#i’ll add a tag for the au once i draw it more

[groovyskulls]

sun if the pizzaplex started charging rent

[creative-crybaby]

Knots

PAIRING: masseur!Geto Suguru x fem!reader

GENRE: no curses!au | smut (18+)

Minors DNI

TAGS + WARNINGS: fingering, nipple play, semi-public sex/exhibitionism, oral (f receiving), brief masturbation (m), size kink, praise kink, cum eating, light mentions of/brief marking

Let me know if I missed anything.

WORD COUNT: 4.5k

SUMMARY: With so much stress piling up on you, Geto was kind enough to offer you a massage. Unfortunately, no amount of relaxation can distract you from the sexual tension between you and your friend.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: MAPPA can't draw jjk characters like that and expect me not to write smut about em 🙄also: HAPPY NEW YEARS, LOVELIES <3333

© creative-crybaby, do not repost or modify

“Are you sure this is okay?” It’s too late to ask him that, but you couldn’t stop the question from leaving your lips. “I’d hate for you to get in trouble.”

Your face burns as silence follows; you can only thank whatever gods above for him not being able to see your expression.

“I won’t tell if you won’t tell,” he chuckles, and you copy the sound nervously, unsure if he is serious. After a pregnant pause, he adds, “I’m kidding. You have nothing to worry about.” Your peripheral vision catches him moving around you to get to the cabinet. “Consider it a favour from a friend.”

You hear the cabinet door open and shut, and you shift from your spot face down on the table.

“At least let me pay you back somehow,” you press, pouting. 

“That defeats the point of a favour, doesn’t it?” Geto’s footsteps get louder until you catch sight of his shoes from the corner of your eye. There’s another pause, this one longer than the previous one. “Are you comfortable with me unclapsing your bra?” Before you can answer, he quickly continues, “It can stay on like you wanted, I just need the straps out of the way.”

If you aren’t hyping yourself up to take every opportunity to get closer to the masseur, you’re second-guessing your decision to take his offer. Should he follow through with the action, it would only be the beginning of something far more intimate. And you know this. You knew this. Even when Geto first suggested the idea after you opened up about your piling stress and even when you foolishly thought asking Gojo for advice on the offer was a good idea. 

But you’re here now, aren’t you?

“Go for it,” you try to mask whatever uneasiness you can. Gentle fingers tug at the clips at the end of your bra, disconnecting them and allowing the straps to drop. Even with your chest still covered, you feel bare, the cool air tickling the newly exposed area. You have to force yourself from shivering.

“You still like the scent of lavender?” Geto's question catches you off-guard, raising your head from the cushion, not realizing that he recalled such a minor detail. Your silence makes the ravenette turn to you again, offering his easy-going smile. “Or have your tastes changed?”

You nod mindlessly, blinking up at him. “Lavender’s good.”

Geto hums before searching through his cabinet, taking several seconds to find the bottle he was looking for. You rest your head back on the cushion before he can catch you staring.

“I’ll be starting now.” The sound of a bottle cap opening follows your friend’s words. “If you’re ever uncomfortable, don’t hesitate to let me know. Otherwise, just lay back and relax.”

Despite his gentle voice, following his order becomes easier said than done once his large hands come in contact with your back, the oil adding to his skin’s warmth. You bit your lip, the serene scent of lavender reaching your olfactory as the masseur works his magic on your stress. 

You don’t realize how exhausted your body has felt until Geto applies pressure for the first time, and you cringe. 

“Easy, easy,” he soothes, pausing his ministrations once you try to relax your body. “Wow, you are stressed.”

You allow your body to sink further into the table’s mattress when his soft laughter reaches your ears, and you give him the go-ahead to continue. Fingerpads return to your skin, rubbing heavy yet sturdy circles onto your back, untying any and every knot trapping your muscles. You can feel your body fall limp, drowning heavily while at the same time floating into the heavens as every evidence of exhaustion disappears from you. 

Still, even as you try to keep your mind blank and enjoy the moment, you can’t help but notice how much space Geto’s hand takes up on your back. It doesn’t help that they creep up to your neck, more than ready to push the problems away from that area. 

“So,” you trail off, feeling the need to fill the silence rather than embrace it, “You give these massages to Ieiri or Satoru?” 

The ravenette chuckles. “If you’d call the occasional shoulder rub a proper massage, then sure.”

A memory of the four of you at a local diner pops into your head, Shoko telling Geto a shoulder massage was the least she deserved after all the all-nighters she’s suffered through. You giggled, watching the medical student melt under the masseur’s magic touch, ignoring the twinge of jealousy that prodded your mind. 

You quip. “Not even a full-body one? Ieiri’s the one who deserves it the most out of us.”

“Guess she just never has the time for one,” he hums. 

“And Satoru?”

Geto snickers, pausing his actions. You join in on the laughter, a small swell of pride blooming in your chest. 

Your joy is cut short when he resumes the massage, adding pressure to a specific area below the nape of your neck that forces a whimper out of you. You freeze, hoping the masseur didn’t hear it. But with how his hold on you paused, even for just a moment, you couldn’t deceive yourself into believing you were in the clear. 

“Sorry,” you squeak, the warmth from your face expanding to the rest of your body. Could he feel it?

You can hear the smile in his voice. “So tense, aren’t you?”

You don’t miss the octave drop in his voice, biting your tongue. Geto returns to work, his fingers digging into your skin and untying whatever knots your muscles carried for who knows how long. You allow yourself to sigh at the sensation, your brows knitting together from the pressure without the discomfort. 

His hands travel lower, returning to previous areas with added strength until he reaches the small of your back. You try not to tense upon feeling his fingers graze the towel covering your bottom, but you can’t prevent the shaky moan from escaping your lips once his hold shifts to your hips. 

Another pause from him: another apology from you. 

“Nothing for you to be sorry about.” Your friend assures you, though you barely miss the light strain in his tone. “I’ll be working on your legs next, okay?”

You hum lightly, shifting from your spot as he passes what the towel covers. Your thoughts wander before you can put them on a leash, the pang of disappointment from the neglect of that area allowing your imagination to drift. 

Would a massage there even feel good? Geto would undoubtedly find a way, his large hands practically blanketing each cheek. And his fingers—God, they were the stars of the show, finding the spots that needed the most attention and pushing every bit of tension out of your worn-out body. You’re confident his digits would be just as adventurous in other places.

You feel yourself clench around nothing and fear the handsome man above you possibly noticing. Shaking your head, you hope those thoughts fly out like fleas. 

Geto stops. “Too much?”

“Hm?” You snap out of your daze. “Oh, no. I’m fine.”

The masseur’s hands glide up to your upper thighs, and you freeze, his hold remaining in place as he leans closer to your head.

“You don’t have to go through with this if you don’t like it,” he says, his voice calm. “I can return the favour some other way.”

Your body moves before your brain can command it to. Or rather, stop it from doing so. Hastily, you raise your head from the cushion, your upper torso following suit as it twists to face your friend.

“I can take it.” 

Silence. Too much of it for your liking. It has your stomach churning and your heart ramming against your ribs. Maybe it’s the heaviness in your body that follows you getting up too quickly, or your word choice. It could also be how Geto stares at you with parted lips, his eyes on you but not meeting your gaze.

Instead of further embarrassing yourself by speaking, you follow his focus, only to wish you hadn’t. 

Your bra, long forgotten by you, barely hangs onto your body by its straps by your elbows, exposing your back as well as most of your chest. The lavender scent is no longer soothing, the heat on your face is dizzying, and you’d want nothing more than to run out the door if only your legs weren’t practically limp from your friend’s treatment. It doesn’t help that his hold on the back of your upper thighs hasn’t budged. If anything, it’s tightened, his grip making your clit jump.

You suppose you spoke too soon once the warmth of Geto’s touch disappeared from your legs, the masseur having moved to reach for your bra straps to pull them back up to your shoulders before you could process his actions. You blink, eyes trailing up to his face now adorning a rosy hue and soft lips pressed into a thin line. He’s so much closer, his breath barely fanning the top of your head. And if you aren’t forcing your gaze to meet his, you’re impulsively glancing back at his mouth. 

With so much focus on the beautiful man, you don’t catch him slowly but surely leaning in.

The last discernable thing you catch is Geto’s lidded eyes darkening before he presses his lips against yours.

You don’t breathe. You forget to, just like how you leave your mouth slightly agape and your eyes wide open. 

The ravenette pulls away quicker than he’d leaned in, and the corners of your lips twitch downwards. His brows furrow as he looks at you with a brighter flush on his handsome face. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

No. You won’t let him regret his actions, not for your sake. 

The sudden shift in perspective is alarming when, only moments ago, you feared ruining your relationship with your friend. Now, you’re shifting to sit on the massage table, grabbing Geto by his shirt collar, tugging him forward and slamming his lips onto yours. You groan at the impact, relaxing only a second later once he returns the kiss with just as much hunger. 

But he’s still not close enough. His hold remains on your bra straps, making it harder for you to wrap your arms around his neck. It’s the only reason you pull back, locking eyes with him as you place your hands on his. 

“Suguru,” you pant, chest heaving for air as your lids droop. Your following words stay trapped in your throat, the masseur having slid his hold higher up your shoulders to bring you back to the kiss. You squeak, the fervour behind his actions far more evident as his tongue teases your lower lip. He groans into your mouth, his thumbs caressing your skin as you invite him in, eager to have him even closer. 

Your hands are still on top of Geto’s, you remember, and you slide his down your arms while he’s distracted by the kiss. (With how he’s swirling his tongue around yours, you aren’t sure you can call it a “kiss” anymore.)

You pull back hastily, not missing the string of saliva connecting your bottom lips before motioning for him to look down. His sharp eyes do so, blinking out of his haze as he sees how the cups of your bra no longer cover your breasts. You don’t recall when you stopped caring about your face burning like it was on fire, the pride in your chest and lust in your lower belly now the dominant sensations as he looks at you like you’re the most beautiful creature on the planet. 

“Please,” he gulps, an unmissable strain in his voice. “Let me taste you.”

Even after the lewd makeout session, his words left your mouth cotton-dry. You can only kiss him again, guiding his hands to cup your breasts, your bra sliding off your arms. 

When Geto pulls back, his lips reattach to your skin, trailing down your neck to the valley of your mounds. He lightly pushes you to lie down on the table, making yourself comfortable before plopping one of your nipples into his mouth, the other one between his fingers. Your own hands loosen his hair from its bun, the strands falling gracefully onto his broad back. They’re as soft as they look, your fingers streaming through the midnight locks like water past the pebbles in the river. 

The masseur switches his treatment, the other nipple now teased by the grazing of his teeth while his large hand keeps the second breast from neglect. Your body feels hot, and the warmth of his mouth does little to soothe the issue. But with how much you’ve been rubbing your thighs together, you’d hardly consider this a problem now. 

Your hands remain in his hair as Geto continues kissing down your body, stopping just at the apex of your thigh to peer at you with those dark pools for irises. One of his hands removes the towel from your lap, revealing your thin shorts underneath. He tugs at the waistband, silently asking for your permission. Your response consists of your hips rising from the table, and he’s quick to shimmy your remaining clothes off your body, stealing another passionate kiss from you in the process. 

“I want nothing more than to hear every sound I get out of you,” your friend (can you still call him that?) pants, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards and his face flushed as he watches your reaction through hooded lids. You lean in, chasing his lips for another kiss. He stops you with a finger, and you hold back the whine squeaking from your throat. He chuckles. “But I’m going to need you to keep your voice down. Can you do that for me?”

You almost forgot that you’re in a public setting, even with the privacy of a closed door. Geto warmly smiles when you nod, and he lowers himself to face your crotch, helping you shift to let your legs dangle off the table. You find his eyes widening upon catching sight of your bare cunt already drooling your essence. The ravenette exhales shakily before planting a kiss on your clit, making you twitch. Your reaction makes him chuckle, and he licks long strips against your slit, moaning through his languid movements. 

“What was that about being quiet?” You giggle breathily, leaning your weight on your hands. Geto pauses. 

“Sorry, beautiful,” he whispers with a smile, tightening his hold on your thighs. “You taste like a dream.”

You throw your head back as your eyes flutter shut, his words and continued ministrations between your legs setting your body ablaze and your mind blank. It doesn’t help that he’s practically encouraging you to cage him tightly between your thighs, squeezing his head in place as he makes out with your cunt. Your hips grind into his touch, moving in tandem with his soft lips and warm tongue. 

Even with his sensual movements, you can tell he’s holding back, if his tight hold on the fat of your thighs is any indication. Your hips grind into his touch, allowing him permission to feast on you how he’d like, gripping a fistful of his locks for further encouragement. And the masseur seems to have gotten the message, his tongue digging inside you while his nose nudges at your pearl. 

Holding back your sounds of pleasure is already a challenge—warning the handsome male beneath you of your oncoming release doesn’t even seem possible, bottom lip tucked between your teeth as the sensation in your lower belly grows stronger. 

And maybe Geto doesn’t need you to tell him. Or maybe, he’s just so lost in the taste of your essence that he’s decided to wrap his soft lips around your puffy clit and suck, the tip of his tongue flicking at the nub at the same time. Whatever the case, his actions do the trick, your hold on his head tightening as your legs shake while your jaw falls slack. The ravenette doesn’t falter, pushing himself closer to your cunt, his mouth working its magic and creating sounds that would embarrass you if it weren’t for the ringing in your ears.

Coming down from the high, plus the massage, has you losing your hold on yourself. Luckily for you, Geto quickly rises from his spot, catching you by the waist and pulling you into another kiss with a soft groan. Your taste on your tongue and the need for air make you dizzy, but you bring him closer regardless. 

“‘M sorry,” he pants after ending the kiss, his chin shining with your slick. “Just had to show you how good you taste.”

You can only whimper in response, feathering kisses on his lips as you play with his hair. Geto happily lets you, his large hands mapping your torso and thighs as if burning every curve into his memory. 

“Didn’t know this came with the free massage,” you mumble against his mouth, holding back a smile. 

“There’s plenty more where that came from,” he purrs, moving you back down on your stomach like you weigh nothing. You hear the rustling of clothing, and before you can ask him what he’s doing, you feel a weight hovering over your figure. Familiar, large hands splay open on either side of your head while muscular thighs cage your legs in place. “Do you trust me?”

Something pokes your lower back, and you almost forget to answer with the masseur’s hot breath against your ear. You lift your hips to grind against his crotch with a whimper, hoping that’ll be more than enough for him. 

Your actions make Geto laugh, and he teasingly nibbles at your earlobe. “Use your words, darling.”

It doesn’t help that he’s taken his tip to glide across your slit, collecting your juices as a lubricant. You twist your head to face him, one of your hands gripping on the cushion above you as a distraction.

“I’ve been waiting a lot longer for this moment than you know,” you confess meekly, watching as the ravenette’s eyes widen and lips part from your words. “And I don’t think I can keep it up any longer.”

You worry you’ve revealed too much too soon when you’re met with silence. But when that familiar smile and soft gaze grace Geto’s features, the nerves fluttering in your stomach evaporate. 

The handsome male presses a kiss against your temple. “That makes two of us, then.”

With only a few seconds to register his confession, your heart does a doubletake before you feel Geto lead his cock into your heat, his hand gripping yours as reassurance. The subtly painful stretch that follows suit makes you grateful for the gesture, your insides splitting in half as he just keeps going in. Your eyes roll to the back of your head, feeling every vein graze against you. 

The masseur notices, it seems, and he whispers encouraging words in your ear, giving you the occasional kiss on your shoulder.

“There you go,” he drawls quietly, his crotch meeting your ass. “Nice and full, aren’t you?”

You exhale shakily, feeling his strong chest pressed against your back. On rare occasions, when Geto wears tight-fitting shirts, you’re blessed with the sight of his chiselled physique, especially his back, since he can’t catch you ogling. The chance to leave your mark there, like an artist’s signature on a painted canvas, is one you’ve longed for. However, with the knot in your belly ready to snap without having him even move makes you grateful for the current position. Maybe next time you’ll get to see all of him. 

Next time. 

“Can I move, darling?” Geto's breath tickles your skin. “I’m afraid I won’t last too long with how you’re squeezing me.”

The almost boyish giggle he breathes out has your heart rocketing in your ribs. Your affirmation comes out weak, but the masseur hears it loud and clear. He reels his hips back, but it’s when he buries his shaft back into you that you feel your eyes roll back once more. Your jaw falls open, a moan slipping out as he sets a languid yet deep pace. 

“We need to keep quiet, remember?” Geto shushes, his face buried in your neck. “My massages are good, but even outsiders might grow suspicious if you’re too loud.”

His soft laughter mixes with your pleading whine. “You’re not making it easy for me.”

The ravenette halts his movements, much to your dismay. Even with you wiggling your hips, he doesn't budge, and you’re about to ask him about the holdup before he beats you to it. 

“You think it’s easy for me?” The soothing lilt of his voice is long gone, replaced with a low timbre that has you clenching around his girth. “I’ve got you milking me for all I’m worth, and we barely started. What do you think that does to me?”

You feel his teeth graze your skin, making you shiver as you try to regain friction between your legs. Geto's stronger than you, much stronger, and your movements don’t make him budge. 

With a quivering sigh, you prop yourself on your forearms, and he retracts from his hiding spot in your neck. You face him, lids hanging low on your eyes and face warmer than it should be. 

“Show me.”

With a smirk, Geto pulls himself out until only his tip remains before slamming back into you. You choke on a gasp, his pace and strength relentless as his hips slap against your ass, the sounds bouncing off the walls. You can’t even call him out on his hypocrisy as you bury your face into the table, hoping it’ll help mask your cries. 

It doesn’t, of course. But Geto Suguru, ever the gentleman, carefully lifts your head by your neck and, while hovering over you, slams his lips against yours. The position isn’t the most comfortable, but you don’t find yourself complaining as he rams into you, filling you up and moulding your insides into the shape of his cock.

Your eyes don’t know what to do, from squeezing shut to crossing. At one point, you catch the door in your peripheral vision, and the thought of potentially getting caught has you clenching, your hand reaching for the masseur’s bicep and digging your nails into his pale skin. 

Geto grunts. “You trying to make me cum, beautiful?”

His playful tone makes you whine, his pace never faltering as he sneaks one of his hands under you to grope one of your breasts. The toying of your nipple, along with the male’s relentless thrusts, fuels the coil in your belly, and what does the trick is him leaving his mark on your neck. 

With a drawn-out gasp, your body stills, toes curling and tongue lolling out as your pussy convulses. You hardly notice Geto’s strokes growing sloppy, his whispered cursing going in one ear and out the other. Having him lead you to heaven is plenty for you. 

Once you calm down, though, you feel like he’s pulled out too soon. You groan, your ears catching the light sounds of him shuffling from his spot above you, followed by a rapid squelching noise that has you peeking over your shoulder. 

There, in all his naked glory, is Geto stroking his cock, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth and eyes zeroed in on your figure. 

“Shit, shit—” he cuts himself off with a gasp, ropes of cum shooting from his slit and landing on the back of your thighs. The sight alone has you clenching, the need for him inside you arising once more. “Oh, fuck—”

Anyone would grow angry at a mess thrown at them. You’re no different, just worse (the one time Gojo accidentally made you ruin your eyeliner is more than enough proof—the poor fool).

 And yet, having painted your thighs white by Geto, his seed clinging to your oily (and now sweaty) skin, you somehow find yourself falling for him more. 

“Suguru,” you slur, your eyelids fluttering as you allow your body to slump back onto the table. You feel his weight disappear before hearing footsteps grow louder. Through tired eyes, you’re face-to-face with his crotch, causing you to squeak as your upper body jolts up again. 

“Sorry, sorry,” the masseur chuckles, crouching to meet you at eye level. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

The atmosphere returns to the comforting one his work ought to bring, though a part of you finds yourself fidgety. The ravenette wipes away the evidence with a wet towel, and it’s enough to keep you in place and relaxed as he continues to take care of you. 

Once done, he helps you sit up, keeping you steady as your legs dangle off the table.

“I think you fucked the bones out of me,” you croak, and Geto pauses midway from sliding your underwear back up your legs. He laughs a soft, boyish laugh, the melody bringing a smile to your lips and a warmth of embarrassment to your cheeks. “Is this what you had in mind by doing me a favour?”

He pecks your nose before resuming dressing you. “No, but I’m not complaining with the results.”

You hum, and the silence returns as he aids you with the rest of your clothes. 

It isn’t until he’s slipping his boxers back on that you speak again. “You don’t give this kind of special treatment to the others?”

A witless, little joke on your part, though your tone didn’t match. Maybe it was the exhaustion that took charge or a sliver of self-consciousness that needed assurance that you had him all to yourself. Still, you press your lips into a thin line, awaiting his answer. 

“To our friends or my clients?” he inquires, putting on the remainder of his clothes. “Either way, the answer’s no.” When you don’t say anything else, he approaches you, nudging his nose against yours. “Did you want me to?”

Your head snaps up to meet his amused gaze. “No!”

Geto's joking smile eases into a sincere one, his strong arms wrapping around your waist and embracing you. 

“Perfect,” he breathes, pressing his lips to your temple. “Guess that means you’re the only one who gets my special treatment.” A pause, followed by a sheepish giggle. “As long as we do it outside of my job. I’d like to keep it, you know.”

From your position, you peer over his shoulder to where the door stands a few meters away, shut and locked but keeping you in suspense. With heat bubbling in your face, you hide in the crook of his neck. 

“You technically never finished my massage,” you mumble against his skin, your hands tracing any muscle it can reach on his back. Geto pulls back from the hug, jutting his bottom lip as if pondering.

“I suppose you’re right,” he hums before another smile breaks onto his features. “Shall we continue back at my place, then?”

© creative-crybaby, do not repost or modify

[tapwater118]

pinned post jumpscare blauughh

pronouns.cc | strawpage

hiya i’m flower!

i'm plural i think. i (the host) also go by golf ball, GB, gaty, maddie, tap water, tap, captain coinpin (<- silly), etc. queer person on the internet with too many names, check

collectively tap/tap water, she/they, 21 y.o. (individual names/pronouns can be found in the pronouns.cc)

fictkin with a bunch of weird blorbos (if you couldn’t tell from the first part)

i like various things and then will proceed to draw them. big fat bfdi/osc special interest mostly (i am a huge multishipper (based) btw so erm yeah)

feel free to use my art and such as pfps/banners/whatever, just give credit pls

let the record show that i am bad at using social media so uh i am probably a terrible mutual sorry in advance

also if i like over explain something to you please do not take it as a slight against you, i am just autistic (as if it wasn’t obvious)

if ya wanna know more, feel free to shoot up the ask box or dms, i love answering questions. i also like taking requests over asks! just note that it may be some time before i get around to your request

(regarding dms, please come in with something more than ‘hi’. i’m not comfortable initiating conversation with someone im not familiar with.)

(also don’t flirt with me. you don’t have a rat’s chance)

dunno where else to put this but all the stuff you send to my strawpage is posted on @taps-strawpage-sillies so look there!

things you’ll probably see me blabber about/draw at some point:

object shows (particularly bfdi, but i also fw inanimate insanity, hfjone, boto, animatic battle, team room 125, orb, burner, object kerfuffle, love of the s*n, ppt2, itft, and others im probably forgetting) (oh and idfb fear garden tee hee)

mario

kirby

pikmin

undertale/deltarune

pizza tower

fnf

homestuck

fnaf

petscop

horror stuff in general

regretevator

to be expanded once i remember more stuff

(art may be suggestively crude in humor but never nsfw)

(also if you ask i can always add tags to stuff if you have something in particular you want to mute, i dont mind)

i am working on some cool projects i think you should check them out because they are cool:

Occasionally Coinpin: hosted over at @occasionallycoinpin. posting coinpin, occasionally (the main reason you don’t see coinpin content here all that often)

Book Askblog: hosted at @twotonedhardcover, where i pretend to be a gay little novel for shits and giggles

Battle for Hopes and Dreams: a bfdi x undertale au that puts the characters of bfdi in the world of undertale. tagged as “#battle for hopes and dreams”

Competition for Fantasy Retreat: a bfdi swap au that swaps characters’ compositions and parts of their personalities. tagged as “#competition for fantasy retreat”

BfDI 1990: an unfiction reimagining of bfdi as an NES game from 1990. tagged as “#BfDI1990” (unreality content warning for this). please note that this is NOT an ARG, there is no game or puzzle to be solved, it is simply unfiction

Tap’s BFDI D-Side: a bfdi d-side take, where characters’ designs and personalities are remixed for something new and refreshing! (based on fnf d-sides obviously) tagged as “#tap’s bfdi d side”

BFDI Redux: a hypothetical bfdi season 6, featuring many of the tpot rejects as well as underutilized veterans. tagged as “#bfdi redux”

OSC horror content: i like turning the silly blorbos into fucked up evil creatures. general tag is “#FLApasta” but each story has its own separate tag (general content warning for these)

other tags i’ll use frequently i think:

“#asks” all the crud that ends up in my inbox and also some very nice things. it is a mystery

“#yap fest” for general inane ramblings. i say some very stupid things

“#ultra yap fest” for long posts, including rants and character analyses

“#slop tier post” art and other things that are generally below a certain threshold of quality i hold for myself. i’m probably too harsh on myself but oh well

“#word salad yummy yummy” fanfic stuff. im on ao3 and wattpad if ya didnt know

“#top tier post” “#all the day every day” “#one for the ages” posts that i really really like. usually from moots

“#literally me” fictkin id posts. you get it. no you don’t. i don't get it either

“#oiny” wife

[jichanxo]

sooooo... *twirls her hair* how many asks should i send until kuwagami art. jk as well. the real question will be: does it happen often that someone else’s art inspires you? in fandom spaces specifically

well you see it’s like a loyalty card program, every 10 asks or so you get a complimentary kuwagami

just kidding you can just breathe in my direction and I’ll be tempted to draw them. kuwagami blast! (you've caught me on a... just okay art day lol)

(people still like kabedons, right?)

anyway for my actual answer: in terms of direct inspiration, it doesn't really happen much? the last two times i did art directly based on someone else's work is probably this one from this fic, and also that time i drew art of someone else's judgment au. oh! and there's that moriohpsycho art based on this comic! (filthyguts' work is so very. hgngngghh. very good.) nothing else really comes to mind, and when i think of the other things i've been into recently there hasn't been as much opportunity for that to happen...

flex and herds = strong fixation but lmao. almost nobody else made stuff about them. nobody is surprised umineko = surprisingly i don't read much umineko fanfiction? and in terms of illustration, i certainly picked up imagery and indirect inspiration but nothing concrete enough for me to give an example... now that i think about it, i did once draw andromalius from redaction/sunny, but that was years ago, and also mostly because i was acquainted with the writer. ...i don't have that artwork on hand right now death note = didn't really get involved with the fandom + i enjoyed my own ideas well enough! ...i can't recall if i drew long-hair-L art before or after seeing other artists do it. and as for everything else the same kind of reasoning applies. didn't really get involved with the fandom or wasn't really compelled to make art in response to stuff i saw, or i just don't remember anymore.

buuuuuuut if we're opening this up to just... pulling ideas from other people? then yeah, all the time, though that kind of goes without saying when you have a creative hobby. ...it's probably going to be hard to come up with examples of this since it's more ambiguous.

there's uhhhhhh... kuwana listens to nickelback which was a @/four-white-trees invention, wasn't it? (EDIT: and @/overdevelopedglasses!) (not tagging in this post so he doesn't feel obligated to read my big ass ask responses 💀) as of writing this, it's not posted but i did end up making kuwagami art based on a nickelback song so. yknow. there's that LMAO

for sawashiro and arakawa, i do sometimes go reference @/todayisafridaynight 's art to help me with my own. ("how did he draw this part of the suit? oh, like that huh? hmm" <- this kind of thing)

and um. i'm not trying to pander to you (at least not this time), but genuinely it's one of the few examples that come to mind at this moment. but when i was writing my first kuwagami fic, i could feel the influence of the ever-changing on my brain... was turning over some of your ideas there...

you remember this? (you even pointed it out in your comment on my fic, and i should've said something then, but whatever i'm saying it now)

that was absolutely because of this

(obligatory poke at anybody else reading this post that you can read passthroughtime's fic here.)

so, um. yeah. not really sure what else to add to that. pretty self evident i think. (i'm always talking about the ever-changing but i don't think i can overstate the impression it left on me at the time)

anyhow there aren't really any other examples off the top of my head! these are all recent examples so they're not so difficult to recall, but there are probably others i've forgotten...

[clarityroses]

Okay finally doing this cuz boredom (sorry if this sucks idk exactly how to do an intro lmao. Gonna add a meet the artist drawing along with this later):

INTRO TIME :D

Shitpost blog

Writing blog

OC blog

‼️Commision info‼️

They are open!!!

- Hello I’m Clarity (clarityroses_ and claritys_art_things on instagram)

- he/any pronouns

- minor

- gender-fluid and abrosexual

- very multi fandom just like look through featured tags watch me go insane 😔😔

- I do a lot of art

- I went to vidcon 2022, 2023, and 2024‼️ it’s so silly and fun.

- I secretly rp as ro from kotlc on @hunkyhairs-backup but I’m not very active at all shhhhh

Ermm

OK WITH

✅ Using art for pfp or wallpaper or whatever (pfp has to have credit though!)

✅ drawing my ocs or aus. I’d actually love that oml-

✅ tagging me and spamming likes or reblogs

✅ spammy asks

NOT OKAY WITH

❌ Reposting (even with credit)

❌ Any like blatant hate for no reason. Like you’re free to critique and such but I don’t want a negative blog

❌ Homophobia, transphobia, ableism, racism, or any of the other weirdos and rude & angry people of the internet

❌ blank blogs. Add something my guy. I’ll most likely just block them cuz they look like bots 😃

❌ weird like. 18+ blogs. Not just if you’re over 18, I mean specifically THOSE types of blogs. The weird kinky ones or if it says “minors dni” in ur bio don’t follow meeee ew ty

(I’ll probably add more once I remember stuff lol)

Just keep this a nice positive space please 🙃

Feel free to send asks and such, I don’t bite :3

Silly comic thing beginning (old): IT’S GENDERBEND STYLE WOAH

Hazbin Hotel fic that’s currently on hiatus:

Johnnyboy oneshot thingy (Outsiders)

Oceanside is one of my oc stories, tags will be #oceanside #oceanside characters. The otehr story is #other world. You can check #the creatures of my brain, plus any generic #oc tags. I have a separate blog for ocs now.

Character list

Art tag is #clarity’s arts

Rambling tag is #clarity speaks

Asks are #clarity’s asks

Writing tag is #clarity’s ramblings

WIPs are #me when the work is progressing

…

Ahem anyways

Misc. tags are #shitpostss, #wowie a poll, #anon :3, #woahh a video, but I forget to use them a lot

Have a nice day :D

(I’ll edit this as I feel like I should)

[alaskan-wallflower]

i love johnny in the wretched au so don’t mind the yap fest 😭😭

obviously he’s an oneiros. those come from greek mythology (like a lot of these creatures—i’ve always been fixated on greek myths LOL) but they’re basically ‘personified dreams’. i kinda thought that fit him too because he’s the one who dreams of leaving tulsa one day. he’s dream-bound too. so he can visit people’s dreams and he can control dreams too, whether it be someone else’s or his own. he has a waking world and a sleeping world where he basically can just do what he wants…like lucid dreaming but it’s a continued dream.

i decided to base him off squirrels since he’s squirrelly, squirrels are known for escape and he just seems like a squirrel to me lol-i know Tulsa is hone to eastern grey squirrels, eastern fox squirrels and southern flying squirrels so once i do more research i’ll be able to tell what breed i’m gonna base him off of…squirrels communicate non verbally with their tails too and i thought that was smth cool i could add lol-his front teeth never stop growing either so he gnaws on wood and stuff to keep them short. theyre a teeny bit longer than the rest of his teeth too. squirrels can also sense food a foot deep in snow and johnny is built for survival sooo that’s another reason he’s based around squirrels lol

Speaking of squirrels, he has two squirrel companions-Alora and Almos. Alora regulates good dreams and takes away nightmares (Johnny can do that too but sometimes they tag team) and Almos regulates nightmares. The three sometimes just perch on powerlines at night. They can kinda sense when someone’s having a bad dream so he’ll send Alora off or he’ll just go on his own. He always sends Alora to Dally and Pony especially because he knows they’re prone to nightmares. I kinda based Alora and Almos off of alebrijes? like idk how to describe them, i have a vision but ill have to draw it out-

Also I’m not sure if Johnny’s adopted by humans or if he was just raised by some really crappy Ethereals—but he was alone for his Binding Ritual, which is why he has Alora and Almos with him.

I have a lot of thought (also my inbox is empty so uh……👀)

[fnf-beyond]

Hello and welcome to my first au I ever came up with in the FNF fandom!

First up are some rules about what you can and canNOT do with my art.

1. You cannot steal, trace, modify, or otherwise edit my artwork in any way shape or form.

2. You cannot repost my artwork to your blog, or ANY other platform you own/run in any capacity (like Pinterest or Twitter). That counts as stealing, even if you give credit for it. I did not give you permission to do so and I never will. If you would LIKE for me to post my art somewhere else (Twitter and Insta and those apps are an immediate “no” as I don’t have them and never will), all you have to do is ask. I will most likely say yes.

3. If you wish to use my art as a profile picture or a banner (unless you’re “yourlocalcostplayer/theunicorngirl6109”, you’ve lost this privilege completely), you MUST give credit to me, and put it as the *first thing* in your Bio/About Me so it’s easily seen.

4. If and ONLY IF I make a base that I (and ONLY I and @starified-lizzy- as that’s my main) label as “free for you guys to use” (once again, THEY lost this privilege), you can use it without asking, HOWEVER you MUST give me credit for making the original base, and link it back to the original post.

5. If I start a DTIYS (Draw this in your style), you can join without asking! However you must follow Rule 1 completely in that; you CANNOT trace over my art while doing so. It has to be done completely on your own (hence the name; Draw this in YOUR style. Not mine). Trust me, I can tell if you trace my shit, because I know my style. You don’t. And when you post it to your blog, make sure you credit me for starting the DTIYS.

6. Don’t try to sell my art (like try to get money from it). That’s yucky and gross and you need serious mental help if you do this.

Onto the actual au stuff!

Here are some things regarding names to keep in mind for this au;

Boyfriend’s name in this is Blue

Girlfriend’s name in this is Sophia

BB, from the VS Big Brother mod, is named Navy in this.

Blue’s mother is named Indigo in this.

Spirit’s human name was Sebastian.

Corrupted Blue when he just kinda… shows up, when we get to that arc, is referred to as C.

Server for au!!

The rough timeline for this au, without spoiling, is as follows:

1. A written version of the original game, that fits with this au (no singing or beep boops for the entire story- tho Blue does ‘beep’ when startled).

2. Corruption era, starting off extremely similar to PhantomFear’s mod, before it diverts into my own version of the story after Nexus Pico.

3. A bit of… interesting things regarding the Corruption Era

4 & 4.5 are no longer happening. Maybe in a oneshot or something I’ll write it how I originally viewed it, but it won’t be canon.

5. Wrapping up the story with some lore “explaining.”

6. Technically not an arc, but any mini stories I feel like adding over time, and some other things like- wrapping up other character’s personal problems that I didn’t get to in the main story.

I will plan on updating this story with at least two chapters per month. I can’t promise any more than that, as writers block hits hard and fast, and I can’t control it. (Plus also I have work and college all week, with only one day off normally).

Here are some tags you can use to tag any fanart you make!

Some of the more generic tags you can use are #fnf au, or #fnf corruption au, paired with any of the fanart tags you see fit to use.

A specific one you can use to really single it out (which I will also add to every canon thing for this au after I post this) is #Star’s FNF au, or #Star’s corruption au!

#au things, #fnf au thoughts, is a tag I use for rants about this au.

#chaos quartet things, is for any posts regarding Spirit, C, Soul, and Blue in any degree, whether it be art, memes, or info dumps.

#trouble trio, is for any posts with Spirit, C, and Soul ONLY. Blue is not included in this.

Here is a link to the very start of the fic!

I hope you guys all enjoy your time here! I want this to be a safe space where we can just geek out over our little critters of characters and bounce ideas and headcanons off of each other without being judged!

(don’t be weird about any of it though, like no NSFW stuff. That stuff can make literally anyone uncomfy, so don’t. This isn’t the place for your… fantasies.)

[flipppyflopp]

Hi your sebcroc au is so stinkin cute it do be making my eyes a lil misty! I saw someone mention the idea of a plush and I was wondering if you could post his angles and measurements? I’ve made a few (amateur) plushies in the past but I’d like to try my hand at making one of him!

I’m so honored that you would like to attempt making a Sebcroc plush!! That’s so sweet of you and makes me want to cry 😭 Please, please, please tag me once you finish and if you decide to post, and feel free to message me any questions you have as you go and to show me the final product!!! You are so kind! 💕

Hopefully this helps! I’ll make some more notes down below to explain some parts of Sebcroc’s design. As for the size, it’s really up to you and how big you’d like to make him because in the Sebcroc canon he was a small baby when we first see him, probably like eight inches. By the time he gets to NRC he’s probably more like 24 inches long…maybe bigger? I honestly never thought his size once he gets to NRC, but the baby size I have considered and based on real crocodiles 😅

Design notes:

Eyes: Sebcroc’s eyes are located on the side of his head. When I draw him from the front I usually draw the eyes just for the sake of the audience as he would look odd without the eyes in my drawings. But his eyes are on the side of his head as shown in the side profile! I usually add a little white spot to add some shine to his eyes.

Body: As for the body, he’s pretty rectangular through the head and it kinda slopes down towards his body and rear end. He does have an underside belly that’s slightly darker than the rest of him. His tail and hair piece/scale? on top of his head are lightning shaped to mimic Sebek’s iconic hair piece. The piece has a thickness to it, it’s not just flat. It’s probably and inch or two thick which causes it to flop a little and makes it cute when he wags his tail. It’s also got a curve to it which causes me to shade it to follow the bends of it.

Outfit: Just like Grimm, Sebcroc has a white and black ribbon with his magestone attached to it. As he is in Diasomnia, his magestone is bright green. Unlike Grimm with a bow, I usually draw him with a simple ribbon collar as Sebcroc doesn’t want to look cute, he wants to be intimidating as Malleus’s guard

Colors: For the colors, I just pull right from Sebek’s sprite. He is mint green with a darker underbelly and I included the colors I use on the reference.

I hope that all makes sense…but if you, or anyone else, have questions about his design, feel free to message me or leave something in my inbox! I can’t wait to see what you make! 🐊

[askteikoku]

Welcome to Teikoku.

F.A.Q.

🐧 Q: What is this blog about? This blog is about Teikoku Team from Inazuma Eleven so I can share my love for them. A mix of an Art Blog focusing on Teikoku and an Ask Blog where you can ask the boys (and Haruna) whatever you want to know! ⚽ Q: What Canon does it follow? This blog follows the Canon of OG and Go, but it's a semi-au since Kidou went back to Teikoku after the FFI tournament and Haruna moved with him. Time to time there’ll be special events with them as High Schoolers with some other characters. 🐧 Q: So, who are the characters I can ask about?  First years: Haruna, Narukami and Doumen. Second years: Fudou, Kidou, Sakuma, Genda, Sakiyama, Henmi and Ookusu. Third years: Jimon, Banjou, Gojou, Oono and Ena. [Ookusu and Ena are reserves from Teikoku, but I especially love these two so I decided to add them!] ⚽ Q: But in Ares Jimon, Banjou, Gojou and Oono are the same age as the others.   I know, but I can’t see them as second years as they look older, even like adults. As it’s a semi-au they’ll be a year older. Also it’s funnier with more age range. 🐧 Q: Is Kazemaru in this Teikoku?  As this follows OG with a little difference, Kazemaru isn’t in Teikoku but in Raimon.  ⚽ Q: How many asks can I send? You can send as many as you want! The more the merrier. 🐧 Q: What can I ask? Anything related to Teikoku Gakuen Team, you can ask from one’s favorite color to something deeper like what are their goals in life. The limit is the sky! You can also ask about my opinion about something Teikoku related, although this isn’t so interesting.

⚽ Q: Did I need to ask everyone about something? No, you can send an ask to one character only. 🐧 Q: Can you draw…? Is it Teikoku related? If it’s, then sure! Just ask whatever you want, but be sure that it follows the rules, you can find them below. They’re not a lot but read them, especially if you want something shippy, because I’m not multishipper so I won’t draw anything about a ship I don’t like. But you can ask characters being friends because friendship is magic. ⚽ Q: What are the ships this blog supports? First of all, the main idea of the blog isn’t shipping but sharing my love of Teikoku Team with the World, especially characters that deserve a lot more. Once this is said, I support these ships: ♥KidouxFudou ♥GendaxSakuma ♥SakiyamaxHenmi ♥NarukamixOtomura ♥ShinobuxHaruna [I also like KogurexHaruna] ♥OokusuxEna

If you don’t like them it’s fine, you can ask whatever you want not shipping related! And you can block the tag of the ship you don’t like.

Rules.

•No hate. Neither to me or any of these boys (or Haruna). •I’m not a multishipper so don’t force other ships in this blog. If you don’t like my ships it’s fine, everyone has different tastes and this is part of the beautiful of the fandom, but don’t come here to harass me for what I like or try me to convince that there’re “better options”. •If you want to follow me but don’t want to see art of a ship, you can block the tag. •I don’t mind being remembered about an ask/request if it’s taking a lot, but be polite. And that’s all.

Art Requests Rules.

•You can request anything Teikoku related. •I won’t do anything gore or too out of character. •If the request makes me uncomfortable somehow I’ll tell you so you can change it or I’ll decline it. But I don’t think it’s easy to happen. •Be patient.

That’s all too.

Tag List:

General: 🐧So speak Teikoku, for Asks to Teikoku. 🐧OP Talk, for me talking about something Teikoku Related or asks about my opinion about something. 🐧Art Request, for well, you can say, art requests. 🐧Teikoku Art, for art not related to asks.

Ships: ♥KdFd, for KidouxFudou ♥GenSaku, for GendaxSakuma ♥SakiHen, for SakiyamaxHenmi ♥NaruMura, for NarukamixOtomura ♥ShinoHaru, for ShinobuxHaruna  ♥KoguHaru, for KogurexHaruna ♥EnaSu, for EnaxOokusu

[I’ll be updating depending on the necessity.]

[nobodysdaydreams]

1, 5, 32 and/or 71 for the ask game! Hope you’re doing well, don’t forget hydration and sleep!

At long last I am beginning to clean out the inbox. Thank you Katie for the hydration tip and for the asks!

(1) Do you prefer writing one-shots or multi-chaptered fics?

This is a hard one to answer. One shots (I consider anything less than 20k words a one shot because I have a problem, and I don’t think I can write real one shots😔), are easier in that they don’t take as long, and I can get the idea out, show you all my story, and get feedback relatively quickly. However, once a one shot is written, it’s written, and then it’s back the drawing board to come up with new ideas. Whereas with really long multi chapter fics, the idea keeps going, there’s always something new to think about, another “one shot” or character moment or twist to weave into the story, and I love seeing your reactions and how invested different people get into different subplots and storylines. What is frustrating about multi chapter fics is that there’s a lot of delayed gratification involved for me and for you as the reader, because I have twists and ideas in SOS that I want to show you and talk about and I can’t yet, because we’re not there yet, whereas for something like the Martina Redemption fic, it’s technically a multi chapter fic, but they’re short chapters, and I wrote it all over a long weekend. Whereas I’ve been writing SOS since January and rotating the idea for it since before I even got a tumblr so… yeah that’s over a year now dang. So I’d say multi chapter fics, with the acknowledgment that there is probably a balance to be had somewhere in between the two extremes. SOS is a lot of fun to write, but I don’t think I could commit to writing another huge multi chapter fic at the same time, whereas it’s a lot easier to balance multiple wips when they’re one shots.

5. Do you like constructive criticism?

Interesting question. About my writing or in general? For my writing I’d say yes, but so far I haven’t gotten any. Which might be a good thing, although I did say when I first started writing fic, “hey I’ve never done much or any creative writing before, so if you have any feedback on things I can improve, please let me know”, but I haven’t gotten anything yet so I guess that means I’m doing okay? At least I hope. As for criticisms of myself or my blog in general, I’d accept constructive criticism on that too, as long as it’s worded nicely and doesn’t trigger my RSD.

32. Name three of your favorite fanfic writers.

Ah, fishing for compliments I see /j /lh. But please do not make me choose so many of you are so good! I want to tag every fic author in the fandom, and yet I’m so paranoid I’ll forget just one or two people and would never forgive myself. So besides you @myfairkatiecat (obviously), I’ll say the authors whose stuff I’ve read the most recently: @sophieswundergarten (for her amazing Sticky fic I seriously cannot hype that one up enough), @phtalogreenpoison (the Reynie is Curtain’s prodigy AU is incredible), and @heyitsthatonesmolgay because I am waiting on the edge of my seat for the greatest fear AU it sounds so good (check out snippets here and here)!

71. When it comes to more complicated narratives, how do you keep track of outlines, characters, development, timeline, etc. ?

Very good question. For my longer stuff, I start with the scenes and moments I have pinned down in my head that inspired the fic, bullet point the scenes in chronological order, and then write in the details that go in between and ideas for how to get from bullet point A to bullet point B and how I can write in additional “one shots” or impactful and interesting character moments to make those transitions seem less like plot filler and more exciting and fun to read and have it add something to either the characters or the story. Then when I’ve already written part of my fic, I still try to keep track of unfinished plot threads, cliff hangers, or things I plan to explain later (e.g., What happened with Sticky’s parents? Where did Isaac and Lindsey go? What’s up with Miss. Perumal’s past?). As for the characters, I do try to take the time to flesh out minor characters, because you can do that a bit more in a novel vs. tv format, but I also try to make sure I keep the main characters interesting and don’t create an unbalanced plot. I’ve talked about this before, but an unbalanced plot happens in a lot of shows where a few characters have these big mysteries that the whole fandom is super involved in and then these other main characters either end up with filler or their character development gets backtracked and rerun because they don’t know what to do with their storylines (this was one of my season 3 worries when season 3 was gonna be a thing and you can click the link to read more if you’re curious). I try to make sure all the main characters get some focus, and I also do that by letting some characters establish themselves before I start writing about other ones. For example, in SOS, that started as mostly Curtain and his friends, I establish a sense for their dynamic, and then Nicholas and his friends came into the story, and I’m slowly bringing more focus on Rhonda and Number Two, and as I’m going into season 2 I plan to write a lot more with Number Two especially, because of all the time she spends with Curtain and Nicholas in the compound.

I hope this answered your questions and thank you so much for the amazing asks (and yes, I will be drinking water). I hope you have a wonderful day! 🥰🥰🥰

[dreaming-colourful-skies]

Hello again 👋

I am... not sure if a mass exodus to Tumblr is happening? Or if any of my mutuals from years ago are still active? 😅

If anyone cares and/or if I ever, like, relaunch this acct, lil fandom update &... context statement I guess! 

It’s getting long so I’ll hide it behind a “Read More”. But if you’re hemming and hawing over a follow or have a weird “you shipped that??” moment then feel free to take a look!

(And welcome to my page 🎉)

Past: FMA & Brotherhood

I stand by my older writing, at least to the extent you can see your old stuff without cringing too hard ahaha.

That said, I wouldn’t say I currently ship this pairing. Their fanon interpretation is in my memories fondly, especially from certain authors, but I’ll be honest, the ship did not occur to me while I was watching the show itself. I think part of the beauty of fandom is that transformative aspect, and I did appreciate experiencing the anime and manga in a new way through fanfiction.

I never set out to ship somewhat “problematically”, stumbling into it as FMA’s most popular Ao3 ship at the time. For my own writing, I consistently made it clear that Ed was an adult (like, at least 20), maybe Roy younger if an AU, and adjusted things like employment context to minimize power imbalances, because that was important to me.

Can people ship them in different ways, incl. age gap, boss/employee, etc.? Sure! I’m not out here to judge and don’t really want to touch that, tbh. It’s important to me that we can all create fandom in the ways that are meaningful to us, tag, curate our own experiences, and mute or click away as preferred, but I’m also too sensitive to dive properly into Discourse around these things (I mean, I’m out here creating soft bantery fluff hahaha) so that mismatch was a bit of a deterrent. Nuance is difficult online, and often in short supply.

Leaving was a weird combo of fandom getting quieter, inspo leaving me, and I guess life stuff. Tl;dr I’m pretty “ship and let ship” and against harassing any creators, but my own take was gentle and if it makes anyone comfier, I did want to add that context!

Little did I know that I would later stumble into a whole different arena of “don’t call me short, bastard!” exchanges.

Past: Carry On

My time in this fandom was fun! Ngl, there was no issue or major reason for leaving; I simply read the second and third books, once the third was out, and lost inspiration. 😅 What can you do?

CQL/MDZS, HQ

These fandoms are still dear to me, but I didn’t end up creating content for them for a couple of reasons. Perhaps someday if it makes sense!

Bungou Stray Dogs

It’s been... idk, eight months of BSD obsession? Six months writing it on Ao3 (Colourful_skies), in any case! If I do move back to Tumblr, I’m sure you’ll hear more. As of now, I’ve published ~65k in that time, which is... hard to compare, I suppose, but a high rate for me personally! I don’t know if that will continue, but at this point, I hope so. More recently I’ve attempted a bit more engagement w others, which has been fun.

In short, Soukoku and especially Chuuya have my heart, and I also really appreciate Sigma. I tend to write soft skk, fluff, and introspective fics, but mentioning that simply for context; I prefer to follow wherever inspiration leads me. Analysis is also v fun, including drawing connections with BSD authors’ works and making non-BSD poems or songs about skk/Chuuya, but idk if I would post about these topics here.

Moving forward, I hope to continue to work on my craft and brainrot over BSD & fandom with other lovely people, until my inspiration or mental wellness (?) lead me elsewhere.

Thanks for visiting my page! 🌻

[valiant-portabella-pirkko]

Timey’s Great Big Pinned Post of Everything

[   she/her | writer/artist | 29 | IGN (NA) Timey.6853  ]

just another friendly local aro-ace salad enthusiast

Hi yes hello, welcome to Timey’s Guild Wars 2 blog where I post about Guild Wars 2 and basically nothing else. Expect a lot of salads, a lot of Living World 1, and especially a lot of Scarlet Briar. Sometimes I draw or write things, too. Mostly I just yell my meta commentary of questionable sanity into the void, though. Y’know how it is. Scarlet stole my last remaining brain cell and adamantly refuses to give it back.

I’m always happy to chatter with folks! Feel free to drop by anytime; I can be a little slow to respond at times, but I really love exchanging theories and ideas and hearing about obscure or interesting details people have found! Give me ALL of the lore. Tell me about your favorite characters. Ramble about OCs. For real, I love to hear all the things okay; don’t worry about being mutuals, either!

DISCLAIMER: This isn’t a place for bigotry, drama, or rudeness though; nobody’s got time for that. Terfs, racists, ableists, and all such things get blocked on sight out here. Hate of any form will never be welcome, period.

With that out of the way, I’ll include some helpful navigation links and summaries of my various AU projects below the cut! Feel free to take a peek if you want. I’ll gradually add more stuff over time, too.

The Handy Dandy List of Links

My Posts

Reblogs

My Art

My Fics

Regrowth AU

Portabella Pirkko - Tag

Harbinger Saoirse - Tag

“Lost But Not Forgotten”

“A Garden of Memories”

Flourish AU

Ceara the Defiant - Tag

Dragonheart Pirkko - Tag

Saoirse the Flame - Tag

Pact Admiral Mai Trin - Tag

Tideturners AU

The Sidewinder - Page | Tag

Grand High Sovereign Ruju - Tag

       1: “Red Alert”

Timey’s AU Collection, in Summary

Regrowth AU: What Would You Do For a Second Chance?

Even Elder Dragons have limits. And as it happens, a being whose power relies on life has no hold on the realm of the dead. In the Domain of the Lost, a spirit awakens for the first time in many years. For a time, she spends her penance leading those that her actions sent to their graves too early-- but that would never be enough to satisfy Scarlet Briar. It’s too slow. Too tedious... Too boring. And she isn’t prepared to spend all of eternity tending to spirits who hate her for choices she never would have made of her own volition.

So when a stranger reaches through the Mists seeking her guidance and her power in a new alliance, Scarlet accepts-- and finds her spirit anchored to a rather unconventional ex-mordrem revenant. But the world has changed a great deal in her absence, and thanks to their new goal... It’s about to change a whole lot more. They’re both going to make quite sure of that.

Tyria isn’t the only thing that’s going to change, though. Ceara hasn’t been herself in a long, long time... And now, without the dragon’s influence crushing her sense of self, she’s finally free to rediscover the person she should have been. Maybe there’s still time to reclaim her legacy after all.

If she can avoid almost destroying the world (again), that is...

Flourish AU: What If One Choice Could Change the World?

Sometimes all it takes is a few words in the right place at the right time... A moment of solidarity that by all rights, never should have happened. But the Dream works in mysterious ways, and as echoes rippled across the Mists from distant worlds, it learned of a different future and an unexpected outcome. All it took was a single, subtle nudge to set the ball rolling, and so it did.

On that fateful day in the Grove, Caithe never would have thought to ask the inquisitive sylvari what she was working on. But, just this once, the Dream did.

Curiosity was repaid in kind. A repaired healing device was left in the infirmary, its Secondborn donator unspoken but well-known. Beginning to recognize the value of Ceara’s peculiar research, others began to quietly peek at the budding scientist as she worked. And while she might never have been a social butterfly, the acceptance warmed her heart of ice into something far softer. She didn’t have to choose between her dream and the Dream. And even if she left the Grove far behind... Perhaps she didn’t have to cut it off entirely.

And that was all she’d ever truly needed; the opportunity of choice.

Ceara never left the Dream, not entirely. She listened to its advice, following when it suited her and forging a unique path all her own. She became not an engineer, but a thief, following in the footsteps of her new mentor. When Saoirse needed her advice, she was still in the Grove to provide it. The world changed, slowly but surely, one altered life at a time.

The Dream’s grand design came to pass. Three champions would rise like stars, facing the dragons together. Heart, Mind, and Soul... Pirkko, Ceara, and Saoirse, from the Priory, Whispers, and Vigil. A bold new future awaited-- a future where the horrors of Scarlet’s Alliance would never be known, for there had never even been a Scarlet Briar to lead it.

But the greater their success, the lusher their world...

And the higher the flames would burn when it all ignited.

Tideturners AU: What Happens When There is No Hero?

Mai Trin wasn’t born to be a hero. That was supposed to be Ruju’s job. He was the one who would become the Commander, leading unlikely alliances to victory time and time again to save his world from the draconic plight. He was strong, and relentless, and brave, and intelligent. He was always meant to be a leader.

But his heart was just as cold and dead as the biomechanical minions he commanded in battle, and the future he would create was not a kind one.

He was invited aboard Scarlet’s Alliance, but this would prove a deadly error; Commander Ruju made no differentiation between a willing dragon minion and a rebelling one. Scarlet Briar was claimed by his blade in the dead of night, and the rest were left with a brutal choice: fall in line, or share her fate. Mai, realizing this was no longer the alliance she had once believed in, took her Aetherblades and fled into the Mists.

But the Grand High Sovereign’s rampage did not end. He blazed a devastating trail of bloodshed across the Tyrian continent, wiping away all that dared stand in his path. With every fallen foe, his army only continued to grow. Dragons were crushed by brute force, and magic poured into the increasingly unstable fabric of reality. With every passing day there was less left to save.

Mai Trin wasn’t born to be a hero. She never would have chosen that role for herself-- and whether that was what she became would be debated by many. But she was meant to be a leader, and if Ruju would not be the one her Tyria needed, she was the only one left who could. Alliances were forged, civilians were evacuated, and a mask was donned; she was no longer Mai Trin. She was the Sidewinder, and their hidden Turnabout deep in the Mists would offer a second chance to those who had nowhere else left to go. As the years passed, it became the stuff of legend, a tale of hope and renewal even in the face of impossible odds.

Their world is long-gone now, nothing but haunted memories in the minds of those precious few who escaped alive. But the Tideturners remain, one last refuge against a Commander who decided the world wasn’t worth saving. He won’t save them, so they’ll save themselves instead.

“We're the Tideturners, and we won’t be washed away.”

[mossy-paws]

✨Introduction✨

Deciding to add some information as well as update this a bit as it’s a tad outdated! (Update part 9! Updating interests, recent art, fixing mistakes, and more!)

💜 Some starter info!

• I go by (in order of preference): Cro/Mossy.Paws (or just Mossy)/Marine/Ocean; and if I know you in real life, you can call me Sea!

• I am an Aceflux potential-lesbian! I also use Any pronouns!

Current Fandoms/interest’s list: Phighting!, Neon Genesis Evangelion, SOMA (2015), Transformers, The Mandela Catalogue, Vocaloid, The Magnus Archives, regretevator, lethal company, little nightmares, Hollow knight, rainworld, Spider-Man, Warrior cats, life series, PRESSURE, Dungeon Meshi, Parkour civilization, Just Shapes And Beats, ULTRAKILL, etc. (If you ask me or talk to me about any of these I will cry tears of joy /silly) (these aren’t listed from most to least interested also! I love all of these equally)

minor (14-17 age range)

Comms: Open for discord nitro and robux! (DM me here or at ^-Mossy.Paws-^ on discord for extra information!)

Asks: Open (read below for permissions)

Instagram: The_OceanCat

Twitter: Mossypawsss

Pinterest: Mossy.Paws (Important note: I rarely post to Pinterest, I only post on Pinterest to avoid my art getting stolen.)

Strawpage, just if you wanna send me any fun doodles and stuff :3!, it will be updated later! https://mossypawssspage.straw.page

Artfight link: https://artfight.net/~Mossy-Paw

Feel free to use my art for profiles and or banners! It’s a little preferred that you ask first via dm’s/comments/reblog’s but honestly I don’t mind :DD! Just make sure to credit me if you do! It’ll make my day for sure ^^!

I have tags I use now! :DD! Here they are

#Cro chatter (used mainly for when I’m just chatting/reblogging stuff/etc)

#Friend art (used when reblogging stuff by close friends)

#Phighting! Magnus Archives au (This Tag is used for my most recent Wip of a crossover Au or TMA x PHIGHTING! Currently on major hiatus as I must focus on other interests and personal life.)

Any art tags or fandom related tags explain themself ! I also use #Not my art a lot as well!

• I only have like one irl friend who follows me on here and most likely you have seen her harass me in my reblog’s or askbox,,, please ignore our shenanigans we are not normal /silly /love ya Rosa 💖

• An important note: I do not have a reblog only account, this is my only account, and its used for pretty much everything (My art, reblog’s, talking, etc, if you would prefer to only see art I recommend blocking the #Cro Chatter tag as I attach it to all of my askbox replies (minus requests)

‼️Commission Info:‼️

✨ My commission’s are OPEN!

• I take payment in form of Discord Nitro (NOT BASIC), and Robux!

• If interested, please dm me for prices, questions, and more! I’ll be sure to give you a full rundown of what I can draw, my rules, etc!

• Please figure out what you would like in full detail BEFORE contacting me. Any extras or whatnot that may be concerns/curiosities/or whatever though I am happy to answer questions or inquire about!

• If you are unsure but have a basic idea, I can also help you out with that as well!

My commission carrd: (Only covers prices for Robux comms!)

✨ My Askbox (OPEN)

✅Open ❌Closed ❎Tentative

✅/❎ Requests (This really just depends on what the ask is about, if it’s for my aus then it’s most likely a yes, if it’s just a misc art request or what not then it’s a 50/50). I am unfortunately pretty wrapped up in personal art most of the time, but I will try to answer an art request every once in awhile here.

❎/✅Talk to me

✅✅Ask about my Oc’s/Au’s/etc (always yes with this one I will be INCREDIBLY happy!)

✅Ask about my HCs

❌OC Requests (Usually no)

❄️ Read Before Asking

I'll delete asks I'm uncomfortable with.

NO nsfw or suggestive, you’ll be blocked and reported as I am a minor with no tolerance for that.

Requests will open and close as needed, and I will let you know when they open again!

I will try to get to every request, but it may take it a bit since I’m a full time student who has a life outside of art and social media lol

Some asks I may take longer to respond to than others (sorry to the poor soul who asked for a sleepy catshot doodle back in fucking DECEMBER 2023 you’ll get your catshot soon I swear 😭)

‼️Disclaimers

Do not steal, trace, copy, or claim my art to be yours, certain things like designs for canon characters and stuff I’m fine with you taking inspiration from (!!ASK FIRST!!), or using with credit (a small note, I am completely fine with you using my designs as long as you credit me! If anything, I appreciate it very much that people like them enough to do so :3!)

Proshippers, homo/transphobes, mean or generally gross people DNI‼️ it’s also preferred that if you have NSFW/highly suggestive stuff/or fetish content on your account that you don’t follow me, as I tend to check the profiles of people who follow me and I don’t want to see that (I would also prefer my parents do not see that if they were to ever check my account LOL)

Please don't make highly suggestive or NSFW comments towards me, my oc’s, or characters, you’ll be blocked if you do so; I am relatively alright with very minor and safe suggestive stuff from friends, but even then if it’s art related, please confirm if it’s alright with me. Very close friends get a slight pass with this as long as it’s in good fun and safe, but if pushed I will not tolerate it and will give you a warning.

I’m still learning how to use this website so please be polite and patient with me :’>

If you draw fanart of my OCs, AUs, or Headcanons, please tag me!! I absolutely love to see fanart and it makes my day! :DD!

‼️Important note: my blog will sometimes contain art that has blood, gore, violence, bright colors, horror media, etc. These WILL be put under spoiler tags though, but a lot of the older ones are not, so please be careful! (A note, I don’t tend to draw stuff like that too often unless you count my TMA au, so no need to worry about it too much!)‼️

⭐️ Extra information about me

• I am a young minor with diagnosed autism, adhd, and ocd, I also have slight social anxiety, so please, PLEASE be patient with me, as I can have trouble communicating, understanding things, or coming up with responses

• Never be afraid to approach me about anything, although I’m a bit nervous talking to new people, I adore making new friends, just please don’t be weird, if you make me outright uncomfortable I will most likely block you.

• For fanart and such, feel free to contact me about it if you need ideas, permissions, reference images, or need to know anything important!

• I’m a full time school student and can be relatively busy, I also have notifications off on all platforms, so I may be slow to respond if you dm me or try to contact me.

• I’m a huge nerd and absolutely love talking about my interests, but if I ever get too excited or overbearing, never be afraid to just tell me to take a chill pill or calm down, I can promise you I will not be angry! Communication is key with me since I can have issues understanding others, if I’m ever too much to handle, just say it! I’ll greatly appreciate it as it helps me to grow and be a better person ^^!

• If you talk to me about my interests I will be the happiest soul alive, I am INSANE about my hyperfixations and love love LOVEEEE talking about them

Here’s the link to my Carrd!

(it also includes commission rules and such!)

[keylimester]

Character Guide-

Axel: my character in a story i write for my friends. (they all have their own characters) yes hes a cat boy. sometimes hes not. its confusing.

Elise: from the same universe! she has spider eyes and short blond hair (unless its an au)

Elias: from the same universe in a sort of prequel story. part of a group of scientists called group 226, often wears safety goggles

James: also from group 226! has a FUCK ASS PENCIL MUSTACHE CHAT BOO THIS GUY

Edwin: i did not choose the furry life, my friends chose it for me. but i like my funky moose guy. yes hes green. its cause of the weed.

Limester: it’s how i tag art of me/my persona

Javel: the second character in a story i write for my friends (i write this one with my boyfriend). he’s an elf with green hair and an upbeat personality.

Angelo: i sometimes draw him and Javel together because it’s my boyfriend’s character in this story. he has purple hair.

Isaac: another character made by a friend in this story! he has grey hair and red glasses, also funky shirts.

Chester: also another character made by a friend in this story. he has wings but i try to avoid drawing them cause im lazy.

Tic-Tac: a robot character for a story my dnd group is making. hes like your stereotypical adhd hacker character and an adrenaline junky. goes by the alias SL1M3 online.

Ethan: Tic-Tac’s roommate! works as a bodyguard and bounty hunter and is WAY COOLER. tends to wear a teal beanie and orange and black jacket. goes by the alias Ace.

Synth: technically just my minecraft skin. tv head because i thought it was cute. he lives in a pc because i built one. which took forever.

Keith: a chemist and astronaut! has mid length green hair (i like green.) and wears nicer suits and turtlenecks.

Anthony: yet another friend universe character. hes canonically getting some monster dick. while being a dick.

Ambro: my monster hunter character! hes got red hair and a beard. hes a hammer main, i refuse to learn any other weapon.

Josh: more. friend. universe. characters. hes seen The Horrors. hes got a dead mom. hes bisexual. tends to wear a hat, sunglasses, and has a neck tattoo.

Carneus: culty bastard. i made him to fuck a friend’s oc. we do what we gotta do brothers. he has an eyepatch and a stick up his ass thats it.

Jameson: a very old character of mine that’s changed a lot but has mainly been kept to writing until now. he has a spider motif with his eyes.

Ray: part of a futuristic dystopian world im making with my friends! he’s a cyborg.

Maverick: a mech pilot in a sort of nge esc story? wears red tinted glasses

Reid: a very tired investigative journalist/reporter!

I’ll add too this as I go and of course there are some characters that I didn’t put since I’ll probably only draw them once for a friend!

most of what I draw is inspired by my writing, it’s more of a secondary hobby to that. but i want to track my progress and have a place to put this stuff.

[pluck-heartstrings]

Oooh this looks fun, thanks for the tag! This is especially well timed since I can’t draw until tomorrow when I get my stylus back from its impromptu adventure.

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

technically I have three but one of them is super super old and I’ve been debating abandoning it forever since it’s just…there. I only seriously started writing last year and anything before that I wouldn’t recommend reading.

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

Close to 300k with just two fics! And going up every Friday :3

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Transformers and FNAF-DCA. What can I say? I like robots.

4. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I respond once the fic has ended; since I post once a week I read the comments religiously, but I’m too susceptible to giving away spoilers accidentally if I respond to comments. I love comments but I have to hold myself back lest I give too much away. Then I get an extra special treat of responding once the story is done and I can thank everyone personally.

5. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

No and I’m thankful that’s the case. The DCA fandom is literally so nice and I’m really glad we all look out for each other.

6. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

I work pretty closely with my beta, which is why she appears as a co-writer in both my long fics. I do the writing but she literally has to edit every week on top of her day job and I literally don’t feel comfortable posting without her help. Whenever I get stuck in a plot problem she’s always there to talk with me and help me through it so that the story stays interesting for both the readers and me. She’s the best.

7. What’s your all-time favourite ship?

That’s a tricky question! I’ve been reading fanfiction forever and I tend to go through ‘seasons’ of ships/fandoms I tend to read from. Winter is for robots, summer is for fantasy, autumn is for the spookies and spring doesn’t exist in Canada so it basically doesn’t count. I have a fav pairing per fandom and it’s really whatever strikes my fancy at the time. Right now (even though it’s summer) I’m still big in DCA x Reader mode, but I’m loving the various mer aus and other fantasy esque aus.

8. What are your writing strengths?

This is really difficult for me to determine! Whenever I get stuck in a certain scene, I fall back on the five senses to try and describe the scene as best I can like the reader is actually there. I’m a very visual person and it helps to add various types of description to help make the scene more authentic.

9. What are your writing weaknesses?

Dialogue. God, dialogue is so hard. Because I know what’s happening in the scene it’s hard for me to write the characters naturally without the flow seeming weird.

10. What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Honestly I can’t remember. It might’ve been either Inuyasha or Soul Eater. My FFNET fics can still be found if one searched for them but I wrote those like…a billion years ago. They’re not good. I keep them there to remind myself how much I’ve improved since then. They’re bad, but they served a purpose.

This was so fun but I don’t think I’ll tag anyone this time around. I hope that’s ok.

Ten Questions for Writers

@mangogreent thanks for the tag!!

1. how many works do you have on ao3?

I started writing in 2022. As of right now, 4! Soon to be 5. I would maybe have more if I didn't lose steam halfway through!

2. what’s your total ao3 word count?

My current WC is 49, 519. Hoping to get to at least 100k this year!!

3. what fandoms do you write for?

In the past I have written for the Dream SMP (unfortunately) and Sonic the Hedgehog. Right now though, I'm all about One Piece!! Let's hope that sticks with me, LOL

4. do you respond to comments? why or why not?

Yes! I try to respond to as many as I can. Sometimes it gets daunting! I'm not entirely sure what to say when people ask for updates...

5. have you ever had a fic stolen?

No. Hopefully I never will.

6. have you ever co-written a fic before?

A REALLY long time ago me and my online friend loosely worked on a BNHA fic that I really wanted to see come to fruition, but we lost contact shortly after. It never got posted. Maybe one day I'll find it again...

7. what’s your all-time favourite ship?

ZoLu is my favorite, I've never quite seen a dynamic quite like theirs! I definitely enjoy it but I can also see them as just being platonic as well. One Piece is unique like that.

8. what are your writing strengths?

This one's a bit hard to answer, I think. For me personally I think I'm good at characterizing and coming up with interesting situations for the characters to figure out. I'll have to ask my friends sometime what they think.

9. what are your writing weaknesses?

This is also hard for me to answer - one man's trash is another's treasure! I would have to say I think I am not good at writing characters I don't have a lot of emotional attachment to/don't get much screen time, and while I have the idea I can never quite get it on paper in a way that makes sense.

10. first fandom you wrote for?

The first fandom I ever wrote for was TMNT!! 2012 specifically. I wonder if I'll ever get around to publishing it...

TAGGING:

@maofa @scribbyizback

[inkwolvesandcoffee]

Mokum Part 1 (Alfie Solomons x Reader, Modern AU)

Genre: Romance, Angst, Humour, Modern AU

Pairing: Tattoo Artist!Alfie Solomons x Dutch Fem!Reader

Word count: 16.7K

Warnings: Swearing/Cussing, mention of a certain disease (not going to give further spoilers to save the plot), Alfie being a tooth-rotting fluffy gentleman, vaping, fighting, injuries, unrequited crush/love/lust (or is it?), Papa Solomons (yes, that is a warning in and of itself).

Summary: Sequel to Ink & Rum Raisins.

Alfie

The little dove and old wolf made a promise to meet again in September. Now, the wolf, right, he had done some thinkin’ and noticed his thoughts kept returnin’ to the little dove. Stranger still is how his emotions are more unstable than usual when she is involved, his fuse is shorter, his words harder to come by than usual. His thoughts have started to turn to the things he’s deemed impossible, remembering the wishes and ambitions he once had before discoverin’ how wicked the world is. He thought of them as he prepared to uphold his end of the bargain.

Now, the wolf is nothing but honest to the little dove. However, sometimes, yeah, sometimes it’s better to only tell a half-truth. Not a full lie, for a king lyin’ to a woman is a pest. A half-truth, right, half true. The little dove knows this too for she, as it turns out, feeds him slivers of what goes on in her funny little mind, her story, as well.

Old, grey, and damaged, the wolf had resigned to the fact his tale would be over soon. Yet, his clever associate, though she doesn’t know, made him change his mind.

Because he wants her to be part of his story and vice versa.

If only to know how it plays out.

How it ends.

Y/N

Our thoughts revolve around what we crave, what we long for so much it hurts. But that’s Love, innit? It’s the type of Love which makes you go mad with fancy, finding bits of your distant dream in the little things.

A bottle of rum. A scarf. Krentenbollen.

A wind chime. Space bunnies. The vague memory of drawings in a notebook.

A wolf.

There is only today and tomorrow before I’m left with these scraps. After all, a story can only go on for a limited amount of time. But, if you take a closer look, you’ll find the details tell a story of their own.

One I hope to remain a part of.

Because I fear the end.   

Author’s Note: So... my hand slipped while writing and editing and now we have another behemoth filled with yearning and mixed signals. I suppose the next part won’t be any shorter. Anyways, moving on!

I came across @solomons-finest-rum‘s piece called האָב דיך ליב איך, in which the reader learns a bit of Yiddish to surprise her husband with while celebrating their anniversary. Now, it was this that inspired me to more or less implement the same idea in this story. However, seeing as I don’t speak a word of the language myself, I had to resort to online translating. Therefore, if you see any mistakes or general mistranslations, please let me know! I’ll edit them right away.

Also, Mokum is a nickname for Amsterdam and is actually Yiddish for ‘place’ or ‘safe haven’. In bargoens (a form of Dutch slang), it had quite negative connotations. However, the semantics changed in the 20th century and the nickname is now used by Amsterdammers in a sentimental context.

Lastly, let me know whether the h-dropping makes this piece harder to read. If it does, I’ll leave the accent feature out in the future.

I’ve bent your ear (eye?) long enough. Sit back, make a cup of coffee or tea (or get a glass of rum, whatever you fancy), get a snack, maybe a tissue, and enjoy.

TH Masterlist / Monster Masterlist

Tag list: @buttercup32sstuff @liliac-dreamer @vir-tual  @potter-solomons @ilovemanypeople @zablife​ @hecatemoon87​​ @alikaheroes

Want to be tagged in the future? Send me a message or leave a comment and I’ll make sure to add ye! 

Mid-September in The Netherlands, a time between the last breath of summer and the first chills of autumn. The temperatures slowly but noticeably lower, showers almost a daily occurrence. The sun still shines, warm and comforting after getting absolutely drenched to the bone.

Mid-September.

When I can’t even get my Starbucks order straight, too occupied with the destination of the train I’ll board in a wee bit.

“… cream?”

“Hm?” Blinking like an eejit, I stare blankly at the barista. “I’m so sorry, I was distracted.”

“It’s alright, no worries. I said the coffee normally comes with cream and asked if that’s okay.”

“Ehm, could I get it without?”

“Sure! Can I get a name?”

“Y/N.”

“Anything else?”

I throw a last glance upon the slice of pumpkin loaf in the display and sigh, common sense gaining the upper hand and urging me to not overdo it. “No, that’s all.”

I pay and move towards the end of the counter to wait. A few moments later one of the other baristas calls out my name and hands me the nectar of the autumn gods. 

Clutching the pumpkin spice latte, I head for the window seats overlooking the street outside the mall. A few cars are queuing up in front of the traffic lights of the big crossing leading to Vredenburg. A group of high schoolers or perhaps students, it’s hard to distinguish one from the other nowadays with barely anyone looking their age, race each other up the stairs leading to the parking lot beneath the mall. 

Sipping on the spiced drink, I scroll through Instagram to gain inspiration for new ink. Or that’s the plan, but I rather find myself continuously switching between my feed and the message function, tempted to send Alfie a picture of my drink and the current view. It wouldn’t be the first time to send him a photo and a little message. After all, I’d done it before when I selected the picture of all the ones he took after completing Anubis on my thigh, another one of his masterpieces.

We created a bloody masterpiece, didn’t we?

The words echo in my head as my eyes wander to my thigh. 

He said ‘we’. We did it. Together.

Of course there’s nothing to see aside from black denim, but I can nevertheless picture the god of the afterlife as perfectly clear as if I was wearing those blasted shorts again. By the way, they are now put to rest in the shadows of the back of my closet, not to see the light of day until summer absolutely calls for it. But I can also vividly recall something else.

How his hand felt on my thigh while prepping the skin and applying the stencil, the grip gentle yet strong, encouraging surrender yet not going out of bounds and hurting me. Then there  was the way my hand felt in his, comically large compared to mine, as he led me to the makeshift photo studio. His calloused palm felt warm beneath my own, sturdy and protective.

Secure.

Safe.

I tap on the little icon in the corner of the screen and then on Alfie’s username, TheWanderingKing1888. I breathe in deeply to gather my courage and begin to type.

Got myself a pumpkin spice latte.

Followed by a pumpkin and smiling cat emoji.

Delete.

Almost on my way to Amsterdam.

Thumbs up emoji.

Delete.

Pumpkin spice latte by myself. Feels lonely.

How the fuck did I think that was a good thing to write?

Delete. Delete it! Delete it now!

I let out a deep sigh and hang my head.

For-fucking-get it. It’ll likely only annoy him, anything that isn’t business.

Especially the hilariously bad attempts of a young girl trying to win an older man’s heart.

A curious sound rings in my ear. I glance around the coffee shop, but nobody else seems to have heard it. The chatter continues, nobody sparing so much as a glance at me. A mother and daughter in the corner among the plants rise from the brown leather seats, arms laden with shopping bags. Next to me a girl sits down and sets up her laptop, likely about to have a quick study session before a seminar or lecture. We exchange polite smiles and retreat into ourselves again.

Nobody heard the noise.

Like a butterfly’s wings were ripped away.

I glance at my watch. Ten minutes before the next train to Amsterdam.

Better hurry.

Drink in hand, I sling my bag over my shoulder and head for the station.

The trains to Amsterdam, or, as I like to call it thanks to my grandpa, Mokum, are as hellish as usual. Regardless of the time of day, you’re guaranteed to be packed like a sardine in a can if you don’t manage to find a seat. The pandemic has largely changed the way we interact and I’m entirely honest when I say I generally keep my distance from people and refuse to sit down next to strangers. However, I make an exception when it comes to the train in this direction because I don’t particularly fancy standing for half an hour to forty-five minutes with a whole day of walking ahead of me. Fortunately, I’m in luck and the solo seat in the carriage is still available. I plop down on it and lean back, growing more excited by the minute at the prospect of seeing Alfie again.

Will he really have that bottle of rum he promised me? Likely not. He was merely being nice, wasn’t he?

Nonetheless, even if he was simply being polite and the promise turns out to be loose, my heart skips a beat when the train comes into motion. The music playing over my headphones fades into background noise, the scenery outside the window replaced with a life-like repeat of what happened in Birmingham.

His smile, bright enough to show his slightly crooked teeth.

His eyes, bright like a sunny day at the beach with mischief one moment and dark and pensive like a fierce autumn storm in the next.

His sturdy grip on the back of my thigh after making sure he had my explicit consent and the many inquiries afterwards. 

His simple though heartfelt apology.

My fingers warm at the memory of how he kissed them before we said goodbye. Had he been as hesitant to let me go as I was to leave?

For a moment, the feeling travels to my lips, the ghost of his plush ones mixing with the scent of dark vanilla and oud wood.

An image flashes by of Alfie nestled between my legs, his heavy weight pinning me down on the mattress while he holds my hand and we kiss.

Wishful thinking.

I rub my lip and snicker.

Some fool, you are. Like that will ever happen.

The solo seat is a blessing and a curse. One the one hand, it allows you to retreat into your personal bubble. On the other hand, there’s no space for another person, a possible connection.

One sits in loneliness, enraptured by dreams.

Ah, what a wonderful curse is the artist's. To be in love with a distant dream and take him for your Muse.

Amsterdam is busy as usual. I don’t think I’ve seen the station devoid of suitcases, rushing people, and fragments of various languages carried throughout the hallways. Aside from during the pandemic.

I take a left towards the water, what we call ‘’t Ij’. Another look at my watch tells me I have yet little more than an hour to go before the convention starts.

Why, of all days, didn’t I bring a book today?

I groan and look around the passage, debating whether or not to turn back to cross the station and pop into the city centre or stay put and settle down at a coffee shop. If Alfie was here, I’d have someone to talk to with the added bonus of getting to spend more time together. Selfish, innit, to wish for such a thing? Futile too. 

Apparently, though, the issue of having too much time on my hands is solved faster than I thought.

Someone rests their hands on my shoulders.

What the fuck?

“Mother of god!” The hairs on the back of my neck raised in alarm, I tense and spin on my heel, palm raised and ready to lash out. 

“Sorry, I’m not.” As if being held at gun-point, my surprise non-assailant takes a step back. 

“Michael,” I lower my hand, sheepishly sticking it into the pocket of my coat. “Jaysus fuck. Hey, hi. Howya?”

“Good. You?” Michael visibly relaxes, the tenseness in his muscles melted. 

“Still alive despite the heart attack you gave me,” I chuckle. “I thought you’d already be at the convention.”

He smiles a sweet boyish smile. “I let Tommy know I’d come later. You’re on your way too?”

“Yeah, but,” I look at my watch, only ten minutes have passed since my arrival, “it seems I’m extremely early. The convention opens in an hour and I don’t think it’ll take that long to get there with the ferry.”

“It isn’t too early for lunch,” he says suggestively, greenish blue eyes bright. “I haven’t had breakfast so… I don’t know if you’re hungry, but- uhm, this might be a bit forward, but would you- but I’d like it if you-” he closes his eyes and lets out a deep sigh through his nose, brow furrowed as he rethinks what it is he wants to say. After a moment, he seems to have strung the words together correctly or, at least, sufficiently enough. “Sorry, I meant to ask if you’d like to keep me company while getting something to eat.”

Although I’m not big on lunch, I know the pumpkin spice latte won’t keep me on my feet. So, if I’m going to eat, I might as well do it with a nice guy like him. “I’ll admit I’m getting rather peckish.”

“My treat?”

“Michael, that’s very sweet, but-’’

“It’s alright, Y/N. I don’t mind. So,” he rubs the back of his neck while making an effort to maintain eye contact, “that’s… that’s a yes?”

“Yes.’’

As soon as the word has left my mouth, a bright boyish smile spreads on his lips. Like an excited puppy, he bounces on his heels. ‘‘Well, then, let’s find someplace, eh?’’ 

We don’t take the time to properly look around for a place to eat, but immediately settle for the vegan café behind us. Michael opts for a wrap with roasted veggies while I decide to keep things light with a cup of yoghurt and granola.

“Are you sure that’s enough?” he asks, looking at the tray in his hands. Compared to his order, mine looks rather like a side for it.

I shrug. “It’s fine. I’m not a big eater. Besides, I’ve just had a nice pumpkin spice latte which will keep me going for a while.”

He tilts his head, the amusement in his voice hardly concealed. “Ever thought about getting a pumpkin spice tattoo?”

“Don’t give me ideas.”

“I’m serious, though. At least get a protein bar or fruit salad. I don’t know if you’ll actually get some new ink today, but I don’t want you to pass out because of an empty stomach in case you do.”

His genuine concern renders me speechless. Here I was, thinking we’d have lunch as mere acquaintances. Yet, here we are. Familiar up to the point of friendship.

Stranger still is me doing as he says and returning to the cooling by the window to grab a cup of pineapple pieces. Normally, I would have insisted there’s no need to be worried about me.

That I’m fine.

Always.

Even when no one else is watching my back. 

It seems I’ve come across two exceptions to the rule. One is Michael, who hardly hides a relieved smile when I put the cup of fruit on the tray. The other, I suppose, is Alfie. He constantly checked in on me, shooed Arthur away, and made sure I stayed hydrated.

Then again, those are general things he’d likely do for any customer. For how many women hasn’t he done the same?

Proper care, my arse. I was nothing but a client, still am nothing aside from a potential source of income.

Befriend your customer and they’ll come back for more. Or, in this case, also gain her friendship and trust, have her show you around, and make the most out of your trip. It’s clever.

And I’m stupid enough to go along with it.

In the distance, the same peculiar noise from the coffee shop sounds.

Rip.

“Y/N,” Michael asks. He takes me in, his features marred by concern. “Are you alright? You’re looking a little pale.”

He also didn’t hear it. I must be going mad.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” I say, voice more hoarse and close to breaking than I want it to be. “Don’t mind me.”

He glances around the café, looking for a free table. Judging by his grim expression, this topic is far from over. “Let’s find a place to sit.”

I trail behind him as we make our way upstairs and settle by a table in the corner, which overlooks the water and ferries below. Absent-minded, I mix the granola into the yoghurt and nibble on a piece of pineapple while Michael stares at me, his food untouched.

“What were you thinking about?” he asks, breaking the silence.

“Nothing.”

“Didn’t seem like it. One minute you’re animated and chatty. The next you look like you’re about to cry.” He leans in, fingers woven together. “Is it something I did?”

If butterflies could cry, would they when they tear their wings? Or are they too enamoured with the rose to notice, only crying when it’s too late and they’ve fallen?

“No,” I sigh. I bite my lip and force myself to meet his gaze. “It’s not you. I just… I have this tendency to go with the fairies.”

“It’s Solomons, isn’t it?” Passively aggressively, though more so the latter, he cuts his wrap into pieces. I don’t think it’s far-fetched to wager he’s thinking about cutting Alfie into pieces. “I swear, if I get my hands on that cunt…”

Enough!

“Michael, he didn’t do anything,” I retort, trying to wring out the words as kindly as possible despite the stiffness in my jaw.

If anyone’s to blame for my melancholy, it’s me. My inaction, my cowardice.

The silly fancies of a lovesick woman. 

“He’s bad news, Y/N. I’ll be honest, it worries me you’ve taken a liking to him.”

My lips curl into a sneer. “Just because you don’t like him-’’

“The money he earns isn’t real. It isn’t honest.”

I scoff and roll my eyes. 

“He’s a gangster!” He slams his hands on the table and gets up. 

“Not anymore!” I roar. 

My outburst scares the elderly couple seated at the table on the other side of the pathway. Mortified though curious, they look at us but quickly mind their own business again when we make an apologetic gesture at them.

He told me so himself. No more fighting, gangs and firms. And he sure as hell doesn’t earn dirty money!

“Look,” Michael takes a deep breath and sits down again, “all I’m saying is you can do better.”

With you. That’s what you’re gonna say, innit?

But he doesn’t. 

End of topic.

End of the conversation. 

A silence settles in, filled with an underlying hostility rather than the amiability present in the quiet moments with Alfie. We both eat our food, neither of us open for communication, enclosed by our own personal bubbles. My stomach coils with dread, the cold silence growing more and more suffocating by the second. Eventually, it becomes unbearable to the point swallowing a piece of pineapple takes effort. 

The same goes for speaking the words to break the icy wall between us, careful and hesitant. “You said you haven’t had breakfast. Did you sleep in or…”

“Pulled an all-nighter drawing.” Michael wipes his mouth on a napkin, his voice steady and kind like before. “I’ve been meaning to create an art book, which includes designs I’ve already tattooed as well as some I’ve never shown anyone before.”

“Or are completely new.”

“Exactly.” He fishes his tablet out of his bag. “Would you like to take a look?”

“An exclusive sneak peek? How can I say no to that?”

Despite the argument, I actually still like the young man across the table. At least enough not to want to get on his wrong side. Perhaps I can get a fragile chip of friendship out of him, salvaged from the damage done. 

He starts up his tablet, opens an app, and hands the device alongside the electronic pencil over to me. “Here you go. Feel free to tap whatever document you like.”

I check out the various designs, filling the silence with a soft tick tick tick which stands in a funny contrast to the scraping of metal on metal caused by Michael’s tableware.

The colours are vibrant, each design respectful of the meaning behind the symbolism while the overall composition is in harmony. I especially remain stuck staring at a design which incorporates a bit of neo-traditionalism. Two nine-tailed foxes sit beneath a Sakura tree, a few dainty pastel pink petals dwindle to the ground behind them. In the distance sits a temple with an ornate red roof. 

“I’d never get bored looking at these.’’ I briefly look up to show my sincerity before returning to happily leaving through the designs. ‘‘They’re beautiful, Michael.”

“If you want, I could give you a copy when it’s out. A careful grin tugs on the corners of his lips. “I’ll even sign it.”

“I’d love that. It’ll get a place of honour in my bookcase.”

“Much appreciated.” He looks out the window. “The ferry will be here in ten. Let’s go.”

We eat the last of the food, clean up, and put the tray on a trolley before joining the others on the quay. Unfortunately, neither of us are prepared for the large dark grey cloud that passes over. Of course, we’re too late to participate in the struggle for cover beneath the wee awning nearby, so we hunch our shoulders and keep our heads low in the burst of rain while hoping the ferry will arrive fast.

Which it does, drifting towards the pier a minute later. 

As soon as the horde of passengers has left, Michael and I go with the flow of the crowd trying to board the ferry. Fortunately, we manage to find a spot on deck where we can at least stretch our arms without slapping someone in the face and are sheltered against the rain should it start again. 

I pull out my phone to make a quick snapshot of my half-soaked coat and shoes to edit and upload on Instagram as a Story.

It’s not raining. It’s pouring. Add to Story. There.

Throughout the journey, we stand close together to share what little heat our bodies generate. The wind is fierce, relentlessly sending chills down my spine, while the rain comes and goes, softly clattering against the windows of the ferry.

And in a typical Dutch manner, the sun shines bright once we step off the boat at NDSM. The weather truly is as fickle as our parliament.

We move out of the way of the other passengers and take in our surroundings. It’s not entirely unjustified when I say we must look like tourists, either lost or ignorant as to what to do in this part of town. I mean, in a sense we are.

“Do you know how to get there?” I ask. Surely his cousins have already shown him around the venue if not at least given him directions regarding how to get there. 

“Uhm, no?” Michael admits sheepishly, holding a hand up to shield his eyes against the sun. 

Well, that’s just grand, innit?

“Me neither, but that direction” I point to our right, where a couple of red-brick refurbished edifices stand tall, “looks far more likely to have warehouses than this one. Otherwise, I guess we’ll have to follow the crowd. Maddening as it might be.”

He chuckles. “You’re funny.”

“I am aware I have the tendency to be unironically ironic. Also prone to making puns.”

“Well, keep ‘em coming because Arthur’s are godawful.”

Eventually, regardless of our excellent sense of direction, we end up trailing behind a small group of people who seem to be headed for the convention. Turns out, the way is much simpler than we initially thought and fairly a matter of walking straight ahead. Again, I’d like to reiterate we have great navigating skills, which simply gave us the signal we had to follow the others in order to find our destination. There was no risk of getting lost whatsoever.

Would Alfie have helped if I sent him a message saying I'm lost? Would he… would he even come pick me up? Gods, I’m getting more pathetic by the bloody second. 

A burly figure in a long grey tweed pea coat and a white scarf around his neck stands in the middle of the parking lot. Upon closer inspection, he’s dressed for the weather, the outfit reminiscent of the fact autumn is around the corner. A beige sweater, dark grey trainers which I dare to bet are waterproof, and black jeans to match. A simple yet charming look that riles up the familiar storm of butterflies in my stomach. 

Were it not for the slippery concrete and the fact we’re not close friends or anything of the sort, I’d have given into the urge to run up to Alfie and either jump on his back or hug him from behind. He’d turn around and wrap me up in his arms, keeping me close to his big warm body. Nice and cosy.

Safe in a world of our own.

A world that doesn’t exist.

Tír na nÓg. 

“You’re late,” Alfie grumbles as we approach. His expression darkens when he notices my companion. 

“I would’ve come earlier, but we,” I gesture from Michael to me, “took a detour. Besides, the convention just opened.”

“And already you ‘ave treacle glued to your shoe.” He takes us both in, a sneer forming on his lips when his gaze falls on me. “Couldn’t even bring an umbrella to shield ‘er against the rain.”

“Like you have one on you,” Michael retorts.

“Actually, I do ‘ave one, but it’s inside.”

“You also could have gone and picked her up yourself if you’re so concerned.”

“I could’ve,” the corners of Alfie’s mouth curl up into a careful though sly grin, “but she’s a big girl. She can take care of ‘erself.”

I can, but, today, it would’ve been nice if you did. Although, the day’s hardly begun so there’s still hope.

It quickly becomes exhausting when it is constantly you who's looking out for yourself. And despite the fact I loathe depending on others, it is Alfie who I depend on for my dreams and feelings. Female desire, especially the female artist’s, is both dark and pathetic. It is full of fancy, but also prone to fleeting. Nevertheless, I hope it remains, fossilised in Time, crystallised like the patterns in history.

“To be fair, we didn’t agree on a time. Besides, he had to be here early to set up, didn’t you?” I interfere, looking at Alfie.

“See?’’ Eyebrows raised in mock surprise, he gestures to me. ‘‘The little lady gets it.”

“Why are you picking his side?” Michael mutters in my ear.

“Because I think I should. Still,” I speak up even though Alfie likely has heard me perfectly the first time around, “thank you for walking me here, but I think you should crack on and see what your cousins are up to. Can’t let them have your hide before the release of your art book, eh?”

“Art book?” Alfie echoes quizzically.

“Yes, Solomons, you’re not the only one capable of publishing one,” Michael responds, the words dripping with venomous sarcasm. 

“Watch it, kid.” The other man’s knuckles turn white with strain. If I don’t yet again interrupt the conversation soon, I can very well imagine Alfie using that cane for violence beyond imagining. 

Henceforth, albeit against my very nature, I put a hand on Michael’s shoulder and give it an encouraging squeeze. “I’ll drop by later, okay?”

“Fine.” He breathes in and exhales deeply. “I’ll see you later, but, Y/N, do think about what we talked about.”

And with that, he’s off inside.

Thank the gods.

“What did you talk about with the kid?” Alfie narrows his eyes, which cloud over like the sea on a stormy day. “When?”

“We had lunch before we got here and we discussed… some stuff.”

“What kind of ‘stuff’?” Alfie takes a trek of his vape pen and releases the smoke through his nose like an irritated dragon. “What kind, darlin’?”

I avoid his gaze, hands tucked deep into the pockets of my coat. “Nothing. It was nothing.”

“No, no, no, you’re not getting off the hook so easily. He said somethin’ ‘bout me’, didn’t ‘e?” I slowly nod, fully releasing the rage that’s built up inside him. “Fucking ‘ell! What kind of monster did he make me this time?”

Breathe, just breathe. Don’t cry, he’s not gonna hurt you. There’s security nearby. They’ll help.

“Alfie…” My voice is little more than a whisper. I hug myself, keeping the tense and mortified pieces of myself together, all the while forcing myself to stay.

He shrugs off his coat and drapes it over my shoulders, the kindness he harbours deep inside slowly resurfacing again. “Bastard couldn’t even keep you warm.” His unoccupied hand, the fingers decorated with various rings, rests on my upper arm. Though it does little to heat my bones, he lovingly rubs it. “I’m sorry, yeah, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled. That boy, right, has a tendency to get under my skin, but I think you already noticed that. Whatever he said, it’s all lies, yeah? It’s not true. By the way, I ‘aven’t greeted you yet, ‘ave I? Shalom, darlin’.”

“He said you’re a gangster and I said you’re not anymore. That’s what we talked about.” I wrap his coat closer around my body. A whiff of the familiar mixture of oud wood and dark vanilla hits my nose and puts my nerves at ease. “That’s also a lie, right? You’re not a gangster. Not anymore.”

“No, not anymore. I’d never lie to you, it’s not gentlemanly.” His features softened, he retracts his hand. Immediately, the warmth it provided evaporates. “I still have no ill intentions towards you. Now, when it comes to that numpty…”

“Alfie, don’t start this again. Please,” I look up at him. “Please. If not for his sake, then for mine.”

Men are jealous creatures. Especially when women are involved.

For a moment I take him in, keeping what he said in mind. However, instead of finding a reason or any sort of confirmation for my own fantasies, there are dark circles beneath his eyes and the lines in his face, paler than the last time we met, have deepened. Perhaps the sunlight is partially to blame, highlighting the grey in his beard and hair, but he appears older.

You look exhausted. Are you okay?

Such a simple question yet so hard to ask, particularly when you don’t know the other person well enough to get an honest answer. Regardless of their promise to not lie to you.

He takes another trek from his Vape pen and blows the smoke out through his nose. “Right.” He purses his lips, glances at me, and averts his gaze back to the concrete. “Right.”

“Thank you.” My eye falls on the cane he’s leaning on, metal with a wolf head for a handle. 

“Chronic sciatica,” he says, having read my mind. “Old bullet wound caused a herniated disk that was never properly treated. Led to sciatica.”

I swallow hard, ill at ease at the prospect of his answer. “Does it hurt?”

“Nothing I can’t handle, darlin’.” He leans in. “Enough about my leg. ‘ow’s yours?”

“Good. I’d show you, but, uhm, I don’t have shorts on me. Besides,” I vaguely gesture to the sky and in the distance, “it isn’t really the weather for it.”

“Well, you could say that, but as long as I don’t ‘ave actual proof, yeah, I won’t fulfil my end of the deal.” He takes another trek, again breathing the smoke out through his nose. ‘‘The weather is a very poor excuse. I might be English, but I don’t let it interfere with business.’’ 

You remembered?

I cross my arms, feeling emboldened by the fact he evidently recalls more from our conversations in Birmingham than I thought. “Then what would suffice as proof, Mr Solomons?”

“Well, miss L/N, if you show me a ‘ealed picture in the least, I’ll pick you up from the airport. Otherwise,” devilish will-o’-the-wisps illuminate his eyes, “you’ll ‘ave to get to Margate by yourself.”

“I thought you were gonna say you wouldn’t show me around at all.”

“Well, we never wrote down our terms and conditions on paper. So, that means, yeah, the contract is subject to change. Besides, it’d be nice if you see what’s in the south other than London.”

“I know there’s more than London, but I’ve never gotten the chance to see it. And, recently, travelling on my own seems to be getting to me.” He shifts his weight and tilts his head, waiting for me to continue. “It’d be nice to have someone there, you know? Someone to share the experience with.”

“To make you forget about the inherent loneliness of being alive and essentially alone in a wicked world.”

“Exactly.” I blink, astounded by his empathy. “You ever get that?”

“I…’’ he groans, hesitant to share his own experiences. ‘‘I’m familiar with the feeling. Margate does feel lonely, yes. Camden is full of people, but none I can call friends.”

“What about your studio? The artists working there?”

“People. People from somewhere in Camden.”

“What,” I bite my lip and clutch the inside of his coat, “what am I?”

“A little fair lady I owe a bottle of rum.” He gestures to the convention’s entryway. “Let’s go inside. Those clouds don’t bode well.”

Right, the bottle. It’s all business. Be friendly, lure them in with a present, and they’ll stick to you, become yet another source of income. It’s nothing personal.

My shoulders slumped, I match my pace to Alfie’s. People make way as we approach, visitors and fellow tattoo artists stepping aside to let us through like we’re royalty. Then again, he is the King of Camden. 

And the influence stretches further than London. 

Without so much as a glance at the people at the ticket booth, he walks past the ticket point. 

I stop, having very much noticed their presence and aware they are the only way for me to get in. “Alfie, wait! I need to get a ticket!”

He storms over, as fast as his leg allows him, and grips my wrist. The shock at the rash action quickly turns into a pleasant shiver down my spine. “She’s with me.”

“Sir, she’ll-’’ the woman behind the till stammers. 

“She won’t need a ticket,” he firmly states before starting to pull me along, giving the security a deadly glare as if to make the mere attempt to check my bag will end up with them all blackened and bruised.

“I really should get a ticket, though,” I say, stumbling along.

“No, you don’t,” Alfie grumbles, but softens his tone when he looks over his shoulder. “See it as one of the perks of being my associate.”

An associate… a little fair lady he owes a bottle of rum. I suppose both are better than being a mere client.

The stands near the entrance would not be misplaced in an alternative marketplace, selling bits and bobs as well as clothes and accessories. However, after a few metres, the first few tattoo booths start to pop up. The further we walk into the convention, the more it starts to look like what I imagined with various ailes filled with the sound of buzzing needles and artists selling merch or tattooing clients.

We make a left towards a small area a bit cut off from the rest of the convention. The King of Camden Ink booth is simple and minimalist in set-up. A white tapestry depicting a black crown like on both of Alfie’s hands and the studio’s name hangs between two pillars. A couple of men, I assume some are artists working at the studio, sit around drawing on their tablets, having a chat, or are prepping their workspaces. A few foldable tables have been linked and have been clad in black cloth, stickers, shirts, maps with designs, and business cards on display.

We plop down on the tattoo table right underneath the tapestry, right in the middle of the space.

‘‘Welcome to my little kingdom outside London. My word here is law, like it is back ‘ome. Don’t worry about the men. I told them you’re off the fucking menu. They won’t bother you.’’

However, instead of asking why he’d trouble himself with my safety, I decide on a more shallow course of conversation. After all, it hasn’t slipped my notice the long locks have been cut short. “I didn’t say it before, but did you get a haircut?”

“Yeah… yeah, I did. Ollie, right, that cunt over there,” Alfie points over his shoulder at one of his colleagues, a slender man with brown curly hair, who glares at him in response, “bloody brave bastard suggested it. Thought I looked like The Wandering Jew, but I suppose ‘e’s right. It isn’t proper for an old soul like me to show up to a meeting with a fair lady lookin’ all ‘aggard.”

I highly doubt you did it for me. Why go out of your way for me when I’m just, well, me? Just a girl you owe a bottle of rum to.

‘‘Do you like it?’’

‘‘I do, though I have to say the long hair wasn’t so bad. Either way, you look good. In a friendly way! I meant that as a compliment,’’ I add, haphazardly trying to define an already clear boundary. 

He chuckles, a lovely sound which turns into a dissatisfied hum when he runs his fingers through his beard. “Should’ve done somethin’ ‘bout the beard, though. I trimmed it a bit this mornin’, but maybe a little more would’ve been better. Or a clean shave.” He turns to face me. “Y/N, do you know how to shave?”

The question might be simple, but I have a nagging feeling my answer is not the correct one. After all, it can’t be as plain as knowing how to shave myself. “Ehm, I do?”

“I meant a man, darlin’.”

“Oh,” I look down at my hands, my fingers fumbling with the hem of my shirt. “N-No, I don’t.” 

He remains quiet, taking the comment in with an expression which I can only partially describe with the word thoughtful or, perhaps, pondering. 

“But, for what it’s worth, I- I really like the beard,” I add hastily, which only makes me want to kick myself in the face more than before.

Such a smooth talker, I am.

“Why?”

It was already warm inside when we entered, but the overall temperature feels like it’s risen in the meantime. At least it feels like that if my cheeks are anything to go by. “No reason. Just… no reason.”

It makes you look like a wolf.

He holds out his hands. “May I?”

I tilt my head, unable to fathom his intentions. “What?”

“If you trust me, right, put your ‘ands in mine.”

  Although he hasn’t wronged me in the little time we’ve known each other, the muscles in my arms and shoulders tense. Tentatively I reach out to do as he said. As soon as his fingers envelop mine, his palm as rough and callous as I remember, the memory of the way he led me to the makeshift photo studio in Birmingham plays itself out in my mind. It’s followed the second after by the moment we said goodbye, the tips of my fingers still vividly imprinted with the ticklish feeling of his bushy whiskers. 

However, the muscle memory isn’t as vague as it usually is. In fact, it feels like I’m actually touching him.

Which I am.

As if burned by fire, I flinch and try to pull my hands off of his face. Nevertheless, Alfie keeps them in place, a hint of amusement underlying the sternness in his expression. “You looked desperate to touch it and now that you finally are, you’re scrambling back.”

“Alfie…” I swallow hard, my heart beating as fast as a Derby race horse. 

“Nice, innit?” Eyes closed, he guides me. Or, rather, invites me to explore on my own. 

Albeit a little hesitant at first, I continue to run my fingers through his beard. A warm pride spreads through my chest when his brow furrows and a low pleased groan spills from his lips. 

“Wolfy,” I say without thinking, lost in how smooth his beard feels against my fingertips. 

“What?” Through half-lidded eyes, he nuzzles my palm and smirks against the skin.

There’s no need to reiterate my words. He’s heard me perfectly fine.

Why am I such a fucking weirdo? I need a bloody filter for my mouth.

“N- Nothing. Be- I’m- Silly. I’m being silly.”

I try and fail again to retract my hands because Alfie renews his grip on my wrists to keep them firmly in place. “I meant it when I said I’m curious about what funny things go on in your head.’’

I sigh and press my lips together, afraid of his reaction.

Which, observant as he is, doesn’t escape his notice. Moreover, I think I’ve figured him out well enough to be correct when I say that once his interest is piqued, he won’t hold back until he has thoroughly figured it out. So, in a not so subtle effort to convince me to spill my thoughts to him, he leans into the touch. ‘‘Tell Papa Solomons. Me, I mean. Tell me, yeah. I won’t judge.’’   

Despite his gentle tone, the uncharacteristic stumbling over his words and the way he referred to himself cloud my mind and sends it in a direction it shouldn’t go. The fantasies are mere mirages in a barren landscape, bound to be covered in butterfly wings. Yet, there it goes, off on a journey guided by the strengthened scent of dark vanilla and oud wood, underlined by tobacco. A flush of warmth spreads outward from between my thighs when I caress his cheeks with my thumbs. The corners of my mouth curl up into a smile underlined with euphoric victory when I have fully coaxed him back to the state he was in before. Content and satisfied.

Because of me.

Because of the futile fancies I harbour because of him.

I stop caressing him. Alfie slowly opens his eyes, blinking as if forced out of a pleasant dream. Unfortunately, in the end, it might as well be. 

The dream of us. 

Until it becomes a reality, fragile friendship is all we have. And it is because of that, combined with the odd sense of safety he emits, I explain the nickname to him. To my own ears, my tone sounds casual and kind enough to cover up the tears in my heart. “Well, I was thinking Alfie plus ‘wolf’ makes Wolfy. Cheesy, I know.”

“Wolfy, eh? Is that how you think of me?”

“N- No! No, I don’t!” I yank my hands from his grip and fold them into my lap, head bowed. “I don’t… Shut it.”

“The little dove calls one wolf by its name, unsure whether he’ll respond. Maybe he will, maybe he won’t.” He leans in when he notices he’s caught my attention with his vague remark, an annoying lopsided smirk on his lips. “Who’s to say?”

Is this some kind of allegory for his opinion on my stupid ramblings?

“Wolfy~” he repeats teasingly.

“I said shut it!”

“Oh, someone’s getting angry.”

“I thought aggravating women was against your etiquette. Y/N, fancy seeing you here,” a husky Brummie accent remarks. “And in the company of mister Solomons.”

I look over Alfie’s shoulder at the owner of Shelby Tattoo Company. He’s wearing a black shirt with his studio’s name and logo, a skull wearing a peaky and a red chequered scarf that covers its mouth and nose. As per usual, he looks eerily calm and disinterested in his surroundings. “Yeah, ehm, well, I kinda promised-’’

“I owe her a bottle of rum,” Alfie interrupts, turning around and directing Tommy’s attention to him rather than me. “We had a deal and she’s here to make sure I uphold my end of it.”

“Is that so, Alfie?” Tommy looks him up and down and then diverts his gaze back to me. “It was his birthday yesterday.”

“Tommy,” Alfie warns.

“But he’s a busy man. Always working.”

“Tommy, I’m going to fucking shoot you.”

“Still,” Tommy puts his hands in the pockets of his jeans, “it’s strange he didn’t tell you, considering you two seem close.”

“There are boundaries!” Alfie grabs his cane and steps in front of me, his looming figure throwing an imposing shadow while he stares down the owner of the Shelby Tattoo Company. “Say I pulled a gun, yeah, and shot you. Bang, bone, mush, bone, again if an unlucky sod happens to pass behind you, tapestry, wall over there which is a shame, innit, because that wall’s fucked now and I’ve got to get shot of it. So, what I do is this. It’s fucking simple, mate. I’ll literally help clean up that wall. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll help clean up the wall. I’ll take half of the rubble and the mess on the floor and I’ll put it into a barrel. And I’ll take the other half of the rubble and mess, in all its pieces, and put that into another barrel, right? And I send this barrel off to Mandalay. And the other barrel off to somewhere like… I don’t know.” He perks up with an idea, full of mockery. “Timbuktu. You ever been?”

“No,” Tommy answers, unfazed. 

“No? Would you like to go?”

“No.”

I jolt at the sound of Alfie clapping his hands. The animosity has melted into amiability suspiciously fast, which means the game between the two men is far from over. Then again, Alfie is a bit eccentric. “I saw your new flash sheet. Looks peng, mate.”

Tommy crosses his arms and leans sideways, eyebrow cocked. “I see your protection has expanded.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to go? Timbuktu’s lovely.” Alfie takes a step to the side, resuming his duty as a wall between me and the outside.

“I’m quite certain, Alfie,” Tommy answers, voice cold and monotone. 

“Then fuck off.”

 “It was lovely seeing you, Y/N. Do drop by later, Michael will appreciate it. Also, do let me know if mister Solomons poses any trouble. The Peaky Blinders will take care of it. Until then, scratch his beard.” Leaving us gobsmacked, Tommy nonchalantly walks off.

Was he seriously there the entire time?

Alfie is fuming with pent-up rage. His hands are clenched into fists, knuckles white with strain. Jaw jutted forward, he watches Tommy leave, grumbling what I can only assume is a string of curses under his breath.

“I- I’m gonna take a look around,” I carefully suggest, fingers aching to reach out to his arm. However, I keep flinching, afraid of the possible consequences.

Because, when he’s like this, I’m not so sure he won’t hurt me.

“Not on your own,” Alfie says, glaring at the artists and visitors who have witnessed the conversation between the two studio owners.

I get up from the table. “But your leg-’’

“My leg!” he roars, turning to me. “My leg’s the least of my concerns right now. You’re not going alone and that’s final. Understand?”

I exchange an anxious glance with Ollie, who seems to silently beg me to take Alfie away for a little bit for the sake of a moment of peace. 

“Y-Yes,” I stammer, heart hammering in my ears. I take a step back to be safe in case he’ll vent his anger with his cane somehow.

He holds out his arm. Slowly, a quiver running through my fingers, I place my hands on his bicep. I look past the man at my side and lock eyes with Ollie, who mouths a silent “thank you”.

How do you keep up with him? Also, that’s nice and all, but now it’s just me and him.

Alfie nods in the direction Tommy left. “Let’s go that way.”

“No,” I say, braver than I feel.

“It’ll only take a second, darlin’. I’ll kill Tommy and we can crack on.”

I point the other way. “No, don’t want a wall to get shot, you to get banned from the convention, or the police to show up. So, let’s go from there and work our way around.”

“Temper is a hard thing to control,” he starts, walking in the direction I proposed going. “It’s a powerful tool, which can be used to one’s advantage if used right. But it can also be to their detriment if it isn't.” 

Clueless about what to say in response, I look up at him in hopes of being given more to go on. For a moment he remains silent, lips pressed together tightly. Then, letting out the breath he was holding, Alfie provides me with an opening in the conversation I rather wish he hadn’t. “I can’t get it right with you. I keep losin’ it.”

“It’s okay.”

You’ll regain some control after you leave. Or, rather, once our ways separate. Forever.

I shake my head and smile wistfully, staring ahead.  

It’s just a stupid crush, anyway. I’ll get over it. I’ll get by.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Alfie asks, the question underlined by a grim anxiety.

I shake my head. “It’s nothing.”

Just one more day.

And then it’ll be just that.

Nothing.

In the distance, the strange sound weaves through the buzzing of needles.

The convention might have barely opened its doors, but there are more and more people coming in by the minute. If it’s already this busy on a Friday, I can only imagine what the weekend is going to be like. However, when it comes to the overall set-up, it’s smaller than the conventions I’ve been to thus far. To be fair, those were international ones whereas the Amsterdam Tattoo Festival comprises for the most part of national artists, judging by the locations on the many business cards and Instagram accounts to check out after snatching yet another freebie sticker.

“Well, hello, hello!” I greet the girls at Intuition Ink’s stand. I’ll be honest, they form part of the reason I wanted to go to the convention in the first place. In spite of only having been twice to the studio, I’ve never experienced the feeling of being immediately placed in a group of friends anywhere else. 

‘‘Y/N, hey!” Miranda, a sturdy young woman who can truly be called a Jack of all trades in the tattoo industry, walks around the stand with open arms. “It’s good to see you! How are you? Let me give you a hug.”

I let go of Alfie, who’s watching what unfolds before his eyes with a mixture of wariness, satisfaction, and confusion, to answer the gesture in kind. “I’m good. Besides, I promised I’d pop by, didn’t I?”

“Who’s this?” Celia, Mariana’s apprentice and an absolute geeky sweetheart, asks. “He kinda looks like Tom Hardy,” she adds in a whisper.

Ye ken, you’re not wrong. He really does look like him.

“This,” I switch from Dutch to English and gesture to the man next to me, who’s still watching me like a hawk, “is Alfie Solomons.”

“The owner of King of Camden Ink in London,” Miranda chimes in, also switching languages. “A celebrity in the industry.”

“Seems you’ve all heard of me.’’ Awkwardly, Alfie shifts his weight from one foot to the other. ‘‘Unfortunately, that gives me nothing else to say.”

“I didn’t know you two knew each other,” Miranda says, taking us both in while inconspicuously giving Alfie a reason to talk. And if he won’t, then I’ll be the one doing the talking.

I point at Alfie. “He did the Anubis on my thigh.”

“I meant it more like ‘I didn’t know you were close,” she clarifies, arms crossed and a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips.

“Oh, that.” I clench my jaw, mind racing as it searches for an excuse. You’d think I’d have a reason ready for someone I know and trust, but as with Tommy, I come up short-handed.

A little help would be grand. Alfie, say something. Anything. Even a weird analogy would be fine at this point.

Fortunately, it isn’t one of his odd train of thoughts he jumps in with. “Y/N’s kind enough to be my private guide while I’m here, starting the job by accompanying me while stretching me legs.”

“Exactly!” I exclaim, glad for Alfie’s intervention. “Exactly.”

Miranda winks at me. “Keep holding on to his arm. You two look cute together.”

I gawk at her, gobsmacked.

Did- Did you seriously? You bloody bastard!

Olivia, specialised in vintage designs, is of the same mind as me. “‘Ey, that’s a bit much.”

In the corner of my eye, I notice Alfie reaching out to me. However, he thinks better of it and rests his hand on top of the other on the head of his cane. “I’m glad she does, though. It’d be a shame if I lost my guide and I’m left to wander on my own.” 

The last part of the sentence sets off a strange bell somewhere deeply hidden in the back of my mind, its ring as dim and distant as the way the trees boost the echo of a wolf’s howl in a forest. Nevertheless, although it’s audible, the question remains where it comes from.

Where is the source of the wolf song?

Where have I heard his words?

Although, perhaps the better question to ask myself is when? When did he say those words to me for the first time?

All I know for sure is that it wasn’t in Birmingham. 

“We should crack on.” I glance from Alfie to Miranda to Celia and back at him, grabbing his arm and giving it an encouraging squeeze. “We won’t hold you guys up any longer.”

Through gritted teeth, loud enough for only my companion to head, I add. “C’mon, let’s go.”

Alfie nods to the girls and grunts, his version of a polite goodbye.

I glance over my shoulder as we walk away. Miranda, Celia, and Olivia have stuck their heads together and are watching us go. I gesture for them to return to whatever they were doing, mouthing “go back to work”. Unfortunately, all I get in response are wiggling eyebrows and knowing grins.

“They mean well,” Alfie says while casually looking around.

“I know, but still.” I sigh. “I’m sorry for Miranda. She’s from Amsterdam and therefore can be very direct. In conversation it’s a blessing, but her comment about us, I have to side with what Olivia said. It was too much, too bold.”

“Do you disagree with it, though?” Nothing in his voice betrays his own thoughts, locked away behind the emotionlessness of the inquiry. Neither does the stoicism in his expression or the coldness in blue eyes like a lake on a winter’s morning.

No, but we both know, deep down, there is no hope for us. 

We are both spinning out of control.

Slowly going mad in a rabbithole I am not sure he descended in as well. 

Though his response might prove whether he did. “I know it isn’t polite to answer a question with a question, but… do you?”

He makes a noncommittal sound, a low grunt which neither confirms or denies that we are on the same page.

We walk on for a few moments in silence. The topic hangs heavy in the air, but there is no awkwardness. It’s comfortable, neither of us inclined to part ways with the other because of the conversation and the opinion of outsiders. Nonetheless, I let out a breath and feel the tension in my body ebb away when he speaks up. 

“I appreciate you switched to English when you talked to them, to include me in the conversation.’’

Surprised yet confused by his remark, I respond the only way that seems appropriate. “Of course I did. It’s impolite to close others out by changing to a language they don’t speak.”

“So it is. Though some languages lend themselves better to certain purposes. Russian, for example, is a splendid language for cursing.’’ His brows knit together when I chuckle. ‘‘What’s so funny?’’

‘‘I’m sorry, I just imagined you swearing Heaven and Hell together in Russian and it being simply another day at the office. I don’t know. Somehow it suits you.’’

‘‘So me swearing in Russian is now a typical thing in your eyes?’’

‘‘Yeah. Don’t need to have seen you do it.’’

‘‘Fuckin’ ‘ell, your mind is somethin’.’’

I snap my head to the side, tone harsh even to my own ears. ‘‘Are you saying I’m weird?’’

Alfie shrugs nonchalantly. ‘‘Not at all, darlin’. I’m merely confirming, yeah, what we talked about last time. We’re both mad.’’

I open and close my mouth, speechless and flattered by how much he remembers from our previous encounter.

‘‘But tell me this. What did that girl whisper to you?”

I blink, taken aback by the change in subject. “Who? Celia?” 

He nods. 

I laugh and shake my head. “She thinks you look like Tom Hardy.”

  The muscles in his arm relax. I wonder what a man like him would fear from a couple of Dutch girls. Perhaps the untouchable king has a fragile side to him. After all, he, too, is human. “e’s an actor, right, from London, if I recall correctly.”

“Hammersmith.” Alfie’s eyebrows shoot up. “He’s my celebrity crush. And a huge inspiration. He’s turned his life around for the better and is, I believe, a sincere and humble man. He’s even participated in a jiu jitsu competition, multiple, I think, and has won medals at them. I’m really proud of him for that.”

His expression falters as gloom treks over his face, darkening his features and defining them the same way the sun had in the parking lot. A string of incoherent words falls from his lips, illogical yet solemn.

“I’m still proud to wear your art. In a sense, you could say I’m proud of you.” I give him an encouraging squeeze and giggle. Only to burst out in a panic attack the second after. “Fucking hell, that was cheesy! Forget I said that! The last part! Forget that!”

“I won’t,” he says, gaze somewhere in the distance. The corners of his mouth are curled up into a sliver of a smile.

“Alfie!”

“I won’t because people hear it so little these days, whether it be a friend, a stranger, or a merely familiar face who says it.”

“Hey,” I lightly shake his arm to make him look down at me, “I mean it. I’m proud of you.”

He hums in acknowledgment, though he doesn’t fully agree with me.

I don’t know you well, don’t know your full story, but I’m proud of you for being here. For living another day as a man better than the one you told me you were.

Funny, that, how Love makes one have these feelings for a dream, an ideal.

A man not mine. 

I stop in my tracks at the stand for Lemon & Tangerine Ink. For a few months now, I’ve been following the studio’s and it’s owner’s Instagram page. I can’t recall his name, but he combines mysticism with animals in the neotraditional style. Nonetheless, it aren’t the shirts, stickers, or the art book which has piqued my interest. Rather, it’s the print out of designs in one of the portfolios showcased on the table.

Alfie has also come to a halt, brow furrowed as he tries to discover why we’ve stopped. 

“Can we take a look?” I ask, lightly squeezing his arm.

“Of course, darlin’.”

We approach the boot so I can check out the portfolio at leisure. A vague sense of recognition washes over me as I leaf through the designs of windchimes and intricate ornaments inspired by Korean and Japanese culture, some of which seem to tug on a withered string attached to a distant memory.

I’ve seen something like this before. But where? Also, what were these ornaments called again? Someone told me, but… shit, I can’t remember.

Although it does not make me recall the proper name for the ornament, the design of a windchime similar to the one I have hanging in my room unearthes the name I had forgotten from the depths of my mind.

Chris.

He was a Korean-Australian exchange student I became fast friends with when we followed a course in American literature during my first year. He came from the Film Studies department and had never done literary analysis. We were paired up during the first seminar and asked to make a simple analysis of the fragment we were assigned. I explained how to make one and in response he asked whether I’d mind pairing up with him for the rest of the course. I said I didn’t and from there on out there isn’t a lot to tell. It’s been three years since I saw him, but I imagine he’s either gone back to Korea or Australia to continue his studies. I wonder what he does nowadays.

Anyways, he gave me a wind chime not unlike the one drawn on the paper. Mine has a purple bell whereas the drawn version has a blue one. However, both have a moon and round intricate pendant which are attached to the bell with red thread. The drawn chime has, instead of a piece of paper, a highly detailed depiction of flowers dangling from it. The card dangling from mine states Moon rabbits and space bunnies live on the same planet. We stare at the same moon every night. The quote is basically a poetic summary of one of our last conversations.

Chris called me late at night because he couldn’t sleep. When I asked what the hell he was doing still up at two in the morning, he asked me. “Do you think there are bunnies on the moon?”

“What?”

“I’m currently looking at the moon and legend has it that there are rabbits on it.”

“Space bunnies. You’re calling me at two in the morning to tell me there are space bunnies.” I groaned and pinched the bridge of my nose, but did not hang up. I remember turning on my side and curling up beneath the sheets, eyes still closed and glad to hear his voice. “Chris, you okay? Why are you actually calling me?”

“I’m fine. Sorry for waking you up.”

“No worries. You can always call me. But,” I yawned, “do you really like the moon so much?”

“The moon is one of the two things I love. It calms me down.”

“What’s the other?”

He sighed deeply and changed the topic. “I won’t keep you up any longer. Still, it’d be nice if we could watch the rabbits on the moon together.”

“One day we might. Good night, wolf boy.”

Because that’s who he was to me.

A boy in love with the moon in the same way a wolf is. 

Funny how now the same can be applied to me. Or, rather, again for I am once more a creature worshipping the beautiful unattainable.

“Do you like those?” Alfie asks, his breath warm on my ear.

“I used to know someone who drew these types of things in his notebook.”

“Do you miss him?” He asks flatly.

“Yeah,” I admit without hesitating, flipping back and forth between the designs. The memory of Chris’s warm smile while he held my hand as we walked around Utrecht makes my heart crack. “Sometimes I really do.”

Where are you now? Do you still want to spot space bunnies with me?

Alfie remains quiet and takes a step back.

Alarmed by his attitude, I glance over my shoulder. However, as soon as I open my mouth to ask whether he is alright, I am interrupted. 

“I’m sorry, the person who created those got to ‘ear last-minute ‘e’s needed at his job. Boy also needs to earn ‘is money until ‘e can call ‘imself one of us.” A man with luscious brown curly locks that are slicked back and wearing a tailored suit, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to show the swallows on his wrists, casually saunters over. “‘Ello, love.” 

A grimace treks over the tattoo artist’s features as his eyes shift to the man standing behind me. “Solomons.”

“Chester.”

I look from one man to the other. “You two know each other?”

“Yeah, we do,” Alfie drawls, hardly trying to conceal the contempt in his voice. 

“Only sort of,” the other quickly interrupts, much to Alfie’s displeasure, judging by the grunt bordering on a growl that erupts from his throat. “Chester Mansfield, madam.” He makes a polite bow. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Spare the theatrics. You’re not some goddamn Shakespeare.”

“Now, aren’t those words a bit harsh?’’ Chester tilts his head, arms crossed in defiance. ‘‘We’re in the company of a lady.”

I feel a big warm palm between my shoulder blades. “She’s a tough one. Has the mouth of a sailor, don’t ya, darlin’?”

“I- I do, but, ehm…” I sputter.

Don’t pull me into this. This is your battle.

“Don’t put the lady on the spot. I thought you were always so big on gentleman etiquette.” Chester shifts his attention back to me. “I’m terribly sorry, dear. It seems this man is little more than a grumpy wolf rather than the king he claims to be.”

“How’s Wycombe, Chester?” Alfie cuts in. “Heard there’s a bit of a stir, people losing faith in the security offered to them.”

“Thanks to some youngsters from Camden who don’t seem to be aware of what the term ‘borders’ entails. Sent them straight back after teaching them a lesson.” Chester’s upper lip quivers, fighting the urge to snarl, and looks Alfie dead in the eye with a gaze as cold as a winter gale. “There are extra bodies on the streets to ensure there are no more ‘leaks’ in the future. Perhaps that’s something you should look into as well.” 

His features soften when he turns to me again. “Camden might seem safe, love, but it’s a battleground. ‘owever, I can ensure you my studio is in safe territory.”

The hand between my shoulders has lowered to my waist, Alfie exercising a bit of force to guide us away from the table. “As safe as Brixton. Like ‘ell I’d let ‘er go there unsupervised.”

“Oh, is she yours, Solomons?” Chester calls out as we walk away. “She’s still her own person, bruv!”

After a few steps, Alfie retracts his hand and slows down his pace. My ribs tighten, every ounce of courage to ask for his touch crushed under the heaviness taking over.

“He’s got lovely designs,” I say as we walk on, afraid of the next silence. I’d hate having to deal with another one that’s comfortable yet heavy. 

‘‘‘Ow’d you know? You ‘aven’t checked out his portfolio,’’ Alfie grumbles.

‘‘I follow him on Insta.’’ No response, likely to make me stop talking about Chester.  However, I am not done with the topic. “I’d really like to make an appointment with him.”

“No. We’ll look for someone else who does something similar.”

“It’s my body. My choice.” If anyone should understand that, it should be him.

Or so I thought.

So you’re a gentleman and a feminist until a woman doesn’t listen to you when it concerns her body? The thing society has reduced her to?

“And it’s my choice to not allow you to go to High Wycombe to see that cunt!” Alfie roars.

Who the fuck are you to control me?

“If you’re so overly concerned about my well-being, why don’t you come along, eh? At least drop me off and come pick me up later,” I sneer, my voice raised.

“If you do make an appointment, I’ll be there the entire time.” He points at me with a warning finger. “It’s non-fucking-negotiable, right?”

Don’t punch above your weight.

“Right,” I mutter under my breath, gaze turned to the floor.

What have I gotten myself into?

The accusing finger curls beneath my chin and tips it up. “It’s common decency to look someone in the eye if they’re talking to you. Now let’s try this again, eh? If you go to Wycombe, you’re not going alone. I’m comin’ with ya and I’ll stay until money has exchanged ‘ands and you’re properly taken care of.” He grabs my face, his grip firm. Pain starts to blossom in my cheeks and jaw as the tips of his fingers dig into my skin. “It’s either that or not at all. No negotiatin’.”

And then I see it. 

In the statue he has turned into, the grey in his hair and beard enhances the exhaustion engraved in his pale complexion. His nostrils flare with hardly contained rage, but the stiffness in his neck tells he’s forcing himself to repress it.

And I have no desire to open Pandora’s box.

The decision has been made.

“Okay,” I squeak. “Please. Please, let me go.”

Immediately Alfie releases me. “I’m sorry,” he reaches out with a shaky hand and his breath tapers when I flinch and take a step back, “I’m sorry. I got carried away, darlin’. I didn’t mean to, but believe it at least when this old soul says it’s for your own good, yeah? Did… Did I hurt you?”

In spite of the faint throbbing, the only reason I can possibly hate him for is how his action made my knees weak in a way they shouldn’t. Nonetheless, for both our sakes, I’d rather tell him a lie than the truth. He’s suffered enough as is. “No. No, you didn’t.”

He opens and closes his mouth, uncharacteristically speechless. He glances around as if searching the environment for the right thing to do. Coming up empty, he groans and lowers his head, looking at me through his lashes. “Trust me enough to keep holding my arm?”

I nod , bridge the distance between us, and clutch his bicep.

“Tomorrow’s off the table, I wager,” he remarks dejectedly.

“It isn’t.” I squeeze his arm, hoping the encouraging sentiment translates well through the hard layers of muscle. “But… am I… am I really just someone you owe a bottle of rum to?”

“Today, yes, though you’re not ‘just someone’. You’re the Dutch fair lady with an accent like they ‘ave in Belfast and who guards ‘er story well.” He leans in, a playful taunting tone in his voice. “And so ‘appens to think of me as ‘Wolfy’.”

I stare at him, unable to speak yet glad we seem to be right where we were before snapping at each other’s throats.

“Cat got your tongue?”

“Shut up,” I mutter, lips pulled into a pout.

“I like you, Y/N.” I clutch the fabric of his sleeve a little tighter, uneasy despite it being a compliment. “You’re much better company than Tommy or any of those other fucking Shelbys.”

“Don’t you have a partner? Surely they’re better company than me?”

  “I only ‘ave my dog, yeah… Cyril is the bugger’s name.”

  “Oh, I- I’m sorry, I thought, never mind.’’ I cringe, ready for the earth to swallow me whole. ‘‘I shouldn’t presume things.”

“‘ow about you tell me your own answer to the question and maybe, right, if you’re lucky, I’ll forget about this.”

“Look who’s negotiating now,” I joke jovially. Nevertheless, I quickly tone down my faked and exaggerated amusement at his stern expression. “But, no, I don’t. Single as a Pringle. And a hopeless romantic.”

“No one sufficed…” he drawls, growing distant and thoughtful. 

Well, someone did. Once. Scared the bejaysus out of me.

“Nope, no one ticked my boxes. And the few men who spoke to me, either in person or online, were quite obviously after sex only or completely not my type. Such is the modern man. Fucking disgusting.”

“You’ll find someone, darlin’. A pretty and funny little thing like you is bound to.”

“Hm, I’m hard-pressed to believe that.”

I doubt I’d find anyone like you or Chris.

“Tell me a couple of your demands. What does your ideal man look like?”

Like you.

“I don’t want to be shallow, but… he needs to be handsome. Also, if he’s financially stable and has a good job, that’s a massive plus too.”

“And his character? What personality does this chap ‘ave?”

“Maybe a little old-fashioned. A gentleman who, ehm, isn’t afraid to, you know, take… control. Uh, yeah, and then the obvious. Sweet, kind, caring, loves to read, a creative spirit, spontaneous because I’m an introvert, so…”

“You’re an introvert?” Alfie chuckles.

“I am!’’ I exclaim, but quickly lower my head to hide my rosy cheeks. ‘‘I’m just, I don’t know, strangely comfortable around you. And when I get like this, I get chatty and a bit weird.”

And you’ll walk away because I’m too weird. It’s okay. They eventually always do.

“I don’t think you are. To me you’re a normal spontaneous girl, clever and witty. In fact, I’d argue it’s not a far-fetched idea if I say you’re real.”

“Oh,” I blink and frown, confused though flattered, “th- thanks.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Never heard that before?”

“Once.”

Chris used to tell me the same thing.

“Now you have again. And, if you want, I’ll tell you every time we meet.”

I clutch his sleeve tighter to still my trembling fingers. “You don’t have to, Alfie.”

After all, we only have tomorrow and I don’t want to get my hopes up.

“Well, that’s a shame, because I will. It’s a wicked world and if this is how I can deliver you from the sins in it, I will.”

A bit dramatic, but typically you. But why? Why would you trouble yourself with that?

“How old?”

I blink, missing the clue. If there is any. “Hm?”

“What age is your ideal man?” he clarifies, voice deep and low.

“Older than me.” I let the words sit, my courage down the drain. “I- I don’t know why, but, yeah, I guess older men just have this air of security, stability, around them. I like that.”

“I’m forty-five now.” The comment is almost inaudible, underlined by wariness.

Nevertheless, the words mill in my head, unleashing a storm of butterflies. Though I can’t see it, I’m pretty certain my ears are tinged red and if they aren’t, surely my face is. 

Damn it, damn it, damn it! He’s big, burly, thick, and forty-five. This isn’t fair. The gods hate me.

“So, what you want, yeah, you want someone who can provide you with a stable life and, correct me if I’m wrong, right, but that person should also be able to provide for you.”

“Well, not fully. I mean, I still like to do my own thing and have a job and such because I hate leaning on people, but, sometimes, that’s indeed what I want.” I sigh. “For someone to care for me instead of me caring for myself.”

He mumbles something under his breath.

The secret’s out now. I guess I just basically confessed my crush to him. And I’m bloody certain it won’t go as before.

This time, it certainly isn’t reciprocated. 

Alfie stiffens and groans, a spurt of pain raising his pitch.

“Alfie? You okay?” Worried, I search his face for a hint about what’s going on since he won’t tell me outright.

“Yeah, just my leg,” he says in between pants. He lifts his cane and points to the wee coffee van parked nearby. “How about a cup of coffee, eh?”

“I can’t say no to that. However, how about you go back to your booth and I’ll get us coffee?”

“No,’’ he shakes his head, jaw clenched to hide how much strain his leg’s putting on him. Little beads of sweat grace his brow. ‘‘No, let me pay, Y/N.”

“You can repay me with a pumpkin spice latte tomorrow.”

Stop stalling! Let me take care of you, gods damn it.

“Addicted to those, in’t ya?” Even though he means to lighten the mood, his breathless chuckle costs him precious energy I’d rather he preserve for the journey back.

“It’s a guilty pleasure, yes.” I gently rub his arm and nod ahead, coaxing him into motion. “Come on, let’s go.”

We pass the Shelby Tattoo Company stand, where Michael is busy placing a stencil of a hanya mask on a client’s calf. I shake my head when Alfie leans in to ask whether I want to stop by for a chat, noting he’s busy. Also, I’ll be honest and admit I was glad to see him go in the parking lot.

Back at the King of Camden Ink stand, I help Alfie down on a chair. An opportunity, apparently, to try and slip me his debit card so he’ll still end up paying.

I grab his wrist, which makes him immediately halt his attempt to put his card in my pocket of my hoodie. “Oi, what did I say? You can repay me tomorrow.”

“Darlin’, a man shouldn’t let a woman pay for something to share. C’mon, take the bloody card. You can pay contactless anyways, it’s fine.”

“Or I could make a run for it,” I dip my head and cock an eyebrow, “did ya think of that? We Dutch are notorious money wolves.”

“Don’t bother because you won’t,” he calmly responses. “You might be clever, but stealing isn’t in your nature. Besides,” he holds up his phone and shakes it between his fingers, “I can block it instantly. And I’ll know who to report to the police for theft.”

I snap my fingers, feigning disappointment. “Seen right through me. I should work on my poker-face.”

“And not blatantly allude to criminal deeds you’ll commit.’’ He crosses his arms and tilts his head. ‘‘Might help too.”

“How do you drink your coffee?”

“What’re you ‘avin’?”

“A cappuccino.”

“Make that two.”

“Anything else? An extra shot, something to eat?”

“No, darlin’, that’s all.”

‘‘You sure? You’re looking kinda pale.’’

He sighs, a soft smile hiding beneath his bushy whiskers. ‘‘I’m a big man, darlin’. It’s gonna take a whole lot more than me fucking leg to take me out.’’

“Alright, if you say so. I’ll be right back.” An eerie feeling washes over me the moment I make to leave. However, as soon as I turn on my heel, Alfie grabs my hand. His grip is strong, iron-like.

Like he’s afraid to let go.

“Alfie,” I place my hand over his and crouch down, “something wrong?”

The smile that was there has grown mirthless and has gone in the meanwhile. A solemn fleeting thought passes behind sombre blue eyes.

“Ikh nor gevalt tsu kukn bay ir far a moment mer,” he mumbles, clear enough for me to make out the words.

I stare at him in disbelief, an uncertain sense of understanding gnawing at my common sense. Considering what he told me about himself, I reckon he actually uses Yiddish whenever he starts to mumble. Oddly, the language is vaguely similar to Dutch and German, at least enough for me to fathom a semi-correct interpretation. I stress, semi-correct… I think. Anyways, it sounds an awful lot like “I just wanted to look at you for one more moment”. 

“Did you understand that?” He smiles wistfully, already knowing my answer.

“I think so.”

“So my excuse of getting tired faster with age won’t ‘elp me this time, eh?”

“No, but it might be better if we continue as if you did.”

His brows furrow, crooked teeth nibbling on his bottom lip. “Get the fucking coffee.”

“Alfie, I-’’ I lean back, stomach roiling and my mind scanning the conversation to try and discover where it went wrong. Desperate to find something, anything to salvage.

“Get-’’ he raises his voice, but lowers it an instant after, remembering how he scared me earlier today. Instead, he averts his gaze and retracts his hand. “Go.”

I swallow hard and slowly rise to my feet. My heart in my mouth, I head to the coffee van. 

You’ll regain control soon. As will I. Butterflies rip their wings and die. We’ll be okay once autumn turns to winter.

Winter.

Fall. 

Somewhere in between we’ll be okay. Maybe, if we’re lucky, we’ll be ourselves again in November.

No sooner have I placed the order and two cups of coffee in my hands or Ollie’s voice rises above a kerfuffle nearby. The closer I get to the King of Camden Ink booth, the louder the sound of men grappling and Alfie raging becomes.

“Boss, calm down!” Ollie begs, hardly audible above the struggle. “You only just got back from the hospital!”

“Hospital?” My breath hitches, caught in the thick terror that has wedged itself into my throat, expanding itself. “What for?”

Alfie stops struggling, breathes in deeply with his head tilted back. He exhales slowly and turns to me. “Cancer.”

“Where?”

“Lungs.”

I bite my lip to suppress the quiver in it. The world turns watery and dim, my voice choked by the tears that are threatening to spill. “Has it spread?”

“Yes.”

The conversations around us fade until they’re nothing but white noise. I stand frozen in place, too afraid to move with a head that feels as light as a balloon, begging to fly away. Upwards, towards the sun. 

But did Icarus not fall when he did the same?

Alfie shrugs the men holding him off, his imposing figure featureless and blurry as he approaches. He takes the cups of coffee from my hands and places them on the table. “Don’t cry, darling. It was a pneu- pneu- Ollie, what the fuck was it called again?”

Ollie tries to muster an encouraging smile, but fails to make it look genuine. “He got a pneumonectomy.”

“Thank you, Ollie, that’s what they did. Removed me left lung. Told me it was riddled with-” Alfie abruptly stops talking, either offended by or curious about why I’m avoiding his gaze.

What else can I do to stay yet hide, show I care without showing too much? 

My hands are balled into fists at my sides, trembling like a twig.

A pair of strong arms pull me flush against a warm chest that’s sturdy though soft with neglected muscles. I bury my face in the fabric of his sweater, seeking comfort in vanilla and oud wood. “Ya silly girl.” He tightens the embrace. “I’ll still be ‘ere tomorrow.”

This isn’t fair. Why does it have to be you? What if it returns? How much time will you have left?

“I- I’m-,” I choke out, trying in vain to explain myself.

However, he has already caught on to what I meant to say. “I know, I know.”

And I let it all out, despite the faces, the frustration, the anxiety, the dread at the uncontrollable.

The gods hate us. You deserve better. We both do.

Alfie rubs my back while I cry for an ideal. We softly sway as he murmurs into my hair. The words are incoherent and nigh impossible to make out. Nonetheless, knowing him, they’re perhaps Yiddish, Russian, or maybe a mix of both with a sprinkle of English. Regardless, they’re comforting to hear, calm and pleasant as they spill from Alfie’s lips. In between, however, there is a phrase so clear it can’t be interpreted otherwise. And I think it isn’t meant to be. 

‘‘Papa Solomons isn’t goin’ anywhere.’’ 

You better fucking not.

When I’ve regained my breath enough to make coherent sentences again, Alfie lets go to rummage in his bag, grumbling about his leg and groaning with pain. Nevertheless, no man dares to stop him. 

I help him stand up, wondering what it was he was searching for.

A tissue.

“May I?” he asks, his gravelly Cockney accent underlined by a note of caution.

I nod, speechless. Gently, he wipes away my tears, one hand reassuringly on my shoulder. He gives me another tissue after disposing of the first in a makeshift bin, which is essentially a garbage bag stuck to the table with tape. “Blow your nose or you’ll sound like a constipated leprechaun.”

Unable to hold back, I chuckle, take the tissue from him, and do as he says.

“There she is,” Alfie says as he hands me my coffee. “The little lady can smile again.”

“I’m sorry for what just happened.”

“You care,” he says matter-of-fact. “Don’t apologise for what you feel. But it’s curious, innit, the things we feel when it comes to another. What do we base them on, instinct or,” his eyes glisten in the artificial light, “a sense of familiarity?”

You’re a strange man, Alfie.

I say nothing and take a sip from the cappuccino. He joins the silence, sitting down on the chair I left him on before the coffee run. We watch the most unscathed of the tattoo artists clean around the stand and correct some of the furniture. A few in the team have sustained injuries. A black eye, vicious cuts made by rings on the cheek, a broken nose. In the booths around, people are murmuring conspiratorially as they steal glances at Alfie and his men. A glance in their direction is enough to make them mind their own business again.

Ollie and I lock gazes. He spreads his hands and lets them fall against his sides in a gesture of helplessness. Nevertheless, he seems glad I’ve returned and have recovered from the shocking discovery.

It isn’t like I’m the key to keeping him in check, ye ken.

He, as if having read my mind and begging to differ, shakes his head and gives me a knowing smile before he turns his back on us to help the others.

‘‘Madam?’’ I nod in thanks to one of the King of Camden Ink artists who presents me with a chair he put upright the second before. 

“Tell me about that boy,” he mutters once his colleague has left, straining himself not to bark out the command. 

“What boy?” 

“The one who drew in ‘is notebook.”

“It’s been a long time since I saw him.” I cross my legs and clasp the wee paper cup in my lap. “Why are you asking me about him?”

“Now that’s interestin’, your reaction. Why are you defendin’ ‘im, eh? Unless… yeah, ‘e was important to you.” His expression falters. “The wolf asked the little dove what she wanted, but she kept her wings firmly against her body, closed off and wary.”

Sharper and colder than intended, I respond to his reverie. “And she’ll keep them that way until the wolf understands this is a secret she won’t reveal.”

He blinks and shifts in his seat, a hand on the back of his chair while he tries to read me. “‘E ‘urt you.”

I scoff and bite my lip, remembering dark teary eyes at the airport. “Quite the opposite.”

“It’s not in your nature.”

Well, at least he’s calmed down enough to talk.

Whether it’s good he’s intrigued, however, is a different matter. 

For as far as you know it,” I snap. I take another sip of coffee and sigh deeply. “Look, it’s all in the past. It doesn’t matter. Not anymore.”

“But the past has a way of repeating itself,” he darkly comments.

“Alfie, stop. Just,” I hold my hand up and let it meekly fall, “just stop.”

I flinch as I see him reach out in the corner of my eye. The action startles him, and he awkwardly tries to cover up his failed attempt at whatever he was trying to do. Clasping the tiny cup between his big hands, he stares into the cappuccino like he’s drawn in by the foam. “Not all thinkin’ is good thinkin’. Mistakes are made because someone doesn’t think well at that moment. Trying to predict them is futile, but, sitting ‘ere, I think I’m very close to makin’ one.” He purses his lips and nods. “Yeah, big mistake I’m tryin’ to hold off. But sometimes, yeah, sometimes mistakes are a blessin’ in disguise, right, because the consequences allow for new opportunities and room to grow and learn. There are, ‘owever, people selfish enough to profit from that. They try to benefit from another’s failure.”

I remain quiet, unsure whether he is giving me a failed pep talk or his convoluted words hold a message I’m simply not catching on to.

He leans in, the mixture of his scent and proximity leaving me dizzy. “The woods are a dangerous place where Time goes on, but it remembers. It remembers stories, secrets, pain. The wolf and little dove are part of it. But ‘ow, we ‘ave yet to see.”

He pulls away. I release the breath I’d been holding. “Drink your coffee. Afterwards, I’ll walk you back to the quay.”

“You can stay here. I don’t want you to put yourself in pain because of me. Besides, it’s only a ten minute walk at most.”

“You forget, my fair lady, you’re dealing with a gentleman. From Margate, need I remind you?”

“Ah, yes, how could I forget?” I chuckle. “A gentleman and a king.”

“We’ll take a day to explore Camden together.” His smile is all cheek, his crooked teeth showing. “I’ll show you around my part of town, my kingdom.”

“Look at you, planning my holiday.”

“Technically, darlin’, it’s also my holiday since you’ll be staying with me. Which means, I’m also responsible for you.” His voice lowers to a gruff murmur close to purring to use my own words against me, creating a tune so sweet only the Devil can sing it. “Seeing as I’m providing you with accommodation, I think it’s also only right I provide you with what London and the south have to offer.”

“Meals included?” I nudge his nose with mine.

“Simple ones, yes. I’m not too good of a cook.”

“I could teach you.”

“Only if you let me teach you how to shave a man.” His lips brush past mine, his beard ticklish on my skin.

If I kiss him, would he like it?

I lean back lest I give into the temptation. I clear my throat and extend my hand. “We have a deal, Mister Solomons.”

Like he did in Birmingham, he brings my fingers to his lips and kisses them. “So we do, Miss L/N.”

For a moment we stare at each other, unsure where we stand now.

“Right, I- I’ll get my stuff.” I sheepishly check my bag and coat. “I think I’ve got everything.”

“Don’t forget your bottle of rum and,” he smiles in a way that makes me both want to smooch him and slap the grin off his face, “krentenbollen.”

“I wouldn’t dare.” I take the gift bag he holds out to me, retrieved from the storage hidden beneath the table.

“Ready,” he stands up, leaning heavily on his cane, and offers his arm, “my fair lady?”

“I am, but are you sure? I don’t want you to strain yourself because of me.”

“I’ll strain myself however fuckin’ much I want,” he grumbles.

“I appreciate it,” I blurt out as I place my hands on his upper arm. “Thank you, Alfie.”

“Ir zent a vanderfali modne,” he mumbles. This time, my linguistic knowledge is only great enough for me to understand the first part of the sentence. For all I know, he called me a bumbling fool. Not that he’d be wrong. I mean, I haven’t been anything but one around him. 

I’m a what?

“What was that?” I ask

“Nothin’, darlin’. He shakes his head. “Let’s go.”

I involve you in the conversation by changing languages. Why not do the same when you agree it’s impolite? Why keep me out now?

“It wasn’t an insult,” Alfie notes as we step outside into the parking lot.

“Then what was it?”

“A compliment.” From the corner of my eye I see him staring at me, a hint of hurt underlying his stoic expression. “I said you’re wonderfully funny.”

“No lie?”

“I promised I wouldn’t lie to you. I meant that. I’m a man of my word.”

Maybe I should start learning a bit of Yiddish, though. Just in case.

“You better be,” choosing peace over violence, I resort to joking, “otherwise, I’ll never support your family’s rum business.”

“I can live with that. Still a shame, yeah, but fine. As long as you still come to me for ink.”

“My body, my choice.” I bite my lip, mentally scolding myself for going on the offensive.

“Only if you’d like,” he says, nudging my shoulder. “Should’ve phrased that better. We created art together, right, a bloody masterpiece. It’s been too fucking long since I sat in such a flow. It’d be great, biblical,” he grins as he notices me smile at his choice of words, “if we could do that again.”

“I’ll first have to figure out a design, though. Something to fit the aesthetic.”

“Which is?”

“Ah dinnae ken,” I shrug, “although the idea of a gnarly ‘Of Gods and Monsters’ aesthetic does quite strike my fancy.”

“You also speak Scots now?”

I pinch my thumb and forefinger. “Och, only a wee bit. Besides, I can only read it and know a phrase or two. Otherwise, I’m still an honorary Irish woman.”

Alfie stares ahead, his words directed to himself rather than me. “You’re quite somethin’, int’ya? Quite somethin’.”

Within a matter of minutes we reach the quay. I let go of his arm while we watch the water and the skyline across it, tucking my hands in the pockets of my coat. 

“At what time shall we meet tomorrow?” I ask after a moment of comfortable silence, turning to face him. 

“Nine?”

“Nine? In the morning?”

“Yeah, let me take you out for breakfast.” He cocks an eyebrow, lips pulled in a straight line. “Don’t like the idea?”

“I do! I do, but…” I bite my lip, trying to think of how to phrase it. “But my family will become suspicious if I head out that early on a Saturday morning. They’re used to me leaving early for the fabric market, but never before ten.”

“‘Ow about brunch, then? We’ll meet at eleven, end of the mornin’, right, at the central station. Nothin’ suspicious ‘bout that. So,” he smiles gently, “eleven it is. Don’t be late.”

“Yes, Mister Solomons.” He stiffens and looks at me blankly. “Too much?”

“No, just… simply the soul recalling something.” He clears his throat and straightens his shoulders. Then he takes off his scarf and drapes it around my neck. “Don’t want to have you catch a cold if it starts pouring again.”

“You saw my Insta Story?”

He chuckles. “Maybe.”

I close my eyes and bury my nose in the soft fabric, which smells like a sweet and briny mixture of tobacco, his scent, and the water.

Alfie hums, pleased. The sound startles me, now only too aware of what I just did. “I- I’m sorry. That was weird. Shouldn’t-’’

“Like it?” He takes a step closer when I don’t answer, leaning in to purposefully lock eyes with me. “Well?”

I slowly nod because the storm of butterflies in my stomach makes my capability to talk questionable, to say the least.

“Good.” He straightens his back and looks out over the water. “I’ll stay until the ferry comes.”

“You don’t have to.’’ I wave dismissively. ‘‘I’ll be okay from here on out. You’ve got appointments or walk-ins to do. It’s alright. Go.”

“A gentleman is nothin’ but a bastard if he can’t even properly escort a fair lady.” He shrugs. “I’m sure the clients will understand that I want to see my associate safely on her way.”

Silence drapes itself over us like a blanket while we watch the harbour. Eyes closed, Alfie sunbathes. 

Until a pained grunt disrupts our moment of peaceful happiness. 

“Your leg?”

“Yeah, can’t stand around too long.”

“There’s a bench over there. Need help?”

“No,” he sneers. I flinch at the harsh tone and take a step back. Alfie opens and closes his mouth, aware of the damage he can cause by solely his voice. In a softer tone, he repeats himself. “No, darlin’.”

I match my pace to his while we saunter over to the bench beneath a wee awning. Despite his insistence on his independence, I remain closer than I usually would should anything happen. We sit down, continuing to watch the harbour and soaking in the September sun. Or, rather, Alfie’s watching the harbour. I, on the other hand, am enjoying a different view. If only he could see the beauty in his solemn serenity, devoid of the intimidating persona outside our moments together. Although he is feared by many, right here, right now, to me, he is simply a man with a story I know as well as he knows mine. I grow restless with the temptation to lean against him, but bite the inside of my cheek to suppress the urge.

Don’t count your blessings just yet. There’s only so much luck in a day. 

So I remain where I am.

A small distance between us.

Eventually the ferry arrives.

“Time to go.” I get up.

However, as I turn on my heel to board the boat, Alfie grabs my hand and presses his lips against my knuckles in a loving kiss. “Safe journey, my fair lady. And don’t forget. Tomorrow. Eleven at the station.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll remember.”

He lets me go, resting his hands and head on the handle of his gaze. I feel him watching me, the knowledge of which causes a pleasant shiver down my spine. One step away from boarding, I look over my shoulder. Alfie perks up, eyebrows furrowed. “Don’t kill anyone, alright? Especially Tommy. Man deserves better than Timbuktu.”

Alfie laughs and waves, officially sending me off.

I shuffle to the front of the ferry in search of a spot where I can soak up the sunlight. Fortunately, I manage to find one, removed from the other passengers. Although it’s nice and warm, my hands remain cold.

I step through the front door and put my coat on the coat rack in the hallway. As per usual, Mom is playing Solitaire on the old laptop, a cup of tea at her side.

“So, how was Amsterdam?” she asks, diverting her eyes from the screen. 

I plop my bag on the pouffe next to the coffee table. “Quite small and it was an event where the freebies were better than what was actually on sale. Also didn’t see any designs I want.” I hold up the bag Alfie gave me. “But I did get this. The artist who did my leg in Birmingham, Alfie, his family has a rum distillery, apparently. Got me a bottle, free of charge. Oh, and also a few of the buns he made last time. They’re kinda like krentenbollen.”

“What’s the catch?” Ah, the good old tone of wariness. Then again, they hope I come home someday with someone who does better than my sister’s ex. Which, to be honest, isn’t hard. 

“There’s none. It’s a gift.”

“Hm, well, better not show your father that bottle. Although, he doesn’t drink rum.”

I point at the gift bag. “Either way, no one’s allowed to touch it or eat the buns aside from me.”

“How old is he?”

‘‘Forty-five, it was his birthday yesterday. I’d say that still works with twenty-three.” I shrug. “He’s a good man.”

She snickers and shifts her attention back to the screen. “Forty-five and twenty-three. Should work.”

I can’t tell if she’s serious or sarcastic. She knows I’m into older men, I’ve made that more than clear on the rare occasion the conversation took a turn to my non-existent love life. Her boss is with a lass a wee bit older than me and my da’s best friend also has a younger girlfriend.

If somehow, by some gods-granted miracle, I end up with Alfie, would she support it? Would da, considering his pals’s taste in women?

My phone buzzes. I fish it out of the back pocket of my jeans, the screen lighting up with the notification I have an Instagram message.

From Alfie.

Don’t squeal. Stay cool, calm and collected. Don’t start bouncing around the living room.

Got home alright?

Yeah, just arrived.

Good. Have a nice glass of rum.

I’ll have it tonight with one of your excellent buns.

Maybe I will too. X Wolfy

I clench my phone, shake my head and grin like the Cheshire cat.

You bloody bastard

Later, at night, his message mills in my head as I’m watching a series online and working on the wee project meant as a surprise and make-shift ‘thank you’ for Alfie. In spite of being tucked in and there being no space for someone else, it feels lonely like the two-person beds at hotels I’ve stayed at during my travels. It’s the same kind of solemnity that accompanies the table with two chairs some of those rooms had in them. I remember the antique-looking one in a hotel in Galway.

My mind transports me back there, but instead of me sitting in the seat, I’m watching him and me from a distance. We’re still clad in our pyjamas, talking about something while we have breakfast.

A loud meow followed by a heavy weight on my chest pulls me out of my reverie. Solomon, totally ignorant as to how intrusive he is when he pushes his adorable fluffy white and grey snout in my face like this, curls up into a ball beneath my chin. Fortunately, I’ve finished my glass of rum and bun because eating and drinking is nigh on impossible when he or his brother glues himself to me like this.

I should have gone for that third glass sooner.

The rum has a strong bite and though the various notes of the ingredients come through, it’s vanilla which is the most recognizable flavour. Perhaps it’s because it reminds me of Alfie. The first glass made my head light and my step uneven. The second unlocked the creativity that only comes with true tipsiness. In my defence, I barely drink in general so little is required to send me over the edge of soberness. But Hemingway was on to something when he advised writing drunk.

Though, being drunk on love works just as well. Alcohol simply enhances the effect and makes you lose your inhibitions faster. And, if you’re an artist, it adds an extra dimension to your creativity too. But to keep the flow going, you have to have your glass filled. The flavour of the rum fades quickly, taking with it the dreams of the tattooed gentleman. So I keep drinking.

Completely succumbed to the vicious flow of hope mingled with art.

Afraid to lose the craving in the shape of an ideal.

Mortified to make the same mistake and lose it all.

Again.  

Cradling my purring oversized kitten, I tilt my head to look out the window. 

The autumn moon is bright.