Miss Sammael Greenbriar was the first of her long and illustrious (to those in it, at least) line of merchants to depart from the family norm and engage herself with the strange and terrible arts of sorcery. Proper sorcery, that is, the sort where one gallivants about with strange and unwashed creatures who rarely see the sun, and manipulate ancient and terrible symbols through arcane tricks one really ought to not be fucking about with on a Tuesday.

Which is, to say, that she worked IT at her local library.

It wasn't a bad job, all things considered, although her dreaded rotation at the checkout counter every Wednesday was by far the bane of her existence. For one day out of every six, the happy hours of ensconcing herself in the server room, scrolling through endless reams of terrible fanfiction and making the occasional fix to the catalog database gave way to dealing with a parade of terrible strangers, each seemingly grumpier and more esoterically awful than the last. Just last Wednesday, Sammael had been the unfortunate recipient of a disgruntled elf's minor hex, for not knowing where to locate the latest potboilers from Helena Banks - R is for Murder, she couldn't help but think, as the week of never finding a matching sock commenced, was hardly a title that made sense, let alone one worthy of a read. Still, it was better than the surly couple who'd wandered in asking for the Joy of Sex, only to pitch a substantial fit in the lobby when she politely informed them it had been checked out by a succubus some years ago, and new copies had a way of disappearing before they arrived at the stacks.

One can only do so much, after all, when one is four-two on a good day, and one's disgruntled patrons happen to be an ifrit and a human woman whose only claim to the species seemed to be a modest acquaintance with body wash. Modest, mind you, as Sammael's nose was wont to remind her.

There were patrons who weren't terribly unpleasant, though, some days, although they interrupted the flow of smutty delights and comfortable nestling in the Python pit, with its stuffed chair, glowing servers, and cheery plush snake. There was the dwarven family who always returned books on time, and the shy shopkeeper who clearly pined for the slender elf who worked the children's section, his eyes somehow always drifting to the bright corner with its short stacks and plastic elephant chairs, where the object of his desires sang out lines aloud, his tenor far more beautiful than a volume called Everybody Poops deserved.

Elves. Not bad sorts, Sammael reckoned, although she'd hate to tell her grandmother that. The crusty old witch was set in her ways, pontificating from her seat at the ancestral home about how a proper goblin sells and buys, and finds a nice green boy to mate with, and certainly never goes out and does things. Especially not on a Tuesday, when magic was still almost alive again.

And yet... well, there was one gentleman who wandered in from time to time, alternately sunburnt with the whiff of gun oil and sandy dirt along his fingertips, and tired brown eyes that nevertheless sparked when he saw her. Sammael didn't know quite what he did, mind you - his checkouts were as varied as a cookbook from Spain and a stack of works on how to get one's book published, and he sometimes walked with a limp, sometimes with a spring in his step. But he always lingered at the checkout counter, a minute longer than strictly necessary, a faint pink in his cheeks and the usual surety in his perusal of the stacks wavering just a hint when Sammael grinned at him.

His hands were always callused, faint little ridges along the edge of his palm and the crease of his thumb, and a few streaks of gray were already beginning to sprout at his temples, but she couldn't help but notice the looks he gave her. Friendly ones, sometimes. Ones laden with possibility, if she let her mind wander at night, the vision of that day he strolled in in some ribbon-laced uniform, looking harried and asking her conspiratorially if they had any really good podcasts on tap, for a long drive to some geometric building or other, still tingling at her mind.

But that was all silly, after all, sorcery be damned. It's not as if he'd spare a glance, really. Not as if those late-night hammerings at the keyboard, penning lurid tale after lurid tale, in which some dashing warrior, like the days of old, swooped in to whisk her off on an adventure, could actually happen. Not as if the other stuff, with strong hands and a towering, playful gentleman hauling her into his lap and her other entrance onto his generous manhood, were real. Not as if, even, he might step up, next time she was standing on her box at the desk, and ask when she got off, would happen, no matter how mysteriously the prospect pricked at her awareness. She'd certainly not screw up the courage to reply as often as possible, either.

That, you see, would be foolish.

Magic had long since fled the world, after all, and sorceress or no, it was a pleasant fantasy, only that. Miss Sammael Greenbriar was the first of her line to engage in sorcery, after all, and no dashing warrior could make her late-night stories true.

At least, that was what everyone ought to believe. Even when the schedule changed, as it often did, and deposited the rarest of events straight into Sammael's lap:

A shift, of all things, on a Tuesday.

Is this another stab at my love of cute, tiny lasses, goblin or otherwise, and lovingly rough shenanigans with a dorky flavor around the edges? You bet.

But, more importantly, it's a love letter to libraries, of all the wonderful times I've had in them, from little Werewizard's ramblings about the children's section, with those plastic elephants, to the days when I'd pore over the brightly-illustrated tales of adventure and lurid fantasy, to the occasional peek in now, when my hectic schedule permits, to pick up a book or two and wonder what magic, just possibly, might be out there in the stacks.

Kinks: Charming lasses with lovably-fuckable asses, friendly banter, clever partners who don't mind if a gentleman takes a little bit of charge in bed, sloppy lewdness with mad abandon. And, of course, good books, short stacks, and a dash of magic.

- Werewizard