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[kateksmallcuteowl]

June 29: Single Parents/Uncles AU for an event by @bagginshieldweek24

I deeply regret that the challenge is a day late! Exams are merciless to me, and even though I started drawing in advance, I still couldn’t handle the deadline 😅 I promise to catch up with feedback tomorrow, after passing bioinformatics exam.

More headcanons and details under the cut>>

— It’s an alternative Middle-earth universe with hobbits, humans, dwarves, and elves, but set in modern times.

— Thorin grew up in Erebor in a royal family (which makes sense), is accustomed to good coffee, can distinguish different types, and knows which brewing devices are best. Now he has moved to London for work and discovered that both dwarf and human coffee shops would often use cheap beans or bad coffee machines, or they grind the beans incorrectly, or even set the wrong amount of grams of coffee per espresso shot. In general, they save money wherever they can, mostly selling the vibe and relying on the fact that taste isn’t important to most of the customers. Elves occupy the niche of coffee connoisseurs, but Thorin would rather drink filter coffee from a kettle on the roadside than go to elves. And then he discovers that hobbits, little hedonists, love good food and GOOD COFFEE! Of course, in hobbit cafes, he has to sit on low chairs and by the small tables, and at first, the other patrons looked at the dwarf in their company strangely, but it’s worth it. Thorin is willing to sit with a bent back if he gets a quiet and cozy atmosphere, excellent Wi-Fi, and delicious coffee (an office in London is good, but sometimes you need to get out of the four walls to not get nuts).

— Thorin rarely drinks pure espresso, preferring softer variations. He also has a sweet-tooth.

— Bilbo is a children’s book writer, mainly known for a series of fantasy novels about a brave hobbit who traveled over and under the mountains, rode in barrels, and played riddles in the dark (Bilbo, in canon, wrote his memoirs, which all hobbits except Merry and Frodo knew primarily for Hobbiton children, so I think he would primarily write for little hobbit kids).

— It’s not a real feather he uses, but a ballpoint pen with attached feathers, like those sold in souvenir shops. Bilbo bought it after a tour to the Tower of London. He likes the ✨vibe✨ and the fact that he can twirl the feather part around his lips when he’s thinking. (It’s literally an instruction on how to seduce Thorin)

— Mr. Baggins only drinks doppio. The cup is big compared to him because it’s hobbit ceramics, and the portion sizes for hobbits, who love treats, are no smaller than human ones.

— Bilbo has taken care of Frodo since his parents drowned in an accident. Frodo is about 8-9 years old here.

— I love the headcanon that hobbits’ ears react to their emotions, so the fact that Frodo doesn’t lower them when Bilbo scolds him is a good sign. Bilbo is a good uncle.

— Thorin and Bilbo have seen each other several times on Wednesdays. Usually, they don’t care about other patrons, but barista keept trying to serve a doppio to the stern scowling dwarf in black leather jacket, and a cappuccino with whipped cream to the little curly hobbit in a plaid sweater. They’ve had to swap their drinks several times.

— Thorin read Mr. Baggins’ books to his nephews in Erebor and quickly figured out who always sits at the table near the window in his favorite cafe. Thorin likes Bilbo’s books but doesn’t know if he’s married because he keeps his personal life private. Seeing Frodo, he immediately assumed he was Bilbo’s son, considering how the little hobbit looks at him.

— Bilbo immediately noticed the stern ( handsome) dwarf sitting with his eyes glued to his phone, but he always felt too awkward to speak with him. How do you even start a conversation with a stranger, especially from another race? So when Frodo, rather bluntly, commented on his appearance, of course, Bilbo was embarrassed. No, he absolutely agrees with Frodo. The exotic braids, unusual for short-haired hobbits, look amazing on the tall dwarf, and the iron clips highlight his blue eyes perfectly, but isn’t that a bit rude to point that out? Wouldn’t a dwarf decide that he is trying to mock his culture?

— Bilbo saw that while he was scolding Frodo, Thorin turned away and for some reason tugged angrily at his braid, so he decided to muster the courage and compliment him himself to ease the awkwardness and not seem rude (not at all because he would gladly say what Frodo did himself and not because Mr. Dwarf has much more attractive features he’d also like to make a comment on, not at all, what are you talking about, no-no-no).

— The dwarf didn’t seem offended at all.

— They started talking and found out that Thorin’s nephews love Bilbo’s books (Bilbo was flattered by this news. He’s still surprised when his books are read by anyone other than hobbits. (Gandalf didn’t tell him that his books are popular among all races. Mostly because for other races they play the role of kids books where main protagonist is a cute mice)).

— And in the end, as we see, they exchanged numbers 🌚🌝

— They will meet again, but without Frodo and not just for coffee.

— The end✨✨✨

I’m still experimenting with a flat-color style and lineart so I’ll be glad to know what do you think about it. Hope the comic was enjoyable!

[scribbleseas]

in love & in war, drabble 3: the one where he trips you up…?

Description: Join Ciel, the Earl of Phantomhive, as he embarks on one of the most difficult challenges of his professional life: getting you to fall in love with him in order to become the next chairman of TransAtlantica— your father’s vast shipping empire.

Warnings: There’s a minor mention of blood in this drabble—that’s all that comes to mind!

Author’s Note: I’m sorry this is a day late, haha! Last night, my amazing friend @mylostleftfootsock and I were having some crazy story breakthroughs for an upcoming work of mine. They were, in fact, hitting so hard that I had to make the fic outline as we were both losing our minds. That being said, here is a pretty long drabble! I hope you like it—and that it’s a nice palette cleanser from SL. I’m purposely trying to keep this one as light as I can <3

I’m also trying out the taglist for this post! If you would like to be added, just specify for which fics (or if all!) and I will tag you in all my content posts!

Happy Reading!

- Dan

Fun fact: I’m also 2,031 words into Staight Laced 10. I’m on a bit of a roll this week, woohoo!

⇐ PREVIOUS DRABBLE | NEXT DRABBLE ⇒

MASTERLIST

CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

The North Pier, Lancashire, 1895

“It is impossible to understate the importance of this promenade, my Lord,” Sebastian explained, matching Ciel’s walking pace to the centimeter as they walked down the cement, having exited the carriage a block away from the beachside pier’s entrance. Sebastian always remained in the same stride as Ciel, a fact that the Earl knew would only delight the demon if he commented on it.

Ciel had no desire to feed the ego of his condescending demon for a butler. Sebastian already gloated endlessly about his upholding of a certain ‘Butler Aesthetic’ that he’d created for himself the first night of his employment.

“You should tell her that her family always hosts the most inspired events, such as this—and you should be sure to show gratitude for her time. Dozens of men not unlike you would do anything for this opportunity,” Sebastian added, emphasizing his words purposefully when he caught on to Ciel’s lack of focus. His butler was correct: a promenade with Lady Y/n at one of TransAtlantica’s seasonal galas for its shareholders, business executives, family ties, and anyone from the business world who mattered. Every year, the shipping company rents out the entirety of the three piers, leaving its multitude of small shops and taverns open for the casual party.

TransAtlantica always picked a weekend that sat towards the end of the spring, the weather a weekend or two away from scorching the Earth. The decision always ensured the best weather—clearer skies, a light breeze, docile sun and seawaves.

Until this year, Ciel would send his regrets, in the same fashion as he would for the company’s fundraisers at the Langham Hotel each season. This event was too crucial to skip, especially after securing himself a promenade. A lot of Britain’s polite society—not just those typical of London’s social hemisphere—would be present. There were no dance cards restricting Ciel’s time with the heiress, and that meant he needed to be especially strategic with the time he managed to have in front of the Y/l/n family.

“I know,” Ciel grumbled. “The color of her gown brings out the…shine in her eyes, or something like that,” he said sarcastically, rolling his eyes to further his point. Another quick look around them assured him that there were no guests leaving their carriages blocks away from the entrance.

“And that cavalier attitude was what ultimately led her to all except rebuke you, sir,” Sebastian scolded, eyebrows drawing together in a brief show of frustration. “Make her feel as if she is the most important person to you—the deciding factor in which you succeed or you fail. She is just that, after all.” He said purposefully, mahogany eyes interrogating Ciel’s expression. The Earl kept his gaze resolutely forward, watching guests meet the Y/l/n family at the pier’s entrance archway, alongside a handful of the company’s executive board members. “We will be within their natural sightline in about fifteen paces, sir.”

Y/n was dressed sensibly in a light gown, the bodice appearing to resemble a man’s sophisticated white vest, which cut into a feminine design with ruffled short sleeves and lace lining the square neckline. A lot of her clothing tended to include a hint of masculinity—an effort to be taken more seriously in these executive circles, Ciel guessed. Her long blue skirts matched the clear sky, the shade matching the accents in her mother and father’s attire for the afternoon.

The Richmond Earldom always appeared as a matching set, stressing the importance of Ciel’s own apparel during these events. Lord Richmond, Y/n’s father, was searching for an intelligent man who could manage his legacy just as perfectly as his company’s prosperity. All of these simpering suitors could never seem to comprehend that they were vying for more than just a young woman’s hand. They were romancing a company and ultimately, Y/n wasn’t marrying anyone without her father’s approval.

“Remember, my Lord, I can only tip things in your favor so much when it comes to matters of the heart,” the demon lowered his voice, now that they were within earshot of the family, among the last few straggling guests stepping onto the pier.

Ciel fought the strong urge to roll his eyes at his butler’s joke. Tipping things. How cheeky.

Lady Y/l/n, Y/n’s mother, noticed Ciel first. Quickly excusing herself from the conversation she was entertaining, she aimed her publicity smile at him— Y/n always seemed to default to the same empty look without failure.

“Lord Phantomhive! How lovely it is to see you here,” she greeted, accepting Ciel’s hand in a firm handshake. Lady Y/l/n’s short lace gloves matched her daughter’s. “We’re all so thankful that you could make it all this way.”

“The pleasure is completely mine. You’ve picked an auspicious day for this gala once again,” Ciel answered, pleased with Lady Y/l/n’s social intellect. By greeting him so brightly, she had also caught the attention of her husband and daughter, allowing them to respectfully finish their current engagements.

Y/N Y/L/N

You watched Ciel enchant your mother with an entirely faux smile, not unlike the one you kept stretched across your glossed lips. He always managed to look painfully smug, no matter how he tried to soften his expression.

“Lord Phantomhive,” your father greeted, taking the Earl’s hand. He gave it two shakes, never one to waste words. “I understand you will be promenading with my daughter today?”

You flushed, now the object of Lord Phantomhive’s stare. You could also feel the craning necks of others around you, arming themselves with gossip about you.

‘Lady Y/n is promenading for the first time this season, with Lord Phantomhive!’

‘Do you think they will get married?’

You could already see the headlines. There were already peering camera lenses around each corner, the only warning being their blinding flash.

“If she wills it, we shall. A good day, my Lady,” it was your turn to offer your hand to the Earl, but not in a shake. Instead, he took special care in accepting your gloved hand and equally raising your knuckles to his lips and bowing his head to avoid moving your arm too high. His lips hardly grazed your glove.

“To you too.” You dipped into the shallowest version of a curtsy you could manage without being impolite. You hadn’t quite made up your mind about the Lord of Phantomhive, finding him to be contradictory. Sincere enough one moment, crude the other. He reminded you of a puzzle with pieces that didn’t quite fit together to make the complete picture.

Thankfully, he didn’t waste time in releasing your hand.

Lord Phantomhive righted himself, clearly attempting to dissect your tight expression. You suspected that you could see through one another as plainly quite easily, no more transparent than glass. You felt a small lump form in the back of your throat, as you were unsure how to proceed.

Unfortunately, your mother could also read you like an open book. “You’ve greeted most everyone already, Y/n. You and Daphne should join Lord Phantomhive and his butler,” she prompted in a gesture that was both helpful— and embarrassing. Particularly in front of your father.

“Right,” you answered. At the sound of her name, your maid appeared. Daphne was always close enough to be a call away—except for when she wasn’t, you thought about your first run-in with the Lord Phantomhive. Was he truly charmed by you from that encounter? You had been, admittedly, short with him because of how nerve-racking the situation was. “We will walk the pier,” you said, forcing your shoulders to drop. High shoulders suggested tenseness, which then, in turn, implicated anxiety.

You couldn’t help but feel the Lord Phantomhive could sense weakness. That was how breakout corporations like Funtom were made, weren’t they? With leadership at the helm.

“Be safe, please,” your mother gave your hand a meaningful squeeze and joined the rest of the guests with your father. Your stomach sank as if they had left you flailing in the middle of the cool sea beneath the boardwalk.

CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

“Did you hear about the ferris wheel they are constructing here? Apparently, it is set to open this July,” Ciel said, breaking the silence with one of the many anecdotes Sebastian armed him with. While the Earl preferred silence whenever possible, apparently long silences unnerved the social butterfly in Lady Y/n. Sebastian had instructed him to keep a steady conversation flowing between them at all times—he’d hypothesized she would feel they were compatible intellectually, if he could manage.

“Oh, I certainly have,” the heiress answered brightly. “Isn’t it fascinating? My father and I visited Chicago’s Columbian Exposition about two years ago. The fuel source are steam boilers with underground main pipes that then funnel the steam into pistons that then power thousand-horsepower engines. It’s an enormous axel,” Y/n explained with an intriguing willingness and clarity.

She knew the intricacies of engineering? How curious of a young noblewoman.

“Did you manage a ride on it?” Ciel asked, not offering his arm to her. That would foil his plan, and he figured Lady Y/n wouldn’t appreciate it at this stage. She valued her independence—or the appearance of being self-sufficient, at least. Ciel had yet to make his final verdict of her disposition. After all, the rumors were that her father trained her with the same intensity he would have a first-born son.

“Heavens, yes.” Lady Y/n said, making a clear effort to look ahead as they walked and maintain casual eye contact with him. Their servants lurked behind them, Sebastian entertaining Daphne with some mindless chatter while picking her brain for more information about her mistress. “There was no chance I would miss that sort of opportunity, being up so high like that.”

“I couldn’t imagine it, myself,” Ciel answered. They spoke aimlessly, cycling through topics they had in common: they were each accomplished linguists, readers, instrumentalists. Y/n even claimed to be a worthy fencing opponent, of all things.

“You are half my height,” not even the Earl could fight the amused twist of his lips at the thought of Lady Y/n parrying his advance. The top of her head just barely reached his chin by a handful of centimeters. And that was in addition to her stately heels.

“But Lord Phantomhive, all warfare is based on deception,” Y/n answered, blinking at him guiltlessly.

“Are you quoting The Art of War?” Ciel asked, raising an eyebrow. That would insinuate Y/n was competent in Classical Chinese, since Sun Tzu’s piece hadn’t been widely translated into English yet. A language that Ciel had still been in the process of mastering with Sebastian. The demon claimed to have been ‘around’ when the military strategist created the ancient military treatise. Presently, he felt it had important lessons for Ciel to understand.

Apparently, Y/n’s father—or her tutor—were incredibly insightful to pick such an ancient text to add to her studies. That was quite an advanced piece of literature. Honestly.

”Yes,” Lady Y/n said, as if this was obvious. “Who better to reference?”

Of course she read it. And learned it well enough to have quotes on hand. She could probably recite it in its original language, Ciel guessed. That wasn’t an unattractive quality in a woman—in fact, he felt a dim respect for it.

“I also quite appreciate Machiavelli’s inspired piece, The Prince,” Ciel answered, finding himself confident that Lady Y/n might understand his reference.

Y/N Y/L/N

His remark made you smile.

Of course, you’d heard the rumors about Ciel Phantomhive, The Queen’s Guard Dog, King of the Underworld, Police of the Underworld. While most of the public could only speculate the sorts of private investigative work that Her Majesty requested of the Phantomhive family, plenty of rumors swirled in the absence of the truth.

You heard whispers of no one daring to cross the Earl, for fear of severe repercussions. Life-threatening ones. You heard of the uncertainties surrounding the fatal inferno that burned down the manor so long ago, killing his family. His miraculous reappearance two years later. Apparently, now the Earl Phantomhive was reportedly a hardened man, callous and willing to crush any opponent in his path.

“You find you relate with the Italian diplomat?” You asked, curious about Lord Phantomhive’s response. Did he read this body of work as a step-by-step to creating a tyrannical regime, or did he perceive it as a frank reading of politics and the nature of diplomacy? It had been so long since you had a proper discussion about such matters with someone besides your father, your tutors, or Daphne, and you were decently assured they were weary of your constant need for knowledge.

The Earl seemed to enjoy this type of logical sparring, embracing it, even. It left you…curious to have more. If not, interested.

Lord Phantomhive took a brief moment to reply, leaving you to appreciate the scenery around you. The sky was impressively clear, no hint of any clouds near the horizon. Seagulls wailed to one another, fluttering about the long piers and across the empty coastline. As warm as it was, the weather wasn’t quite hot enough for there to be beach galas.

The air smelled of salt, gusts of air determined to pull strands of your hair astray. They were certainly doing a number on the Earl’s raven hair, tousling it playfully. This whole promenade, you had walked away from the direction of the gala, and now, as you reached the end of the pier, the two of you turned around, starting back.

“I think there’s more nuance—” Ciel started, “are you alright?”

Before you could process your fall, you were face-first on the sandy boards. Your knee erupted in pain, your bare skin touching your dress. You must have ripped your stockings? How could you have tripped? You had only allowed your mind to wander for a second, and there had been nothing obstructing your path, either!

Not to mention, your balance was typically impeccable. You were no ballerina, but years of fencing helped you regulate your posture and weight distribution.

It was as if the wooden board had simply decided to loosen, give somewhat under your weight, and catch your heel between the planks in order to trip you! How peculiar.

“I’m��fine. I only scraped my leg, I think,” you said, more mortified than pained. Your face reddened as you accepted Lord Phantomhive’s helpful hand, dusting off the sandy front of your dress with the other. You forced yourself to give him a weak smile, looking back down at the flooring. The wooden panel seemed to be perfectly in place.

“I’m not sure what could have caused that,” you added awkwardly, releasing the nobleman’s hand.

You were thankful that no one else was present to witness such an unbecoming moment of yours. It was a contender for one of your worst moments with a suitor.

CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

The panic in Lady Y/n’s face should have been enough to make Ciel regret his and Sebastian’s plan. However, he’d found it to be rather promising. If he could nail the proper response her ideal gentleman would give, Lady Y/n would feel vulnerable around him. That was key to making love inevitable. She might look to him for support going forward.

Of course she didn’t know what had caused her trip. Sebastian was fast enough to loosen the plank just enough for it to shift under her confident step and throw her off balance, only to re-tighten and return to Daphne’s side in milliseconds. Faster than a blink. That left Ciel to provide Lady Y/n with a helping hand, some validation…and apparently a young woman appreciated a man who could bandage her wounds.

“Oh dear,” Ciel said, his eyebrows drawing together in a construction of curiosity and concern. He ignored his own nagging thought that he sounded like his butler, swallowing down the embarrassment. He could feel Sebastian surveying his performance, having coached Ciel on this part of the interaction. “I wouldn’t wish for it to continue bleeding, you did scrape it,” he said carefully.

“Why don’t you take a seat? I have a handkerchief.” He gestured to one of the pier’s benches with his chin.

“It truly doesn’t hurt,” Y/n attempted to deflect, still staring at the plank curiously. Of course, she was smart enough to know that there had been something amiss, but of course, smart enough to never consider the supernatural.

Judging from the way her fist squeezed at her side, the superficial wound stung more than she wanted to admit. There was likely sand around the injury or near it, only an added irritant.

Ciel merely met her eyes, asking her if she truly intended to push ahead in mild discomfort. Y/n surrendered begrudgingly mumbling a mildly unladylike, “Oh, alright.” Not always so untroubled as she seemed, was that it?

“You’re not in any other pain?” Ciel asked, kneeling to get a closer look at Y/n’s scrape. Daphne, unconicidentally, didn’t have any medical supplies with her. Sebastian had conveniently hid them from the maid to afford Ciel the right to tend to his intended.

“No,” she confirmed, cringing at the light pressure Ciel applied to stop the bleeding and clean the debris. “Honestly, the plank had a mind of its own, it feels like,” she mused, her tilted head racing for some logical explanation. There was none.

“And you are positive you didn’t hit your head on the way down?” Ciel asked her, appreciating the ghost of a laugh that escaped her lips. That was the right thing to say, he could tell.

This battle of love was only growing easier. The Earl was growing confident, fashioning his dialogue to that of a novel protagonist’s. Bland and kind, slightly humorous.

“Positive. Unless I hit my psychotic break last week in agreeing to have you join me for a promenade,” Lady Y/n said, standing once Ciel tied the handkerchief around her leg tightly, stopping any more bleeding. “In which case, we might need some more urgent care.”

“Would it take another such reckoning for you to agree to meet me again?” Ciel asked, adding a new flair of seriousness to his voice as he righted himself in front of Lady Y/n. He took a quick moment to dust the fronts of his trousers free of sand before refocusing on Y/n, urging her for the answer he craved. The key to becoming an official suitor of hers.

One outing was a trial. Two was one step closer to serious consideration.

“No, it would not,” the begrudging grin at the heiress’ lips told Ciel that he’d offered her a masterclass in lying and deception. “Perhaps, the 1895 Grand National next weekend. My family loves to attend.”

Y/n Y/l/n was already inviting Ciel to the 57th renewal of the Grand National horse racing event? Perhaps, this endeavor was going to be easier than Ciel originally thought….

Tag List: @vixxzill, @theblueslytherin

[extremelyblackandwhite]

pairing: dad!bucky barnes x au pair!reader

warnings: age gap (reader is 10 years younger than bucky), smut (18+, dni if under 18)

author’s note: here it is! enjoy xx

he says everything i need to hear, and it's like i couldn't ask for anything better. he opens up my door and i get into his car and he says, "you look beautiful tonight" and i feel perfectly fine

Y/N had never met Steve. She knew of him, she knew he was Bucky's best friend who had joined the ad company in New York when Bucky was first assembling it. From what she had heard from other people, he was the only person Bucky really trusted, so much that when the ad company set up shop in London, it was Steve who Bucky sent to manage the whole operation. However, Y/N had always found it somewhat odd that Steve and Bucky were best friends as apparently they were completely different people - at least according to Sam.

Steve was reliable, a goody two shoes who followed the rules and was universally liked by everyone and anyone that came into contact with him - a poster child. He was also married to someone he had known since he was 15, the two had bought a house, picket fence and all, and were carefully considering when to have children. Bucky, on the other hand, was either liked or hatred but always respected. Marriage seemed like something he didn't particularly consider anymore and had had a kid without even wanting one. It didn't make sense the two were close, yet agin opposites attract. Nevertheless, Y/N was yet to meet him. Sadie appeared to like him, or at least liked him enough to include her in her drawings.

Since she was not the one to pick up Sadie up, she had plenty of time to spend wallowing over her PhD thesis and nit pick at every single word by wondering if she used the word 'comparison' too many times. She sighed, burying her hands in her hair and almost hitting her head against the keyboard of her laptop.

      -Hi. - she looked up to see Chris sitting next to her, still wearing his suit and holding his briefcase. - How are you?

      -Chris. - she smiled. It was nice seeing him. - Got off work earlier?

      -Sergeant Barnes dismissed me early today. He was in a mood.

      -He's always in a mood. It's Bucky, after all.

      -He lets you call him that? - he asked and Y/N shrugged. - He doesn't even let us call him James and that's his name.

      -Well, I do sleep in his place and watch over his daughter. I have perks. - she joked. - I'm sorry I had to leave early this morning. I was worried about Sadie.

      -Since you left early, I was wondering if you'd like to maybe spend the night with me again. - he kissed her shoulder. - I'll do the thing you like and then bake you pancakes in the morning.

Y/N smiled. She'd had a wonderful date with Chris and he'd been nothing but charming the whole time; however, she didn't like to leave Sadie by herself. She was little, she didn't understand if Y/N wasn't there to sing her a lullaby or read a Dr. Seuss book or make the buttered noddles the way she liked it.

      -I'm sorry but I need to go home and watch Sadie.

      -I thought Steve Rodgers was in town. - Chris closed Y/N's laptop as it went onto standby. - He usually parades Sadie Barnes around town, so I'm sure Sergeant Barnes wouldn't mind.

      -Yes but Sadie is 2 and she gets nervous around new people.

      -She's not your daughter, Y/N. She's Bucky's and you can't get her used to having you by her side all the time. I mean, you're finishing your PhD soon.

Y/N forced a smile. She knew that, Bucky had told her that, she knew Sadie wasn't hers, she knew that. She moved her laptop to her tote bag, getting up and throwing her hair to the side before making it to the exit. Chris followed after her with a sheepish look.

      -Y/N, I didn't mean it like that. - he apologised, following behind her as she closed and crossed door after door.

      -I know what you meant, Christopher.

      -I just don't want you to get hurt when you eventually leave. It's not like Sergeant Barnes will let you visit Sadie. He's only nice to those who can do something for him.

      -I really would enjoy it if you didn't butt into my work. I don't mess with yours so don't mess with mine.

      -Okay, I'm sorry. - he rushed in front of her, raising his hands up in surrender. - I'm so sorry, Y/N. I just worry about you.

      -I don't need you worrying about me, I can handle myself just fine.

      -I know, Y/N, I know. - he lowered his hands. - I just feel overprotective over you. I've known Barnes for a while and he can be an idiot, I just don't want you to experience that.

      -I've known Bucky for a while too, Chris. I don't need to be protected.

      -I'm sorry. We'll hang out another day when you're not busy with Sadie. Sounds good?

      -I'll think about it.

      -Think about it while I drive you back home?

Chris was nice, Y/N liked him. She told herself that she liked him because she did. He was stunning, he was smart, he had a PhD, what else could she possibly want? The trouble became when he started talking about what would come after her graduation - if she graduated which at this point she didn't believe. But when she did, he was right, it wasn't as if Bucky, being the stubborn man he was, would allow her to continue seeing Sadie. Maybe she shouldn't have gotten this close to Sadie, maybe she should start to distance herself from her. Yet, as she approached the front door and saw the little yellow rubber boots Sadie had begged and begged Bucky for and were still a bit too big for her, she was certain it would be very hard for her to forget the little girl.

She put the key on the keyhole and turned around. Chris smiled at her, leaning down to kiss her before pushing the door open. She was expecting an empty house, instead she turned around to see Sam and the much discussed Steve holding Sadie.

      -Hm, I'll pick you up tomorrow for breakfast, Y/N. - Chris waved her goodbye leaving her now in the very awkward situation with Sam and Steve.

Sam chuckled to himself before taking a gulp of coffee. His eyes searched for Steve with a hint of "told you so".

      -Bucky gave you the day off? - Y/N asked as she took off her scarf and coat.

      -Bucky is not the boss of me. - Sam replied. - So ... Chris Davis?

      -Mind your business, Wilson.

      -What? It just explains a lot doesn't it? - Sam continued on teasing, mostly talking to Steve than Y/N. - Oh, this is Steve by the way. A weirdly tall blonde stranger isn't holding Sadie.

      -I know Steve from the photos. - Y/N poured herself a cup of coffee, pointing towards one of the many frames with photos of Steve. - I'm Y/N.

      -The heartbreaker, I know. - he extended his hand towards her. Y/N furrowed her brows, what was that supposed to mean? Luckily for her, Steve corrected himself as Sam discretly elbowed him on the side. - I meant rule breaker. Sam said you rode Bucky quite hard.

      -Maybe not, based on how much of a bitch he was today. - Sam chuckled mostly to himself.

      -Don't swear in front of the 3 year old, please.

      -Sorry, Y/N, I don't know what's the Bluey equivalent of a massive pain in the ass Bucky Barnes.

Y/N rolled her eyes, moving to the kitchen to start making dinner. Yet before, she could, Sadie hugged her leg demanding attention. The au pair smiled, leaning down to pick her up and kiss her cheek countless times getting a few good giggles from the 2 year old. Sam and Steve mostly kept to themselves, sitting in the living room while gossiping (although they would never admit to it) about Bucky and his many, many shenanigans. Y/N tried not to pay much mind to it, not wanting to know about Bucky's sexual escapades and trying to ensure Sadie didn't hear any of it.

Bucky came home, as per usual as of lately, very late. He came in like a hurricane, dropping his jacket and briefcase and making a direct bee line to grab himself a drink. He barely acknowledged her existence, still somewhat stirring in his passive aggressive behaviour, instead going to greet Sam and Steve.

(...)

Dinner had gone by pretty uneventful, most of it being Steve and Bucky reminiscing about their teenage years and early 20s as well as Steve posing Y/N the occasional question about her career and studies. She'd finished her evening by putting Sadie to bed and going herself to bed leaving Bucky and Steve by themselves to tidy up the plates and the kitchen - something Steve had told Y/N not to do.

      -So, why are you here? - Bucky asked as he loaded the dishwasher.

      -Can't I come see my best friend and work colleague?

      -Without your wife? No, something's up.

      -Believe it or not me and my wife don't come as a package deal.

      -Cut it off, Steve. You don't visit unannounced and you don't go anywhere without your wife specially when you're trying for a baby. Why are you here, Rogers?

      -I heard about you and Anna. - the blonde sighed. - That was stupid.

      -Who told you?

      -Anna.

Bucky stopped loading the dishwasher, a rare look of surprise on his face. Anna? Why would Anna be talking to Steve?

      -Why the fuck would you be talking to Anna? - he said in a silent tone, ponctuated by deep breathes as he attempted to ground himself and not get angry.

      -I never stopped talking to Anna, Bucky. - Steve felt uneasy as he said this.

      -What? - Bucky shut his eyes. - You've been talking to the mother of my child, the same child who is your godchild, the same child who got abandoned by her mother at my doorstep right after she was born?

      -We've known Anna since she was 6, Bucky. I wasn't gonna drop her, not when she needed help.

      -What help did she need? Abandoning more children?

      -You know that's not fair, Bucky. - Steve crossed his arms. - Just because she doesn't want to be a mother, doesn't mean leaving Sadie was less hard.

      -So what, Steve? What are you here for? You're here to come ask me to be kinder to Anna? What the fuck are you here for?

      -I'm here because you keep trying to make something work that won't work! Bucky, she doesn't want to be a mother, stop it. Stop trying to make Anna a mother to Sadie, she doesn't want that.

      -I'm not trying to make anyone into a mother.

      -Oh sure, you're just trying to find Sadie a mother but because you're too chicken to introduce her to any of the girlfriends you've had, you always pick Anna, trying to make her something she isn't.

      -Oh shut up, Steve. Sadie is my priority, she's my daughter, I'm not gonna introduce her to women who are not a fixture in my life!

      -And what's even going on between you and your au pair?

      -What is that supposed to mean?

      -You're feuding with her boyfriend.

      -He's not her boyfriend.

      -You're feuding with Chris Davis. Chris Davis? And for what?

      -I don't owe you any explanation on how I run my company that you work for.

      -You're playing the CEO card, Barnes? Is that it?

      -Chris Davis is not the man for Y/N.

      -What and you are? You're quitting trying to make Anna the mother and moving on to Y/N?

      -So that's the only reason I like women as of late? They can be mothers to my child?

      -You're being self destructive. Stop bullying Chris Davis before she figures it out and quits or he gets annoyed enough and breaks up with her. She has a boyfriend, let it be.

      -Coming from the guy who broke someone's engagement?

      -I didn't go around trying to actually break it, Bucky. Just because she's good with Sadie does not mean it's right for you.

      -And what would you know?

      -I know you. You're gonna date a postgraduate student? You're gonna expect someone who is yet to start her life to settle down and play wife and mother?

      -No, of course not. I would never ask that of her.

      -Then what? Is it because she hasn't slept with you and your fantasies have gotten out of control?

      -I love her.

taglist : @talesofadragon @themermaidscales82 @winters1917 @vladsgirlxx @stinkerbelle007 @maybefoxysouls @unaxv

[emeritusemeritus]

HIII im so happy your requests are open you’re one of my favorite writers on here!!! i’ve been craving more twins x reader content and i’ve always wanted to see them pining after an oblivious customer at the shop like literally spelling it out for her and just her being a bit dense thinking that she’s just a valued customer 😀 love your work and hope you have a great week!!

Thank you so much!! This was an absolute pleasure to write, I really hope it’s okay for you! 🖤

Warnings: None? Mentions of implied kissing, reader is completely oblivious. Fred is as charming as ever and George is a sweetheart.

Word count: 1.8k

Paying Customers.

Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes had quickly become your favourite spot in all of Diagon Alley. It was vibrant and exciting, a draw for many witches and wizards without any hint of discrimination and it didn't hurt that the two owners were two of the most handsome men you'd ever seen, not that you'd dream of telling them that.

Your first visit to the shop has been an accident really, hunting down a perfect gift for your nephew who was just about to start his first year at Hogwarts. One of the owners, who you found out to be Fred had helped you find the most perfect gift that had been an overwhelming success with your nephew. The second time, he was slightly different than you remembered and you'd convinced yourself that you had just remembered him differently until the very man you'd been secretly thinking about since your first time at the shop walked out and greeted you with a big smile. That was the first time you met George, and unceremoniously found out that they were identical twins.

Since then you'd been back numerous times, sometimes for gifts, sometimes for more personal reasons and has even started dropping in on your lunch break just to chat to the twins as your friendship grew. They were abundantly friendly and chatty, so naturally funny and charming that it was easy to talk with them and they always made you feel incredibly welcome. Fred had invited you to the shop to share your lunch break together multiple times and you'd even found yourself hanging around as the store closed around you because George wanted company.

"I'm so excited!" Valerie, one of your best friends says enthusiastically as you step into Diagon Alley. She was from France and was educated at Beauxbatons, missing the cut off for the Triwizard Tournament by one year, something she was still peeved about. She was visiting you in London and she'd made you promise to take her to the place you kept mentioning in your letters.

You laugh along, seeing her excited face as you round the corner, walking past Ollivanders until the figurehead of the twins appeared up ahead, the brilliantly vibrant orange building standing out against the muted palettes of the other shops.

"Afternoon ladies," you hear from beside you, waking a grin spread across your face. Fred.

"Hi Freddie," you smile up at him, seeing his broad grin already stretched out across his face. His gaze flashes to Val and you briefly introduce them until your attention is pulled away by George who appears on your other side, already eagerly talking to you about the new product he'd been working on, the same one you'd offered to help with only the other night, pausing briefly to introduce himself to Val.

"Right Georgie, reckon we best get back to the paying customers," Fred says with a wink in your direction, pulling his brother away as they go back to assisting the other customers in the shop. George touches your shoulder gently as he squeezes past and gives you a sweet smile before heading off, immediately going over to a little boy and his mum who are looking at the Pygmy puffs. Your eyes trail towards Fred who's lingering around the love potion stand, trying to flog them to a group of witches who look to be around their third year. When he spots you looking, he gives you a little smirk and another wink, gesturing towards the love potions with a wiggle of his eyebrows. You can't help but smile, giggling a little before you look away, turning back to Val.

Her eyebrow is raised at you and her face holds a knowing smirk, already implying something.

"So what did they mean 'paying customers', are you not one?"

You give a little shrug, "they give me a discount, sometimes they let me test things, it's nothing really."

Her face says everything she isn't saying, she's delighted but judgy, as if she doesn't believe a single thing you were saying. You laugh and nudge her gently, "really, we're friends."

"Very friendly friends?" She teases with a wiggle of her eyebrows but you nudge her again and tell her to behave, not wanting to get into it, especially in a place that created and sold extendable ears, nothing was safe from the Weasley Twins.

She walks over to the Peruvian instant darkness powder, picking up a crystal and examining it in her hands with a smile on her face.

"So how can you tell them apart? You knew straight away," she says, casting her gaze over to you as she puts down the crystal and moves across to the next shelf, the display of wonderwitch products; carefully avoiding the puking pastilles on the way.

"Oh I don't know, they don't look that similar to me anymore. I suppose it's mannerisms mainly, Fred usually talks first and George is better at explaining things," you explain, stopping your eyes from wandering back to the owners.

"Hmm," she says with a smirk, still holding back what she was going to say.

Suddenly, the rolling ladder appears from the side with George clutching on to the steps, his smile splayed across his face as he appears.

"Pimple vanisher, yeah it really works," George says nodding his head, "tried it myself, well on Ron anyway. Ten seconds and your spots are gone."

"But how?" Val says, beguiled by the magic behind it. You stand back and watch, enjoying seeing George so effortlessly charming, showing what he'd created.

"Course, some of us don't need it do we y/n?" He says, looking up to you with a sweet smile, "must be good genetics."

"Or maybe I'm an avid Wheezes tester with a very rigid skincare routine," you play along, holding up the little pot of vanisher.

"That's a good sale!" He says with excitement, "want a job? Could do with prettying up the employees."

"Pretty sure you and Fred were trying to work out who was more handsome last night, I think you know you're pretty enough," you smirk, earning a chuckle from George.

"Clearly I won," he adds, flashing a grin at Val.

"What are everlasting eyelashes?" She says, picking at the pink and black box.

"Exactly what they say on the box," George flashes her a teasing smirk before pulling you closer to him by the hand, displaying you. "Want lashes like these? Make the boys really notice your beautiful eyes? Just need this box and your dreams will come true."

"You think she has beautiful eyes?" Val teases, goading George but it doesn't work, he bites back almost instantly, nodding enthusiastically.

"Wanted to put her photo on the box but she wouldn't let me," he chuckles with a little shrug before pausing for a moment and reaching up high for the little package of flirting fancies.

"Make any man fall at your feet with these, just one bite and they'll be smitten," he says, handing the neatly wrapped box to Val.

"Think you might have accidentally ingested one," she mutters, just quiet enough for only you to hear and covering it with a smile as she looks over the box. You subtly nudge her and she relents, but not before shooting you a wicked look.

"Anything you want, on the house," George smiles, flashing you one last look before rolling away and starting anew with his next customer.

"Right tell me honestly, how many of these have you given him?"

"Val! I told you we're friends," you say with a roll of your eyes.

"You might want to tell him that," she quips, nodding her head towards the space behind you. As soon as you turn, you're met with the rather solid chest of Fred Weasley.

"Ladies," he smirks with a dramatic bow of his head, his hand reaching up to touch your shoulder gently.

"You give all your customers this much attention?" Val asks with raised but playful brows, completely ignoring your glare.

"Only the prettiest ones," Fred replies, reaching out to grab the little pot beside the love potions. Val shoots you another knowing look with her eyes and you wordlessly tell her to shut up with your own, doubling down on the harsh glare.

"Kissing concoction," he says, holding up the little pot of almost clear liquid, "makes the drinker become longingly infatuated with the giver, just long enough to ensure only the best kisses will be shared. Made with real pearl dust as well."

"Maybe I could try it on you?" Val asks, suddenly getting flirty with Fred, "prove that it really works."

You don't miss the way his tongue slips out to meet his lips as he clears his throat, fidgeting somewhat uncomfortably.

"No can do I'm afraid, store policy," he smirks, recovering quickly with the banter.

"But if y/n asked?" Val says sweetly, smiling devilishly between the two of you, making you have to fight to stop your eyes rolling at her insinuation.

"Well she is a valued customer," he says with a pause, pretending to think, finger tapping on his chin, "but rules are rules and who am I to ever break them?"

You can't help but snort out a little laugh, knowing exactly how Fred Weasley felt about rules but you don't say anything, knowing it would only fuel the fire. He looks at you with a teasing smirk but you look away, feeling Val's gaze flicking between the both of you.

"You're so oblivious aren't you," she says whilst walking around the shop, keeping the Pygmy puff she’d painstakingly picked out tucked protectively under one arm.

“What do you mean?” You ask, frowning in her direction, pausing to grab a trick wand for your nephew from the basket near the till.

She shoots you a look, showing her disbelief, “let me think, they give you a discount, one of them has said in no complex way that you had beautiful eyes and perfect skin.”

“George was just,” you interrupt, only for her to look at you with a mild glare, not open to listening to your excuses.

“The other said he’d kiss you and that you were pretty, they clearly like you!”

“I just come in a lot, they’re good businessmen, you know flattery gets your everywhere right? You’re not gonna be rude to a valued customer,” you argue.

“You don’t have to be that friendly either,” she retorts with a sarcastic smile, checking out the pyro display in front of her, dropping the subject.

Your attention drifts away and you subtly turn to your left, feeling eyes upon you. There’s a brief moment where you realise that both Fred and George are watching you from the middle landing on the stairs, both leaning on the rail, before they notice that you’re watching them. As soon as you turn further, they instantly spring into action, pretending they weren’t watching you and spring into action helping the customers, almost comically so.

Your gaze shifts back to Val and you begin to wonder, could she be right?

[elisedonut]

Perciver

all the numbers

1. Which one is the better cook

Percy I know I've seen Oliver used pretty often but I like the idea of Percy helping Molly in the kitchen as a kid and so he's just always known more or less how to cook While Oliver is more focused on making food that's good for Quidditch vs like tasty food so can he cook? yes. will it be bland as hell? also yes

2. What their love letters look like

I think the war fucked them up when it comes to letters so even years later anything they write to each other is very to the point and at times even like coded? Like they still sign as From instead of love even years later

3. Which one outlives the other, and how they cope

dfshgfhsgf I feel like this could go either way. But if i had to pick I think Oliver would die first because if they are together Oliver would make sure Percy's taking care of himself but no one not even Percy could keep Oliver off the Quidditch pitch and that's just one accident away from dying I think regardless of how it went down that Percy would blame himself like crazy over it because he'll always find something that he thinks now that he could have done even when its not true

4.What they do on date night

What do you even do on a date night uh ok I think a normal date for them is staying home and doing their own things but just with company maybe maybe they visit Muggle london occasionally and go shopping or something or go out to eat Not the Movies though the dark space and loud noise mix freaks Percy out even though he tries to hide it

5. How many kids they’ll have

Typically for Any Percy ship when I think about kids I do like four? Molly and Lucy then one from the partners last partner In Oliver's case I typically call him Cypress and one that they either adopt or have together a couple years after getting together Who I typically call Leon regardless of pairing because in most situations he's a Gryffindor because I like giving Percy a full set of Hogwarts house kids and i think its funny

6. How they decorated their bedroom

Cluttered but not like super cluttered like it's not a Lovewater bedroom like two desks that always have something going on on top of them I think Oliver has a whiteboard and they have a rug that's soft enough to sit on for when they need to like spread work on the floor I also think none of the other rooms in the house are as cluttered and they spend more time in there then like the living room

7 Which one is the worse driver

Oliver Unpopular choice I know but every time he drives he just gets annoyed he's not flying and that makes him drive worse

8. What they argue about

Either Weasley Drama or one of them not taking care of themself

9. Which one swears more

Percy but if you asked anyone but Oliver they would say Oliver because Percy mostly swears at home or in the presence of friends

10. What TV shows they watch together, and which ones they hide from the other

I think they listen to Quidditch games together I have no idea what was airing around the 2000s so my brains drawing a blank I like the idea of Percy watching cartoons because their simple to turn his brain off to

11. What their first impression was of each other

I like the idea that they meet later on the first day vs on the train because Bill and Charlie had Percy sit with them so by the time they meet Oliver already knows Charlie Weasley is the Quidditch captain so his first thought is just more about Charlie then Percy Percy thought he was loud

12. What they do for their anniversary

Dinner at home honestly maybe they just don't leave the house all day in an attempt to the other relax typically this fails

13. Which makes a bigger deal of birthdays

about their own? they make more of a deal about one another's Percy doesn't really think much of his own and Oliver loses sight of the date of his pretty much every year

14. What nicknames they call each other

Ollie + Perce it's basic but i love it every time

15. What they would change about each other

I think would both want the other to rest more but would be very >:c no if they heard the other say that

[reasonsforhope]

Catherine Borowski has always had an active imagination. As a child, she dreamed that the car park on her north London council estate would be transformed into a garden. The reality was quite different. “No one had a car, so it was empty, grey and depressing,” she says. Now a sculptor and event producer, Borowski has made it her mission to fill unloved urban spaces with flowers – albeit virtual ones. 

She and her partner Lee Baker are the founders of Graphic Rewilding, a project to install huge nature-inspired artworks into the urban landscape. “Where real rewilding isn’t possible, our goal is to inject the colour and diversity of nature into rundown spaces, urging people to notice – and find joy in – the world around them,” says Baker.   

The pair believe that flowers possess serious powers, even when they’re not real. “We know that spending time in nature is good for us, but studies show that even pictures of plants have a positive effect on the mind,” says Baker. He cites research published in The Journal of Alternative and Complementary Medicine, which found that imagery of plants in hospital waiting rooms can help reduce feelings of stress in patients. 

Baker, a painter and music producer, has long understood the benefits of biophilic design. Having suffered a breakdown 10 years ago, he found that drawing flowers was the only way to soothe his buzzy brain. “I would set out to draw dystopian landscapes, representative of my state of mind, but I’d always end up drawing flowers, which uplifted me,” he says.

It was around this time that Baker met Borowski, joining her production company as creative director. The pair have collaborated ever since, launching Graphic Rewilding in 2021. Since then, they’ve installed floral murals at locations including Earl’s Court station, Lewes Castle and Westfield Shopping Centre in Shepherd’s Bush – all hand drawn by Baker. “We love galleries, but we focus on public art,” he says. “This way, our work is out there for everyone to enjoy.”

This year the pair have grand plans to create a series of stained glass pavilions (think greenhouses with colourful floral-themed panels), which they hope might find homes at Kew Gardens and the Eden Project. “The way light shines through the glass is magical,” says Borowski.  

Even so, they concede that art is no match for Mother Nature. “Some people have suggested that our project detracts from real rewilding efforts. But both can co-exist,” says Borowski. “Of course we want more green spaces.” adds Baker. “But we aren’t gardeners. We’re artists. In the absence of nature, we want to create inspiring spaces through art.”

Overall, the response has been hugely positive. “The joy that these artworks bring is palpable,” says Baker, highlighting an early project in Crawley, West Sussex. “Many people in the town were employed by Gatwick airport and Covid had taken its toll,” he recalls. In a bid to spread some joy, the duo painted brick walls, billboards, benches and even bins with their signature floral flair. “Peoples’ reactions were heartwarming. There were so many smiling faces,” he says.

Elsewhere, in Earl’s Court, the pair transformed “a ratty piece of tarmac” into a modern-day pleasure garden, which is now often filled with children dancing and doing cartwheels on the way home from school. “Putting art into a place that previously felt unloved feels like cultivating joy where there was none,” reflects Borowski. “If something like this had been installed on my estate when I was a kid, it would have been a dream come true.”

-via Positive.News, November 6, 2023

[caspianthegeek]

Nightingale May Prompt One: Night We Met

As Furfur disappeared, Crowley deflated on the sofa curling in on himself. Aziraphale’s heart stuttered in his chest at the look of defeat on the demon’s face.

“I should make myself scarce, they’ll be here soon…” he trailed off, not daring to meet Aziraphale’s gaze.

He didn’t know. That was excellent, it meant there was a chance the other demon hadn’t noticed his switch, either. If it all played out, he could keep Crowley safe. “Come to the Bookshop with me.”

“Not painting a target on your back, angel,” the demon bit out.

With a frustrated huff, Aziraphale crossed the room to take Crowley’s hand, startling the demon into facing him. He couldn’t say anything outright, they weren’t safe here and Furfur could figure out the truth at any moment. He tried to give weight to his words as he spoke, “There is nowhere I’d rather be this evening than in your company.”

The demon’s head bobbed slightly as he swallowed. Aziraphale couldn’t feel the terror rolling off him, but it was plain as day. It had only been a matter of hours since Crowley had waltzed back into his life, and he would keep him safe no matter the cost. This night was theirs and he wasn’t going to let some upstart demon vying for a promotion ruin it.

“Please,” Aziraphale added softly.

That was enough, Crowley was on his feet and leading the angel from the theater. By the time they made it to the Bentley, she’d thrown his door open as if understanding her owner was in a rush.

If he’d thought the earlier mad dash through London had been worrisome, it was a gentle stroll compared to how the car tore through the streets now. “Don’t want them to find us here,” was all Crowley offered as an explanation.

There was an actual screech as they stopped in front of the shop and a heartbeat later, Crowley opened Aziraphale’s door. He paused until Aziraphale held out his hand, almost demandingly. The demon helped him from the car and Aziraphale took the lead to the shop.

Clumsy fingers fumbled with the keys distracted by the nervous tension in his partner at his side. He could feel the protection swirl around them for an instant as they both stepped over the threshold.

Home it seemed to echo to the pair. Still, he took the time to draw the curtains before placing out some candles and wine. As Crowley sank into the chair and Aziraphale poured the glasses, the moment was set for his reveal.

The relief was palpable when Crowley saw the photo.

***

Shades of grey echoed through Crowley’s thoughts. As if thousands of years could be reduced to one monochromatic tone. Aziraphale’s eyes glinted grey, then green, then blue never able to rest. His beautiful angelic rainbow, hidden in plain sight.

“We should destroy the evidence, you know.”

“It’d be a shame, though. Evidence that I performed at the West End!”

Aziraphale’s smile calmed his heart and soothed his soul. He still hadn’t quite given up on retaliation coming for him, but he knew they were protected here and now and that was what mattered most. Well, that Aziraphale was safe here with him at any rate.

The angel stood, taking the photograph with him. He pulled a battered journal from the shelf and slid the precious souvenir between the pages before returning it to its rightful place. No one would be able to find it again besides Aziraphale, of that he was certain.

Crowley tossed his glasses to the table and fiddled with the radio until he found gentle music. Something about a nightingale song. He’d been so focused he hadn’t realized Aziraphale was beside him until the angel once more took his hand.

“You came with me, even though you thought it was your last night on Earth,” Aziraphale said softly.

“‘Course,” Crowley grumbled out. “Not like I’d spend it with anyone else.”

The angel was close. Almost too close. “I am relieved it won’t be. We’ve only just met again. Is there… that is…” he took a steadying breath. “Is there anything you would have liked from this night?”

You. Crowley didn’t say aloud. Instead, he only leaned closer one hand raising to cup Aziraphale’s cheek before he froze. The angel understood and closed the distance between them, bringing their lips together in a soft and chaste kiss.

It was everything he’d always wanted. The song warbled in the background about dreams and truths, and all Crowley knew was that he’d cling to this moment for the rest of his existence.

[xwingsandohs]

did anyone say good omens fanfic x cupid!reader ?!?!?

good evening tumblr. i have many thoughts for the ineffable fandom. can’t get out of my head a cupid!reader that crowley hangs out with now that azi is gone?!?? broken heart crowley?!?! crowley x reader smut ?!? gender neutral reader?!?!? gender bending crowley?!?!? sex shop running cupid ?!?!?!??! 🫣🤔🤭🪽

I wrote a drabble. Please send thoughts. May write a fic 🫣 XOXO, xwingsandohs.

Angels and demons have always been assigned their roles on earth to protect peace and create chaos, but it’s in the 15th century (or so) that the Almighty notices that humans have evolved themselves beyond simple procreation. And so God creates the Cupids, not necessarily a legion of angels and definitely not demonic, but a collection of holy beings powered by Earthly love to bring happiness and prosperity to humanity in new ways.

Where Aziraphale was defined by white hair and golden clothes, Crowley recognised by fiery red locks and sleek suits; this particular Cupid is defined by a rainbow of colours, patterns and flowers for every occasion.

It’s been three months since Aziraphale left for Heaven’s gates, or escalators to be more accurate, and your attempts to foster and create love in London has suffered thanks to a certain lonely demon moping around. Crowley can’t admit he just needs the company.

“Coffee?” You ask, Crowley hums positively. “What would you like?”

“Something strong.” He’s sitting on a lovely green couch in the back room of your shop, sprawled in all his comfort. It’s decorated with a variety of silly cushions, one particular eye-catching one being bright blue with orange tassels.

The room is littered with beige boxes of spare stock and new deliveries, but you still keep it looking bright with a mis-matched collection of hanging prints and printed wallpaper. You keep it on theme with what you stock.

“I know that, silly.” You shake your head and smile as always, you both do this routine most mornings. The coffee bean grinder grunts loudly and you pick out two big mugs from the cupboard. “What shall I try draw in your coffee with the milk? You know I’ve been practising.”

You have been practising. Despite coffee not being the main draw of your high street shop, you have a vision of giving out free drinks to customers if you can master the art of the latte. You’re getting better, actually.

“A leaf.” Your friend responds, standing up and heading towards you.

“You say that every time!”

Crowley picks up the yellow striped mug you’d taken out for his drink.

“I like the leaf.”

He’s nonchalant. He puts the mug back and looks around for the one he wants.

“But it’s easy and I’d like a challenge. Something silly.”

You grin up at him with a little humour, and he looks back to you with a raised brow.

He can’t find the mug.

You look up and find the mug immediately. It’s completely plain and black, with a slightly lighter shade of grey on the inside. He bought it and gave it to you especially for his drinks. You always fight back.

“Fine.” Crowley says with exasperation. “How about….” He looks around for inspiration in your decor, finding little that he wishes to ask for. “A tree?”

“Oh, I know!” You almost cut him off, exclaiming. He doesn’t know why you bother asking, again, this is your routine. His eyes roll and you can sense it without even seeing. “I’ve just remembered something I saw online the other day and I’d like to try it out.”

“Sure.” He rubs across his face with his hands then spins on the spot to head back to a seat on the couch. The milk steamer screeches and he considers it his cue.

“Could you do me a quick favour before I unlock the doors?” He stops, seconds away from reclaiming comfort on the velvet. He’s not your assistant, but you tend to always ask for these little things.

“I know you’re not my assistant, but there’s a pile of online orders printed out that I need to put together. Could you grab that pile from upstairs for me? It’s next to the-“

“The computer.” He finishes. Routinely.

You finish the coffee.

By the time he’s brought down the pile of paper and placed it where you like it behind the till incase of a quiet moment, you’re skipping over to unlock the door and flip the sign to ‘Open!’ Before it hits 9:01.

Then you rush back to grab the two mugs.

Crowley looks around at the shelves and pegs that hold the stock and shakes his head at everything he sees, humans and their rubbish. He does however appreciate the collection of green plants that have found a place amongst the shelves since he’d been spending lots of time here. They perhaps even look happier than his own, or maybe the colourful shelves really bring out their green.

“I wonder what lovely people will walk through our doors today?” You say with a smile, taking your first sip of coffee and smearing the pattern. Your hand holds out the other cup to Crowley.

He shrugs, takes the coffee from your hand and looks down at the pattern. “It’s a…”

“-A seahorse!” He wouldn’t have guessed it really, but when you point it out he notices. It’s definitely an animal of some sort.

“I like it.” He doesn’t really care for it, but you seem to like the labour, he understands that care. “Although it’s a little…”

He’s not going to say the word.

You’re still grinning, you know the word.

“A little…?” You ask.

“You know, it’s…” He doesn’t say.

“Phallic?” You say it. He doesn’t look away from the coffee.

“Phallic.” He confirms with an unsurprising demeanour .

“I know!” You giggle, he shakes his head.

“You really do take this all very seriously, don’t you?” Crowley chuffs as he leans back against the counter and takes his first sip.

“You could say it’s all about passion in this business.”

Well…. What else would a Cupid sell? The bell above the door rings.

“Good morning.” You call to the first two customers that come through the door. They respond politely back. “Welcome to Sugar ‘n’ Spice, let us know if we can help with anything.”

“Actually, we were looking for some bondage gear?” The lady says as her partner shrinks slightly behind her.

“Of course! Let me introduce you to our selection and then I’ll leave you to shop on your own.”

[quietlyimplode]

Black Widow Fest - Day One

the letter be

ao3 link (pls note that the fic starts below and finishes on ao3 - i know how annoying it is to start on one platform only to have it finish on another)

Natasha and Clint are split up and communicate through letters. Fluff, missions and a little bit of saving.

Word count: 2956

Warnings: warnings for domestic violence

..

It starts with a cat.  

At least that’s what Natasha thinks. 

Clint would say it started with the mission to Antwerp, but really, Natasha thinks that it’s starts with the cat in the window. 

With Clint’s leg broken, he was so bored, she’d suggested letters; emails were easily tracked and she supposed; so could mail, but the postal service still seemed to have more protections than an email Al carrier. 

Clint had agreed and the time for a letter to get from Antwerp to New York wasn’t as long as she thought. 

It was different to a mission report. Something that that actually had to put thought into, but actually something that over the six weeks, she came to enjoy.  

Even the search in the stationary shop, for letter writing stationary and envelopes. 

She can’t remember if she’d ever sent a letter.  

Not when it hadn’t been coded, and so when she sat down to write the first one, she stared at the paper and then got up and left it there.  

She came back with a glass of water and an iced coffee  

Staring again, she hears the cat at the back window and stands again. 

Natasha looks into the darkness and whispers to the cat to come in, clinking a spoon against the saucer of milk and waiting.  

This, she thinks, this is where she started. 

. 

Clint, 

Don’t laugh. There’s a cat here. I’ve named him Liho, for obvious reasons. Remember? He sits with me at night. In fact, if you find fur attached to this letter it’s likely his. Did you know that Antwerp has a stray cat problem? I’m sure there’s more out there, but he’s been the bravest and I think, well, he might be coming back with me. 

All is boring here, there’s not much to report on just yet. I’m sure more going on than there though. 

How is the leg?  

Are you doing the exercises Richard gave you? Follow them, please, otherwise they’ll be on my back to get you to do them.  

The house here is quiet, no neighbours; like most of our houses. It makes the nights long.  

The previous owners must have been just as bored because there’s some 1000 piece puzzles - I’ve started one. I’m enjoying it. It’s of London buses - a whole scene of the square. I’ll probably have it finished in a day or two. 

Perdy and Pongo - the contrived meetings have been nice and easy. Another one tomorrow, all going well. 

It’s nearing one in the morning.  

I’ll send this off. 

Miss you terribly.  

. 

Nat. 

Liho the cat sounds like a keeper. I’ve looked into it, and your apartment has a no animal policy, but the good news is mine doesn’t.  

Draw a picture of the cat? I’ve added what I think he looks like below, but you might have better luck in the drawing department.  

Glad that all seems to be going well Pongo and Perdy, has anything changed?  

The leg. 

I’m doing the exercises. Honest. 

It’s just shit.  

I’m bored, and your not here to keep me company.  

We really gotta train others in Russian because you being the only one speaking it fluently, seems actually ridiculous. It’s like, why am I the only one to speak Persian Arabic? It pigeonholes us and sets us up for really specific… holidays. Anyway. Food for thought. 

Puzzles sounds like a good way to pass the time.  

Coulson has taught me crochet. He said it’s a good way to keep my mind busy, and do maths. 

I can crochet a straight line. I’m aiming for a blanket.  

Anyway.  

Here’s my picture of a cat. 

🐈‍⬛. 

Miss you terribly. 

. 

Continued on ao3...

[sonnenreich]

continuation of (☀️) ⸻@siphvnr

In most cases, people were either sceptical or just amused by the allegedly tourist attraction, Spindleweed—and yes, Zeev thought himself particularly funny for this play of word—seemingly nothing more but a picture frame imagination of a witch's shop come true, seamlessly transitioning into the overall historic town's appearance. Usually, no one stumbled upon Sundawn by accident, hidden and safely nestled in the forest's landscape, circled by birch trees, oaks, beeches and pretty but rare willows. Whoever came to this secluded and rather narrow minded speck of land, came for a reason. While trying to fathom the motivation behind his visitor’s company, he quickly and rather involuntarily lost his concentration to much more interesting aspects of the dark haired man. Kai reeked of something he couldn't quite grasp but knew was palpable, familiar even. A presence so telling and loud, yet secretive and cunning. Zeev rarely felt a pull—and a repelling push at the same time—towards another being that stirs his curiosity with an intensity like he did. With heightened attention, he observed the nonchalance and insouciance with which he strolled through the store, inspecting everything, though Zeev doubted he was really interested in any of the things to the extent that he wanted to use them. Kai didn't really look like someone who was overly interested in healing tea blends or scented candles. Then again, it was foolish to claim to know the versatility of the people he met in its entirety.

With deliberate steps and a body movement that could only be described as fluid, he strolled over to him. It was nice to hear that someone seemed to have respect for what Zeev considered the cornerstone of his life—even if Kai couldn't possibly know that. Or did he? It frustrated Zeev that he apparently wouldn't get an answer to his question just by looking at him with an intense gaze, brimming with light. All Zeev was really sure about was the fact that there was a river running through Kai's veins, fueled by an energy he was no stranger to.

The witcher smiled at his words, charming but reserved, distracted by his own desire to observe and investigate. But he suspected that he wouldn't get very far that way.

Me, was his first impulse of thought to answer. He was a piece of the collection easily overlooked, his beauty deceiving most, giving the impression there wasn't more to discover than coquettish behaviour and a pretty face to look at like a fine sculpture—stunning on the outside, but nothing more but a marble surface with no recess for a heart. But he would never beg, he would never run after something that didn't like to stay and he most certainly wouldn't force anyone to change just to accommodate to his needs. There was no point anyway, but making yourself vulnerable to rejection. 

Zeev ushered him to follow, smiling to himself at his question that he liked to ask too when visiting all sorts of curiosity shops and met with anything occult. Spindleweed wasn’t a huge place, feeling a bit crowded but yet organised. The witcher loved cluttering, to see some sort of personality at every corner and cranny, still it needed to maintain class and visual appeal—much like he himself. Appearance was the first thing anyone noticed. 

Some treated the shop like a museum, but there were no glass cases nor anything he'd consider so much over value that it could be stolen by yet another British explorer to be displayed in London. 

It didn't take long for Zeev to find the silver locket, engraved with what seems like initials of the former owner, partly blackened by silver sulphide. It didn't seem very special at first, but when he took it in his hands, it felt warm and welcoming, drawing in a sense of nostalgia and loss. “The old lass who gifted it to me claimed that it was made by a heartbroken witch and that those who hold it too long may feel an inexplicable longing for something—or someone.” His thumb brushed over the surface, the truth of her words undeniable. Zeev offered the necklace to Kai, letting it dangle from the chain. “That is if you believe in such things,” Eyeing him observantly at the remark. “Most is just born out of very vivid imaginations, but even stories can erupt feelings and stir your own perception of things. It's like Tarot, all it takes is your own mind to weave the webs and connect emotions to the meaning they hold for you. Sometimes though it is downright magic.”

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The Post TLH Children:

Zachary Carstairs:

Zachary is kind of living his best life.

He’s got a great brother, great sister, plenty of adults who love him, some really weird friends, some normal friends, a world to live in that he loves, and an entire universe to experience.

He gets along pretty well with most people, obviously loves him family a bunch. In his opinion, his brother is the coolest (though he’d never say it out loud.)

He’s got this deadpan sort of humor that not everyone catches onto, but genuinely means well, and when needed turns the sarcasm off for people he cares about. He’s very perky and optimistic, if not somewhat distractable. 

He thought about going into politics, decided that would be too boring. He fully intends to move to Paris, Chicago, Rome or something of the like, and do something INTERESTING. Maybe be a reporter, a designer, or better yet, a food critic. 

Mismatched socks, purple curtains, watching the sun set on a balcony, standing in solidarity with a crowd, sweet air, great skin, falling in love with life, city apartments, satin shirts, grinning to yourself, coffee with plenty of cream, the taste of grapes, golden handkerchiefs, being proud of your family, smelling like fresh linen, warm hazelnut and eau de cologne. 

Alexander Lightwood:

 

He’s honestly just a pretty nice guy. 

Blue eyed boy, straight black hair, pretty casual. Very loyal, very protective. He also is a music guy. He prefers band, specializing in brass, specifically tuba. You think the tuba doesnt give him rizz? Wrong, it does. So does the trumpet, but it doesn’t spark the same joy as the massive hunk of metal the size of a small child. 

 He can also sing, but doesnt pour his heart into it the way he does for instrument. 

He really, genuinely, adores Peter, swearing to be his friend when he met him as a tiny little baby. He probably didn’t expect to become parabatai, but pretty quickly realized that he got along with Peter better than he got along with anyone else, and enjoys his company like no other. All deeper meanings aside, they just really mesh well. 

Alexander doesn’t have the same obsessiveness Peter does, but he’ll come over to the Fairchild house for hours nonetheless. He’s content to sit in the room and read, draw, study, ect ect while Peter plays the same song thirty eight times. 

He starts a marching band. A street band, and a pretty damn good one. Peter, much as he isnt a band kid, helps him as much as he can. 

He runs around London a lot, usually with Peter. Botanical gardens, old graveyards, ancient churches, quaint coffee shops, patches of woods or flowers, he wants to poke around them. 

He’s really big on the natural, forest academia type of vibe.

He’s also got his own anxieties, and some survivors’ guilt.

He really wants to protect everyone. He never knew Christopher, but he sees how much everyone misses him and is terrified he’s gonna lose someone he loves. When he was little he started having dreams of Peter dying, and they’ve continued for years. Even though Peters is pretty much fine on his own, he’s deathly afraid Peters is gonna get bored of him, or he’s gonna go and get killed.

He’s still got a scar on his chest from Tatiana; and while it’s never caused him a problem, at times it feels like he survived when he shouldn’t have. 

 Everyone older than him went through all this trauma but he just barely slipped past.  What did he do that made him any better? Why did he deserve better? Why did he survive when his bother didn’t? Would it have been better if he died? If he had died, would they miss him as much?

Also he’s got a potty mouth. Considering how laid back and friendly he is, it’s a little jarring, but he walks into the room with his friends and swears like a sailor on a hot day.

Promises between friends, steel swords, creeks in the forest, misting rain running off of building, overgrown indoor plants, blueberry skins in your teeth, the scent of wool, protect those you love, falling asleep on your best friends shoulder, taking the stairs, swimming in lakes, walking around when the world is asleep, sharing your soul with one person, missing something you can't remember, running when you could walk, parades, the cacophony of a band, spit on your shoes, oil stains on your jeans, the perfect weight of a broadsword, stone sharpening a blade, warm milk, the scent of the forest, coffee, and wood, hundreds of voices mingling together in public until they are one with the world as the wind.

Peter Fairchild:

He was the last of the triplets to be born, and a surprise to end all surprises. With all the chaos Belials attack on London , Charlotte prenatal visits were mostly just “yep, no one’s dead in there”! So in a twist of fate that could only happen to the London Shadowhunters, bam, screaming baby boy. 

  Peter is super easy going, and joined at the hip with Alexander Lightwood. They’ve been besties literally since Peter was born. They bounce off each other well, and have spent multiple summers laying in the woods, swimming in lakes, and agonizing over music. They’ll end up teaching together in a music school eventually. 

Building on that, the kid is a musical masterpiece. Probably because music is all he does.

Adding on that memory rune, he’s Mozart on steroids. His big three are singing, piano and composing.

His voice is amazing, three octave range, most comfortable in as a low bass. Genuine talent, genuine passion. 

Piano was his first love, and he started it with Alexander. 

 His goal is composing, which he will eventually get to, and absolutely kick ass at.

All three of the triplets are the spitting image of their dad, it’s basically mini Henry 1# 2# and 3#. They inherited the red hair, freckles, eyes, and autism..  Peter is friendly, casual, so-so social skills, but he does try his best.

 He’s got plenty of curls himself, but he doesn’t like to mess with his hair, so he just goes with hats. Particularly herringbone caps, which he wears regardless of being inside or outside.

Also, he really doesn’t like getting his clothes wet. He likes to swim, doesn’t mind bathing, ect, but he hates the feeling of wet cloth on his skin.

Tweed jackets, flocks of songbirds going up, summer night air, leather shoelaces, piles and piles of sheet music, blinding heat of stage lamps, clapping of a crowd you can not see, the familiarity of piano keys, chopin and mozart, carnations, lapel pins, august days with your best friend, conductors baton slipped up your sleeve, the scent of rosin, valve oil, and pen ink under the smell of almond cologne.

Thelma Fairchild:

She’s trying, bless her.

She is dripping with that special brand of autism. She doesn’t realize when people are being mean to her, and doesn’t know how to tell them to leave her alone. She’s just as weird and exuberant as Henry, so she’s a prime target for the asshats of the shadowhunter world. She’s honestly very friendly, but just as lonely. 

Her poison of choice is dance.

When she was something like five, her mother took her to see a production of the Alice in Wonderland ballet and she fell in love. She’s tall for a ballerina, but the height standard for shadow hunter ballerinas is way higher than for mundane ones. The idea is seeing someone whose six foot tall dance en pointe is much more impressive than it is for someone a foot shorter do the same. 

Thelma, weird as she may be, is a genuinely brilliant dancer. She’s downright ethereal, totally willing to work at it 24/7 at it, great musicality, excellent actor, and an amazing storyteller. She’s a student at a ballet academy in Idris- arguably the best school in the world, and certainly one of the most challenging. 

She doesn’t love staying one her own, so she usually stays at the family residence in Idris as opposed to in the dorms at her academy.  

She loves the color yellow, loves her family, is definitely a lesbian and is hopelessly enthralled with life.

Sunlight streaming over wood floors, snow on the steps of massive stone libraries, books and candles, beating in pointe shoes, bobby pins in every drawer, dancing on your own, golden hour, freckles on your arms, standing on a balcony during a thunderstorm, sun faded furniture, poetry, reciting shakespeare to yourself, watching your shadow move, yards and yards of fabric, nooks and crannies, hidden corners, being loved by your family, “You’re just like your father”, blisters on your ankles, bruises on your knees, bones and angles, alone in a crowd, sweet candies, twirling in flowery courtyards, costumes and dresses, yellow everything, carefully polished jewelry, secrets whispered in candlelight, falling asleep on the floor, the satiny scent of a ballet studio over the scent of beeswax, and something warm and orangey, like wassail or mulled wine, loving the world despite everything it throws at you. 

Marigold Fairchild:

Mary, Goldie, Mary-goldie, whatever you call her, Marigold is the oldest of the triplets. 

Her thing is carving. Particularly, marble carving.

 She’s as obsessive as everyone else in her family and is really good at what she does. Probably because that’s all she does. She paints her statues, the same way ancient Romans did, though much updated. 

  She uses warlock pigments, fae powders, paints from every corner of the universe, and every piece of art is amazingly realistic. A fully finished statue is identical to an actual person. 

Her carving studio is a particularly large garden shed, renovated. Originally, it was supposed to be for all the triplets to play in but she took it over. Good luck getting it back.

She likes blue. A lot. When she isn’t carving, she looks for color. She loves the ocean, and likes to wander around the coast, the more wild the better. Scotland, Norway, Iceland, Denmark, ect. Her favorite by far is Ireland. The only thing she may like as much as carving or preparing to carve, is probably staring at the Irish coast. The color, the feeling you get, the greenness of it all, what she would give to live under those waves, stand in the surf during a storm, see that color, experience it, live in it.  Carving is the closest she gets to that type of living though, you know? It’s creating a person, freeing a form from its stone prison. Once you finish a carving you’re as familiar with that carving as you could be with any person in the world.

As an artist, she smokes a hookah recreationally. She’s the only one of the triplets to smoke, and none of them drink.

 She’s got a dog, an English setter, named Mary Shelly, Shelly for short. They figured since Matthew named a dog after an author they might as well keep the theme going (It was Matthew’s idea).

Shelly was her sixth birthday gift, for her first rune. Peter got a nice piano (and the old one moved to his room) , Thelma got one of the spare rooms redone to work as a ballet studio. 

 She takes very careful care of her curls. All the triplets have lovely hair, Marigold just uses product, lets it grow, covers it at night, ect. It’s waist length, 3a, excellent volume, and lowkey intimidating. 

Cold rain, paint on your forearms, pockets full of things, oversized clothes, nicks on your fingers, heather on the coast,  bare feet covered in grass stains, sleet in the morning, tons of cardamom tea, dyed fingertips, sketchbooks, drawing on yourself, callused fingers, sore arms, marble dust sticking on your hair, watching the stars with your one true love, shopping the shadow market searching for new pigments, bitten lips, dog hair stuck on your pants, and the scent of sea salt and stone with an undertone of wildness.

[sweetdreamsjeff]

Needed to share this with the fans because Jeff too was a fan of music. Things go into the past and I'm here to carry them on, even if it is through the aether.

If you want to see Jeff Buckley's handwriting, his scrawl's there ("Love is rebellion - Rough Trade I miss you already," he writes "too early in the day, March '94").

Alex Marshall

Tue 3 Jul 2007 07.42 EDT

With Fopp gone, Rough Trade is the last bastion of the record shop

Rough Trade is replacing its Covent Garden shop with a megastore in east London. But is this a good thing, or merely a last hurrah?

Sonic Youth are among the seminal acts that have played at Rough Trade in Covent Garden since it opened in 1987

There was only one topic discussed by students last week: the closure of Fopp - the UK's largest independent record store chain.

When it was announced, you could hear the crying on every campus - and rightly so, as where else could you buy the new Queens of the Stone Age record and still have change? But newspapers also did their fair share. It marked the end of the record shop, they said - everyone will have to buy their music either online or at the supermarket.

But if you thought Fopp's demise was a bad sign, later this month Rough Trade in Neal's Yard, Covent Garden, will also shut up shop. And it'll be taking two decades worth of history with it.

The teeny space - it fits about a dozen people, uncomfortably - down a stairwell at the back of a skateboard shop, is the lesser heralded of the two Rough Trades. Largely because no one can find it. But since opening in 1987, it's seen everyone from Sonic Youth to Lily Allen play gigs there while shoved in a corner. They've all signed the ceiling too, turning the shop into a veritable museum of indie.

If you want to see Jeff Buckley's handwriting, his scrawl's there ("Love is rebellion - Rough Trade I miss you already," he writes "too early in the day, March '94"). So is that of Fall frontman Mark E Smith (signed "Mark E Sonic", for God knows what reason). And then there are Guardian favourites like LCD Soundsystem and the Gossip ("Kleenex 4 ever", Beth Ditto's written, referring to the pioneering female punk band).

There are also loads of pictures of cocks, proving that if you give any male a marker pen - be it a thirteen-year-old or a thirtysomething rock star - there's one thing they're going to draw.

Most of the bands who have played there, though, are of a much smaller stature, reflecting the rather (ahem!) distinct tastes of the shop's staff. Appropriately enough the final gig last Thursday was played by The Young Republic, an eight-piece country-pop band from Boston, Massachusetts, featuring pedal steel guitar, upright bass and violin. Although there were only six of them on that occasion for space reasons.

Rough Trade is replacing the shop with a 5,000-square foot megastore off Brick Lane in east London. The site is little more than an empty warehouse at the moment, but by the time it opens on 20 July, it'll feature a proper stage with a proper sound system and a "snug area with free wireless connection" (please don't mean a coffee shop).

Rough Trade is portraying the move as a brave one, showing the potential independent record shops still have. But in light of Fopp's demise it seems more like a last hurrah - the company chasing the "cool kids" to east London rather than believing the records it sells are enough to entice the cool kids to them. With such a large area to fill, there's also the likelihood it'll have to adopt a soulless "pile it high, sell it cheap" approach to record selling - something which goes against the ethos of the shop and which clearly didn't work for Fopp.

Here's hoping I'm wrong and the new store thrives, bringing bands like Mika Miko (current Neal's Yard favourites) to wider attention. But what do you think? Can independent record stores still flourish, or should they finally give in to the Amazons and Tescos? Does Rough Trade's history make it immune to market trends - or is it just as vulnerable as Fopp was?

“When he played the Rough Trade shop in Covent Garden, I made sure I got in. I stood on the stairs six foot away from him at eye level. He did Boy With the Thorn in His Side and he smiled all the way through. Afterwards we talked about The Smiths and The Pretenders. I’ve met so many tossers in music, but he was a lovely guy, the most talented person I’ve ever met, but also the nicest.”-Bernard Butler, Suede, Mojo, August, 1997 (I believe both the pic and Bernard seeing him there happened on this day)

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