moment of danger he has the altruism of thinking to ask if anyone wants hot chocolate, and hot chocolate is the symbol of comfort for him, it's the first thing Aziraphale offers to him to make him feel at ease in the bookshop and the thing that Crowley brings him to soothe his angst after the memory conversation). He is helpful or at least he wants to be (rearranging the books in an order that, if you think about it, follows the criterion of medieval manuscripts illuminators, who usually embellished only the first letter of the first sentence on a page, which makes sense as a frame of reference for an angel whose only experience of books probably goes back to some old Bibles). He is generous and brave (giving himself up without a second thought when he realises that Shax is threatening Aziraphale and all the others because of him). 

As Jim, memory-wiped Gabriel is both Aziraphale's worst fear and his deepest hope: that after all Heaven is the side of good, that all the cruelty and the callousness and the total blindness to the value of life on Earth is just a mishap, that if you scrape off the absurd obsession with World Ending Great Plans you will find underneath a form of good that is pure and gentle. I think Jim, way more than the Metatron and his shitty offer-threat, is the main thing that brings Aziraphale back on the mission of fixing Heaven, "making a difference," not for the greater cosmic good, but to create a safe place for him and Crowley. So they can be safe together.

But something similar happens from Crowley's point of view. He also sees Gabriel as the concrete manifestation of both his worst fear and his deepest desire. The former Supreme Archangel renews the momentarily forgotten awareness of what Heaven and Hell can do to you if you cross them: destroy you either by throwing you into hellfire or holy water, or now by hanging the threat of the Book of Life above your head. Force you to live in a constant state of danger, pressing you against the possibility of your non-existence, making you feel like you have a loaded gun constantly placed against your skull and no magic trick to avoid the bullet.

At the same time, just as Aziraphale, what Crowley sees is that, if you are determined and lucky or maybe just inconsiderate, you can get away from Heaven and live your happy thoughtless life on Earth. Think of how bitter he is when he confronts Jim in ep5, calling him Gabriel and "Oh, yeah yeah, no no no. You're Jim now. Got everything just the way you want it?" I think here Crowley is projecting his desire to be "on the lam having a wonderful time and never be seen again." Sure, everyone is after him and they had to perform a joined miracle to hide him, but let's not forget that Crowley was not doing it to save Gabriel, he was doing it to keep Aziraphale safe. From his point of view, Gabriel did it: he run off, cut ties with Heaven, settled in his little neat new identity, cared and protected, not a thought in his head. And yes, Crowley is painfully aware of how awful it is to have your memory erased - I don't think he would consider it an acceptable price to pay for freedom. But still, Gabriel did what he would like to do. And it does not help that memory-wiped Gabriel presents specifically to Crowley some aspects of his personality in which he can recognize himself. He is curious and asks questions (think of the gravity conversation), and even more important he is ready to dispute the answers that are given to him ("but they don't stay where I put them"). He hears the plan about Nina and Maggie that Aziraphale didn't listen to, and afterwards asks Crowley how it went. He is insightful in his own instinctive way (when he tells Crowley "you're really nice" he's not just saying "you are nice a lot" but also "in reality you are nice", he's seeing through Crowley's rough mannerism even if just seconds before he was angrily shouting at him). He has lost his memory, which by now I think most of us agree it's what also happened to Crowley, at least partially ("I know, looking at where the furniture isn't"). And then, the final nail on the mirror-coffin: Gabriel run away from Heaven for his love. They run off together.

Having Jim right there, in front of his very eyes, I think it's the thing that pushes Crowley back to his old plan of running off together with Aziraphale: he is the living prove that it can be done, further confirmed by his final departure with Beelzebub. Of course, for a brief moment both sides of the metaphisical universe where hunting him down, which is not desirable. But Gabriel was the Supreme Archangel after all, it's only fair that they're looking for him. They are but a former bullied angel and a former already-replaced demon, maybe Heaven and Hell would not mobilised their hosts for them. They could be finally safe together.

So, when you put everything together, I think that what happened at the end of ep6 has more to do with Gabriel and how his presence affected them during the season, than it has to do with the Metatron, or even with the Nina-Maggie foil. It is Jim that pushed a wedge into the thin crack that had always been there, separating what each of them sees as the best way to be safe together.

[mimisempai]

LITTLE SEEDS OF HAPPINESS - Chap 2/4

Chapter 2 : Wilting

Chapter Summary

As Crowley goes to return the book to Aziraphale and tries to get a little closer to the bookseller, Aziraphale receives a visit from his past that he wasn't expecting.

Crowley is forced to forget his disappointment when Muriel introduces him to their... boyfriend?!!!!

Notes

Thank you for all the lovely feedback after the 1st chapter!

On Ao3

Rating T -  3094 words

Chap 1 - Chap 2 - Chap 3 - Chap 4

Crowley looked at his reflection in the window, tightened his bun, then brushed some invisible dust off his black jacket before turning to grab the book Aziraphale had lent him from the counter.

"Don't worry, you're perfect, my little snake."

The florist froze at Muriel's mocking voice then glared at them before putting his sunglasses on his nose.

The cheeky minx chuckled before adding, "Is that plant for him?"

Crowley didn't answer, just nodded.

Muriel approached and continued, "Oh, a jade plant. How thoughtful of you."

Of course, they would have noticed that he hadn't chosen a plant at random, after all, Muriel had grown up with him in the orphanage and heard him talk about his beloved plants every day. Of course, he'd chosen a plant that was easy to care for, required little water, and was self-sufficient. And the fact that it was said to bring good luck, prosperity and health to its owner had absolutely nothing to do with his choice.

Ignoring his teasing friend, he checked that the book was in pristine condition, then grabbed the plant and headed for the door, oblivious to Muriel's fond gaze.

As they watched him walk toward the bookstore, they murmured, "You have a right to be happy too, big brother. Just open the door for it."

Seconds later, seeing the "open" sign, it was the bookshop door that Crowley opened, despite his laden arms.

He announced himself with a loud greeting, "Hello Aziraphale, it's me, Crowley... the flower shop owner."

He heard footsteps above him, then suddenly saw the bookseller coming down the spiral staircase in the middle of the store.

Aziraphale, a broad smile on his face, stepped toward him and called out, "Good morning, Crowley!"

Once the bookseller was in front of him, Crowley first handed him the book and said, "Here, I'm returning your treasured possession and also..." he waited until Aziraphale had put down the book before handing him the small green plant and continued, "Here, this little plant to thank you. It doesn't need much care, just a little water from time to time. I thought it would be perfect for your shop and-"

Crowley paused and was about to apologize for his rambling, but suddenly he saw that Aziraphale was holding the plant almost religiously, an expression of wonder on his face as the bookseller said to him, eyes shining, "What kind attention." then his expression turned a little embarrassed as he added, "I'll try to take good care of it, but I'm not very good at this sort of thing."

Crowley replied, "If you like, I could come and look after it for you and..."

He paused, surely the bookseller wouldn't want a slightly odd florist like him coming into his bookshop too often, and-

"You'd do that for me?"

Oh, okay.

Crowley nodded as Aziraphale suddenly exclaimed, "What the hell is he doing here?!"

He saw the bookseller looking over his shoulder and turned. Not far from the bookshop stood a rather tall man, dressed rather elegantly and exuding power.

Crowley looked back at Aziraphale and had the impression that another man was standing in front of him. He could never have imagined the kind and gentle bookseller capable of such a cold demeanor. 

Crowley, a little disappointed at the way the encounter with Aziraphale had turned out, muttered, "I've got work to do, I'm... I'm going back to my shop."

The bookseller barely acknowledged his presence, nodding slightly, his eyes fixed on the other man outside.

Crowley then left the store, glancing at the man in the gray suit who paid him no attention, also seemingly fixated on the bookshop.

He didn't know what was going on between the two men, but it looked pretty intense, and Crowley had never felt so out of place.

His throat tightening slightly, Crowley took one last look at Aziraphale through the window, then saw his own reflection again and sighed, shrugging, "Who are you kidding?"

Crowley, feeling a little dejected, opened the door to the flower shop and, after putting on his apron, began to take out the flowers he would need for the first batch of arrangements for Justine's restaurant.

He placed the long white lilies on the counter and, armed with a small pair of scissors, began to cut off the stamens.

"How did it go? Did he like the plant?"

Crowley straightened and, a fake smile on his lips, replied to Muriel, "Perfectly well, it seems he enjoyed the plant."

Then he picked up his secateurs and, avoiding Muriel's gaze, began to cut the flower stems to the proper size for what he had in mind.

But a hand came to rest on his, stopping his movement, and when he looked up he found himself facing Muriel, who said gently, "You know you could never lie to me, Crowley, so tell me how it really happened."

The florist shook his head, not ready to talk to Muriel about what had happened, and then said quietly, "Look, I promise I'll tell you everything, but right now I need some time to sort out how I feel, and as usual..."

He paused and pointed to his worktop, so Muriel continued his sentence, "As usual, work and your flowers will help."

This was nothing new, they had seen their friend and adopted brother use flowers to process his emotions countless times, so they came to stand next to him and added quietly, "I know I don't have your artistic sense for arrangements, but can I help you?"

Crowley gave them a little nudge on the shoulder before handing Muriel a pair of secateurs, "Of course you can, silly." He showed them where to cut the flowers and they both went to work in silence.

After a few moments, Muriel put the secateurs down on the counter, took a deep breath, and then said in an unusually shy voice, "Crowley, there's something I'd like to talk to you about."

The florist put down the secateurs in turn, a little alarmed by Muriel's tone and demeanor.

"I'm listening."

"Well... uh... you see, I've been a member of a movie club since we got here."

He nodded, whether it was him or Muriel, growing up in a rural orphanage, they hadn't had much of the usual life of children or teenagers their age, so as soon as Muriel had left the orphanage, they had tried to catch up on what they called their cultural gap, and their participation in this club was part of that.

"And so... that's it... since I... well, since we... you know..."

Okay, this was serious, because for his friend to babble like that, it had to be something heavy.

Crowley interrupted, "Hey, it's okay, spit it out or I'll start freaking out."

Muriel took another deep breath and said in one go, "Okay, I met someone there."

Crowley had expected anything but that, so he ignored the alarm bell in his head and just said with a raised eyebrow, "Oh yeah?"

Muriel was over thirty, perfectly capable of making decisions about their love life, but as always, Crowley couldn't stop the protective big brother in him from waking up.

However, seeing Muriel's embarrassment, he decided to remain silent and listen to them.

"Yes. His name is Eric, he's a mechanic, and by the way, he dreams of seeing your Bentley."

Crowley shuddered at the thought of a stranger approaching his beloved car, but said nothing and let Muriel continue.

"He... he's a bit like us. He has no family, he too grew up in an orphanage after his parents died when he was 13, and he was adopted three times, but was unlucky because it went wrong."

Crowley couldn't help but intervene, saying gently, "Tell me, if you already know so much about him, it must be more than just meeting him, right?"

When he saw Muriel blush, he knew he'd hit the nail on the head. His friend muttered, "It could be that we're dating."

Crowley resisted the urge to pepper Muriel with questions as they continued, his words flowing much faster, "I'm sorry. I didn't want to keep it from you, but with us moving here, starting the shop, our new life, I never found the right time to tell you, and then..."

Crowley interrupted them, placing a hand on their arm and laughing softly before replying, "Hey, calm down, I'm not going to give you a hard time, you know?"

Muriel replied, "Yes, but we've always told each other everything, and I don't want you to think I'm hiding anything.

Crowley replied quietly, "Yes, but you're entitled to your secret garden, too. Just because we know everything about each other doesn't mean we have to tell each other everything. Yes, I'll want to talk to him at some point, but as long as you're happy, I don't need to know any more." 

Muriel smiled and replied, "That's good that you want to talk to him, because he's picking me up to take me to the movies later, and I told him that I would introduce him to you formally.

Then, in a slightly more concerned voice, they added, "But given the situation, if you prefer, we can do it another day."

Crowley shook his head and said gently, "No, on the contrary, it'll take my mind off things and I can spend my nerves on someone else."

Muriel raised a threatening finger and replied, "You better not scare him!"

The florist raised an eyebrow, "That depends on how he behaves. Either way, you can't stop me from doing my shovel talk."

Muriel rolled their eyes and replied, "I guess that's the price of having a big brother."

"Just like the price of having a little sibling is having them interfere with my heart matters."

They both chuckled and went back to work.

A little later that evening, Crowley was bringing the last of the plants into the shop when he heard the door open behind him and turned to see Muriel entering, holding the hand of a man about his age who was standing a little behind them.

Eric, because it was him, looked at him in a frank and open way that immediately appealed to Crowley, though it wouldn't stop him from playing the protective big brother.

They approached him and Muriel made the introductions.

"Crowley, this is Eric. Eric, this is Crowley, my big brother of sorts."

Eric let go of Muriel's hand and stepped forward, extending his hand to Crowley, who took it in a relatively firm grip. Seeing the younger man return his grip, Crowley was confirmed in his initial opinion.

"I'll get ready, I'll be right there."

Muriel planted a light kiss on Eric's cheek and Crowley heard them whisper in his boyfriend's ear, "Don't worry, you'll be fine."

As they passed Crowley, they waved their index fingers at him and said, "And you, be good."

Then they ran up the stairs to the second floor.

There was a few seconds of silence, then Crowley, not one to beat around the bush, addressed Eric, "Well, Muriel's old enough to know what they're doing, though if..."

Eric cut him off, "If I hurt them, you'll kill me. But don't worry, if I hurt them, I'll kill myself."

Crowley, amused by the younger man's audacity, chuckled and replied, "Oh, no, why kill when you can torture?"

Eric, not quite sure if this was a joke, gave a half smile before taking a deep breath and saying, "I know from Muriel that our relationship is a surprise to you, I also know how much you care about them. I also know, having been through the same kind of hardships, that trust is something that takes time to earn, but I hope that if Muriel was able to trust me, one day you will too."

Eric held out his hand to Crowley, who took it, shook it firmly, and replied softly, "I will always do everything in my power to protect them, but I will never come between them and their happiness."

There was nothing more to say; they understood each other.

Crowley couldn't help but add, "But if you hurt them..."

Eric replied, "Must be nice to have someone like that in your corner."

Crowley noticed the longing tone and felt all the more understanding for the younger man. He said softly, "My protection extends to those Muriel deems worthy."

Eric swallowed at the implication of Crowley's words and just nodded.

"So, boys, how's it going?"

Eric turned to Muriel, who was approaching, and replied in an amused tone, "See, I'm still alive."

Muriel laughed softly, but Crowley noticed the look of relief that quickly crossed their face. Then, Muriel hooked their arm under their boyfriend's and said cheerfully, "Well, let's get going or we'll miss the trailers."

They were about to leave when Muriel stopped and said to Eric, "Wait a minute." 

They returned to Crowley and, standing in front of him, wrapped their arms around him to hold him close and whispered softly in his ear, "Thank you."

Then they turned back to Eric, and Crowley watched them leave, arm in arm. He couldn't help but chuckle when he saw that they had the same spring in their step. They really had found each other.

But even though he tried to ignore the small pang of nostalgia he felt at the sight of their complicity, he couldn't keep his eyes from drifting in the direction of the bookshop for a few seconds. 

He sighed and returned to his shop, which he closed before going up to his apartment, his melancholy not leaving him for the entire evening.

Nor did it leave him the next morning when he picked up the flower arrangements for the restaurant. 

A few moments later, he arrived at Justine's, and when the Frenchwoman looked inside the box, she squealed with amazement, praising the small arrangements whose central flower was the lily, Italy's national flower. She wanted to offer him a refreshment, but he declined, not really in the mood to be confronted with the restaurateur's incessant chatter anytime soon, no matter how much he appreciated her.

He walked back to his shop, but when he got there, he thought he could use a little boost, so he continued on to Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death, the coffee shop next to his flower shop.

When he got inside, he was relieved to see that there were no customers and went straight to the counter where Nina, the owner of the coffee shop, was standing.

"Hey, it's Mr. Florist! Hi, neighbor!"

"Hi, Nina."

"Oh dear, hide your joy, it's dazzling!"

Crowley didn't answer, just harrumphed.

He'd become fast friends with Nina. They had the same sense of humor, liked to bicker, had the same repartee, but today Crowley wasn't in the mood at all.

She didn't insist and asked him more gently, "So, what's it going to be for you today?"

"A fallen angel."

"Oh, I see, you are indeed starting with the heavy stuff. Pure, unadulterated espresso."

Crowley replied, "Yes, I need black coffee. Black as my soul."

Nina chuckled softly and replied, "Your soul is as black as a latte with lots of milk."

Unfortunately for him, Nina was extremely perceptive and had quickly figured out who Crowley was. So he wasn't surprised when she leaned over and asked in a low voice, "Does your mood have anything to do with a certain bookseller and the visit he received yesterday?"

Crowley knew there was no point in denying it, so he simply shrugged and said nothing.

"I see..." Nina murmured before turning to make him his coffee.

Once the coffee was brewing, she approached Crowley again and whispered conspiratorially, "You know, I don't think you need to worry about this."

"Who said I was worried?!"

"Shh, let me finish, will you? I have it on good authority from Mutt..."

Crowley rolled his eyes. Mutt's Magic Shop was the gossip nest of Whickber Street. If you wanted a heads-up on the latest street happenings, Mutt's was the place to go.

"I know what you're thinking, but listen to me. Mutt said he'd walked by the store when the guy in the fancy suit was there, and the bookseller looked angry. Mutt even said that he didn't know the nice Aziraphale was capable of swearing like that. Apparently, the guy's his ex-boss or something."

Crowley sighed because none of it meant much. After all, if this guy could get the bookseller off his hinges like that, there had to be a special bond, right? What kind, anyway?

In any case, this guy was from a different class, that was for sure. 

One Crowley would never be from.

"Stop thinking that you're not good enough for him."

Nina's voice snapped him out of his thoughts and Crowley replied, "I don't know what you're talking about."

Nina wore a serious expression as she replied, "I know that look. It's the same one the bookseller gets when he slows down to look at you..."

"What?"

Nina nodded and replied, "Yes, I have a great view of the street, so I see things, just like I see you following him with your eyes and vice versa...or how you've glanced at the bookshop at least five times since you came into my coffee shop."

Caught red-handed, Crowley didn't even try to deny it, but annoyed at being found out, he reached for his coffee and left the money on the counter. But before he could leave, Nina shook her head and shoved the money at him, "It's free for you today, to thank you for the entertainment."

Crowley grabbed the money and stomped away, grumbling and trying to ignore Nina's sneer.

A little later, after swallowing his coffee, he began working on the next day's arrangements. The country featured the next day at Justine's restaurant was India, and the national flower was the lotus.

Crowley began arranging the delicate pink flowers with their yellow hearts on his worktop when suddenly the doorbell of the shop rang. He sighed slightly, not wanting to deal with a customer in his state of mind, but he forced a smile on his lips before lifting his head.

His smile turned into an "o" of surprise as he gasped slightly at the realization of who his morning visitor was.

Aziraphale, haloed in the morning light, stood in the doorway, smiling at him before saying softly, "Good morning, Crowley. I hope I'm not intruding."

Next chapter : Aziraphale faces a visit from his past and, mortified at the idea of having missed an opportunity to get closer to the florist, decides to take matters into his own hands...

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story  🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝

Chap 1 - Chap 2 - Chap 3 - Chap 4

[dramioneasks]

Christmas Fics 2023 (Part 8):

Keep It Like a Secret by PacificRimbaud - M, one-shot - He regards her with interest, cool as the ice in his G&T. “What do you want?” On close inspection, he's a bit deadly. It's the combined power of self-regard, an open ear, and a cunningly tailored suit. Hermione wants— “An expiration date would be nice.” She suctions up the watery dregs and signals for more. “Let’s say I want . . . a year. Exactly one year of monogamy without the possibility of further commitment."

When Love is Found by Biirdiee_Rose - T, one-shot - “You’ve read Charles Dickens— yes?” “Yes, I read Great Expectations when I started exploring muggle literature.” “Well, he wrote a book called A Christmas Carol.” She bends down to grab a few gifts from beneath the Christmas tree. “Ah, so we’re from the book then—” “Sort of,” She interrupts, “Then they made a movie of it with these little puppets called The Muppets, and it was my favorite.” - Hermione and Draco go to a muggle Christmas party with the theme to dress up from a favorite Christmas movie. Hijinks ensue.

Mutual, I'm Sure by LadyUrsa - E, WIP - If Draco Malfoy could have one wish in his life, it would be to not be a Veela. Wait, no. It would be to not have Hermione Granger be his mate. Fuck, at this point he would settle for Hermione Granger just being aware of the painfully obvious fact that she was his mate. But only as long as it resulted in monogamous bliss. And getting a cat. ** Two meddlesome best friends, two idiots who are bad at feelings, and a snow-filled Christmas reunion in Vermont. The only thing this White Christmas is missing are some musical numbers.

Cookies, Spice and Other Mushy Non-Practical Stuff by Trombones - G, one-shot - A very short Christmas Dramione one shot. Featuring your favourite Harry Potter snow man, a haughty but caring Draco and a Hermione that can't help but be won over by his charms.

The Well-Traveled Sage by MarinaJune - M, one-shot - Bookseller Hermione Granger, some shop holiday decor, and Draco Malfoy in need of a last-minute holiday gift.

An Ode To Falling In Love by Ada_P_Rix - M, one-shot - He gave her a lopsided grin then, his hair falling into his eyes as he looked down at her. "I think you're drunk." He observed her after a few moments, his eyes glassy as she rolled hers up at him. "And I think you'll regret the hangover in the morning." Hermione gave him a look that had him raising his eyebrows at her. "Amongst other things." "Well you know what they say, Granger-" Malfoy stumbled slightly, causing her to cling to his arm and pull him further against the side of her body as they walked along to the apparition point. "The truth always comes out when you're shitfaced," another grin from him had her shaking her head; Hermione had never witnessed him being this intoxicated before. "All kinds of nasty little secrets end up spilling out with the alcohol-induced vomit."

Santa Baby by Biirdiee_Rose - E, one-shot - “Now, if I were to say yes to this whole…thing, what do I get out of it?” She asks hesitantly, hating the way he perked up immediately. “My, my, Granger— how Slytherin of you.” She narrows her eyes and he relents, surely very aware he did not have the upper hand in the situation. “You’ve been shot down for funding time and time again for that very generous Wolfsbane project–” Now it was her turn to perk up, spine straightening as she leans over the desk, hands clasping as her brain puts together what he’s offering her. “If you agree to this, agree to being my girlfriend until at least after Christmas, then I will fully fund your Wolfsbane project for the next two years.” - Draco Malfoy needs a favor, and Hermione Granger seems to be the only witch around to fit the bill. Attempting to get out of yet another marriage contract, Draco tells his mother he’s dating the one and only Hermione Granger. One little issue, they’re not actually dating. With a good old fashioned bribe of funding the Wolfsbane Project she’s been trying to start for years, Hermione reluctantly agrees. No need to worry dear readers, it’s not like they’d develop feelings for each other or anything… Right?

The Christmas Party by arielle_reads - M, one-shot - Robards hosts a Christmas party for the Ministry but his gift-giving plan goes awry when everything gets swapped. Firewhiskey shots are introduced and Draco worries someone else will get the present he chose for Hermione.

Magical Merry Mistletoe by greyditto - T, one-shot - What happens when pureblood tradition, a Yule party, and a Secret Santa gift exchange all take place in the same event? Naturally, Draco's nearest and dearest conspire to get him what he always wanted...

Icy Truce, Warm Hearts by Serpent_Sortia - E, one-shot - The war has been raging for years but things are starting to go the Order's way thanks to the information provided by a spy high amongst Voldemort's ranks. Hermione is called out to meet the mysterious informant on a snowy Christmas Eve so he can deliver important news... until their meeting spot is compromised.

Messing with Christmas and How to Fix it by Astrangefan - not rated, one-shot - Hermione has been homesick for a home she no longer has. She finds some old decorations at Grimmauld and brings them back to Hogwarts. Draco likes what she's done, but says it in a way only Draco Malfoy can say and everything goes wrong. Now he has to come up with a grand gesture to apologise.

The Holiday by LunaLunaria - E, one-shot - A remix of The Holiday (2006) featuring cinnamon roll with hidden depths Neville Longbottom, chaotic manic pixie Pansy Parkinson, hyper-productive, seduce-me-with-your-brain Hermione Granger, and literary bachelor with a side of snark and sentiment Draco Malfoy.

Wolfsbane and Mistletoe by yes_a_witch - E, WIP - Seven years after her 8th year at Hogwarts, Hermione is feeling lonely. Ron and Harry are both happy with their new families, and her work is meaningful yet taxing. Though she has branched out and made new friends since school, none provide that sense of community she’s been missing. When Malfoy invites her for Christmas with the Slytherins everything changes in ways she never expected.

‘Twas The Night For Traditions (Some Old, Some New) by megiswritingsomething - M, one-shot - Christmas Eve traditions were sacred for Hermione, Draco, and Scorpius - such a shame Draco is nowhere to be found as the night drawls to a close… OR The one where Hermione reads ‘‘Twas the Night Before Christmas’ to Scorpius while reminiscing about their Yuletide traditions. Meanwhile Draco is MIA on urgent Christmas-related business.

[from-a-legends-pov]

Star Wars Legends Highlight of the Week: “You can’t look dignified when you’re having fun.”

In this feature, a fan will share one thing they love from Star Wars Legends — a book, a comic, an author, a character, a scene, an event, or anything else they want to highlight — and tell us more about it.

If you, too, love Legends, follow @from-a-legends-pov and check out our From a Legends Point of View fanfiction event, where we’ll be working with writers to build a collection of Star Wars Legends fanfiction set during the time of the Original Trilogy. Signups are open now through June 2, 2024 — use our Signup Form here to pitch your story concepts (Signup guidelines available here), and please encourage your favorite writers to participate!

Today’s Legends highlight is a moment — a scene from X-Wing: Solo Command featuring Wes Janson and Myn Donos — and we’re talking with one of the From a Legends Point of View mods, Psy.

Tell us about your Legends highlight. What is it? What’s it about?

My highlight is a scene from Aaron Allston’s novel X-Wing: Solo Command, where Wes Janson gives his fellow lieutenant Myn Donos some life advice. Myn has some pretty severe PTSD from the ambush on Talon Squadron (of which he was the lone survivor), and has nearly washed out of the New Republic starfighter corps due to his efforts to deal with his trauma by not dealing at all — he hasn’t even really talked with anyone about the incident. Wedge sees through Myn’s latest attempt at avoidance and orders him to talk with someone about what he’s experienced.

Wes is that lucky someone. The highlight of their conversation is this section, which starts while Wes is jumping on his bed:

“Tell me, Myn, how do I look?”

"Well, stupid."

"Exactly!" With an exuberant bound, Janson leaped off his cot, smacked his head on the ceiling, and swore as he landed on the floor again. He rubbed his head and glared at the treacherous ceiling. "When was the last time you looked stupid?"

"I don't know."

Janson leaned in close to him. "Try to understand this. I'll say it slowly. I want you to remember it for the rest of your life.

"You can't look dignified when you're having fun."

When Myn still isn’t quite getting it, Janson goes on to explain:

"Let's try it a different way. You want to be in control so you don't foul up some horrible way. But you're so in control that you're basi­cally a walking dead man. Since you're dead, you had nothing to offer Lara. You have nothing to offer Wedge — he's got plenty of dead pilots, doesn't need another one. Most of them are smart enough to stay where we plant them, though."

Wes’s advice?

“Get drunk. Get slapped. Do something you always wanted to do as a child, especially if it's something that would humili­ate you today. If you're going to get kicked out of Starfighter Command, make it for something you can be proud of.”

What makes this a Legends highlight for you? What do you love about it?

Wedge has always been my favorite character, but Wes has always been the one I identified with the most. Reading the books for the first time as a eleven-ish year-old attention-seeking chaos goblin, the line “You can't look dignified if you're having fun” was one of my favorites I ever read. I wrote it on a bunch of lined paper and taped it up around my room. 😬

To learn more….

If you’d like to read more about Myn’s and Wes’ adventures in the Wraith Squadron series, you can check out the X-Wing: Solo Command page or the general Wraith Squadron page on Wookieepedia, or find Solo Command at your local library, through an independent bookseller, or at your favorite bookstore.

And be sure to check out @from-a-legends-pov and our From a Legends Point of View fanfiction event! Writer signups are now open — you can access the Signup Form here and Signup Guidelines here, as well as our Overview and FAQ.

[solottrpgchronicles]

3c. Socialize - Fox Curio's Floating Bookshop

Bookseller: Merry the capybara

Town: Thistledown

Date: 3rd of Bloom

Weather: warm all day

Total customers: 32

Books: 398

Coins: 223

Dear diary,

I'm sneezing even as I write this. What a mess! I can tell Bloom is here, judging by how itchy and watery my eyes are.

Today is the first properly warm day of the new year, and I had the brilliant idea to open all the windows, let the air in, and then open shop.

Let me tell you, helping customers in this state is no easy feat.

First, a group of schoolchildren barged in, touching every book they could put their grubby paws on. Their teacher, a mouflon with salt-and-pepper fur, was doing his very best to wrangle them.

"I'm so sorry, they're just really excited, you see" He apologized; I reassured him it was no trouble at all.

Truth be told, it was a bit of a bother, but I was surprised at how much joy their presence brought me, and how infectious their excitement was; I even gave them a group discount.

They bought a few classics to read during class, as well as fantasy and sci-fi novels, and a few colouring books.

My second customer - the schoolchildren count as a single unit in my mind - ruined my perfectly good mood; a badger in a pristine suit and tie, who walked in as if he owned the place. He shook my paw firmly and introduced himself as none other than the mayor of Thistledown, Mr. Furlorne.

Now, I'm not a big fan of authorities, but mayor Furlorne didn't put any effort into being likeable. He looked around the shop, nodding and stroking his chin. "Certainly a very nice and cozy shop. I trust you have the license and proper paperwork?" He stared at me inquisitively.

I don't. I didn't even know I needed a license. Luckily, my allergies decided to act up right at that moment, sending me into such a sorry state that mayor Furlorne left in a hurry, muttering something about having this conversation when I'm feeling better.

Isn't it strange that he would personally go and inspect businesses though? Maybe it's because this town is so small. Either way, I have to leave as soon as the river thaws; I have no patience for silly bureaucracy.

In the afternoon I met a few more strange characters:

A couple of travelling otters who were actually looking for a hotel

A loquacious seagull who insisted on telling me all about every single book they had ever read

A traveling salesnake called Seerah

Initially I thought Seerah just wanted to sell me stuff; she must have sensed my distrust, because after slithering up to me and introducing herself, she said "I'm looking for a book, but I'm also looking to make new friends. It's not easy, traveling around all the time and having no fixed home. I thought you might understand the feeling."

I found her openness and sincerity to be refreshing, and ended up offering her a cup of sweet chamomile; we talked until it was almost time to close shop.

She bought an anthology of short novels and left me her business card, saying she hopes we'll cross paths again soon. That would be nice.

At that point I was pretty much ready to close shop, when I heard a soft knock at the door. To my surprise, it was a scruffy sparrow, shivering in the rapidly cooling evening air.

"Uh, sorry sir, may I..."

I waved them inside without hesitation.

Kiki the sparrow was happy to warm up in front of my modest fireplace with a glass of warm milk and biscuits.

They're apparently not from around here - I'm sensing a pattern today - they just arrived in Thistledown after having freshly left their nest, and don't know how to even find a place to sleep, let alone a job. I offered to walk with them into town tomorrow and help talk to people; for tonight they can sleep over.

It's difficult to start a life on one's own, I can definitely empathize.

---

Rereading this entry, I realize I complained a lot today, but there were plenty of nice moments. I just find it uncomfortable when people barge in and try to get through my armour.

I suppose all this socializing could be beneficial; even I need people, friendship, community.

I'm still going to sail away when the river thaws, though.

--------------

This is a playthrough of a solo journaling TTRPG called "Fox Curio's Floating Bookshop" by lostwaysclub.

You can check it out on itch.io: https://lostwaysclub.itch.io/floating-bookshop

[rebeccadewinterthinks]

Good omens The Book of life Conspiracy theory Part 4

the previous parts of this theory you can read here: part 1, part 2, part 3

4. Is he lying or not?

I'm not an expert on brain function, but when Gabriel comes to the bookshop, he behaves like a person who has lost their memory. You believe that he doesn't know who he is, where he is, and what he's doing here. He reacts and behaves like a curious child. At the same time, he has a vague sense of anxiety and a vague sense of recognition of Aziraphale, and all of this seems quite natural. However, at a certain point, it started to seem to me that Gabriel is lying. Let's start with the fact that he suddenly stopped asking questions, he no longer asks: who am I? how do you know me? who are you? what miracles are happening here? A person who has lost their memory is only interested in book trading and gravity, really?

Review the listed episodes. Don't you think the same as I do?

« – And now I will make a noise when I move around…»

He is clearly trolling Aziraphale, smirking and walking away, very pleased with himself, it's obvious. He's not a child, but a self-satisfied bastard [06:25 Ep.2].

Aziraphale talks to the Archangels on the street in front of the bookshop [12:45 Ep.2]:

The door opens, and Gabriel appears, loudly and joyfully declaring that he is Jim, the bookseller's assistant. Why would a person who has lost their memory, who knows that something terrible awaits him, loudly come out onto the street in front of strangers? Maybe because this is Gabriel-with-memory, who, of course, recognized the ones who came, understands that a hiding miracle of immense power has been performed, and is now simply testing the limits? When the miracle passes its final test (Michael doesn't recognize Gabriel up close), he mockingly calls after the angels:

« – What...what about me? Uh, guys, shouldn't you keep a close eye on me too?»

very recognizable audacity and self-assurance.

there is a theory that an angel cannot be punished outside of Heaven. After all, in the first season, Aziraphale had to be kidnapped first and then executed by Heaven. So, Gabriel, having regained his memory, must realise that with all his powers, he is practically invulnerable on Earth. This is indirectly confirmed in episode 6 when representatives of Hell and Heaven demand that the escapees be handed over to them. It seems like they are right in front of you, punish them all you want. By the way, humans don't have such problems, only Crowley's intervention saves Maggie and Nina from immediate transformation into salt pillars.

however, it's possible that Gabriel is just a very audacious son of a bitch.

there are more obvious signs that the fugitive is mentally sound: you can't fool Crowley so easily [21:24 Ep.2]. He carefully listens to the nonsense that Gabriel is spouting and says:

I think at that moment the Archangel realizes that it's better not to push Crowley further, "shines" his eyes, and delivers a biblical phrase. Think about it, if ALL his memory is in the fly, where did this piece come from? Well, the trick worked, and they back off.

Gabriel blurts out a prophecy about the Second Coming [38:45 Ep.3]:

«– There will come a tempest, and darkness, and great storms. And the dead will leave their graves and walk the earth once more. And there will be great lamentations. Everyday it's getting closer.»

Is this a conscious attempt to warn? Or a random trigger on the word «tempest»? The only thing that's clear is that his memory is with him again.

conversation with Crowley [41:35 Ep.3]:

« – You have no idea the trouble you're causing, do you? - No. Or yes. Or...no. - Yeah, I'll tell you something Jim, or Gabriel, if you're there somewhere. If any harm comes to Aziraphale because of this, I will…»

And Gabriel listens. VERY carefully. And he looks like he understands everything.

Crowley comes into the Archangel's room [14:20 Ep.5].

The demon openly berates him. Gabriel is visibly nervous. When Crowley says that Aziraphale wasn't at the execution, Gabriel asks in surprise, «He wasn't there?"». Not the reaction you would expect from someone who doesn't understand what's being talked about, right? And it becomes even stranger when Gabriel almost jumps out of the second-floor window. For a person, with or without memory, that's guaranteed injury (the floor is high, and there's asphalt below), and the action is completely senseless. But for an Archangel, such a jump poses no threat, but it's an excellent way to escape from an extremely unpleasant conversation. Then Crowley demands that Gabriel remember. He replies:

«– I don't have my memory. – Well, where is your memory, then? – In a matchbox. No, I took it out, first. I took it and put it in the box and I brought it here… And now it's everywhere.»

First of all, how do you know all this? Secondly, what do you mean, everywhere? It's no longer in the fly? You don't want to admit that you've already got it back, do you? I have a theory as to why the memory (partially) could have leaked back into Gabriel's head. And also why he doesn't hurry to get away from the bookshop, even though Heaven is already on his heels.

the part 5 is here

[1920sladydectective]

A Table for Two (Part One) 7.5K

She had to orchestrate them seeing each other again, and the best way to do that was force him to collect books for her.

OR

Aesop Sharp's fifteen year old daughter tries matchmaking her father with the new Bookseller in Hogsmeade to distract him from the news that she's dating Garreth Weasley

There were many things that Aesop Sharp struggled with, an entire list in fact, including a lame leg, career pivot and endlessly idiotic adolescents. The thing he struggled with most though, you ask? Parenting his fifteen year old daughter, who unfortunately for him, was a perfect amalgamation of all of his most cunning and mischievous traits, paired with her mother’s beauty and charm. Every day felt like an invisible battle he couldn’t quite understand and though he had been doing it for a decade and a half, walking around with his heart outside of his chest, placing all of his love with her was a fearful feeling. 

Edelyn Vanora Sharp was his pride and joy. He was also quite certain she was sent from some kind of warped Hell to torment him. 

Ever since she was very young, she had been daring and adventurous. Crawling across floors away from her parents, only to be scooped up, or climbing so far into a tree that she was unsure of how to get down, it only became harder for him to monitor her as she aged, especially since the death of her mother. She wasn’t old enough to remember her, a gentle and soft woman with her same emerald eyes and boisterous laugh, but she knew that she was a mixture of her parents and though he was rarely open about things, he would always share stories of her mother with her. 

Edelyn Sharp was in a truly awful predicament. She was in love, which in all honesty was rather lovely, but it was who she loved that posed the problem. After years of bickering and easy friendship, she had had the misfortune of falling in love with Garreth Weasley. This wasn’t a bad thing at all, he was just a tad reckless, until she considered her father and then her life seemed to be neatly engulfed in flames. 

She was certain that she should have been overjoyed when Garreth asked her on a date, she accepted after all, but now as she lay in her bedroom next to her father’s staring at the dark blue ceiling, she could only fathom the damage control needed for the boy to survive to the end of the term, she didn’t have the mental capacity to think beyond then. There were nine days before the date, due to thankfully busy schedules and Edelyn estimated that she had perhaps a month after that before her father would notice something amiss. That estimate was incredibly generous, and relied on everyone keeping their bloody mouths shut. 

Having not slept a wink, she sat tugging roughly on her hair as she debated what to do with herself. It was Friday, she had Charms and Defence, then a free afternoon. Poppy had been yammering about a new bookshop that had opened in Hogsmeade a few days ago, and she had a hankering to see it. Donning her blue robes, Edelyn rushed down to the Great Hall, where her friends and father already sat eating breakfast. 

“Tough night?” Natty asked, passing her the eggs as Edelyn stared dazedly at them. 

“Didn’t sleep at all, considering you know what,” She grunted, fistfuls of food hovering around her mouth but never quite making it in. 

Natty snorted, as Poppy just smiled, both girls fully aware of the ridiculousness of her life. They had been there when Garreth asked her out, in the Transfiguration Courtyard last week as the little group of girls had sat studying in the tentative sunshine. 

“Anyway,” Edelyn said, hanging on the word for a few beats too long, “Do you want to come to that new bookstore with me today, Pops?” 

“Ugh, Bugger, I can't. I've already agreed to help Howin later,” The Hufflepuff grunted. 

“Books or Beasts, who will win?” Natty mumbled as both girls reached out to flick her ear. 

“Fuck you then,” Edelyn groaned. 

“Take your Dad, might make him chill out around you for a bit,” Poppy suggested with a bright beam, as the words turned over in Edelyn’s head. 

That actually wasn’t the worst idea, books were her main connection point with her father and it might mellow him enough that she could add another few days to her doomageddon timeline. Standing with a sudden purpose, she waved away her friends and glided over to where her father miserably sat attempting to avoid breakfast small talk with Ronen. 

“Professor Ronen,” Edelyn smiled gently down at her Charms Professor, though he acted more like a well meaning Grandfather, incredibly invested in the every rise and fall of her life. 

“Eda,” He bellowed happily, “What news do you bring, Dear girl?” 

She let out a little snort, “No news, I was just coming to ask Dad if he fancied scoping out the new bookshop in Hogsmeade this afternoon, as you don’t have the Seventh Years today,” 

Sharp let out an indecisive little groan, pausing in his ordered mouthfuls, “Come to my classroom around two thirty, I shall let you know then,” 

She nodded, giving Ronen another smile as he stood, “We may as well walk together, considering,” 

Ronen nodded back, grasping a small pile of parchment she recognised as their essays, and gestured for her to lead the way, as they each mumbled goodbyes to her father. 

Charms and Defence passed with very little fanfare. She scored excellently on both subject’s essays, which brought her a subtle sort of joy at the knowledge that she was succeeding as much as was expected of her, which would also make her father more lenient in the number of books she could buy later. Luckily for her, Garreth was nowhere near her, as their delicate situation would have fizzled under Hecat’s sharp gaze. 

Aesop found himself surprised by his daughter’s offer, yet touched all the same. Spending time with Edelyn at this age was tricky, he always felt like he was on the back foot when it came to remembering how she wished to be treated. She had a ferocious temper, one of the unfortunate traits she had inherited from him, and their arguments were legendary. All that to be said, in the quiet of their shared chambers they would bond over books and chess, both avidly researching new theories and publications. Some of his fondest memories were of her proving him wrong, which was an odd feeling to have. Above all else, she seemed completely unphased by his leg beyond a deep sadness that he felt pain. Where shame and anger sat with him, only unyielding love rested in her. Despite their differences, Aesop felt it important that he try as hard as she was, so despite the niggling burn in his thigh, he would venture to the bookshop. 

Soon enough, two thirty came and Edelyn stumbled into the Potions classroom, blowing frizzy black waves out of her eyes with a frustrated grunt. 

“Papa?” She called quietly, as the man emerged from his office with a light smile. 

“Shall we get going then, Edie?” Aesop said, gathering his possessions and a small pouch of powder, “You don’t mind if we take the Floo?”

“Course not, Pa,” She said, excitement fraying her movements as she took a pinch and firmly stated the Hogsmeade Square, suddenly engulfed in fiery green shimmers. 

Aesop followed after, his wand locking the classroom room firmly behind him. 

Hogsmeade was always a hub of activity, but in the sunshine that early spring brought, people were out in droves to buy new clothes, explore the surrounding fields or indulge in a nice Butterbeer. There was a slight buzz surrounding the new bookshop too, a large shop painted a stunning burnt orange, with visibly hand painted books and flowers covering the wood, a few even on the glass of the display window. Above the artwork the sign simply read ‘Once’ which seemed to amuse her father for reasons she didn’t quite understand. Storming ahead, she allowed her father to move at his own pace, as she rushed towards the shiny new Muggle novels. 

Aesop regarded the shop quizzically, almost baffled by such an affronting colour, though a minor artist himself he could not argue with the painting’s beauty. Stepping in, he realised they must have come at a lull, as other than himself and Edelyn there was only one another patron, and a woman behind an ornate wooden till with her back to him. Her hair was a similar colour to the paint and it made him snort, as he took in the eclectic selection on offer. Sunlight fractured into tinted colours through the window as the woman turned, her eye catching his, as his breath caught in his throat. 

Eliza Fisher wasn’t quite sure what had come over her when she decided three months ago to pack up her job as a Cursebreaker and move to Hogsmeade to open a bookshop, but she had done it now and there was no going back. Her parents were long since dead, something she had sat with as well as a young woman could, and she was lucky for the freedom her situation afforded her. It had always been a girlhood dream, but feeling it actualised as she finished the tender brush strokes of forgetmenots and daisies, made her feel a fizzy melancholy. Though she had never been here before, her parents choosing to home educate her for reasons she never quite understood, she felt a familiarness, an ease she had been chasing her whole life. Here, in a quaint wizarding village, she was quite certain she had found purpose in the form of bound pages and happy faces. 

Grateful for such a wealthy inheritance, Eliza had spent the month since purchasing the huge premises renovating it and decorating her modest two bedroom flat above. With each lick of colour and fully itemised shelf, the space came alive. For weeks, the shop’s name had plagued her, until she settled on ‘Once; a calm and slightly amusing adage to the structure of all classic fables and stories. The opening had been hectic, filled with bustling curiosity as she attempted to greet everyone with kindness, ready to answer any question or bundle any books in parchment. Sales had been fantastic, with a slight lull in the afternoons afforting her a chance to re catalogue. It was an all consuming hobby, and though she felt safe, there was a slight anxiousness that she would not be able to make friends with so little free time. She had bonded well with Sirona, the proprietor of the Three Broomsticks, but had struggled to meet people beyond the etched carvings of her desk. 

The bell rang with three cheery hums, as she carefully made her dissent down the ladder with a pile of books in her grasp, pivoting on her heel. Looking up, her eyes caught a warm brown gaze, as the inquisitive look of the most attractive man she had ever seen made her mind blank. 

Eyes locked, air heavy, thousands of questions. 

The door slammed and Eliza startled, her neatly catalogued books tumbling to the ground. 

Equally shocked from his reprieve, Sharp found himself rushing forward to help despite his leg’s protests, as muddled hands entwined around a now slightly damaged copy of Pride and Prejudice. 

“Oh, I am so sorry,” Eliza said, words threatening to bubble out of her as her cheeks burned, “I really am too clumsy for my own good,” 

“No, of course not,” Aesop replied, voice firm, “I startled you, please let me purchase those as an apology,” 

“You’d read Pride and Prejudice?” She asked, slightly incredulous as she relinquished her grip on the pile to him, nervously brushing back her hair as she hazarded a glance at him. As handsome as her initial assessment then, an expanse of broad lines smoothed by the soft tufts of brown hair and patchy stubble lining his jaw, his eyes crinkled in the sunlight. 

“I’m sure my daughter would,” He said noncommittally, focused intently on her rosy, freckles cheeks as she stammered and smiled. The slight burn in his ribs caught him by surprise, as rushes of interest and attraction stirred, long since dormant and confusing.

Amidst the commotion, Edelyn had turned, watching the interaction with an odd kind of fascination as something began to spin in the back of her mind. 

As they stabilised from the startled introduction of names and Aesop insisting he buy the damaged books, he got to make the quip he’d been sitting on for five minutes, “Once?”

“Upon a time,” Eliza finished, a grin etched on her face, making her glow. 

“Ran out of paint to finish the sign?” His smirk deepened, as she scowled goodnaturedly, shaking her head in fabricated frustration. 

“I think we both know the answer to that, Mr Fables,” She let out a delightful giggle. 

His eyes widened, though he supposed it was the most obvious thing in the entire world that he was named after the fables, especially to someone in her profession, “Professor Fables, if you will,” 

It was her turn to be surprised, “A Hogwarts man, what do you teach?” 

“Potions,”

“Ah, that’ll explain it then,” 

“What?”

“The foreboding aura of a man constantly brewing trouble,” 

Aesop couldn’t help but laugh, utterly disarmed by this bumbling, sarcastic witch with a toothy grin and hair like fire. Remembering himself, he glanced away and caught Edelyn’s passive gaze. 

The chemistry was palpable and as she observed, Edelyn felt a candle light spontaneously in her brain. The best way to distract her father from her love life was to stimulate his own and the pretty bookseller had presented herself as the perfect candidate, delivered on a silver tray. Despite the convenience of it, seeing her father flustered and captivated by a woman was completely new territory. The Ex-Auror who taught her how to defend herself at seven or screeched at people’s foolhardiness in Potion brewing did not blush or twitch. Fighting through the befuddlement of such a sight, she considered her next course of action. All that was left for her to do was get Garreth on board with her plan, as she continued to survey the two adults, slowly moving towards them.

Aesop regarded his daughter, as she came to stand next to him with a pile as tall as her arms length of books, nodding to Eliza.

“Hello,” Her voice was calm and pointed, “I’m Edelyn Sharp, I see you’ve met my father,” 

“Pleasure to meet you, you have quite the selection there,” Eliza said, nodding to the younger girl as her eyes scanned the spines for titles, “Is there anything else you’re searching for?” 

“I think that’s certainly more than enough,” Aesop answered for Edelyn, raising a brow towards the girl as she sheepishly grinned. 

Eliza stifled a laugh, taking the piles of books and wrapping them with precision, moving fluidly as she took the handful of galleons Aesop offered her. 

The interaction simmered out from there, with a few loaded glances and murmurs, as Edelyn dragged her father out of the shop.

“Well, it was very nice in there,” Aesop said, mind far away as they stumbled towards Honeydukes.

“You certainly seemed to get something out of it,” Edelyn said, hugging the books to her chest as she basked in the sun, following him down the path. 

Not wanting to rock the boat with too much probing, Edelyn allowed him to drag her around the sweetshop as she picked a few sweets here and there. He gathered all the usual suspects, toffees and jellybeans, a sherbet or two and some licorice. She could never understand his particular proclivity to the sweet, sour and pungent, but his mood seemed more risen than she ever could have hoped. 

After a surprisingly pleasant afternoon together, Edelyn found herself searching for Garreth in the throng of people messily eating in the Great Hall. The ginger haired young man sat eating corn, as Edelyn flicked a piece of parchment to him with a time and place, causing the Gryffindor to raise his eyebrows in surprise. 

For twenty minutes she sat gnawing on food, as she waited for the population to thin slightly, each minute dragging more slowly than the last. Finally, in an alcove in the Astronomy Tower, the pair sat whispering to each other. 

“Sorry, Edie, What?” Garreth frowned, trying to grapple with the Ravenclaw’s words, “We’re setting up your Dad?”

“It’s ingenious, Garreth,” She rambled, “He won’t be able to focus on scrutinising us when he’s dating himself, so we’ll be able to interact in peace,” 

“I wasn’t quite aware it would be this complex, love,” he licked his lips, contemplating her ideas, “Will he really mind that much?” 

“Yes,” Edelyn said, gripping his hands, “Yes he will, you are the very bane of his existence, Gar,” 

“That’s a fair summary, I suppose, though in my defence I am just a master Potioneer in the making,” 

Edelyn rolled her eyes, shaking his shoulders in order to hold his attention, “I need that plotting mind to help me do this, but we have to be subtle Garreth, do you know what that word means?” 

“I’ll try, for you,” He huffed, smiling down at her, “On that note, I’ve got to go and do some homework before I get stuck in Detention again and am unable to help,” 

Edelyn grinned at that, standing on stiff legs as she squeezed his shoulder and then rushed off to the Faculty Tower. 

Though it had appeared odd to her year group for the first few months of First Year that she stayed in the adult quarters with her father, the novelty had long since passed and just became fact, for which she was grateful. The first few nights she had spent in her assigned Ravenclaw dormitory had not been pretty, and by the week’s end she had moved back into her bedroom. It felt wrong to be removed from her father, despite the fact that they rarely had the chance to interact, and she desperately craved the comfort of her deep navy walls. As she opened the door into their little living room, her eyes fixed to the few empty spots on the bookshelf by her father’s desk. 

She had to orchestrate them seeing each other again, and the best way to do that was force him to collect books for her. Plan cemented, she curled into her bed and began to read the slightly dented copy of Pride and Prejudice, curious to see what this Muggle book could hold. 

Saturday was a new day, one which yielded the possibility of progress, as Edelyn haphazardly dressed and made sloppy note of the books her father was missing. Stealing toast from her father’s abandoned plate by the fire, she grabbed her hat and slipped out of the chambers, humming a slight tune as her feet slammed rhythmically onto the creaking wood. 

Hogsmeade was in a similar state as the day before, though the calmness of the slightly colder morning still clung to the air, as she marched with purpose towards the shining, orange beacon. Again, the bell chimed, as Edelyn surveyed the books again, feeling a joy stir in her chest.

Eliza stood chatting quietly with an older witch, as she handed her piles of books on herbs and cooking, the thought making her stomach growl as she glanced up at the noise, slight panic stirring in her as she recognised the customer as the daughter of the handsome Professor from yesterday. Eliza fiddled with her hands, mind bringing forth the image of the tall man (not that it took much recollection, she could think of little else) as she pretended to dust the stock behind her. 

“Miss Eliza?” Edelyn said, voice hesitant as she found herself in front of the desk, staring at the woman’s back. She really did have the most magnificent hair, tumbling curls of auburn and gold. 

Eliza turned slowly, glancing down at the raven haired girl, “Oh, hello again! H-How,” a cough, “How can I help you?” 

“I have a list of books for my father,” She murmured, “Some you’ll have to order in I think,” 

“Yes of course,” Nervous flittering as she unintentionally snatched the paper from the younger girl, eyes scanning the list as her mind thought quickly, “I have two of them here, as for the others, your assessment was correct, they will probably take up to a week as I doubt I’ll be able to source them from the same place,”

“That’s fine,” a few moments as she stared at the older woman, “Is it alright to pay half and settle the bill when I come to collect?” 

More overly enthusiastic nodding as Eliza noted everything down, slotting it into quite possibly the largest filing system Edelyn had even seen. Handing Edelyn the two thick Potioneers books, she grinned at the small girl, “Hope he likes them, send your father my love,” 

Edelyn nodded back, giggling slightly as she rushed out of the shop. 

Eliza was as red as beetroot, biting her cheeks and mumbling all manner of foul language under her breath as her anxiousness took hold. What had possessed her to say something so ridiculous? She’d only met the man the once for Merlin’s sake. 

Later that evening, as Aesop prepared the weekly meal for the two of them and she finished some Arithmancy homework, Edelyn kept glancing at the small parcel obscured by her feet as he plated up and seasoned with the usual precision with which he brewed. The meal was lovely as usual and he couldn’t help but smile at his daughter’s vulgar mouth compared with her perfect posture and table manners. It had been many a moon since he had tried to dissuade swearing in their private chambers, considering how often he was prone to using them himself and he despised being a hypocrite. 

After she had washed the plates with a flick of her wrist, Edelyn and Aesop retired to their respective armchairs, with tea and firewhisky placed on the shared end table, as she gripped the brown package paper and handed him the lump without a word. 

His brow furrowed, as he tugged on the soft twine, “More books Edie, really?” 

She waited until he had scanned the spines, eyes wide, before giggling, “For you, Papa, as you were a tad preoccupied...with me yesterday,” a long beat, “I had her reserve another three for you, Miss Eliza sends her love to you,” 

“She did?” It was too fast for him to stop it, as visions of blue eyes and rosy cheeks battered his warm and tired mind. 

“Yes, she said she’d keep them behind the counter for you, and that she’d look forward to seeing you,” Edelyn realised she was laying it on a tad thick, but her father’s dazed expression seemed encouraging. 

“Me?” He asked quietly, “But you ordered them, Edie-girl, why would I be collecting them?” 

“I have all these O.W.L.s mock examinations remember Papa, I’ll be far too busy revising,” 

“Oh, of course,” Aesop was murmuring to himself, as she bit back a laugh, flicking through the pages as more images of the bright, enchanting bookseller bore themselves to him, “I’ll collect them whenever necessary,”

Their evening progressed as most Saturday’s did, both buried in books as drinks flowed and they would occasionally read a passage to each other, laughing at similar jokes until the yawns would interrupt them and they crawled to bed, after a tender kiss to the head and a warm embrace. 

A few days later, on the coldest day of the week, Aesop found himself grumpily trudging through the town, uncharacteristic nervousness fizzling in his fingertips as he shoved the orange door open, eyes darting in search of his target. She was in a royal blue gown today that made her look like a running waterfall, flowing and ethereal as he choked on air once again. He was almost certain that she must use a fair share of products from someone such as Snelling to receive such an effect, yet her face was not shrouded by the appearance of such lacquer, as he gazed into her eyes. 

“Professor,” “Miss Eliza,” They rambled over each other, bridging the gap as they both tried to take hold of the situation. 

“You’re here for the books your daughter ordered? She said it would be her collecting,” Eliza said, sending him a smirk as she bent over to search through the crates. 

“Y-yes,” a grumble as his eyes tried to look anywhere else than the round, suppl-”She delegated to me, lots of school this time of year, she’s a very hard working girl,” 

“I’ve heard that is the general nature of Ravenclaws. Are you also that way inclined?” Somehow she was still bent over, words mumbled, tugging aggressively on a particularly heavy tome. 

“No, I am a Slytherin myself, though she has a ridiculously keen mind much like her mother did,” Sharp gulped slightly, eyes betraying him as he looked, body hot as she stood up oblivious to his struggle, eyes bright as ever, “y-You?”. 

“Oh, I was educated at home by my mother, but if I were to guess I’d say I would have been a Hufflepuff,” She answered, slamming the books down on the wood as the air made her hair bounce upwards slightly. 

“I second that conclusion,” He said, leaning against the carved wood as he grinned down at her, some sense returning to his mind. Aesop refused to let an innocent bookseller get the better of him.

“So Edelyn’s mother is a Ravenclaw, does that make you always outnumbered by intelligent women?” 

“Christine passed away before Edelyn was four, so I did not have the fortune of seeing them together,” Aesop said, voice light as he gently delivered the words. For all his faults and misunderstandings, he knew how to communicate death and grief.

“I see,” Eliza said, voice measured and soft, as she pondered her conflicting feelings of the man paired with the new information, “I’m sorry for your loss, and I am sure you are doing a wonderful job with her, she is a delight,” 

He laughed, crackling and warm, “She has her moments, but she is a teenager after all,”

Eliza blushed, unable to keep his gaze as she fingered the twine bow, “Indeed,” she handed the books to him, “There you are. Can I sort anything else for you?”

Aesop paused, licking his bottom lip lightly, “Thank you very much,” He took the books and tucked them under his arm, “Speaking of teenagers, I was hoping to order some textbooks for my Seventh years and perhaps a new book for Edie?” 

Eliza jotted the name of the textbook and the quantity needed, before scanning her shelves, “Anything specific in mind for Edie?”

“She devoured that Prejudice book, so perhaps more by the same author or a similar ilk?” He said, following her gaze. 

“Bold of a father to let a daughter read something so romantic, I admire that, Pride and Prejudice is a favourite of mine too,” 

Aesop didn’t exactly want to explain that he hadn’t known the book’s content and was now reticent to purchase more, so instead adopted a different angle, “I’ve heard it’s a favourite amongst many, what exactly makes it so special?” 

As she floated from shelf to shelf, Eliza laughed into her chest, fingers brushing across a cover of the aforementioned book as she pinched two of its companions, “What isn’t special about a tall, handsome man admitting his faults and changing them to marry a girl? I daresay that is what most women long for, with varying success,” her eyes had come to rest on his frizzy hair, smile settling. 

“I see,” a hasty drag of air, “Reflects poorly on us gentlemen, understandably,” 

“Do something to change it then,” Eliza’s voice held an edge, a sword wrapped in cotton as she jabbed it at him, eyes shining as she confirmed her selections, “We have a few here, but if she enjoyed P&P, I recommend Emma,” 

“Emma sounds suitable, thank you,” Aesop’s answer was a daze, his mind trying to keep up with the onslaught of new information the women seemed to present without even realising it. 

“Marvellous, now school books are discounted for Staff, so that’s a little bit of joy for your day,” She said, applying the lessened fee to his new Potions books and Edelyn’s gift, even as he attempted to stop her, resulting in a momentary staring contest which he promptly lost. 

“You’re too kind, Miss Eliza,” Aesop said, “You are definitely ensuring mine and my daughter’s business,” 

She blushed at that, without a response as he took his items and left, his gait slow and hesitant, wanting to stay in her presence for longer, to talk to her until she rested in the silence she found herself in. 

Aesop was aware he was in trouble, as he limped through the biting air towards the floo point, his mind playing her words on repeat as he found himself back in his classroom with very little recollection of the events in between. 

Hours later, after the bookshop closed, Eliza found herself in the Three Broomsticks.

To say that Sirona noticed the behaviour of the bookseller was an understatement. They had met on the evening Eliza had moved to Hogsmeade, sharing a Butterbeer and one too many stories for simple acquaintances. Since then the pair had remained friends and customers to each other’s services in equal measure. A book for a beer was always a pretty arrangement, but now as Eliza sat fiddling with the foam atop her glass with distant eyes and warm cheeks, Sirona found herself sighing into a tea towel.

“Who’s the gentleman?” 

“What?” Eliza startled, firmly grasping her pint glass to stop it tumbling all over the bar. 

“We aren’t twelve, Fisher. Who’s the man that has you all dreamy eyed and vacant?” Sirona’s hand rested on her hip as she bore down on the redhead with single minded focus. 

Her friend’s stare triggered a gulp from Eliza as she avoided the woman’s gaze, “Well, it’s awkward and I am certain you’ll know him so I’m not telling you,” 

“Is this the same woman who told me exactly why her ex-partner was awful in bed after half a drink?” 

“You said you wouldn’t bring that up, Sirona,” Eliza said, voice shrill as she swatted at the barmaid, before shushing her voice to a whisper, “But since you asked so nicely, it’s Professor Sharp,”

Loud, disruptive laughter echoed as Eliza shrank away from her, frowning, “Oh holy hells, you are buggered,” 

“Don’t say that, stop,” Eliza whined, gulping back her drink as she looked away. 

Sirona did not stop, instead she spent several minutes relaying parts of Sharp’s personality to further solidify Eliza’s anxiousness around the man, “You said he smiled at you? I don’t think he’s smiled at me in years and we’re friends,” a pause, “So, perhaps we might deduce from that, that you aren’t doomed, maybe your affections are returned,” 

“It’s all complicated, I am making a mountain out of a molehill,” Eliza said to herself, tracing shapes in the spillage on the bar Sirona had yet to mop up, “I’ve met him twice and he has been lovely, but I do not involve myself with men anymore, especially ones with daughters,”

“Edelyn is lovely, Eliza,” Sirona answered, slightly puzzled by her friend’s train of thought. 

“Exactly,” She replied, stress leaking out of her voice, “I don’t want to disturb their relationship or become attached to her and then have things with her father end badly!” another pause as she drained her glass, “What the fuck am I even rambling about? There is no ‘thing with her father’”

Sirona simply refilled the glass and stroked back her friend’s hair, a gentle smile on her usually dull face, before going off to tidy the mess around the pub. 

Eliza’s forehead met the sticky wooden slab of the bar, as she let out a distressed groan. 

Aesop was not faring much better, staring at the flames of his fireplace as he forlornly realised he had barely done any marking and it wasn’t likely any would be completed soon. Edelyn had loved her gift, disappearing into her bedroom to devour it, leaving him trapped with her. 

Eliza seemed to dance across his mind as easily as the fire did in its hearth, her words sticking into him. She seemed almost otherworldly, her beauty and gentleness captivating, as he tried to recite potion ingredients. He barely knew her, had only shared two hasty conversations and yet he was so desperate to hear more. He wanted her perspective on everything and he wanted to see her like he had before, bent over beneath him but with very little cloth-

“Papa?” Edelyn had slipped out of her room, holding her book with an odd glint in her eyes. 

“E-Edie,” The image of a naked Eliza slipped away from him, cheeks aching with heat as he beckoned his daughter forward, “Did you need something?” 

“I just wanted to check on you, see if you fancied a game of Chess,” 

“Of course, though you are becoming a tad too good for my tastes,” He said, attempting to recover. 

Edelyn snorted as she gathered all the pieces and placed them onto the end table with a simple Accio, “You’re just getting too comfortable, Old man,”

He absolutely thrashed her in retaliation to that comment, though she did not make it easy, constantly bringing up the one thing he hoped to avoid. 

“I’m surprised you managed to pick such a good book, Papa, doesn’t seem like your genre,” Edelyn said, brows raised as she placed a pawn forward. 

“I do admit I had help from Miss Eliza,” He blinked back her smile, “She seemed excited that you enjoyed the previous novel,” 

“She’s ever so helpful,” Knight stole his pawn, he did not flinch, “She seems to get on well with you,” 

“What does that mean, Edie?” He murmured back, stealing her bishop. 

Panic flared slightly as she retreated, not wanting to reveal her hand too soon, “You just seem to like chatting to her, Papa, she’s knowledgeable,” 

“That she is, she also seems to always have a view on everything,” Aesop replied, smirking slightly as snippets of her voice echoed in his head, “But I am glad to see her bookshop thriving, it is a sweet little addition to Hogsmeade,” 

Edelyn nodded along with her father’s words, frowning at the shambles the board as in as she attempted to work around him, both in Chess and real life, “She seems a tad lonely though, from what I’ve seen and heard,” 

“Oh?” 

“Pops was saying she’s there all by herself all day every day, never another helper and that she lives above the shop by herself, Edelyn said, twirling her Rook between her fingertips, “I do hope she’s making friends,”

“I suppose I hadn’t thought of it like that,” Her father replied, picturing the bubbly bookseller lonely and bored, “Though I can’t imagine her friendless Edie, she’s far too kind,”

“Might be nice for you to try to talk to her more often though, you’re not exactly overwhelmed with friends,” 

“Edelyn!” His voice resounded out slightly harsher than he’d intended, eyes snapping up to his daughter. 

“I’m sorry, Papa,” The girl said meekly, admitting defeat in both areas for now. 

There was a heavy silence before he spoke again, tone softer, “I’ll consider it, now to bed with you,” 

Though he doubted his daughter was aware of his internal romantic battle, her words had spurred his thoughts all the same, as he lay in his bed running it through in his head. His dreams were filled with Eliza. 

Somehow, much to Edelyn’s surprise, Sunday had arrived. Garreth was scheduled to meet her by the school gates at noon and they were going to head off for a stroll and then perhaps a pint or two at The Three Broomsticks. She told herself she wasn’t nervous, as she pinned back waves and shined her boots, but the tremor in her hand and her jumbled thoughts spoke volumes. Evading her father, she slipped to the meeting spot, bouncing on her heels as he walked up to her looking as dashing as ever. 

Gripping her hand, Garreth tugged her towards the floo point and with mumbled words they were gone. Landing in the plush fields of Upper Hogsfield, they grinned at one another as they anxiously began their date. 

Aesop’s supply room was receiving a much needed overhaul and to his chagrin, it was missing things for no discernible reason. Or rather, the reason was a certain ginger fifth year who he would eventually take great pleasure in gutting like a fish. Unable to do such a thing yet, the Potions Master realised that he instead would have to venture to Pippins for the extra ingredients. Gathering his possessions and shopping list, he locked everything back up and made his way to Hogsmeade. 

Garreth let out a loud sneeze half way through a sentence, as they climbed over a short stole wall, letting out a quip that made Edelyn giggle, “Must have been your dad cursing me somewhere,” 

“He wouldn’t curse you if you stopped stealing from him,” 

“I am innocent on all charges, Miss Sharp,” 

Laughter mingled as they continued their walk, arms linked. 

Pippins was in sight as he forced his leg to stop whining, the door swinging open as Aesop found himself staring at a back that he recognised all too quickly.

Pippin glanced up at him from behind the counter, “Just a second, Sharp,” 

Aesop gulped as Eliza’s head whipped around, their eyes meeting as she bit her lip ever so slightly, “Professor, Hello!”

“He might be the person to ask actually, Miss,” Pippin interjected their meagre greeting, turning to the man, "She is in need of a pain salve, but I am out, I don’t suppose you have any?”

Aesop rolled his eyes at the older man’s heavy handed wink, hand diving into his pocket until he felt the coolness of the small circular tin, tugging it out and offering it to the bookseller, “Of course I do, Perry, as you well know! I do hope you’re alright, Miss Eliza?”

She took the offer gratefully, reaching for a handful of galleons, “I am well, just a victim of my own clumsiness, how much will I owe you?”

Aesop couldn’t resist a scoff at that, “Nothing at all,” 

“But,” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” He said, fixing her with a stare that disarmed her, warm blossoming in her stomach, “You have been more than kind and I am in bountiful supply of the stuff, take it,”

She nodded, eyes wide as she rubbed a small amount of the salve on her wrist, stepping to the side to allow him to step towards Pippin, “I shall take my leave then gentlemen, I hope to see you soon, Professor, thank you for trying, Pippin,” 

As she slid past him and out of the door, Aesop was hit with a blast of flowers and old parchment, his eyes fluttering slightly as he fought the urge to chase the smell, swallowing roughly as he placed the order with a robotic voice, mind reeling. 

If Pippin had noticed, he said nothing, though his smirk seemed a tad wider that day. 

Feeling the spring breeze on his face as he stepped out of the Potions apply shop, he couldn’t shake the concern in his chest. Edelyn had said that Eliza was all alone in the bookshop, and he wanted to ensure that she was safe. No other motivations were pulling him towards the shop, none at all. 

Eliza sat at the tall stool behind the counter, curled in on herself as she winced and groaned, attempting to contort to reach all of the injuries she’d acquired from falling from the ladders twice the day before. Though she had flipped her sign to closed for the moment, the high pitched chime showed that she hadn’t thought to lock the door, as the object of most of her thoughts strided in. 

Aesop was surprised at the sight of her, skin paler than usual, as she murmured to herself.

“Are you alright, Eliza?”

“Not really,” She laughed humourlessly, “I’m not open at the moment, Professor, I’m sorry,” 

“That’s perfectly alright, I came to check on you,” His voice was sweet, washing over her as her body seemed to calm slightly. 

“You did?” 

“You seem to have gotten yourself into a bit of a predicament, can I help?” Part of him was aware that he was overstepping, but seeing her contorted in pain with her hair and skirts a mess, made his heart clench as he inched closer. 

“Yes, please,” She said, barely aware of her response, as he moved behind the desk, his body close enough that she could smell the dark scent of his hair mixed with the dampness of the outside. 

With his calloused hand, he lifted her fingers from her wound at her collarbone, taking a swipe of the salve and replacing them with his own, his skin on fire as he made contact with her soft flesh. Both seemed to be holding their breath, as she melted into his touch, the pain fading away the more he worked it into her skin. 

“Anywhere else?” He croaked, eyes drinking in as much of her as they could, watching as she hesitantly raised her skirts, revealing the worst of the injuries, a scrape to the back of her knee and upper thigh. 

The silence grew thicker, as his hands worked with quick efficiency, his mind supplying him with images of her wrapped around him or beneath him, her flesh soft and hot for other reasons, as her chest huffed in a similar way, as he resisted a groan at her slight murmur of relieved pleasure. 

Eliza was struggling to stay composed, aware he was just offering her medical assistance, and yet his every move felt so sensual, calculated and rough, his ministrations mixed with the salve removing all of her pain as her mind drifted slightly, eyes flickering shut as a happy whimper left her. 

Shocked by herself, Eliza’s eyes opened to find him staring into hers, the warm brown now a dark molten that seemed to eat at her, as he removed his hand from the back of her thigh. 

“Better?” Aesop asked, well aware of the answer, as he fought back the dark smugness growing in his chest. Two voices battled now in his mind, one insisting he just ask her to dinner in that very second for it was obvious that she felt the same, the other wanting to be a tad more tactful and reserved. 

Eliza sucked in her bottom lip, trying to calm the thoughts of him shoving her against the desk and kissing her senseless, the blush spreading down her face to where his fingers had rested on her collarbone, trying pitifully to respond, only to nod slightly. 

The thoughts were overwhelming him, as he tried to wade through them, mumbling responses in his head. A Dinner date would be nice, he supposed. 

“I agree,” Eliza said, a smirk forming at his shocked expression. 

Aesop realised a second too late that he had spoken aloud, but her immediate answer was what threw him off, panic and euphoria were at war in him as he let out a small laugh, his grin eating up all the space on his face, “Truly?”

“Of course, Professor,”

“Aesop,”

“Of course, Aesop,” She quipped, tongue poking out, as she felt the heady rush of lust and joy flood through her, despite her previous attempts to ignore it. 

“Uh, Um,” He was grasping at straws, the first part done as he tried to follow through, “Does next Friday evening work for you?”

“It does,” She said, brushing back the tuft of hair that had stuck to his face, sending him a dainty smile that melted him. 

“I’m afraid Hogsmeade isn’t too exotic, but I could host you if you like?” His offer sounded rather boring as he said it, mind distracted by her fingers grazing his cheek.

Eliza jumped at the possibility of seeing Hogwarts and more importantly into seeing more of his life, since hers was so readily available to him, “That sounds perfect, Aesop, I shall arrive at the gates at seven,”

He smiled back, apprehension and excitement building as she dropped her hand, turning at the sound of the bell chiming with several witches who had missed the sign. Aesop fought the urge to curse at them, as she hopped up and offered her assistance. 

The interaction firmly ended, he sighed and made his way towards the door, shocked as he felt himself being pulled, as smooth lips made contact with his cheek and the echo of a giggle sounded in his ear. It happened in mere seconds, her skirts already swishing away by the time he could respond, as the breeze tugged the door open and he found himself stepping out. 

[oliversrarebooks]

The Rare Bookseller Part 46: Oliver's Ballet

Prev > Masterlist > Next

September 1925

TW: mind control, captivity

Oliver was trying to keep his hands from shaking as he walked up the stairs to the forbidden third floor.

It was the evening of the ballet, and his master had given him his instructions the previous night. He was to wake up before sunset, bathe, don the expertly tailored shirt and pants that had been provided to him, make coffee, and then head to Alexander's room to attend on him. Oliver wasn't entirely sure what that meant, and his nervousness over dispatching his duties warred with his nervousness about being an embarrassment at a fancy performance. He'd slept better the past two days, owning to Katherine's encouragement and his master's feeding, but now he couldn't help being slightly on edge.

Find happiness wherever you can...

He would do his best to follow her advice and enjoy himself tonight. It certainly wasn't every day he got to witness a ballet.

The oil lamp he was holding in his other hand sputtered and flickered as he climbed the stairs and apprehensively knocked on the dark wooden door that guarded his master's private sanctum. The door creaked open, revealing a very tired looking vampire in a fluffy robe. "Come in, Oliver, come in. Ah, you brought coffee. Excellent."

Oliver handed off the mug as he stepped over the threshold into the room, unable to resist sweeping his lamp around to get a better look, as it was currently only lit by a couple of candles.

Alexander's bedroom was furnished much like Oliver's, but larger, and far more cluttered. The window was covered with shutters, and a thick velvet curtain surrounded the enormous bed. The bookshelves were crammed full of books interspersed with rolled scrolls, stacks of papers, and seemingly random trinkets, a far cry from the orderly shelves in the library. The tables and nightstands were covered in stacks of books and hardened candle wax, and there was laundry strewn about the hardwood floor. The bed was unmade and the sheets and blankets were in a tangle, sliding off halfway, with a rubber water bottle lying nearby. The place smelled of bookbindings and floral soap and brine.

His master didn't seem remotely self-conscious about this state of affairs, taking the coffee, picking his way deftly through the mess, and sitting on the side of his bed. "It looks as if the shirt and pants fit without much need for additional tailoring. That's good," he said, looking Oliver up and down through half-closed eyes. "I suppose I ought to get dressed myself, and then you can assist me."

"Yes, sir." He was about to ask what exactly he would be assisting with, but as Alexander shed his robe and reached for his shirt, Oliver's attention was piqued by a strange symbol on his chest. A scar, but an oddly round one, with a faded symbol in the center.

"That doesn't concern you," said Alexander sharply, noticing Oliver's gaze. 

"Sorry, sir," said Oliver, making a point to look away as his master finished dressing.

He took another long look at Oliver as he buttoned all but the top button of his shirt. "...It's no matter. Come with me."

Oliver followed Alexander to a door in the back corner of the room, tripping over a pair of shoes obscured by an old coat on the way. The door opened to an absurdly spacious and opulent bathroom, featuring a marble floor, a porcelain bathtub large enough to fit half a baseball team, and expensive plush bath towels littering the floor in heaps. The smell of floral soap was even stronger here, and the remnants of steam clung to Oliver's glasses, the room oppressively warm.

Alexander sat down in front of a counter with a sink and a mirror, and Oliver's eyes went wide at the odd effect of his master having no reflection. He could see himself perfectly, as though Alexander wasn't even there.

"This is what I need your help with, Oliver. Making my hair look presentable, because I'm not able to do so myself."

That certainly explained why he was so disheveled normally -- although, given the state of his very visible room, it wasn't necessarily the full explanation. "What would you like me to do, sir?"

He gestured to a glass containing combs, long scissors, and a few other odd tools. "Whatever you think is fit. It's not as though I'm going to be able to see it to criticize. I only wish to look neat and presentable."

Oliver had really never paid too much attention to his own appearance, but he had always tried to look neat for customers, so he hoped he would be able to do the job. "Very well, sir," he said, apprehensively picking up a comb and running it through his master's hair.

His hair was soft, surprisingly so, and the scent of floral soap grew even stronger, with undertones of woodsmoke and bookbinding glue and something unidentifiable, a scent which he was quickly learning to associate with his master. Alexander closed his eyes, a faint smile on his face, seemingly enjoying the treatment. 

He must be so lonely. Oliver felt it so keenly the prior night when his master had cornered him in the kitchen and drank deep of his blood. As his master's thoughts pooled into his own, he was overwhelmed with loneliness, solitude, the desire for a warm and caring touch. Oliver couldn't help but work his hands into his master's hair on the pretense of styling it, enjoying the small, contented noise that escaped from his lips.

His master was handsome, wasn't he? Was there any harm in acknowledging that? It wasn't as if he had feelings for the vampire who had purchased him. He was simply accepting a truth, one that he had known even when Alexander was simply a prized customer.

"What is this ballet about, sir?" said Oliver, mostly to distract himself from this train of thought.

"It's an avant garde ballet, very controversial. It was actually choreographed and costumed by a famous Russian vampire who has worked in theater from well before I was born. This production has been mounted by a human company, though. It's a dance I'd been wishing to see for some time." Alexander's gaze traveled to Oliver's reflection in the mirror. "I have you to thank for encouraging me to leave the house more often, otherwise I might have missed this opportunity, instead electing to spend the evening wallowing in the manor's dust."

Oliver's breath hitched at his master's subtle smile. "I'm glad of it, sir."

----

Even though his tuxedo fit perfectly -- thanks to the detailed measurements Miss Florence had taken at the auction house -- Oliver still felt uncomfortable among the crowd dressed to the nines at the theater. He was dazzled by the gilded carvings on the walls, leading to a ceiling decorated with an elaborate fresco, and nearly crashed into a woman in a ball gown as he took in the sights.

His master, on the other hand, glided through the crowd effortlessly, paying them no mind. As Oliver followed, he could feel a sense of flowing waves, Alexander's vampiric aura pushing away everyone but Oliver, who felt compelled to follow his footsteps. It was just as well that his master was guiding him, lest he find himself lost.

Soon enough, they had both settled in a luxurious balcony box for two, and Oliver was shocked to see an actual look of excitement on Alexander's sleepy face.

"I simply can't wait to see the costumes -- I've heard they're magnificent. And of course, Yelena Pavlova is said to be a master of the dance. They say her striking and dramatic movements place her a cut above the prima ballerinas who only know how to flit prettily about," said Alexander, with enthusiasm. "I do hope you enjoy it."

"I think I will, sir," said Oliver. At the very least, he was sure he could enjoy it vicariously through his master.

The lights dimmed, the dance began, and Oliver soon found his attention riveted to the stage. It truly was an avant-garde sort of ballet, and the costumes were mind-bending. There were dancers wearing disturbingly realistic animal heads, costumes adorned with colored glass that glittered like jewels, massive peacock feather headdresses, ropes of pearls entangling their bodies, and a few in iron chains and shackles. The intricate pattern of their dance was ritualistic, as though Oliver were watching something forbidden that he couldn't take his eyes from.

Among them all, the prima ballerina Alexander had mentioned performed a stunning routine, clad in an outfit that seemed mostly comprised of ribbons in every color of the rainbow. She was striking pose after pose, being lifted and passed among the dancers, twirling faster than Oliver knew was possible. She was endlessly fascinating to watch.

The dance was so fascinating, in fact, that Oliver had forgotten all about his master's reactions. He glanced over, expecting that Alexander was enjoying himself as much as he was, and was shocked to see a look of stress on his master's face.

"Master, what's wrong?" he whispered.

"Nothing. Just watch the dance," he said, in a voice almost too low to hear, and his eyes flicked across the balcony to a different box.

Oliver couldn't help but look, to see what had his master so concerned. The box across the way had only one occupant, an older gentleman in an impeccably styled black suit. His full focus was on the ballet, his gaze holding a kind of judgmental intensity that made Oliver think he must be a professional critic.

Was this man troubling Alexander? It didn't seem like it could be. Perhaps he was worried about something else, and this man just happened to be in his line of sight as he glanced about nervously.

Could he be...?

Oliver tried to put it out of his head, but now he couldn't help but notice every time Alexander's gaze wandered from the stage. The moment intermission was announced, his master turned to him.

"Do you need to stretch your legs? Use the restroom?" his master asked. Before Oliver could even answer, he continued, "Very well, let's leave the box for a moment." He grasped Oliver's arm and practically dragged him from the box. Oliver found himself gently shoved into a secluded nook, away from the other patrons milling about the theater.

"Oliver, listen very carefully," said Alexander, his voice soft but deathly serious. "My sire is attending this performance."

Even though Oliver had been suspecting this the moment he'd seen the strange man, he still felt a spike of panic stab his heart at the confirmation. "Your sire is here?"

"I should have known he'd have interest in this ballet. But he's been so reclusive lately..." Alexander sighed. "But listen. You must follow my instructions exactly. If you do, it's unlikely you'll be harmed."

"I... I understand, master." Oliver's mouth felt dry.

"You must be quiet and obedient. Follow my lead, do not speak unless spoken to, and then, speak with the utmost respect. But you must be honest, even if you think the truth is dangerous. Never lie. He will know. And finally..."

"Finally what, sir?"

"If he takes control of your body, do not resist it."

"Takes control of my body, sir?" Just as Katherine had warned him.

"Do not resist it even slightly. If he seizes control, relax your body and mind and do not fight it. Believe me -- any struggle will only make your lot worse."

He blinked back frightened tears. "I can try, master."

"Good." Alexander put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "While I don't pretend to understand my sire's mind, I do believe no harm will come to you tonight."

"I hope not, master."

"Would you allow me to put your mind at ease so you can enjoy the rest of the performance?"

Oliver couldn't agree fast enough. "Yes, please, sir."

His master leaned over and hummed in his ear, and Oliver could feel his nerves calming, his fears growing foggy and distant.

Prev > Masterlist > Next

Next week, Oliver finally gets to meet his master's sire.

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[sebastianswallows]

The English Client — Twenty-two

— PAIRING: Tom Riddle x F!Reader

— SYNOPSIS: The year is 1952. Tom is working for Borgin and Burkes. He is sent to Rome to acquire three ancient books of magic by any means necessary. One in particular proves challenging to reach, and the only path forward is through a pretty, young bookseller. A foreigner like him, she lives alone, obsessed with her work... until Tom comes into her life.

— WARNINGS: violence

— WORDCOUNT: 2.6k

— TAGLIST: @esolean @localravenclaw @slytherins-heir

I

It was a trying day for Tom, but things were about to look up. Like a whirlwind breaking the clouds apart, he would force the sun to shine over his efforts at long last.

“Riddle!”

“Yes, Mr. Oso?”

“Get your scrawny carcass in here.”

“That’s rich coming from you…”

“What was that, maggot?!”

“I said I’ll be right with you!”

Tom put aside the text he was reviewing and picked up his jacket from the back of his seat. He checked its pockets then put it on in a leisurely smooth motion. He found Ambrogio in the larger side office diagonal to the one they usually shared. The desk held a pyramid of books. Oso was preparing for the coming auction and seemed livelier than ever in the worst possible way. Maybe it was because they were going to sell several tomes of genuine magic, like the coveted book of Torchia, or maybe it was all due to Donatien’s blood…

“What were you working on?” the vampire asked, just barely turning his skull-white head toward him.

“Colonna’s Nine Gates, the 1666 edition.”

“Drop it. Focus on the Nicolas Remy we brought in yesterday. We’ll present Colonna next time.”

“I’m sure I don’t have anything by Remy, sir.”

“Check in the back.”

“I just did this morning,” Tom sighed, checking his watch. It was two in the afternoon.

Oso turned his liquid eyes toward him, two shards of ice swimming in blood shadowed by a bushy frown.

“Then check again, you sac of festering bile!” he bellowed, then he picked up an hourglass from atop a pile of books and with preternatural speed chucked it toward him.

Tom ducked at the last second, a cloud of sand billowing behind him.

“You think you’re paid to talk back to me all day? I’ll rip your spine out through your insolent mouth!”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I haven’t the time,” said Tom. “And I daresay neither do you.”

At this Oso put his Mont Blanc down and stood, his swivel chair screeching painfully. He levelled a bloodshot look at his recalcitrant assistant, head tilted down as if he were staring over the rim of invisible glasses. He must have thought it was intimidating but unfortunately for him, Tom had braved more scathing scowls from far more fearsome wizards. The vampire assessed in his dark mind how likely the Baron was to sack Tom if he just asked — or how likely he was to get away with it if he bit him. Tom meanwhile stood there without a care, hands shoved in his pockets as he leaned back against the doorframe.

“Out.”

“Yes, Mr. Oso.”

“I will come to sort out whatever mess your incompetence has wrought that you can no longer find out of the most important books in our collection.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Not one more word out of you.”

Tom smiled and bowed and left, closing the door behind him with a parting, “See you soon.”

II

Tom waited with an air of absolute calm. The wall opposite the door to his small office was cleared of all those pesky maps and pictures and he’d tucked his chair underneath the desk to clear a path across the room. He checked the time again: two thirty. Steps sounded down the corridor, just in time. They were clipped and hollow as befitted the walk of the dead. The door opened and as it did Tom turned around with his hand behind his back, his wand held tightly in it.

“Now, Riddle,” the vampire drawled in a tired old tone. “Let’s see the mess you’ve made of my books.”

“Oh, I’ll give you a mess.”

Oso’s grimace was so dry one could almost see his fangs. “What was that, whelp?”

“You should thank me. I’m about to show you something you haven’t seen in a long time, you putrid parasite.”

Tom turned on his heels and waved his hand with a flourish, wand extended from his grasp like a natural part of his body. From it, a clear geometric figure floated in a blink to the wall before him, just above his head. Oso didn’t have time to react if he even understood what he was seeing. He was still processing the information that Tom was a wizard too. The shape on the wall gained depth, expanding inward, and grew into a tunnel. Its edges softened into a frame of wood and out of its depths a bright light came that was both foreign and familiar. And then Ambrogio felt it. As Tom’s incantation finished he turned around and his thin smile portended nothing good. The vampire’s limbs began to issue smoke and when the young wizard stepped lightly to the side the searing took over his whole body. Tom’s shadow had merely been shielding him from his most ardent dream and nightmare — the full light of the sun.

Ambrogio screamed. It was a gurgling, animal sound, pulled out of his throat before he even realised. Distantly he was aware of it echoing through the empty corridors for nobody to hear, of his wand clanging to the floor beside him in his clumsy attempt to extract it, of his clothes starting to sag as his body turned to ash. He saw and couldn’t see all of a sudden. His eyes closed in pain but then the lids burnt off, forcing him to keep seeing that murderous, merciless light. He fell to his knees and his bones cracked beneath him, tendons vaporizing and turning into smoke, and his arms barely had the strength to stay aloft before his face in a last attempt to shield him. Before his eyes burnt away too he saw Tom’s smiling face approaching. His body by now was so hot it set his clothes on fire.

Tom stayed at a safe enough distance to gloat.

“Do you see?” he asked, bending slightly at the hip to look at the vampire more closely. The shadow of his smiling face kept the sun at bay a moment longer. “Do you see everything now, Ambrogio?”

The fiend wanted to curse him but only a gurgling of blood and ash spilt from his withering mouth. His hand wandered, flapping on the floor like a dead fish, the skin all but fallen off exposing his naked bones in search of his lost wand. Tom turned his eyes to where Oso was reaching. He spotted it a little to the right and swiftly kicked it further.

“Lasciate ogne speranza,” said Tom with a chuckle. He straightened his back as he stood before Oso, feeling taller than ever. “For someone who’s been dead for so long, I would’ve thought you’d made peace with the thought of it already. But I suppose a creature such as you — that is, a meddling prig — aspires to live forever. But you’ve failed at life, Oso, and now you’ve failed at death. Only the eternal void awaits you.”

Ambrogio’s poisonous eyes stabbed upward at Tom. He wanted to spit blood upon his shoes but managed only to dribble. The wizard stepped backwards and took his shadow with him, leaving the vampire to burn in the full light of day.

“Fallax,” Ambrogio’s crumbling lips managed to hiss, “spurcus!”

Tom walked back until he could rest against the desk, his lips curled in disgust at the scent of burning carcass. He resented Oso’s parting accusation although he could not deny it. But there was nothing left for him to say that the vampire would understand, or even hear. The sun shone brightly on his bones and it didn’t take a minute for his head to fall off his scrawny neck onto his lap. The skull took a bit longer to crumble but the soggy brain underneath went quickly. Tom covered his nose with his sleeve. The window he had transfigured through the stone to reach the surface acted more like a tunnel, a ventilation shaft that made the papers shuffle on his desk and carried the stench of death around. He turned and waved his wand once more. The window shrunk down to a point and disappeared as if it was never there at all.

He was quite pleased that his calculations were correct and he had measured the angle and position for the opening correctly, plus the optimal hour of the day to do so. Spending all those late-night hours with old maps and sketches finally bore fruit… But there was no time for self-congratulations. He waved his wand to cast away the smell of burning flesh and bent to pick up Oso’s wand — dragon heartstring, hah! He placed it in the top left drawer, meaning to keep it as a little souvenir. Then he sat down, plopped his feet up on the desk, and picked the phone up.

III

The shop had been quiet all day with nobody coming in after Sister Silvia’s visit in the morning.

“I baked you some of Hilda’s cookies, mia cara,” the old woman said as she placed a covered plate upon the desk. Beside it, she tucked in a stout bottle of pink glass and whispered, “Some violet wine too.”

Sister Silvia came in to check many works but her favourites were Hildegard von Bingen’s medicinal works, which often included recipes meant to balance the four humours. She was particularly fond of the cinnamon cookies and spiced wine that chased away melancholy.

“Oh my, you know you don’t have to bother!”

“Shush. It is the only way I can repay you. Take them, enjoy. You’ve been so sad lately.”

She’d briefly seen Tom when he came in and while he looked to be in a good mood his mind was clearly elsewhere. She didn’t want to seem needy and ask to spend more time with him, but if she was honest with herself she missed him… They had, in a sort of quiet truce, put that uncomfortable argument behind them. Neither she nor Tom had brought it up again but it left her feeling conscious of her fear. The fear of losing him. And although her day had been peaceful and no sounds came from downstairs, and the weather outside was cloudless with a bright cold sun above, there was a different sort of calm she yearned for, one still unmatched by anything — the kind she felt whenever she was with Tom.

He hadn’t left for England yet but when he wasn’t there she felt as if he was already gone and instantly became aware of how empty her life was. Between work, weekend calls with mother, and the occasional lunch with her colleagues, what did she really have? Her mornings were spent getting ready for work, her evenings unwinding from it, and all in all if she thought it through some twelve hours a day were spent on… anything but herself. With Tom, something had changed. She loved her work on good days, she loved the books she tended, she even loved her friends, but none of it made her heart flutter, her cheeks flush, her legs kick giddily beneath the table as one look from Tom did. Not even Hildegard von Bingen’s wine and cookies. The clever spark of his dark eyes, his elegantly arched eyebrows, his pretty pale pink lips, the slender length of his fingers… It made her understand the most unhinged heroines of all her favourite novels, it made her feel like a mad artist. It made her think Dostoevsky was right when he wrote that beauty would save the world. And so she had resolved quite secretly to follow him, in the end. To leave everything behind and start a new life in another country no matter what anyone — primarily her mother — had to say about it.

She nearly jumped out of her skin when the phone rang. She’d been sitting at her desk, head resting heavily in her palm when the sharp trilling began.

“Y-yes?” she muttered into the receiver.

“Darling,” he purred, “how are you?”

“Tom,” she smiled. “I’m alright… Just made a cup of tea. It’s been quiet here. How are you?”

“Well, I’ve made a bit of a mess,” he said in a Tom-esque version of an apology. “Would you mind bringing a broom and a dustpan? We haven’t got any down here.”

IV

It was a little trying to go down all those steps while carrying everything but once she was down it was a smooth stroll to Tom’s office. Her high heels were the only thing making a sound in the undershop. She hadn’t been there often but she could scarcely recall it being quieter. When she peeked her head through the doorway she found Tom sitting at his desk sifting through some papers as if in search of something. He must have heard her coming closer because he turned around quickly.

“There you are, darling,” Tom smiled.

“That’s twice you’ve called me that today,” she chuckled, walking in.

“Yes, well, I feel quite awkward not having anything around to clean this mess up. And what is that?”

She took a thermos out from under her arm and handed it to him.

“I told you I made tea. Thought I’d bring you some since I was coming anyway. It’s from that batch of Earl Grey you bought me last month.”

Tom hummed pleasantly as he uncapped it and maybe it was wishful thinking on her part but she saw a fond look in his eyes. She had to step carefully around the pile of dust in the middle of the room. It looked quite dense and more like cinders.

“How did you manage this?” she tutted as she started cleaning up. “You couldn’t have set something on fire…”

“What if I did?” he smirked.

“Oh, I know you didn’t,” she said with a fierce look in her eyes. The mere thought of what would happen to the books chilled her to the bone. “Oso would eat you alive.”

She hadn’t thought it was that funny but Tom burst into hysterical laughter and nearly spilt tea all over himself. Even after knowing him for several months, she’d never heard him laugh with such delectation.

It didn’t take more than a few swipes of the broom to gather all that dust together, but as she did so something clanged together. She bent and searched through the mess with a little finger until she found it: a key.

“What’s that?” asked Tom, finally wiping his tears of mirth away.

“Is this yours?”

“No,” said Tom, plucking it out from her palm. It was rather thin and tubular, more of a cylinder than a regular key. “But I’ll take it anyway.”

“Only other things in this pile are old buttons. What was this anyway?”

“Some rat-eaten clothes that were at the bottom of a mouldy crate I found in the back. Hence the smell.”

“Oh no, were the books alright?”

“Yes,” he said, smiling at her fondly. “The books are safe now.”

She finished gathering all the debris and went to throw it. The waste bin was filled with pages cut through with Tom’s fine calligraphy and Oso’s crimson notations, all angrily crumpled up. She threw the ash on top.

Tom put the strange key in his pocket and went back to sipping his tea. He smiled at her in a way she found uncharacteristically sweet, and she wasn’t complaining. His eyes shone, his lips seemed fuller, even his skin was glowing in the low citrine light. He seemed genuinely… happy.

“So, how’s your day been so far?” she asked, bracing herself against the desk.

He took another sip of tea and hummed approvingly. In one smooth motion, he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

“Sweet,” said Tom.

[bethanydelleman]

Margaret Dashwood: Is it canon?

Short answer: Margaret Dashwood basically isn’t in the book, so it’s all fanon. She is mentioned 36 times total. Compare that to Mrs. Jennings at 234 and Mrs. Charlotte Palmer at 62.

Margaret Dashwood has a tree fort, a favourite atlas, sword fights with Edward, wants to be a pirate, has a pony, does puppetry, hides under things, etc.

Fanon (I’m using this term to cover adaptations and JAFF), not canon.  Here is the sum total of stuff we know about Margaret: Margaret, the other sister, was a good-humored, well-disposed girl; but as she had already imbibed a good deal of Marianne’s romance, without having much of her sense, she did not, at thirteen, bid fair to equal her sisters at a more advanced period of life.

Margaret Dashwood literally has no possessions mentioned in the novel. Also, unless he actually paid for it, Edward stole that atlas.

Margaret Dashwood bonds with Edward

Fanon, not canon. The only time we know that Margaret even speaks to Edward is when she opens the discussion on what they would do if they were all rich. Edward never actually replies to Margaret and he only mentions Marianne and Elinor in his speech

“I wish,” said Margaret, striking out a novel thought, “that somebody would give us all a large fortune apiece!”

“Oh that they would!” cried Marianne, her eyes sparkling with animation, and her cheeks glowing with the delight of such imaginary happiness.

“We are all unanimous in that wish, I suppose,” said Elinor, “in spite of the insufficiency of wealth.”

“Oh dear!” cried Margaret, “how happy I should be! I wonder what I should do with it!”

Marianne looked as if she had no doubt on that point.

“I should be puzzled to spend so large a fortune myself,” said Mrs. Dashwood, “if my children were all to be rich without my help.”

“You must begin your improvements on this house,” observed Elinor, “and your difficulties will soon vanish.”

“What magnificent orders would travel from this family to London,” said Edward, “in such an event! What a happy day for booksellers, music-sellers, and print-shops! You, Miss Dashwood, would give a general commission for every new print of merit to be sent you—and as for Marianne, I know her greatness of soul, there would not be music enough in London to content her. And books!—Thomson, Cowper, Scott—she would buy them all over and over again: she would buy up every copy, I believe, to prevent their falling into unworthy hands; and she would have every book that tells her how to admire an old twisted tree. Should not you, Marianne? Forgive me, if I am very saucy. But I was willing to show you that I had not forgot our old disputes.”

Margaret is not mentioned again in this conversation.

Margaret is rude to Fanny Dashwood

Fanon, not canon. Margaret doesn’t even have quoted speech until the Dashwoods are settled in Barton. I can’t even find an instance of Marianne being rude to Fanny or John, though we know she dislikes both of them.

What the heck is canon?

Margaret plays a few important roles. She that lets slip that Elinor has a lover left behind at Norland whose name is “F” to Sir John and Mrs. Jennings. Margaret is also the one who saw Willoughby request a lock of hair from Marianne, which she tells to Elinor. Margaret is also the one walking with Marianne when Marianne falls and is saved by Willoughby. She is the one who romantically calls Willoughby, “Marianne’s preserver”.

Her presence at home allows Marianne and Elinor to travel to London without leaving their mother to be lonely.

I think it is clever to use Margaret to make Edward more of a fleshed out character, but it’s not actually in the novel. Edward only says one single line of speech before the Dashwoods leave for Barton, this is it: “Devonshire! Are you, indeed, going there? So far from hence! And to what part of it?” For a visual medium, this just doesn’t work. You need to do something with Edward and both 1995 and 2008 used Margaret to help with the Edward problem.