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sarawritestories · 3 months

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Unwavering Presence Chapter 4

Cassian X Archeron Sister (Reader)

Summary: Y/N comes to after being attacked and formerly meets the inner circle. Cassian and Y/N finally begin training, and he shows her around what he calls the heart of the Night Court.

Content Warning: Nightmares, flashbacks to under the mountain, Fluff

Word Count: 4.1

Chapter 3 Masterlist

A/N I want to take this moment to say thank you for all the love and support on this story! I am so grateful for you all! It honestly makes my day with every like and comment and reblog that I see! I hope you enjoy this chapter as we finally get some good Cassian X Reader quality time!

The Naga approached the sound of them slithering close causing me to whimper. One gripped my bound arms tightly from behind me, its dry tongue sliding up the column of my neck. The other gripped my breast tightly eliciting a shriek from the back of my throat. “A delicious treat, brother. Just for us.”

I begged for Rhysand to help, prayed he would make it in time. As the creature in front of me gripped my face puckering my lips as he pressed his to my own. I thrashed against them as hard as I could, but they were stronger than me.

Rhysand’s voice came clear as day but instead of sending help it was just my name.

“Y/N! Y/N!”

“Wake up, Y/N.” My eyes blinked open and violet eyes came into focus. Calloused hands grazed my damp cheeks, wiping away the tears. “It was just a Nightmare, Angel.” I sat up as he released my face and moved toward the edge of the bed. I looked behind him to find the chair Cassian was sitting in the night before empty and I tried to dampen my disappointment that he had left sometime after I had fallen asleep. Rhys looked to me, “Shields up, Y/N.” I jolted him and worked on building that wall around my mind as the High Lord continued, “I sent Cassian off this morning to run some errands for me. He put up a fight about before he left though.” He gave me a smile.

There was a comfort knowing that he stayed with me, but other thoughts whirled in my brain I sighed and rubbed my face, “Rhys, what happens now? Also where are we?”

“You’re in my townhome, this is where I reside normally. You were staying in what we call the House of Wind.” Rhys’ smile fades, “As for what happens next, there are two options we can take due to the fact you’re still human. The first, would be that we can send you back to the human lands and you would be able to be with your sisters.” I bit my lip as he prattled on, “Or option two, you become a member of the Night Court as my human emissary.” He grips my hand, “In my opinion, not that you asked for it, I would hope you would like to pick option 2. I would pay you well and you would be able to see Feyre every month. Not to mention, I like having you around.” I gave him a small smile and his eyes held unspoken emotion. “You remind me of someone I knew long ago, she would have loved you.” A tear slid down his perfect cheek.

I squeeze his hand, and with my free on wipe the tear from his cheek, “She must have been really special, if just mentioning her has this reaction. One day when you’re ready I would love to hear more about her.” I pause, “Especially all the reasonings as to why she would love me.” He laughed a boisterous laugh, and I was happy to take his sadness away.

When he stopped, he asked, “One day huh? Does that mean you would like to stay?”

“Yes, I would like to stay.” My stomach rumbled.

“We can discuss logistics and details on your position after we have gotten food in your stomach.” He rose. “There are clothes in the closet, Mor has already claimed you for the afternoon to go shopping.”

I quirked a brow, “So you knew I would say I wanted to stay?”

“No.” He opened the door and gave a playful smirked, “I was, however, hopeful that you would want to. Get dressed and come down to the stairs I’ll introduce you to everyone, formally.” With that he closed the door. I took a moment to look out at the window and gasped at the beauty of the city I am staring at. The sunrise coated the city in various shades of pink and orange the sun glimmering on the river as soft waves flowed down stream.

I got out of bed and discarded the nightgown I was gifted and put on the Teal sundress that had sheer sleeves and flowed down to my knees. I placed my hair up in a simple bun and walked down the stairs. Laughter erupted and I followed the sound I found a dining room that has almost every seat filled all for one that was in between Mor and Azriel. There was a short female with short black hair and mesmerizing silver eyes that rolled her eyes at the laughter and her eyes met mine. “Well, well, well, appears someone is awake.”

The laughter dies down, and all eyes turn on me and I rub the back of my neck, “Hi.” I whispered. Mor shot up and ran over to where I was and almost tackled as she wrapped me in a bone crushing hug.

“I’m so happy you’re staying with us.” Mor squeezed causing a squeak to come out of me.

“Mor, let her go you’re going to crush her.” The low timbre of Cassian caused me to meet his gaze and he gave me a smile and a playful wink as Mor released me mumbling the word asshole under her breath. She led me to the seat next to her and I gave Azriel a smile, he simply nodded his head.

“Okay as promised, formal introductions. You know Mor, obviously,” He points to Azriel, “This is Azriel, the Night Court’s Spymaster and our very own shadowsinger,” I looked to Azriel whose shadows swirled around him as if a part of him and he puffed his chest slightly a sense of pride of his High Lord’s words. “The tiny angry looking one over there is my Second in command, Amren.” She doesn’t look phased by how she’s introduced and raises her goblet to me and takes a sip. “Last but certainly not least, the General of the Night Courts armies, Cassian. Though I believe you two have been acquainted.” My head snaps at Rhys’ who gave us both a shit eating grin.

“Sorry, Princess, I may have told them about that night we met.” My eyes met the General’s hazel ones his face had a flush on them as he smiled.

I grabbed a croissant from the platter in front of me and took a bite, and gave him a smile, “That’s alright, General.” I took another bite as two puzzle pieces clicked together and I ask, “Are you still willing to train me?” I avert my gaze and pick at the pastry.

“Any reason why I wouldn’t want to?” He asked, the table has fallen to an uncomfortable silence awaiting my answer.

Flashes of last night whirl through my head, of how I couldn’t even push the Naga away from me. Before I’m able to catch it, a tear falls then another, and sobs unleash until I can’t stop them. I cover my face and let it wrack out of my system. I feel Mor’s hand rubbing my back and can feel a talon on my mental shields of Rhys trying to get me to let him in. Then there is the scraping of the chair, sound of large boots. Mor’s touch vanishes as my chair is gently pulled back. Large hands grip my wrist and give them a light tug as the sobs continue, as I meet Cassian’s face, there was no judgement or pity, if anything there was an underlying rage there. He grips my hands tightly as if to remind me that I’m safe and that nothing would harm me. I look at the table and everyone gazes hold the same sentiment.

“Look at me, Y/N,” Cassian softly ordered, I face him once more and his thumb is rubbing soothing circles and my heartrate spikes. “I promise, I will make sure that you will never feel powerless again. You were ambushed last night; you were wounded and left out to fend for yourself, no one here thinks that you are weak because of it.” He wiped the tears from my face. “Would you like to start today?”

I nodded my head, and he gave me a beautiful grin, “Wonderful, we can get you some training gear and you can meet me outside after we eat. Okay?” I nod again, and he squeezes my hands before letting them go and instantly missed the warmth they provided. As he stands pushes a free strand of hair from face and tucks it behind my ear, “You know what happened last night wasn’t your fault right?”

I bit my lip, “Maybe if I wasn’t so confrontational with Tamlin.”

“Don’t even finish that sentence, Girl,” Amren spoke for the first time since I entered the room, and everyone stilled. I met her gaze it was as if her irises were swirling with silver liquid, “Tamlin, is a coward and fool. He feeds off feeling superior over the weak.” Her red lips formed a smirk, “You weren’t willing to bend to him and challenged him. He simply used the one thing he had on you. The simple fact that your human. Make no mistake that Tamlin is the worm here.”

I tilted my head at her, and let her words really sink in and I blurted out, “You’re Stunning.” Heat immediately racing up my cheeks. Amren’s eyes widened a fraction as the table filled with laughter at the immediate shift in mood.

Amren smiled and tipped her head to me, “Likewise, girl, I think you’ll fit right in.”

Breakfast went on, and Rhys shared what my duties at Emissary would be, and he provided me with some fighting leathers that hugged every curve of my body. I made my way outside to find that Cassian was stretching, in his usual leathers with those gems on across his body. With the mid-day sun, he looked like one of the old gods long forgotten. He was beautiful, and the way he moved as he practiced made him lethal. His wings twitched, and his spine went rigid. He turned in my direction, “Right on time.”

I walked toward him, feeling disoriented by the heavy boots Rhys had given me. “What are these gemstones? If you don’t mind me asking.”

He smiled and I decided that I would never get tired of him smiling, his whole face lit up when he did the gesture showing genuine happiness there. “They’re called siphons they harness my power to make it easier to control. They are earned during this thing called the Blood Rite, an Illyrian tradition but I won’t bore you with the details about why we do it, or their backwards beliefs of them. Not today anyway.”

“Well, another time, I’ve never heard about Illyrians before. They are not talked about much in the history of the fae we’re taught back in the human lands.” I walk past him to where he was practicing, “I’m also a sucker for a good story.”

“Well, when I can steal you for more than an hour. You can ask me all the questions you would like.”

I crossed my arms, “Why would you have to steal me?”

Cassian quirked a brow, “You have met Mor, correct? She has not shut up about wanting to spend time with you.”

“Hmm. Well, I will need someone to show me around. Where are we exactly? As I know this is Rhys’ town home, but I’ve never seen a city as beautiful as this. Well, I’ve never really ventured far from our small cottage anyway.”

Cassian made a few strides toward me, “We’re in Velaris, the city of Starlight. I personally think it’s the heart of the Night Court.”

“I can’t wait to explore.” I was acutely aware of how close Cassian had gotten, leather and sandalwood infiltrating my nose. “So will you show me around?”

“Sure. Though you’ll break Mor’s heart.” Cassian joked and caused me to smile, “Alright, Archeron,” I turned to him and gone was the playful face is gone. Replaced with the serious gaze of a General. “Let’s get started.”

Cassian had me show him what Rhys had been teaching me and showed me some more stretches before he asked me how I would punch someone. I clenched my fist and Cassian immediately shook his head. “No, Princess, you hit someone like that you’re going to hurt yourself more than your opponent.” He came up and grabbed my hand. He opened my hand he began folding my hand where the tip of my fingers was tightly placed in the base of my palm. He then places my thumb over my index finger. “There, this will protect your fingers and give you the best chance of hurting someone instead of yourself.” He walks behind me and raises both fists and nudges my legs with his own to get me in the perfect stance my heart was racing at the mere touch and proximity of him. “Tomorrow we’ll go over exactly the best stance to throw a punch and keep your balance but standing like this,” He whispered in my ear and chills ran down my warm body. He moves my arm in a punching motion, his other hand on my waist twisting to move with the punch. He does it a few more times and after the fifth time he releases his grip and has me do those movements on my own. I could feel his eyes on me as I kept repeating the motion until he held up his hand. “Very good. I think we’ll call it for the day.”

I nodded and he walked over to hand me some water. “Thanks.” I sipped the water, and he drank some from his own cup. He grabbed my cup and placed it down with his. He pointed to the floor, “On your back, Princess.”

My face heated and I’m sure my cheeks were pink, “Why?”

Cassian smirked, “I’m going to help you stretch, its important to stretch the muscles so you’re not sore tomorrow.” He crossed his arms, “What were you thinking about?”

I huffed and followed his order to lay on my back. “I was thinking about nothing, grow up.”

Cassian knelt his hand rubbing my calf with a smirk, “I’m quite grown up, thank you. I’m over 500 years old.” My eyes widened at the fact as he bent my knee and pushed my leg toward my chest, the muscles stretched, and I bit my lip to suppress a moan.

“That feels divine.” I whisper and I hear a low chuckle as the General moved to the other leg. He met my eyes as he pushed back my leg, and I could not hold the moan this time. I covered my mouth as he placed my leg down and massaged my calves. “I’m so sorry.”

Cassian looked like he wasn’t breathing his eyes holding something like yearning there but shook his head and waved me off, “Don’t worry about it, Princess. It’s a natural reaction,” He pat my legs and rise to his feet. He holds his hand out to me, and I take it he lifts me up with ease and releases my hand. “Good job today, we’ll pick up tomorrow.”

Rhys walked outside and tucked his hands in his pockets, “Mor, sadly had to go do her job and has left for a few days. So, your shopping spree has been put on hold.” Rhys shrugged, “I could take you around, and give you a tour of the city if you would like.”

I looked to Cassian, “If you don’t mind Rhys, could your General take me?” Cassian smiled and draped an arm around my shoulders. “If you don’t mind, Cass.”

“I don’t mind,” Cassian looked at Rhys, “Do you mind if I steal her?”

Rhys smirked, “Not at all. Have fun you two.”

The two of us parted ways to bathe and change. A midnight blue top and matching pants were prepped for me as I came out of the bath, and I placed it the top on used to the slight mid drift. I placed my hair fall in its natural curls and placed it on moon pin in my hair and slipped on a pair of silver slip on shoes. I walked down to the front door to find Cassian, wearing a casual shirt with a leather jacket and pants. His wings were relaxed and tucked close behind him and his hair was in a half up bun.

He looked up as he heard my footsteps coming down the stairs, “Well you clean up nicely,” I teased elbowing him. He smiled and rolled his eyes at me.

Cassian’s eyes lingered on my outfit and back up to my eyes. “I could say the same about you, Princess.” He opened the door, and the late afternoon breeze tickled my skin, “Ready to go?”

I nod, and he lays a hand on my back and guides me out of the front door. Once he shut the door behind me, we were off. Cassian and I walked the busy streets of Velaris. We went into various shops looking at clothes and different works of art. I stopped when we were at a vendor selling various paintings. My heart sank, Feyre had not painted in months, and I doubt after yesterday she’ll ever want to. I would do anything if it meant that she would want to paint again. If I ever see her. Calloused hands grazed my neck and brought me out of my thoughts, “Where’d you go?”

“I want Feyre to paint again,” I whispered, “She loved to paint after we came out of Under the mountain she just wouldn’t. Now with last night will I be the reason she never paints again?” I cross my arms and I walk past the paintings, “I don’t know if I could live with myself if that were the reason.”

Cassian gripped my elbow, “Y/N, Feyre has her own healing journey to take, her reasons, for doing or not doing something are her own, you don’t need to shoulder responsibility for someone else’s grief.”

I give him a small smile and give his hand a pat, “Thanks Cas, but my job was always to protect her, and I took pride in securing that small ounce of peace she would get when painting. I would sneak money just to make sure she had enough paint.” I kept walking Cassian meeting my stride his wing flared and wrapped slightly around me almost protectively. “I was like that for Nesta and Elain I always made sure anything they wanted books for Nesta or plants for Elaine, tensions were high a majority of the time, I just tried to keep the peace and made sure everyone was happy and safe.”

Cassian was quiet as we approached a bookstore, and I gripped his arm with an excited squeal, “Can we go in here?” Cassian nodded and opened the door for me, and the smell of books and a thin layer of dust fills my nose and i couldn't contain my smile. I walk up and down the aisle, looking at all the stories. Cassian was a silent yet steady presence behind me. There was a portion of the store that had various leather-bound notebooks.”

“What about you?” I turned to Cassian my brows furrowed. “Feyre has painting, Nesta reading, and Elain had gardening. What did you like to do?”

I bit my lip and shrugged, “Protecting my sisters I guess.” I grazed the top on a journal, “I never really had the time to do anything, if I wasn’t chopping wood, or helping Feyre hunt, or trying to make money. I didn’t have time for hobbies.”

Cassian frowned and guilt washed over me for taking his smile away, “If you did have the time what would you have liked to do.”

I lifted a Journal and flipped through the blank pages, “Don’t laugh.” I looked at him, “I would have loved to write. Even if I didn’t know how to write, I would have loved to tell stories. The kind of heroes and villains and romance things that Nesta would read to me when I was small.” I placed the journal down and shrugged. “Just a silly little dream.” I give him a smile one to hide the lingering sadness. “Enough about that, I’m hungry.” Cassian’s frown deepened clearly seeing my deflection.

“I’ll be out in a minute. Rhys ironically enough wanted me to see if they had a book in stock. “ I nodded my head and walked out of the store. I looked out at the river and quickly walked over and leaned against the railing to stare out at the sea. The sun is beginning to set and enjoy the scenery around me. Soft waves crashed amongst the bridge, and the scent of the water spray filled the air. It was peaceful and serene.

I was entranced by its beauty that I didn’t even hear Cassian approach, his hand on back caused me to jump and turn. “Sorry, didn’t mean to frighten you.” He rubbed his hand on the back of his neck.

“I’m sorry for being a little jumpy. Did they have the book you needed?” I asked as he offered his arm for me to take, leading us to a little restaurant in an area he called earlier the rainbow.

Cassian shook his head, “No but I did find something else that piqued my interest.” He grabbed out of his pocket the leather-bound journal I was holding in the store and handed it to me, it felt as though the air had been sucked out of my lungs.

“Cassian-“

He interrupted me, “You may find that you have more free time here, you have worked hard to make sure your sisters were able to keep their hobbies. You should be able to explore something that interests you.” He gave you a smile “Plus I know there is one person for sure who would love to read whatever stories you come up with.”

I stopped, tears pooling in my eyes, “Cassian, I can’t repay you for this.”

Cassian also stopped, his hazel eyes warm and shining bright, “It’s a gift, Princess. Nothing to be repaid.”

I wrapped my arms around his neck, “Thank you, Cass.”

He chuckled and wrapped his arm around me. “You’re welcome, now let’s go get something to eat.” He pulled away and looped my arm with his once more and led us to dinner. At dinner he shared some stories of how he and Rhys met and how they met Azriel how they have been friends for centuries and in turn I told him of all the trouble Feyre and I used to get in before we lost our fortune and when it was over we fell into comfortable silence on the walk home.

Music played on the bridge, and it caused me to pause in my tracks. I gripped Cassian’s arms as my mind went back to late nights under the mountain.

Feyre had fallen asleep after sobbing, and I was still in the corner tears stained my face. The feeling of hopelessness taking over. I wish I had told Nesta and Elain how much I loved them before we left. I tucked my head into my knees and sobbed. Beautiful melody flooded my eardrums, something that held hope and happiness. Images flashed against in my mind of a beautiful orchestra on a bridge over river. The night sky was breathtaking as if they were swirling and dancing to the melody of the music. My eyes grew heavy as the melody hit the crescendo. I laid my head back and let the music sweep me into a peaceful slumber.

My breathing was labored, “Hey, hey, hey,” Cassian’s hand cupped my cheek, “what is it?”

“Rhys...he played this music in my head to help me sleep Under the Mountain.” Tears were streaming down my face clutching the journal Cassian bought me, “He was letting me know I wasn’t alone when I was convinced Feyre, and I weren’t coming out alive. He was showing me this band a piece of his home.”

Cassian eyes gleamed silver as well, “He’s annoyingly a good friend like that.” He looked over at the band as I chuckled, “Would you like to stay and listen for a little bit?”

“Please.” I whispered and he lowered his hand from cheek, but I reached out and laced my fingers with his. He tucked his wing around me to block the wind as we stood and listened to the music that kept me from breaking under the mountain.

Chapter 5

Story Tags: @hellodarling1357 @hnyclover @waytoomanyteenagefeels @amara-moonlight @impossibelle @esposadomd @sleepylunarwolf @stressed-reader @kylaisra @marvelouslovely-barnes @magicstrengthandcourage @spideytingley @awkardnerd @donttellthecats @tastydewdrops @vermillionwinter @asweetblueberry2 @bunnyredgirl @homeslices @azriels-mate2 @oksloan3 @wallacewillow0773638 @fandom-crashlanding @writingstreetspirit @hannzoaks @minnieloo @tuggboatfishin @judig92 @atrxidxs @dustyinkpages @secretlyhers @mxblobby @blogforficslol @historygeekqueen

#cassian x reader #cassian fanfic #cassian acotar #cassian x you #acotar #acotar fanfiction #rhysand x reader #azriel x reader #archeron sister #unwaveringpresence #cassian acosf #cassian imagine

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dark-fics-4-you · 4 months

Note

possible rafe request?! rafes gf makes him mad by being too friendly at an event w wards business partners so he fucks her at the event 😈

Golden Boy

Warnings: domestic violence, noncon, toxic relationship, jealousy,

You chuckled politely, trying not to glare at the thirty-something year old man in front of you. Despite your best efforts, you couldn’t help but put a little venom in your reply, “Well, I actually do have plans outside of my boyfriend. I’m going to college right now, and I’m actually in a paid internship that I got before Rafe and I met.”

The somewhat handsome, but definitely too old to be your type, business partner, whose name you had already forgotten, gave you an annoyed look, not expecting you to respond that way to his poorly hidden dig at you not belonging at this event.

It was true, in some ways. You were far from your side of the island, and no matter how much time you put into your make up and hair or the price tags of the many expensive clothes Rafe had bought you, the Kooks could always sniff out the people who grew up with nothing.

Before he could respond though, you heard your name being called from behind. Peering past the man in front of you, you could see your boyfriend waving at you to come over to him.

You didn’t even bother telling the asshole in front of you that you were exiting the conversation, you just did, quickly returning to Rafe’s side.

“Ugh perfect timing, that guy I was just talking to was a total jerk,” you whispered in his ear as you gave him a hug.

“Baby, didn’t I tell you to try to get along with these guys?” He seemed angry and you could tell that this event was already stressing him out a lot. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides and everything about him was somewhat jittery, like he wasn’t in his right mind.

“I mean, you know I need to look good in front of them while my Dad’s watching. It means a lot to him.” You looked into his eyes at his words and noticed two things. One, Rafe said it meant a lot to his dad, but you knew it was more about how how much it meant to him. And two, his pupils were much wider than they should have been.

Rafe had obviously done some coke before tonight, trying to calm his nerves and give him some confidence, but it was only doing the opposite.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to make you look bad, but I don’t think it’s fair that I can’t defend myself in front of the people here who are looking down on me.” You shot back at him, annoyed for more reasons than one. “I’m being polite to them, but it would probably be easier for me if you were by my side to stop them from being so rude to me.”

You lowered your voice before speaking again, “And also… I don’t think you should be doing so much coke right now.”

Rafe’s burning glare alone was enough to make you regret saying anything, the return of his tight grip on your arm was just a sick formality at this point, reminding you of the previous bruise he had left in that same spot that you had to cover with makeup for this event.

After being with your boyfriend for so long, you knew the lengths he would go to when he felt personally wronged.

You learned very early on that Rafe was never one to hold back on his verbal abuse, and his physical abuse was no different, although he always tried to keep both incredibly private due to the damage that could come to the Cameron name if it ever came out that Ward’s son, the golden boy, was hitting his girlfriend.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that, Rafe. I just care for you, that’s all. I promise I’ll be polite to your dad’s friends.” Your meager apology seemed to be good enough for the moment, and your boyfriend gave you a silent nod after staring at you for several unnerving seconds.

“Be polite, don’t share your opinion, and just keep your mouth shut for the most part. Let them talk about themselves, and they’ll probably think it was the best conversation they’ve had all day.” Rafe grumbled, but his mood improved when he tilted your head up, pressing his lips to yours, large hand still resting under your chin. You kissed him back for what you thought was an appropriate amount of time, but when you tried to pull away, he held you in place, tightly wrapping an arm around your waist and forcing you to kiss him back.

By the time he released you, you pulled away to see several people staring at the two of you, and you felt your cheeks heat up in embarrassment.

Rafe was always doing things like that in public when he felt like other men were threatening your relationship, he always needed to prove himself and stake his claim on you. Let everyone there know that you belonged to him.

“Remember what I said sweetheart. Just try to act like you belong here.” He smirked at his obvious jab at the very thing you felt the most self conscious about right now, before he calmly turned heel, approaching another group of stuffy, rich assholes across the large room.

Your huff of frustration must have been loud enough to be heard by someone standing near you, and you nearly jumped out of your skin when you felt a tap on your shoulder.

To your surprise, when you turned around you were greeted by a man who looked to be about your age.

“You’re Y/N, right?” He held out his hand, which you grabbed, giving him a firm handshake, just like Rafe had taught you.

“Yes I am, although I’m not quite sure if we have met before?” You lightheartedly responded.

“Ah, my apologies, you haven’t, I’m James, I work with your boyfriend at Cameron Development. He’s honestly a blast,” the man, James apparently, chuckled as he recalled several stories of work assignments with Rafe. This led to the two of you exchanging several funny work and college tales.

Despite never having met James before, you felt an instant chemistry with him, nothing romantic at all, of course, but you found him very easy to talk to, and to your surprise, after glancing at your watch, you realized that the two of you had been chatting for nearly 25 minutes!

At this realization, your blood instantly ran cold. Where was Rafe? Why hadn’t he checked on you? Had he seen you talking to the same guy for nearly half an hour, clearly enjoying yourself the entire conversation?

As if he could tell that you were thinking of him, Rafe suddenly appeared several yards away from where your conversation with James was taking place. There was a scowl on his face, and you could tell by the way he was advancing on you that he was pissed.

“Hey, Y/N, why don’t I give you my number, just so you have it?” James innocently asked, completely unaware of the anxiety coursing through your veins and the fact that your boyfriend was in earshot, pushing through the small crowd behind him to reach you.

Before you could even open your mouth to politely decline, Rafe was speaking for you, “She’s not interested.”

You didn’t have time to say goodbye, because your boyfriend was dragging you away from your new friend, his grip harshly digging in to your bruised arm.

“What the fuck did I tell you, Y/N?” His voice was even and calculated, but he couldn’t hide the rage simmering beneath the surface.

“You told me to-”

“I told you to get along with them, not to try to get into their pants.” Rafe growled, pushing you into the closest room with a door he could find, which happened to be Ward’s office. You landed on the carpeted floor, wincing in pain when your elbow absorbed most of the fall.

“Rafe, I promise, I was just having a good conversation.” Your voice was beginning to waver, the weight of the situation that you had found yourself in was beginning to sink in. “He’s your coworker, is it so wrong that I talked to him?”

“Stop lying! I know what I saw! You would have to be an idiot to not realize that he’s trying to fuck you too.” You would have been worried that someone could hear your boyfriend berating you, had it not been for the music playing throughout the house, and the thick walls of Ward’s study.

You realized how sad it was that you only knew that because Rafe had now loudly hurled insults at you in every room in the house he could at this point.

The blond stalked towards you, grabbing you by the wrist and yanking you upright. “I mean, did you seriously think I wouldn’t notice? You think that little of me, Y/N?”

“Rafe no, I-”

You felt the air in your lungs disappear as your head snapped to the side, a sharp pain in your cheek blossoming across the now reddened skin.

“You don’t get to talk back to me right now!” Your boyfriend yelled in your face. You had barely processed his slap when you felt him moving you again, although now you felt much more numb.

Numb to Rafe roughly manhandling you before he bent you over his father’s desk, numb to the feeling of the cold, hard wood on your face as Rafe held you down, numb to the feeling of him pushing your fancy dress up and rudely yanking down your panties before harshly pushing two fingers inside you, and numb to the tears that were now spilling onto Ward’s desk.

“Such a fucking slut! You’re soaked,” he darkly chuckled, but there was no hint of humor in his voice. “Is this all for me, or is it for James?” He bitterly wondered aloud, and when you didn’t give him a response fast enough, you cried out at the feeling of him smacking your ass.

“F-for you, Rafe,” you choked out through your tears.

You could hear him removing his belt, the sound of it hitting the floor was enough to trigger your body to begin quaking with fear and anxiety.

“Aw baby,” he cooed, and you flinched when you felt his fingers in your hair, lightly brushing some of it out of your eyes so he could look at you. “Don’t act so scared. I promise I’m not going to hurt you. Well, at least, not until after the party’s over.”

His laughter made you feel sick, but even worse was the shock you felt when Rafe spread your pussy and sheathed himself inside of you without warning.

You saw stars for a few moments, the surprise catching you off guard and he was able to slide deeper into your tight walls.

“Rafe!” You gasped, unable to fight back, as your arms were pinned beneath you, and your boyfriend’s large chest prevented you from moving.

His fingers tangled into your hair, gripping a handful tightly as he pushed your face into the desk. His hips were snapping against your ass, fucking you harder whenever you futilely tried to break from his hold.

Every time you tried to escape mentally, to tear yourself from the reality of what your boyfriend was doing to you, he brought you back, snapping his fingers or groaning your name into your ear as he forced himself deeper into your wet cunt.

You were sure that your hips would be bruised from bumping into Ward’s desk as Rafe fucked you against your will. Another reminder of all the lessons he insisted that he had to teach you by force.

Every sharp thrust was a warning that this was him holding back. This was him being nice. And you knew better than to further aggravate Rafe when he was on a power trip.

And that was exactly what this was all about. The power and privilege that Rafe held over you, that he used to hurt you time and time again, without ever facing any real consequences. This was about reminding you that you belonged to him and at the end of the day, Rafe Cameron was untouchable and unstoppable, the Kook King, the golden boy of one of the richest families in the Outer Banks.

“You are my girlfriend, Y/N,” Rafe growled. “It’s time you started fucking acting like it.”

#rafe cameron #dark!rafe cameron #outer banks #obx #rafe cameron noncon #dark rafe cameron #rafe cameron smut

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tartigglez · 8 months

Text

"do this again...?"

zhongli x gn!reader

・❥・fluff fluff!

・❥・1.5k

・❥・helloooo i'm suffering an ungodly writers block rn so im really sorry if this is a MESS, i really don't mean for it to be sigh.. also inspired by that art where zhongli is fangirling over baizhus hair and going "so soft!" and then starts scrubbing his own head with a bar of soap (i can't find the link but if someone finds it lmk)

・❥・momentary dragon zhong!! modern au, readers a bit cuddly at the start lol, might not be suitable for all readers bc reader is a haircare nerd!! reader swears (this is a general warning for all my fics atp), i think thats it?? lmk??

zhongli was always put together, well presented, clean shaven, and always smelled of mahogany and vanilla, in fact, these were some of his most admirable traits. however, there was one thing that always puzzled you a little.

when he was in his dragon form, zhonglis hair was always soft and silky, and looked perfectly healthy. but of course, nowadays it is rare for him to be in this form, and so he usually stays in mortal form for long periods of time in order to blend in with the general population of liyue. when in this form however, zhonglis hair is brittle and dry, seemingly with little to no explanation as to why.

“zhongli,” you whisper against the fabric of a hoodie you insisted he buy (which he rejected initially. if it were up to him you would both be dressed in formal attire at almost all times of the day) “what’s up with your hair?”

“whatever do you mean?” he asks, large palm slowly rubbing the small of your back. he tilts his chin down to look at you as you rest your eyes, laying on his chest and fiddling with the ends of his ponytail.

“don’t you think its a little frizzy?” you ponder, moving your hand from his hair to instead grip on to his hoodie, fingers interlacing with the soft fabric as you sit up a little to meet his eyes. he would never admit to it, but watching you grip on to his clothing, looking all cozy was making the article grow on him, plus he knew you were a little sleepy, given you had gotten home and immediately insisted he cuddle with you.

“is that supposed to be an insult?” he laughs, moving to a straighter sitting position, and allowing you to adjust by placing your legs either side of his, stretching them out behind him and tucking your head in to the gap between his shoulder and neck.

“m’no, just an observation” you mumble against him. "it's always so healthy n-" you yawn mid-sentence, heaving your arms up around his neck, playing with the few stray hairs that sit at the back of his neck. "it's always helfy when y'do the thing… with the horns and the tail- n'stuff" you smack your lips a little every few words, eyelashes fluttering against the small portion of his collarbone which is exposed from under his hoodie.

"you're tired dear, you should sleep" he says gently, palms still rubbing up and down your back.

"buh if I sleep you'll-" you yawn again, unsurprisingly "you'll go n'do work or somethin'"

"who told you that, hm? I've done all my work for the day. I'm more than content to lay here with you," he whispers "besides, I'm intrigued to hear more of your sleepy opinions on my appearance"

“don’t have any opinions, only facts,” you giggle, placing a soft kiss on his skin before putting your cheek down against it, closing your eyes. “trust, i’ll get to the bottom of this t’morrow” you smile and yawn another time.

“fine, although i don’t think there's any problem with my haircare methods. rest well dear” he says, hands stilling on your back as the room falls to a desolate silence, only the sound of his breathing lulling you to rest.

brightness is normally a positive thing, but not when it's hitting your eyes so early in the morning, and the bed is so empty. shouldn’t zhongli be here? you yawn, opening your eyes a little more to see the whole room, and no zhongli in sight. however, your ears quickly hear it, quiet liyuean opera music coming from somewhere downstairs. he has already started his day.

you slowly, but surely make your way downstairs, rubbing your eyes with the back of your hands. you stumble upon zhongli in the living room, a computer on the coffee table in front of him, shirt sleeves rolled up and the muscles of his arms flexing as he types furiously, a puzzled expression lacing his features.

“you’re awake, darling. did you sleep okay?” he asks, eyes parting with the laptop to meet yours.

“like a baby” you giggle as you take small steps over to him, tiredly flopping on the couch beside him, hugging one of his arms and looking up at him. “whatcha lookin at?” you ask, closing your eyes and taking in his scent, and the environment around you, the twang of the guzheng and soft air of flutes coming through the speaker in the corner of the room, and the feeling of his arm moving slowly from your grip, instead snaking its way around your shoulders

“haircare methods,” he sighs, “i think i’ve realised the error of my ways”

“and that is…?” you raise an eyebrow at him, and he ultimately just looks embarrassed, cheeks flaring a slight shade of pink.

“well, it would seem that the soap i use is rather abrasive” he sighs, leaning back in the chair and opening up a tab on his browser to reveal a branded bar of soap. soap. not shampoo, not conditioner, but soap.

“soap?!” you ask, face contorting as if you had just had the shock of a lifetime. he nods sheepishly as you stare at him, moving up from your seat to get on your feet, grabbing his hands to drag him with you.

“come”

“where are we going?” he asks, smiling a little as if to be doting upon your sudden investment in his hair.

“bathroom” you say, dragging him up the stairs, feet thumping as you march up the stairs.

“what are we doing?” he inquires, following you into the bathroom, chuckling at you.

"reciting an extensive apology to your fucking hair follicles" you stare at him, face dead serious. your entire body is turned in the other direction, pulling out a wicker basket full of all your haircare products.

"language" he reprimands, folding his arms and taking a seat on the edge of the bathtub.

"fuck fuck, shit fuck" you giggle, trying your hardest to invoke a reaction as you pull out different conditioning products from the basket. he just sighs. if it's you, such profanities can be excused in private, he supposes.

"don't be rude" he says, but he's secretly holding a laugh, watching you pull out some sort of deep conditioning pack, then squishing the liquid around in the packet.

"i'll be rude if i so wish" you taunt, sticking your tongue out before bursting out in laughter. "okay, sit on the floor" you say, setting the conditioning pack on the edge of the bath.

"excuse me?" he questions, standing up beside you, suddenly seeming a little taller than you remember.

"you heard me, head over the edge of the tub, chop chop"

"what on earth…?" he questions, kneeling with his head hanging fair over the bathtub.

"trust the process" you say, grabbing a towel from the rail on the other side of the room, putting it over his shoulders. you gently pull his hair tie out, watching the brown locks fall on to the towel.

"is this necessary?" he whines, tensing up a little when you move his hair off the towel, so that it went straight down in to the tub.

"yes," you answer flatly, "now close your eyes" you say turning on the shower head.

"why?" he asks, jumping a little in shock when you run the water over his head.

"too hot?" you ask, soaking his hair from scalp to tip. he shakes his head, and he's audibly breathing a little louder when the water runs down his cheeks. immediately after he feels you dump some sort of thick substance on his head.

"what on earth is that?" he asks, watching your hands reach to rub the mask down through his hair.

"conditioning mask" you answer, rinsing your hands under the tap, washing off the excess. “stay here” you instruct.

“my love, where are you going?” zhongli sighs, but you’ve already ran to the bedroom, grabbing a t-shirt to wrap around his hair.

“okay, lift your head up” you smile, and he awkwardly complies, trying his very best not to get water everywhere as you get his hair together to go inside the tee. he stands on his feet once again, before sitting on the toilet seat, legs awkwardly jutting out in to the room as you clean up any spilled water.

after you finish wiping around the edge of the bath, you look up at him from where you are, and a fountain of giggles spills over somewhere within you. you simply cannot stop laughing at him, meanwhile zhongli is staring at you like a wet dog. frowning, he meets your eyes.

“do we have to do this again?”

sfw masterlist || taglist: @lioria @celestetalkstoomuch

#zhongli #genshin impact #genshin x reader #zhongli x reader #zhongli x you #genshin zhongli #genshin fluff #zhongli fluff #genshin impact x reader

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bitch-butter · 8 months

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i've had it: a Web-focused analysis of episode 8

my babes, my babes, what can I say?

Over the years I’ve seen a lot of people saying that in “The Patrol” aka “The Last Patrol” Web is depicted as “trying to get himself taken off the patrol ”. Many long years I have rested, but now i have, in all essences, Had It with that take in light of my recent brush with death (not really, but it adds some gravitas right?).

It's Everybody's right to their own opinion, but I am here to host a Formal Rebuttal of this pervasive interpretation, because I never (even in my pre-webgott days) read That Scene as such, and I feel that this reading makes even Less sense within the full portrait of the episode. I will defend my stance with appropriate screengrabs, but unfortunately due to Max being made singularly of butts and capitalist dupes I am not able to screengrab anything that isn’t already grabbed or put on Youtube. I have much, but not Everything, so bear with me.

(This will not be a litigation of why the episode chooses to detract in myriad ways from the historical record, but suffice it to say that this episode makes a lot of choices re: who was on the patrol, why they were on the patrol, and who showed up when that are not Exactly accurate but does suit the story that they were endeavoring to tell. I’ll leave it at That.)

So, let’s get into it.

I. What is this episode about?

I spoke “briefly” but not that articulately about why episode 8 is my favorite episode on my good friend Sarah’s podcast last year, and I still stand by many of my reasons for doing so, but I’d like to highlight one element in particular.

This episode is coming hot off of the heels of one of the most harrowing episodes we’ve seen up to this point, “The Breaking Point”, and in that episode we see not only exactly what it has cost our guys to be in the Bois Jacques for so long, but we also see how this has in many ways made their bonds with each other even closer. They leave that conflict feeling tired, overworked and underfed, and incredibly protective of one another, and because we the audience got to see that we in turn feel protective of them as well.

Which is why I find the choice for Web being the main protagonist of the episode so inspired.

We are thrust immediately from this harrowing experience, as well as the lived-in dynamic with our main guys, into following a guy who disappeared from the show entirely in episode 5, which not only makes us suspicious of him but it runs up against our instincts to bond with our protagonist. We know immediately, even if we’re on a first or second watch, that Web was not in the Bois Jacques because of the visual language used to characterize him as well as his own opening narration, and as such we immediately don’t want anything to do with him because we too feel protective over our guys who were in the actual fight and we don’t want to waste our time with guys who don’t get it.

Trust and belonging. Those are the core themes of the episode in my opinion, and we see it with several characters (Lt. Jones and Web are in much the same boat because they have no trust and they don’t belong and so they have to earn them both back; Vest is trusted but he doesn’t belong not only because he’s not a guy the audience is that familiar with but because his job in the context of the show removes him from being that close to our core group). The episode is as much about those things as it is also about combat weariness, how our main guys are acclimating to the idea of the end being near, as well as the ultimate brutality and inhumanity of war on a micro level (Web’s ending monologue is a great example of this, and read in conjunction with Sink’s decision to try and send the patrol out again is a pretty good indictment of the depersonalized and mechanic way war works for a lot of people).

So, in essence, this episode is about getting the other guys, as well as the audience, to trust Web.

II. Web is a Good Character (you guys are just Mean)

How do you get the audience to trust your character (even if they don’t like him)?

They manage to accomplish this at least in part by trying to show us that even if his plans are lackluster his intentions are good, such as his initial - albeit inappropriate - happiness at greeting everyone, his reveal of who was being initially selected for the patrol, and his successful attempt to get Malarkey taken off the patrol. We see a few times that his actions have consequences, but for the most part we are able to Understand the train of thought that informs the choice. He sees that the other guys are distrustful of him and no longer want him around due to his absence from the previous episodes, something that clearly throws him off balance, and so we can progress through episode 8 with his primary motivation being to get the core group to trust him again and as such regain his sense of belonging.

We see it right away in the episode, where he greets the other guys only to be quickly dismissed and chastised for assuming a familiarity that is no longer there, and again we can infer from Eion Bailey’s performance that he not only understands that he’s made a mistake but is already internalizing that his decision to remain at the hospital was most likely the incorrect decision.

This goes directly into the motivation for telling his fellow platoon members that some of them have been selected for a patrol that most likely will be disastrous, which we can clearly see he doesn’t want to do but does in order to attempt to gain his footing back within their ranks.

This isn’t entirely successful, as the other guys seem to read it more as Web being first annoying at not wanting to tell them and then secondly unreliable because he told them in the first place. And again, we can read in Bailey’s performance that he quickly realizes that regaining his standing is not going to be as simple as he thought that it would be.

His next attempt at ingratiating himself is tied inextricably to the issue at hand. To reiterate, we the audience as well as our characters of interest have become protective over one another in the wake of the previous episode, and one of the characters who comes out of “The Breaking Point” particularly fragile is Malarkey. We have context for his emotional placement that bleeds out from the previous episode, and a lot of visual weight is given to the fact that Malarkey in particular is exhausted, depressed, and would benefit heavily from a brief respite from being on the front lines. Other characters express this sentiment In Webster’s Direction, and in search of another way to endear himself to the rest of the platoon he sets out to kill two birds with one stone by i. Getting Malarkey off the patrol ii. Getting Lt. Jones the experience he needs to hop up the ranks and go away.

This attempt is successful, but backfires again when Martin is placed in charge of the patrol instead of Jones. It is possible Web should have anticipated that due to the other man’s inexperience they wouldn’t have let him lead it to begin with, but we the audience should ideally still be interpreting at least the initial intention of the decision to be a good one. He sees that the other guys want Malarkey off the patrol, so he gets Malarkey off the patrol.

This brings us to the moment in question.

III. Let’s Break it Down: Part Un

INTERIOR - A ROOM IN lol i’m joking but what if i did do it like that

It is quickly revealed that Web’s plan has failed, at least in part. Martin has been appointed to lead the patrol, and is clearly no more eager to do it than anybody else is (except Lt. Jones), and Web clearly looks remorseful towards putting him in Malarkey’s place.

In an act of revenge he appoints Web to be translator, and Web is also not that jazzed about it but appears to accept it with a Tiny Little joke.

The scene progresses to planning the attack, and we get a few visual cues to indicate that this is a no good very bad idea and everybody hates it before the meeting ends and we hear Liebgott make a jab at Web’s attempt at a joke re: his German capabilities, to which Web gives my favorite reaction in the whole episode where he clearly wants to look directly at the camera like he’s on The Office and clowns his way out of the room.

Hard cut to everybody leaving the building, with a few of our guys in the background as Web moves into the foreground away from them (he wants to be with the cool kids but he’s Not one of the cool kids). We hear but don’t entirely see Grant saying the line “Webster. Tries to get out of everything”, but it’s loud enough that we can assume Web himself also hears this, and he has a small moment of looking back at them in response before he advances to address the officers.

He points out that both he and Liebgott speak German, and we the audience infer that having the two guys who speak German on the same patrol would be a bad idea because both of them could get taken out and then the company would be shit out of luck. Speirs is quick on his feet, and as Liebgott, Grant, and Jackson pass by he stops them and tells Liebgott he can sit this one out. Liebgott accepts, winks at Web, and gives him a joking thanks.

Web gives him a tiny half-smile, thanks the officers, and walks away, clearly not loving the fact that he’s going but not appearing resentful.

FINIS

That’s the scene of the crime. So, with this narrative context, let’s get to our second suspect.

IV. The Liebgott of it All

In black and white terms, the principal Antagonist to our Protagonist in this episode is Liebgott, even if we can all agree he’s a king and Web is Himself.

In Web’s intro to the episode he’s the character we see giving him the hardest time about being away from the company, when Web is gearing up to spill the beans about the patrol Liebgott is the one stirring the pot, and in the patrol meeting he’s the one making fun of Web for downplaying his German. Liebgott gets more weight in this episode than he has in any previous episode, and we are meant to extract from their numerous interactions that even if Liebgott is a guy that has been mostly on the fringes throughout the show up to this point he is going to be the one that makes the ultimate decision about whether or not Web will be accepted back into the group.

We have an automatic trust for Liebgott because we’ve seen and known him from the very first episode, he’s had individual moments sprinkled throughout the show, and narratively we’ve mostly seen him displaying his competency, humor, and principles. These are all things that the audience is missing in a relationship with Web, so like the other guys we’ll trust Liebgott’s assessment of Web more than we’ll likely trust Web’s intentions at face value. This gets tricky, because Liebgott is not immune to his own pettiness, and even if he Was capable of reading Web’s actions in good faith he is still going to have reservations because up to this point we have no reason not to think that Web stayed out of the fight On Purpose.

So, Liebgott gives Web a ton of shit throughout the episode, and the audience can take that as an indication that Web is not worthy of regaining his place in the group. Web also seems to realize this. If he wants to be back in the mix the person he’s really going to need to impress is Liebgott. As it goes on Liebgott’s exact intentions with Web are a little dubious, because at some points he does seem to internalize that he may be being too harsh or too resistant on Web. After Web gets outed as having told the other guys about the patrol Liebgott appears reserved, not taking pleasure in his embarrassment.

And after hearing Chuck’s pivotal line we can hear Liebgott brush it off with a “whatever” as he clearly looks towards Web in the foreground.

There are things at play in regards to how Liebgott is feeling about his own pettiness towards Web, but whatever reservations he has are not powerful enough up to this point that we take too much notice.

This, Web’s knowledge of it, as well as the throwaway line from Chuck, all inform the decision to approach the officers after the patrol meeting.

V. Let’s Break it Down: Part Deux (boogaloo électrique)

What We Know: Web is ostracized from the group and is trying to get back in, Liebgott in particular doesn’t want Web back in the group because he’s missed a formative event for the company and feels he doesn’t deserve it, and there’s a patrol that nobody wants to go on because They’re Tired looming in the distance.

With what we know (above), what we know happens in the scene (see part III), who these characters are plus their narrative intentionality (parts II and IV), and what the episode is presumably supposed to be about (part I), gives us a pretty clear indication of what Web’s intentions are when he approaches the officers. Web wants to be back in the group, Liebgott is the one he has to convince, and to put a cherry on top he clearly hears Chuck talking smack by saying he tries to get out of everything.

He prompts the officers by pointing out that Liebgott speaks German as well, and we Must assume he does this with the understanding that there’s no way they would take him off of the patrol over Liebgott.

Though we’ve seen Web make plans and have them backfire we can’t infer that he’s that stupid just based on what the show has told us about Web thus far. Socially awkward? Yes. Stupid? Not really.

There would be no way he’d think they would take him off and keep Liebgott on, and he already approaches with the knowledge that if he does earnestly try to remove himself from the patrol that would forever damage his standing in the company and he would never, ever be able to get back in with the core group. You know, that thing that’s motivating everything he does in the episode.

It wouldn’t make sense in any measure for Web to be going up to them trying to get himself removed. It wouldn’t flow with his actions in the episode, his motivations, Liebgott’s mini-arc of excluding him, and it certainly would not serve the overarching themes of the episode which are Trust and Belonging.

The perfect button to this conflict is the wink that Liebgott gives Web after being told he can stay behind. There’s a brief moment where he Just looks at Web, and there’s a definite understanding that moves between them that this isn’t the end of the road for Web’s attempts to get back in but that an Important Step has just been taken.

Web gives him that half-smile, accepts that his work is not done, and they move to their separate corners.

The culmination of these sort of swirling themes comes during the patrol, when we get a few different moments of Liebgott waiting across the river displaying clear alarm at what he’s seeing.

Given our context for Liebgott in this episode, and his primary relationship within it being with Web, we can assume this is the moment his feelings about letting Web back into the fold turn. He sees Web took him off the patrol, is now in a precarious position, and as we’ve had a few flashes of his backtracking his own pettiness towards Web we can assume this is the final straw.

He was fine holding out on Web up to this point, but he doesn’t actually want anything bad to happen to him just because he indirectly influenced Web into proving himself (even if Web was always going to be trying to prove himself).

So with the completion of the patrol two big things have occurred: Web has weathered a harrowing experience that cost the life of a beloved member of the company and as such got a small, small taste of what the rest of the company experienced in the Bois Jacques, and Liebgott has come to accept that Web’s intentions are good and he can be trusted again.

After this occurrence we see that at least as far as the other guys in the group Web is - for the most part - accepted back. Martin defends him against Cobb, and in that we can assume that the heavy lifting portion of Web's attempts to rejoin Easy have been successful. But the main character that Web, as well as the audience, is interested in is Liebgott. He's presented the greatest barrier to acceptance, and a lot of weight has been placed on he and Web's dynamic in the episode, so we have to wait and see how he will react to Web's newfound acceptance.

That leads them both perfectly to the end of the episode, where our visual cue to this is given: Web approaches the transport, Liebgott offers him his hand, Web takes it.

Poetic Cinema.

Web has regained trust, and once again he belongs.

VI. I've Had It

I own the fact that I’m feral about this episode and for the most part people don’t seem to like it that much, which is fine and I’m not here to convert anybody. Additionally, I own the fact that Web is my son and I think he’s hilarious and everybody else thinks he’s The Worst. However, I just don’t think that This particular criticism holds much water when we give it the actual reading that we’re meant to be giving it with the weight of the narrative, what we’re being told about individual characters, and the overall themes of the episode.

The truth is the truth, and we can’t All be champs.

Lol jk bc truly if you feel as strongly about this as i do (which seems doubtful lol) I am not anti-debate and I would welcome hearing why people seem so Deeply convinced of Web doing all of this just to try and get himself taken off the patrol.

(Answers I will Not accept are the kind that use Web being annoying as a basis for a read on his character motivations because girls that’s Not It.)

And so it is ~

#media analysis? on MY blog? it's more likely than you think #i think i was so haunted by the idea that i could die and people would still have this take that it propelled that i defeated my fever #band of brothers #david webster #listen lets clown on web for the Actual stuff he does that's not great aight bc This Ain't One #and i have been silent too long lol #now i'm going to dinner and i'mma get myself a Big glass of wine

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loemius · 2 years

Text

so you want to improve your relationships with the theoi but dont know how...

here’s my advice on small things you can do in your day to day life. most of this is purely advice based on my experience/accumulated research over time and i am not an expert by any means. if there is a relevant primary source quote to support my advice, it will be stated and sourced. now that the disclaimer is out of the way, let’s get into actual tips.

-cleanse before offering. i’m serious about this one. here are two source quotes to back me up on this one [source: labyrs.gr/eng]: “ Never omit to wash your hands before you pour to Zeus and to the other Gods the morning offering of sparkling wine; they will not hear your prayers but spit them back. “ - Hesiod, Works and Days, lines 722-725 “ ...and with hands unwashed I would take shame to pour the glittering wine to Zeus; there is no means for a man to pray to the dark-misted son of Kronos, with blood and muck all splattered upon him.” - Homer's Iliad, 6.266-8 [2] cleansing can be done in a variety of ways -- i prefer to wash my hands or do a khernip if im not fresh out of the shower, but if i’m outside or in public or something and want to offer my food, for example, i’ll use hand sanitizer. if your hands get too chapped, use lotion instead. the gods want you to take care of yourself! -offer the steam or first bites of your food/drink. this is a very traditional offering, and here’s my advice on how i do it as a modern worshipper: if i’m cooking at home, i offer the steam of my food as i plate it with a verbal invocation and invitation to enjoy the food with me because i have appetite issues and live in an apartment, so physically setting aside first bites isn’t really possible for me. if i’m in public, i’ll whisper the invocation or say it mentally and give a minute or so pause to allow the theoi to enjoy first before i eat myself. i do the same kind of process with beverages. if i’m feeling up to it or doing a more formal ritual, i’ll pour the first sip into a separate cup for the theoi or into a specific glass i have dedicated for apollon. -water offerings. i’m not kidding on this one, if you live in an area that has clean, fresh water available, it is something to be grateful for and i strongly suggest you share it with the gods. back in the ancient greeks’ day, wine and beer were very common offerings over water because the water was contaminated and it was safer to drink alcohol. in my opinion, it is a celebration of the small comforts of modernity that often go taken for granted. pick your favorite cup. pour some water in it. put it on your altar and say a little prayer to indicate who it’s for and thank them for their gifts. bam! you did it. -say good morning/good night. this does not have to be a super formal thing. i certainly don’t have the energy to do intense formal ritual every morning, but at the very least, i can tell the theoi good morning and invite them to share my morning beverage with me. i personally have more energy at night, so i like to do goodnight prayers that are more formal. you have to find what works for you and fits your praxis the best, but regular prayers or even just acknowledgement by greeting the theoi helps a lot in my humble opinion. -listen to hymns of your gods. i see a lot of playlists/songs that remind me of x theoi and i’m not trying to shit on that! i have playlists of modern music that i invoke the gods to listen to with me. i do believe the theoi deserve modern comforts, as we live in a modern world and not ancient greece. that being said, i do not listen to modern music during formal ritual. if i listen to any music at all, it’s a recording of an ancient hymn or lyre music written in the style of ancient greek music. if you’re looking for music, i suggest michael levy on youtube or spotify, who makes lyre music in ancient cultures’ styles (greek, roman, and jewish mostly) or searching on youtube “hymn to [x deity].” for hellenistic deities, there is a lot out there. there’s something so special to me about going through my day listening to an ancient hymn to apollon, and i suggest it for anyone who worships the theoi. having access to music 24/7 is cool! being able to hear what ancient hymns would sound like at the touch of a button is even cooler! i like using that power to praise the theoi. -be resourceful and observant in your day to day life and offer them cool shit you find. it’s about the small things. one of the academic buildings at my university has a big statue of apollo and athena respectively; i go outside and pick flowers to leave as offerings on their statues. so much of the stuff i have on my altar is either gifted to me, found in nature, or made myself. i don’t actually buy much for the theoi; incense, candles, and occasionally ill splurge on a statue if i can afford it or go thrifting for a nice altar piece. i’m a broke college student, i simply cannot afford to go out and buy nice pretty stuff for them. don’t pressure yourself to do that. capitalism is more modern; hellenism is an ancient religion and things for the theoi were natural or made by hand because it’s not like they had machines or anything. tldr: involve the theoi in your day to day life. listen to traditional hymns on spotify on your way to do whatever. tell them good morning and good night. they’re probably thirsty! leave them out a cup of water. share your food with them. thank them for the small blessings in your life. a little goes a long way with the theoi. kharis isn’t necessarily this BIG GRAND GESTURE, it can also be small, feasible gifts and praise over time. you have a life time with the theoi. you don’t buy a friend’s love with grand gestures, you show them you care over time by small intimate gestures like sharing food or saying hello.

#helpol #hellenic reconstructionism #hellenic pagan #hellenic polytheism #witchblr #my posts

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irisopranta · 11 months

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Rarepair Week - Day 1 - Meetcute

Brother,

I know that this is a huge favor to ask of you but I have no other choice. We need tools for the artisans that are working on the firmament project. I’m putting in a formal request with the Skysteel Manufactory to make them. Please, they are sorely needed.

-Francel

Stephanivien read over the note that his younger brother sent him. He wanted him to succeed in this venture. It’s something that would prove that House Haillenarte still is a great house of Ishgard. His engineers work tirelessly to make these tools. Hopefully they are to the standards of the artisans. He carried the crate of tools to the Firmament to deliver them.

As he arrived, the place was bustling. Artisans all over the place, busily making all sorts of things for the project. He spotted his brother. Running up to him with all the tools in hand. “Francel!” excited to see him, “I brought those tools you requested.”

Francel was grateful that his brother had the tools at hand. With a sigh of relief “Stephan, I’m so glad that you did this for me.” As Francel was about to open up the crate to look at them and hand them out, Aurvael ran up to him.

“F-Francel” he pants in a panic “Count Charlemend wants a word about the Firmament. He doesn’t seem all that pleased.”

Shocked that the count wanted to speak with him. Afterall the young Elezen thought he was doing a great job coordinating the efforts in the Firmament. “Now what does the good count want now?” He grumbled. Francel takes a look at his eldest brother. “Stephan, can I ask you to hand out those tools to the artisans? I’ll be back before long.”

“Wait, Francel!” Trying to stop his younger brothers. However, he was too late as both of them bolted leaving him there alone with the tools he just delivered. Besided himself he sighs, ultimately deciding that he should do what his brother asked him.

Time passes and he is bored out of his mind. He handed the tools out to the artisans that approached him. He was grateful that they all appreciated the hard work that the manufactory did but he much rather be back there than here working on his newest ideas. He was starting to zone out.

“Excuse me.” a sweet voice called out to him. He looked up and saw a purple haired woman. He noticed her deep blue eyes which he got lost in. She was quite cute in his opinion. He felt that his heart swell. “Excuse me.” she chimed up again, snapping Stephanivien out of his thoughts.

“Y-yes, c-can I help you.” He felt extremely nervous that he could barely get any words out.

“I heard that there were tools being handed out for the artisans. You wouldn’t be the one handing them out would you?” she inquired.

He cleared his throat, “Why yes,” He perked up, “which one do you need?”

She hummed for a moment, cheerful that she found the right place. “I need new sewing supplies. My current supplies broke, probably due to age.”

Stephanivien dug out the supplies that he had and handed them over to her. “I take it you are a seamstress.”

“Aye, though it’s been a while since working on a project this size.” Iris looked over the supplies, “oh my these look very high quality.” Hearing those words from her made his heart skip. She looked back at him and gave him a smile. “My name is Iris by the way.” she said cheerfully.

He calmed himself down, “Stephanivien”

“Are you all alone? If you want I can keep you company.”

“I am and I would love the company.”

“Let me get my stuff and I’ll be right back.” she skipped away.

It was at that moment he knew he was done in. He wasn’t expecting her to offer some company but glad that she did. She returned with her work. The two chatted to pass the time. Mostly over their work as crafters and their life growing up. She’d work while Stephanivien continued handing out the tools. After a few hours Francel returned to relieve Stephanivien so he could go back to the manufactory.

He felt a bit sad. While he yearned to go back to the manufactory he also didn’t want to leave being with Iris. He would invite her to come with him but it’s not the place for stray fabrics and threads. Before thinking he uttered the words “Iris, maybe we can hang out some more later.”

Iris was grateful to hear him say that “Yeah that would be great.” she smiled back at him. “I’m to assume that I can come by the manufactory?” He nodded to her and headed out.

#oc: iris opranta #Electric-Flowers #XIVRarepairWeek #stephanivien x wol #stephanivien de haillenarte

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horizonthetransient · 9 months

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On Lightning Bolts And Science Fiction/Fantasy

Or, “Chainmail won’t protect you from a thunderstorm, but it will protect you from a Sith.”

So, in real life, there are these things called Tesla Coils. They’re these big electric machines that shoot off little bolts of high-voltage, low-current lightning. These days, everything practical they can do can be done better by something else, so they’re pretty much solely decorative, but damn if they aren’t still good at that. One thing that you might like to see are some dudes dancing with Tesla Coils while wearing chainmail suits. Go on, click the link. I’ll wait for you.

As you can see in the video, electricity follows the path of least resistance. Metal has way less electrical resistance than human flesh, and so if electricity can flow through metal instead of flesh, it will. These men, who are wearing chainmail suits, are pretty much impossible to hurt with tesla coils, because instead of the electricity going through their nerves and organs, it’ll always go through the far-more-conductive metal instead.

Now, if you’re anything like me, you may be thinking “hey, shouldn’t this mean that my D&D character who wears a suit of metal armor should be more defended against lightning, not less?” And I think you’re right! But alas, if you actually voice this opinion, you will likely be met with a common counterargument:

“A lightning bolt has like a zillion megawatts of power! Even with metal armor, it’d deafen you, blind you, and probably burn you by overheating your metal armor!”

And... to me, this is like arguing that kevlar can��t stop bullets, because high-explosive artillery can put six foot craters in the ground. Part of what you’ve said is true, but you’re grossly mischaracterizing the sort of weapons people can use in small-scale fights without killing everyone in the room, themselves included, based purely on sensationalist trivia.

Now, yes, a real lightning bolt from a thunderstorm won’t really care about what personal defenses you have, but that same lightning bolt will also seriously injure anyone within five paces, including the spellcaster who shot it from their fingertips. Considering that Sith and Wizards don’t typically go deaf immediately after shooting lightning at people, I feel safe in concluding that they’re not using that kind of power.

I think it’s also worth talking about what power means in the context of electricity, because as it turns out this is a formally defined term that is quite relevant to the question of “how bad will this kill you?” In electrical terms, power (measured in watts) is the product of voltage and current (measured in amps). And as any electrician can tell you, it’s the amps that kill you. Voltage, meanwhile, is what determines how wide of an air gap the lightning can cross; considering how unconductive thin air is, you need a lot of voltage if you want to shoot lightning at people from any distance whatsoever, and that means you need more power, unless you cut down on the amps.

Fortunately, you totally can cut down on the amps and still have a viable weapon! It only takes six or seven milliamps through the heart to kill someone, and a tenth of an amp if you don’t feel like having super precise aiming. And in all honesty, this maps to lightning attacks in most speculative fiction pretty well- where it always hurts like a bitch, but isn’t always horrendously lethal.

However, that kind of low current is bad news for the “chainmail would just cook you in your armor!” gang, because resistive heating, the phenomenon that makes electricity heat things up, only cares about resistance and current. High voltage isn’t going to do jack shit for resistive heating, and steel wire of the thickness you’d want for making chainmail is plenty capable of handling a measly tenth of an amp. It’s typically about as thick as the wires in your walls, and those can safely handle fifteen or twenty amps before they start to get uncomfortably warm. Sure, that’s copper and chainmail is steel, but chainmail is also a lot of steel, and the fact that there’s literal thousands of rings in a chainmail suit does in fact significantly increase the amount of current that can safely be handled.

So, in conclusion? Unless your fantasy lightning wand produces lightning so powerful that it should seriously injure the user (in which case nobody would want to use it), conductive metal armor 100% would protect the wearer from lightning attacks. This isn’t to say that lightning weapons should logically be useless in speculative fiction- there are plenty of contexts in which people would not be wearing metal armor, where lightning remains a perfectly serviceable way of killing people horrifically. But this is to say that I’m sick of people acting like wearing metal armor is useless at best and suicidal at worst when the other guy has a lightning spell. Knock that shit off.

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ashinaisshin · 1 year

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A more direct EN translation of some of Alhaitham’s voice lines in CN

(Note that in order to show the meaning in CN more clearly, some translations might not sound as smooth as the official EN text to stay closer to the CN.)

tl;dr: dude is in general more of a piece of shit in CN (no) LOL

i love he

About the Vision

To be honest, a Dendro Vision isn’t of much help to my research. But I do hit people harder now that I have elemental powers, so it's still useful enough.

[Personal opinion: I really wish the translators had kept his cruder/rougher wording in CN here, instead of making him sound kinda formal with the “settling a physical dispute” “proves useful at times” and all. (There are other lines, including some during the archon quest, where I’ve noticed that the EN translators made him sound more “formal” like this.) Despite the strong “rational/logical” image that he has, in CN Alhaitham rarely uses the kind of “academic” or “smart”-sounding language that one might think he does unless the occasion calls for it, and I find that aspect of his character really charming. Like Alhaitham says himself, “Rather than lacing my words with rhetoric, I prefer speaking factually” – I love hearing his lines because this guy is so good at making sharp, concise comments using his iconic crude and down-to-earth language. The writers really did a fantastic job portraying this smart and badass and hilarious character while intentionally (imo) breaking the stereotype in the use of an “academic” tone.]

About Us: Helping Each Other

You are very capable of taking care of yourself, so much so that you can even look after the companions around you. I don’t have any advice for you, and you most likely don’t need my help.

[Unlike in EN, it’s not very obvious that he is specifically referring to Paimon there in CN. It’s also a general trend that he is more curt/direct in CN, not hedging his statements as much with words like “seem” “frankly” “tend to” etc..]

About Kaveh: Compassion

He shows too much compassion towards everyone and everything. Probably because he is too fragile, he’s always making a fuss over nothing.

[The word choice in CN is more positive. At least “关怀” is a positive word – more along the lines of “compassion/care” – while “sensitive” is a neutral word that could be understood in either way, and probably negative in the context of “overly sensitive”. While Alhaitham is arguably also using some sarcasm in CN, I still think “sensitive” is neither an intuitive nor a fitting translation for 关怀.]

Birthday

Happy birthday. I’ve always thought that people invest an unnecessary amount of enthusiasm into celebrating the day they were born; it’d be more practical to channel that energy into getting more joy out of each day of their lives. You’re doing an alright job with this. I don’t know what kind of gift to get, so I’ll just reserve one pass for you through a special application channel.

[Funnily enough, he is less nice to you on your birthday in CN lol… I appreciate the sheer objectivity in “alright job”, bro Especially the “gift” he prepared for you, in my understanding, the special channel is only effective for once in CN and not permanent as the EN version seems to suggest, LMAO. Alhaitham, you just really don’t want to put extra effort into this huh Idk, maybe the EN translators just wanted to make him sound nicer to the players 😆 I can appreciate it either way though.]

Opening Treasure Chest: I

Hold on to them yourself.

[Aka: I don’t need this stuff. How nice of him.]

Opening Treasure Chest: II

Hurry, it’ll be hard to pick them up once they roll away.

[But he’s also genuinely being such a good (and fourth-wall-breaking-ly helpful) teammate kekw]

Joining Party: II

Let’s do business the business way. / Let’s keep things straight business.

[OK, if all the other discrepancies in translation are mostly just me being nitpicky, this one, I would argue, is a significant mistranslation that almost gets the opposite meaning across. “Let’s get down to business,” in my opinion, makes it sound like Alhaitham feels the need and is potentially quite willing to join the party, while in CN, “公事公办” is an idiom that clearly conveys the meaning that Alhaitham is Not joining you because he wants to/thinks he needs to but rather he’s treating it as Business, as a Job. In JP this line is straight up translated it as “公務に私情は挟まない” – “no personal feelings involved in official business.” In fact, linguistic elegance/cultural factors aside, I feel like for Alhaitham’s voice lines at least, the JP translation in general stays much closer to the CN text compared to EN. Like I mentioned in my last CN/EN comparison post, some EN translations make Alhaitham sound like a leader, while a big part of this dude’s life is just rejecting any and all leadership responsibilities thrown his way.]

---

Some additional translations FYI

More About Alhaitham: IV

Once order is disrupted, the consequences will spread rapidly. I don’t like this; it will get in the way of the life I have right now.

Feelings About Ascension: Conclusion

Can’t let those slackers from the Akademiya know that I’m making progress yet again, otherwise they’ll do everything in their ability to push trouble my way. Of course I won’t accept any of it, but the back-and-forth in communication is always going to waste some (of my) time.

Low HP: III

This will take up more (of my) time.

#genshin impact #alhaitham #translation #localization #writing #my translation #tr:game #his cn heavy dmg taken lines are also Gold but it's a bit hard to explain why they're funny so i didn't try 😂🤦‍♀️#its basically like he suddenly sounds so offended and goes 'tch... tf?!'#and the other line is very reminiscent of a cn internet slang/meme lol #his cn va did such a good job 👌😭😂#also i absolutely loved his character story 5... showing how his snarky smartass personality actually stems from a loving family 😭

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inkwolvesandcoffee · 2 years

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Ink & Rum Raisins (Alfie Solomons x Reader, Modern AU)

(Credits for the images in the moodboard go to their respective owners. The absolutely gnarly Anubis is by @/dugagau (IG))

Genre: Romance, Humour, Modern AU

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

Word Count: 12.3K

Warnings: a lot of swearing, Alfie being a gentleman, size kink, unrequited crush/love/lust (or is it? Also, I’m sorry, but the reader, like me, has a thing for older men), allusion to smoking/vaping, allusion to past violence

Summary: Prequel to Mokum Part 1.

Alfie

There was once a little dove, yeah, who found herself in a shithole of a place called Birmingham. Little brave thing that she was, she flew over the wolves living in it, looking for the one she had business with. Now, this wolf, right, was already an older chap, greying and with a bloody bad leg. He was, no, is the King of Camden. Anyways, the little dove found him and the wolf and her agreed upon a contract, according to which he provided his services. He soon found himself rather charmed by her, perhaps because he reminded her of days gone or because she awakened something in him, a reminder of a fantasy he hadn’t dare to fancy in a long time. And that’s why he coaxed the little thing into a deal.

Because he’s a selfish, in her words, bastard.

Caught between vice and virtue, unsure which of the two she is.

Y/N

I had heard the stories about the eccentric Alfie Solomons, owner of King of Camden Ink in London. However, when he announced he’d fulfill a guestspot at Shelby Tattoo Company in Birmingham, there was no way I could pass up the rare opportunity to be tattooed by one of the biggest (though infamous) names in the industry and get myself one of his gnarly yet gorgeous pieces.

In hindsight, if I had to do anything differently, I would have picked any other spot on my body but my thigh, simply to save myself from transforming into a bumbling fool. However, I would happily relive the whole experience even though it was quite... turbulent, to say the least. And, I’ll be honest, Alfie’s a bit of a bastard. Nevertheless, I’d do it all over again.

I wonder if butterflies see the potential danger in roses. The thorns, I imagine, could rip their wings if they come too close. Fancy could be their downfall. Then again, they never live long, do they?

Author’s Note: Oh my days, it’s at last, the first segment in the behemoth this Alfie Solomons romance has become. This particular story started out as a one-shot, but gradually grew longer and longer up to the point I now have at least enough of a story to write a novella.

Bloody hell, anyways, I made the reader Dutch because I’ve never seen anyone do that before (mind, I’m willfully ignoring the Dutch fanfiction I’ve come across because it was... not good, and that’s putting it politely) and since I’m Dutch myself and this tale is based upon actual events and conversations, I thought, ‘‘Well, why the hell not?’’

Also, this is the first thing I’ve written and edited since my thesis, so if it sounds rather formal or even academic in places, it might be because of that. I’ve yet to get accustomed to writing fiction again.

But, without further ado, kick back, relax, and enjoy the story.

Monster Masterlist / TH Masterlist

Having jolts of electricity shooting throughout your body and making your hands a bit jittery while your stomach seems to tie itself into a permanent knot is only natural when something exciting is about to happen. And as long as there is coffee nearby, the nerves can be fairly contained. In my personal opinion, that is.

However, when getting tattooed it’s better to not drink coffee before the appointment and let your emotions run wild. Now, I can only confirm for the former it helps the tattooing process because you do not want to start bleeding more than might be the case in a non-caffeinated scenario. The latter, on the other hand, is perhaps worse than a caffeine overdose. What also does not help my current case is entrusting part of my body to a man, regardless of his talent.

Another unhelpful detail is that I am about to go to a shop where practically only men work. Although, if I’m lucky, the two resident female artists have an appointment today too. We don’t have to have a conversation, interact at all, but it would make the environment more pleasant if I’m not the sole feminine presence.

Then again, I suppose I brought this down on myself. When I saw that Alfie Solomons would have a guest spot at Shelby Tattoo Company, I knew I had to get an appointment somehow. A holiday to Birmingham and getting a tattoo by a brilliant artist? Two birds with one stone, count me in.

Alfie has become somewhat of a celebrity in the tattoo community thanks to his art, inspired by various religions around the globe, specifically focusing on its monsters, demons, and other animal symbolism. The designs are gnarly yet awe-inspiring, the blacks stark and each element easily discernible despite the dark ink. For this specific guest spot he noted he’d only do flash and wanna-dos. Fortunately for the both of us, I’m obsessed enough with ancient Egypt to dedicate a part of my skin to the god of its Underworld and the dead.

The skin of my right thigh, to be precise.

And that’s where the problem lies.

For my other tattoos, I went to a women-run tattoo studio because I’m more comfortable with having a woman tattoo me. That is, of course, not to say all male tattoo artists aren’t to be trusted, because there are genuine sweethearts out there, and that women can’t be predators or walking red flags themselves. I, myself, have simply heard one too many tales of a woman being mistreated by a male tattoo artist to entrust them with the intimacy that comes with getting a tattoo.

Quite a contradiction, innit, considering the fact I’m about to let Alfie, a bear of a man, tattoo my thigh? Let’s call it a leap of faith, spurred on by incredible talent no one else possesses.

A sacrifice of principles in the name of art.

Sounds rather poetic when I put it like that. Better than ‘I want new ink and that Anubis looks fucking awesome. I want it. I’m gonna get it. Don’t care if I’m gonna have to travel.’

Yes, a sacrifice for art. We’ll keep it at that.

The bus stops on Victoria Street, a small straightforward walk away from Shelby Tattoo Company in Small Heath. Red brick worker’s houses line the wide cobblestone street, the occasional old storefront among them hinting at what the edifice was used as in days past. Stone steps inlaid in a patch of grass lead up to the main street, an older couple descending them. The woman holds firmly onto her husband, her arm looped in his. He, in turn, clutches the railing for dear life. Nonetheless, it’s a sweet sight, an affirmation Love and Romance still exist.

‘‘The destination is on your right. Shelby Tattoo Company.’’

I turn off the navigation and tuck my phone into the back pocket of my jeans. For a second I remain unmoving, merely looking at the handle of the door.

Breathe in… breathe out. It’s gonna be fine. It’s gonna be okay. Alright, let’s go!

The mental prep has done little to still the tremble in my fingers, but my racing mind becomes eerily clear when I push the front door open.

The single step across the threshold must have been noisy or his hearing is like a bat’s because my entrance rouses the bulking figure in the corner of the shop. He’s clad in a white shirt and jeans, his long brown hair tousled and haphazardly slicked back as best as possible.

The man spins around on his stool, the movement languid and wary. A brief silence settles in, a moment in which we look at each other quizzically. In fact, it might even be safe to say we’re trying to estimate each other, guessing at how much danger hangs in the air.

“Can I help you, miss?” he asks, a note of caution in his Cockney accent as he strokes his beard.

“I- I have an appointment. W- With Mr Solomons,” I stammer, feeling like a child caught red-handed trying to steal a cookie.

And that immediately shows how much of an actual threat I am

“Ah, Y/N! Shalom!” Alfie rises to his feet and swaggers over, precariously balancing his weight to hide his limp as best as possible. His broad shoulders block out the light as he comes to a halt, a polite distance between us. I tilt my head to look up, mentally cursing my genes for making me a head shorter than him and myself for the flutters of a butterfly storm in my stomach, caused by the height difference. “Welcome.”

He tilts his head and huffs, strangely amused. “I see you’re wearing new pants.”

“How- How’d you know they’re new?”

This is already getting sus. Maybe I should turn tail and run.

“I follow you on Instagram,” he says matter-of-fact and shrugs. “I saw you had a new Story, one about buying pants to get tattooed in.”

“You,” I point at him and then at me, still not registering his words, “follow me? On Instagram?”

“I do,” Alfie casually confirms. “If you don’t believe it, go see for yourself.”

He gestures for me to grab my phone. “Go on, check.”

My face pales when the follow button turns a light blue and states follow back.

Oh God, he’s seen my Stories. Seen my cat Stories. All the bullshit I posted.

Alfie leans in, the light providing extra definition to his toned arms, crossed firmly over his chest. “I don’t think you looked like shit. Those jeans look good on you.” The glee of being proven right melts into a curious pondering. “Boyfriend jeans, was it? Yeah… They look good on you.”

What does he mean by that? Is he flirting? Or is he being himself? I mean, I’ve heard he’s a bit eccentric, but what do I do?

Apparently nothing, because my feet are rooted to the spot, my mind erupted into pure chaos with not a single coherent thought thinking of walking out the door. So I remain where I am, still like a statue.

Until Alfie claps his hands. “Right! I won’t lie and say I’m not ecstatic about you picking the Anubis design.”

He turns around and walks to his station to grab something. After a quick search, he returns with two pieces of paper and his tablet. An expression like water has been poured over him to wake him from a dream passes over his face. A funny contrast with the warm gesture towards the worn leather sofa.“Where are my manners? Please, sit down. Tea? Coffee?”

“Ah, no, thanks. I’ve already had two cups of coffee and I don’t want to turn into a bouncy ball.”

“Water, then?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I printed the design in two sizes, the original and a smaller one. I think both will work fine, but I’ll leave the decision up to you. Also, I’d like my clients to fill in a form. It’s kind of a dossier, right, only accessible to me of course. It’s due to the new regulations on ink, you know how fond the authorities are of control and paperwork, and to document which ones I used in case you get a reaction. It’s also nice to know, in general, I have your consent to place the tattoo. All you need to do is put your signature on the line at the bottom.” He puts the pieces of paper on the coffee table and carefully hands the tablet and stylus over.

I look over the form, fill in the missing details, and sign the form. In the meanwhile, Alfie pours a glass of water, judging by the sound of an opening and closing fridge from a bottle rather than the tap.

“Piece of lemon?”

“Pardon?”

“Lemon? Would you like a slice in your water?’’ he patiently repeats, adding playfully, ‘‘It’s wonderfully refreshing.”

“My, what luxury!” I exclaim in a terrible imitation of a posh accent.

“I only want the best for my clients,” he says, though it’s unclear whether he’s serious or playing along. All the same, with a bit of a show, he grabs a cutting board, a knife, and a lemon from the net sitting in the corner of the counter. Sonorously, he hums along with the jazz song that plays over the speaker as he slices the fruit and adds two slices of it to the glass of water.

After washing his hands, he holds out the glass like a butler would. “Here you are, madam.”

“Thank you,” I say, cheeks warm. “Let’s trade. Here’s your tablet back.”

“What’s your email?” he asks after looking over the form. “I’ll send a copy to you. It’s always good to have a backup of important documents like this, innit?”

A brief flash of confusion passes over his face when I tell him the part of my email which contains my last name. Unable to suppress a giggle, I resort to spelling it out to not subject him any further to the difficulties of the Dutch language.

“Hold on, slow down.’’ He mumbles the letters to himself, the stylus making soft tick tick tick sounds. ‘‘Alright, carry on.’’

The last bit is evidently easier to keep up with. Everything noted, he turns the screen to me for a final check. ‘‘That correct?’’

I nod in confirmation

‘‘Alright. Now let me just… there. Sent.’’ The furrow in his brow smoothes out now the paperwork is done. Alfie puts the tablet on the coffee table, sits down and leans back in the chair across from me, thick fingers entwined. ‘‘So that’s how you pronounce your last name?”

‘‘Yep, but I do admit I anglicised it. In Dutch it sounds like this.’’ With a little mental effort, I temporarily suppress the innate tendency to use English. An effort well-spent since it earns me the joy of the look of utter befuddlement anyone who is not acquainted with my native tongue gets once they hear it.

“Okay, now, see, I did not expect such a last name after hearing you talk.”

I tilt my head, puzzled. “How’d you mean?”

“Your accent and last name don’t add up. Unless you’re married, but you’re not, are you?”

I shift in my seat, uncomfortable with the mention of marriage. “Where’d you think I’m from?”

“Either Dublin and Belfast, but now I’m leaning more towards the latter.” A mischievous though well-meaning grin tugs at the corners of his lips. “You have a tendency to go down with your intonation and your speech almost has a slight underlying growl like they have in the north. Do you have family there?”

“None. I have no ties to Ireland aside from my travels.”

“Do you mean Ireland as one country or do you make the distinction between the north and south?”

It’s the Republic and the north, but I’ll let it slide.

“Are you asking my opinion on the border?” I ask, a wary tone in my voice.

“I think I already have my answer.” Like a pleased cat, he entwines his fingers only to individually crack them a moment later. “Anyways, let’s not talk about politics. It’s all the same, toffs unable to agree on what they think is a matter of the common people like you and me but is essentially a bureaucratic quarrel that’s nothing to do with the public whatsoever. Sharks eat fish smaller than themselves to survive. Big fucks small always.”

He clears his throat and leans forward. “Have you decided yet?”

“Well…” I start, overwhelmed with thoughts of the various outcomes and permanency of the matter.

Before I can make an attempt at a proper answer, Alfie picks up on my indecisiveness. “If you want, you can try both. We’ll tape both sizes to your leg and you can tell me which size you prefer.”

“Sounds good,’’ I say, letting out a small sigh of relief. ‘‘First, though, let me put my shorts on. Where’s the restroom?”

He points to somewhere behind me. “Behind the door with the chrysanthemums.”

I stand up, grab the pants from my backpack, and slip into the restroom. It only takes a minute or two to change, but nevertheless I find myself unable to go back out into the studio right away.

I bought these especially for today. Shit, he saw that Story too, didn’t he? And what if other men walk in, be it clients or tattoo artists? What will their first thought be?

A gentle knock on the door violently jolts me back into reality. On the other side, a familiar baritone voice calls out, concern evident in the simple question. “Y/N, you alright?”

“Yeah,” I answer, opening the door a crack and slipping through it, “I’m fine.”

Alfie takes me in, gaze unwavering and expression unreadable. His body also shows no hints eluding to his train of thought. The peculiar investigation ends with a low hum.

What was that? Does- Can he read me like an open book? Is that what he just did?

Without knowing whether he did and hesitant to ask, I let the matter rest.

We move over to the large mirror covering the wall nearby his station. The tattoo artist makes a brief detour to his station to put on a pair of black latex gloves before sauntering over to kneel down. For a second I wonder what it would be like to cup his cheek, how his beard would feel against my palm as I’d turn his face to make him look up at me.

Part of the fantasy comes true, because he lifts his head. “May I?”

More than a second passes before I register what he means. Then I notice his hands a few centimetres from my thigh, ready to place the first design, the one with the original size. Instead of an answer, too afraid of what might come out of my mouth, I swallow and nod.

With precision, he sticks the piece of paper to my skin, smoothing it out to display its full potential. Smiling proudly, showing his slightly crooked teeth, Alfie rises to his feet and puts his hands on his hips. “What do you think? We could also mirror the design, but that would make Anubis face your…” he vaguely gestures, struggling to find the words that are polite enough. Evidently, he can’t find them, settling for “you know.”

I model the design, twisting my leg this way and that, all the while trying to ignore Alfie standing with his arms crossed in the background. However, there is only so long I can close him out so eventually I search for and meet his eyes via the mirror, furiously trying to hide my nerves under only a half-feigned expression of exhilaration. “Let’s do it.”

“Are you sure? You don’t want to try the other size?”

I turn around, forcing myself to maintain his gaze. “I’m a fairly small person, so I think the size is just right.”

“No mirroring?”

“Nah, let’s keep it classy.”

The low chuckle rising from the depths of his throat ignites a pleasant warmth that spreads throughout my body. “If the lady says so. I’ll get everything ready, so sit back with a snack or, if you want, there’s plenty of time to go outside for a smoke.”

“I don’t smoke, so I’ll go with the former,” I say as I plop down on the worn leather couch.

“That’s likely the better option of the two. Nicotine and tobacco are vices, ones I’m only too guilty of indulging in. Although, I’ve recently switched to vaping. Less stank, less laundry, better for the environment and clients.”

“I don’t mind the smell of cigarettes too much, but I do admit I prefer the smoke of vaping above that of regular smoking. Sometimes it smells quite good, actually. Kinda sweet.”

“Depends on the cartridge. See, like whiskey, yeah, the flavour is dependent on the environment, the way it is brewed. I prefer rum myself, though.”

“I’ve never tried it.”

Alfie turns away from the printer busily cranking out the stencil. “You never had rum?”

I shake my head. “I generally don’t drink, but if I do, I tend to stick to my favourites. Licor quarenta y très, amaretto, limoncello, Guinness, whiskey.”

“Irish or Scottish?”

“Generally Irish.”

“Of bloody course,” he chuckles. “My family has a rum distillery, based near London, but we sell the stuff throughout the country in shops run by family members, of course. There’s one in Birmingham, so if you tell them I sent you, I’ll make sure there’s a bottle ready for you. Free of charge, of course, because it’s the least I can do to save you from that sin.”

“The sin of not knowing the taste of rum?”

“Exactly! When are you leaving England?”

“Tomorrow. And, unfortunately, I only have hand luggage, so there is no way I could take the bottle with me.”

“Hm, that’s too short notice…”

“We can make good on this later? I mean, this isn’t the last time I’ll be in England.” I cross and uncross my legs, feeling rather self-conscious. “Or we could meet at a convention? I don’t know whether you’ll be attending one in Holland any time soon, but-’’

“I’ll be attending the Amsterdam Tattoo Festival in September,” he interrupts me, fortunately saving me from having to finish a sentence I don’t know how to continue. “We could meet then, if you’d like? Or are you planning to go to the London Tattoo Show?”

“Unfortunately, I have to skip that one since I don’t think my bank account will allow it. Especially considering I’m planning to quit my job soon and do some travelling around Scotland and Northern Ireland for about a month, which won’t be cheap.” He mumbles something under his breath in response, the words bleeding into each other to form an incoherent mess. However, the disagreeing tone is a hint that he disapproves of something, whatever it might be. “But I’m planning to go to Amsterdam too, so, could we- we could-’’

Stop being such a coward. Just ask already, for God’s sake!

“I’d like that,” Alfie cuts in as if he’s read my mind. Stencil in hand, he turns back to me, his features soft. “Gives me plenty of time to make good on my promise.”

We return to his station, a polite distance between us. Alfie sits down on the stool and grabs a disposable razor, which he puts down again with a hint of slight surprise after inspecting my leg. “Already shaven, eh?”

I run a hand through my hair while my stomach quivers. “Yeah. I thought it would be polite. Also, I can’t stand my legs being hairy. My arms neither.”

“I wish more people had that mentality. Then again, humans tend to be selfish creatures,’’ he grumbles while pulling on a new pair of gloves.

“Are there really that many clients who don’t shave?”

“More than you think, darling, but it makes me all the more appreciative of clients like you.”

The ‘darling’ means nothing. Stop being a fucking idiot and don’t get your hopes up. He literally just confirmed you’re just a customer, a source of income.

“Right, before we start, would you like to use numbing cream? We could also use nutmeg oil, if you’d like.”

“Nutmeg oil?”

“It’s completely vegan and helps relieve the pain,’’ Alfie explains. ‘‘It has quite a strong scent, though, so I hope you’re not faint of heart. Or, rather, have a sensitive nose.”

For a moment, I contemplate the options, weighing past experiences against each other. Thus far, line work has never been a problem and blackwork hasn’t been either. “D’you know what? Let’s go without.”

“Tough as nails,” he says with a hint of awe and appreciation. “You’re full of surprises, in’t ya?”

“Am I?”

“So far, yes. A young Dutch woman with a misleading Irish accent wants a gnarly scowling Anubis on her thigh whereas her other tattoos are colourful and less gnarly. One can only speculate regarding her story.” He grabs a big pot with the image of a geisha and red lettering on it, unscrews the lid, and scoops out a dollop of the stuff within to put on the side of his gloved hand. “This is Dragon’s Blood. It helps calm the skin and closes pores. It can be used as aftercare too.”

He screws the lid on again and puts the pot back in place. “May I?”

I stare at him blankly. “What do you mean?”

“May I touch your thigh and prep the skin?” he clarifies, his slightly crooked teeth showing.

“Oh, right, right! Yes, of course,” I answer, stumbling over the words and barely refraining from breaking out into a ramble.

Alfie picks up some of the balm with his fingers and leans in to work it into the skin. At first he tries to do it without support, but quickly finds himself struggling a bit. “Is it okay if I place my hand on the back of your thigh?” he asks, looking up with sincere greyish blue eyes. “It’s easier to work it in if there’s a bit of resistance and support.”

Wow, he has really pretty eyes. But then again, even a rose has thorns.

“Y- Yeah, sure.”

“Are you agreeing because you want to or because you’re feeling intimidated?”

The question catches me off-guard, its thoughtfulness rendering me speechless.

“Y/N,” Alfie sighs, “I have no ill intentions. I’m a man of honour, one who believes a woman should be treated with the utmost respect. So let me ask you again and I want you to look me in the eye, yeah, as you give me an honest answer. Is it okay if I place my hand on the back of your thigh?”

“Yes,” I answer, steady. “Yes, it is.”

He grunts in acknowledgment before placing the palm of his other hand on my skin too.

Though light in touch, the supporting grip nevertheless feels sturdy and the warmth seeping through the latex of his gloves secure. I can vaguely hear myself hum at the thought of holding his hand as we walk through Amsterdam in summer, the temperature still high enough to feel hot and clammy but with the unmistakable first signs of autumn setting in. Halfway through the month, it will become colder, especially at night if you keep the windows open. Then, to have a grip like that on your body, your skin warmed by the friction as the whiskers of a coarse yet soft beard worship it, and a baritone voice in your ear that occasionally falters with pleasure…

The sensation of cold liquid on my skin snaps me out of my reverie. I snap my head down to see where it comes from, only to discover I apparently zoned out and Alfie has cracked on to the stencil stuff.

“Try to relax your leg,” he gently coaxes while trying to apply the stencil.

I take a deep breath and do as he says, forcing my muscles to lose their tension. Although it doesn’t feel like I’m loosening up, I’m apparently doing something right enough to earn myself an oddly prideful whispered “attagirl”. Fortunately, Alfie is blissfully unaware of the fact I heard him and the storm of butterflies the compliment unleashes in my stomach. Nor does he seem to catch on to how badly the pressure of his hands, finally having found the right placement, makes my mind short circuit.

“Go take a look in the mirror,” he says after meticulously peeling the stencil off.

Even the mere outline of the Egyptian god of death looks menacing. Anubis bares his fangs as sharp as daggers, viciously snarling at the viewer. ‘‘Don’t come near me. Don’t even dare to speak to me lest you want me to feed your heart to Ammit’’ he seems to warn.

It’s absolutely, drop-dead gorgeous.

‘‘Let’s do it!’’ A skip in my step, I walk back to the massage table, which Alfie has covered with an electric blanket. It has heated to a pleasant temperature, not too low yet not high enough to break out into a sweat. Perhaps the best way to describe it is to say it makes you feel all warm and toasty.

‘‘Well, if the lady truly is ready, then who am I to deny her ink any longer?’’ Alfie says, barely able to suppress his amusement. Nevertheless, it shows in the theatrical attitude in which he continues. ‘‘Before we begin, my lady, may this old chap indeed have the ‘onour of tattooing you?’’

‘‘Yes, indeed you may, mister Solomons.’’

‘‘Marvellous.’’

The bell by the door tinkles as a long-faced, clean shaven young man, in his early to mid-twenties, walks into the studio. His casual step gives away he’s one of the resident artists, lost in thought as he hangs his jacket next to mine on the coat rack. He throws the hood of his black hoodie back to reveal muzzled short brown hair the colour of milk chocolate and runs his hand through it, tousling the locks even further.

“Why are you so early?” Alfie throws a look over his shoulder at the newcomer.

The question seems to catch the other man off-guard, the pensive expression on his boyish face fading into surprise. “I have an appointment, half sleeve, Japanese style. It’s going to be a koi pond.”

“Right,” Alfie scoffs. “I hate koi fish. Can’t stand drawing them, right, because it’s always the same composition, the same old story.”

“Is that really your reason?” the other asks as he approaches and comes to a halt a step away from where I’m lying. A whiff of fresh cologne hits my nose, mixed with the indescribable smell of rain.

“Nah, mate. I don’t really have a ‘reason’. Simply hate the fuckers. I prefer things that have a bit more life to them, a higher intellect that prevents them from smacking their lips like eternal gluttons. Gluttony is a sin, you know.” Alfie perks up as if he’s remembered something and shifts his attention back to me. “Right, this here is Michael, a show-off.”

So that’s Michael Gray. Strange, I thought he’d be older and more… tough, rough-looking, instead of a lad I could easily cross paths with at the bookshop. In fact, wait, didn’t I see him at Waterstones yesterday?

“Just because you don’t do Japanese-’’ Michael starts, but Alfie cuts him off.

“And a bloody pacifist.”

“I saw your work on Instagram.” To delay or, rather, hopefully stop a fight from breaking out between the two, I speak up before the two can continue catfighting. “It’s really cool. I’ve started warming up to the Japanese style because of your designs.”

Cheeks flushed, he rubs the back of his neck. “Thank you. You know, if you ever have an idea, send it my way.”

Alfie rolls his eyes, which earns him a venomous glare from Michael. “This is how you hold a proper conversation instead of being a cunt.”

“You see, the problem, right, is that so many people have said I am a cunt I don’t fucking care. Because they were all hypocrites, yeah. So, Michael, who’s the real one here, eh?”

My gaze flits from one man to the other while I tense up, ready to jump off the table and run for the hills if the situation worsens. And it’s likely it will because each man seems more than ready to lash out at the other.

Although I don’t think he’ll notice, I shake my head at Michael. Among the two, he is the most approachable and likely to listen at the minute, so I mentally cross my heart and pray he notices my silent plea to stop fighting. Although it’s Alfie who started it, I wager Michael is mature enough to walk away. At least for now. Afterwards, both men are free to tear each other to pieces.

Fortunately, he sees me. Lips pulled into a straight line, Michael skulks off to his own station, glowering.

Thank God.

I take a couple of deep breaths to calm my racing heartbeat. That was a close call, too close.

“Bad blood?” I ask, trying to sound nonchalant. ‘‘I don’t mean to pry.’’

“Ah, the boy’s just cross ‘cause Tommy and I haven’t always seen eye to eye. Chap adores him. A little too much, if you ask me, but someone’s got to be the good little soldier, right?” Alfie checks the set-up once more to ensure everything is in place. Now that the threat of imminent conflict has proven false, he, too, relaxes. The tenseness in his muscles fades, his body loosening up. His shoulders lower and he unclenches his jaw, releasing the strain on it.

The last remnant of sharp biting sarcasm has evaporated when he turns back to me, gloved hands in his lap. “Comfy?”

“Incredibly so. I could curl up and take a snooze.”

“That would make my job easier.” He picks up the wireless tattoo machine from the tray, eyes still trained on me, watching out for any withdrawal of consent. “May I?”

I nod, allowing him to touch and stretch the skin. “Okay, let’s first do a line, yeah, to see how it feels. Ready?”

“Yep.” Sheepishly, I give him a thumbs-up.

Alfie shakes his head, chuckles and murmurs something under his breath before he sets to work.

Every time you get new ink you tend to think you can still remember the feeling of being tattooed and instantly adjust. However, the opposite is true, at least for me. At first, it’s an unpleasant nagging sensation like someone is dragging a sharp-edged though blunt object to and fro over your skin. This only lasts for a few seconds and then gradually fades to an oddly therapeutic feeling that is near impossible to describe. Yes, I’m being poked by multiple needles constantly yet it doesn’t hurt. I wouldn’t say it’s enlightening, but it is calmingly enough to stop the on-going flow of various thoughts which consist of everything at the same time. Tattooing brings order in the chaos and is the best therapy out there.

“How’s that?” Alfie asks.

“Good. Well, I mean, it’s like my cat has its claws in my thigh and by this time, I’m used to that.” I let out a sheepish giggle, only to mentally slap myself in the face for being awkward.

“What’s its name?”

“I have two, actually. One is called Saul and the other Solomon. Not really names you’d expect for a cat, but they’re big.” I try to indicate the size of them with my hands, my heart skipping a beat as he takes a second to pay attention. “Big lads.”

“Solomon was a prophet according to the Talmud, a man of great wisdom and power. Now, Saul was the first king of Israel. Great man, too, who knew that he who lives by the sword, dies by it. I suppose Anubis knew this too, weighing hearts and deciding who gets to go on a boat trip to the underworld or eaten alive. Well, as alive as a spirit can be.”

“Unfortunately, the boys haven’t a sliver of wisdom between them, unless it concerns the knowledge of being charming enough to earn themselves a treat. However, they’re bloody powerful if the need to cuddle strikes. They’ll literally attempt to take me hostage, regardless of what I’m doing at that very moment. But on a different note, it sounds like you know a lot about religion.”

“I tried theology in university, but that didn’t get me far. Doesn’t help I had a couple fights with some Italian kids, Catholics, who saw themselves above a Jew. The last one that saw me kicked out was perhaps my most brutal.” For a second he seems to continue the story, but thinks better of it at the last minute. Instead, a low grunt rises from his throat. “Yeah, definitely the most brutal, that one was.”

Though he tries to move past the topic, I’m not quite ready to let it go. Being a curious cat isn’t particularly a good thing to be when it comes to people because it can go both ways once they realise you’re after a piece of their story. Nevertheless, my curiosity is peaked and therefore I can't help myself. “I’m glad the fights in the classroom remained at heated debates. But, um, and I don’t mean to pry, but how did that fight go? The final one, I mean.”

If I don’t get an answer, it’s fine. I won’t push. Nevertheless, I eagerly hold out hope to get the story out of the enigmatic mister Solomons.

Alfie.

Don’t blush! Take a sip of water, cool down. My God, is even his name now getting me hot under the collar?

He pauses and sits up. A tentative smile builds on his lips as his brows furrow.

“Only if you want to, of course.”

“Do you really wanna know? Ladies should be spared the violence of the world.” The lines in his face deepen, the expression changing to a frowning grimace.

“It can’t get any worse than Jack the Ripper.” He blinks a few times, letting my comment sink in. In the meanwhile, I bite my lip, desperate to find a way to redeem myself. “What? Am I weird for being intrigued by the case? I am, aren’t I? You know what, don’t mind me. Guess I’m being rather silly.”

“No, you’re not. I’m simply surprised the little lady harbours a fascination with the obscene,” he answers, his tone devoid of any form of judgement.

“Don’t get a lot of those clients?”

“None who admit it outright.”

“Well, here I am.”

“So you are.” His eyes are fully focused as he gazes at me, which does about as little to lower my racing pulse as the comment that follows. “I wonder what else goes on in that head of yours.”

“It’s chaos, to be honest. I don’t think you actually wanna know. Anyways, the fight.”

“Right,” he murmurs, his eyes still trained on me and trying to imagine what goes on in my head. Needles cleaned and dipped in ink again, he returns to work and tells the story. “I once carried out my own personal form of stigmata on an Italian. I pushed his face up against a trench and shoved a six-inch nail up his fucking-’’ the snarl on his lips vanishes as he throws me an apologetic look. “Sorry, I shouldn’t swear in the company of a lady.”

“I don’t mind. You’re literally saying this to someone who has the mouth of a sailor.”

The remark is a small comfort to him. Alfie visibly relaxes, his posture loses most of its tension and his jaw slackens. “Right, I shoved a six-inch nail up his nose and I hammered it ‘ome with a duckboard.” The corners of his mouth curl into a sly grin. “It was fucking biblical.”

“Fucking hell, yeah, okay, now I’m really glad I only have had to deal with debates. Jesus.” I shake my head, caught between believing the story and finding it too far-fetched. “Why, though?”

“He had it coming. Little fucker was harassing girls of the nearby Jewish community. They mightn’t been part of mine, but it’s never right to mistreat a woman. So, one day, I caught him doing it again and made sure he’d be a wiser man for it.”

“Did you get caught?”

“I got arrested for ‘grievous bodily harm’, but didn’t go to jail considering I was still a young chap. And, to be honest, from a well-connected family.”

“How old were you?”

“Eighteen.”

“Dang.”

“I’m not as violent as I used to be. It’s all behind me now,” he blurts out, pausing again while the words rush to fill a non-existent gap between us. “No more fights, gangs, or firms. Starting tattooing was me turning a new leaf.”

I don’t know what to say, unable to think of anything appropriate while also trying to figure out his intentions. So I merely stare at him, blankly.

His eyes flit from me to the ink pots and back to me, likely feeling equally as awkward.

Neither of us initiates further conversation, me partially because I’m starting to doze off. That is, until Alfie stops and throws me a look. “I’m almost done with the linework. You’re still okay?”

“Yeah, no pain at all,” I say, a slight taper in my voice and half asleep. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Good,” he replies, a little unsteady as well. “Let’s finish it and ‘ave a little break, yeah?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“It’s good to have something to occupy yourself with outside work.” Alfie saunters over to where I’m sitting on the worn leather couch and puts a plate on the coffee table. On it, golden brown raisin buns are stacked in a charming little heap. “Want one?”

“Wait, you made these?” I put my phone away, conscious to neither cross my legs or rest my arms on my thighs as I lean in. My friends will have to wait a little longer on a tattoo update.

“I did,’’ he says, sitting down where he sat earlier today. ‘‘Learned the baking trade from me mum who learned it from her mother, my babushka.”

“You have Russian heritage?”

“I do. My mother fled to England during the Holocaust. My old man was running a distillery and was willing to take her in. In a sense, they saved each other. She got him off the drink… for a time, and kept the books. He taught her English and gave her a ‘ome.” He leans back in his chair, fingers entwined. “Yeah, funny that, how such horror can bring souls together.’’

“Did they survive the war? Like, no interference from the Nazis or fascists?” I stiffen when it hits me how intrusive the question is. Badly concealing my panic, I hastily add. ‘‘You don’t- You’ve already told me so much, so, uhm, you- you don’t have to tell me anything else.’’

“They did,” he nods sagely, ignoring my anxious outburst. “Though I’m glad they don’t have to deal with current affairs.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Nah, don’t be. They’ve been dead for a while, died in their sleep, two months between them. Regardless of the war and England’s policy towards anyone that isn’t one of them, they’ve lived a good life. It was simply their time to go.” He rests his elbows on his knees and leans forward. “What about you?”

“How’d you mean?”

“How’s your family?”

“Not particularly close. I try to avoid father’s side of the family at all costs because they’re these posh- toffs, I think you call them in English. Though, that’s more my father’s sister. His brother is an alcoholic and divorcee with a midlife crisis that’s bigger than my father’s. On mother’s side of the family, I’m only close with my aunt and grandpa. With my mum I try to connect at times, but it’s more like friendly co-existence.”

“Any siblings?”

“A younger sister. Not particularly close with her either.” I shake my head and take a sip of water. “But I don’t mind. I’ve learned how to be a lone wolf and accepted being one. Working, studying, and travelling help with that too. They’re likely the only things preventing me from going insane.”

“Insanity is a gift only given to few. The greatest minds were lonely even in company, the greatest visionaries those that had seen the world by themselves.” Our eyes lock, the strange but tender sentiment in his adding to the sweet comfort of his conclusion. “I think we’re both mad.”

Alfie nods to the plate with buns. “The raisins have been soaked in rum, family recipe. Try one.”

“Are they poisoned, Solomons?” Michael remarks across the room. Judging by the venom in his tone, he hasn’t moved past the conflict earlier.

They’re really gonna cut each other once I’ve left, aren’t they?

“Unlike you, kid, I actually provide service. People have bonded over food for centuries and God gave me the brilliant idea, yeah, to make these buns to share.”

“You never share food. Not with me, at least.”

“That’s because I don’t want a bond of any sort with you, mate.“ He picks up the plate and holds it out to me. “But I’ll always be glad to share with a peer.’’

“Thank you,” I say, though I can’t prevent myself from saying his name, “Alfie.”

Smiling brightly, he leans back in his chair. “My pleasure. But what is it that kills the time for you?”

“Believe it or not, but I sew,” I say while nibbling on the sweet bun.

“An affinity with needles, eh?”

Unable to suppress it, I give into the uncharacteristic urge to giggle. “You could put it like that, yeah.”

“It’s rather broad, though, ‘sewing’, innit? What am I to envision?”

“I make plushies, really bloody adorable ones.” I grab my phone and look up a picture of my latest project: a whale shark made with white, very fuzzy teddy and Delft Blue-printed cotton. “Don’t tell me that isn’t cute.”

I turn the screen to Alfie. The eager confidence doesn’t last because the tingle travelling through my chest, which seems to be weighed down by a heavy stone, ends in a chill down my spine. With bated breath, I nevertheless wait for a sign of his approval.

What the fuck am I doing? He’s a grown man. What would he care for a stuffed animal?

An ache starts at the back of my throat at the thought that follows.

I did post that picture on an Insta Story. Did he see it, though? What if he did? No, he did, didn’t he? I’m repeating myself. Why am I repeating myself? He’s had enough of a look.

However, as I make to put my phone away again, Alfie speaks up. “It’s well-made, especially for an early attempt at the craft. You can see it’s made with passion.”

Fuck, he definitely saw my sewing shenanigans on Insta.

“You already saw that picture, didn’t you?” I respond, mildly sarcastic regardless of his kindness.

“Well, we already established we follow each other and I like to get to know my clients as best as possible. So, yeah… yeah, I did.”

Gaze averted to the floor, I shut the screen off and continue to stare at my shoes, feeling like a stupid lovesick teenager.

“But it’s indeed adorable. You’ve got a knack for the trade.” His features soften when I raise my head, though there’s a hint of mischief in the raised eyebrow. “You’re no seamstress, though. Or are you?”

“If you want, I could mend your clothes,” I blurt out, the words spilling forth before I can give them a second thought. “Oh Lord, I- I didn’t mean- I’m so sorry, I should’ve-’’

Alfie’s hearty laugh cuts through my poor attempt to try and justify my idiotic bravery. “Fucking ‘ell. I had a feeling you’re not the type to beat around the bush, but that was more forward than I thought you’d be.”

“Please ignore what I said.” I stuff the last of the bun into my mouth, lest it should blabber any more nonsense, and wave a dismissive hand.

Only to nearly choke at his response.

“Why? I like it, this honesty. Now, see, Tommy, yeah, he likes to beat around the bush and it’s absolutely doing my nut in. I’ve told him before I’ll shoot him if he doesn’t hurry up and quit his little games. Man really needs to learn how to directly make his point, saves both parties involved a lot of trouble. But not you.” His tone turns pensive, the words clear yet strange. “Curious, that. How a little dove flies over the wolves.”

I remain quiet, because no reaction I come up with seems adequate to respond to his reverie. So we let an oddly comfortable silence settle in, lined with the addicting sweetness of rum raisins.

“These are really bloody good,” I say after a while, pointing at the plate on the coffee table. ‘‘We have buns like this back home too. We call them ‘krentenbollen’, which would roughly translate to ‘currant buns’.’’

‘‘Say that again.’’

‘‘What, ‘krentebollen’?’’ Evidently I hit the nail on its head, judging by Alfie struggling to imitate my pronunciation, silently mouthing the syllables. “Kren.”

“Kren.”

“No, no, ‘ren’. A pronounced, not rolled ‘r’ and short and sharp ‘e’. Like in ‘cigarette’, the final ‘e’ sound. Kren.”

“Kren,” he echoes.

“Ten. ‘En’ is pronounced with a schwa.”

“Ten.”

“Bol. With a clear ‘l’.”

“Bol.”

“Len. Again, a clear ‘l’ and a schwa.”

“Len.’’ Having been given an example of how to pronounce each syllable, Alfie tries out the word again, brow furrowed in concentration. ‘‘Kren. Ten. Bol. Len.”

A warm fuzzy feeling spreads throughout my body while watching him sincerely make an effort to mimic the Dutch sounds despite the struggle it proves to be. However, I do have to give him credit for his attempt because, despite his slightly wonky pronunciation, it’s better than some others I’ve heard.

‘‘Kren- Krentenbollen.’’

“‘Ey, there ya go!” I clap my hands, smiling in satisfaction. ‘‘That was really good!’’

“Dutch is a funny language. Very strange and harsh.”

“Apparently, it’s the scientifically proven hardest language to learn. I’ll be honest, even the Dutch sometimes don’t know how to speak it. The grammar is whack too, sometimes. Doesn’t make sense.”

“Maybe you can teach me some more next time we meet.” His eyes go from the buns to me, beaming. “I’ll bring you some more krentenbollen.”

‘‘Nah, these are better. In fact, I think I prefer these. Much more exclusive, an English delicacy.’’

Can I get any more lame? What kind of comment was that?

“Help yourself, but be quick about it because we need to get back to work. You’ve been sitting like a rock and I don’t want your adrenaline to run out just yet.”

“I’ll leave it for later then.”

He rises from his seat, throwing an imposing shadow over me as his shoulders block the light. “Before we resume, do you want anything? You still got enough water?”

“I’m good to go, though I wouldn’t say no to another glass.”

“One round of Solomons Lemon Water, coming right up.”

As before, Alfie puts care into the simple act of cutting a lemon and adding a slice of it to plain water. And with the grace of a gentleman, he holds it out to me. “A glass of water for the little lady. It’s on the house.”

Whilst the comment is in jest, a funny thought sets my cheeks ablaze. “Th- Thanks.”

What the fuck was that stutter? By Jaysus, pull yourself together! He’s only joking, playing around. It means nothing. Nothing! Besides, he likely has a wife, good-looking and charming as he is.

Glass in hand, I follow Alfie back to the table and clamber back onto the cosy electric blanket while he completes the last preparations to continue the session.

“Comfy?” he asks once I’ve settled in.

“Extremely.”

“Good.” He restarts his tablet, the screen lighting up with Anubis’s snarling face. A new pair of gloves on, he grabs the black pot with red lettering and scoops up a blob of Dragon’s Blood with his pinky before he sets it back in place.

“May I?” Alfie asks, hands a few centimetres from my skin.

I nod, giving him the permission to resume working.

Except, he doesn’t.

He pushes his stool back slightly and purses his lips. “Y/N, I need you to relax, yeah. Tense muscles aren’t particularly tattoo friendly. If I start working now, it’s like tattooing a stone and needles, right, don’t do well with hard surfaces.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, inhaling and exhaling deeply in hopes of unravelling the tightness in my chest. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. What’s on your mind? Something funny?”

“Ah, it’s fine. No worries.”

Don’t mind me. I’m being silly, interpreting things the wrong way. Besides, I’m likely half your age. Unsuitable, undesirable for a man like you.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, it’s okay.” My breath tapers, which I hope he doesn’t pick up on. Then again, Alfie has proven to be a very perceptive man thus far. Nonetheless, a girl can hope. ‘‘I’m okay.’’

Please believe that. At least this once.

He lets out a low displeased grunt, blueish grey eyes dark with lingering worry. “If you say so.” He averts his gaze to the unfinished snarling Anubis, the sternness in his voice blurring into resignation. “Can I?”

I hum in response, giving him the sign he still has my consent.

And to keep up appearances a little longer.

Because when you’re crushing hard on someone you can’t have, it’s okay not to be okay.

It’s not unusual for other tattoo artists to pop by their colleagues to see what they’re working on. Normally I wouldn’t mind it, proud to be a canvas for someone else’s art. Nonetheless, this time, I wish it was someone else other than the resident Japanese style artist sauntering over. Anyone would do.

Tommy, who came in around two to do a touch-up.

Finn, who’s the youngest in the team and does geometric designs.

Even Arthur, who Alfie immediately sent away when he felt me tense, genuinely afraid of Cerberus personified, would be better.

Unfortunately, it’s Michael, which means the two might break out into a fight soon. It’s only a matter of time.

“Wow, that looks gnarly.” Maintaining a polite distance, Michael leans in to inspect the fearsome god of the afterlife.

“Oi, don’t you have your own client to look after?” Alfie asks, the first ripples of irritation already noticeable in his voice.

“She’s too busy taking pictures and whatever else she’s doing on her phone.” Michael points over his shoulder at his client and shrugs. I turn my head, doubting how bad the girl’s company can be. She is indeed absorbed in her phone, posing like most girls on Instagram and making all the familiar facial expressions. To keep things polite, let’s say that a tattoo isn’t what she came here for.

I scoff. ‘‘I see she’s one of those.’’

‘‘That’s one way to put it,’’ Michael sighs, but his expression brightens as he changes the topic. “What made you get Anubis?”

“Give the lady some space, treacle. You’re not yet drooling over her like some lovesick puppy. We’re trying to create a bloody masterpiece here, right, and art, yeah, art needs effort, focus, and attention.” A grimace treks over Alfie’s face, foreboding like a black cloud forms the prelude to a storm. “None of which I can muster with you around, mate. So off you go.” He waves a dismissive hand. “Go on, fuck off.”

“The fuck’s your problem, Alfie?” Michael raises his voice.

Oh Lord, here we go.

“My problem?” Fortunately, Alfie turns the machine off and puts it to the side because getting tattooed amidst a fight is the last thing you’d want. Unless you’re a lunatic. “My problem right now, mate, is that I have a massive disturbance in my work environment which prevents me from providing Y/N with splendid service and proper care.”

“‘Proper care?’” the other man echoes, raising an eyebrow. “Now that’s an awfully ambiguous statement, even for you. Proper care… Is that why you didn’t go on your usual vape break?”

“Don’t twist my words, kid. It should be an honour for a tattoo artist that someone is willing to wear their art on their skin. Y/N is doing me that honour so of course I wanna treat her right.”

“Alfie Solomons, the King of Camden,’’ Michael sneers. ‘‘The Jewish gentleman from Margate.”

“It’s never a bad idea to be a gentleman, kid. Hasn’t your mother taught you how to treat women properly? Then again,” a mean gleam lights up stormy grey eyes, “she did abandon you, didn’t she?”

Michael is positively fuming by now, looking red in the face and fists shaking with an eagerness to throw the first punch.

“Lads! That’s enough!” I bark, propping myself up on my elbows. “Alfie, that’s a fucking low blow and you know it.”

“How do you know it is?”

Is he fucking serious?

��Look at him!” Lips pulled back into a snarl not unlike Anubis’s, I point at Michael. “Obviously that fucking hurt.”

“So the little dove flew down, still not afraid. Although, her wings waver ever so slightly, don’t they?”

I gaze blankly at Alfie, puzzled by the comment, but quickly return to raging. “Shouldn’t you apologise or something? Or is that something men don’t do to each other?”

“Y/N,” I hear Michael mumble next to me, a tone of surprise in his voice.

“Fucking apologise or I’m out, tattoo finished or not.” I look him up and down, barely able to suppress the urge to spit in his face. “I thought I booked a professional, not some… some fucking bastard.”

“I’m a bastard?” he scoffs.

“People who attack others by using their personal lives? Yeah, that’s one of the definitions of ‘bastard’ for me.”

Both men are quiet, startled by my interference. They exchange glances, neither of them helping the other with their confusion. However, Alfie tries to solve his by making an effort to make amends. For the time being, that is.

“Right,” he begins, struggling to sound genuine. “My sincerest apologies, kid.”

“A little more honest,” I grumble.

“I shouldn’t have brought up your mother, kid. Clearly it’s still an open wound and you don’t need salt in it.”

Wouldn’t have phrased it that way, but whatever, it’s Alfie Solomons.

I shift my attention to Michael. “Please accept his apology, at least for now. I don’t want any more fights during my therapy session. You can rip each other to shreds after I’m gone, okay?”

A careful smile tugs on the corners of Michael’s lips. “Then I will, if only to not completely ruin your ink therapy. Seriously, though, Alfie’s not the only one who should apologise. So, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry for my behaviour. A client should never be put in the crossfire of a dispute which doesn’t concern them. Can you accept mine?”

“Afraid of me ripping you to shreds?”

“Uhm, maybe?’’ He rubs the back of his neck, cheeks rosy. ‘‘You do get kinda fearsome when you get angry.”

“The thick Irish accent doesn’t help, either,” Alfie chimes in. “If someone’s accent deepens, especially if it’s Irish, you better run.”

“How can you possibly be afraid of me? I’m a head shorter than you. I think you can easily have me.” I search Alfie’s expression for signs he’s lying yet end up empty-handed. The second thereafter, however, a surge of heat spreads through my body as the possible implications of my comment run through my mind. Unconsciously, I rub my wrists while trying to get comfortable again on the rather hot blanket. Or does it merely feel like that because I’m a mess? “Take me on, I mean. Have me is… ehm… It’d be easy to overpower, no, ehm, win? Win against me!”

“I’ll leave you two alone.” Michael says, hardly containing his amusement. Then he turns around and returns to his station. Along the way, he stops to explain the situation to the girl, who miraculously has managed to put her phone away for a second and show worry like a normal human being.

“I really need to learn to shut the fuck up,” I groan as I lie down again, a bit calmer. “Please forget everything I said.”

“Including your tantrum?” Alfie asks, a lopsided smirk on his lips.

“Just remember the apology part. Maybe the bastard one too.”

“If the lady so wishes.” His hands hover over my thigh, the machine still turned off in his left. “Can I?”

I nod, unwavering in my willingness to give him my consent. Perhaps others would have left, but I choose to remain because of the shallow reason he’s at least good to me.

Even if he’s not for me.

Funny thing, innit, Love?

A silence broken up by the whirring of needles settles in. The only other noise in the studio comes from the Bluetooth speaker, continuously playing jazz tunes. It’s the first time to hear the music genre in a tattoo studio since everywhere I’ve been before they seem to prefer hard rock and soft metal. I wonder whether it has contributed to their reputation as ‘the gentlemen of the Birmingham tattoo industry’ or it is simply because the oldest of the Shelbys are at work today.

“Y/N?” Alfie wipes off the excess ink and dips his needle in one of the little pots besides him.

“Hm?” I turn my head to face him.

“I’m sorry.” Though lacklustre compared to the apology to Michael, the words are sombre with pure remorse and don’t need reiterating.

“No more fighting, alright?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Hey, by the way, what did he mean with you skipping your Vape-’’

“Tell me more about your cats,” Alfie suddenly demands, tone harsh and his gaze not straying from his project.

“Wha-’’

“Your cats,’’ he repeats, losing his temper. ‘‘Tell me about them.”

What’s gotten into him? Did I do something?

“Uhm, well,” I haphazardly begin, unsure what to tell him. “They are absolute cuddle bugs. They’ll literally go to any length to make me stop whatever I’m doing and give them attention.”

Don’t panic. Don’t cry. Be brave, just like before. He won’t hurt me… I hope.

Alfie closes his eyes and lets out a deep sigh, forcing himself to calm down. “Men are jealous creatures, especially when a woman is involved.’’

“Was that also the case with the Italian?”

“No, that was a matter of common decency.”

“The situation just now?”

He lets out a sonorous noncommittal sound, holding the middle between a disagreeing grunt and acknowledging hum. There is no way to know for sure nor is there a chance to ask because he changes the topic, clearly wanting to let the matter rest. “You’re still doing fine?”

“Is there a chance I can get another glass of Solomons Lemon Water?” I ask carefully, the hairs on the back of my neck still raised.

Alfie looks up, eyes warm and a soft smile forming beneath his bushy whiskers. “Always, darling.”

Amidst a storm of butterflies is a prematurely broken heart.

The remainder of the session remains calm, the conversations between us few. In fact, the only time he speaks up is to comment on how astounding it is I’m like a rock whereas people getting tattooed in the same spot might be having a hell of a tougher time. I merely shrug in response and blame it on my high pain tolerance.

Strange, how much more one can bear physically than mentally.

Although the fight earlier hasn’t affected the amiability between us, we both unanimously agree to settle for the comfortable silence we seem to create together. Occasionally, he sonorously hums along to a song when not glancing up to look for any signs of discomfort. Each time, I give him a drowsy lazy smile, still as tranquil as the minute before.

“Alright,” Alfie turns off the machine and claps his hands. “You’ve got Anubis looking over you from now on.”

I let out an involuntary yawn, quickly clasping my hand over my mouth to hide. “I’m so sorry. I was literally on the verge of taking a nap.”

“That’s better than fainting,” he chuckles.

“Does that happen a lot?”

“More than you think, darling.” A piece of paper towel in one hand and a blob of foam in the other, Alfie patiently waits for me to give him the green light.

Which I, again for the same vain reason, do. However, this time it’s bittersweet because it means it’s almost time to go, to let the long moment of pure relaxation and fun come to an end.

To say goodbye to yet another man I find myself fascinated by despite better judgement.

His touch is light as he applies the foam on the tattooed skin, his movement slow as he wipes it off with the paper towel.

“Now that’s gnarly, innit?” Alfie beams while disposing of the used towel and his gloves.

“It is,” I agree, bending my leg to get a proper look at the piece. “And I fucking love it.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” He gets up, walks around the table to my right side and holds out his hand. “Can we take a picture for Instagram? If the lady wants to, of course.”

“Of course, Mr Solomons.” He grows still, unmoving like a statue, while an indecipherable expression flashes over his face. I swallow hard, but my mouth remains dry. “Did- Did I say something wrong?”

He clears his throat. “No, not at all. Forgive this old soul. You get tired faster with age.”

“You still look fairly young to me.” I place my hand in his big open palm, the skin rough and calloused. His warm thick fingers easily envelop mine.

Stop dreaming.

“Just wait until you’re in your forties.”

“Hey, I’m twenty-three and already complaining about my back. My colleague and I wager we’ll be needing a walker by the time we’re thirty.”

Alfie lets out a hearty laugh. “Fucking ‘ell, lets hope not.”

We come to a halt in front of a brick wall, surrounded by tall lights. “Now, you stand there, in front of it, and I’ll make sure we get pictures nice enough to put in a frame.”

I lean against the cold bricks as he takes care of the set-up, shooing Finn and Michael out of the way and throwing a warning glance at Arthur even though he’s sitting with his back to us, immersed in designing. The only one allowed to come close is Tommy, whose beautiful icy blue eyes meet mine.

Awkwardly, I shift my weight from one leg to the other only to right myself and clasp my hands behind my back. It does nothing to help escape his scrutinising gaze. If anything, it has only worsened how self-conscious I feel.

What kind of stance is this? Fuck, I’m wearing shorts.

“That’s a nice piece of art, Alfie.” I try my best to resist the urge to flinch as the studio’s owner approaches to admire the piece up close, crouching down a polite distance away from me.

“Yeah, it is, innit?” Alfie agrees, switching on the lights. “Now, if you don’t mind, you’re in the shot, mate.”

Without another word, Tommy gets to his feet and throws me one last pondering look before setting off to his station.

In the meanwhile, Alfie has lumbered over and crouched down in front of the lights, phone in hand. “Ready?”

“Yep.”

He takes a few shots, gives out a few instructions, and beckons me over to check them afterwards. Slowly he flicks through the images, his thumb slowly swiping over the screen. Had it been any other person, I would have paid attention and helped with deciding which picture looks the best regardless of minor differences. However, the musky scent of oud wood mixed with dark vanilla and the proximity of his large warm body, makes it hard to concentrate on anything but the man next to me.

“… one?”

“Hm? Sorry, what?” As if woken up out of a dream, I blink and look quizzically at the man next to me.

“I asked which photo you think is best,” Alfie calmly explains.

“Oh, uhm, well, the first one? I think that one was already good. Fine. You know what I mean.”

He’s in his forties, maybe twice your age. There’s no chance whatsoever. Don’t be such a bumbling idiot and pull yourself together.

“I’ll send them all to you later so you can look through them again.’’

“You really don’t have to-’’ I begin to protest, but find myself cut off by his determination.

“It’s no trouble. We created a bloody masterpiece, didn’t we?” Alfie’s face lights up. “So I’ll let you do the honours of picking the best representation of what we’ve accomplished.”

“Th- Thank you.”

Our eyes meet for a moment, a few seconds in which he takes me in for a reason I can’t fathom. Nor do I get a chance to think about what it might be since he quickly moves back to the topic of business. “Let’s wrap up your leg, eh?”

We return to his station, where he cuts off two pieces of Second Skin. He carefully layers them onto the tattoo after being granted his silent request for permission to touch me. An image of him grabbing my thigh and placing it over his hip while we’re in the sheets flashes by when he applies pressure to ensure the derma foil properly sticks to the skin.

Get your mind out of the gutter! Gods damn it, what the hell’s wrong with ye?

“Y/N, you alright? You’re looking rather red in the face, darling.”

“Yeah!’’ I blurt out, sounding annoying and loud to my own ears. ‘‘Yeah, I’m fine. Let me, ahm, let me just put my pants back on and we’ll- I’ll- yeah… be right back.”

I hasten to the sofa, grab my jeans out of my backpack and rush into the restroom. Carefully, I wriggle out of my shorts and into the loose-fitting jeans, only to recall his comment about the fit.

Was he imagining me wearing one of his jeans? Nah, he’s a professional, he wouldn’t do that.

My vivid imagination, on the other hand, thinks it’s perfectly fine to conjure up yet another intimate image of Alfie’s defined inked arms firmly wrapped around me, a slow but proud smile on his lips, nose buried in the crook of my neck, and me indeed wearing his jeans.

Snap. Out. Of it!

The mirage fades like sand blown away by the wind. I take a few deep breaths to ground myself and step back into the studio.

Alfie’s sitting in the chair opposite the sofa. As soon as I step out of the restroom, he turns in his seat, eyes futilely searching for mine. It surely isn’t the first time it’s happened he’s had a client fawning over him, considering his looks. Nonetheless, I refuse to acknowledge nor allow myself to show him how he affects me. So, still avoiding his gaze, I plop down across from him on the sofa, tuck the shorts back into my bag and fish out my wallet.

Fully focused on the notes in it, I lean in. “So, how much do I owe you?”

As a response, thick fingers firmly wrap around my wrist. I flinch at the contact, caught between surprise and alarm since he hasn’t touched me today without asking. Certainly not as forcefully as now.

A fact he acknowledges when he explains himself, retracting his hand. “I know I haven’t asked permission, but I wanted you to look at me and ask if you’re alright. You were in there for a bit.”

“I’m okay, Alfie.”

“Something tells me you’re not, darling.” He tilts his head, brows furrowed whilst he strokes his beard. “Penny for your thoughts?”

“I don’t think it’s appropriate. This topic, at least.”

Especially since I’ve only known you for a day.

“You don’t have to if you don’t fancy it.” The deep sigh he lets out through his nose, however, betrays his disappointment.

“I’d rather not tell. But don’t worry, I’m fine. Not sick or anything. My mind’s just… I guess you could say I was gone with the fairies for a bit.”

“Fortunately, they didn’t whisk you away entirely. I don’t fancy myself a man capable of going to the Otherworld.” Although he tries to be humorous, his smile is wistful. “Doesn’t mean I can’t or won’t try.”

“It’s difficult to come back, once you’ve set foot in Tír na nÓg. Anyways, let’s crack on. What do I owe you again?”

‘‘You don’t have to pay me.’’

‘‘You’re pulling my leg.’’ His expression doesn’t change, remaining warm yet stoic. ‘‘You’re serious?’’

‘‘I am. See it as compensation for having to deal with a hot-headed bastard.’’

‘‘Thank you, but this isn’t right. Like it or not, but I’ll still pay you.’’

“Despite the fight?”

“Despite the fight. So, how much?”

He names his price and I count out the notes. ‘‘Wait, that’s not…’’

‘‘Let me give you a discount if you don’t accept a full restitution.’’

‘‘Alright, fine,’’ I sigh, knowing protest will be futile, and continue to count. “Oh, and here’s another twenty. For the splendid service and, well,” I let out a shy giggle, “proper care.”

He hums and leans forward to collect the money. “In that case, thank you very much, my fair lady.”

My fair lady… my… his.

Though my mind is a million miles away, the rest of my body stiffens in reaction to the pet name. He notices, a note of concern in his question. “Was that too much?”

I wave a frantic dismissive hand. “No! No, not at all. Don’t mind me.”

It’ll pass, this feeling. Butterflies never live long.

Rubbing his lower lip, he mumbles something under his breath. The only words I can make out are “flustered” and “cute”, which doesn’t help with my mood whatsoever.

Neither does the mischief underlining his normally polite suggestion. “Want another round of Solomons Lemon Water before you go?”

“I’m good. Yeah, I’m- I- I should go.”

I get up and prepare to leave. Alfie rises to his feet too, falling into pace as we move towards the door. On the way, I grab my jacket off of the coat rack, putting my arm through one sleeve, but clumsily grabbing into nothing in an effort to put my other arm through the other sleeve.

A struggle quickly ended by two sturdy palms which help me ease into it. “There you go.”

“Thanks.” I turn away towards the door, ready to go before I make an even greater fool of myself. Then again, my feet won’t move, refusing to budge the slightest inch. “Such a gentleman, aren’t you?”

“A Jewish gentleman from Margate,” he merrily quips. But the amusement doesn’t last, fading into an indecipherable expression which seems equally as hesitant to end things here alongside something hidden. “Normally, yeah, I meet up with clients for pictures once the tattoo is healed. So let’s make it a date. Appointment,” he quickly corrects himself as a grimace flashes over his face. “An appointment, yeah, right, make an appointment when your leg has healed.”

“I think it will have to be by the time you come to Amsterdam.”

His brow furrows and he purses his lips, displeased. “I don’t think the convention will provide good pictures. The lighting isn’t that great and there’s all these people walking around.’’ The deep lines in his forehead smoothen out, a devilish smile gradually forming. ‘‘But I’ve booked an extended stay so, considering I’m not familiar with the city, we could meet up and you show me around? Unless you think you won’t be able to handle two days with a bastard like me.”

Don’t squeal. Stay calm. Don’t mess up at the last second. Calm and collected.

And unusually bold, apparently. Without wavering, I make a suggestion of my own. “Will you show me around Margate if and when I’m in England again?”

He chuckles. “Fucking ‘ell, negotiating, are we? I thought Tommy was the only one fond of that.” He scrunches his nose as someone else comes to mind. “And that numpty.”

“Hey, be nice. Michael’s a good guy.”

Alfie grumbles something under his breath, not shy to let on he’s annoyed by me siding with his colleague. Then, like he did before, he forces himself to repress the dangerous mixture of irritation and anger bubbling inside. “Tell you what, yeah, you show up in Amsterdam with your leg properly taken care of and I’ll show you around Margate. I’ll even pick you up from the airport.”

“It seems we have a deal,” I extend my hand, “Mr Solomons.”

Instead of a handshake, his warm big palm envelops my fingers and he lifts them to his lips. His beard feels ticklish against my skin, the whiskers rough yet oddly soft at the same time. “So we do, Miss L/N.”

Alfie holds the door open, plush lips curled into a knowing smile, and I step out onto the street.

A king’s promise in my pocket.

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