#someone who runs a bookshop but doesn’t actually sell any books

[mars-ipan]

i know i’ve said it before but we should really and truly be praising crowley’s overall self control. i would not have been so strong

[itsclydebitches]

Discredit Pt. 2: More Recommended Reviews For A.Z. Fell’s

Alright, folks. Some notes first: 

1. You all rock. I’m sending out 20k+ virtual hugs for all the notes I NEVER expected to get on this nonsense. 

2. This is probably the final section, just because I’m not sure I can adequately follow up part one and it might be foolish to attempt it here. Let alone twice. But for now, here we go. 

3. Kudos to the anon who reminded me of Aziraphale’s cash-only policy <3 

4. Nicole Y’s review is based off an actual comment I read years ago, but heaven only knows where online it was. I’ve got the memory of a goldfish. 

5. Trigger warning for the use of a queer slur in this. It’s the same review as above, number 5 if you want to avoid it. 

6. There’s a text-only version of just the reviews at the end, after all the images. I’ll upload that to my Sparse Clutter collection on AO3 in a bit. 

Bonus 7. People thinking this is a real shop deserve all the good things in this world. 

That’s all I’ve got. Hope you enjoy! 👍

****************************************************************************

I’m a simple guy who likes simple jokes. If there’s a whoopee cushion I plant it. I will call you up to ask if your refrigerator is running and then tell you to go catch it. (Actually that one died out so thoroughly it’s actually capable of a comeback now!). Yes, I’m a dad and yes, I have a t-shirt that says Dad Jokes? I Think You Mean Rad Jokes! which I wear un-ironically every Saturday. All of which is just to say that my wife was well prepared for my stupidity when I walked into Fell’s.

I? I was not.

You see the bibles when you walk in? The ones to the left? Let them be. Don’t even look at them. Definitely don’t pick out the fanciest one you can find and absolutely don’t walk up to the owner with it held in your pudgy little fingers, grinning like a loon, cheerfully asking whether this should be in the fiction section. Just don’t. Mark my words you’ll regret it. Though your wife won’t. She’ll get a great old laugh out of it all.

In conclusion: it’s quite possible that mama did raise a fool and he just got his ass verbally whooped by a guy in a bowtie.  

***

Shout-out to Mr. Fell for being the only decent bloke in this city. I’ve popped in and out of his store for years—including before I started transitioning. So he knew my dead name, dead look, whole shebang and I was definitely nervous to play the ‘You know me, but this is what’s changed and are you gonna throw a fit about it?’ game.

You know what he said? “Oh, Rose! What a lovely choice. Crowley dear, why aren’t you growing any roses? Some white ones would look splendid next to my Henredon chair.”

That’s it. He just went straight into dragging his partner for not giving him roses. So hey, Mom? Next time you’re snooping through my social media why don’t you explain to all these nice people why the 50+yo book seller accepts me in ways you won’t. Don’t go telling me age is an excuse or that you’re ‘Stuck in your ways.’ I’ve watched Fell dress in the same damn clothes since I was ten!!

Yeah. Sorry. Rant over. Fell’s a gem. That’s my take. Rose out.

***

Anyone else in the shop when that guy started yelling about buying pornography? And then got escorted into the back room for some ‘private conversation’? Well done, Mr. Fell! Didn’t know you had it in you.

***

Alright alright alright alright I am TOTALLY calm about this.

Went into A.Z. Fell’s last Thursday. Not because I knew anything about the place. Just because I’ve been hitting up every bookshop within a twenty-mile radius, asking if they’re hosting any book signings. Long story short I self-published my novel Blight last month—which you can get for a mere £5 here but I swear this isn’t a promotional thing I’m just BROKE—and have been looking for networking opportunities, tips, stuff like that. So the owner listened politely as I explained all this. Then said he didn’t do anything of that sort, which didn’t surprise me given the shop’s vibe.

But then? Then??? He offered to let me do a signing there??????

As said. Totally calm about this. This man either plans to kidnap me or is actually giving me my first shot at an audience outside my blog. AKA totally worth the risk.

Tuesday the 9th. 7:00pm. Just in case anyone’s interested ;)

***

holy sweet baby jesus i was tripping balls last week you tryin’ to tell me that kING KONG SIZED FANGED FUCK SNAKE IS REAL

***

Witnessed the most perfect exchange the other day:

Grumpy Dude With No Manners: “You. Boy. Where’s the man I spoke with over the phone?”

Mr. Fell’s Partner Who Knows Damn Well Only Two of Them Work There But Clearly Doesn’t Like This Guy’s Tone: “Did this man give you his name?”

Grumpy Dude: “Might have. Don’t remember. Sounded like a fairy though.”

Me: “....”

My girlfriend: “....”

This Poor Sweet Startled Kid On Our Left: “?!?!?!?”

Fell’s Partner In The Drollest Voice I’ve Ever Heard: “None of us have wings. Out!”

***

This shop gets full stars simply because every time I walk in they’re playing Queen.

I mean, I’ve walked in once, but once is enough when you’ve got Crazy Little Thing Called Love blasting full volume.

***

Okay, I’m still kind of shaken up but I needed to write this out somewhere and this seemed as good a place as any.

I spilled my latte on a book. Just tripped on thin air, popped the lid, and chucked a venti’s worth of coffee all over a very expensive looking text. I didn’t mean to, obviously, but it happened and I just started bawling on the spot. Full on sobs because this semester has been absolute hell, I ruined this guy’s antique, there’s no way I can pay for it, I can’t even sneak away because I’m drawing the whole store’s attention...just all the things all at once. I really was straight up panicking and was seconds away from pulling out my inhaler. I couldn’t breathe.

And then Mr. Fell showed up.

Jesus it’s embarrassing to admit but I think I hit him once or twice. On the arms I mean, because he was trying to touch me and I figured, I don’t know, it was a restraint or something. He was going to call the police and hold me until they got there. But then he managed to start rubbing my back and I lost it like I hadn’t already been bawling my eyes out in this shop. Ever cry into a perfect stranger’s chest? I have! But if Mr. Fell seemed to mind he definitely didn’t show it. Just kept holding me while I probably ruined his shirt and then took me into the back and made me a new coffee in this cute little angel mug. He let me stay there while I called my sister and waited for her to arrive.

She’s a good twenty minutes outside of Soho, so we talked for a while. It’s not like Mr. Fell could fix my shit roommate or bio classes, but I guess just talking about it all really helped. I was a lot calmer by the time my sis arrived and Mr. Fell insisted I come back any time I wanted—for browsing or more coffee.

Of course, sis offered to pay for the book herself. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone look so surprised in my life. “Certainly not!” he said. “Contrary to popular belief, no one should pay for their mistakes. It’s what makes you all so wonderfully human.”

So yeah. Thanks, Mr. Fell.

***

This little shop must have started a book club for kids! Lately I’ve seen the same group of children hanging out at Fell’s. Three boys and a girl. They’re a bit rambunctious at times, but who isn’t at that age? So wonderful seeing literature passed down to the next generation. Even if some of it is rather questionable looking...

***

It’s an honest crime that more of you aren’t talking about what a wonderful bookstore this is.

I’m a book lover at heart and Fell’s always makes me feel like I’m coming home. I just arrived somewhere safe and familiar after a particularly harrowing day. I’ve slipped under the covers of my bed after dinner and a bubble bath. It’s something like that, but with an element of surprise too. One of the reasons why I adore private and used shops over chain stores is that little touch of chaos. You walk in and sure, there are general sections to browse, but everything is just a little bit disorganized from people leafing through books and then putting them back somewhere else. There’s no real record keeping, you’ve just gotta head to one particular corner and hope for the best. It’s not the sort of place you go to if you want something specific because the chances of them having it are slim—that’s just how the universe works—and even if they did no employee knows where it is anymore.

But if you wander the shelves for a while, crouch down low to get a look at everything on the bottom shelf, pay attention to the books that don’t have easy to read titles or any summaries to speak of... you just might find something you didn’t know you were looking for. That’s Fell’s: the comfort of the familiar and the excitement of the unknown.

*** A lot of people might assume that these stories are embellished or outright made up, but as a bookseller myself going on twenty years I believe every single one of them.

That being said, I accidentally moved a rug and found chalk sigils that look like they belong in a cult. Make of that what you will.

***

There’s a special place in hell for 21st century shop owners that only take cash. Who carries cash anymore? Not me! I haven’t bothered with that nonsense in years! You can get a card reader for 15 pounds on Amazon. Or you know what? Be stingy and pay 7 for the little attachment on your phone. This place is nuts if it thinks it’s going to survive much longer on a cash-only policy, especially with some books that look like they’re worth hundreds or thousands of pounds! Yeah, yeah, just let me pull out this giant wad of bills for you. I’ll carry them around a crime-laden city because there’s no ATM near you either.

I mean jesus, you’d think this guy didn’t want to sell anything.

***

I walked in. There was a man screaming at a fern while another threatened him with an umbrella. I walked out.

5 stars do recommend.

***

I once walked in on the same (?) guy yelling at a book for daring to fall on the owner’s head. I think that’s just a Thing over there.

***

Like a lot of people here I didn’t actually go to Fell’s for any books (flat tire, Angel Recovery taking forever) and ended up staying three hours (not because of Angel). No, I wandered towards the back and found this ancient CRT set propped on a table of books, the kind that my Dad used to watch Twilight Zone on. This lanky guy had a marathon of Gilmore Girls going... though how he was managing that with a broken antenna and no DVR, I really don’t know. But yeah. He told me to pull up a chair and I did. Guy gave me popcorn.

I wish I’d paid a little more attention to his name. Charlie? Curley? I really can’t remember, but thanks for the enjoyable afternoon, man.

***

I BOUGHT A BOOK HERE

Not sure how though. Just kinda happened. First edition of Just William. Frankly I didn’t even want the thing, but the owner basically shoved me out the door with it when I took two seconds to look at the spine. Odd that he was so willing to part with this one.

Update: ... hold up. I didn’t buy a book because I never actually paid the guy. ‘Basically shoved me out the door’ was literal. Do I go back??

***

This page has really gone feral the last couple of months so I’m just gonna bite the bullet and say it:

Anyone notice that Fell’s snake and Fell’s partner are never in the same room together?

***

I really don’t like the implications of this…

***

This is precisely why the Internet has turned into a cesspool. You all should be ashamed of some of the stuff you’re writing here. Can’t two men just be friends anymore? Two real life men? These guys aren’t some characters for you to ‘ship’ or whatever. Quit making outrageous assumptions about their sexualities and use this website for what it’s actually for: reviewing the bookshop. Honestly I’m so sick of this sort of this shit.

***

Dude. They run a queer-focused shop together with a flat on the second floor. Fell calls the guy ‘Dear’ and he’s always calling him ‘Angel.’ People have literally seen them kissing. If you want I can give you the number of my physician. He might be able to help you pull your head out of your ass.

***

What the hell is your problem? I’m literally just reminding people to stop making assumptions. It’s gross and insulting. These guys check their Yelp page. You really think they’re gonna be okay with this stuff?

Also: I’m not the five-year-old relying on insults, so.

***

Making an account purely to set the record straight: I’m the hot twink in question and I married that angel. Peace

[vagrantblvrd]

Modern day spy/assassin AU where former singer/musician/~artiste works in a cozy little coffee shop neatly sandwiched between a bookstore and, idk, a flower shop.

Expected to be one of the hottest new stars coming out of Oxenfurt if it hadn’t been for that scandal with fellow band member and rumored lover Valdo Marx over alleged song theft and so on. Followed by a messy break up - band and personal - and a drawn out legal battle that drained what money Valdo hadn’t stolen from him.

(And a year or so after all that Jaskier doesn’t like to think about too much before he got his feet back under him and a friend mentioned this coffee shop she frequented, and anyway, he’s doing much better now and also somehow ends up owning it himself when its previous owner retires and sells the business to him for like, five bucks, because the power of friendship or something, idk.)

One day on his way home he stumbles over someone half dead in an alley and is like oh, oh, no because the last thing he needs is another scandal attached to his name?

Like.

He’s kept his nose clean for just over six month now, has been playing around with new melodies and bought a new notebook for lyrics and whatnot. Looked into playing at some local places, not really wanting to be a megastar or whatever these days, but he loves music and performing in a little bar somewhere would be nice, you know?

ANYWAY.

Turns out the guy isn’t actually dead, thank goodness but might as well be? Has this medallion around his neck, a cat? Which, okay, whatever he’s seen stranger and he’s getting his phone out to call an ambulance or whatever, crouched next to the guy.

Memory from the CPR course he took in college surfaces in his mind - the instructor was hot and even if Jaskier never got the guy’s number he learned valuable life skills. (And also met Shani and that proved better than getting the guy’s number because she’s one of his best friends and also incredible and anyway.)

Reaches out to check for a pulse, which is when the guy grabs his wrist - surprisingly strong grip for someone who looks like he lost a fight with a freight train - and hsi eyes snap open and they are...extremely striking and not at all normal - cat eyes, to go with the cat medallion and hahaha, oh shit, this is bad, bad news, isn’t it?

The guy tries to threaten him, which. Not as effective when the growl he’s trying for just sounds sad and pathetic, and anyway, there’s something...not fear, no, in his eyes, that has Jaskier forgetting to put the call through for an ambulance.

It’s very close to fear though. Worry? Concern? Something that Jaskier relates to in some incredibly fucked up way.

(The way he felt when Valdo Marx fucked him over and everything he’d built fell apart around him, and anyway, yes.)

He doesn’t even know why, he does, or why he ends up hauling the guy up to his apartment and patches him up best he can with wwhat he has on hand.

Will probably end up being murdered by the guy the moment he’s on his feet, but eh, that’s a problem for future Jaskier, really.)

Anyway, Aiden - because of course it’s Aiden - is super suspicious of Jaskier and his everything and there is indeed a moment where he pins Jaskier to a wall with a kitchen knife - it was an apartment-warming gift from Shani and Essi and Jaskier’s more worried about it being damaged than Aiden slitting his throat, which just confuses Aiden?

Because what even is Jaskier and his priorities???

But he doesn’t kill Jaskier and the knife gets put back and aside from that little bump in their relationship they actually become friends after that.

Jaskier takes to referring to Aiden as a stray cat whenever one of his friends or whoever asks why he buys more groceries or hurries home after work instead of sticking around to gossip a bit the way he usually does.

 Aiden thinks it’s hilarious as opposed to insulting, which is great seeing as how Jaskier’s pretty sure the man’s a hitman or assassin or other similar career?

(Might be the way he mentions past jobs and his dark sense of humor and also the time he could have killed Jaskier if he felt he was a threat? So, yes.)

And Aiden, okay.

Got burned or something to leave him half dead in an alley for just anyone to stumble over and since Jaskier hasn’t made any fuss about him moving out decides he might as well stay where he is for the time being, you know?

He goes and gets a job...somewhere to help with rent and so on. Offers Jaskier enough hints to make it sound like he’s out murderizing people right and left the moment he’s out of the apartment, but then Jaskier sees him helping Triss bring in deliveries out behind the flower shop so he knows Aiden’s been fucking with him on that front and is like, dude, not funny.

(Aiden begs to disagree, but whatever.)

And then!

A month or so after Aiden’s back on his feet Jaskier runs into one of the owners of the bookshop next door?

New management and so on, and oh no, he’s exceedingly hot.

White hair and gold eyes and, sure, he’s not the most talkative guy around? But Jaskier’s cracked tougher nuts or some other way of phrasing it that doesn’t sound like a euphemism.

Also, also, there’s another painfully attractive man working there who is incredibly sweet and has a menace of a goat that they have instead of a bookstore cat?

Which.

Seems like a bad idea since Jaskier often hears about how Lil Bleater nibbles on the books if someone isn’t watching her and anyway, it means he gets to listen to Eskel lament about her latest misadventures while Geralt stands there and tries not to let on how amused he is by both the bookstoer goat and her owner and Jaskier is like shit, because Geralt and Eskel are so, so hot and he’s only human and Aiden, Aiden, do not laugh at his pain, you utter bastard of a man.

ANYWAY.

Shenanigans in which Geralt and Eskel think Jaskier has this insufferable bastard of a former stray cat at home and Jaskier piiiiines like a sad bastard while Aiden laughs and laughs and laughs.

(It should be pointed out that not once in all the time Aiden started working for Triss - and Geralt, Eskel, and Lambert - who Jaskier has heard all about but not yet met - have seen one another even though they spend most of the working day a few hundred feet apart, because Plot Reasons.)

And then!

Some shenanigans in which Geralt or Eskel - who are totally spies who are using their cozy little bookshop as a cover - get tangled up in trouble and Jaskier stumbles on them with this incredible sense of deja vu.

He drags them into the coffee shop to patch them up, and he forgets to lock the front door, which is convenient because then Aiden wanders in hoping for a free coffee?

(Power of ~friendship, and also roommates, and yes.)

Jaskier is kind of covered in blood - Geralt and Eskel’s - and Aiden is immediately in Assassin!Mode because he’s fond of Jaskier, right, owes him his life and such.

But also, Geralt and Eskel who have also had their oh, oh no he’s hot moment when it comes to Jaskier are likewise fond of him - and working up the nerve to ask him for a date, but that’s neither here nor there - go into Spy!Mode and there’s an honestly kind of terrifying, kind of sad stand-off.

Jaskier is in Adrenaline!Mode because fuck his life, of course Geralt and Eskel can’t just be incredibly hot bookstore owners and is like “If you fuck up my coffee shop I will not be happy, and also please consider my delicate sensibilities,”

Which manages to stop whatever fight was about to break out and he essentially does the Chris Pratt with the raptors thing, only with a couple of spies and his assassin roommate.

Pretends the three of them aren’t throwing menacing looks at one another as he patches Geralt and Eskel up and then is like “Well, that was fun!” because no, no it was not, and his heart is going to burst with all the tension and whatnot in the air. and hahaha, this is fine.

Which of course is when Lambert comes stomping through the front door and there is even more Drama and Angst because his ~forbidden relationship with Assassin!Aiden and heartbreak when it was assumed he’d been killed by his agency a few months back, but wait, he’s still alive???

And idk, just a lot of ridiculous spy movie cliche nonsense in which Jaskier is reluctantly dragged into things because he saved Aiden’s life that one time, and is piiiiining for Geralt and Eskel and of course he gets taken hostage and they have to band together to save him but shenanigans and ~plot twists and so on.

(And then when it seems all is lost Triss and her utterly terrifying girlfriend Yennefer actually save the day because they, too, are spies and Jaskier would honestly like to know if he’s the only normal person he knows or what, because really, what are the odds???)

Whenever the death-defying events and such are over Jaskier does, actually, go on a date with Geralt and Eskel and some smooching happens.

(Technically not their first, because that happened after they saved Jaskier’s life in that oh thank god none of us died moment after all the danger and excitement, but none of them mind, because smooches.)

Lambert and Aiden make fun of the three of them, but gently because they, too, are prime targets for mockery as they also decide to try a proper relationship and not just stolen moments here and there, and anyway, anyway

A year or so down the road Jaskier gets tired of coming home to find the two in compromising situations and is like, why, though, which conveniently happens around the time Geralt and Eskel approach him about moving in with them somewhere and he’s like, well, if he must, like he’s not thrilled about it because he’s kind of gone on the two of them, you know?

So they get this place big enough for the three of them and Lil Bleater and Aiden and Lambert get his old place and it all works out?

Sure, sure, there are a few close moments where Geralt and Eskel’s work puts Jaskier in danger, and that time whoever tried to kill Aiden targets Jaskier and so on?

But he’s like, eh, it happens, because obviously it does.

Which means Geralt and Eskel take it upon themselves to teach him to defend himself - and half the time it ends in smooches and sexytimes because hand-to-hand and being pinned to mats and adjusting his stance while learning how to use firearms and such, you know?

But also Aiden and Lambert teaching Jaskier knives and explosives - “I’m sorry, but one of these things is not like the others,” in regard to Lambert and his explosives, but it’s a ~bonding moment, so whatever.

(Also, also, that time Jaskier was able to defuse a bomb in some highly improbable and ridiculous bit of shenanigans with spy nonsense and Lambert being a smug prick about it for forever afterwards.)

And then Jaskier finds out Geralt has this incredible kid with Yennefer and what the hell is his life that all these people know each other and he doesn’t find out about it until ages afterwards, but anyway.

Ciri is awesome and after her Vesemir comes to meet the guy two of his sons are in love with, and Coen shows up along with other assorted characters I’ve forgotten and anyway, yes???

(Also, also, Yennefer happens to find out about Valdo Marx and she straightens out that mess quietly and efficiently in such a way that Jaskier doesn’t realize it until long after the fact and is like hm, because he didn’t think she particularly liked him, but apparently he was wrong? Which leads to brunch dates with her and Triss and gossiping about the other idiots in their lives and discussing Jaskier giving Ciri music lessons and anyway, yes.)

[pricemarshfield]

the killing kind

A post-canon Drarry fic. Read on AO3 here.

Harry would like one day away from the press, from being the Boy who Lived, to just be Harry. Polyjuice would work, but it's disgusting and difficult and also possibly illegal, but wizards are bad at recognizing anything non-magical, so this might work.

At least, that was his reasoning for walking into Diagon Alley with a Muggle stage prosthetic that makes his chin look completely different, a fake mustache, and his hair enchanted to be long enough to finally, finally cover his scar. He's sure that last one will wear off in an hour, but that should be enough to get an ice cream at Fortescue's and sit outside and eat it without being swarmed.

You'd think, years after Tom Riddle's death, that they'd stop caring about him. But no, they need to report every little thing he does. Harry Potter rushed through Auror training. Harry Potter quits Ministry work, possible run for Minister? Professor McGonagall had tried her best to keep his professorship at Hogwarts under lock and key, but after his first day, the papers had a tell-all. He's not sure which student it was, but they're children. He can't blame them.

The first Prophet reporter he sees, a woman with shockingly long hair he recognizes as taking photos outside a restaurant near the Burrow (preceding an article about his break-up with Ginny that made it seem like something tragic and not like school sweethearts amicably parting weeks before the photo was taken), doesn't give him a second glance. He has to force himself to walk normally past her and not rush.

It's the one thing Auror training actually taught him. People won't pay attention to you if you act like everything's fine. One art thief he'd caught in the three weeks he'd actually worked at the Ministry had just walked into places and taken paintings, not bothering to sneak or disguise himself whatsoever. They'd assumed he must have been there. Harry had felt bad taking him in, actually; he was taking better care of the paintings than the rich assholes he was taking them from.

"Was going to take one from the Malfoys next," the guy'd said. "I know apparently the wife and the kid aren't actually, you know, Death Eaters, but they sure don't need all that art, don't they?"

"Don't suppose you'd let me catch you right after you stash that one somewhere," Harry'd joked.

"Nope. Sorry, mate," he'd said, and sounded so much like Ron that Harry made idle conversation about how Animagi tended to find it pretty easy to escape from wizarding jails, and how Azkaban was much more--ethical, now that the Dementors were gone and Hermione had aggressively campaigned for prisoners' rights. (With Harry's quiet support and financial backing, remembering how haunted Sirius had looked.)

Anyway. He's getting lost in his thoughts again. It does mean he doesn't notice if there's any other reporters on the path to Fortescue's. It also means he doesn't process the words on the sign in front of him for long enough that he's getting a couple weird looks.

Aguefort's Chronomantics Romantic Novels

Books to Transport You Through Time, Space, and Dimensions!

Harry blinks at it, looks around. This is the corner where Fortescue's was--and he briefly considers hexing himself when he remembers that Florean was one of the people who disappeared, back in the war, who never came back after. Sure enough, there's a little in memorial metal plaque on the front door of the bookshop.

He swears under his breath. He should have remembered this. But no, he's stuck.

There's probably some other shop he can grab something at, right? Other than what looks like overpriced romances? There's a few sit-down restaurants, but he needs to be in and out in forty minutes, max.

He wanders aimlessly down the streets, hoping to catch a whiff of something. Churros, tacos, some sort of street cart or something. Diagon Alley's not really that type of place, but he hasn't been here in a year and a half, so maybe someone's pushing convention.

There doesn't end up being any cheap little shops on the side of the road, but fifteen minutes later, he does see a place that sells chips and has outdoor seating, and that'll have to do. When he walks in, the place is packed, but the line's moving quickly enough that he should still be fine, if he eats quickly. Worse comes to worse, he can just Apparate away when his hair starts to act up.

He gets through the line, pays, gets his chips, adds some more salt to it, and sits outside in under six minutes. (He counts. Also, he has a watch that he remembers to look at three minutes in.) Outdoor seating's a little cramped, and he can feel himself tense, shoulders higher than they should be. He lets himself sit with his back to the wall, eyes on everyone, ignoring the reminder for CONSTANT VIGILANCE in his head from old Mad-Eye, and begins to eat.

Now that he's got some food in him and he knows...well. He's pretty sure that no one's watching him from behind, he's able to look around and appreciate his surroundings, being in the world without being stared at. It's then that he realizes a few things:

1. Most of the people here have notepads next to them, quills writing notes on their own.

2. The building across the street has a sign in looping, dramatic script that reads Daily Prophet.

3. Draco fucking Malfoy is at the table next to him, and

4. He's looking right at Harry.

Harry tries to express please, for the love of God, don't make a scene with his face. Malfoy doesn't seem to pick up on it from the way he leans forward, drawing the eyes of someone nearby. Harry casts a quick Muffliato around the pair.

"Potter," Malfoy says.

"I'm just trying to grab a bite," Harry pleads.

"What, you think they wouldn't serve you if you showed up?" Malfoy asks, arching a brow at him like he's said something oh-so-intelligent. Harry wonders if cursing him is worth the attention. But Malfoy being annoying isn't enough to get him on the front page of the Prophet, probably, and Harry didn't speak at his trial for nothing.

"No," Harry says. "But sometimes someone might like to eat without everyone staring at them, yeah?"

Malfoy narrows his eyes at him. "I can understand that."

That was more than Harry'd expected. His shoulders drop a little. "Good. I'll be out of here in just a few minutes anyway." He looks back down at his chips.

"Why?" Malfoy asks.

Harry looks up at him. He hadn't exactly anticipated a conversation with Malfoy. With a glance at the Prophet next door, Harry says, "Hungry."

"I didn't mean why here, Potter, have you really not gotten any smarter since we were at school?"

"Have you really not changed since Hogwarts either?" Harry snaps, knows it's a low blow right after it's left his mouth. Malfoy's face blanches, and he turns back to his book with a pinched expression that Harry doesn't feel guilty about. Decidedly not guilty. Not even a little. His hero complex has gotten better, and he can tell Hermione that later.

One minute and fifteen seconds later, Harry caves and hands Malfoy a chip. He has to lean way too far, two of his chair legs leaving the ground, but the scrape of that means at least Malfoy glances up and he doesn't have to say anything to get his attention. Malfoy takes the chip with an expression of distaste. He doesn't seem to have any food.

"Did you come here for food and get turned away?" Harry asks, connecting a couple things in his head like those mystery boards Ron still uses at work.

Malfoy glares at him. "No, I'm sitting here because I'm fond of being by a bunch of reporters."

"You could leave," Harry says. "It doesn't look like you're chained here."

"That would be conceding, Potter," Malfoy says primly. "I don't expect you to understand."

"Alright," Harry says. "Look, I just wanted some food, the charm on my hair's wearing off soon, and I didn't mean to rub it in your face." After an awkward pause, he adds, "Also, wizards don't notice anything with Muggle prosthetics, so. You could try that."

"Is that why your chin looks like that?" Malfoy asks, horrified. "It's horrific, Potter, you're better off just taking off those glasses rather than completely destroy your appearance."

"It's temporary," Harry says, ignoring the little thrill up his spine when Malfoy almost-implies something nice about how he looks. "And I'm trying not to get looked at, git."

Malfoy gives Harry a quick up-and-down look then flicks his wand. Harry braces himself, but instead feels his hair cool a little, like a more pleasant disillusionment charm. When he glances at the shop's window, he can see it's fallen even further flat.

"Thanks," Harry says. Malfoy nods at him. "Sorry."

"What are you talking about?"

"That that happened," Harry says. "The shop thing, not the--not the hair thing."

The corner of Malfoy's mouth quirks up. "I'm used to it."

Not for the first time, Harry's struck with a quiet sense of injustice that he doesn't really know what to do with. In school, it was simple: pass his classes, defeat Riddle, and try to win the House Cup. But there's things he can't tackle quite as easily, or at least the path towards them are less clear. The right of blood over anything else in wizarding families, the existence of house elves, the way people are judged years later for what they did as a child in war.

Harry's under no illusions about Malfoy being a good person; he was still a bigoted little git in school. But he also knows he's made an attempt to do better, to be better.

"If you want," Harry says, wincing at how awkward and halting his voice sounds. "Next time the Prophet corners me, I can say something nice about you. Might change things."

"Why?" Malfoy says,  brow furrowed, the picture of distrust.

Harry shrugs. "Dunno. Seems unfair."

"You really do have a hero complex," Malfoy says despairingly. "I thought it was just a pathological need for attention, but no, you really do have to step into situations that don't need you if you have even the slightest inkling someone might be a bit upset."

"I don't have to," Harry says, rolling his eyes. "It was an offer. You know, something people do when they're trying to be nice?"

"Gryffindors," Malfoy sighs. "This is why you lot end up being Chosen Ones."

Harry wants to yell at him or just throw a hex, reporters be damned, but Malfoy's smiling slightly, and his tone was almost joking, maybe.

"At least we didn't have to live in a dungeon," Harry says, and meets Malfoy's gaze with a slight smile back.

[warandpussy]

bill potts!!!

she is QUALITY

OTP for them: The only person she’s with in canon is Heather, is that right? But idk how ‘OTP’ I am about that given Heather has like 20 minutes of screentime.  Or there’s that other girl in the fake version of reality where the Pope interrupts their date... I would enjoy that dynamic if it were just every single time they go on a date they get interrupted by someone of even more importance

Their wedding gets cancelled because God wants a word

BROTP for them: Nardole and Bill have such bitchy energy together and I’m here for it

Other ships: Like - okay, if Clara gets to have Jane Austen, give Bill like every other famous woman in history. She gets it off with Emily Dickinson.

What kind of fic I’d write about them: I have written her before, but not as a central character really. I’m want to focus in on her in my Red Dwarf AU, where she, 12, Missy, Nardole get trapped in a dead TARDIS at the end of the universe, and they don’t think there’s a way for them to fix it, so they’re just stuck there.

She’s trapped with three people who are effectively immortal! What does that do to you, to know you’re going to grow old and die long before any of the rest of them? So much of her arc in S10 is about her being an ordinary person thrust into an extraordinary life, about her curiosity and delight in learning new things, about wanting her life to be something more than just a boring one stuck in the same place doing the same things. And then the reality of a situation where you’re stuck in the same place, forever - that’s going to sting. What is she like, when she’s stuck? How does she cope?

A favorite canon moment: When she called the Doctor out in Thin Ice for his callousness about the dead boy. I feel like the show can gloss over the horror of death sometimes, because it’s necessary for the story to move on, but Bill’s shock and outrage here was just perfectly done, and really needed I think

Color that reminds me of them: I picture her in bright colours - especially reds and mustard yellows

Song that reminds me of them: Walking on Sunshine!

A headcanon about them: I think that when she hands in her essays, she prints them out and binds them together incredibly tight with those little treasury tag things because she knows how immensely irritating the Doctor finds it to have to unbind them

A random AU I think up on the spot for them: AGH i already told you my AU idea...

OK, to expand the Doctor Who British Comedy Cinematic Universe - a Black Books AU where the Doctor is a bad-tempered owner of a London bookshop where he doesn’t want to sell any books, Nardole is his obsequious assistant (ah, Nardole, so consistent across universes), and Bill is his friend that runs the shop next door selling weird trendy bric-a-brac to useless hipsters. I suppose in this AU the Doctor still has Missy locked up in his basement, which is like, super uncool bro

There’s one episode of BB where in the middle of a heatwave, the character I’m basing Bill on (Fran) thinks the walls of her horrible flat are closing in on her due to the heat. Actually, they’re closing in on her because of her horrible landlord moving the walls to try and create a new flat from the stolen space. SO imagine a version of that but it’s the creepy horrible landlord from Knock Knock... with the disgusting awful bugs... I don’t know how you’d translate it but the vibe is right there...

--

Ask meme

[ineffablegame]

I’m sure this has already been hc’d but if you will Allow Me:

The Fab 5 go to England.  They’re on a mission from God.  They find Aziraphale and Crowley, smitten and pining and fussy and afraid and ridiculous, and they know this is why they’ve been plucked out of the heart of America: to save these pathetic, middle-aged, clearly-besotted gays from themselves.

They burst into the bookshop in a flurry of Gay Drama and mics and cameras.  Aziraphale, who has been determinedly putting off a customer for the past fifteen minutes, looks up and sees JVN.  He freezes.

Crowley slithers out from behind a shelf and boggles.  “White Jesus,” he whispers.

Jonathan tosses his hair.  “In the fa-lesh!”

“I beg your pardon,” Aziraphale stammers, “who are you?”

“We’re here to deliver you from your sad, crusty old lives!” Jonathan says. 

The Fab 5 get down to business.  Crowley and Aziraphale are helpless to stop their onslaught.  But the Fab 5 have never dealt with immortal, supernatural entities before, so they have their work cut out for them. 

Bobby is determined to spruce up the bookshop, but soon realizes its cranky, fussy owner has a will the size of Mount Sinai and refuses to budge.  Every book must be kept in place, not one particle of dust disturbed.  Bobby’s suggestion that Aziraphale start selling eBooks to pep up business is met with glacial silence.  Crowley is no less stubborn, refusing to make his flat more homey with the addition of a sofa one might actually enjoy sitting on.  

“If I want to be comfortable, I’ll go to the bookshop,” Crowley says.  He means to sound disdainful and can’t understand why Bobby looks so touched.

Bobby gets one concession from Aziraphale - that potted plant will bring a little color to the bookshop, yes, I suppose that isn’t such an awful suggestion.  In any case, Crowley offered me one of his.

Antoni has his own struggles.  He’s used to finding food that repulses him, but he’s never had to contend with someone who has no food at all.  He scours Crowley’s flat from top to bottom and can’t find a crumb.  Just looking at the place, you’d think Crowley never ate at all.  Aziraphale is another matter - the little kitchenette above the shop is packed with sweets, cookies and cakes and chocolate-covered strawberries and, bizarrely, a plate of oysters sitting on the counter that never warms to room temperature.  “You should really try to balance out your diet,” he suggests.  

Aziraphale purses his lips.  “I am quite content with my diet, thank you.”

Antoni shrugs off Aziraphale’s chilly attitude.  The next day, disquieted by the oysters still sitting on the counter - really, they might still be cool, but that has to be unsanitary - he bins them.  Aziraphale gives him the kind of murderous, eldritch-horror look that would shatter Antoni’s mind if it weren’t for the amazing ability of the human mind to scab over inexplicable horrors.  Antoni spends a long time staring at the camera, horrified and not quite sure why he’s horrified.

Tan is simply confused.  Aziraphale and Crowley both dress well, even if the former wears clothes about 50-100 years out of date.  But he can’t pin down Crowley’s style.  The non-binary leanings are great, of course, but Tan has looked and looked and he can’t identify the clothing brands.  Crowley’s clothes don’t have tags.  Tan has never seen them advertised anywhere.  Convinced Crowley must have some obscure designer on retainer, he asks who makes them.  The demon just shrugs.  “I do.”

“Really!” Tan is intrigued.  “I didn’t know you designed clothes.  Even the shoes?”

“My what?” Crowley asks, distractedly.  Then he blinks. “Oh, yeah, the... the shoes.  The shoes I wear.  Ssssnakeskin.”

Tan doesn’t see much to be improved in Aziraphale’s classic - if antiquated - style.  But he loves a good French tuck, so he suggests that.  

“French?” Aziraphale says, looking absolutely revolted.  That puts Tan off right away.

Karamo hones in on the pining like a bloodhound on the scent.  In the back room of the bookshop, he sits on the sofa beside Aziraphale and gets down to business.  “So, I sense you have feelings for Crowley.  Tell me about that.”

Aziraphale flushes a delicate shade of pink.  “I-- I don’t, of course.  We’re friends.  Well, actually, we used to be enemies, but...”  And he proceeds to occupy Karamo for the next four hours with the story.  Karamo is entranced and a little heartbroken by the whole thing.  It’s almost as if the two have been in love since the dawn of time, and they can’t quite figure it out.  

Of all the Fab 5, Jonathan is the only one who isn’t remotely fazed by Aziraphale and Crowley.  He flounces around the shop, flipping through books and charming customers in a manner that is wholly antithetical to Aziraphale’s shop policy, which is to drive customers away.  Aziraphale and Crowley keep their distance, because - white or not - Jonathan does bear a striking resemblance to Someone they both knew, a long time ago.  When Jonathan beckons them to the chair, they are powerless to refuse.

“Let’s give this a little zhuzh, honey,” he says, running his fingers through Aziraphale’s curls.  The angel sits as still as stone, feeling coddled and vaguely threatened at once.  Jonathan considers his hair, chewing on his lip.  “Though honestly, your hair is already gorg.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale preens.  “I have it, ah, styled by a barber once every two months.”  He hasn’t grown out his hair in fifty years, but the point still stands.  

“I can tell,” JVN coos.  “And ohmygosh, your skin is so soft.  Practically divine!”

“A-ah, yes,” Aziraphale stammers, a little afraid again.  “But it’s not.  Totally normal... human skin.”

Crowley fares no better.  “I love your hair!” Jonathan gasps, running his fingers through it.  “So fiery!”

“Ngk,” says Crowley. 

“Now, I know this sounds a little risky,” Jonathan says, “but have you ever thought about growing it out?  Like, long long?”

Crowley perks up.  “Did that a few times, actually.  One of my best looks.”

“I’ll bet!  I’m sure Aziraphale was literally all over you with that look!”

Crowley goes beet-red and chokes out, “Ngkngkngk.”

Later, to the cameras, Jonathan squeals, “Ilovethembothsomuch!  Oh my god!”

When the Fab 5 are about to leave, Aziraphale asks, with a little trepidation, “Who, ah, who nominated us?  If I may ask?”

“Some scary lady,” Antoni says, shivering.  “Though now that I think about it, we never got her name...”

“Scary but somehow super nice?  If that makes sense?” Jonathan puts in.  “Like, Mama Bear literally about to rip off your head, but also who loves you more than anything?”

They leave.  Standing outside the bookshop, watching the camera crew disperse, Crowley murmurs to Aziraphale, “You think that was really Him?  Seriously?”

Aziraphale shrugs.  “Could be.  That would be Her sense of humor.”

“Hmm.”  Crowley scuffs a toe on the pavement.  “Could I tempt you to a spot of lunch?”

Aziraphale wiggles on the spot.  “Yass, queen!”

[yikesharringrove]

i’m sorry that you’re having a rough time. if you need to talk my ask is always open! 💜 something I haven’t really seen in the harringrove fandom is a bookstore aus. do you have any head cannons for that? or maybe you could write something? i can see billy being a pretentious, flirty sometimes grumpy bookstore owner who is simultaneously annoyed and charmed by clueless steve who is obvi not a reader, but keeps coming in. Billy’s clueless why the pretty keeps coming in. robin is not clueless!

(ao3)

“Fuck.”

Billy shook out his hand, just dropped a large box of books on his fingers.

“Dumbass.” Robin was perched at the counter, leafing lazily through some indie zine her friends made.

“You know you could, like, help.” Billy shot her a glare as she rolled her eyes, leaving him and his smushed little hand to shelve the new stock.

“No point in that, Boss.” Billy just kept sorting maneuvering himself through the narrow shelves to sort the new arrivals.

His bookshop had been open for about a month, and was doing well. He had a little cafe in the back corner, run by Heather and her baked goods. There was a second level to the shop he filled with squashy armchairs, and little tables. It had become a fairly popular spot with the kids from the local university as they studied, or avoided their studies with the books he had on the first level.

He had new and used books, had a trade-in program with book donations. It was warm in the little shop, sweet and cozy.

The bell above the door chimed.

“Hi, I was looking for Groundwork of the Metaphysic of Morals by Immanuel Kant.”

“You can find Billy, he’s in the stacks over there, and he should be able to help you better than I can.” Billy rolled his eyes, could hear the smile in her voice. He kept shelving, could hear the light footsteps approaching.

“Um, excuse me, I was told you can help?” Billy looked up, his breath hitching when he saw the guy. He was tall and lanky, slouching like he wanted to be small. He had all this messy brown hair, these big dark eyes behind his glasses.

“Kant, right?”

“Yep!”

“This is a good one. Have you read the Critique of Pure Reason? That book was pretty big for me, his thoughts on causation in relationship to time and experience were so new to me first time I read it.”

“Oh, it’s uh, it’s actually for a class. I’m not any good at this philosophy stuff.” Billy just smiled weekly. This guy was almost fucking perfect. He wandered over a few stacks to search.

“You at the university?”

“Yeah, I’m a senior. Just finishing up my generals and everything so I can graduate. I’m studying to be a teacher. Sorry, you probably don’t give a shit.” He had red splotches high on his cheeks.

“No, I always love talkin’ with new folks.” He smiled gently at the guy, reaching up for the book. “Immanuel Kant. Robin up front’ll take care ‘a you.” The guy fidgeted for a second, taking the book slowly.

“Thank you, I’m Steve, by the way.”

“Billy.” Steve waved at him, awkwardly and adorably.

-

Steve began coming in just about every other day.

He would say an awkward hello to Billy, would be all fidgety and weird, and retreat to the comfy second floor with a large iced latte, face red, mumbling to himself.

“He has a crush on you.” Robin was poking him over the counter. Steve had just high-tailed it up to work on his schoolwork after asking Billy how he was and looking so fond when Billy just said not so bad.

“Shut up, Rob.”

“He does. He’s in here almost every day, and gets so fucking nervous when talking to you. He wants to date you and kiss you.” She sang it at him, wiggling around a bit.

“Jesus Christ, Robin, he doesn’t. He’s a paying customer.”

“A paying customer that gets all cute and blushy when you two talk, and who never says more than three words to me.” Billy rolled his eyes, retreating to the back office.

She followed him, stomping loudly.

“At least admit you think he’s cute.”

“He’s fuckin’ adorable, but he said he’s not a big reader, and when I started talkin’ about Kant philosophies, his eyes got all big like that shit went way over his head. I don’t think we’d work out.”

“Just because someone doesn’t read and-slash-or comprehend eighteenth century philosophy, doesn’t make them not worthwhile.”

“It’s kind of a deal breaker for me, Rob.” She glared at him.

“You are so pretentious. He’s cute, and he seems sweet, what does it matter?”

“I just like intellectual types.”

“I fucking hate you.” She huffed, stomping back out into the shop.

-

“What in the hell?” Billy was up on the second floor, cleaning up the discarded coffee mugs and books left behind before closing. He heard muttering from the corner, looking to see Steve, tucked in a large armchair, frowning heavily at the book propped in his lap, something thick and heavy, probably for that philosophy class he’s been trudging through.

“You okay, Pretty Boy.” Steve slammed the book shut.

“Yeah I’m fine.” He began shoving his school work away, stuffing it roughly into his bag.

“Hey, whoa.” Billy plopped down across from him, taking one of Steve’s wrists in his own. “What’s wrong?” Steve whipped off his glasses, digging his thumbs into his eyes.

“It’s just been a long day, and my dyslexia gets so much worse when I’m tired, but this midterm is tomorrow and I need to study.”

“I didn’t know you were dyslexic.”

“Oh, sorry, I forgot my button that says I’m dyslexic, ask me how!” Billy sat back, one eyebrow raised. “I’m sorry, I’m just tired. And my brain hurts.”

“You know we have audiobooks. There’s a whole selection in the back downstairs.” Steve looked up at him.

“Wait, seriously?”

“Yeah. We have tapes and CDs. Have a bunch of random stuff. You wanna take a look through it all?” Steve’s eyes were wide. He shoved his glasses back on, following Billy to the display.

They were sitting on the ground, going through the selection Billy had, Steve had found two of the books he needed for his philosophy class.

“Billy I’m heading out-” Robin stopped when she saw the two of them, sitting in a sea of tapes and CDs. “You do know we closed, like half an hour ago.”

“Holy shit. Seriously? Why didn’t you tell me to go! I would’ve gotten outta your hair.”

“Relax, Pretty Boy. I don’t mind stickin’ around. Don’t got much else goin’ on.” Robin was watching them with a smug look on her face, sitting in one hip.

“No I have to, I should go. I’ll, um, I’ll come back for these tomorrow.” He pressed the few he had selected into Billy’s hand, gripping his upper arm. “Thank you, Billy. It really means a lot to me.” He gave him a sweet smile, threw Robin a two-finger salute as he hefted his backpack, leaving the shop with a jingle.

Robin slapped Billy’s arm.

“He’s so hot for you, and you’re practically in love with him too, this is disgusting and gay.”

“Robin no homophobia in my store, please.” She laughed at him as they locked up, Billy cleaning up the mess of audiobooks.

-

“Hi, I brought you this.” Steve was wearing a soft sweater under a pair of overalls. He looked so soft and Billy wanted to cuddle him.

He was currently pushing a plastic container full of chocolate chip cookies over the counter.

“I wanted to say thank you for helping me last night, and I know there’s straight up a cafe that sells these in the back, and you could probably eat as many as you like because you own the whole place, but I thought it’d be nice and I bake when I’m stressed and ramble when I’m nervous, if you couldn’t already tell, but you’re really nice and I just wanted to do something nice for you, and I’m gonna shut the fuck up if you don’t mind.” He was bright red, his eyes darting around the shop, looking everywhere but at Billy.

“Thank you, Sweet Thing.” He took a cookie, taking a big bite out of it. “And I got your audiobooks on hold.” Steve giggled when Billy talked with his mouth full of cookie, rifling through his wallet to get cash for the CDs. “Your midterm was today, right?”

“Oh, yeah. I, you remembered.”

“You told me last night.” Steve shrugged.

“Sometimes people kinda tune me out.” Billy frowned, opened his mouth to say something in rebuttle but Steve plowed on. “I had the test today. I think it was okay, but it always goes either way with me. Sometimes I feel super good about it afterwards, but then I’ll straight up fail and sometimes it goes the other way, so I’m hoping ambivalence is key.”

“I think that sounds like a valid plan. Just keep your mind off it.”

“You read anything good lately.” Billy just gave him a look.

“Take in where we are, then get back to me.”

“I mean, you probably read a lot, but have you read anything good lately?”

“Define good.” Steve shrugged. One of the straps on his overalls fell off his shoulder. It was so cute.

“Like, engaging content.”

“That’s a pretty low bar.”

“Well, I know you probably read like, super smart stuff that goes way over my head. If we were talking about novels I would say, engaging plot, interesting rounded characters, all that shit, but you probably read, like, I don’t even fucking know.”

“I’m gonna let you in on my best kept secret.” He leaned into the counter a little. Steve’s eyes were bright as he leaned over the counter, shoving his nose right into Billy’s space. “I’m a sucker for classics.” Steve had this cute little half smile on his face.

“Like, Moby Dick?”

“Jesus, no. Nobody actually likes that book. I mean like, Pride & Prejudice and Emma and Wuthering Heights and Don Quixote.”

“I think I’ve heard of like, two of those.” He gasped a little, his eyebrows going up. “I have an idea! Would you recommend me audio books? Of all your favorites? I want to be able to like, talk about them with you.” His eyes were shining and bright, so excited to share these books with Billy, these books that mean the world to Billy.

“Sure thing, Pretty Boy. I’ll pick a new one out for you every week or so.” Steve hoped from foot to foot, wiggling and excited.

“I wanna do that! WE can have our own little bookclub. It’ll be so fun, we can like talk about your favorite books, and I’ll actually get it because I won’t have to be, like, translating the fucking wiggly words.” He was crackling with energy over this idea, it was making Billy excited.

And then Steve’s phone started going off in the chest pocket of the overalls. When he took it out Billy caught a glimpse of the name Nance.

“Sorry, this is my ex-girlfriend.” He smiled at Billy who’s heart dropped. “But I’ll be back tomorrow, if you wanna have a book ready for me!” He pushed the cookies closer to Billy with a Look, answering the phone as he awkwardly pushed open the door with his back, and a little hey, Nance!

“How was your boyfriend today?”

“Straight. He’s fucking straight.” Robin furrowed her brows.

“Sorry, there’s no way that boy is completely  straight.”

“He got a call from his ex-girlfriend. He’s fucking straight, and we’re gonna start a stupid bookclub thing because he wants to read my favorite books and he’s fucking straight.” Billy shoved the cookies away from him, taking up on of the heavy boxes of book donations, heaving it to be shelved.

Robin followed him to the stacks.

“Just because he had an ex-girlfriend doesn’t mean he’s straight, Billy. He could be bi, or pan, or fluid, or literally anything.” Billy just ignored he, kept shoving the new arrivals away. She sighed at his back. “Okay, asshole. Give him some queer book, like Orlando and see what he says about it.” Robin tromped away when Billy refused to answer.

-

Steve tripped on the door frame the next day.

He spilled out hard on the floor, smacking his chin and spilling paper. It was so fucking funny, but Billy stifled his laugh, and helped Steve up. His face was red, the flush spreading down his neck.

He took one look at Billy when he stood up, and walked right back out the door.

-

He gathered up the courage to come back in three days later.

“Watch yourself there, Pretty Boy.” Steve’s face went hot again.

“I’m so sorry about that. I was so fucking embarrassed, I had to go have a panic attack for like, six hours after that.” He gave a shaky little laugh. “I believe I was promised an audiobook?” Billy took it out from under the counter.

“Maurice, by E.M. Forster. It’s a gay classic about coming of age, and having to live in the closet, and being in love. It’s excellent.”

“Sounds like my fuckin’ life.” Billy stared as Steve just read the snippet on the back of the box.

“You gay?”

“Pan.” Steve said it easily, didn’t even look up from reading the box. Billy can hear Robin gloating in his head, saying that she’s right.

“Cool.” Steve gave him a weird look.

“You’re being weird.” Billy shrugged. Steve glanced at the large pride flag hanging in the window of the store, looking back at Billy with one eyebrow raised.

“Yeah, I’m a big ol’ homo. I’m really not being weird. I just didn’t know.” Steve reached out to push his shoulder.

“I’m kidding, Bill! Quit bein’ so grumpy.” Billy couldn’t help but smile when Steve was looking at him like that, was giggling at him like that.

-

When Steve finished the audiobook, they talked about it over hot tea after closing.

That became their ritual, Steve would get a book recommendation, would finish it in about four days, he’d stay after closing an they’d talk. The next day, he’d get a new one.

They began talking about more than just the books.

Steve was an incredibly easy person to talk to. Something about his big eyes made Billy want to open, to share his past.

He told Steve about his dad, just the tip of the iceberg, just the basic he’s a homophobic asshole. But then Steve told him he’d been kicked out of his house at eighteen, so Billy told him his father was physically abusive, and before he fucking knew it, they were both tearing up and connecting.

“Who’re you texting?” Robin snatched his phone, dancing out of his reach as she scrolled through the texts between him and Steve. “Oh my God, are you sure you two aren’t dating.” He ripped his phone out of her hands.

“Shut up, Robin.” He stormed to the back office, his refuge whenever Robin started bugging him.

“No. You two have been doing this dance for months. You two have your own special bookclub. You need to ask him out.”

“I just don’t wanna assume anything and fuck up this friendship. I don’t have very many friends, and i don’t wanna lose him. Just because he’s into guys doesn’t mean he’s into me.”

“Billy you’re hot. And me, a whole lesbian, telling you that means it’s true. I’ve seen the way he is around you. Remember when he fucking fell and had to leave immediately? He’s so hot for you and nervous rambles all the time. If you asked him out he would say yes.”

But Billy never actually got a chance to ask him out.

The same night Robin was bugging him Steve came slamming roughly into the shop.

“You okay?” Steve was quiet, something Billy had never seen in him.

“Just a bad day.” He sipped at the tea Billy had placed in front of him.

“You wanna talk about it?” Billy said at the exact same moment Steve looked right at Billy as said.

“You wanna go on a date with me?”

“Sorry, what did-” Billy ears were ringing.

“No, I didn’t say anything.” Steve was looking everywhere but Billy.

“No you asked me out.” He took a breath.

“Look, I really like you. Like a whole lot. And today was shit and the whole time I just kept thinking about how I wanted to see you, and talk to you about it, and I knew just walking in here and looking at you would make the whole awful day that much fucking better and I just wanna go on a date. With you.”

Billy’s mouth was open.

“Holy shit.” Steve was steadily going even more red.

“I’m sorry if I just fucked up this whole thing we had goin’ on-”

“No, I wanna go out with you. I really like you too.” Steve was still, and then he started wiggling, that excited little side to side he does.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.” Steve stood up, shaking and wiggling in the cutest little happy dance Billy has ever fucking seen.

“Oh my God. I’ve wanted to ask you out for like, months. I’m so excited.” He flopped back into his seat. “Okay but first, Animal Farm. I think the pig’s an asshole.”

Billy leaned forward, pressing a kiss to Steve’s cheek.

[rokutouxei]

the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

ikemen vampire: temptation through the dark theo van gogh / mc | T | [ ao3 link in bio ]

The challenge seemed pretty simple: to try to befriend the university bookshop’s most sour employee, Theo van Gogh. As a literature major with a boatload of book recommendations on her back, it ought to be a simple task indeed. But as she uncovers what lies between Theo’s pages, the more she finds it harder to become closer to him without having to put the feeling directly into words. What can she learn from Theo about what it means to stay—and how can she teach Theo about what it means to let go? | written for ikevamp big bang 2020!

[ masterpost for all chapters ]

CHAPTER 14 OF 22

... I choked on such longing I couldn’t spit out. Yes, desire is so different when God bore you hungry. I could have devoured anything and still have been starving. In one version of our story the fruit is in your chest. David, I eat it anyway. O, I know nothing but to take & keep taking. 

- Belovéd, Yves Olade

--

Something in their world shifts.

She hadn’t exactly formally talked it out with Vincent, but it’s somehow settled that she would be there for him to talk to whenever he had something about his exhibit that he wanted to discuss. It was different to have someone on “neutral ground”—someone who wasn’t Theo, who wasn’t carrying the weight of having to bear everything else for the exhibit to happen. And Theo doesn’t mind sharing the space with Vincent with her, either. ‘

It starts simple. A little group chat with Theo (although he rarely responds to the messages) and Vincent to toss ideas, throw little inspirational things. On Friday afternoons, when her schedule is a little more open, she sometimes visits the van Gogh house to check on Vincent and what he’s done so far. She helps him with the expressions on his models, gives him insight into what a viewer would think of the painting. Having been born and raised in this place, she gives the best advice on what places would have the best views to paint, where it would be possible to go outside and sketch and draw.

The exhibit slowly comes into shape.

Theo helps Vincent with the technicals: looking for a place to set it up, preparing the documents for the panel, buying the art materials, providing some comments for half-finished works. She helps Vincent with the storyline: drawing out his story of the little boy with paint seeping out of her hands, leaving a trail of art wherever he goes. How the world changes with every bit of it he touches.

But most importantly, they make sure they are there for Vincent, constantly nudging him in the direction he wants to go but is sometimes too hesitant to.

The final exams roll in with the same kind of raucousness as the midterms did, but there is a quiet kind of understanding between her and Theo that is different from the last time. The gang—she, Theo, Arthur, and Dazai—gathers to study together that pre-finals week, but it’s as if it’s only her and Theo around.

She peers up from what she’s writing on her notebook and when she finds Theo staring, she smiles up at him and he turns away with a grumble at being caught even if he knew he would. When he has his glasses on and is busy reviewing something on his computer, his eyes running left and right over pages of notes, she observes the way the feeble sun shines weak gold over his deep honey-colored hair, soft and likely gentle to the touch—and he lets her.

Arthur, of course, has something he wants to say, but this time he’s smart enough to hold it in, Dazai nudging him gently with his elbow, knowing it would be the worst shame to interrupt the little world she and Theo are in.

It is only once final exams have finished that the preparation for the exhibit rolls into full force for the brothers. Both Theo’s hours at the bookshop and Vincent’s hours at the café lessens as the university rolls into holiday mode, and now more than ever is Vincent working non-stop at his paintings, like they’re burning to get out of him.

Vincent now has time to get out his art.

And Theo—Theo has time to dream about the future.

And dreaming about the future.

Just in time for Christmas.

--

“Hey Arthur, what should I get Theo?”

She and Arthur are sitting at the Little Owl, waiting for Dazai to arrive. The two lovebirds were having their Christmas date early, because this year, Arthur is coming home to his family, likely to mooch for money. She intended to say no at first—after all, this is their date, regardless of whatever label they had for whatever was going on between the two of them—but upon the realization that Dazai was not only picky with food (and also had great taste) but also footing the bill, ‘yes’ was the only possible option.

Besides, Arthur wasn’t taking no for an answer, and she had to wrestle herself out of his original condition that she could only come if she was bringing Theo along, like a double date.

Arthur looks up from the little crossword puzzle he was solving on the café’s shared newspaper. “A kiss,” he answers without missing a beat. “Twenty, maybe. That might soften him.”

“Arthur.”

“Oh, he uses that exact tone on me too, little miss. Very uncanny.”

“I’m not giving him a kiss,” she sighs, turning her head back to her notebook, with the scribbled list of people and items next to their names. “You’re the worst person to ask.”

Arthur puts on a faux-offended face. “I’m only telling you what he’d appreciate the most.”

“Okay, smarty,” she rolls her eyes. “I’m just trying to get everyone Christmas presents.”

“You’re getting him something for Christmas?” Arthur’s eyes are wide in genuine surprise.

“I’m getting you something too!”

He hums. “Is that so. Entirely normal, platonic gifts.”

“Arthur!” she pouts. “I swear, there’s no bigger meaning to it. I like giving gifts for Christmas. It’s kind of routine at this point.”

“So you’re getting Vincent a gift too.”

“Of course.”

“And I, Dazai, and Isaac.”

She crosses her arms over her chest. “What, I have to give you a full list of who I’m giving gifts to for Christmas?”

“Yes,” Arthur says, tapping her nose with a pen. She scrunches up her nose in response. “Checking for fairness.”

“Fairness?!” she looks at him pointedly. “Look, you’re just fishing for clues that I’ll get Theo something—” she raises her fingers to make air quotes, “—‘more meaningful’ and ‘more valuable’ than the rest of you guys as a clue to whatever the hell your theory is.”

“It’s not a theory, little bird, it’s an observation,” Arthur says, with a laugh. “The fact that you still refuse to say what my theory is out loud is really telling, you know?”

“No, it’s because it’s not true.”

“What is not true?”

“Your theory.”

“Which is?”

Which is that I’ve entirely fallen in love with Theo and I don’t want to admit it because I’m afraid of what happens after that and if I own up to it. It’s not true at all. Not even the littlest bit.

Why would she be afraid of something she loves?

Not her, no. She’s the kind of person who runs toward what she wants.

This doesn’t make any sense.

She sighs. “Why did I even ask you. This is pointless. I’ll ask Vincent instead.”

“Oh, but he wouldn’t know what our dearest Theo would want,” Arthur hums. “He’s hard to give gifts to.”

“Wait, ‘our’?” she begins to argue, but then shakes her head. “Never mind. How are you claiming more knowledge than Vincent? Theo hates your guts.”

“Because he knows I know him.”

“That means he hates my guts too.”

“He does.”

She sighs. There’s not much point arguing with Arthur oftentimes—the best way is to surrender and then just try and figure out a way out of the mess one had walked into afterward. “Okay, fine. What is it that he’d appreciate getting for Christmas?”

Arthur grins. “You owe me one?”

She groans. She knows she will regret this deeply like she did the last time, but—“I do! Now ‘fess up!”

--

The holiday season in their university town is quiet. Much quieter, at least, than on regular school season. Most of the students go back to their hometowns after the exams, and the streets get quieter and quieter the closer it is to Christmas. Stores that used to be open most of the day open later and close earlier; cafés and libraries and emptier; the streets are less crowded. The hustle and bustle become muted and more peaceful.

Theo likes being on campus around this time of year because it’s different from the usual. Before Theo attended the university, when Vincent was the only one out here, his brother used to come home for the holidays. But ever since Theo came here, and the entire incident with Vincent’s graduation and his project came into light, they hadn’t gone home—mostly to save the money, but also because it doesn’t… feel right to go home back yet.

That’s alright. It’s not as if it’s lonely out here in late December.

Not all students go home. Arthur goes home—he says it’s for a sweetheart who has “long been missing him”, but they all know better. Dazai and Isaac stay a little longer than the other students do, but they go home as well. But Vincent and Theo stay.

And so does she.

It’s a beautiful city to spend the winter in, after all.

Like most places, there’s a little holiday culture of its own in the town as well. A student representative council gathers early in December to arrange a gigantic potluck-slash-party at around noon on the 24th, where students who have stayed get to hang out with everyone else who is still there to share some Christmas cheer. The event is usually held at the Grove, which means there’s also space to ice skate. Some vendors are invited to sell their wares of Christmas food as well—and of course, alcohol is included. Speakers are installed and Christmas music, both lively and more romantic, play throughout the course of the party. Those who sign in earlier get to join in an exchange gift affair at the latter part of it too. There’s also a raffle for little gifts and prizes. And of course, there’s the snowball fight. It’s a small, homey event, and many students actually decide to stay on campus for this particular party.

Every year, Theo is pretty neutral about the potluck.

Every year, Vincent wants to go. So Theo always comes with him.

And this year… Vincent is inviting her too.

--

He considers getting her a pack of highlighters.

He doesn’t know much about the world of stationery and fancy studying materials, but there’s a certain brand of fancy highlighters he sees a lot around campus. They’re not the easiest brand to get, according to his research, but if he orders it soon it might just make it on time.

Or maybe a fountain pen?

Fountain pens are classy. And thoughts have been given on them, so he knows it’s not a bad shot. He isn’t quite sure what kind, though, what brand, and maybe he could get one that’s the exact same model and brand as his, but isn’t that a little too obvious? He doesn’t want to be too obvious. He doesn’t want it to be obvious at all, or even known.

A book, perhaps, might be the best option, then.

Books have been an integral part of their… relationship, anyway. No other meaning to that. If there is anything to be read about that, then that’s not on him, is it? That makes this entire process simpler. He’ll just need to drop by the bookstore, check the stocks, pick up the most mundane and boring poetry book—the lamest, the worst, why would he give something meaningful—and then get a gift bag, maybe some wrapping paper—

Theo is so deep in his thoughts he doesn’t catch Vincent entering the room, even as the door behind his older brother closes with a click. The look on Theo’s face—furrowed brows, tense shoulders, the light in his eyes—makes Vincent smile just the tiniest bit.

The sound of his voice shakes Theo out of his reverie.

“Have you chosen what to get her?” Vincent asks, providing no context. He doesn’t need to. He knows his brother well, and he even turns away from Theo to lessen the blow, pretending to look for something in his bedside drawer.

 “I’m not getting her anything,” Theo scoffs weakly, his frown deepening as the tips of his ears turn bright red.

--

Sometime around noon of the 24th, the three of them meet at the plaza to join the potluck. The brothers bring cupcakes—“I didn’t know you baked, Vincent!” “It wasn’t me, it was Theo.” “Oh?”—and she brings some spaghetti, and the rest of the table is overflowing with food to eat. Everyone is dressed in shades of gold, red, green, and white. Music plays through the speakers attached to the streetlights.

Her face kind of hurts with how big she’s smiling.

She doesn’t hate life on the campus, no, but it’s become monotone, a little too uninteresting that leaves her on edge. It’s exactly why she was so eager to get on with Arthur’s dare and get to know Theo in the first place—she had that sense that maybe it would bring her somewhere new, somewhere fascinating. The only exception to the otherwise boring campus life is on big events like this holiday party, and the feeling is something she can’t get enough of.

The party goes just about as one would expect—her, pulling Vincent around by the elbow getting him to try all the different kinds of food laid out (“No, no, I couldn’t possibly eat anymore—” “Just one more bite! Just one!”); her, pulling Theo by the wrist to join her and Vincent in ice-skating (“I’m not interested.” “You have no say in the matter!”); and then, of course, Theo, pelting her right in the face with a snowball (the most annoyed pout she can muster, together with “Oh you want war, then you’re getting it!”)

It is already four in the afternoon when the three of them make it out of the hubbub. Theo is walking with his hands in his pockets, humming along to one of the Christmas songs now aggressively stuck in his head after having heard it at least 60 times in the past four hours. She teases him about it and he frowns about it, but he’s still humming.

“I ate too much!” she whines, clutching her stomach pitifully as they walked. “Absolutely no regrets though. I love Christmas potluck, but this year was just crazy.”

Vincent laughs. “You really shouldn’t have gotten that last pretzel,” he chides.

“But it was so good! I don’t know where they sourced that cinnamon, but it made me cry.”

Theo snorts. “You cried?”

“I did, I don’t understand how one wouldn’t,” she sighs. “Theo, you were just too into your chocolate-topped-with-caramel-topped-with-strawberries-topped-with—” she takes a breath, “—diabetes cake thing. Why was that even allowed to exist.”

“You just have no taste,” Theo says, but it has no venom in it.

She grins. “Neither do you.”

“That makes us even.”

She should be going home by now—the sun will be setting soon, and she’d rather not be walking home in the dark in the snow—but her little apartment building is rather empty for the holidays, and it can get quite lonely when the rest of the campus is still celebrating. It’s a good thing she doesn’t need to tell the brothers for them to understand, and they let her walk with them all the way back to their little house, the one she’s been in so often in the past few months, it kind of feels like a second home too.

“Hot chocolates?” Vincent asks once they’ve made it through the threshold with matched sighs, hanging his coat by the rack. She whoops and cheers.

“Yes please!” she says, “I’ll choose a movie!”

Christmas has never really been a special holiday to her in the past. Sure, it’s enjoyable, and involves a lot of food and gifts, the questionable-if-enjoyable company of a lot of family members, sometimes even distantly extended ones, and most of the sense of the holiday is about its commercialized form instead of the actual religious holiday, giving it an alienating feeling, but—

This year it’s a little different.

Feels a little different.

Not quite like the usual.

Not when she’s snuggled under a blanket, Theo in between her and Vincent, a mug of hot chocolate in her hands, Klaus on the TV. Not when it’s been a long semester of burning the midnight oil studying and working so hard, and then suddenly it feels like it’s okay to rest.

Rest in this place that lets her curl up warmly in its softness.

And sure, maybe some things feel the same, familiar, like Theo’s nose, scrunched up because he’s taking the movie a little too seriously, or Vincent’s sunny smile, or Arthur’s text message in her phone of [ no mistletoe? 🎄 ]—but it’s different.

The longing tearing at her heart, she begins to be sure that she’ll miss this.

It’s not home but she’s sure if one day she will ever find it, it will probably feel like this.

They sit around the living room talking to each other even after the movie ends, and by the time it truly feels like the day has settled down around them, the sun is long out of the sky. Slowly, the sinking feeling that she had overstayed her welcome begins to crawl over her, once Vincent brings their now-empty mugs onto the kitchen sink. She straightens up at her seat, nervously fidgeting next to the mountain of blankets separating her and Theo on the couch.

And then suddenly, she remembers.

“Oh, but before the night ends—”

She digs into her bag and pulls out a small gift, wrapped with a yellow ribbon. Vincent returns to the living area just at the right moment, so she hands the present to Vincent. “Merry Christmas, Vincent! It’s not much, but I hope it proves helpful for your current project.”

He doesn’t know it yet, but it’s a box of fresh paints, the brand he uses. Not in as wide an array of colors of what he does have, but still a good number. She made sure to check which ones he used the most.

“You didn’t have to!” he says, summer sun in his smile. “Thank you so much!”

“You’re welcome, Vincent, of course,” she says. And then, she pulls out another thing—turning towards Theo as she hands him a box, neatly held together with starry wrapping paper and a sheer white ribbon. “Merry Christmas, Theo. Thanks for everything this year.”

Vincent chuckles at the look of surprise on Theo’s face. Theo looks back at his brother, betrayed.

But he doesn’t have much time for that, because the gift is hovering in between him and her awkwardly. He takes it and mumbles a soft, “Um, thanks.”

She blinks. “Do you not want it?”

“I just wasn’t expecting it.”

“Surprises are good this time of year,” she says. Grins when she catches the tips of Theo’s ears already pink. Vincent spots it too and laughs, as he reaches out from underneath their little Christmas tree to hand them some gifts as well.

By the heft of it, she guesses what’s inside her wrapped present is a small painting; she beams at Vincent and throws him an embrace in thanks. Vincent gifts Theo a gray sweater with a reindeer on it, the kind of gift one would receive from their grandmother instead of their brother, but Theo quickly puts it over his shirt excitedly anyway.

She wonders why Theo hasn’t opened her gift to him yet.

Vincent manages to say up to half of “And what about you, Theo?” when Theo quickly gets up on his feet, saying, “I should walk you home,” pointing at the clock on the wall. Solidly eight at night. Not that late, really, but—there’s no good overstaying. Her heart drops a little but she nods anyway.

“Yeah, I should,” she agrees. “Thank you for today, Vincent.”

He beams. “Of course. Come join us anytime.”

Theo holds the gift box she had given him under his arm and turns to her. “Ready in 5?”

“Yup, I just need to go to the restroom,” she says. “I’ll be back.”

She clears her head quickly in the bathroom. She doesn’t know when she started to get so riled up whenever Theo walked her home—late evenings at the van Goghs on Fridays spent talking about the exhibit has made it a common affair—but tonight, her heart is hammering in her chest somehow. It’s been a normal day. Nothing’s different, she convinces herself, so there’s no need for all these theatrics and heart acrobatics.

When she gets out to the foyer, she catches Theo leaning against the wall, his hands in the pockets of his coat, and—

The deep blue scarf around his neck.

The one she chose for him.

Arthur said the best gift to give Theo is one he will be able to use, but—

She hadn’t imagined seeing it in use would leave her dry of words, too.

“Let’s go?”

She pretends the flush in her face is due to the sudden cold. “Yeah, let’s go.”

The walk home isn’t entirely quiet. She checks her phone and shows him the photos of Christmas eve the rest of their friends have sent them, in the group chat Theo never checks because he’s just not that kind of guy. Then they talk about the party, her profusely accusing Theo of attempted murder for having hit her right on target at the face pretty hard with that snowball. And then, they turn toward talking about the exhibit, and Vincent, and the upcoming year and—

Talk like this, about the little things, like they usually do.

The comforting usuals of their friendship.

Nothing different. Nothing new.

Just the usual.

Finally, after 20 minutes she wanted to last forever, they make it to her apartment complex. They bid goodbye at the entrance. She’s just about turned around to leave when she feels the warmth of his fingers around her wrist, pulling her back.

“Theo?” “Hondje," they call to each other at the same time.

He hands a small, wrapped box he’s kept underneath his coat towards her.

“For you.”

She blinks. Oh, if Arthur could have seen their mirrored expressions from their exchange of gifts, he would have laughed so loudly. “What is this?”

He narrows her eyes at her, as if she said something stupid. “A gift.”

“I mean—” she begins, but then just chuckles. “I mean thanks. This means a lot.”

“Don’t think about it too hard. Rest well,” he says, the following syllables of her name just light on his lips. The sound of it makes her nerves flutter. She holds onto the gift box in her hand tightly instead, as if making sure it’s there. That this is real. Theo gives her a look like she’s transparent. “You’re always welcome at the house. No matter how long you stay. Merry Christmas.”

A smile creeps up on her face uncontrollably. “Merry Christmas too, Theo.”

She waves goodbye to him and watches him disappear off the corner before she runs upstairs to go to her room—to shut the door behind her and take a deep breath. She shrugs her coat off, tucks the mittens inside the pockets.

Puts the little box she’d been holding so carefully, still warm from Theo’s coat, along with her little wrapped painting from Vincent, underneath the small makeshift Christmas tree sitting on her kitchen counter.

Earlier that day, Theo had slipped a note in between the pages of a poetry book—on an old receipt he’d scribbled on at the back, which said: thanks for helping my brother out. thought our little miss ‘love is the answer to all of the world’s problems’ would enjoy a bit of e.e. cummings.

And tomorrow, first thing on Christmas morning, sipping on hot chocolate with sugar marshmallows on top, she will open the box and find the note and grin widely. And, in a reversal of her usual, she will make herself comfortable on the couch, overlooking the window, the falling snow, and read the book slowly, investing her heart in each syllable. Listening to every sound in her head. Carrying each word gently, taking her time.

Dipping her feet lightly into the book. Relishing in the curve of the words on her lips as she reads—words Theo chose and wrapped into a gift, then given to her.

[hottestthingalive]

Fake title prompt: Cotton Candy Clouds

Don’t worry about it! Let’s do this...

-Cotton Candy Skies gives me fluff vibes (i mean... duh) but it also makes me think of the beach, because I live near a beach, and when it’s close to sunset on a beach that is opposite where the sun sets, you get pink and blue clouds that I’ve called “cotton candy sky” for years. 

-LAMP? LAMP. Maybe with bonus platonic DRLAMP? Approved. 

-How four strangers twist in and out of each other’s lives, always finding each other on a beach, close to nightfall, surrounded by cotton candy skies. 

-It starts when they are children. The beach is large, and there are many houses nearby, especially summer ones. 

-The beach is not especially popular, though: more rock than sand, waters too grey and shells too sharp. There are other beaches nearby, too, a walk or a short drive away, with shining waters and soft sand that faces the sunset instead of the moonrise. 

-But the children like the beach, like the wild waters that seem to tug at their feet and the rocks which shine every color of the rainbow when wet but turn grey as they dry and the way the trees protect from the worst of the sun. There is a sea wall formed of boulders that protects the houses on the cliffs above from the sea, and grey-white stairs that have metal railings they like to slide down, no matter how dangerous it is. 

-Roman’s family is visiting for the summer, renting a house near the beach. His parents prefer the sunnier sands, but the houses near them are taken, and they are admittedly rather neglectful: they trust Roman and his brother, Remus, to take care of each other when they beg to go down among the rocks and grey-blue sea instead of the white beaches and blue skies their parents favor. 

-Logan’s family actually lives here, year-round, full time residents. They trust him to go down alone, too, but not out of neglect: his mother and sister joke he was born swimming, call him their little fish. (“No brains,” his sister teases, and they all know she is joking if only because she taps the book Logan is reading as he says it, “must be our little jellyfish, then.” He protests, but he reads about jellyfish, that night, and they become his favorite animal.)

-Lots of Patton’s family works on the island that bears their beach, his grandmother and his great uncle’s houses close on the cliff, surrounded by wildflowers. Every year, all the relatives come to stay in the big house on the cliff by the sea in the summers, and he and his parents are no exception. Patton wakes up early to pick blueberries and tomatoes from the garden with his grandmother, knows where all the best wild raspberries and blackberries are, and because there is always someone from his family sitting on the small patch of land that is atop the wall made of boulders and cliff that protects from the sea, he and all the cousins are free to tears down the grey-white steps to the sand and sea below, knowing they are guarded by eyes far above. 

-Virgil’s brother gets a job in one of the tourist shops near the other beach, the one reached by a quick walk by land or by going across the sand and cutting through a hiking trail. His other sibling has a job selling hot dogs and other foodstuffs. They are full-time residents, too, but they live closer to the center of the island, his older siblings taking Virgil with them when they drive to their jobs each day. Virgil tells them he hates the overcrowded one they work at, sobbing, and Remy and Andy exchange looks, for their parents have tasked them with taking care of their brother for the long summer. Eventually, Remy begins parking the car near the cliff and the seawall instead of the white sands, brings Virgil to the rocky beach with a picnic blanket and a promise to cut across the hiking trail to see them if he needs anything. Virgil loves this other, smaller, beach, though, and Andy and Remy get used to seeing their kid brother return to the car with the picnic basket and stones and shells in his pockets and stories of snails and crabs and birds. 

-And then they meet. 

-Roman is alone that day, Remus cooped up in the house because he has been grounded for putting his pet crabs in the bathtub, and he has forgotten both his lunch and any money. 

-It is Logan he meets first, early in the morning, because he finds Logan studying the snails, and asks questions which the other child is all too happy to answer. And then there is Patton, for it is the very beginning of summer and he and his parents were the first to the house surrounded by wildflowers, so he has no cousins to play with, and he is not used to being alone, so he introduces himself to the two other boys who are chattering excitedly about the shelled creatures sitting in Logan’s cupped hands. And then Logan walks up to the little boy who sits alone perched atop one of the rocks, a picnic basket beside him and his legs swinging in the air as he looks out across the beach. “Hello,” says Logan, “we need one more player for hide and seek.” 

-And thus there are the four of them, Logan and Patton and Roman and Virgil, children who have befriended each other in the simplest of ways, such as all children do, simply by questions and loneliness and smiles. Roman has forgotten his lunch and Patton’s is still up at the house, but Logan and Virgil have both packed lunches and are willing to share. They wade in the surf together, Patton giggling as Logan tugs him underwater and Virgil defending Roman from the same treatment with a splash of seawater that hits Logan directly in the eyes (glasses left safe on the shore). The end of the day comes, and they all climb the grey-white stairs, running to their homes or cars, respectfully, promising to see each other again. 

-There are indeed other days: Remus becomes one of their friends, too, Roman’s twin brother who tells the scariest stories but is also always kind, and comes up with the best games. There’s Janus, too, one of Patton’s many cousins, who doesn’t trust them at first and lies through his teeth, but opens up eventually and turns out to have sass to match Roman and Virgil, who’s intelligent and always has candy in his pockets. Patton brings his newfound friends to have lunch in the house among the wildflowers, Virgil leads them to the other beach to have lunch at the shop his sibling Andy works at, Logan shows them the best places to find shells and where the sand is sticky enough to suck off your shoes, Janus charms the adults into sleepovers and trips, Remus manages to find something new and special practically every day, and Roman weaves them worlds of krakens and deserts and witches. 

-And there are other summers, too, and children who write each other letters and call and text during winters and find each other in the heat with smiles and laughter and copious amounts of sand in their hair. 

-It is Virgil, unexpectedly, who coins the name of cotton candy skies, who sits with the others on the rocks closest to the shore one night (all of them prepared for a sleepover at Logan’s home) and looks up, and points to the pink and blue fluff that dots the sky. 

-“It’s cotton candy,” he says, eyes wide and solemn in a way he will never quite grow out of. “A cotton candy sky.”

-They watch the moonrise that night, and Remus drags the others out of bed early to see the sunrise, too. All six of them will remember that, however, and the next summer, Patton points at similarly colored clouds in the moments before sunset. This becomes a tradition. 

-They grow up, as children do. Virgil and Logan attend the same high school, on the little island, and Roman and Remus do the same on the mainland. Janus and Patton are each alone, but they live close to one another, and see each other practically every weekend. During their high school years, Andy and Remy have left their jobs, but now Virgil works at a small bookshop in town, one Logan tends to frequent, and when Remus comes to visit, he gets a job at the same food place Andy had worked at. They are older and occasionally wiser, then, but still friends, and the skies of pink and blue remain. 

-Most of them go to college. Roman drops out in his second year but is charismatic and a genuinely brilliant actor and starts getting work in the entertainment industry despite it. 

-Logan becomes a marine biologist, surprising absolutely no one, and wins a gold metal for swimming in the Olympics, surprising all (except, perhaps, for five not-quite-children anymore who remember a boy called little jellyfish by his sister, who swam faster than the tide.)  

-Patton starts studying plants, and majors in botany. He works at a plant nursery, and loves it. 

-Remus majors in art, sculpture, specifically, and his pieces become well-known, his most famous a statue he has simply titled Kraken. If he bases it after his brother’s long ago stories, well, that’s for him to know. 

-Janus finds himself at the same university as Remus through happy coincidence. He studies mathematics and business, a double major, and he’s immediately tapped for one of the largest corporations in the country when he leaves school. By then, he and Remus are already engaged. 

-Virgil attends college, too, and receives a psychology degree he will never use. He returns to the island, to the book shop, and when he eventually inherits the place it is no surprise. 

-They have fallen out of touch, over these long years of growing up, but the not-quite-blue water and rock sand and grey-white stairs and cotton candy skies remain in their memories. And is it any wonder, really, when Roman returns to the island for a vacation, when Patton takes time off to visit his grandmother in the house surrounded by wildflowers, when Logan visits his mother and sister and eventually begins looking into houses nearby? And when Virgil, who has always been there, tending to the books, walks over to the beach one night just before the sun sets, the same night Roman and Patton and Logan all do the same, is it really a shock? 

-And so they find each other on the beach, again. And just in time, too, for they are all invited to Remus and Janus’ wedding a few months later, and Roman finds himself buying a house which he will eventually share with them all, Patton looking into opening a plant shop on the island, Logan getting a job at a lab studying the local marine life, Virgil moving from his tiny, cramped apartment above the bookshop to a house on the cliff overlooking their beach that the four of them all share. 

-Much later, they will have a marriage (of sorts, for Virgil has never gone for “ridiculous, out-dated pageantry” and none of them really care so long as they are together) on this beach they met on so long ago. Their families and friends will attend, save for Roman and Remus’ parents, who have been cut out of their lives and rightfully so, and if Patton nearly ruins his suit by tugging his lovers into the water with him right after they are married, that’s just love, isn’t it? 

-Remus and Janus come for nearly every holiday, and eventually move to this island they love, too. 

-And so six children find themselves and each other under cotton candy skies, and though they meet as children do, with questions and loneliness and smiles, by the end of their lives they are never really lonely again. (The questions and smiles remain, however, and so do the happiness and laughter and love they find along the way.)

-The end. 

I loved writing that!!! It was very, very fun! I apologize for any mistakes (didn’t proofread or edit this) and hope you enjoyed. 

Send me a fake fic title and I’ll tell you what I’d write for it!

[fvckyouimaprophet]

Thistle & Thorn

Summary: When visiting Salem with Sweet Pea and Fangs, Toni runs across a bookshop called Thistle & Thorn. Cheryl, the owner, is anything other than what she expected. (Read on AO3.) Author’s Note: Warnings for breath play.

“Are you sure you don’t want to join? Last chance.” Toni waits, her hand on the doorknob, though she’s certain of their answers already.

“We’ll join you for lunch.” Fangs half-lifts his head before plopping it back down on the bed.

“You better. It’s our last full day in Salem, and I’m going to kill both of you if you throw it all away on a hangover.”

Although his face stays in the pillow, Sweet Pea raises his hand halfway up before lifting his middle finger. “Bite me, Toni,” he says, his words muffled by the cushion.

“Yeah, well, text me when you decide where to eat.” Although she shakes her head, Toni smiles as she leaves and closes the door gently behind her.

She can’t complain. The autumn air is crisp in the morning and cold enough that she can see her breath, but bundled up in a jacket, Toni feels oddly at ease. The streets are significantly emptier than the night before, and Toni pops out her earbuds, taking in instead the quiet of the town.

She grabs a coffee at the cafe around the corner from their Airbnb and heads to the water. For a while, she sits on a bench, listening to the sound of the water hitting the rocks and drifting in and out of her thoughts. But the wind is stronger by the water, and before long, she gets up, cheeks stinging from the cold, and heads back to the town.

By the time she hits the center of town, Toni finds herself looking for a place to step in and warm up. As soon as she rids herself of the coffee cup, she begins to look, but most shops are closed this early on a Sunday.

She finally finds an open place on a side street in an alley next to a bakery. The chalkboard sign for the bookstore points toward the shadows, and other circumstances, Toni is certain she’d find it suspicious. But as another gust of wind blows, she glances at the name and heads toward the entrance of Thistle & Thorn Books.

The bell chimes when she steps in, and Toni pulls her coat and hat off as she looks around. If the store weren’t so clearly marked as open, she’d think she’d walked in early by mistake. Toni cranes her neck and glances down the first few aisles, but as far as she can tell, no one is there — owner or customers. She frowns and decides to look around.

The occult books seem to be staples at every bookstore she’s walked into, but something else catches Toni’s eye, and she walks over to a rotating rack. The sign above it reads “lesbian pulp” in elegant calligraphy. It looks so out of place, that Toni barely stifles a laugh as she picks one up and inspects the cover.

“They’re vintage, you know.”

The voice makes Toni jump, and when she turns around, she sees a redhead by the cash register, setting down a small stack of books. “Jesus Christ, you scared me,” Toni says, and she glances around. By all accounts, there seems to be no way the woman could have walked over without Toni noticing, yet Toni’s certain she wasn’t there when she entered.

“Seems I frequently have that effect on people.” The woman laughs and sets down the stack of books on the counter. “So, how can I help you?”

“If I’m being honest, I mostly stepped in here because it was so cold outside,” Toni admits, but she lifts up the book in her hand. “But I have to admit I’m intrigued.”

“I’m glad to hear.” The woman smirks and walks over. “Cheryl Blossom.” She offers Toni hand, palm facing the floor, and Toni sets the book back in the rack before reaching over.

“Toni Topaz.”

“Pleasure.” Cheryl’s gaze drops down momentarily as she tilts her head to the side. “I appreciate the honesty, but surely there’s something I could do for you, Toni.” The word comes across as both a challenge and an invitation. Toni feels her face heat up but doesn’t back down.

“What did you have in mind?” She does her best to mimic Cheryl’s tone, and a wide grin spreads across Cheryl’s face.

“I have some books on occult in the back. I’ve been told you can’t leave Salem without something related to witchcraft.” Cheryl turns on her heel and disappears down the aisle with a laugh. Toni swallows thickly and glances at the door. She waits for a moment, as if expecting someone to appear and enter the bookshop, interrupting them. When no one does, she turns around and follows.

Cheryl is waiting for her, leaning back against a bookshelf. “I hope you weren’t actually expecting to find some books,” she says.

“It’s a miracle your store is still open if this is how you go about trying to convince people to buy things.”

“I wasn’t looking to sell you on anything.” The corner of her lip quirks upward. “Well, at least not anything you weren’t already sold on.”

“That’s rather presumptuous, don’t you think?”

“And yet here you are. Seems a pity to waste the moment.” She takes Toni’s coat and backpack out of her hands and tosses them to the floor.

Any argument dies on her tongue, and Toni steps forward until she can feel Cheryl’s breath on her lips. “Who said anything about wasting it?” Toni barely catches the way Cheryl’s eyes widen and the smirk slides off of her face before they kiss. It's hard and needy, and when Cheryl's fingers tighten around her shirt, she feels a surge of warmth that knocks the breath out of her.

Toni's hand moves to the back of Cheryl's neck, and she traces her thumb along her jaw then further down until she hits her collar, and Cheryl tilts her head to deepen the kiss. When Cheryl whimpers against her, she pulls back, and for a moment—surrounded by stacks of books—the absurdity of the situation hits her.

The laugh catches in her throat as she takes in the sharp look in Cheryl’s eyes, and Toni steps back, letting her eyes trace down the length of Cheryl’s dress.

“What?” Cheryl’s voice is impatient, bordering on petulant, and Toni grins as she steps forward and presses a kiss where her neck meets her shoulder.

“Nothing. I’m just wondering how badly you want this.” She reaches down just under Cheryl’s dress and traces up against her thigh with her index and middle fingers.

“You’re wondering if you can get me to beg?” She scoffs, but when Toni’s hand moves further up, skirting around the edge of her underwear, her looks quickly softens. “I suppose I’m not above it.” She shifts positions slightly and presses down, and Toni can feel her, hot and wet, through the fabric of her underwear. “But do I really need to ask if you want it too?”

Toni almost relents, but the victorious look in Cheryl’s eyes makes her pause. “Yes.” She takes pleasure in watching it evaporate, replaced almost immediately by hard desperation. “What do you want?”

“I want you to fuck me.”

“And you wanted that the second I walked in the door?”

Cheryl pauses, but when Toni runs a finger slowly over Cheryl’s clit, she whimpers and nods. “Yes.” Her voice is breathy, and her body trembles as she visibly holds herself back from pressing down.

“That’s all you needed to say.”

Toni pushes the fabric to the side and pushes two fingers in, earning a low moan from Cheryl. Cheryl’s hand reaches, and she grips the bookshelf, knuckles white, as her head falls back. From this position, stretched back, Toni can see a faint pulse in Cheryl’s neck. Her thumb grazes against Cheryl’s clit, and Cheryl grinds her hips forward. She pulls her fingers all the way out and lingers for a moment before pushing them back in.

With her other hand, Toni wraps her fingers around Cheryl’s neck, she doesn’t apply any pressure immediately, gauging Cheryl’s reaction instead. But Cheryl simply swallows and drops her head back. When her eyes flutter shut, it’s all the encouragement Toni needs. Her thumb slides over until it hits the dip in Cheryl’s throat and presses in until Cheryl’s lips fall open and she lets out a choked gasp.

She curls her fingers inside Cheryl, and their eyes meet for a moment. Toni moves her thumb back until it rests on the opposite side of Cheryl’s neck as the rest of her hand and starts to apply pressure. She continues fucking Cheryl as best as she can from the position, and when Cheryl moans, Toni presses their lips together. The kiss is wet and messy. There’s no way to be careful, not right now with her attention drawn elsewhere, but it doesn’t matter.

Cheryl rocks against her, shaky and uneven, and only when her whole body trembles against Toni’s does Toni drop the hand from Cheryl’s neck and pull back from the kiss. She marvels at the way Cheryl’s entire body moves as she gasps for air and at the flush across her cheeks. “Too much?” she asks—although, she already knows the answer. She drags her fingers out and runs them over Cheryl’s clit. Cheryl convulses and lets out a whimper before shaking her head. Her hair is a mess, disheveled against the bookshelf, and two books have fallen over by her left hand.

When Toni pushes back in, she’s almost certain that Cheryl is going to come, but before she can be proven right, a jingle from the front door jars them out of it. Toni’s hand stills for a moment, and Cheryl looks at her wide-eyed, as if she hadn’t considered the possibility of getting interrupted until now.

But she hasn’t come this close to give up.

Toni presses a finger to Cheryl’s lips, and when she starts fucking her again, hard enough to make the bookshelf sway, Cheryl bites her lip and chokes back a moan. It doesn’t take long before Cheryl comes, and Toni clasps her hand over Cheryl’s mouth, slowing down but not truly stopping until Cheryl shakes her head and jerks back, oversensitive.

Cheryl waits a moment, limp against the bookshelf before straightening herself up and smoothing out her hair. Without a word, she disappears to the front of the shop, and Toni lets out a shaky breath as she leans back against another bookshelf.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” she says, and lifts her fingers to her mouth, curious to taste.

Whoever Cheryl is helping must not have many questions because Toni cannot hear them speak beside a low murmur. And after a minute, she hears the jingle again.

She hears the click of Cheryl’s heels before Cheryl reappears. “That was bold of you,” she says and grins.

“What was it you said—seems a pity to waste a moment?” Toni wets her lips and speaks before she loses her nerve. “I want to ride your face.”

Cheryl flushes. “The floor isn’t exactly comfortable to kneel on. Can I—” She disappears, and for a moment, Toni is left standing there, unsure whether she overstepped. When Cheryl comes back, pillow in hand, Toni can’t help but laugh.

“Where’s that from?”

“Book nook three aisles down.” She chuckles and drops it on the ground before kneeling, tucking her legs underneath her. “Well, Ms. Topaz, I believe you were leading the way.”

Toni undoes the button and zipper of her pants. She tugs them down with her underwear and, as she looks around at the books surrounding them, feels suddenly exposed. She knows that should anyone else come, she might not be as lucky as Cheryl, and the uncertainty of it all sends a thrill down her spine.

They stand there for a moment, Cheryl’s eyes fixed at her cunt, and then she leans in and presses her tongue against Toni’s vulva and past until she’s left with Toni’s clit in her mouth. She runs her tongue over it twice carefully. Toni reaches down, weaving her fingers into Cheryl’s hair before tugging her head forward until her nose is pressed against her clit. When Cheryl’s tongue pushes inside of her, Toni’s head falls back, and her fingers tighten around Cheryl’s hair.

Toni rocks her hips without restraint. When Cheryl pulls back and sucks hard on Toni's clit, Toni tightens her grip and thrusts forward, earning a muffled shout of surprise from Cheryl. As best as she can, half-propped up by a bookshelf, Toni tries to set a pace, and it doesn't take long until she comes, Cheryl's face buried in her cunt, hidden. Only once she's come down, does she let go. Cheryl pulls back, heaving for air, her face slick from her nose to her chin.

It takes her a moment to feel steady enough to step back from the bookshelf, but when she does, Toni pulls up her underwear and pants and offers a hand to Cheryl. Cheryl accepts it.

“If you’ll excuse me, I have to clean up to be a bit more presentable to any potential customers.” She grins as she saunters off.

Toni takes a moment to collect herself and grabs her coat and backpack off the floor. When she gets back to the front of the store, she only has to wait for a moment before Cheryl appears, looking as pristine as she had when Toni entered.

“That was fast,” Toni remarks, and Cheryl smirks, though she says nothing.

“Would I be able to recommend you a book before you go, or would you take offense at the attempt to sell you on something?”

As much as she wants to be offended, Toni can’t find it in herself. “I suppose.”

Toni wants to laugh when Cheryl walks over to the lesbian pulp rack, but she has to admit that her curiosity is piqued. It takes Cheryl a moment to find when she’s looking for, but when she does, she lets out a pleased hum and turns around, hiding the book behind her back.

“Close your eyes. Consider it a surprise gift to your future self.” Toni sighs but obliges, waiting until Cheryl clears her throat to open them again. “Voilà.” She hands over a book, wrapped in kraft paper.

“I look forward to finding out, then.”

Although Toni opens her backpack and pulls out her wallet, Cheryl shakes her head. “I said it was a recommendation. I never said I expected you to purchase it.”

“I couldn’t possibly accept it.”

“It’s rude to reject gifts.”

Admitting her own defeat, Toni places it in her backpack and zips it back up. “This can’t be a good business model.”

“I think I’ll be fine.”

Toni wants to say more, but before she can, her phone buzzes. She pulls it out of her pocket and the text.

Fangs (11:21) Ugly Mug Diner, 10 minutes.

“Your friends?” Cheryl asks.

“They want to grab breakfast.” Toni sighs and pockets her phone. “I can stop by later.”

“I’m sure we’ll see each other before you leave.” This isn’t the note she wants to leave it on, but Toni knows she doesn’t have much time to leave and make it to the restaurant.

“Thank you for the book,” she says again.

“My pleasure.”

She feels Cheryl’s eyes on her all the way out, but when she looks back from the doorway, Cheryl is gone.

- - -

“It’s just— Ha!” Toni stops in front of the alley way. The chalkboard sign is nowhere in sight, and she hopes that the store isn’t closed. They walk down the alley, but when they get to the end, they hit nothing but brick.

“Pretty sure this isn’t it,” Fangs says, and Toni frowns. She’s begins to think she might have mixed it up, but when she steps back out, she sees the bakery.

“This was it. I’m telling you,” she says as she steps back in towards Sweet Pea and Fangs. They glance at each other before bursting out laughing.

“Okay, you got us.” Sweet Pea lays a hand on her shoulder, and she angrily shrugs him off.

“I’m not kidding.”

“Then I don’t know what to tell you. Think Salem’s getting to you.” They begin to step out of the alley. Toni gives the wall one last glance and sighs before following. She doesn’t get more than two steps before a meow stops her, and when she looks down, she sees an orange cat seated in front of her.

As bizarre as it is, Toni is sure that the cat is making direct eye contact with her. It meows once more and rubs up against her before stepping past her. When she turns to look, the cat is nowhere in sight.

Toni sighs and looks around. “I swear I’m losing my mind,” she mutters.

And then it hits her. She opens her backpack, pulls the book out of it, and quickly tears the paper off. A drawing of Cheryl Blossom stares back at her from the cover of the novel, dressed in nothing but lacy lingerie and pointed hat. The title, in bright red, reads: The Witch’s Way.

“Toni, you coming?” Fangs yells. Toni smiles as she turns back and starts walking towards them.

[xiaq]

Well you've been doing research about redemption/recovery arcs for a paper or something, right? And you asked for a bunch of HP recs. What's your own head-canon for ignoring Rowlings "happily ever after"? I'd love to read that.

Yes, hello. I want you to know that I was thinking about this abstractly today and you may have just opened a can of worms because I started writing a thing.

The war was over. Or at least that’s what the papers said. They’d been saying it, for months, as if people needed reminding. Maybe they did. Maybe others found it just as easy to forget. Maybe they, like Harry, often ducked at sudden movements, flinched at loud noises, and sometimes, inexplicably, found breathing an uncertain and laborious task. Maybe they went to sleep with ghosts and woke up with guilt and spent a little too long, eyes closed, head submerged, in the bath. The war was over. But what happens to heroes when wars are over? When prophesies are satisfied and evil is defeated. Heroes are supposed to live happily ever after, Harry thinks. But he doesn’t know what that looks like. How that happens.There aren’t stories about that part. He wishes there were because he’s eighteen and living in an empty house with a second inheritance and a job offer and thousands of owl-post letters thanking him and asking him for interviews and—he feels simultaneously ancient and infantile.   He is so, so tired. But he also wants someone to tell him what to do. To tell him what comes after the fighting and the death and the supposed victory. Maybe the better question is: what happens to weapons when wars are over? Because that’s what he is, Harry realizes, and perhaps it is an embarrassingly delayed realization. After all, he had been carefully honed: by ignorance and cruelty and finally, maybe worst of all, affection. His abusive childhood was not just a thing overlooked or allowed, but curated, to make him more reckless, more desperate, more stupidly, fiercely, loyal. More willing to die. It was effective, though, wasn’t it? He’d saved the world. And now he was—he didn’t know. He took Kingsley’s offer to join the Aurors. Of course he did. It was expected. It only occurred to him later to ask why a traumatized teenager without completed schooling or any legitimate credentials would be given that dispensation. But by the time it occurred to him to ask, he already knew the answer. The ministry of magic did not need a weapon, not anymore. But they did need a figurehead. He was the boy who lived twice. The savior. Harry, photographed at crime scenes, returned widespread public approval to the ministry. Harry’s endorsement determined the success or failure of politicians’ runs. Of legislation. Of books and brooms and fucking soap. He shook hands and held his tongue. He learned the right lines. He wore the right clothes. But. You can put a sword on a wall. You can shine it and mount it on mahogany and show it off as nothing more than decoration. But it is still a sword. And Harry is still a weapon. Harry realizes this on an otherwise ordinary Monday, that starts, early, as most days do, with the lingering feeling of nightmare blood on his hands. When the day ends, the blood is real. When the day ends, so does the last of his willingness to pretend. So he goes home and he emails Hermione and he sends an owl with his resignation to Kingsley. He packs a bag, and floos to the international travel office. And he stands in front of the permanent portkey map and chooses the most obscure, ridiculous, location. Somewhere with more livestock than people. With no expectations. With enough space and open air that maybe his lungs will stop feeling claustrophobic in his chest. Where he won’t be able to hurt anyone. He picks somewhere no one will know his name. What happens to heroes when wars are over? In Harry’s case, they run away.**** What happens to villains when wars are over? Draco supposes that, in most cases, they die. That certainly seems to be the ministry’s objective. His father is dead, along with the majority of former death eaters sentenced to life in prison. Admittedly, death was perhaps preferable to the alternative of actually living in Azkaban. They’d given Draco his father’s ashes. A pitiable allowance, really. He wasn’t sure what to do with them. Lucius Malfoy should have been interred in the family crypt, but the marble mausoleum, its centuries of residents, and the estate they belonged to had all been seized by the ministry as reparations. So his father was left, without fanfare, a pound of dust in a wooden box that Draco handled with more quiescence than care. Draco can’t decide if his own punishment is worse. It was professed as a kindness—a mercy due to his youth: Five years without magic. But everyone in that courtroom knew it was equal to a death sentence. He was unlikely to survive one year, much less five. With his magic hobbled, his health and fortune gone, and a face as recognizable as his anathematized surname, Draco quickly finds himself thinking, not fondly, but certainly resignedly, of death. It would be easier. His mother, at least, is safe. And he is indebted to Potter for that. Thanks to Potter’s intercession at her trial, she avoided both prison time and magical impairment. She is a shadow of the woman she used to be, working for the first time in her life at a bookshop in Diagon alley. She lives in the tiny flat above it and is slowly selling the family jewelry collection, one agony at a time, to supplement her meager income. But she is alive. And people do not treat her too cruelly. Draco, though. The black snake on his arm is a testament to the ending he deserves. Six months after Lucius’ death, Draco visits his mother for the last time. He refuses to let her watch him die. He will not continue endangering her and his remaining friends with his presence. He is out of money, he cannot find a job, and the constant rattle in his lungs is getting hard to hide. So he brings his mother a flower at work and kisses her cheek and waves off her concern that he’s lost even more weight. Despite caution, someone catches him with a hex as he leaves the shop and he returns to Theo’s horrible muggle flat—where Draco has been sleeping on the couch—with bloody teeth and enough shame to last for the rest of his life. He packs his father with the meager remnants of his belongings and he walks to the international travel office. He stands in front of the permanent portkey map and chooses the cheapest, strangest, most rural, location. Somewhere that might as well have been called “Anonymity.” Somewhere without city streets or alleyways or preconceived notions. He picks somewhere no one will know his name. What happens to villains when wars are over? In Draco’s case, they run away.

[seventhstar]

@sinkingorswimming prompted me “good omens regency au” bc i am a predictable hoe with one (1) skill set, now here, have these fragments of a magical regency romance au.

aziraphale/crowley. i am tired and was tired writing this. i have never written for this fandom. hi.

The Followers of the Black Book collectively owned a number of businesses of ill repute. Crowley owned one brothel and one gambling hell. His were not the most wicked of those establishments; he did not offer the most profane pleasures or allow playing at the highest stakes.

What he did do was turn a profit, and it was a substantial profit. It was also too substantial; he had been accused of having a good work ethic. Ironically, Crowley achieved this by the simple expedient of being as uninvolved in the running of the places as possible. He’d turned over the bookkeeping and the ordering of supplies entirely over to the fallen women and men who were employed there. One of them became the manager of the place. Without any supervision, the prostitutes realized that there were other, more lucrative services that could be offered.

Crowley’s brothel now contained a small, luxurious private clinic, for wealthy clients in need of discreet medical care. It contained a manufacturing floor where the employees with magical talent produced commodities such as lace cheaply and then sold them. It contained a modiste where a certain set came to be dressed. (And it still contained an actual brothel, of course, and it was the cleanest, safest brothel in London.)

“No.”

“What do you mean, no? You can’t want to marry him.”

“No.”

“You don’t even like him. No one likes him. You have to get out of it.”

“It has been decreed by the Archmagician. A wedding date has been set. They’ve sent the announcement to the papers.”

“None of that matters if you don’t want to marry him, which you certainly don’t!”

“No, Crowley. It is not up for discussion.”

Crowley considered the set of Aziraphale’s jaw. He’d gone all stubborn now; it was no good pushing. Aziraphale was a bit like a jar with a lid that was on too tight; he had to be worked from all angles before he could be opened up.

“Well, all right,” he said. “Come to Watier’s with me? The ragout is supposed to be exceptional.”

“Oh, well,” Aziraphale said. He appeared to be considering it, though he was toying with the hem of his waistcoat, as Crowley knew he did when he was hungry. “If you insist.”

++

“He’ll have you sell your book collection, of course.”

“What?”

“It’ll be his collection after you marry. The White Book forbids material attachments, does it not? No possessions. No first editions. No illuminated manuscripts for auction, not that you’d be allowed to buy anything.”

“I,” Aziraphale says. His wineglass is raised halfway to his lips.

“No wine. No French chefs. Just white magic and abstaining and penance, until you die.”

“Selecting our own spouses is forbidden for a reason,” Aziraphale protests. “It leads to sin—”

“Imagine having to lie under Gabriel—no, don’t, it’ll put you off your dinner.”

“It’s marriage, not the end of the world!”

“It will be the end of your world.” It’ll be the end of my world.

“Crowley.”

“All right. All right. Have it your way, marry him. Don’t even try to get out of it.”

“I can’t get out of it. And even if I could, it would be wrong to break our engagement.”

“Oh? Did he ask you?”

“He’s the Archmagician of the Followers of the White Book, Crowley. He doesn’t have to ask.”

“So then you haven’t really promised him anything.”

“Well, I—”

“And you have a decent inheritance, don’t you? All yours if you can hold out a few more months. Could open a bookshop, then. Could do anything you liked.”

“I couldn’t possibly,” Aziraphale said faintly, in a tone of voice that suggested he could, possibly, if Crowley would be so good as to persuade him a little more.

“All you need to do is to get engaged to someone else.”

“And how will marrying someone else solve the—the problem?”

“Who said anything about marriage? I said engaged. A secret engagement will distract the Whites, and you can say that you already made them a promise, and if you can drag it out long enough, you’ll have enough money to do what you want.”

“Crowley, that’s absurd. Where will I find someone willing to go through with a farce like that?”

Crowley did not have that portion of the plan worked out, and opened his mouth to prevaricate. His mouth, finding the signal from his brain to be both vague and idiotic, ignored it entirely and proceeded without any rational input at all.

“I could do it.”

“What?”

“Why not?” Until this moment of bodily betrayal, Crowley had not considered the possibility of marrying Aziraphale himself. In his mind, the best possible scenario would be that Aziraphale never married, and neither would Crowley, and they could go on together as eternal bachelors until the end of their days. Aziraphale was a stickler for the rules after all, and practically had the White Book memorized, whereas Crowley treated the Black Book as a collection of suggestions. It had seemed unlikely.

“Think of the scandal! Gabriel would be furious. No one would believe it.”

“Scandals are fun,” Crowley, who collected society pages in which he was mentioned, and who had enough of them to paper at least one room in his townhouse, grinned. “Gabriel is an ass. And as for believing it, you can leave that to me.”

“Yes, but…”

“And if we were pretending to be engaged, I’d have to behave, wouldn’t I?” Crowley mused. “No affairs with married couples, no speculating with second sons’ money, no ritual sacrifices…”

“You never perform ritual sacrifices.”

This was true; Crowley abhorred livestock and rather liked children.

“I might. Unless, of course, I had something better to do.”

[sunflowerdabbles-blog]

hi 💓 could you do one where ben is a regular at this bookshop/coffee shop and he falls in love with this shy girl working there, and he asks her out eventually?

hi, sorry for the long wait! things have been intense lately and i’m not really feeling my best. but anyways! i’m a sucker for bookshop/coffee shop aus so this was really fun and cute to write. hope u like it!! (yeah, it’s ben pining again).

taglist: @luvborhap

*

It wasn’t hard to understand why Ben kept coming back.

The first time he noticed the little coffee-come-bookshop hidden just around the corner of Surrey and Whirling’s Street it was a cloudy tuesday morning and he was driving back home after a meeting with his agent. Not even a particularly exciting one. More of a “hey, you still haven’t got a call back from your last audition but try not to fret about it” kind of meeting; the type that shouldn’t bother him by now and yet still managed to make him feel quite shit. So naturally (and because for some reason it isn’t socially acceptable to get a bit tipsy at ten am), he postponed his original plan of speeding home to maybe hide under the covers for a while and decided to get for a cup of coffee instead.

Lotus’ Coffee, he thought later, was the kind of shop that you just couldn’t miss after you got your eye on it. The smell of freshly brewed coffee, its colourful walls and a strange abundance of plants made it tempting enough to get you on your feet and through the squeaky door. It looked exactly like the place to be whenever things got rough and heavy and you needed to rest your bones a little. (But that’s not what made it special).

That morning though, it appeared to be empty. Just him waiting in line on what seemed like a terribly slow day for everyone. Should’ve stayed in bed with Frankie, Ben thought, his eyes searching around for someone to take his order and landing on a small table, almost completely occupied by a box full of books, all of them carefully wrapped in brown paper and with a note handwritten in the back.

“It’s only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye”, he read, holding a book on his left hand and looking for more with the other, every quote more enchanting than the last and moving him so that he couldn’t help but stay there for a long time.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!”, a voice said quickly and out of nowhere, distracting him from his search and almost making him drop the box to the floor. “I-I really am, sorry. I’m- Mia is taking her break now and I just. Sorry. May I take your order, sir?”

Technically speaking, Ben knows that life isn’t a movie (regardless of how much he wants it to be sometimes). He knows about the logistics behind the camera, the angles and the lighting all working together in a perfectly organized harmony to make a scene between very tired people, that usually only talk to each other between takes, look like the epitome of good-selling romance. But, that being said, sometimes life comes pretty close or, like now, it’s even better.

The timid voice belonged to a woman that looked to be shaking a bit when, wrapping paper and scissors in hand, she made her way to the counter. Lovely, Ben thought, his hands rapidly getting sweaty while he looked at her try her best to hide the rosy colour that rose to her cheeks and spread until the neck of her shirt. Really really pretty, holy shit.

A cough brought his attention back to the menu, his eyes not really catching anything besides the girl standing behind the counter.

“Uhh, sorry. Yeah, what would you recommend?” Subtle. Years of acting school and a good job and that’s the best that he could come up with?

“Oh. Well, clients seem to like lattes lately? We got a new brew this week if you want- if you would like to try it?”

Ben doesn’t even like lattes. He’s more of a large black coffee with one sugar kind of guy because, in Joe’s words, he’s “bitter and soulless like that”. But there’s no way he could say no to this girl. It’s been five minutes and he feels himself stammer whenever he catches her eyes, his hands itching a little by his sides and definitely not because of the cold outside.

“We have banana bread too? With chocolate chips”

A woman after my own heart, fuck.

“Sure, that sounds perfect”, he replied, an actual full sentence this time, his chest feeling lighter when she gave him a smile before starting to work on his order; the book on his hand suddenly feeling like the most important thing in the world.

“So, was it your idea? The books and the wrapping, I mean. It’s lovely”

Her cheeks got red again and Ben felt like melting; following the movement of her hands and the tiny shine in her eyes like a sunflower would look at the sun. 

“Yeah, I guess? We’re kind of slowly turning into a bookshop as well. I mean, I’m trying to convince everyone else still but it seems to be working, I think”, she giggled, now cutting a piece of bread and placing it in a plate on the table, besides his latte (a latte, Lucy would be so proud).

“So, an English major then?”, Ben chuckled, his smile growing impossibly larger when it made her laugh, raising her hands in surrender.

“Would you like to take one? The books in the box. Some of them are quite old but they’re incredible, I promise. Can’t go wrong with a book”.

Ben would have bought the whole box, honestly, but he chose two in the end: the one that caught his eye first and another, a lot heavier, that he noticed made her eyes sparkle so brightly that he knew he was onto something (and someone) very special. He had never met someone so breath-taking and astounding (and that was saying something considering his line of work or whatever); someone that seemed to hide a bit under the shadows and yet beamed light without even realizing it.

A latte had never tasted as sweet as when [Y/N] told him her name, and offered another piece of banana bread.

*

Safe to say, Ben started spending a lot more money on coffee and books after that, and he wasn’t very subtle if the looks that Mia, [Y/N]’s co-worker, and even Lily, the cat that made the shop her very own castle, gave him had anything to say in the matter. But he just couldn’t help himself. The first three weeks, when he was still in London, he stopped by as much as he could (basically every day she told him she would be there?) while trying his best to not come off as a creep; absolutely fascinated by the way she talked, sometimes stumbling on her feet when Lily walked between them and demanded to be pet immediately. And just like that, he caught himself being jealous of a cat and started reading so many books, sometimes well into the night, that he had to start using his prescription glasses a lot more frequently; only to feel like he could burst when he stopped by the shop the next morning and [Y/N] brightened up upon seeing him, knowing that they were possibly going to spend hours talking about his latest read and basically everything and anything that crossed their minds, all while the coffee brewed and Lily made herself a bed on their laps.

But he couldn’t muster up the courage to ask her out just yet. Not even when he had to leave for filming during a couple weeks and his list of books had to wait a little. But then again, how do you tell someone that they’re pretty much the only thing you can think about?

*

“He’s so obvious about it, you know”, Mia said, putting all the dirty cups and spoons on the dishwasher, completely exhausted after having to deal with all those people, using her best costumer voice, during rush hour.

“Who are you talking about now?”, [Y/N] asked, having just arrived and trying to eat lunch (a chicken sandwich with lettuce, very fancy, gourmet level and all that) as fast as she could so they could go over the inventory again.

“Ben, of course. He likes you a lot”.

Of course. As if there wasn’t any doubt, as if it was so incredibly obvious it should have it her like a brick in the face by now; as certain as the sky is blue and the grass is green.

“He does not, don’t be silly”, she replied. It was too good to be true after all, more like her deepest thoughts and longings but not so much like the truth, even if she wanted to believe it more than anything.

“Uh-uh, but he does though! He really does! I mean. I told you about yesterday. He’s been back in London for like, what, a day? And the first thing he did was come here. He reeked of airport, [Y/N]. When I told him you weren’t here because someone-”, Mia continued, pointing at Lily, currently purring on [Y/N]’s lap and trying to shove her tail under her nose, “just had to be a huge cockblock and go to the vet- Anyways. He looked so sad I thought he-”

“She needs routine check-ups, Mia!”, [Y/N] interrupted, “You know that. Don’t you, Lily darling?”. The cat in question continued to purr, glaring at Mia with a surprisingly menacing look.

“You’re deflecting. This little beast here could have waited just one more day and you know it! The only reason you didn’t let me take her in the first place is that you’re scared of what could happen because you know that lover boy is so crazy about-”

“Hi there! A hello would be nice, I think”. The door made a loud squeaky sound and let Ben in, his hair looking wet and looking way longer than the last time [Y/N] saw him, holding a bag in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other, looking like he was trembling a bit even though it was surprisingly sunny outside.

“And we’re taking our break now!”, Mia exclaimed, clapping in excitement and taking Lily from [Y/N]’s lap and into her own arms, much to the cat’s dismay, before rapidly walking into the back room.

She runs to hug him before she could even think about it, feeling truly warm and at home for the first time in weeks; the water droplets falling from his curls and into her neck.

“I-brought you something”, Ben said, hiding his face under her jaw for a second and then signalling to the presents still hanging uncomfortably in his hands, “Or well, two- various things, actually. I remember- you told me once, that morning that it was pouring outside, remember? I mean- it’s London, of course you do, it rains here all the time. But. That time when Lily was still outside, and it was raining so much you were scared she wasn’t going to come back? And she did, obviously, the little bugger. But- the point is that you told me you named her. And that you chose Lily because you couldn’t come up with anything else and you love lilies, right? Remember that?”. He left the flowers on the table, the bouquet looking fresh and just perfect by the box of wrapped books kept there. “So yeah, I got you these ones? They’re all the colours they had at the flower shop; I think. Anyways. I- that’s not my favourite part, actually. Just- look”

The bag, of course, was full of books; so old that their covers were almost crumbling and the pages, sewed together at some point, so delicate that just a rough touch could break them. “I- the old lady selling them was very nice. They’re really old, holy fuck, but listen. I know they’re some of your favourites. See, there’s a Madame Bovary somewhere in there and I know you love The Little Prince, so I found this french version… I guess, what I’m trying to say is that- I like you a lot, obviously, and I was wondering if you wanted to go out, maybe? But I got to be honest first, I-I don’t really like lattes that much?”

“These- these are some of the first editions, Ben”, he nodded, biting his lip in order to stop his smirk from growing when he noticed her getting closer and closer, her cheeks impossibly red by now, until their noses were almost touching, “ And I prefer tea, by the way”.

[carryonsimoncarryonbaz]

sorry it’s late but here’s the Simon/Baz Bookshop AU

Real life got to me yesterday

____________________

Simon

Penny’s birthday is next week. I don’t know what to get for her.

She’d probably like if I didn’t make such a mess in the kitchen every time I cook but that’s not really a present now, is it? It’s a courtesy you’d expect from a flat-mate. Like you’d expect someone to clean her hair out of the shower drain.

I can’t think about the things that drive me and Penny stark raving mad about us sharing a flat.

Shopping for Agatha was easier. She liked things.Candles and perfume and picture frames. The bracelet I got her. The hat and scarf set. It was easier with a girlfriend.

When I had a girlfriend.

I don’t want to think about that either.

But Penny’s not my girlfriend. She’s my best friend so I feel like an utter pillock for not knowing what to get her.

Don’t want to get her something silly, like I used to. We’ve already got too many mugs at the flat anyway. Funny ones. Ones with stupid pictures or puns on them. Penny used to love those when we were in school.

I shove my hands in my pockets and frown at the world in general.

I stop by the bakery on my way home. Not that a cherry scone will solve my problem but it does make me feel better.

I catch sight of the new bookshop on the corner as I leave the bakery. I suppose it’s not really new. It’s been there for a few months. Penny raves about it. It’s got an eclectic selection of books according to her. Which means a fair selection of feminist literature, books on the occult, and ancient history.

I’ve been avoiding it.

It’s not that I don’t like books. I do. Or at least I do now. Didn’t care for them much when I was young. Had trouble reading when I was a kid. Someone finally figured out the issue and it was like a light turning on in a dark room.

I like books well enough now. Fantasy and science fiction mainly. Penny says I should read more classic literature and biography.

I like biographies. Just depends who they’re written about.

I stand on the street corner and scowl at the bookstore. “Open Sesame” it’s called.  Odd name for a bookstore but Penny likes it. Says it makes her think she’s entering a magical world when she goes in.

I’m sure I could find something for Penny there.

I just don’t want to go in.

I’m sure it’s a fine bookshop. I know it is. I went in there once, when it first opened.

And managed to piss off one of the employees.

I didn’t mean to spill my coffee, really, I didn’t. He just startled me. Came out of nowhere, he did. I wasn’t expecting one of the employees to be lurking among the shelves. Thought they’d be at the counter or something like that. You know--selling books, ringing people up, the usual store thing.

But it seems this wasn’t that kind of bookshop. There was a red-haired chap up at the counter and an older woman at a desk near the back of the store. I didn’t know there was another bloke—one with longish dark hair and arresting grey eyes—prowling around the store and startling unsuspecting customers.

He came up right behind me, he did, and said “That’s a bit of a humdrum one. If you’re looking for a fantasy novel that’s not one I’d recommend.”

I’d been reading a bit of it. Just to get a feel for the book. See if it interested me. Didn’t expect some posh, disembodied voice to pop up out of nowhere in the vicinity of my ear. I started and my coffee went down my shirt, splashed onto the book in my hand and dripped all over their new carpet.

“Bloody hell! Give a guy a bit of warning, could you?” I turned to scowl at whoever it was who had crept up on me like that.

Slate grey eyes met mine. His gaze raked me from top to toe and it was obvious in his sneer that whatever he saw was sadly lacking. “We try to be helpful to the customers here. Wouldn’t want you to buy something you didn’t find interesting.” He glanced at the coffee stained book in my hand. “Unfortunately, it seems that you will be this time.”

I spluttered for a moment but had to admit to myself that I’d mucked the book up. And the carpet too. “Listen, of course I’ll pay for the book. I can see that I’ve ruined it. And I’m sorry about the carpet too.” I looked down at the irregular dark stain in front of my feet then back up at him. “You startled me. Helpful suggestions are one thing but sneaking up on unsuspecting customers like that is unnerving.”

He didn’t say a word back to me. Just held my gaze for a minute before turning away and bellowing “Fiona!” at the lady at the back of the store. “Did you think to stock any carpet cleaner in the back? We’ve just had our first spilled coffee christening of the store. I told you carpet was a terrible idea.”

I shuffled my way up to the counter to pay for my coffee-blemished book and there he was again-- waiting for me, no sign of the other chap.

Fuck.

Rang me up without a word. Handed me my change and then pointed to an exquisitely lettered sign on the countertop. “Feel free to enjoy your beverages as you wander in the magical confines of our treasure trove of books but please no open containers. Books are magic and we wouldn’t want to damage them.”

Fuck. I hadn’t seen the sign. I never put a lid on my coffee. Don’t like lids. Keep the coffee too hot. Cools down faster without one.

I grabbed the book and hustled out of the shop, becoming painfully aware of another skillfully lettered sign situated right by the front door as I did.

I’d have to remember a lid next time I came.

No, fuck that. There wasn’t going to be a next time. I wasn’t going to set foot in that place ever again.

And I hadn’t. I’d avoided it like the plague.

But somehow, I couldn’t avoid seeing the bloke. He was everywhere, all of a sudden, it seemed.

Walking across campus. In the library. At Ebb’s bakery.

Maybe he was always there and I was just noticing him now that I’d had that miserably embarrassing encounter at the store and shouted at him.

I stare across the street at the bookshop. Surely I’ll find something for Penny there. How bad could it be? I don’t have a drink with me. I can’t possibly have a run-in with him again. I’ll check the aisles to make sure no one is lurking about.

He must be a student. I’ve seen him on campus enough to make me sure of it. He can’t work there all the time. The chances of him being there on a Wednesday afternoon are slim, right? He must have class.

I don’t let the niggling realization that it’s a Wednesday afternoon and I don’t have class deter me. I need a book for Penny. She likes this store. I’ll find something and be done with it.

The beverage sign is still on display by the front door. I honestly can’t believe I missed it the first time. I’d have finished my coffee and pitched my cup or just come back another time if I’d seen it.

There’re a few people milling about the store. The woman who had been behind the desk last time is up by the counter today. Maybe I’ll be lucky and grey eyes won’t be here.

I wander over to a display table. An interesting selection but nothing Penny would like. I go down the aisles, looking at the titles and topics, trying to find the feminist section or the occult books. I can’t make sense of the layout.

I’m scanning the titles on the endcap and not watching where I’m going. End up bumping into someone as I turn into the next aisle.

A scattering of books falls to the floor and as I look up to apologize I see a pair of grey eyes.

Fuck.

It’s him. The posh tosser. He’s not in class, he’s here. Fuck.

Maybe he won’t remember me.

“Sorry.” I mumble an apology and bend down to pick up some of the fallen books, not daring to meet his eyes again. I’m such a fucking wanker. I told myself I’d keep an eye out for lurking employees.

Although from the looks of it he wasn’t lurking this time. He was shelving books. He’s got a cart and everything.

The books are plucked out of my hand and I reluctantly raise my eyes to his. His eyebrow is arched up. He looks cool, collected and utterly bored. “At least you don’t have coffee with you this time. You’d be purchasing an entire set of Frances Hodgson Burnett’s books.” He waves a copy of Little Lord Fauntleroyat me.

Oh shit. He does remember me.

“Sorry.” I shuffle a bit and bend down to pick up The Secret Gardenfrom where it sits by my foot. I hand it to him.

He takes it from my hand and his fingertips touch mine ever so slightly as he pulls it away. They’re cold.

“Decided to venture into the world of bookshops again? Didn’t scare you off for good last time?” He raises an eyebrow, holding the stack of books to his chest.

He had scared me off. Penny’s the only reason I’m even here but I’m not about to tell him that.

“Looking for a book for a friend.” I suppose that’s telling him why I’m here. I’m such an idiot.

He turns away from me and I think this pathetic excuse for a conversation is over. I go to gingerly edge around him but he stops me. “Let me shelve these and I’ll see if I can help you.”

Even worse. Now I’ll have to actually speak to him.

I stand there awkwardly. I don’t know why I’m so nervous about it. That’s his job. He’s supposed to help people find books. Not sneak up on them and whisper in their ears, I remind myself.

I take a moment to settle down and end up watching him shelve the books. He’s tall, taller than me. Slim build but muscular, from what I can see of his arms. His hair is chin length, falling in dark waves but not obscuring the sharp planes of his face.

He’s got an arresting profile.

What the actual fuck?

What am I doing? Why am I staring at this bloke so intently? I can feel my face heating up so I turn to look at the shelf behind me, so my back is to him. The entire collection of Harry Potter books is in front of me. I focus on the spines.

It doesn’t help. I may not be looking at him but I’m still thinking about him.

He’s attractive. I’d noticed that last time, in passing, but in more of a pissed off way than I am now. I’ve gotten a closer look at him today. He’s actually fucking gorgeous. I want to turn around and look at him again but that would be a terrible idea.

I turn around and look at him just as he finishes shelving the stack of books and our eyes meet. My cheeks are hot.

He crosses his arms over his chest and regards me critically. “Looking for a book for a friend. Let’s narrow that down a bit, shall we? What kind of friend and what kind of books?”

“Uh. . . well that’s what I was looking for when I bumped into you. She’s got a lot of interests but feminism, antiquity and the occult are high on the list right now.” I look around and frown. “I couldn’t find them. I thought feminism would come shortly after Crafts and before Foreign Languages but I can’t seem to find it.”

“Feminism is in the Social Sciences so you are in the completely wrong section. Come on. Follow me.”

He tilts his head to the right and I trot after him, passing a few aisles of books before he makes a sharp turn and stops. I almost run into him but manage to catch myself before I do this time.

“So Feminist Theory? Women’s Studies? Gender studies? Any of those sound promising?”

I just stare at him. I’ve not got a fucking clue. Maybe the occult would have been a better choice.

“Uh.”

He sighs, crossing his arms over his chest again. “Give me some idea?”

“I don’t know. Is there anything that combines the occult and feminism? Or ancient cultures and feminism?” Is that a stupid thing to ask? It’s probably a stupid thing to ask. I’m going from bad to worse here.

His grey eyes are narrowed now. “Who is this friend of yours? It wouldn’t be Bunce, would it?”

A wave of relief washes over me as well as curiosity. “Yeah, yeah. My friend Penny. Penelope Bunce. How do you know her?”

He rolls his eyes. “She’s in here practically every week. I’ve had quite a few thought-provoking conversations with her.” He shakes his head. “Come on. This way. I’ve got something new that she’s likely not seen yet.”

He strolls across the store to another section. I don’t think I realized quite how big this place is. I don’t think I had the time or inclination to notice last time.

He plucks a book off the shelf but doesn’t hand it to me, just taps a finger on his lip thoughtfully and then turns in another direction entirely with me trailing along in his wake. He heads to another display table and picks up one of the books there. “Here you go. Either one will appeal to Bunce.”

I reach for the books and our fingertips brush again. I don’t know why I notice that. I look down at the titles he handed me. ‘Circe’ and ‘Agrippina: Empress, Exile, Hustler, Whore.’

He’s moved down the aisle already and is pulling yet another book off the shelf. “Here. This one’s new too.” I take the title from him, slowly this time, my hand brushing his once more.

I don’t know what I’m doing.

Baz

I hand him a book Bunce will surely find of interest--a copy of Good and Mad: The Revolutionary Power of Women’s Anger—when it happens again. Our fingers touch. It’s the third time it’s happened. I don’t know what to think. I’m not attempting to initiate contact.

That’s complete bollocks. I’m desperately trying to initiate contact. I’m not letting go of the books as he grasps them. I’m holding them in a way that makes our touch inevitable.

I’m doing everything I can to prolong this interaction.

I’ve seen him around campus for months now. He’s in my Film as Literature class. It’s an auditorium class—one of the most popular courses offered—so it’s hard to get to know everyone. He sits near the front, with Bunce. I sit in the back with Niall.

The class is enjoyable but the view even more so. I try to avoid looking at him while the professor is lecturing but I have no such compunction before class. I get there early for that very reason.

I know his name is Simon. I’ve heard Bunce call that name out at him. She shouted it across the room on the first day of class, to get his attention.

Simon.

I watched him come in the lower doors of the auditorium and saw him smile at the sight of her.

I haven’t been able to look away since.

I’m sure he didn’t even know I existed before he came into the shop.

I still can’t believe what an absolute prat I was that day. I’d been watching him for weeks by then.

Pining over him is what Niall called it but what does he know?

I’d been seeing Simon everywhere, it seemed. Class. The library. Ebb’s coffee shop.

And then he was suddenly here. I’d watched him walk in and made myself busy in the aisles as I followed him, discreetly. He’d stopped and lingered in Fantasy and Science Fiction so I purposefully made my way over there to see if I could be of assistance.

He’d been thumbing through one of Davy Mage’s books. I’ve told Fiona I don’t know why we even carry them. They’re pretentious and boring, in my opinion. But for some reason every bookshop seems to carry them. They’re insidious. It’s irritating. His writing style is pompous and overblown and his use of the Chosen One hero trope far too predictable.

I’d only meant to offer some assistance but instead I’d managed to startle him so badly he’d spilled coffee everywhere and shouted at me. I’d gone completely distant and cold in my embarrassment.

Fiona had a field day with me after he left. “That’s the boy you’ve been mooning about, then?”

“Shut up, Fiona.”

“So he is the one! You’re absolute shit at flirting, Baz.” She leaned across her desk and smirked. “Or did you just want to see him with his shirt all wet and clinging to him?”

I spent the rest of the afternoon in the store room.

But he’s here again. I thought he’d never come back.

Bunce is here almost every week but she always comes alone or with that tall American chap. I’ve never dared ask her about Simon. She talks about him though. That’s how I know he’s her roommate.

How I know his girlfriend broke up with him a few months ago.

How I know he’s not seeing anyone currently.

Against all odds he’s here again. He bumped into. Literally bumped into me and knocked down a stack of books.

His hair’s a mess, disheveled curls falling over his forehead. He’s covered with freckles. They’re much more noticeable close up.  He’s fucking gorgeous and I’ve got no idea what to say or do. Play it cool,Baz, I tell myself. Don’t be a fucking numpty like last time.

It’s child’s play finding books that Bunce will like. It keeps me close to him, wandering about the store, crossing back and forth to find books I know will appeal to her. He follows right behind me and when he almost bumps into me again I catch the scent of soap and cinnamon rolls.

He must have been at the bakery before coming here.

I’ve no more excuses to keep his attention. I’ve found three or four books that will work and we’re making our way to the counter now. He’ll pay and leave and I’ll likely never speak to him again.

Fiona’s on check out duty but as soon as she sees me coming towards her she makes a show of moving off and complaining about all paperwork on her desk and how it’s my turn to run the counter. She makes a runner for the back but not before winking at me.

I’m mortified. She’s my aunt so she thinks she can get away with being this way.

I slide behind the counter. “So, which one are you going to get?” The pile of books we’ve collected as likely prospects for Bunce are in his arms. He sets them down.

Simon frowns. “I’m not sure, really.” His blue eyes meet mine. “Which one do you think she’d like best?”

I can pick one and ring him up or use this opportunity he’s given me to extend my time with him. I dart a look around the store. A few customers but no one headed up to make a purchase.

I start to talk about ‘Circe’ and then carry on about the other books. What I think Bunce would like about each one, why I think they’re relevant. I know I’m droning on and on but he’s got his eyes riveted on me and I can’t stop talking and I don’t want to look away.

I don’t want this moment to end.

He’s right here. In front of me. And I’m blathering on about subversive retellings of myth and anger transcending into political upheaval.

I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore. I pick up ‘Circe’ and push the other books away. “This combines a bit of everything. Feminism. The occult. Antiquity. I think she’ll like this one.”

It’s over now. He’ll pay for his book and walk out the door. And I’ll never have a chance like this with him again.

“Sounds good. I’ll take that one, then.”

“Would you like me to wrap it up? Since it’s a gift?”

“You do that?”

“It’s a service we provide, yes.” It’s not. I’m making this up on the spot. We do have some gift wrap we sell, in the back, with the gift bags and such. I ring Simon up and then leave him at the counter while I scurry to the back to grab wrap and ribbon.

“I’m taking this out of your wages, boyo.” Fiona whispers at me as I skirt by her desk, ribbon and shiny wrap in hand.

“Fine.” I have no time for her. Simon is still waiting for me up at the counter.

Simon

I could buy any of the books he’s chosen and Penny would be thrilled. It’s easier to let him choose. He’s read them all and has a better idea of what interests her, if he’s been debating feminist ideology with her. It goes over my head when she gets on a rant.

I lean my elbows on the counter and just drink him in. His face is animated and there’s a flush on his cheeks. It suits him.

I could listen to his voice all day. It’s posh and cultured but that’s not what I like about it. Not all I like about it, I mean.

I like how deep it is, resonant I suppose you’d call it. It washes over me and I’m quite content to let him go on about the books to his heart’s content.

He stops eventually. Pushes one towards me. “This one. I’m sure she’ll like it.”

I don’t even look at it. “Sounds good. I’ll take that one then.”

He offers to wrap it and I eagerly take him up on it. I’m a fright at wrapping gifts.

He disappears to the back and returns moments later with ribbon and brightly coloured paper.

It’s all precision and crisp, sharp edges. Penny won’t even believe it’s from me. His fingers are long and slender, folding the paper meticulously, curling the ribbon with an expert flick of the wrist.

That’s it then. I’ll pay up and then I’ll have to go. I don’t want to, not now. I’ve got no excuse to linger though, after he rings me up.

I pass him the money and then the coolness of his touch contacts my palm as he hands me my change. The sensation sends a rush of warmth up my arm.

He hands me a shopping bag, the expertly wrapped book carefully tucked inside. That’s it then. Time for me to go.

“Thank you. That was quite helpful.” I smile up at him. “I’ll have to remember that next time I need to get her something. Thanks so much . . .” I trial off. I don’t know his name. He gets the hint.

“Baz.”

“Thank you, Baz.” And I stand there, like a lump, not moving.

“You’re welcome . . .” he pauses meaningfully.

“Simon. I’m Simon.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Simon.” He pauses and then glances to the back of the store, tilting his head up and raising an eyebrow. I turn and catch the woman in the back rolling her eyes at him and then nodding.

“I seem to recall I made our first meeting a bit awkward, Simon. And I’m reminded that I likely owe you a coffee.” There’s a smile on his face now and this suits him even more.

“Oh. I don’t know about that. I made a right mess of your carpet.” Is he asking me to go out for coffee? Or is he just mentioning it? I’ve got no idea. I’m pants at reading people, Penny tells me that all the time.

Maybe I’m not good at reading people. Or perhaps I’m better than Penny thinks. I don’t want to wait for him to ask me.

Baz

I’m trying to work up the nerve to ask him to coffee. It should be the easiest thing in the world to say it. I’ve got leave from Fiona to bolt. I just need to get the words out.

“I might have ended up down one coffee but I’ve a feeling you ended up on carpet cleaning duty.” He’s right. I did, thanks to Fiona.

Simon’s smile is dazzling. I’m gaping at him, I’m sure.

I should just go ahead and ask him to coffee.

But then he goes and asks me.

“I think you got the worse end of that so we’re more than square.” He shifts his shopping bag from hand to hand and then gestures at the pile of books I found for him. “You helped me so much today, Baz. I know you’re working now but could I buy you a coffee sometime? As a thank you?”

“I’d love to, Simon. Is now good?”

It’s his turn to gape at me. “But aren’t you working? Can you just leave?”

“Happens I’m off. Starting now.”

I bolt from behind the counter, nod at Fiona, and come around to stand next to Simon. “Ebb’s then?”

He grins at me. “Yeah, Ebb’s. That’d be great.”

[asterlizard]

UK trip summer 2019

(Argh! I’m sorry for the delay! I meant to finish this back in June, but I haven’t had much time to finally get around to it)

I haven’t been to the UK in 3 years, and while the feelings were admittedly mixed, because it involved a lot of cleaning up and donations of my grandparents’ items, I did get to have a bit of fun and do some new things on this trip.

Our flight would leave in the middle of the day, but we still had to wake up early so that we could arrive at the airport, do airport security, and get to our boarding gate in plenty of time.

This started off by waking up at around 7:00 in order to meet a Lyft driver (for a first time rideshare, Uber failed to find someone for us) who would take us to a bus stop, which would take us directly to the airport.

As we were arriving at SFO, I could have sworn I saw some beehives in a patch of grass between the weaving roads. However, researching it doesn’t seem to bring up anything. Hmm...

I was looking forward to eating pizza at the selection of restaurants before the security checkout, but unfortunately it was closed, and all of the other restaurants seemed to have been replaced. So the only thing that appealed to me then was Chinese food. It was pretty tasty though.

The entertainment on the flight was a little different than what I’m used to (then again I haven’t flown in a few years). They had more limited music options, and the only decade available was the 80s. I could also zoom in anywhere on the map, which is a horrible distraction for someone like me :P Also, the food was pretty tasty, especially the mango sorbet, which was the definite winner for me :P

Cool view of Alcatraz just before we flew past it

I witnessed an airplane halo, also known as a ‘glory’!

Since we travelled light, we didn’t have to wait to collect our luggage afterwards. We also breezed through the passport check, since we’re British citizens.

I like this mirror effect, but the distortion made it extra cool

At this point, it was 7 in the morning, and we had to meet up with a family friend who lives in London, where we would stay at overnight before progressing to our destination. Along the way I saw some students using the Tube to get to school (it was a school day after all). This was kinda interesting as someone who grew up in America and never had to wear a school uniform.

We actually had to meet our friend by walking from the nearest Tube station to her house (which is fine, I don’t mind walking! Especially after a 9 hour flight). Not long after we met up, she showed me this little fox sleeping outside her window (I don’t think I’ve ever seen one in person before!) It likes to do this when the sun is out. Unfortunately for it, it was sleeping next to a couple of squawking magpies.

We then went on a short walk along the canal. There we saw a swan family and a coot family (and babies!!)

We would then head over to the British Museum. Our friend told us in advance that it would be hosting a manga exhibit, and we arrived the day after it debuted. Just before heading over, she brings up that the Rosetta Stone was also there. I didn’t anticipate this, because I thought it was held in a different museum. So I was getting more excited to see the Rosetta Stone over seeing the manga exhibit xD (I joked that I was about to meet my ‘rock star’)

It was about ￡20 to enter the exhibit, so only I went, while our friend and mum explored the rest of the museum. The exhibit started off with a ‘trip down the rabbit hole’, in reference to perhaps the most influential British work in Japanese media, Alice in Wonderland, and its appearances in manga over the years.

Then it showed the history of manga, manga influences, a brief manga how-to, and genres of manga. I saw some familiar works, like Astro Boy, DragonBall, Sailor Moon, a work from the creator of Akira, One Piece, Golden Kamui, Saint Young Men, etc. I also saw some works that I've never encountered that I'm interested in (a rugby manga, a wheelchair rugby manga coming soon, a murder mystery manga at the British museum, a manga about a saxophonist)

There were also some video exhibits, whether it's clips from anime next to their respective manga, creators/staff talking about their creative process, artists drawing their manga, or a series of clips from Ghibli films, but you weren't allowed to take pics of these.

At one point, I even saw an Attack on Titan cosplayer! (ready to take down the giant inflatable titan head I presume)

It’s difficult to read, but this is Morohoshi Daijiro, and it says that Hayao Miyazaki was strongly influenced by him. I’ll have to look at his stuff sometime.

I probably spent about two hours in there, longer than I expected. Admittedly I was tired, and my legs were getting sore, and a little over half an hour before I was done I needed a loo. I was feeling all sorts of physically gross at this point, and I had no idea how much of the exhibit I was actually absorbing even though I tried.

Before the end of the exhibit, I waited in line to get a photo taken, so the machine would add a comic-like gradient to it and insert it into a comic panel. Once I was done, I made a beeline to the nearest loo (for a split moment I panicked that they would be the ‘pay-to-use’ loos, and I didn’t have any money on me, as all of my stuff was with mum, thankfully it wasn’t).

After meeting back with mum and our friend, we headed back to our friend’s home, as I was feeling too exhausted to do anything else.

By the way, I did get to see the Rosetta Stone, but I would need to see it again when I’m not jet-lagged and there’s less people. By the way, I also learned that the figures on the pediment over the British Museum were created by my ancestor, so... y’know, there’s another reason to revisit the place.

I finally went to bed after some dinner, dessert, and a refreshing shower. I had been awake for about 32 hours!

The next day, mum and I stocked up on food (most of which I missed after a long time of not eating them. I still wish I could eat them more often!) and travelled by train to our destination.

The train also was different than what I’m used to. The livery is different, and instead of there being a ticket(?) on the top of an occupied seat, there was a red/green light above the window that indicated whether the seat was occupied or not.

At some point our passenger neighbours were cracking up and couldn’t stop laughing, which was contagious enough for me and a few other strangers to laugh. It was a great moment. When we arrived, we met up with my aunt, uncle, and cousin, and we had fish and chips and a good chat.

The day after we arrived, we already got started with clearing my grandparents’ house. At this point, I already made peace with the fact that we would need to sell the place (nobody in the family wanted it, plus it needed a lot of work done to it, which would have been pretty costly). Unfortunately, because they had a lot of things, we had to be a bit ruthless with what we had to get rid of, because we certainly couldn’t keep it all. I also let go of a few things I grew up with that I was willing to part with and donate. Still there were several items we were able to keep and bring home with us. Thankfully mum’s friends also would try and keep other things for us. It was still a bit of a heartbreaking process though.

I also finally (after a long time) had a 99! It feels good to walk into an ice cream shop and order one, and they'll know what you're talking about :P

Speaking of food, according to my friend, it’s apparently a crime that I haven’t been to a Gregg’s yet, so I tried some of their food, which were delicious! Unfortunately, they didn’t have an iced split, which my friend has, and is apparently really good. (I love international chats, because my friend can say something like 'try a 99 with monkey blood', and it will make no sense to non-Brits) Even the berries are tastier here! idk if it’s because we’re closer to berry farms, but they’re sweeter and juicier than the ones I get back in America.

Speaking of which, the shops in town are different than what I remember. Only a few places I visit regularly remained.

I also got to see a circus for the first time. Although the acts were amazing, my favourite part of the show, believe it or not, were the clown segments. They consisted of a father and 10-year son duo, and the antics were amusing (the duo trying to run and hug each other but missing and in the end hug ‘around’ each other instead, the father getting an audience member to throw a potato onto a carving fork held in his mouth and epically missing, the father getting some audience members to ride an invisible motorbike with him, etc) Unfortunately the show did have some strobe lights and animal segments (even if they weren’t hurting them, I still don’t see the appeal of watching wild animals doing unnatural things :/ )

One of the things that hadn’t changed was our local cobbler still being in business. Even before the trip, mum wanted to pay him a visit so that he could repair her shoes. He's one of the last relics of the old town, he's 78, and has worked for 57 years including 7 years as an apprentice. He was even one of mum’s first memories from when she was small! There’s something charming about a town shoe shop having several piles of stuff, topped with a huge pile of shoes and the smell of glue and shoe polish while a shoe repair motor runs in the background :)

The local bookshop owner also had a charming shop, with piles of books everywhere. And yes, it’s so small and narrow, only one person at a time can visit. We visited his place a few times to donate most of my grandparents’ books, as well as old items like maps and photographs. We can breathe a sigh of relief that they will be protected and given a new home.

Went for a 2.5 hour walk, first along the beach, then through a newer and more secluded area of town that I’ve never visited before (I ALMOST saw a robin, I’ve only seen the American robin in person)

At one point after shopping, I was holding a leek in my hand, and a lady passing by quipped to me, “I know we’re Welsh, but that’s a bit excessive” :P

Also, idk what made me think of it, but I imagined, instead of dog shows, there would be snail shows. It would last for hours, walking the snail would last for 10 minutes instead of 10 seconds, and the awards would be something like: 'Largest Snail', 'Fastest Snail', 'Hungriest Snail', 'Perkiest Snail', 'Longest Antennae'...

>:U

(I took quite a few panorama shots during this trip)

Unfortunately, a pathway I like to take was closed off

We visited some friends of ours, and some friends of ours visited us. My family and I also did a little burial ceremony for my grandparents (originally mum wanted to buy sweet pea flowers, as they were my grandmother’s favourite. I then ask if my grandfather had a favourite flower. Mum didn’t really know, but she did remember he would always buy my grandmother a rose because he loved her so much. So we bought a red rose as well (afterwards I learned from a friend that sweet pea flowers are a symbol of protection and goodbyes, which is INCREDIBLY SWEET BUT SAD 😭))

The next day we had miserable weather due to Storm Miguel. It was surprisingly the only bad day we had weather-wise. And yet, for some reason mum and I decided to eat out at an Indian restaurant (the food was pretty tasty)

During most of the trip, my family have been fervently trying to research who the people in my grandparents’ paintings were and how they were connected to my family. The only thing I got out of it so far is that my family might be more Scottish that I thought!

Went shopping in Carmarthen (and crossed a bridge next to some sheep, close enough to hear them), but I had to make a train that arrived half an hour after I woke up! Ate at Pizza Express (the food was tasty, but the strawberry still lemonade was PERFECT) Unfortunately we had to cut our shopping time short, because our earliest trains to catch were at around 14:30 and 17:30, and we would rather get back home as soon as possible. We were able to get most of what we wanted though.

One day while I was hanging out with my younger cousin (we chatted a lot during the trip, he does Irish dancing, and he taught me the difference between the different dances), he introduced a couple of fun games that the family got to play: Camping, and Spoons

Camping: Preferably played with 3 or more people It's a rotation game in which the rest of the group has to figure out what the leader's pattern is Starting with the leader, each person says 'I'm gonna go camping, and I'm gonna bring...' and then a noun. When the leader says their phrase and noun, they have an unspoken pattern they decided to follow, whether it's a bit of subtle body language they make while saying it, or if it has to do with the nouns themselves. The next person then says the phrase and a noun in hopes that they will follow the pattern. If they do, the leader will respond to their phrase, 'you can come', otherwise 'you can't come'. After the pattern is revealed, the next person becomes the leader, and the cycle continues. Players are allowed to guess the pattern depending on how many people got it (eg: you are allowed to ask for hints if stumped, and if everybody gets it, the pattern can be revealed) In hard mode, if your attempt is part of the pattern, regardless of whether you know the pattern or not, you have to sit out the rest of the game. (examples of patterns: saying whatever while having both feet on the floor and hands on lap, dog breeds, alphabetical succession between players (eg: 'hedgehog', 'iodine', 'Jamaica'...), the nouns have to begin with the same letter as your eye colour (lol I never got this one because I don't regularly make eye contact with people), the noun has to begin with the same letter as the cardinal direction you're facing, the noun has to begin with the same letter as the colour shirt the player after you is wearing)

Spoons: Preferably played with 3-13 people It's a game of speed, similar to musical chairs There are n-1 spoons in the middle of the table for n number of players and n number of ranks One player becomes the leader, in which they shuffle the cards and deal four per player. When the leader says 'go', every player including the leader removes a card and places it for the person to their left to grab, while each player must always end up with four cards per 'go' (when saying 'go', the key is that there shouldn't be much time for thinking, the game must move quickly, but there should be about a second or two to organize your cards if needs be, so roughly every 3-5 seconds per 'go') If a player has four of one rank, they must grab a spoon, and all of the other players must grab a remaining spoon as quickly as possible, in the hopes that they won't be the last player without a spoon A player that ends up without a spoon loses a life, and after three lives are up, they're out of the game. With this, a spoon and a group of four of a rank also sit out of the game When it's down to two players, one of the players sitting out must shuffle the remaining deck, so that the two remaining players don't know what kind of deck to expect, and say 'go'

Went for a lovely walk near the beach

Tiny friends!

Ah yes, this bed of rocks looks comfortable to sit on...

I also got to finally try a 99 with monkey blood, though the syrup isn’t called monkey blood where I’m from apparently. Mum and I also tried to feed the sparrows, but larger birds were lurking and wanted to sabotage the efforts.

After some final decisions on what to bring and what to keep, mum and I left the house for what might have been the last time. We will miss it though. I did take some videos of the place not long before we arrived, as a kind of snapshot of the place, not only for memory, but for a potential reference in one of my stories.

At the airport, I got a pat down for the first time in my life because I had worn the wrong trousers that had more metallic fixings on them >:[

During the flight, I chose a better selection of films on the plane:

旅猫リポート: Cute but kinda sad film about the life of the man who adopted a cat and why he has to give it away to someone he can trust.

Christopher Robin: Very charming film, and the British wildlife scenery was depicted beautifully

Wonder Woman: Well-written film

(I’m curious to know where this is near London)

Overall, this trip was different than what I’m used to, not just because it was less of a family visit, but rather a lot of aspects of what I’m used to have changed a lot over the years. I’m hoping, even if I never live in that house anymore, that I can still pay the town a visit somehow in the future, as it’s still a dear place to me that I had grown up with all my life.

[worseandworser]

What doesn’t kill you

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2

This is a weird mix of ABO, chimera!Ed, and the werewolf!Ed, I guess.

Ship: RoyEd

Summary: “You were on a mission,” Ed turns to Alphonse, who carries on with the explanation, “There was this alchemist messing with chimeras, Brigadier general Mustang sent you there to check, and apparently you got caught up in a transmutation.”

Oh. That would explain why Edward can’t remember the basement.

Rating: Mature (chances of turning n/s/f/w)

Warnings/tags: AU, Post fmab, Pining, Scenting, Taller!Ed jhagdcfjh, werewold-chimera!Ed

read on ao3

The first two weeks, Edward stays inside voluntarily, which is a surprise. Winry brought with her a provisory prosthetic that makes him ache in disgraceful places, so he refuses to ear it — and hopping around the streets is not exactly comfortable. Alphonse is, as always, the best brother ever and brings him books from the Central’s library. Someone from the team calls him from time to time. Not much else happens.

The rest of the month, however, with a new and fitting automail leg, is a constant struggle to adapt. Not that he’s resigned to his current transmuted form — a few extra centimeters don’t hurt, right? — but outside of his and Al’s flat exist many challenges. The overwhelming mix of scents is one, and his newly found hearing sensibility proves to be another. He can hear Alphonse’s breathing from the other side of the room and car horns make him flinch like a frightened animal.

Of course, there are a few other noteworthy changes. His reflexes are sharper — he’s become a master of picking falling things up before they hit the floor — and acquired a weird taste for undercooked meat. Sleeping is a mystery; either he sleeps too much or stays wide awake for days in a row without much trouble. Even the new height isn’t perfect after all, since he’s still not used to the new balance point and fuck spending money on new clothes.

And his discomfort isn’t taken seriously apparently, because no one lets him see the goddamned array.

It takes Mustang a bit to give Alphonse any information. One morning Hawkeye shows up at their doorstep and drags the younger Elric out. Since then, the two arseholes have been working on the alchemy alone, not even bothering to share any of their research. That obviously angers Ed to no end, that he is being kept in the dark even though he’s the only one who was affected by the transmutation. It’s not really safe for him to be around the General, yes, and he will not get into much details about that, but it’s not justifiable. Alphonse could at least give him an update. Or Mustang could stop being such a controlling freak and just pass the whole thing onto Edward — he could surely work it out way faster.

Instead, they leave Ed to his own devices — which are, basically, trying to not get angry at people for how they smell. He begins to catalogue scents to try to avoid that precisely. He’s mostly looking for a pattern: what he likes and what makes him uncomfortable, those that calm him and those that leave him on the edge of a rage outburst.

Winry’s is a bit like dark chocolate — bitter, but sugary. Edward would never admit to her that he enjoys it very much, or that it brings a protective feeling to his chest as it does. It’s pleasant, not as calming as Alphonse, though it never fails to remind him that, yes, he does have a place to call home.

Hawkeye, the only member of the team he’s seen besides Mustang, smells like apple pie. Shocking, too shocking, so shocking Edward lock himself up in his room to laugh for a good half-an-hour. He expected so many things for her, but the sweet aroma of freshly baked goods was not one of them.

Most of the neighbors have what Ed started calling background scents — like street noise, perhaps; it’s there but not enough for you to care. One day, while collecting the correspondence, he bumps into the lady that lives next door: he sniffs at her, notices the perfume that is inherently hers, and forgets it as soon as he gets home. Background scent. Not that they even meet enough for Ed to remember her name, for god’s sake.

But he must thank her because it’s that fateful encounter that helps him gather the courage to leave the building.

For the first attempt, he begs for Alphonse to accompany him. There’s no way to know how far the heightened olfaction fucked up his already fucked up social behavior, and Al has to help him with that since he refuses to explain him the transmutation. It’s only fair. They go at night — fewer people, less noise, fewer chances of sending Ed spiraling down into an anxiety attack.

And everything goes well.

Edward can barely contain his relief. Yes, he can smell drunkards almost a whole block away and can partially comprehend conversations taking place across the street, but so what? It’s a beautiful, breezy summer night and Ed is not even bothered in the slightest. From time to time, Alphonse frowns at the sky, but Edward brushes it off as the usual worrying.

The following morning Ed feels bold, so he goes alone and only a few hours before lunchtime. There are cars everywhere now and he flinches a couple of times, and by the third block, the scents start mix curiously. He no longer detects each specific smell, but rather a mix of many things, which he probably won’t ever be able to explain to Alphonse. Street scent, perhaps, as if city and inhabitants are an entity in and of itself, — and Ed feels it all at once.

Like a machine or a body, he muses, a bunch of pieces that can’t be separated ‘cause they’ll just stop working.

He goes back home an hour later and by the doorstep he is certain of what they’re having for lunch.

“You shouldn’t go out today.”

Edward glares at the only other person in the room, “And why the fuck you’re—“

“I mean it, Brother,” Alphonse lowers his notebook to properly look at the older Elric, “maybe you should keep it low this week.”

“‘M not tired.”

“I can see that but that doesn’t mean you’re fine,” Al snorts, “it’s pretty clear that you’re not fine.”

Which is true. All Ed has been doing since yesterday is walk around the flat, fidgety and hyperaware. He didn’t sleep a minute, instead going for a long, mindless walks — during one of those he almost attacked a cab driver; the guy was asking for it when he mistook Ed for a woman and catcalled him. He wants to go out again, his whole body is itching for it, he can’t stand being inside anymore, he’s been inside all day already

“I am fine,” he smiles, trying to reassure the other, “I’m great, actually. I feel like I could run a marathon.”

“Thank you for proving my point, it’s almost night, please, don’t leave the apartment.”

And Ed does agree with him, partially. He shouldn’t leave, not when he’s feeling this skittish — who knows what reactions a busier environment could bring. But the prospect of staying in makes him feel like a caged animal, and he can’t have that. So he brushes Al off with a half-assed promise that he’ll be back soon, and exists their home a bit too eagerly.

Lacking a destination, Ed is once again a wandering man. Not that this is a bad thing, no: Edward is more at home when he’s wandering. Be it a short circuit around the block or a trip across the country, his home has always been the path and not the destiny. There’s no better feeling than shoving your hands inside the pants’ pockets and looking for a thing that you don’t really know you need until you bump into it.

He buys an apple from a street vendor and eats in large, fast bites, cleaning his hands on his shirt afterwards. His feet take him far away from the flat, and Edward is a mere spectator who watches as streets pass by and are left behind. At Av. Marston Court, he takes a left, and that’s when the idea of checking a bookshop pops up in his mind. With surer steps, he makes his way to the one on the crossing, which sells used books for a very interesting price — ideal for when Ed plans to stock up reading material.

The place is filled with dusty boxes and dustier shelves, and Edward breathes in the delicious smell of mold and old books. In this specific store it’s stronger, and not because Ed’s newly found olfactory prowess, but rather because it is. Naturally, inherently. He leisurely strolls through the stacks, his eyes falling on covers and titles and author’s names but not searching for anything in particular.

And then his nose picks up—

—that.

It’s not as strong as the first time, but it still makes him freeze up mid-way through reaching for a book. The hairs of his nape stand on end, his back instantly goes straight, and every muscle of his body tighten. He can almost hear the loud thud of his heart, beating heard and fast as if trying carve a way out of Ed’s chest.

Roy, his brain provides uselessly, Roy Roy Roy—

He sniffs, trying to pinpoint the man’s location; in the store, yes, but where. Stumbling through the aisles, he has to refrain from running towards the alluring smell — but he does follow it, like an eager puppy, looking into each corridor aisle hopefully every turn he makes.

As Edward gets used to the scent, the intensity of his reaction decreases significantly. He halts, scolding himself for his behavior; what gives him the right to stalk Mustang like this, especially when his feelings are... platonic? Feeling his face burning, he lowers his head and slumps against a shelf, shame building up and insisting for him to leave as soon as—

“Fullmetal?”

“Not an alchemist anymore...”

Roy is over there, and then right by Ed’s side because of course he would have to get closer. The blue military jacket hangs from his forearm and he is holding a book with a grey paper cover — a novel, probably, and, although Ed has never been one to read fiction, he still wants to ask about it. And he looks good — even if he’s in those clothes Edward always sees — since there’s probably not a single moment in the man’s life he doesn’t.

“Old habits die hard, I suppose.”

”It’s been years now,” he snorts, “I know your old man memory makes it all harder, but it’s time for you to catch up already.”

The raven-haired man opens his mouth, and rapidly closes it again — instead of words, what comes out is laughter. A small huffed sound that Edward takes a moment to admire.

“What’s so funny, Mustang?”

“Nothing, it’s just— I was going to make a joke about your diminutive height, but I’m not entitled to that anymore.”

Ed’s grin is larger than the Drachman border, “Fucking finally.”

They’re eye to eye now. In fact, Edward is even a bit taller, but that might just be the angle — or biased by Ed’s strong desire to one-up Mustang in something. The blond breathes in deeply, letting that overwhelming scent warm him up deliciously; his knees go a bit weak and he blinks at Roy in an attempt to regain his focus.

“Do you feel well enough to go back to work now?” Roy asks, with worry furrowing his brows.

“...”

“It’s been almost four weeks now.”

“I know, and I’m sorry about that, it’s just things have been kinda… complicated.” Ed has no idea if the slow nod Mustang gives him means more days off or simply acknowledgement, so he adds: “but I can go back whenever.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Yeah, I mean, I’m feeling good and all that.”

Roy bites the corner of his bottom lip, “Yes, but I mean are you sure?”

Oh, Ed shivers, he’s talking about that.

To say Roy knows a thing about that, would be a blatant lie — Ed had been very quick to shout for Mustang to get out that day. Still, the thought doesn’t stop the spike of fear, and neither the annoyance burning its way through his throat. He has to remind himself to stay calm, that Mustang probably thinks Ed just gets uncomfortable with his scent, that Alphonse would never expose him in such way.

Ed sighs, and this time the warmth that comes with inhaling settles in his chest, cocooning itself like a small animal underneath his ribcage.

“It’s alright, I’m getting used to the whole hypersensitivity thing, it doesn’t bother me so much.”

For the smallest second, Ed is sure he sees—

—that flash of disappointment.

Yeah, that’s pretty stupid, isn’t it?

Their following exchanges’ themes orbit around work, as they always do. Mustang tells him about Havoc, who was in charge of all paperwork involving the infamous Major Elric and couldn’t wait for said Major’s return to get rid of it. Edward chimes in when he supposes necessary, which is almost never — and his answers are mostly monosyllabic. As they exit the shop, Roy offers him a ride home in one of the military cars and Ed refuses, leaving the man baffled when he says he’ll walk back home.

He hangs around him until the car arrives, and he tells himself it is to keep Mustang company, but…

No one would really blame him for being selfish just this once, right?