Hi , I must say first that I love your writing and also there isn't a lot tom riddle x reader so having you writing for him is great . I was wondering if you could do something with Tom with a muggle s/o . I know it would be great because it's written by you . Love and thanks 💕 💖
Thank you so much, that’s really lovely 💖 I looooved this concept!!!! I actually have a full-length fic that I’ve juuust about finished on ao3/ff.net about Tom and a Muggle s/o, so y’all should let me know if you want a link to that.
Didn’t know if you wanted an established relationship or not so I just went with this, hope you like 😉
･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.
Something Elegant
Summary: A very beautiful boy walks into Muggle Reader’s bookstore and wants to buy something - but he doesn’t seem to know what. Reader is determined to crack the case, and best of all, the boy keeps coming back. Word count: 3.1k Content warning: none
･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.
The job doesn’t pay well, the shifts eat up almost all of your afternoons, the boss is a bit creepy, and Vauxhall Road is loud and smoggy – but working in Winstanley's Bookstore and Stationers has three main benefits. The store is beautiful, for one, filled from floor to ceiling with wooden bookshelves and prim, fresh texts with glittering silver and gold monogrammed titles. For another, it provides you with almost limitless time to read books on just about every subject imaginable.
The third benefit first walks through the door one gloomy summer afternoon whilst you’re lounging on the stool behind the counter, catching up on your English class summer readings.
“Welcome to Winstanley’s,” you say absently, finishing your paragraph before looking up. “What can I do for –”
You stop talking.
Standing before you is the most beautiful boy you’ve ever seen in your life; tall and pale, dark hair that fell in distracting waves across his forehead, regal cheekbones, full lips, and a jawline that you didn’t think possible. Luckily, he doesn’t seem to notice anything strange about your abrupt silence, his dark eyes sliding around the store with a detached interest.
“Are… you looking for something in particular?” you force yourself to say in your best customer service voice.
“No,” he says in a smooth, medium-toned voice that makes you blink in disbelief. Even his voice is beautiful… “No, I was merely curious about the store.”
“Right,” you say awkwardly, “well, let me know if I can help.”
The boy just nods and turns away, strolling deeper into the store and out of sight behind one of the shelves. You give a long exhale as you look back at your book, shaking your head slowly. Being that attractive shouldn’t be allowed; he was most likely utterly insufferable because of it.
A few short minutes later the bell above the door tingles rapidly and you look up in surprise to see it swinging shut behind the boy. You had neither seen nor heard him pass you on his way out and you only just catch a glimpse of his dark head disappearing past the shop window and into the crowd on the street outside. You stare after him for a moment, feeling inexplicably disappointed, before frowning and returning to your text.
Two weeks later, he comes back.
“Oh, hello again,” you say brightly at the sight of him pushing through the door.
The boy gives you a slightly sharp look like he’s surprised you remember him. “Hello,” he says evenly.
“Still curious about the store?” you grin.
The boy’s attention has been caught by the glass cabinet of gleaming fountain pens. “Actually, I’m looking for something this time,” he says casually, leaning down to look at a very ornate golden pen that costs about two months of your wages.
“Oh? What are you looking for?”
“I’m not sure,” the boy murmurs.
You blink, a little surprised by his response. “Well, what sort of things do you like?” you probe, trying to get on track.
The boy straightens and turns to you, his posture very formal. “I’d like something… elegant,” he says quietly. There’s something strangely heavy about his gaze that you can’t place.
“Elegant,” you repeat, frowning as you consider his request. “Well, that’s a very elegant pen you’re looking at there.”
The boy’s expression darkens. “Unfortunately something that elegant is beyond my means,” he says coolly, looking away.
“That’s alright,” you say quickly, feeling strangely embarrassed, “I’d have to sell a kidney to afford one of those, and to be honest with you, they’re not even that nice to write with.”
“You’re permitted to use these?” he asks sceptically, arching a brow.
You look pointedly at the gorgeous black and gold fountain pen in your hand that you were using to doodle stars on your notepad. “Permitted might be a liberal term for it,” you say wryly, glancing back at him. “I was never expressly told not to use them.”
The boy’s lips twitch into a smirk before he turns away, wandering over to the display of a hundred different art pencils.
“Are you an artist?” you try again, suddenly determined to find exactly what he wanted.
“No,” the boy says frankly. “I dislike frivolities.”
You laugh once, very loudly, and the boy’s head swivels around as he fixes you with a very cold look. “Sorry,” you mutter, quickly looking down at your notepad to hide your smile.
It doesn’t work. “What exactly are you laughing at?” he asks sharply.
“Nothing,” you snicker.
“Clearly,” he retorts.
You chance looking up at him. “Do you… really think that art is a frivolity?” you ask slowly, failing to keep the amusement from your tone.
His eyes visibly narrow. “What else would you call it?” he demands.
You shrug and – biting your lip to keep the smile at bay – resume your doodling.
“This was a ridiculous idea,” the boy snaps, wheeling around and striding across the store towards the door.
“No – wait!” you say quickly, stomach dropping. “I’m sorry, I –”
But it’s no use. The bell tingles loudly as he wrenches the door open and he’s gone. You fall back onto the stool dejectedly with a sigh.
It all makes you even more extraordinarily surprised when, a few days later, the same boy pushes open the door mere moments before you’re about to close up the shop.
“Oh,” you say blankly, frozen mid-motion where you’re sliding the last of the new books onto shelves by the window.
A smirk briefly flits across the boy’s handsome features. “I trust you’ll resist the urge to mock me today,” he drawls nonchalantly.
“Depends,” you say automatically.
His eyes narrow at you again. Kicking yourself, you swiftly turn back to the shelves and start stocking books at lightning speed. “Anyway,” you say loudly, “have you decided on what you want?”
“Not a pen,” the boy says immediately. “I have plenty of… writing utensils.”
You shoot him a curious glance; the tone he’d said it in, and the ever-so-slightly strange phrasing almost made him seem like he was making some private joke. “Right,” you say clearly, “and no pencils either, of course.”
You can’t quite keep the quip from your tone.
“Do you intend on being at all useful?” the boy asks stiffly, not seeming impressed at your continued ribbing. “Or are you here just to ridicule customers?”
“You’re only a customer once you’re actually buying something,” you say with a grin, sliding the last book into place and heaving the empty wooden crate across the store to your counter. “Until then you’re just some boy loitering about my place of employment.”
“Well I do intend on buying something,” the boy snaps.
“Something elegant,” you nod, placing the crate beside the counter. “I’ve been thinking about that.”
The boy hesitates, his dark brows drawing together. “You have?”
“Yeah, I had a few ideas,” you say absently, pulling out the little square of paper you’d been making notes on. The boy had featured rather a lot in your thoughts over the past few days, and you’d had plenty of time to write down ideas for his elegant something.
“Let’s see,” you frown, peering at your list. “Oh! So, we got this incredible field guide in last month and it’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen in my life.” You being number one on that list, you add internally as you wheel around and beeline for the book on the far shelf. “Here,” you call over your shoulder, pulling it out. “If that’s not elegant, I don’t know what it.”
The boy slowly approaches you, his eyes almost apprehensive as they fall to the book in your hands; pretty enough with crimson leather and gold leaf on the borders of the pages – but the real kicker was the cover. It had a circle of real semi-precious gems set around its title, gleaming and glittering colourfully under the lights of the store.
“What is it about?” the boy asks slowly.
“Sixteenth-century Russian agricultural practices,” you deadpan.
He shoots you a glare, and you roll your eyes. “It’s about gemstones, obviously,” you smirk, cracking it open and showing him the gorgeous watercolours of amethysts and rubies on the first few pages.
The boy looks momentarily interested and your heart skips a beat, wondering if you’d hit the nail on the head on the first try, but –
“I would prefer something more utilitarian,” he says smoothly, straightening again. “Is there something useful on that list of yours?”
There’s something almost challenging in the smirk shadowing his face.
It’s your turn to narrow your eyes, sensing a game emerging. “I see,” you say, suppressing a smile as you close the book and place it back on the shelf. “Well, what about…” – you quickly check your list – “a letter-writing set?”
The boy’s expression falls at once. “No,” he says flatly, looking away.
You blink at the abrupt change in his demeanour. “Is letter-writing also considered a frivolity?” you ask with a tentative hint of tease.
“If you have no one to write letters to, yes it is,” he says icily, his dark eyes flashing to yours.
Your stomach falls.
“Sorry,” you mumble, hastily looking back at your list just to avoid his gaze. “Um… well… we have these amazing pen cases, they’re really quite beautiful,” you ramble, rounding on your heel to the display case behind you. “That one’s my favourite,” you say quickly, pointing to a gleaming copper case with a series of pens and pencils displayed inside. “I like the colour – and I reckon they’re plenty elegant.”
The boy steps closer and you try not to notice his arm almost brushing yours as he stands beside you, examining the cases. “They’re too small,” he says softly.
You glance up at him and are met with the same challenging smirk re-emerging on his lips as he looks back down at you.
The game is back on.
He shoots down every single one of your ideas without fail. He doesn’t like the rosewood ink stamps, he barely even glances at the little golden compass you show him, and he only gives you a very dry look when you suggest a gorgeous enamel-handled pencil knife.
“It’s very late,” he says suddenly, frowning at the darkened window as you’re showing him the blue leather-bound Shakespeare collection. “When does this store close?”
You look up at the clock above the door. “Two hours ago,” you say casually, setting aside the books – he didn’t seem interested in them anyway.
The boy stares at you, visibly surprised. You shrug again, leaning on your elbows against your counter. He frowns again, slow and pensive. “I should go,” he mutters, looking away.
“Well come back, then,” you say, pointing at him with mock severity. “I’ll figure this out yet, you’ll not get away that easily.”
And he does. He comes back three times, in fact, and each time you can’t help but notice that he spends less and less time looking around the shop, and more and more time looking at you.
“Another unsuccessful venture,” you sigh dramatically, leaning back against your counter as the boy (you still don’t know his name, and at that point it felt weird to ask) takes slow steps towards you. “You really are the worst sort of customer.”
“My deepest apologies,” he smirks, “I didn’t realise that this was so torturous for you.”
“My boss thinks I’m the best employee of the century,” you drawl, inspecting your nails, “he can’t figure out why I keep staying late without pay.”
The boy’s dark eyes fall reserved and distant, and he turns to look out the window and the summer evening outside.
“I never asked,” you say quickly, trying to coax him back, “why do you want something elegant?”
The boy’s attention returns to you, his dark, intelligent eyes surveying you for a moment before answering. “I like elegant things,” he says quietly, “there’s something repugnant about the common-place.”
You wisely choose not to tease him about this comment.
“There isn’t a lot of elegance where I live,” he continues stiffly, turning away again, “that is, where I live during the summer. I’d like something to have with me whilst I’m here, a vestigial piece of…”
“Of?” you prompt gently after he trails off.
His jaw tightens. “Thank you for your assistance,” he says formally, giving you a curt nod as he makes for the door.
“See you later,” you call after him hopefully – but once again, he’s gone.
It’s the last you see him in a very long time. A full month goes by and the store gets busier and busier with students purchasing their school supplies for the coming term, and despite the influx of customers, you can’t stop the little swell of disappointment every single time the bell above the door chimes and it’s not him.
You can barely believe your eyes when you look up to find him standing by the door the Monday before school begins.
“Hello again,” he says evenly, making no acknowledgement of your open shock as he approaches your counter where you’re once again doodling with the expensive fountain pens.
“You’re back,” you say, astonished.
“I never did purchase anything,” the boy says casually, reaching out a hand and spinning the cap of your fountain pen around on the counter with his long fingers. “And I’m about to return to school, so this may be my last chance.”
You stare at him, frozen in place. He’s just as beautiful as the first time you’d seen him, but you can’t help but notice a strangely drawn, shadowed look to his face, like he hasn’t been sleeping. Suddenly, you jolt and throw down your pen.
“I’ve got it!” you shout, just about falling off your stool as you tear around the counter to the backroom. “We got them in yesterday!”
You yank the box from the cupboard and crack it open, grinning at the contents in excitement. Surely this was it. Surely he’d like this.
“Here,” you say triumphantly when you return to him, thrusting out your hand.
The boy arches a brow at what you’re holding out to him.
“A diary?” he asks cynically.
You roll your eyes. “Just take a look,” you say, holding it out a bit more.
He’s still for one more second, and then reaches up and takes it, flicking through the pages with an attentive eye. The diary is bound in black leather with golden corner-protectors, its edges clean, its pages ruled and cream-toned with simple, refined dates printed on each one. “It’s nice,” he says quietly.
The feeling of triumph swells larger – it’s the most positive response he’s had to anything you’ve ever showed him. “You can take that wherever you need a bit of elegance,” you say softly.
The boy’s eyes snap to yours in an instant, and your heart skips a beat.
“I’ll tell you what,” you add quickly, hoping that you’re not blushing, “I’ll even emboss it for you for free. Don’t tell my boss.”
“Emboss it?” he echoes curiously.
“Yeah,” you grin, holding out your hand for the diary and leading him into the backroom after he hands it to you. “Gold or silver?”
“Gold,” he says immediately.
You nod and begin setting up the machine with a sheet of gold foil. “What’s your name?” you ask, trying to sound nonchalant.
The boy’s eyes linger on your face for a long moment, making your heart stutter a bit when you finally look up at him.
“Tom,” he says quietly. “Riddle.”
Tom.
Trying to ignore your racing pulse, you start picking out the right letters and arranging them in his name on the table when suddenly Tom’s long fingers close around your wrist. “Wait,” he says sharply. You freeze in place, heat erupting across your skin. “Are you going to put my name on it?” he asks, eyes fixed on his name laid out on the table.
“Yeah,” you stutter. His fingers haven’t released your wrist, his grip warm and firm.
Tom’s expression turns dark. “I don’t want that name on it,” he says caustically.
“Why not?” you breathe.
Something works in his jaw as he glares at the letters, but he doesn’t reply.
“Don’t you like your name?” you ask quietly.
“No,” he says icily. “I don’t.”
“I do,” you say thoughtlessly.
Tom looks at you. There’s a horrible second of silence.
“Do you,” Tom says quietly, not phrasing it like a question. You can feel your pulse under your skin as you stare back.
Suddenly, Tom exhales sharply and looks down at the box of letters on the table beside you. His fingers finally release your wrist and he deftly picks out a series of letters and adds them to his name.
“Tom Marvolo Riddle?” you read out once he’s finished. “That’s what you want?”
He nods.
You give him one last curious look before you set the letters into the machine and slide the diary into place, bringing down the handle of the machine and stamping his name into the black leather of the book.
You brush away the excess gold and turn to hand him the diary – only to stop still. Tom is still right beside you, much closer than you’d realised, his gaze dark and heavy again as he looks down at you. The backroom suddenly feels about a hundred times smaller.
“You know,” you whisper, “you’re a lot less insufferable than I thought you’d be.”
His lips quirk into a small, dry smile. “You thought I’d be insufferable?”
You nod. “Beautiful people are often pretty insufferable.”
Very slowly, a small crease appears between his brows. The sight makes you realise exactly what you’d just said, and your eyes widen in horror.
“I’m sorry,” you say hastily, thrusting the diary into his chest and stepping away. “I – I don’t know why I said that – I’m sorry –”
But Tom catches your wrist again, stopping you from slipping away. You watch, still wide-eyed as he gently pulls you back to him. “Interesting that you apologise for the compliment, and not for the implication that I’d be insufferable,” he says softly, looking amused.
“I’ve been insulting you since day one,” you manage to say, “compliments are new territory.”
Tom hums, his eyes roaming your face thoughtfully. He’s so close that your head is filled up with the way he smells, warm and musky and stupidly intoxicating, and you’re having to deliberately avoid leaning in closer. “Perhaps I’ll take the letter-writing set, after all,” he murmurs.
You blink. “I thought that letter-writing was a mere frivolity,” you say, lips quirking in a tentative smile.
“Only when you don’t have anyone to write to,” Tom says quietly.
･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.
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