#i can only remember bits and pieces of this dream so i have no context for you guys

[c0ffeeb1ack]

in my dream last night, five cut the handler's arm off with a giant knife and it was very bloody. anyone know what this means?

[whoreseason]

RANDOM JAMES MARCH HEADCANONS

CW for murder, drug use mentions, and discussions of trauma/implied child abuse

I think he excels at doing cocaine. I don’t know how to explain what I mean though

He's done quite a lot of it in his life but no longer does, not only because his ass is dead and he can't get high but because such crass indulgences remind him of his younger days

He’d wear women’s perfume if it were more socially acceptable but his ideas around masculinity refuse to let him do this

His hair is naturally a bit curly and he has spent years gelling it into submission

Is 5'8 and rather small build-wise

Despite his size, he can really, really hold his own in a fight, though he fights very dirty. Hand to hand fighting triggers something in him and he does it with pure rage. His opponent will be on the ground before they know it and he'll probably have killed them before he realizes what he's doing

Is a bit resentful of his babyface, as well as his height, and wishes he were both taller and more mature looking

Growing out a mustache was influenced by this

Also deeply resentful of the phrase “prettyboy”, which he’s heard a fair amount

Either puts lifts in his shoes or wears slightly heeled ones. Do NOT bring this up

Has been smoking since he was 12 or so

His eye twitches just slightly when he’s annoyed. It’s often his only outward tell

His only two modes of expressing irritation/anger are “irritated but not showing it” or “literally screaming”

I feel like we as a fandom don’t talk about his canonical temper enough. This individual has probably thrown a fork into a maid’s eye because she got the placement of a napkin wrong

His original accent is lower class Boston, and while this may not be a headcanon, I feel the need to bring this up. His actual voice may sound more like Kit's than anything

Speaks a bit of French and Latin, largely in an attempt to fit in with the old money upper class

Started drinking pretty hard very young, maybe when he was around 12 or 13? And was basically an alcoholic throughout his teenage years

Barely went to school growing up and was more or less able to charm his way into university

Is embarrassed of his Irish heritage. He's a product of his time

Killed his first victim in a rage episode in an alley behind a bar somewhere when he was 16

His first victims were impulsive kills along these lines, but his motives switched from triggered anger to relying on it as he went on, and by the time he was in university he'd get tightly wound and restless if he'd gone a week without it

Took various traits from his first victims-- ways of lighting a cigarette, vocal quirks, body language tics, that sort of thing. As the number racked up and his designed personality become more fleshed out he stopped doing this, but he carries his first kills with him through certain mannerisms, though it's now subconscious

Also took various traits from movie stars and book characters. Spent a lot of time at the cinema as a young man finding things on screen to make a part of himself

Is so very, very fake. Has constructed basically every aspect of his presentation and outward personality

He hates being reminded of who he was before, who he truly was-- he’ll reference parts of his childhood in the context of who he is now and what he's had to overcome, but it’s more like he’s using pieces of his past to construct a story about himself. Anything vulnerable or authentic to that part of his life he won’t bring up, he doesn’t even let it cross his mind

Has worked very, very carefully to suppress his flinching instinct at sudden noise or movement, but sometimes it still comes out when he’s snuck up on

Used to wake up screaming sometimes when he was alive

Would just as often wake up crying, which he quite hated. He never remembered what those dreams were about

He’s glad that he doesn’t sleep anymore and can thus avoid all that. Which is what he loves to do with his memories or any sign of emotional vulnerability, avoid it. Good luck trying to get him to open up about anything

Love you grandpa

[cheezeybread]

Recently, I've had one of those moments where my brain reminds me of something existing that I'm not sure many other people remember about, and that thing is American McGee's Alice [and, additionally, the sequel to that game, Madness Returns].

Two braincells collided here, because I've got mild Twisted Wonderland brainrot to go along with this reminder, and so inevitably my mind conjured up this: Riddle [or all of Heartslaybyul, if you're up for it. Individually, of course.] with a reader who is a lot like Alice, but instead of the expected Alice in Wonderland personality, they're the warped version we wind up with in American McGee's Alice.

For additional context, I've got some brief excerpts from the Wikipedias for both games:

"The game centers on the novels' protagonist Alice, whose family is killed in a house fire years before the story of the game takes place. After several years of treatment in a psychiatric clinic, the emotionally traumatized Alice makes a mental retreat to Wonderland, which has been disfigured by her injured psyche."

"Alice was discharged from a psychiatric clinic and now lives in an orphanage for mentally traumatized orphans under the care of Dr. Angus Bumby. To get rid of the trauma and learn the truth about her past, she once again falls into Wonderland, where a new evil force has corrupted it."

Bonus points if you feel like covering, touching on experiences near the beginning of the reader being present at NCR and potentially making an assumption of being ported off to some place like that Twisted version of Wonderland [haha] that they'd been in before, only to have to learn this is something very separate from that [the focus doesn't have to be on this obviously, especially not since there's not MUCH you can do with that, I don't think]

Yeah, hi, I was literally just about to go to bed when I saw this and thought "no, I'll do it in the morning" and then I COULDN'T STOP THINKING ABOUT IT

I've never heard of this game before, but tbh, now I really want to play it! Sorry if it's messy, but I started thinking about Overblot Riddle, and then I just started typing away...

.....

𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: After years of intensive treatment after a housefire, Reader is brought to Twisted Wonderland, and mistakes it for the Wonderland they've previously been trapped in mentally. Even after the realization of this different world, old scars still stay

𝙁𝙩: 𝙈𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙡𝙮 𝙍𝙞𝙙𝙙𝙡𝙚, 𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙃𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙨𝙡𝙖𝙗𝙮𝙪𝙡 𝙙𝙤𝙧𝙢 𝙢𝙚𝙢𝙗𝙚𝙧𝙨!

Tw// Dark imagery, graphic depictions of death and fire, mentally unstable mc (just like me fr fr)

𝙏𝙒𝙄𝙎𝙏𝙄𝙉𝙂 𝙒𝙊𝙉𝘿𝙀𝙍𝙇𝘼𝙉𝘿 (𝙥𝙩. 1)

.·:*¨ ✘♚✘ ¨*:·.

You couldn't seem to escape it.

The Twisted Wonderland of your own mind.

You thought you were starting to get better, after the first incident. Or, at least, as better as someone in your situation could get. You had escaped the torment that your brain had cooked up. You learned to deal with your emotional scars, alongside the physical scars lining bits and pieces of your skin.

But then, the black mirror seemed to call out to you in your dream. It held such alluring promises, and the dark glass, rippling like some sort of soft river current, seemed to invite you to look through it once more. Without thinking twice about it, you stepped through the mirror, and found yourself trapped in another world.

.....

The shapes of the cards haunted your mind.

Ace, Spades, Clovers, Diamonds...they circled your brain in a make-believe dance. Refusing to leave.

Meeting Heartslabyul was the trigger for it all.

The small, seemingly innocuous symbols marked on their faces made your blood freeze. Paint the roses. Happy Unbirthday.

"OFF WITH YOUR HEAD!"

The words made your skin crawl, and the burns etched on your skin began to ache, to jolt your brain into remembering.

.·:*¨ ✘♚✘ ¨*:·.

A happy little tea party, set in a field of bright green grass, unnaturally soft under your toes. The table set before you was piled with goodies, and a set of friendly faces sat around you, each carrying their own conversation. It was such a wonderful party.

But then the grass under your feet grew from a cooling sensation to a burning one. You stood up from your chair, and the motion sent you reeling back into reality.

Bright orange flames flickered around you, each one reaching out like the hand of a ghoul attempting to pull you down into the grave. You jumped out of your bed, crying in pain when your bare feet hit the carpet underfoot. Although it wasn't exactly carpet at that point; the plastic fibers in the fabric had melted and were boiling hot.

Despite the pain, and the terrifying feeling of the fire, you ran out of your room and out into the hallway, only to be met with the sight of your father laying on the ground mere feet away, face-down, one arm outstretched to the door of your room. His flesh had mostly melted away at that point, the charred bones in his skeleton peeking out from barely clinging-on skin. The only distinguishable feature was his silver wedding ring, now dulled to a flat gray.

Room by room you ran, despite the flames grabbing at your arms and legs, causing irreversible damage. Dead. Dead. Dead.

The Firemen who arrived on the scene first found you in the front yard, alone, passed out from smoke inhalation and pain.

You didn't wake up fully for several years after that.

.·:*¨ ✘♚✘ ¨*:·.

"IT'S OFF WITH THE HEADS OF ANYONE WHO DEFIES ME!"

Not even a whole week into your stay in this world, you were met with the horrifying fact that "overblots" existed.

Unfortunately for you, the very first was akin to the Queen of Hearts herself.

"Riddle, please, stop!" Trey yelled out, his skin glistening with sweat from exerting his own power in an attempt to block Riddle's signature spell.

Either oblivious to his friend's cries, or simply not caring enough to respond, Riddle raised his arms up and dropped a fist in a slamming motion, causing one of the rosebushes to uproot itself and leap towards those trying to save the Heartslabyul leader.

You dropped to the ground, hands covering your ears as you shut your eyes tightly. At the first sight of Riddle, at his transformation, everything had ceased to be. Your progress in recovering, your calm demeanor towards this "Twisted Wonderland", your semi-friendly actions towards the students who sneered at you, and even your attempts at befriending the Heartslabyul members. It all came crashing down, and all you could feel was the ghost of of a fire encircling your body, and the quick flashed of those in your own twisted Wonderland coming back to haunt you.

You couldn't escape them, could you?

"Hey, HEY!" Someone put a hand on your shoulder, causing you to scream and jerk away. You opened your eyes in panic, which allowed you another glimpse of the Ruthless Tyrant, and only made you panic more, your chest heaving from gasped breaths.

The man who had touched you looked concerned- and rightfully so- at your wide eyes, paled skin, and wet eyes "Hey, stay with us, please," Ace begged "We need all the help we can get."

But you would be no help here.

You gave one final look to the Blotted Riddle...surprisingly, he looked back at you, his eyes narrowed with hatred and disgust.

They looked just like her eyes...

Everything went dark.

.·:*¨ ✘♚✘ ¨*:·.

Riddle sat in a chair next to the mysterious student's bed, his gaze focused on a small piece of hair laying on the floor underfoot. He looked like shit, to say the least. He held bags under his eyes, and his skin was several shades paler than it normally was. He had just been released by the nurse a day ago, following the incident with his overblotting.

There was a slight shuffling sound, and Riddle looked up hopefully, expecting to see you awake and fine. But no such luck. It was only your shoulder twitching in your sleep.

Riddle would be lying if he said he wasn't interested in you from the beginning. The sheer amount of terror in your eyes as you stepped foot into the Heartslabyul's territory (as told to him from Ace) was something to behold. And, also according to Ace and Deuce, you had some....issues...with cards and a certain "Wonderland". And he felt like shit about it all. He had known, even from just a gut feeling, that there was something going on with you. He could tell that much just from looking at the deep, darkened burn scars that flashed underneath your sleeved, that showed whenever the leg of your pants raised up a little bit above your ankle.

And he had played into that terror. He had made you get worse, and you were still in the nurse's office, recovering from the "incident".

"I'm sorry," he said softly, reaching out a hand to pat your arm gently. An apology was all he could muster at the moment.

But, to be sure, he would make up for everything when you woke up.

If you woke up.

.·:*¨ ✘♚✘ ¨*:·.

[lonelylonelyghost]

Re-watch of The Spirealm. Episode 23

Nature in all its ominous glory

As far as the last images you see before you die, this is pretty good actually

RIP girl

Nice picture btw. I wouldn't want it on my bedroom wall, but if it was hanging somewhere near the entrance door, to scare the guests and myself occasionally - that'd be pretty cool.

"You stand on the bridge to view the scenery,

and people who view the scenery look at you upstairs.

The moon decorated your window,

and you decorated someone else's dream."

Nothing quite like a piece of cryptic poetry to start off your day

I need to see more of the Mistress's dress, it seems to look amazing. I want official full-body posters...

The Sun, the Death, the Noble Jester, The Giant and the Ghost

A gang

Jawline.

shut up.

He's so worried for his Lingling...

"You should let me leave this world. Me appearing in the game is equivalent to cheating. If you get caught you'll be punished severely."

"As long as you're here with me, I'm not afraid of any punishment!"

The ride or die!...

"I'm offline now. I'll die if I go out. I'm content to just be here with you. I played this game because I was lonely. But I met you. And now I'm not lonely anymore..."

ಥ_ಥ

The red string!!!

I noticed that the show treats Xiong Qi' and Xiao Ke's story is in some way similar to Nanzhu' and Qiushi's, in that they don't state clearly about the nature of their relationship, but make it as intense as possible. Ready to do anything for each other, literally tied together with a red string of fate, so who cares about the labels? They are each other's person, and that's enough. This is by far my favourite kind of m/f dynamic. GIMME MORE

Not to ruin the moment, but I think this is the only instance when the drama can legitimately show on screen Nanzhu getting on top of Qiushi

The RAGE!

Nice

"We both are women. I know how you feel. Many women have been hurt by love. We are easy to be bullied and mentally controlled. I've acted many eye-candy roles. None of these characters are divorced. I envy you. You're going the wrong way, but you've been looking for a way out."

"Is improper behavior also worth to be envied?"

"Of course! One day, you'll reach your solution. The Twelve Sufferings you drew is dreary. I don't like it. I like this one the best. Art and insights don't matter at all. What really matters is your choice."

Tan Zaozao is terrified but still reaches out to the Mistress with kindness. Have I told already that I love her?

The portrait is beautiful

(It looks a bit like it was drawn by Shen Yi)

And she's starting her life anew 🥲

"See you in the next Door"

😭😭😭😭

"Thank you." "And how exactly are you going to thank me?"

"Tell me, what do you want me to do?" "...I haven't decided yet."

"Have a rest. You can think it over once you've recovered."

Well, Qiushi walked right into that one, didn't he

"Don't leave. Stay with me a little longer." "Alright."

COME ON!

"Tan Zaozao, do you think that I'm too weak now to teach you a lesson?"

"Lingling-ge, calm Ruan-ge down, he wants to beat me!"

"What tool do you want to use? The fruit knife?"

You asked the wrong person to defend your honor, Zaozao! ehehe

OK, alright, ok, so....

[unholy screeching]

First of all, I officially will be reminded of THIS moment every time the lychees are mentioned in ANY context for the rest of my life.

Second of all, WHAT. WAS. THAT. Like seriously. How was that filmed? How was that supposed to have any heterosexual explanation? Just bros being dudes, hand-feeding each other fruits sensually? Like, be for real.

And third of all, Qiushi's face???????? Oh, he knows what he's doing and what kind of effect he has on Nanzhu, the amount of power he wields over him. And he uses this power to just take care of him!...

This one (and the Bite Scene TM) are the most homoerotic moments in the history of forever.

I rest my case.

what the FUCK

"Cheng Yixie? How did you know we were here?"

"I could smell you."

I...😳I did NOT remember this bit of the dialogue...

[natsumebookss]

Tragic Yuri or Tragic Yuri: On Female Autonomy, Reclaiming the Narrative, and 2011's Moodiest Magical Girls

(contains spoilers for Madoka Magica and Heartcatch Precure, very slight spoilers for Winx Club, topics of loss and depression, and the author screaming into the void about anime bullshit that happened over a decade ago)

If you've spent any amount of time in the Precure or PMMM fandoms, you've probably come across this quote. It's natural in many ways for Urobuchi to feel the way he does--imposter syndrome is intensely common for artists and I'd imagine attempting to write a subversion of a common genre while a piece of media from that genre is wrapping up a super successful run is challenging. While I won't pretend Heartcatch reached the levels of popularity that PMMM ended up at, it was the highest-selling season for years in terms of toy sales and many still remember it very fondly. (I'm a bit more critical of it, personally, but more on that later.) And so much was made of Urobuchi confessing he hadn't seen Heartcatch at the time of writing his own show, with PMMM antis saying that meant he had no real appreciation for the genre.

But what if I were to tell you that not only would PMMM have been significantly worse if he'd made it more like Heartcatch, but Heartcatch would've been better off if it had been more like Madoka?

A disclaimer before we go any further: I am not suggesting that Heartcatch should've retooled into a darker series, or that it even had the ability to since the shows were made pretty much in tandem. The damage done to Heartcatch, in my opinion, was already done before Madoka's finale even aired. This is purely an exercise in comparing two magical girls from roughly the same anime season (one ending about when the other was starting) and seeing what they could learn from each other. Also note that my title on my main blog is literally "Heartcatch Precure finale anti," so there will be some bias involved. With that out of the way, let us proceed.

Context

Pictured: a completely normal Facebook discussion about a kid's anime character from almost 15 years ago.

For those unfamiliar, Cure Moonlight has essentially built up a reputation for being the Leafpool of Precure. For those unfamiliar with Warrior Cats, this is one of the worst things you can be called in fandom--someone with legions of fans who got screwed over so badly that those fans will never shut up about it. Being a Leafpool is not merely being a tragic character, but being actively fucked over by the narrative at every possible turn.

Let's explore Cure Moonlight in a bit more detail before comparing her to Homura and how, I argue, Homura did a similar story path to hers better. Like Homura, Cure Moonlight is first seen fighting a massive threat to humanity inside our pink magical girl Tsubomi's dream. The dream cuts off before we learn her fate, but all we can see on her face is pure sorrow before it does. The minute she is introduced, she already knows loss.

Throughout the show's run, we get to know her as Yuri Tsukikage, a veteran magical girl forced into retirement after her transformation item has been shattered. She has half of the broken Heart Seed that remains, and her foil Dark Precure, who broke the seed, has the other. Yuri is intensely depressed for this exact reason: she has lost her powers, her duties to the world, her fairy companion (who died in the battle with Dark Precure), and her father has also mysteriously vanished. The audience first sees her as a friend of one of the lead's older sisters, a senpai who excels at both sports and academics, before revealing her to be a broken person inside. The goal of Yuri's narrative, seemingly, is to restore her Precure powers, allow her to confide in new friends, and find her missing father.

The first two are accomplished in a pretty straightforward but heartwarming manner--Yuri begins to find a new purpose in training her Precure kohais and eventually regains her powers through hard work and determination. Typical kid's show stuff, even if seeing Cure Moonlight reappear for the first time is indisputably badass. It's the third one, however, that I have the most problems with.

Frequent followers of my main blog @curemoonliite may be familiar with a term I have called "moonbitching." This is what I call it when I rant at length about the Heartcatch finale and what it did to Cure Moonlight's character, or even just allude to it in the tags. Since this post will already be long enough without it, I'll go light on the moonbitching, but do just enough of it to give you the facts.

In the last few episodes of the series, Yuri learns that her father was brainwashed by the main villain of the series, Dune, and that Dark Precure was cloned from her genetic material while he was brainwashed. This is legitimately a fascinating plot point that, by itself, I have no problems with. However, soon after learning about this, both Dark Precure and her father are killed off in the final battle and all Yuri can do is watch.

Her father sacrificed himself for her in a moment of clarity, she didn't even get time to really process that she's been fighting her sister all along, and she's lost everyone all over again. She started the show with just her and her mother, and the second she sees hope at having a family again, it's taken away from her.

Her kohai Tsubomi, upon seeing this, begs Yuri not to take revenge on the Big Bad that's stolen everything from her. This isn't the Yuri I know, she shouts. But somewhere along the line, we've lost the Yuri we know. All her development, all her growth, has been torn away the minute she's forced to lose everything again. Her path as a character is now uncertain, the narrative deciding it won't allow her to pursue even the slightest act of revenge.

And all Yuri can do is watch alongside us.

Homura and Yuri

The minute I saw this finale for the first time, I was reminded of how a classic piece of children's/family media handled a similar plot point. Allow me to be cliched for a moment, but if we look at someone like Inigo Montoya, we can see that his decision to pursue revenge is never really questioned by the narrative. This is something that's always bothered me about female characters in media, especially magical girl stories--a magical girl can never just say "give me my father back, you son of a bitch." They may want to, but due to sexist notions about women and violence, they're always expected to take the high road.

Oftentimes, this is done by using the magical girl leader as a mouthpiece to directly dismiss their teammate's desires--Bloom and Aisha go through something very similar in S4 of Winx Club when Aisha's fiancee is killed. Neither Bloom nor Tsubomi are naturally dismissive people, and the narrative tends to characterize them as kind, but they are briefly mischaracterized in moments like this to give the typical "revenge is bad" message that kid's shows tend to have. A message that is often distinctly missing from boy's cartoons, but I digress.

Aisha is at least allowed the dignity of separating from the main team for a few episodes to join some extremists, but Yuri doesn't even get that.

And Homura gets so much more.

I'll admit, I still have mixed feelings about Rebellion to this day, but what I do appreciate about it is that it isn't hampered by these restraints that magical girl media made for children seem to have. That villain arc the Facebook commenter from before said Yuri should've had? It was too late for her by the time the finale ended, but it wasn't too late for Homura.

Homura is, in many ways, an anti-Yuri, and a lot of that comes from her having autonomy within the narrative. Female autonomy is something we see discussed in the social justice sphere a lot, but not quite as much in the storytelling sense. Probably the main difference between the two is that Homura, as a time traveler, can stop the ones she loves from ever being killed. In fact, that's also her greatest weakness, as she wears herself down with the timelines so much that she can barely bring herself to care for anything else sometimes.

Homura's depression comes from the idea that she Can Stop The Thing, but can't figure out precisely how to. Yuri's depression comes from the fact that she Can't Stop The Thing, thinks she knows how to, and gets herself into more trouble along the way. One of these makes for an intensely more active character that doesn't feel unfairly dunked on by the narrative, and oddly enough, it's not the kid's show character.

Yuri, as a children's character, is kept from doing certain things by what that entails. Homura, however, has no such restrictions. She can travel through time and repeat everything over literally until she breaks herself. And that she very, very much does.

Homura doesn't have to be convinced in the finale to let Madoka go, she just peacefully comes to terms with it herself. That alone gives her more autonomy than Yuri had, even if we recall that Rebellion's ending was not the original one that Urobuchi had planned. However, Rebellion's ending serves as an ultimate rebuttal to the narrative that a magical girl must simply allow hardship and loss to happen to her. If the world isn't fair to her, if not even time travel works out, why not just remake it?

This action comes at the cost of stripping Madoka of a lot of her autonomy, sure. But it is, in a way, the natural conclusion of how magical girl leaders are often made to strip their "angsty" team members of theirs. Homura's fall from grace is a flipping of this script in every way possible, and even if it's far from the best decision for her to make, we can see that it's 100% fully her own.

The revenge is complete. No one is there to stop her. Even the writers don't really know what to do with her now. Homura has now transcended the fate of the purple magical girl, and that's the best thing that could've ever happened to her.

A girl who seeks revenge is a devil. A girl who cannot become a princess is doomed to become a witch. But ask yourself, is the fear of becoming these things worth becoming a spectator in your own story?

And, if that's the case, is it truly better to reign in hell than serve in heaven?

[kaurwreck]

Whatcha think of how Mori is depicted by Asagiri? People are always mad about it, so I do wonder your own opinion of it.

I think Kafka Asagiri is cheeky and clever, but I'm not very objective about his choices because I knew next to nothing when I first began watching the anime, and researching complex, multidisciplinary, and context-laden subject matter about which I have very little prior knowledge is something I love doing so much that I've made it my career and most of my hobbies. I'm very, very easily delighted by layers I can sink my teeth into, and I get immense satisfaction (i.e., a lot of dopamine) from untangling patterns, recognizing references, and exploring contours I hadn't initially noticed by deepening my contextual knowledge.

The rush I get from learning means that engaging from a starting place of near total ignorance and then retroactively piecing together more information ensures I'm continously starry eyed and dazzled by the depth I'm perceiving. But I'm an American reader who was entirely unfamiliar with the Japanese literary references or relevant Japanese history prior to watching the anime or reading the manga, and I'm piecing together context from limited English-language resources. So, much of what I'm getting a rush out of learning for the first time is likely common knowledge to the native Japanese audience. It's easy to think that the water is deep when you first jump in and can't touch the ground.

For an example of how my unfamiliarity manifests as bias: I love Fitzgerald as an antagonist and then uneasy ally, and I enjoy that Fitzgerald's skill manifests as green light. But I've already chewed his themes and source material references to bits, having studied the Great Gatsby and its period-relevance re: the disillusionment of the jazz age in high school. I was already familiar with the significance of the green light to Fitzgerald's relationship with wealth and how it enchants him such that he becomes so obsessed with its hazy distortion of his dreams that he forgets himself. I liked how the anime and manga both interpret the green light, and I especially like how the green light wraps around his body, lightly paralleling Chuuya's Corruption runes and thus tinting Fitzgerald's skill with the suggestion of possession/loss of control.

But although it's a lot of fun to trace those familiar patterns in a novel interpretation, it can't compare to the thrill I felt when I belatedly realized that Vita Sexualis isn't erotica but instead a skeptical reflection on sex and the purported objectivity of naturalism; or when I learned that irl!Mori was the most girl dad to ever girl dad. With Mori, my expectations were subverted, Mori's character became brilliantly nuanced where he was flat to me before, and I felt the same rush of pleasure as if I was made privy to an inside joke. Fitzgerald felt comparatively like rediscovering a favorite blanket buried in the back of my closet; warm and fond, but not gripping or perspective-shifting. (Unlike when I first read the Great Gatsby, and thought it saturated in clever and well wrought commentary that complicated my prior feelings and prompted me to grapple with my own sources of green light.)

In other words, I don't have any objectivity here for the same reason I shouldn't be trusted regarding how badly any of my tattoos hurt. I remember vaguely that they did, but the process flooded me with enough endorphins that the edges of my memories are blunted and tinted rose.

So, to actually answer your question, I think Kafka Asagiri's depiction of Mori is brilliant and witty and subversive, layered with insight into the blurred lines between love and imperative, fear and intuition. I think Mori is emotionally wrought but manicured with pathological attenuation, which renders his bursts of passion all the more compelling. He's also funny and silly and horrifying in how his levity only ornaments and never softens the weight and gravitas of his presence.

I used to feel like Kafka Asagiri's suggestive playfulness regarding Mori was in bad taste, given the severity of the implications. I don't anymore; Kafka Asagiri is hardly as irreverent as academic commentary on Mori Ogai's medical legacy regarding beriberi or Mari Mori's love for him. I wouldn't enjoy Mori nearly as much if he were reduced to an easily digested archetype or caricature without any of the dissonance that humanizes him.

I also can't take seriously my own first impressions of Mori's character either; I've rewatched and reread bsd several times over, and I can't recall the narrative ever affirming or validating my initial presumptions. I reacted rather than engaged, which is fine as an instinct, but I certainly shouldn't conflate it with analysis.

But, as I said, I'm not objective about bsd. I think Kafka Asagiri is brilliant and fun and thoughtful. I think Mori is a watermelon full of hamburger meat that I love gnawing. I think bsd is the greatest thing since sliced bread. Carthago delenda est.

[braveheartstoryteller]

I have some non-cohesive thoughts about the Guardians of Light Gather scene in KH3. There is a ton of little pieces, that I don't know exactly how they all fit. They only bring up more questions in my mind. But to sort my brain, I want to put them here. One question I've been trying to answer is what does it mean when Sora puts his hands behind his head? Does it mean that Sora is at ease, or ill at ease? I am leaning toward the latter, because most of the times I can think of when this happens, it makes the most sense in context. But it is still a bit unclear. In this case, Sora seems to be ill at ease about all the Keyblade Master talk, which the story highlights by Donald mentioning that "Sora needs more work." Sora clearly gets defensive here. That brings me to another question of mine. Am I supposed to laugh over Donald's ribbing of Sora? This happens twice in this scene, as Donald gives Sora grief over his lack of skills, then later as Donald reminds Sora "three half pints make a whole." There is laughter, and Sora doesn't make a stink, yet...everything feels awkward too. It could be just me, but I honestly don't know how to take any of that. Not everything are questions though, some are connections made. Such as Sora's reaction to Aqua, as she remembers him, but he doesn't. What is interesting, is in Dream Drop Distance, Sora does remember a memory that has Aqua in it. Why that doesn't come up here, I'm not sure. What is apparent to me, is Sora's awkwardness over not remembering Aqua. In fact, he seems to be quite unhappy over the prospect. Even after Aqua tells him that it is alright, Sora's smile is quite forced. I do think this moment is a piece of the overall puzzle of this scene, but I am not sure yet how it fits. Moving along, "Since when do you mope?" is of course the piece of dialog that keeps me coming back to this scene. And yes, Riku is right, something is definitely rotten in the state of Denmark. But why? I'm still not sure. On a random whim this morning, I went to look at a scene from the original Chain of Memories. (For an entirely different reason, I might add.) I found this:

So the idea of Sora moping is not original to KH3, it has come up before. (It is still mentioned in the re-make of CofM as well.) In KH3, Sora's only reply is simply go wide-eyed. What on earth could that mean? Especially when something like Chain of Memories is a (seemingly) hotly debated topic in the fandom, in terms of how it effects Sora. I'm not one to take a side in such a situation, instead using it as a way to look at a story from all angles. I'm just that way. I still have to question though, could there be a connection? Finally, and this is one of the major reasons why I revisit this scene from time to time. There is a moment easily missed in the exchange between Kairi and Sora at the end. Kairi tells Sora "Trust me-- I'm not giving up." Sora says nothing, but instead does this:

It's subtle but it is there. Sora's surprised over Kairi's words. As if, perhaps Kairi gets to the heart of the matter. I'm not sure. In the end, it is actually Yen Sid that propels Sora back to action. While I find Yen Sid a dry character (and annoying at times) here he both validates Sora's concerns, and encourages Sora as well. Not a bad thing in my book.

[raithwithwings57]

First Draft Of Some Angsty Stucky Fanfic

I’ve been writing a lot of stucky fics for a while now, but I’ve not published any of them yet, so I figured I’d spit out a bit of what I wrote this evening onto y’all for consideration. Tell me if y’all want to see any more, but I’m probably gonna post some more bits and pieces of some of my unfinished fics over here in the next few days.

Context for this bit: this is a fic where Bucky has been freed from being the winter soldier before Steve was found and no one, not even Bucky really knows who he was and where he came from. They know that Bucky was a killer, and that he killed Tony’s parents, so the avengers don’t feel overly fond of him even though they work with him. Warning: Violent

James rubbed the back of his neck, took a deep breath, and then nodded to himself. He intentionally turned to look at Barton as though he was the only one that he was speaking to, as if the entire room wasn’t listening. “You’ve read my file haven’t you?” James didn’t wait for a reply, it wasn’t intended to actually be a question. “You know that I was a POW. I don’t remember exactly, it’s all pretty hazy, but I remember falling, and I remember how long it took. I remember holding on for dear life one second, and the wind was whipping me around and my hands were losing feeling because it was so cold and we were moving so goddamn fast through it, and the next moment I’m falling. I hit something, a rock face, pretty sure it was the side of a cliff on the way down, and took off my left arm.” He kept his face impassive as he demonstrated a place about halfway between his left elbow and shoulder. “I don’t remember actually hitting the ground, like those stupid falling dreams where you only ever fall, but never actually make nice with that sudden stop. I didn’t know that the experiments had been successful, or really that I’d been experimented on at all. I’d no idea that i had enough serum coursing through my veins to let me survive that fall, and i didn’t know that they—“ James paused, took stock of his features, schooled them studiously down, even quirked a little smile. It was a few seconds before he trusted his voice to betray nothing. “That was how I was captured. So they could— what did you say? Make me into a killer badass assassin who isn’t afraid of bullets.”

James laughed. “I got out a couple times in the early days, managed to read my own records even if I couldn’t escape, and the memories are almost all burned away, they wiped me and wiped me and wiped me, so many times since then so it’s really mostly gone, but I can vaguely remember seeing a bit about how half the bones in my body were broken, and the words multiple skull fractures stand out to me in my mind. And the notes— i don’t’ know how true this is, I don’t have a scar to show for it, but I’ve had my throat slit before and it didn’t leave any marks— it said I’d been guillotined by my own dog-tags— i think when i hit that cliff. It must have been too cold for me to bleed out properly, I think i landed face down, or maybe I rolled over and that staunched the flow of blood. That’s not the point, but it kind of is. I fell down to hell, and i crawled out a demon, is it any wonder I’m afraid of it still?”

[lyzelky]

Writer Interview Game

Tagged by @gilded-glitter!! Kissing u

When did you start writing?

I remember getting pissed off about the writing choices in the Pokemon Anime when I was about 8 or 9, and I came to the realization that I could write my own story featuring my own Pokemon Trainer and handle the story the ✨right ✨ way (lol). From there I started filling up several dozen school composition notebooks until several years later I realized I could write on my ipod touch and save myself the trouble.

Are there different themes or genres you enjoy reading than what you write?

I'll read just about anything as long as it interests me, but I think the genre I enjoy least is sci-fi? I don't hate it, but it just doesn't have that strong enough of an appeal to me, though I do like when people get goofy with it (Doctor Who, some episodes of DS9, etc.) I love a good mystery/period piece though, and I while I enjoy writing it, whether or not I'm any good at it is another matter entirely. If there is a procedural detective show with a will-they-wont-they pair of leads, chances are I've seen it.

Is there a writer you want to emulate or get compared to often?

Oh jeez, well, I've never published fic before so I don't think I have ever been compared to anyone else, but an english teacher I had in high school once complimented me on have a "unique voice" in my writing, and I still think about it from time to time. As for writers I admire? Off the top of my head: Toni Morrison, Norman Maclean, Cormac McCarthy, and Tolkien.

Can you tell me a bit about your writing space? I write primarily on my phone, so I don't really have a dedicated space. I used Pages primarily but I kept running into issues with lag, so I recently switched over to Scrivener on my phone. As for where I write I either do so at my desk or in bed, or on long train rides. The good thing about writing on my phone is that if I have a sudden burst of inspiration and have the time, I can write almost anywhere.

What’s your most effective way to muster up a muse?

Music, especially with long train or car rides. Staring out the window at scenery with music often gets my imagination going. Long walks work too, especially if I'm on the treadmill at the gym and can zone out without worrying about walking into oncoming traffic lol. Other than that, ideas often come to me just as I am drifting off to sleep.

Are there any recurring themes in your writing? Do they surprise you?

Found family, prophecies, newfound/hidden powers, finding purpose, feeling like an outsider. These don't really surprise me, I was always kind of a weird kid and am now a weird adult, with the pervasive feeling of "not belonging" a constant throughout my youth. This isn't to say I don't have friends and family that I love, and am certain love me back, but I've always been a little awkward in most social settings, regardless of the context.

What is your reason for writing?

I have a very active imagination that probably borders on maladaptive dreaming, but writing and art create a healthier outlet to channel that into.

Is there any specific comment or type of comment you find particularly motivating?

Basically anything vaguely positive or encouraging is enough to make me blush.

How do you want to be thought about by your readers?

Honestly I don't even know, I hope they think I'm moderately cool? I have never been perceived through the lens of my writing before, only my art.

What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?

World building and character development!

How do you feel about your own writing?

Pretty shy, I am always mildly concerned that my stuff is too trope-y or whatever, and other times I re-read what I wrote and go "hey, that's pretty good!".

When you write, are you influenced by what others might enjoy reading, or do you write purely for yourself, or a mix of both?

I would say 99% of what I write is my own OC stuff that I never plan to make public, so I'd say I write mostly for myself. That being said, I do think people would enjoy certain aspects of my OC stuff, it's just way too jumbled for anyone but myself to make any sense of it at this point in time.

Tagging whoever wants to join in on this!

[imagoddamnonionmason]

OC Showcase

I was tagged by @alypink and @frankwoods to do a little showcase of your OCs favourite things!

I'm gonna do Mother and Daughter duo: Jodie and Ashley Woods!

Jodie

Name: Jodie Hall (later becomes Jodie Woods, but I have yet to complete that transition).

Universe: Black Ops (Cold War onwards - she is "Bell")

Favourite Book and why?: I feel like Jodie would like either something factual or romance novels - I think a favourite of hers would be Pride and Prejudice.

Favourite piece of clothing they own: probably a sweater, maybe shirt of Frank's that she's stolen. She doesn't really fuss about clothing too much so probably wouldn't name any one item as her favourite!

Favourite piece of clothing they wished they owned: again, she doesn't really think of clothing like this. I can say, though, that she remembers her mum wearing a pendant around her neck - it's one of the memories she thinks is her own and the pendant is the clearest part. She wishes she had that.

Favourite "little treat": something sweet, simple, so most likely chocolate. Doesn't matter what kind, she'll love it. (Though if you were to add a strawberry or two to the mix, she'd definitely would love that.)

Favourite person in their lives: oooh, in what context? Cause it's a given that Frank and Ashley would take up that mantle, but that's family. Friends? It's Sarah Mason. Sorry Alex, your wife is stealing one of your close friends lol

Dream home (if there were no obstacles, financial or otherwise): somewhere secluded, far away from everyone and everything - quiet, peaceful. A cabin, next to a lake. It would be decently sized, but hard to find. Only people who she'd trust would know the location. It would be warm and cozy, void of any reminders of her past and focused entirely on providing comfort for her family.

Dream life: Now, I have to say that Jodie doesn't think of this - thinking about what could have been only perpetuates this sense of anger and resentment within her, so she usually doesn't entertain questions like this. After all, she ends up with a loving husband, a wonderful daughter and friends she can trust. What else could she ever want other than that? But, if you catch her at the right time, she might express that she had everything she does now, "but I'd like for my brother to have seen it".

Ashley

Name: Ashley Woods

Universe: Black Ops

Favourite book and why?: The Green Mile by Stephen King - the ending made her cry when she first read it as a teenager. The story of someone being in pain, despite doing what they can to help people, and then being persecuted for not being understood, yeah, hit her in the feels a little bit.

Favourite piece of clothing they own: a leather jacket her parents bought her, she wore it everywhere - got pretty sad when she outgrew it.

Favourite piece of clothing they wished they owned: her dad's bandana. Growing up, she remembers seeing all of the photos where he's wearing it and she thought he looked so cool. He caught her wearing it once, was like looking in a mirror. He quickly asked for it back, which upset her a little bit, but Frank didn't exactly want to see her as a little soldier. Plus, the bandana means a lot to him - as she matures, she gets why she wasn't allowed it.

Favourite "little treat": Ashley is just like her mother, but her sweet tooth is generalised - you got any sweets on you, she'll probably stick her hand out, wiggle her fingers and silently wait for you to hand one over. Chewy sweets are her favourite kind, but she has fond memories as a little kid, where she'd toddle downstairs and find her mom stood in the kitchen, eating that little bit of chocolate comfort. Jodie would hold the bar out to her, wiggle it a little in an offer, and watch as a little Ashley would nearly fall over her feet to hop over.

Only one piece, though, because they should both be in bed and Frank might give a disapproving look of "chocolate at 3 in the morning?? where was my invitation".

Favourite person in their lives: David. From being little, he was always her favourite - then they grew up as good friends, still her favourite. He lost that privilege for a short while when he left for the military, because she felt left behind. But then quickly became her favourite again. They marry later down the line and he continues to be her favourite person.

Dream home: your stereotypical white picket fence house. Good size, decent garden for her future kids to play in, great home to host friends and family. But also, big enough so she could probably hide a room behind a bookcase door and be secretive lmao

Dream life: A life filled with adventure and fun, a life where no one in her family suffers. A life where David still has his parents - she thinks they would have made brilliant grandparents. Yeah, just a life without pain but still filled with a lot of adventure (she'd probably still choose to join the military in this dream life, too, just because that was a dream career!)

Tag List:

@revnah1406 @walder-138 @buckaroovice @doodling-doodle @justasmolbard @deeptrashwitch @iamcautiouslyoptimistic @socially-awkward-skeleton

[valeriefauxnom]

You know, the castle story "That Which Remains" is very effective at wounding me emotionally. Specifically, what is shown developing and then dashed against the rocks without mercy.

That is, Euden's and Audric's relationship in particular.

Now, at this point Audric hasn't learned he's forcing his magical Alzheimer's to him specifically on everyone else. Sure, there's been some weird instances people where couldn't remember things about him, but in general he's been sticking around pretty consistently for relationships to form.

Especially with Euden, since Euden seems to have developed a pretty close relationship with Audric. They've been working together regularly and often enough that Euden is maintaining so much sentiment about Audric that he feels ill-at ease when Audric is away. Enough to feel a need to vocalize his more selfish desire that Audric could stay, which is something considering Euden's tendency to push down anything he views as 'selfish'. He holds Audric in very high regard enough to send him on complicated, delicate solo missions.

He even seems to have figured out or is piecing together that Audric is Aurelius. Euden's about to potentially get his father back in some form, even an otherworldly one. Euden might have been able to get some actual parental support from his dad that he's missed since Aurelius' abrupt death, and Audric might have been able to get some quality time with at least one of his kids. Being able to help guide the next generation and ease some of his guilt.

...But by the time he returns Euden has forgotten him outright.

Though he doesn't remember anything about Audric, there still seems to be something that's distressing Euden. He flees uncharacteristically, whether it be because he is having sudden concerns for his own health/memory or strong emotions lingering that he has no context for now.

Either way, to me it's a very sad idea that they were growing so close, only for Euden to forget it all because of Audric's... problems. It was so close to that little bit of happiness for the both of them, only for it to be dashed against the rocks. It also then seems to drive Audric to be more isolationist? As he accepts the idea that nobody is remembering him and that he deserves it, and then resolves more to take solace in actions that he's doing than forming any bonds since he knows they'll wither away just as soon. While he pretends to be fine with it, I'm sure it's still an emotional hardship that you can't form any meaningful relation with another and will be near-instantaneously forgotten as soon as you're gone.

To me, this exchange later in the main campaign almost sounds like Audric talking to himself, trying to stop himself from wallowing in the dream he would be remembered, and focusing on the actions he can take to effect change.

Even so, he's still trying to encourage Euden to remember something about their interactions, though he's accepted he himself won't be a part of them. He's trying to leave something behind to his son.

He's remembering what he once had with Euden, both his own and this world's Euden not all too long ago.

I think that's a huge part of Audric, aside from all that guilt and self-loathing: memories. As everyone else forgets, he remembers, and can only hope to use those memories for good to leave behind something.

Be it saving Euden from supposed-dead insects and their venom, or encouraging Emile to become a better ruler and person by using his memories of Emile as a guide to know what to say, to helping Nedrick understand that Euden and him needn't be enemies, Audric's- and Aurelius'- memories are what allow him to accomplish so much and influence his children on a better path.

And then, just after he dies, once and for all...

They might have started remembering.

This conversation is specifically noted to have occurred days after Audric died, which seems to fall greatly outside the range of time it normally took for people to forget Audric or details about him. But Euden and co still remember his existence, his identity, and his death.

Despite his constant affirmations that Audric knew he'd never leave behind anything of himself aside from any results of his actions, he might have left memories behind after all. It's just a shame his earlier bonds he had begun to form with Euden, old friends (Raemond) and new ones alike weren't able to survive beforehand.

[asterouslyaesthetic]

so i know we already have the whole "older brother of a woman linked to us via dreams also dreaming of us" shtick covered by hríd, but we also have freyr apparently and it's been living in my head rent-free forever

this is his level 40 confession:

Long, long ago...I dreamt of a summer day spent beneath the sun's rays...And you were standing beside me in that dream, [Summoner]... There is no mistake. That was a true dream... It was a promise made by the future. How will the dream continue from here, I wonder... Of course, knowing would detract from the mystique. Dreams form our desires and shape the future...but for now, let us simply drift off into the summer sun.

how long ago was long, long ago...because for me, my mind immediately jumped to tiny freyr—with short hair and only a single braid instead of two and his eyes closed all the time still, but his face still manages to reveal his emotions when he does not give it permission to, particularly when his sister is involved—waking up as a voice inside his older self's brain, able to see and feel everything he does but unable to exert any influence, because he has always had some influence over dreams and that extends to visions of the future.

and there's this pretty mortal in a sundress who sits next to him as he's simply laying down, and when she says his name, his older self opens his eyes, only to be rewarded with salt water sprinkled at his face and a beautiful smile that makes his heart pound.

but he's so young and she's a mortal, and the only thing young freyr concedes that day is that it's nice to see freyja having fun with a friend.

the visions, bits and pieces out of context that show a wonderful future, don't stop after that day, as if to taunt him for when he disregarde, the clear signs that he grows to love her, because he does and how is it hard to when she cares for freyja so deeply that his sister is willing to trouble herself for the mortal's sake?

those in the palace begin whispering after the fifth time he bumps into the wall with a soft smile on his face.

he sees her past and sees her variable future—some things are fixed, but others are not. he sees her in a wedding gown, as a happy bride and a sad bride, he sees her with children, and he sees her grow old, whether alone or with her variable husbands; most of them are kings, but only three are of Midgard, and of those, one is only a grand duke, beloved brother to the empress.

(never with him)

he sees her in a beautiful deep red dress, on a balcony with only the company of fireworks; he hears the way his heart pounds, and remembers what he once thought; and though there is no recognition in her eyes, she welcomes him to her side all the same

but what should be the start of a two-sided relationship, an acknowledgement of him from her, becomes a time he hopes will never exist

because it isn't until much later that he learns what his sister attempts to do, how she traps the mortal in a neverending dream—about his death and the last thing he sees. to see her smile at him one last time...that much, at least, is granted to him.

but ironically, his desperate attempts to convince freyja to avoid such a path, to leave the beautiful mortal alone, are what drive her into consolidating her plans—and she never realizes, not until they both are willed into existence in Askr, that it wasn't simply a matter of loving mortals; that it was a matter of loving one mortal and wanting her to be happy to a self-sacrificial point.

because his death and freyja's, they are fated, they are fixed, and the prospect of them surviving even once means that they will have changed the future in all timelines. because they, like those of ymir, or hel, or vanir and asgard, exist outside of time—singular entities watching over all worlds—but are still beholden to it.

and then he is summoned, to her, and she smiles the way she did the first time. and freyr, he makes himself a promise. to be helpful in whatever way he can—to be the shoulder she can lean on when she's tired, the ears that listen to her sorrows.

and when summer brings along with it a warmth in the breeze, she takes him—and his sister, and his fairies, and her fairies, and all her other heroes—to a familiar scenery.

a familiar scene, salt water on his face, the beginning of his downfall.

the beginning of his love.

as a hero, his powers are restricted. he has no clue what goes on in the minds of his other selves summoned to other askrs, as he would've if he'd been alive. whether they're as lucky as he is, if they also "get the girl"

when night falls, he confesses his dream to her, his eyes still closed. she's quiet for a while, before she asks him about his words, about whether the dream formed his desires.

and when a quiet yes slips from his lips, and he tells her about wanting to be at her side, her smaller hand lightly grasps his own and feels something soft on his cheek, near his lips

"mine too. my desires...as well, since that dream. when you first approached me."

(telling freyja results in a tantrum from her and an attempted deescalation that his beloved takes far too much glee in.

by week 3, his sister pouts when he expresses his affection for his lover and mixes salt in her coffee, but there remains no malice in her actions.)

[sillyfriendssharingablog]

ELI'S DREAM

WORD COUNT: 1k (more or less)

CONTEXT: this is a piece from chapter 12!! this is all a dream Eli is having, after he had woken up from a nightmare and Azedi helped him go back to sleep comforting him and singing to him. Also, they haven't told each other their feelings yet in this chapter. Enjoy the read!!

Eli: ...Where are you taking me Az? 

Eli’s hand was being pulled forwards very strongly by Azedi’s, that was walking in front of him. Their toes were deep into the sand, that the night had painted blue. There were no stars that night, clouds had covered all the sky above. Azedi had to show Eli something, but she hadn’t told him what, but he trusted her and let her guide him to wherever she intended to take him to. But weirdly, she hadn’t talked in a while either. And in a while, I mean all their journey that night thru the desert, which was painfully uncommon for her. 

Eli: ...you’ve been too quiet tonight...is something wrong? 

Azedi didn’t even turn around to give him feedback that she had heard what he had said, she just kept on walking and walking. Then, they had entered a small forest, one of those you find rarely in the desert, the ones people hallucinate about. And they started to walk thru the woods, thru the plants, thru the trees. Eli was making sure to be careful where he was walking, meanwhile Azedi wasn’t even trying to avoid the things that were thru her path, she didn’t even look at them, she just walked by like nothing.  

Eli: Azedi can we go back? ...it’s looks dangerous out here. 

Azedi didn’t respond again. She was determined to take him where she wanted to, and nothing would have made her go back. Eli sighed and just continued to follow her. Azedi picked up a road that went uphill, so they followed it, up, and up, until Azedi had found the spot she was searching for. A spot free from the trees, there was only grass, where you could see all the sky. Azedi moved forward more into the center of the spot, and then laid down on the grass, stretching her legs and arms out, feeling all the little grass strings touching her skin and hair. And then, she smiled brightly, feeling joy in that moment, just by the bear feeling of being in touch with nature. Eli looked at her, while standing up next to her, a bit confused. Then she patted next to her, indicating him to lay down next to her. With a bit of reluctance, he did just that, and laid down next to her. It felt uncomfortable for him, he didn’t like the feeling of the grass hitting his bare skin, since he was topless, like almost every day. It was a bit cold, and the flower crown he had was starting to hitch. Meanwhile, Azedi was so relaxed that she didn’t even notice Eli’s awkwardness. She started to hum to herself her lullaby, with her eyes closed, breathing in and breathing out the fresh forest air. Eli noticed it and turned to face her and looked at her for a while. She looked so pretty with that calmness in her face, like if nothing bad had ever happened to neither of them. She looked like she was in the place she was meant to be, and that she was at peace with herself. He started to blush a bit, realizing that he was staring a bit too much She was enjoying herself, and he should learn to do it too. 

Eli: ...is this why you took me here? To learn how to relax? 

Azedi: nop! 

Azedi had for once responded, and with her typical energy, she sitted back on the ground, holding her flower crown before it would have ended up on the ground due to her quickness. He imitated her. She then pointed at the sky. Eli noticed that the moon was about to peek out of a large cloud. The moon that night was somehow bigger and brighter than the usual, or maybe he remembered wrong.  

Eli: oh...so we came here for the moon? 

Azedi: yep!  

Azedi chuckled and sitted with her legs crossed, waiting for the moon to come out of the cloud like it was the first time she had ever seen it. Eli smiled and sitted closer to her, waiting for the moon with her. And then, finally, the moon showed up, in all its shininess and glory, like a huge crystal lantern in the sky. Eli gasped, surprised both by its beauty and by the fact that he was finding something so cheesy beautiful.  

Eli: woah! That’s nuts! Azedi it’s beautiful...Azedi?  

Azedi wasn’t looking at the moon, but instead, she was looking at him, with her bright smile, with her cute tooth gap showing. Even if she had made all that road to that place for the moon, now she wasn’t paying attention to it. She was instead paying attention to Eli’s eyes, the way he gasped, the way a smile of excitement had curled up in his face. Azedi had went all the way up there not for the moon, but to look at Eli while he was looking at it. Eli went red in the face, noticing how she was looking at him, and go annoyed. 

Eli: h-hey! What’s up with that face!?  

Azedi just giggled in response. 

Eli: we’ve come all the way down here for you just to not look at it? 

Azedi giggled again. 

Eli: why aren’t you responding me! That's so rude! 

And then Azedi finally exploded in laughter, her loud laughter that could shake even ground itself. Eli was even more mad at her now, but at the same time he was enjoying her teasing him like this.  

Eli: oh you! 

Eli pushed her to the ground, not so hardly, but she continued to laugh anyway. Eli was more annoyed, but now he had an idea.  

Eli: since you like laughing so damn much... 

Then he went on top of her and surprised her with his hands on her tummy, tickling her. Azedi immediately started to laugh harder, moving left and right trying to free herself from Eli’s hands. But she didn’t mind it at all, and neither did Eli, that started to chuckle himself too. 

Azedi: stop it! Stop it! 

Eli: then you need to stop making me waste my time like this! 

Azedi: but we didn’t waist our time! You saw the moon! 

Eli: yes, but you didn’t look at it! 

Azedi: ahah! But me just wanted to...show it to you...cut it out! 

Eli: why did you had to show it to me? 

Azedi: because...ahah! I love you, dumbass! 

Eli then suddenly stopped tikling her, frozen by what she had just said. It was like the world just stopped at the sound of that sentences that was said between laughter's. He took a moment to realize what had just come out of her mouth. And when he did, he felt his world suddenly turn the right way, and a smile creeped out in his face, as well as his cheeks turning bright red. He felt something inside of him, something he had already felt, but not so strongly as now. Azedi had stopped laughing and looked at him with curiosity, a bit worried that he had stopped all of a sudden- 

Azedi: Eli? 

Eli: say it again. 

Even if he had realized what she had meant, he just wanted to hear it again, and again, and again. 

Azedi: ...dumbass? 

Eli: no... the other thing. 

Azedi: I love you. 

Eli: now say it again. Louder. And spell it out.  

Azedi rolled her eyes. 

Azedi: I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U!!  

Then Eli was satisfied. But then, he also noticed something else. He was shadowing her away from the light of the moon, and the only thing that wasn’t darkened by Eli’s presence were her two black eyes, that looked at him again with curiosity wondering why he was silent again. In that position, shadowed by light, looking like just a silhouette, she looked very familiar to something else that he had met in another dream. And then, it hit him. Everything made sense now. 

Eli: ...it was you all along... 

Azedi: ...what? 

Eli: I love you too! 

Azedi: oh...well duh.  

Eli blushed hard as he realized what he had just said. He hadn’t even thought about it, he just let his mouth move without his mind’s control, but his heart’s. But it was still pretty embarrassing. Azedi sat back up and held Eli’s hands tenderly. 

Azedi: well, me knew it already. 

Eli: ...you...did? 

Azedi: you are so easy to read!  

Eli: but y-you know it’s early in our f-friendship and I thought-. 

But he was shut up by her two fingers covering his mouth, while she made a cheeky smile to him and narrowed the distance between their faces.  

Azedi: shut up dumbass... 

Eli looked down at the two fingers that were covering his mouth and, after a second of confusion, he chuckled. His eyes ended up meeting hers, and he felt all kinds of magical feelings he had never dreamt of feeling. Just the sight of her two big eyes could make his world heal. And then his eyes ended up lower, on her lips, and how damn close to his they were. He started to blush even more, but he didn’t flinch or move his head away at all. He even moved it closer to Azedi’s, like it was a natural thing for him. Then he felt Azedi’s warm hand resting on his cheek, as she had gotten closer herself. Eli, now only his heart was in control of him, rested one of his hands on her shoulder and the other in the back of her head. And like that...their lips met, for the first time, in that magical moment under the moonlight, in that beautiful forest. It was all so perfect and romantical... 

Except it wasn’t real. 

fun fact: after this Eli get's roughly waken up by Azedi destroying the bathroom of the room

[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. 

[redhatmeg]

Back when the Thriller Bark Saga was in full swing in the anime, this scene in manga version started to pop up on the internet. This was also the moment when I decided to come back to One Piece, because I wanted to know its context.

And the scene when Zoro offers his head in Luffy's place just to spare him, saying that he may be worth less, but he's going to be the best swordsman in the world, and on Kuma's question: "Why would a man with such ambition sacrifice himself for someone else?", he gives the reply above... this was a scene that completely changed my view on Zoro. In this one small scene from an interesting character I wasn't particulary crazy about, he became a character that gained my utmost respect. I never saw him the same way ever since.

In my opinion this is the culmination of Zoro's relationship with Luffy. Remember - he joined his crew under condition that Luffy won't stand in a way of achieving Zoro's dream of becoming the best swordsman. And now, he is willing to sacrifice his own life for Luffy. He even says: "The way I see it, this is the only way to help the crew. How can I protect my ambition when I can't even protect my Captain! Luffy's the man who is gonna become the Pirate King!"

Zoro puts his nakama above his dream. He puts his crew, his captain and his captain's dream above becoming the best swordsman. Ever since Luffy first learned about it and said that he can't expect nothing less from future Pirate King's nakama than have such a lofty ambition, Zoro probably started to think that their dreams are intertwined, but here it's something's more than that. Zoro isn't a lone bounty hunter anymore: he has friends and a man he's willing to follow to the Grand Line and beyond; and as a honorable man with principles, he can't just abandon his nakama and especially his captain.

Luffy earned Zoro's respect long time ago. He earned respect of all of his crewmen by fighting for them relentlessly. Right now Luffy is vulnerable - he's wounded, exhausted and unconscious. He can't defend himself. So this is the moment when someone else needs to defend him; someone who will put his life on the line for him the same way Luffy did countless times.

And Zoro is that someone.

But then something strange happens - Sanji shows up and offers his life instead. Now, all throughout the series Sanji and Zoro didn't get along, in fact they were often fighting with each other over petty things. However, now Sanji says: "What'll happen if you die? What about your ambition, idiot?" Of course, he wants to save Luffy, but he also puts Zoro's life over his own ambition - finding All-Blue. He prepares himself for death, asking Zoro to say goodbye from him to everyone and tell them to look for the new cook.

(Probably we are to assume that if other Straw Hats were conscious, they would do the same for Luffy and each other.)

However, just like Sanji was ready to die for Zoro, Zoro is ready to die for Sanji and he knocks the cook out. He throws away his katanas and stares Kuma in the eyes. And this is when the Shichibukai decided to change the sentence: instead of killing Zoro, he makes him "experience hell itself". He uses his Devil Fruit ability to extract pain and fatigue from Luffy's lifeless body and put it inside Zoro.

"If you really intend to take his place, then you must literally share his suffering."

With Zoro's own state, this means he probably not survive this. Even tiny bit of the extract makes the swordsman experience millions of little hits that cause him to colapse. But Zoro made his mind: he only asks to do it in a different place. And so, near the forest, Zoro enters Kuma's extract.

I don't know if Luffy later learns about Zoro's sacrifice, but - as of the moment in the manga when I've stopped reading (Ace's execution) - he still is unaware of it. And probably his first mate would prefer it like that.

[knightsteapot]

☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ CHIMERAS BEFORE FEELINGS

Chapter I | Chapter II

Jason Tood x Latina!reader

Action | fluff

Minors DNI, cursing, sexual references

Author's notes: This is the first chapter of the story I've been trying to write for so long! Check the info before reading to have some context 💕

Thank you for reading, no matter if you're a latina or not, just enjoy it 🔥

Here some things I want to share:

Wanna listen to the song Bizarro was signing? Here

Wanna listen to the whole sinful playlist? Here

Wanna see some art of the suit, wig, gadgets and Admena, your inner goddess? Here

Feel free to imagine the suit in the size your want, the same with the skin color. The illustration is only a visual.

You had to admit that the life of a vigilante was exciting. Everyone talks about the risks, how it can destroy your life quite literally, but what about the other side of the coin? Being a vigilante, a hero or anti-hero was indeed cool, however, few people was selfish enough to accept it. If being a vigilante boosted your battle lust, being magical, belonging to the Justice League Dark (from time to time because apparently they couldn't trust an anti-hero like you) was out of this world.

Probably, after being experimented on, your brain decided that you needed power to feel safe, you were aware but in denial because... power itself wasn't bad, despite the horrible things you did in the past (which weren't never your fault, you were just a mere little stupid puppet without will) you had a good moral compass. You'd take yourself to the extreme if that meant doing the right thing, not the politically correct thing, no, just what was needed to be done. That's why you liked it to work with this group of weirdos, exterminating magical threats under your own rules or sometimes Constantine's rules, which were... not rules but a "Do your shit right and don't get us killed"

Your current situation was no different from other situations, yes, probably using Admena's full power wasn't a good idea, her divine aura needed your vital energy to manifest but, fuck it, the job must be done, isn't it? Those words made you smile in the middle of an epic fight against a chimera, suddenly remembering your other team, the misfits you respected, protected and wished all the happiness in the world: the outlaws. You'd be lying if you say you don't have a favorite, but thinking about him just destabilize your mind, energy and dramatic heart, Jason Peter Todd was invading your mind again and meanwhile you were sealing the monster with Admena's aura, you couldn't help but wish your longing was everything but love.

With a deep long sigh you let your body rest against the rotten wood of the church, closed your eyes and tried to recover your energy, Admena even took part of your technology's energy, how ridiculous, you had to become stronger to have full mastery of your power, your mind and yes, again, your dramatic heart.

Artemis, that amazon was a fine piece of art. You probably had one or two wet dreams about her, nothing to be embarrassed of because no one would never know, but jokes aside, you looked up to her, she was strong, determined, a bit brazen but that was part of her charm. Inside the team you had a good dynamic and synergy, you weren't best friends, that was Kath's place but as coworkers you usually complemented eachother.

Once Kath and Constantine arrived the three of you contacted Batman to give a report, the case was still open after all. In the meantime you checked your phone again, Artemis wasn't exactly fond of social media so it was uncommon of her to text you, still sharing pictures or funny things could happen, why not?

With the anxiety in its peak you opened Jason's chat. You weren't really sure what was the problem until you realised something, Bizarro, sweet big Bizarro was using your Spotify account and despite having a bunch of playlists you had one, one with your deepest dirtiest thoughts... Hopefully Bizarro didn't expose you but the situation was pointing in that direction.

You bit your lip with your face contorted into a mix of worry, anxiety and fear, but when you were about to engage in the conversation and put an end to your suffering despite the consequences Constantine opened a portal and you three had to go. The energy was taking time to return to your body, so you stayed at the House of Mystery's gothic and beautiful sofa feeling like a very anxious and tired jelly.

You freezed and then acted in the most immature way. Your body sank into the sofa as your eyes focused on the chimney, angry fire burning and dim light illuminating the dark room, your body and some relics that John kept inside the house here and there. You took off your black gloves hiding your face behind your shaking hands ignoring your phone after evading a bullet Jason shot or that, actually, you shot to yourself. Silence was so noisy.

No matter how warm the living room was, you felt cold and so disappointed, who was James? Who? the only James you knew was the lilac haired guy from Pokémon and still you imagined a whole relationship with a non-existent person, great! Being honest shouldn't be so hard but fear, fear was so strong. Your life was a mess, one that you were trying to hold onto hard but that was crumbling little by little.

Jason wasn't reacting any better. At the beginning the scenario was funny, Bizarro was enjoying himself, then the situation made Jason feel a sparkle of excitement, he couldn't wait to tease the hell out of you and see what would happen, no one ever had created such unholy playlist for someone they wanted as friend. The moment he noticed his thoughts going too far from him, he stopped in his tracks and texted you.

Artemis saw the scene develop in front of her eyes, but once Jason ended up completely dumbfounded she knew something was wrong. Jason placed his phone aside and got ready to take a cold shower, damn expectations. Your relationship rested in a comfortable yet unhealthy uncertainty and neither you or Jason were brave enough to do something about it.

Who the fuck was that James?