#gentleman bastards fanfiction

[literatecowboy]

Dr. Feelgood

4. Nights Out

Part 1 Next Part Summary: You've been in trouble at work several times before for "lack of professionalism" but now you've gone too far. You've been reassigned to Task Force 141 as a temporary doctor to replace the ones they've made quit out of frustration. You must either prove yourself and earn your former position back at a prestigious military hospital in California or face dishonorable discharge. Author's Notes: This is my first fanfiction - please be gentle. Additionally, the reader's callsign is "Feelgood." I have done my best to write the reader as ambiguous regarding appearance, but she/her pronouns and AFAB anatomy will be utilized. I hope for this to be a slow-burn romance with Simon "Ghost" Riley.  Warnings: Gunshot wounds, medical terminology and procedures, inaccurate healing timelines, alcohol consumption, gentle angst, cringeworthy drunken conversations

-----

“I don’t know why you insist on me being in here when you do this,” Ghost growled from the corner, glaring down at his phone as you carefully applied eyeliner, leaned up close to the mirror in your bathroom. 

“You aren’t in the same room as me. I’m in my bathroom and you’re in the bedroom,” you quipped, blinking before doing the other eye. 

“I think it’s interesting to watch ye get made up. I’ve never seen a woman do it before,” Soap said. He was perched on your toilet, examining your mascara. 

“Want me to do yours?” you offered, turning to him and offering a smile. 

“Maybe you can share some of your lipstick with me, lass,” he said with a grin. You socked him in the shoulder lightly. 

“Quit it or I’m having Ghost over there hold you down while I put a full face on you,” you said, setting down your pencil and examining yourself. 

“Now get out while I put my dress on.”

—

When you opened the door to your room and stepped into the hall, Gaz and Price had arrived, dressed sharply like Soap. Ghost was another story - though he had swapped the sweatpants he’d been recovering in for jeans and tugged on a hoodie, he’d kept his balaclava on and stuck to dark colors. 

“You’re gorgeous, doc,” Gaz said, offering you a smile along with his arm. 

“It’ll be good to finally get off base for a change. I’ve hardly been out of the hospital since I arrived,” you laughed, letting him lead you down the hall as you followed the others out to the parking lot. 

“Drinks are on me for having to put up with that bastard for so long. Think you’ll manage alone alright?” he asked, fixing his gaze on Ghost. 

“As long as all of you don’t come back shot I’ll be alright. He’s recovering well. I might almost miss him brooding in my med bay when I send him back to sleeping in his room,” you admitted with a laugh, making Gaz chuckle.

As Price climbed into the driver’s seat of his car and Ghost slid in on the passenger’s side, Gaz opened the rear door for you. 

“You’re a gentleman, Kyle,” you said with a smile, squeezing his hand as he helped you in. 

“Simp,” Soap coughed from beside you as you slid into the middle seat and buckled in. 

—

The club you arrived outside of later that evening was crowded, but that was to be expected for a Friday night. You watched Ghost as he slid out of the car wordlessly and studied him for signs of pain as the group headed for the entrance and were relieved when you saw none. 

After getting your ID examined and heading inside, your group claimed a booth in the corner. Price had insisted on driving back so you had indulged, going to the bar to get drinks with Soap and Gaz. 

“What does Ghost drink?” you shouted above the music, looking questioningly at Soap who grinned. 

“Believe it or not, Chardonnay! You should take him a glass!” he shouted back as you flagged down the bartender. 

Perhaps trusting him was foolish because as you approached Ghost with the glass and a margarita for yourself in your hands, he glared at you. 

“Didn’t peg you for a wine guy,” you said, leaning over the table and holding it out to him. 

“I’m not,” he said coolly, folding his arms over his chest. Your face went hot and you straightened. 

“Making fun of me?” he growled, glaring you down. 

“No, I–” you turned back to the bar. Soap and Gaz were doubled over with laughter, wiping tears from their eyes. You sighed and looked back at Ghost who was glaring the two down. Not wanting to remain at the table with Ghost or go back to the bar to get laughed at, you tipped your head back, chugged the wine, and walked to the dance floor with your margarita. 

—

The evening started to blur after that. You could remember polishing off more drinks to soften your embarrassment and dancing with Soap before going off to the bathroom to check your makeup. When you’d come back you’d danced against Gaz, his hands finding your hips as you moved in tandem, laughing and chatting. 

After that you’d stumbled through a back door on accident while looking for a different bathroom, the first one having been full. 

Ghost stood alone, leaning against the wall as he smoked, his mask rolled up to his nose. 

“Those are gonna kill you early,” you slurred, stumbling up to him and leaning against the wall next to him so that your shoulders brushed. 

“The job’ll take care of that,” he grunted, not looking your way. It was quiet for a moment. 

“Why don’t you like me, Ghost?” you slurred after a minute, leaning your cheek against his bicep and angling your chin to look up at him with your best sad puppy eyes. 

“I like you plenty,” he grunted. Your lower lip wobbled. 

“M’ sorry. Wasn’t trying to be angry at you earlier, or before. Never tryin’ to be angry with you,” he mumbled, looking down at you as he tossed the cigarette away. Your eyes locked. 

“You’re pretty drunk, doc,” he said with a chuckle, brushing some of your tussled hair out of your face and rolling his mask back down. 

“Are you not?” you giggled, swaying in place. He took you gently by the arms to steady you. 

“I can hold my liquor,” he grunted, glancing back at the door to the club. “Come on, let’s round up the boys and get you home.” 

“You never told me what you drink,” you protested, your eyelids heavy. 

“You’ll find out.”

—

You woke up the next morning in your own bed, your dress unzipped but still clinging to you. A vague memory flashed through your head of you rubbing your back against the door like a bear in an attempt to get it down.

After taking some painkillers and a hot shower, you stumbled out of your room and to the med bay. It was empty, so you wandered further down the hall toward the rec room, where you found Ghost quietly eating cereal. 

“Oh, there you are. How’re you feeling?” you asked, yawning and rubbing your eyes. He chuckled. 

“Better than you probably. You remember anything about last night?” he asked. You searched your mind for a minute and froze. 

“Did I– did I almost cry to you about you not liking me?” you asked, your voice deadpan. 

“Yup.”

“Fuck.”

It was quiet for another moment, the only sound in the room being that of Ghost munching cereal. The bastard ate it dry. 

“I’m sorry,” you offered after a minute, your face feeling hotter than the heat from the bodies in the club the night before. 

“S’ alright.”

Price wandered in not long after, headed for Ghost. 

“Would you like to join us at the briefing later? I know you’re benched for this one but I don’t want to leave you out,” he said, sitting down across from the lieutenant with a stack of paperwork and his pen. 

“Sure,” Ghost grumbled. Price glanced back at you.

“You should get some rest, Feelgood. You had quite the night last night,” he said. Heat rushed to your face and you sat down on the couch, pulling out your phone. 

“I’m alright. I need to keep an eye on him anyway,” you said. 

—

The morning passed quietly. Eventually, Price returned to his office to keep working and Ghost joined you on the couch as you sat on your phones in silence. Gaz came in looking surprisingly alright for how much he’d had to drink last night, offering you a smile. You chatted with him idly before Soap came in, moaning about his head and digging through the fridge for something to drink. 

“Did he get you in alright lass?” Soap asked, nodding at Gaz as he plopped down by the three of you. Ghost looked up sharply from his phone, fixing you with a stare. 

“You helped me in?” you asked, looking at Gaz with a raised eyebrow. He nodded sheepishly. 

“Couldn’t just leave you lost outside, lass. You couldn’t remember which door was yours first and said you were going to go sleep in the med bay,” he said with a laugh.

“Oh, god. Thank you, I swear I’ll make it up to you. Last night I acted…wildly unprofessionally.” you admitted with a sigh, rubbing your forehead. 

“You wouldn’t be you if you acted professional all the time, doc. That’s why you’re with us, isn’t it?” Soap asked with a grin, and you smiled. 

“I suppose so,” you said softly. 

Ghost sat on the couch, listening. He had been angry at first that Gaz had been so close to you the night before but did his best to let it go. He had never admitted his admiration of you with the others - of course they would assume that they might be able to cozy up with you. 

And he had been prickly with you before, even almost angry at you. His heart ached as he watched you talk with the boys, wishing that he could just express how he felt to you like a normal man. He wanted to hold you, to touch you more than just having his hand against your back while you listened to his heart race for you. Last night he’d wanted to kiss your worry away and tell you that of course he liked you, perhaps a little too much. 

—

As you walked with him back to the med bay later that day to change his bandages, he was quiet, lost in thought.

“I wanted to apologize again for last night. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” you said softly, heat finding your cheeks yet again. You could deny it to yourself no longer - you found Ghost interesting and attractive and you were desperate for him to think the same about you. Had you messed up your chances by drunkenly confronting him the night before?

“You didn’t make me uncomfortable, Feelgood. You don’t have to keep bringing it up,” Ghost murmured, opening the door to the med bay for you. 

“You’ve only got to spend one more night here with me, okay? After that, I’ll be comfortable sending you back to sleep in your room - just come find me each day so I can check your wound,” you said softly as the door shut behind you two. 

“Will you be coming with me to see them off at the airstrip?” he asked, settling down on the couch and pulling out his phone. 

“Sure, is it early?” you asked, getting the supplies to change his bandages ready across from him. 

“Wheels up at 0530. I’ll wake you up,” he grunted. You nodded and headed over to him, sitting on a stool and sitting down in front of him. 

“Shirt up please, big guy,” you murmured. He huffed softly, smiling under the balaclava. 

“You keep callin’ me that,” he murmured, sliding his shirt off completely. You put gloves on and pulled the old bandages off, setting them to the side and examining his wound. Even through the latex, the warmth of your touch made Ghost melt a little and he relaxed, leaning forward into you. 

“Sorry, do you want me to stop?” you asked softly, your brow furrowing as you began applying the new bandages carefully. 

“I don’t mind. It just means that I get to call you ‘love’ now,” he said with a chuckle. 

“Fair’s fair,” you murmured as your stomach did flips in your abdomen. 

—

When you’d finished bandaging Ghost and tossed the old bandages and your gloves into bins, you moved to leave, but he gently took you by the arm. 

“Love, I–”

Soap practically kicked down the med bay door as he came in, making Ghost go quiet and pull away from you sharply. 

“Hey lass, want to get dinner with me before I leave tomorrow? My treat,” he said, leaning up against the med bay wall and grinning. You smiled. 

“Sure! Come on, Ghost, get your shirt on, and let’s go,” you said.

“Yeah, LT, get your shirt back on. What’s going on in here?” Soap teased, making kissy faces behind your back. Ghost scowled as he put it back on. 

“You just missed seeing my festering wound, Johnny. Now get, I’ll catch up,” he grumbled, sitting back on the couch and folding his arms across his chest. 

“You sure?” you asked, smiling at him as you headed for the door Soap had opened for you. He nodded, jerking his head at the door. You went with Soap, leaving Ghost behind, words he was struggling to put together left unspoken on his lips.

-----

Taglist: @iamaliceinwonderland, @itsmeamysworld, @ghostlythots, @oranoyaora, @keiva1000, @aquarianix

#simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley #cod mw2 #mw2 #ghost #ghost mw2 #ghost x reader #ghost x you #cod mwii #cod x reader #call of duty #cod modern warfare #simon ghost x reader

[theladyofdeath]

Lady Death's Lover {III}

Lady Death's Lover Masterlist & Summary

19th Century Period AU Nesta x Cassian Secret Affair / Enemies to Lovers / Forbidden Romance Fanfiction / Characters from Sarah J Maas / ACOTAR Based on a prompt sent in by anonymous

A/N: Apologies for the delay! This weekend was a long one. Chapter 4 will still be posted on Tuesday as planned!

TW: marital abuse, sexual content, language, depression, alcohol abuse, non-descriptive sexual abuse

This story is for readers 18+. Mature readers only. Content should not be read by anyone under 18.

Nesta,

Elain has been bothering me to write to you so I am only doing this to make her happy. I am still seeing Isaac Hale and I do not feel bad about it. I do not care to marry a gentleman. None of the gentlemen here are worth a lick. Besides, with Tomas’ care, I do not need to marry rich. I enjoy Isaac’s company — at least for now. Even if he is not husband material, we have a good time. 

Although I am angry with you, I do hope you are doing well. Father seems happier lately and we have started to insert ourselves back into society. We attended a luncheon a few days ago and both father and Elain seemed right at home among the company. I wore a new dress. It was nice.

Foreign, considering our hardships, but nice.

When you reply, please do not mention Isaac. You’ll be wasting your breath.

Your Sister,

Feyre

Cassian

Azriel and Rhysand are laughing about something but I can’t seem to think straight enough to make sense of why. We’re gambling and I’m losing, and once I started losing I started drinking which was quite some time ago. Thankfully, we’re not playing for money but stripping down with every lost hand. As of now, I’m sitting in my trousers with my chest bare and toes freed while the other two bastards at this table have donned my clothing on top of their own. 

Balthazar, my butler, enters the room to bring a full bottle of whiskey. I hadn’t even noticed that we emptied the last one. “Thank you,” I say. At least, I think I do. My words seem far away as they come out of my mouth. 

“Play, damn it!”

I blink, not realizing it was my turn. I lay down my cards. The two bastards next to me at the round table howl.

I’ve lost my pants. 

“You know,” I say, unbuttoning my trousers and kicking them off, “when one of you wins, you can choose each other from time to time instead of ganging up on me. It’s too cold to be sitting here with my cock hanging out.”

“Then start a fire,” Azriel says, dealing once again as I sit back in my chair in my underpants. 

Thankfully I win the next round and my pants along with it, but it doesn’t last long before they’re gone again.

When the door opens again, Balthazar enters with a silver tray and a sealed envelope on top of it. I can hardly keep myself from swaying as I reach for it and thank him before breaking the seal. At first, the words are blurry, but after a few minutes of deep focus, I toss it aside. “Fuck.”

“What?” Azriel asks, as Rhysand struggles in his own drunken state to undo the buttons of his shirt. 

“Mandray,” I say, pouring myself another drink and refilling theirs. “Invited me to dinner tomorrow. Talk business.” 

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Azriel asks, sighing as he starts to help a grappling Rhysand. 

I nod, and I don’t know how long I nod for but I feel like it’s a damn long time. “It’s at his house. What if his wife is there?”

“I expect her to be,” Rhys says, flailing his arms until they’re free from his sleeves. “It’s her house. She eats dinner.” 

“Hmmm.” I lean back in my chair. “What do you think she’ll be wearing?”

“More than you currently are, hopefully,” Azriel says, putting Rhysand’s shirt over both mine and his across his shoulders. “Why does it matter? Afraid you’ll hit on her again in front of her own husband?” 

“I’m not that stupid,” I say, then add, “when I’m sober.” 

“You’ll be fine,” Rhys says, and nods at the cards face down in front of me. “Now, play.” 

“Should I bring something?” I ask, surely overthinking it, but my mind is so fuzzy that I’m honestly surprised I’m having any thoughts at all. I take another drink. “Flowers? Wine?”

“I don’t think Mandray cares for flowers or wine,” Rhys says. “Try brandy.” 

“Not for him,” I say, stumbling, which is strange considering I’m sitting. No, wait, I’m standing. Why am I standing? I sit back down. “For his wife. You should always bring a gift to the woman of the house as a thank you.”

“Sounds very gentlemanly,” Azriel agrees, “but could also be seen as you hitting on his wife.”

“I’m not hitting on his fucking wife!” I say, accidentally knocking over my glass as my arms have a mind of their own for a moment. “I mean, I don’t think I am. Fuck, she is gorgeous. Isn’t she gorgeous?” 

They both stare at me, dumbfounded. 

“Just saying,” I mumble, picking up my glass only to find it empty. Oh yeah. I spilled. “Just because I can’t touch doesn’t mean I can’t admire.” 

“Your admiration is going to get you into trouble,” Rhysand says, then repeats, “now play, damn it.” 

I pick up my cards that are coated in spilled whiskey and play my shitty hand. Azriel wins but allows me to keep my underpants on. It seems we’re picking on Rhys now. 

I save my decision of flowers or wine for tomorrow, when hopefully my head is clear enough to make the proper decision. Hopefully I’m not too sick from the alcohol by the time dinner rolls around. Judging by the clouding of my vision, I assume a headache is in store for me tomorrow morning. 

My thoughts drift to Lady Mandray. Since seeing her at Rhys’ last week, I haven’t been able to erase the image of her from my mind. She was exquisite in that navy blue dress, her hair braided, her lips full and the swells of her breasts on display. She was a work of art. 

And she’s married to the prick that is Tomas Mandray.

I know I shouldn’t complain, shouldn’t judge. I know that getting into business with him will take away my monthly financial worries, but there was something in his eye that didn’t sit well with me when we met. 

He was too confident, and that’s coming from me, who is typically considered too confident. He’s the type of man that thinks he owns everything and everyone within his reach. 

Including his wife.

I know the type well. My father was one of them. 

“Why do you suddenly look like you’re having an overly intense conversation with yourself?” Rhys asks, refilling my glass for me. 

I shrug and laugh it off, even as my thoughts drift from Mandray to my father. “Too much to drink. Deal me in.”

We play until sunrise and I fall asleep too drunk to coherently think about a damn thing. 

Which is exactly what I need. 

……….

Nesta

I’ve had too much wine. 

I don’t even remember finishing the bottle which is probably a sign for concern but I can’t bring myself to care. I feel light, and it feels good to feel light. The heaviness that weighs on me every day has evaporated and I feel absolutely nothing, but in the best way possible. 

My maid has come in twice but I’ve asked her to leave me alone for the night. I feel bad when I’m a bitch to Alis but she always takes it in stride, even if I’m sure she’s cursing me internally every time she walks away from me.

I don’t blame her. 

I curse myself, too. 

Unable to keep reading, thanks to the heaviness of my eyes, I try to sleep. After blowing out the candle at my bedside, I close my eyes and settle back against my pillows. 

Suddenly I’m somewhere else. I’m not in this house, nor am I in my father’s house, but in a different house entirely, one I’ve never been in. 

One that’s entirely my own. 

It sits on the top of a mountain, overlooking the entirety of Velaris. The starlight is brighter from where I stand on the balcony in my mind, beckoning me. For once, I feel safe, although I’m alone. There is no sense of uncertainty or discomfort. Instead, I know it’s exactly where I’m supposed to be, like the walls and all within them were crafted for me. 

My name is called and the voice is familiar. My skin doesn’t crawl like it does when Tomas calls my name. Instead, I swear my heart skips a beat.

Before I can turn to face him, he’s behind me, pulling me back into his chest. I close my eyes and breathe him in as his strong, broad arms come around me and hold me tight. 

It’s a sweet gesture, one I’ve never known in reality, but in my dream, this alternate reality, it’s what he does every night.

Every morning.

Every chance he gets. 

I feel his mouth on my cheek and I let my head fall to the side, giving him better access. Those luscious lips of his trail down my cheek, down the column of my neck, down to my collarbone. I close my eyes, wishing his hands would wander, wishing he’d fall on his knees and ravish me. 

Just as those calloused hands sweep up my sides and cup my breasts, my name is called.

It doesn’t come from him, though. 

It’s back in the nightmare that is my reality and I refuse to open my eyes. I beg the illusion my mind has concocted to stay with me a little bit longer but it dissipates.

“Nesta.” 

My mattress dips and my eyes fly open. The alcohol already consumed still grounds me, but a hint of fear, of annoyance, of dread creeps into the barrier that the alcohol has created. 

Tomas is here, crawling onto my bed, still dressed but his cock is out and hard. I try my best not to cringe, try my best not to recoil, and for a moment I think I’m putting on a hell of a performance but alcohol has always made me tell the truth. 

Even when words are absent. 

He’s hovering above me and I can catch his expression from the dying fire in the fireplace. At first, he’s smiling, and even though his smile looks unpleasant, it’s more unpleasant when his smile dies and he’s watching me with disdain.

“Are you drunk?”

“No,” I say, with no hesitation.

His jaw ticks. “I smell the wine on your breath. Don’t you fucking lie to me, wife.”

Wife. 

Even the alcohol can’t take away what the one word does to my spirit. 

“Why does it matter?” I ask, leveling my gaze with his. “I am a grown woman. If I want to overindulge, I may.”

“You are a lady,” he hisses, his voice low, quiet. “My wife. You cannot do anything without my approval, and I do not approve of my wife drinking herself into oblivion like a fucking whore.”

I close my eyes, trying to find my way back to the happy place I had mustered up just moments ago.

“Open your eyes.”

I don’t.

“Open your eyes!”

I gasp, the hand around my neck rough, making me gasp for air. I open my eyes and the hand is gone, now resting next to my face as Tomas knocks my knees, spreading my legs.

The alcohol is doing nothing at this point. One second, I’m feeling too much, and the next, I am numb. 

I let him do to me what he wishes. There’s no point in fighting back, it’ll only cause the anger that he’s inflicting on me now to amplify. I’d rather him fuck me while I lay here, dead, than to lay a hand on me, than to leave a bruise. 

I look beyond my husband and find that burnt spot on the ceiling. I stare so long that my vision blurs and I let my mind drift back to that place, that house atop the mountain. I think of the starlight and the man whose arms held me tight. I let that image, that dream comfort me until Tomas is satisfied and I attempt to piece myself back together. 

#nessian #nesta #cassian #period au #19th century au #fanfic #fanfiction #acotar #acomaf #acowar #acosf #acofas #sjm

[amberlide]

Out for bids

(I'm not back to Tumblr yet, but this is just a teaser for something I'm writing, as if I'm not already swimming in WIPs and projects XD)

Pairing: Dark!Garreth Weasley/Penelope (my OC)/Leander Prewett

He's not dark as in Hexed, but he's still a charming, twisted bastard.

Tags: Sexual content, smut, threesome, oral sex, anal sex, anal fingering, anal training, vaginal sex, praise and degradation, sensory overload, use of potions. Not suited for minors!

Yes, it's a threesome, yes, there is Dark Garreth, we all know where the block button is ;)

Warnings: dub-con! (someone in this fandom has to take the burden to write non-con and dub-con >.<") Notes: takes place 8 years after my main fanfiction, so characters are in their 20s. This will most likely be a 2-3 chapters short fic, hopefully I will manage to post it all here and AO3. Special thanks to: @animasola86 for her lovely encouragement after I pitched her the idea, thank you so much! @tessari-the-dreamer Tess my dear friend... oh my, your Dark Garreth Audios are making me crazy!! I can't get enough of his low, menacing voice :O The amazing RE Discord server for their support and for creating a safe place for all types of writers <3

Teaser (SFW):

“50 Galleons and one…”  Penelope’s heart slowed down after painfully beating against her ribs for minutes on end. “50 Galleons and two…”  Was there still a chance? The amount of money was such an exaggeration, it was almost hilarious. “50 Galleons and three…”  She saw Andrew shaking his head, a desperate and sorry look on his face, defeated. “Sold!” Mr. Gabling's voice resonated in her ears, sealing the fate of what should have been a fun and different evening for her and Andrew. Penelope blinked in disbelief, her eyes widening as her confused gaze shifted across the small crowd in front of her, finally resting on the figure seated just to her left, a few chairs up from where she stood.

With bated breath, she watched the gentleman rise slowly, his tall and broad frame filling her view as he adjusted his dark grey vest with studied and secured movements. Passing a hand through his curly hair, bringing back a long, disheveled lock, the fiery tones ignited under the floating orbs as he made his way to the stage.

She instinctively took a step back, hugging her shoulders, attempting to shield herself from the murky and hungry gaze fixed upon her. The auction had just concluded, and undeniably, she was now his. And she had only herself to blame.

#hogwarts legacy #hogwarts legacy fanfic #garreth weasley #dark!garreth weasley #hogwarts legacy smut #amberlide writes

[inkwolvesandcoffee]

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.

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

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

#Peaky Blinders #Alfie Solomons #Peaky Blinders fanfic #Peaky Blinders imagine #Alfie Solomons imagine #Alfie Solomons fanfic #Alfie Solomons x Reader #Alfie Solomons fic #Alfie Solomons x Female Reader #Winterfall

[torithy]

Best Served Cold | A Hustle Fanfiction

I know, retro, right? I haven't written a jot in what feels like forever, and I was casually rewatching this show and was totally taken by surprise by the urge to scribble something down. It turned into this...

1.

“You didn’t all have to come, you know. Especially not in this weather.”

“Don’t be silly, Albie. We wanted to support you. Where else would we be?” Stacie Monroe chided gently, slipping her arm through the dapper older gentleman’s as they ambled through graveyard, well wrapped up against the bitter chill and with the rest of their crew in tow.

“I appreciate it, my dear,” Albert Stroller said, a heavy sigh escaping nonetheless. “Just seems like the goodbyes come ever more frequently these days. Perils of turning into an old man like me, I suppose.”

“Ridiculous,” Stacie scoffed, her fondness for her companion bolstering her need to lift his spirits, regardless of their sombre surroundings. “You’re not old. You’ll outlive us all.”

He humoured her with a smile of his own, but it died long before it could light his eyes, his heart clearly not in it.

“It was a travesty, you know. What happened to Wesley,” the American mused, almost more to himself than anything else.

“Wes Winters, the Ice Man,” Ash Morgan nodded, clapping a sympathetic hand on Albert’s shoulder as he fell into step with them. “I’ve heard all the old stories.”

“The Ice Man, because of the surname?” Stacie guessed.

“That and he had a thing for boosting diamonds,” Ash grinned. “Only crossed paths with him a few times, but like I said, I heard the stories. Couldn’t believe it when he got sent down like that.”

“Wesley was a true grifter,” Albert said, a rare sharpness to his tone. “One of us. He would never.”

“Hey, easy now, Albert,” Ash held his hands up in a swift sign he’d get no argument from him. “No one’s saying he did.”

“The police did. The courts did. Those bastards took him from his family, ruined his legacy, and made sure he spent his last years behind bars. And for what, I ask you?”

Stacie and Ash exchanged concerned glances at how upset their friend was becoming, especially as they knew he wasn’t getting any younger, no matter how much they all liked to try to deny the inevitable. But before they could turn to the rest of their crew to try to distract him, someone else seemed to do just that, stopping him in his tracks not far from the grave they had just circled back to while giving him a chance to stretch his legs and clear his head after the less than uplifting church service they had all just sat through.

Following his shrewd gaze, they spotted a lone woman stood by the as-yet unmarked mound of fresh soil, head bowed. A mane of wavy blonde hair tumbled from under a black baker boy cap, down the back of a long white overcoat worn over an all-black outfit of skintight trousers, sweater, scarf and suede boots that stretched over her knees. She cut the same solitary figure she had in the front pew of the church that had been dotted with only a few others beside themselves.

A poor show in Albert’s mind. One his old friend hadn’t deserved.

“Skylar Winters,” he said, with a nod in her direction for the benefit of the others. “Wesley’s youngest daughter. I remember her from when she was just a little girl.”

“Not so little these days,” Danny said, eyebrows raised as he tilted his admiring gaze, incorrigible as ever, no matter what the occasion. “Hey, I’m just saying. It’s a compliment.”

“Do you want to pay your respects, Albie?” Stacie asked, ignoring the interjection. “We can come with you, or give you space if you’d prefer…”

Albert considered for a moment before making up his mind and patting her hand gratefully. “Maybe you could all come with me, just for a few moments? Might bring the young lady some small comfort to know there were still some of us who believed in her father.”

“What was his story again?” Danny asked, sauntering along, hands in his pockets and shoulders hunched against the snow that was beginning to fall lightly again. “I know you said he ain’t guilty of whatever the hell it was that landed him in the clink, but not gonna lie, I do lose track of your many, many acquaintances, Albert. What can I say? You’re too popular for your own good.”

With another sigh, Albert spoke quickly as they drew closer to the graveside. “Wesley Winters earned his Ice Man monicker grifting diamonds from wealthy owners who were themselves of the less scrupulous kind. Those whose greed led them to purchase their jewels with ill-gotten gains, or who showered them on mistresses behind the backs of their unsuspecting wives, or ever bigger marks who dealt in blood diamonds and all manner of associated corruption. In all the years I knew him, he never even came close to getting caught. Not by the authorities anyway.”

“And still he ended up getting a life sentence,” Mickey supplied, the look on his face grave. It was after all his own worst fear, that one day the house of cards would spectacularly crash and burn, despite their meticulous best efforts.

He never revelled in the misfortunes of fellow grifters, but he did hope the others would take them for what he strongly felt they were – cautionary tales.

“Life?” Danny echoed. “Shit, musta been a helluva grift gone wrong.”

“It was a set-up, pure and simple,” Albert rounded on them, his usually calm face lit with anger and his voice stern. “Supposedly cold-blooded murder, the strangulation of an innocent woman over a diamond necklace – mark my words, Wesley lived by the grifters’ code. He. Would. Never!”

It was snowing harder now, large heavy flakes swirling from heavy grey clouds to the frost-baked ground as the cold air turned their breath to steam.

“All right, all right, simmer down, old man or you’ll do yourself a mischief,” Danny exclaimed, with a lightness that didn’t quite cover the genuine concern at the core of his words. They all looked to their veteran companion as a father-figure and afforded him the same love and respect they would have had he actually been blood. Moreso in some cases, given their less than conventional upbringings. “Come on, you can introduce us to the lovely lady…” ***

“Albert,” the blonde woman said, looking up at the mannerly intrusion on her solitude and managing a fond smile as she tried to discreetly wipe stray tears away with a gloved hand. “Thank you for coming. It means a lot, all things considered.”

“Your father deserved more, my dear. It pains me to have to say it. I had hoped more would remember the old days and see fit to honour one of their own.”

“I was never going to get my hopes up,” Skylar Winters shrugged, with a forced casualness she clearly didn’t feel as she glanced curiously at the rest of the small group huddled just a little off to one side and seeming unsure of whether or not they should be there. “Not even grifters want to associate themselves with a convicted killer.”

“You know how much truth and justice there was in that,” Albert said, adding in case it wasn’t clear. “Not an ounce. Not one.”

“Still,” she said, taking a deep breath after she seemed to consider that for a moment and looking round at them again. “Quality over quantity, eh? Sorry, I can’t quite place you all, but I know dad thought so highly of you, Albert, and he would have been chuffed to know the renowned Mickey Bricks showed up for him.”

“I’m only sorry I didn’t get to know your father better,” Mickey said, reaching out to shake her hand.

“Allow me to introduce you,” Albert said. “Everyone, Skylar Winters – Skylar, Michael Stone you’ve just met. This is Ashley Morgan--”

“Ash Morgan,” she mused like it was familiar. “Fixer extraordinaire?”

“Best in the business,” Albert nodded, seeing said fixer looked likely to shrug off such praise in the same casual way he always did. “And this is our good friend and colleague Stacie Monroe and--”

“Danny. Danny Blue,” came the interruption, almost before Stacie could make any acknowledgement, a hand gripping Skylar’s for a firm shake as piercing blue eyes locked on hers. “Don’t tell me what you’ve heard, darlin’, I’ll only blush.”

“He won’t,” Stacie said wryly. “He’d need a sense of shame for that.”

“Tell you what, my dear, we were just thinking of going for a quiet drink,” Albert said, seeing the young woman shivering despite the layers of clothing and realising she wasn’t the only one. He’d thought maybe it was just his old bones feeling the cold, but it seemed the weather was taking its toll on all of them. “We’ll give ourselves a chance to thaw out, reflect on old friends, raise a glass to better times. Why don’t you join us?”

She hesitated, considering. There was something both appealing and terrifying about the alternative prospect of returning alone to the empty house she had once called home and the remnants of his father’s shattered existence. The shrug came almost before she realised she’d made up her mind.

“Sure, why not.” ***

“I’ll get these,” Albert said, as the crew duly traipsed into their usual haunt, waving off the faint protests he got in response. “No, no, I insist. Skylar, my dear, you’ll join us in a small medicinal whiskey, or would you prefer something else?”

“Whiskey’s fine, thanks,” their guest agreed, following the others as they made their way to a booth, Ash and Danny slipping in on either side of the table.

Much to Danny’s disappointment, and despite his pointed looks, Skylar slid in beside Ash, while Stacie took a seat beside him with a little smirk and Mickey sat on her other side, leaving the final space beside Skylar for Albert.

It was a tight enough squeeze for the six of them, but after the chill of outside, no one really minded the close quarters.

“Eddie, mate, crank the heating up, will ya?” Danny called to the landlord busy pouring their drinks. “It’s bleedin’ brass monkeys, innit!”

Eddie paused just long enough to roll his eyes, realising Albert had already ambled off without paying, leaving him to deliver their round to the table. “Won’t pay the bar tab, but still expect to add to the overheads,” he groused, although it didn’t stop him loading the glasses with their generous amber measures onto a tray and ferrying them to the booth.

“To absent friends,” Albert said, having eased himself into his seat and removed his hat and scarf before raising his glass solemnly. “To Wesley.”

“Absent friends,” the others echoed. “Wesley.”

“To dad,” Skylar murmured, ducking her head as tears pricked at her eyelids, yet somehow just a little heartened by the gentle clink of glasses against hers, and taking a small sip of her whiskey.

“That’s off the top shelf,” Ash noted, savouring his. “How’d you talk Eddie into that one, Albert?”

“I didn’t,” the older gentleman sounded surprised, but a glance towards the bar showed their sometimes reluctant host already back in his rightful place and tipping a glass of his own in their direction.

“To the Ice Man,” Eddie said simply.

“See, my dear, your father’s name still means something,” Albert said, with a sad smile. “To those who matter.” ***

The reminiscing had taken them down many a meandering path, one drink turning into two, then three. Ties had been loosened, Stacie had kicked off her heels below the table and Ash, having checked no one objected too much, had a lit cigarette idling between his fingers.

Given the place’s unofficial status as a grifter haunt and the various plots those walls had been party to over the years, from the elaborate and sublime to the frankly ludicrous, flouting smoking laws was hardly much of a concern.

“What?” Danny demanded suddenly, a mixture of “Who me” innocence and righteous indignation crossing his face under Ash’s enquiring stare. “Why ya looking at me like that?”

“If you’ve got something to say to me, Danny-boy, just say it,” Ash shrugged, the quirk of his lips suggesting he knew exactly what the blond across the table was trying to do. And to whom. “Instead of playing footsie with me all evening.”

Danny floundered, caught out as the others – including Skylar – laughed heartily. “Yeah, well… You wish, mate, you wish.”

“Danny, Danny, Danny,” Skylar grinned, a little of her old sparkle having returned to her green eyes in the face of good company and free-flowing alcohol. Even just a few hours spent with the crew had definitely revealed who the utterly shameless flirt was. “You and me, I’m just gonna say it – you and me? It’s a non-starter.”

“Hey, no, look, that’s not what… Um, why is that exactly? If I was curious. Which I’m not saying I am.”

“Come on,” she shrugged, gesturing between them as if it should be obvious. “This… I’d be…” she trailed off, already laughing as she thought about it. “I’d end up being Sky Blue!”

Snorting at the peals of laughter from everyone else around the table, Danny shook his head in disbelief. “Okay, first, your name’s Skylar, sweetheart. Skylar. And secondly, now who’s getting ahead of themselves? Cos I do not recall proposing. And trust me, I would. Recall, I mean. Not propose. No one’s proposing, so you can all just calm right down--”

“Steady, Dan, you’re sweating,” Ash teased, getting a dirty look in return.

“Poor Danny,” Stacie pouted, slinging her arm around his shoulders. “Are the grown-ups picking on you?”

“Would you comfort me if I said yes?” he shot back, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively, even as she both laughed and tutted at him before turning her attention to gathering her coat and bag from where she’d stashed them in the corner of the booth behind him.

“Listen,” Stacey said. “I know you boys are dying to play poker or whatever it is you do to amuse yourselves until the next shiny thing distracts you, but I was going to call it a night. Skylar, do you have far to go? We could share a taxi if you like.”

“Thanks, Stacie,” the other woman smiled gratefully. “That’s probably a good idea. It’s been a long day and I can’t put off going home forever…”

“Well, now, forever’s… Forever’s a long time,” Danny mused carefully. “But I mean, in the meantime, you could certainly come home, you know, with me… I’m just saying.”

“Why do I feel like Stacie’s the safer bet?” Skylar smirked.

“Because you have the grifter gut instincts of your father,” Albert said.

“And they’d be correct,” Mickey added, already producing a pack of cards from seemingly out of nowhere. “Stace, if you’re sure you don’t want us to come with you, you’ll let us know when you’re home safe? You too, Skylar?”

“Of course,” Stacie said, dropping a little kiss on their leader’s temple before he eased himself up just long enough to let her slip gracefully out of the booth, back in her towering heels. “Goodnight, boys. Night, Albie, you take care.”

He smiled as she kissed his cheek and then also stood to let Skylar make a similar move out of the booth and pull her coat back on, tugging her long hair free of the collar. “Skylar, don’t be a stranger. And remember, if you need anything, there are places where your father’s name still carries the weight it’s due. Not least with us.”

“I’m so grateful, Albert, really,” she said quietly, giving him a little hug before glancing around at them all. “Under better circumstances, this would have been fun. As it was, you’ve made a tough day that little bit easier. Goodnight, guys.”

“Night, darlin’,” Ash said. “Good to meet you.”

“Night, Skylar,” Danny said, a little cheeky grin creeping over his face as he reached across the table, to press a phone into her hand. “Yours, I believe. May have some extra numbers now. Never know when you might need ‘em.”

“How did you…?”

“Ah, ah, ah,” he tapped the side of his nose. “We’d have to get a lot closer before I start spilling trade secrets. A lot… closer.”

“Really?” Ash said dryly. “Cos it ain’t ever stopped you before.” ***

“So you’re going back to your dad’s old place?” Stacie asked, as Skylar added an address to the instructions she’d already given the cabbie.

“Yeah,” the blonde sighed. “Someone has to sort the place out, go through his things.”

“You sure that’s something you want to be going back to tonight, straight after the funeral, on your own? I mean, I’m sure you could stay with us for a night or two. It’s a lot to take on, especially on your own.”

“I guess I feel like if I don’t face it now, I’ll bottle it completely,” Skylar confessed. “The house, it was comfortable once, but it’s been pretty much abandoned since dad went inside. I couldn’t bring myself to…”

“You don’t have to explain. Do you know what you’re going to do with it?”

“I haven’t really thought that far ahead. Ever since the prison called to tell me about dad, my head’s been all over the place.”

“Understandable,” Stacie sympathised. “Oh this is me. You’re sure you’re going to be ok? If you change your mind and want some company, just call – here, let me give you my number. To go with Danny’s.”

Skylar laughed at that in spite of herself, thanking her new friend as they parted ways and then sinking back into her seat again as the cab pulled away to continue the journey through the darkness, passing under pools of neon cast by the street lights.

The end-terrace townhouse, when they finally reached it, stood in shadows. Three gloomy stories towered over the quiet street, ivy stretching up the façade and the leaves of tall trees at the end gable brushed against upstairs windows.

Skylar paid the cabbie and stood in the street watching as he drove off. It felt for long moment like she’d been left entirely alone in the world and that alone was enough to make her heart sink and the warmth of the whiskey fade.

At least until a crash almost made her heart stop, only the yowl of a wronged neighbour cat causing her to curse her jumpiness and try to shake it off as she climbed the steps to the front door.

The brown envelope wedged in the letterbox caught her eye straight away and she tugged it free before unlocking the door and stepping inside to fumble for a light switch, finding only a small hall lamp on a table by the door. She probably would have discarded the mail right there until the morning, but she noticed it had been addressed by hand and bore no postal marks which struck her as slightly odd in the circumstances. And odder still, closer examination revealed that it was not actually, as she had so naturally assumed, for her father. Instead, her own name stared back at her.

Probably a sympathy card from someone who didn’t know her personally, but assumed she would show up at the house sometime.

Or not.

Ripped open envelope in one hand, contents in the other, Skylar sank down on the stairs, a past she thought she’d long-since buried racing up to meet her.

#hustle #bbc hustle #stacie monroe #danny blue #ash morgan #albert stroller #fanfiction #hustle fanfiction #fanfic #mickey bricks #adrian lester #robert glenister #jaime murray #marc warren #robert vaughn

[salemsoul]

The Gentleman Bastard’s sequence Fanfic. (Spoilers)

Overview: Locke and Jean find Sabetha 5 years after the events in Karthain only to find out she has a child.

It had been five years since Locke and Jean had last seen Sabetha. That fateful night in Karthain played repeatedly on Locke's mind, and despite his pain, he stayed true to his word and did not seek her out. Jean often thought they were being too true, and that just finding her would certainly save him how many more years of headaches until she resurfaced again. His friend Locke was as stubborn as a debt collector but complained like a toddler, and with 10 years total, not including their short time with the bondsmagi, of his bullshit whinging about Sabetha, he decided to take matters into his own hands.

They had heard rumours throughout the years about her. Whisperings about the rose of the marrows resurfacing and destroying lives, some even said she was dead. But that's all they were. Whisperings. When created, myths tend to grow and twist all of their own.

However, Jean followed the rumours as much as he could. If he mentioned any to Locke he would just reply with "Well, I hope she's having the time of her life, and absolutely fucking miserable," often accompanied by said friend guzzling down the nearest bottle of wine until he was in a hazy stupor.

Due to Locke's almost constant drunken, depressed state, Jean was in charge of where they travelled, and the few months they were there Locke would hyper-focus on a new scheme, seemingly cured from his ailments, until it was all over, and Locke the mess would return. During this time, they'd even found themselves in the middle of a war, taking advantage of people's needs for supplies and weapons to charm the coins out of their pockets, only to find themselves in bigger trouble. Thank goodness that was now behind them, and Jean hoped this next city would finally reunite them with Sabetha.

The previous places they had visited had all been due to rumours about Sabetha's whereabouts, not that Jean ever told Locke that, and their arrival at Halgaist, a mountain village, was for the same reasons.

If Locke noticed this wasn’t the best place for a scheme, he didn't say, but they had accumulated a nice amount of wealth recently that they weren't desperate for money.

About a week into their stay, Jean was just about to think that Halgaist was yet another dead end, when they met her.

Earlier that day, Jean had roused Locke enough to convince him that a walk around the markets might spark his mind for a scheme. Locke begrudgingly agreed, dressing himself at a leisurely pace, before following Jean out of the door into the late afternoon chill.

Halgaist was famous for its winter markets, where craftsmen who lived deeper into the mountains, came to the town to sell their wares for the winter period. The whole town centre was filled with stalls selling items from furniture to warmed wine and dried fruit.

Jean and Locke were just at one of these stalls, admiring the intricately carved wooden toys and music boxes when they locked eyes with Sabetha on the other side.

The three froze, not quite believing that who was in front of them was not a spectre before tears started to fall. Sabetha rushed around the table, dodging milling citizens and accidentally hitting a few with the paper bag she held in one hand before launching herself at the two men.

"I never thought I'd see you two again," she said between tears, pulling them into her arms and squeezing again. Locke seemed beyond words so Jean said,

"And us, you." Relief washed through Jean, the hunt was finally over, but a look to his right told him enough about what Locke was feeling. Locke was frozen, staring off into the distance with tears sliding down his face as if he was in a trance. Sabetha didn't seem to notice so ushered them out of the crowds and to the empty side of the large square.

"Would you two like to come to mine, we can talk about our time apart over some spiced wine and cakes." Sabetha looked mostly to Locke as she said this, chewing nervously on her lower lip, and when Locke didn't reply Jean simply said,

"We'd love to," before gesturing for her to lead the way. Sabetha looked at Locke, who was still staring off into the distance, before offering Jean a tight lipped smile and nodded.

Sabetha lead them to a small district just out of the town full of cosy wooden cabins and snow-capped mountain tops. Sabetha talked and talked about the history of the town and about her favourite places to visit while rarely turning around to check if the two men were following her. She led them up to one of these cabins, tucked slightly out of the way behind a few grand pine trees, before welcoming them inside.

Jean and Locke followed her into what served as the kitchen in this quaint two storey cabin, and sat down at the large oak table in the centre of the room while Sabetha fussed, rushing upstairs for a few moments and then added a few logs to the already burning fire in the hearth and grabbing the wine, her paper bag discarded on the table.

Sabetha sat perpendicular to Locke at the table, to Locke's left, while Jean sat to his right. Jean then began spinning the tale of the last few years, talking about their troubles in Emberlain and a few honourable mentions from their latest schemes. Locke would occasionally quip in, and as time passed Locke seemed to relax and become more himself, much to Jean's relief.

Sabetha was looking at Locke as if she had something to say, still nervously chewing on that lip, while nodding along to their tale, barely lifting her eyes to look at Jean. Jean tried not to feel the sting. Sabetha probably missed Locke as much as he missed her, but had yet to tell them the reason for her departure in Karthain in the first place, content to let them take the lead in this conversation.

They were just down to halfway on their second bottle of spiced wine when a small voice arose from behind Jean. "Mama, who are these people?" Jean turned to see a small girl, not more than three or four years too her, clutching a soft toy to her chest. She wore a long white nightgown, grazing her ankles, and had messy red hair. Her steely blue eyes bore into Jean's, leaving him blinking confusedly at Sabetha a question on his face. Locke's expression mirrored his own as his eyes set on the girl, except with an added bit at horror.

Sabetha rushed to the little girl, crouching down in front of her. "Did we wake you up from your nap?" Sabetha said, smoothing the girl's hair. The little girl shook her head. "Do you want to go back up to bed?" The little girl shook her head again. Sabetha let out a sigh, before picking up the girl, carrying her on her hip and setting her on her lap as she sat down back in the chair she had just left. Sabetha reached over and picked up a small slice of cake from the table and presented it to the girl, who greedily accepted it into her tiny hands, leaving her toy to fall on the floor.

Locke picked it up, placing it on the table between them before saying, "So, you have a child." Jean could tell pain laced every calm word. The thought that Sabetha might have moved on, had even started a family, had never crossed their minds. To Jean, it had always been Locke and Sabetha, even when the years drifted on without a sign from her, to think that it could now be Locke, and Sabetha and someone else, hit Jean in a way he couldn't describe. Jean did the maths in his head, if this girl was indeed about three or four years old as he suspected, it means she must have been conceived not long after they split ways in Karthain. Could Sabetha really have found someone and moved on that quickly?

The girl was staring at Jean again as she messily ate the cake. There was something about her eyes that felt off to him. They were wise and assessing beyond her years, and hauntingly familiar.

Sabetha drew her gaze from Locke, wiping a few crumbs from her daughters dress. "Uh yes I do. I was going to tell you two as soon as I saw you again, but it was too hard, I'm sorry. I really was going to tell you tonight though."

Locke took a swig from his wine, "well as long as you are happy, and as long as her father cherishes her, and you."

"About that,-" Sabetha was interrupted by her little girl, cake now demolished, reaching over and pulling Sabetha's glass towards herself with her sticky hands. "Ah ah ah, that's not for you." The girl let out a little whinge and started puffing out her lips. Sabetha let out a long sigh, "Fine, but just a sip." She helped her daughter take a swig, and when she pulled the glass away the little girl let out a little giggle from her wine soaked mouth directed at Locke. Locke seemed stunned at the little girl's sudden attention, but gave her a smile before lifting his own glass up in a salute and downing it to the dregs.

Sabetha then wiped the girls mouth on her dress, staining it a light pink, before tucking the girl into her arms in a cuddle and continued, "As I was saying," Sabetha took a long breath, steeling herself for what she was about to say, "her father has not had a chance to cherish her," a look to Locke, "because her father is you."

The words shot through Locke and Jean, and they couldn't quite believe what they were hearing. Locke seemed to have been transported to wherever the Eldren had gone at the words and they were going to have to scrap his jaw off of the table.

Deep understanding settled in Jean. Of course he knew those eyes. Those where Locke's eyes in the little girl that were now slowly drifting off to sleep in her mother's arms, and the maths made sense, she must have been conceived that night in Karthain, when Sabetha disappeared, making the little girl just past four years old.

Locke sputtered, shaking his head, "and you didn't think to tell me, to find some way to contact me." His eyes went dark, and that was the rawest emotion Jean had seen from his friend in a while.

Regret painted Sabetha's face, and she pulled her daughter a little closer to her chest. "I did try. Please believe me I did, but I was also very scared. You see, the night I left, Patience was her name right? Well, she told me that I, that we, were going to have a daughter, and no matter what I did, she was going to find herself into this world, and if I did not leave now, we would lose our daughter because of you, and I was so shocked and scared, and I wanted my own little piece of this world, that I left. I tried to write you a note, but I knew you wouldn't understand, so I just gathered a few things and left. And don't think for one minute that in these last five years I haven’t regretted that decision, because I have regretted every moment. Especially when I gave birth and you couldn't be there to share that with me."

One of Sabetha's tears dropped onto her daughters cheeks and the little girl sat up with a start, her sleepy state gone, and brushed away the tears on her mother's face. Sabetha looked to her daughter and gave her a sweet smile, "thank you, darling, Mama's ok, don't worry." The girl only narrowed her eyes suspiciously, before nuzzling back into Sabetha's chest.

"I need some time to think Sabetha." Locke said, staring at the table. Sabetha stood up, cradling her daughter in her arms.

"I am going to go upstairs and put our daughter to bed, you can stay down here all you like and think away while I'm gone." And she walked out in the direction of the stairs.

"Locke," Jean started but Locke just gave his friend a look that stopped him in his tracks so neither of them spoke for several minutes. "At least we know why she left. And it’s a pretty damn good reason too."

Locke nodded absently, "Fucking patience, I hope she rots in hell wherever she is."

"That I can agree with," Jean said, taking a sip from his wine.

"I have a daughter Jean. A daughter. And I didn't even know. I've been drinking like a lonely widow while Sabetha has been here raising our daughter for me."

"You can't blame yourself Locke, you didn't know." Jean took this time to refill his friend's glass, but Locke didn't touch it.

"I couldn't even be a good garrista Jean. I let the only initiate we had die in front of me. How am I going to be a good father? Bug would be twenty now, twenty. If only I could have looked after him like chains did for us."

"Hey now, none of that is your fault, you did your best, and Bug had a better life with us, no matter how short it was, than he would have had had he stayed Shade's Hill. The Grey King and the Falconer wanted us all dead, we are lucky we escaped that ourselves, and you are lucky to have even fathered that child with the woman you loved. Don't I wish I could have had that opportunity."

"Jean. You know I don't mean to be ungrateful."

"I know, but just think, upstairs you have a beautiful little baby girl. Yes, you may not have been in her life for the first bit, but now you have a chance to be in the rest of it. So prove to yourself that you are worth more than all this drinking and scheming, and be the man I know you can be. That girls got a wonderful mother, and she'll do just fine raised by her, but I'm sure she'd be mighty grateful to have you there too." Jean picked up his glass again and took another drink.

"Jean, I need to go upstairs." Locke said, shakily standing on his feet.

"Then go then," was all Jean said, as Locke disappeared in the direction Sabetha went.

Locke got to the top of the landing and paused at the multiple closed wooden doors. A faint sound of singing could be heard from one just down the corridor and Locke knocked lightly on the door before pushing it open.

Sabetha was sat on the edge of a small cot in a cosily decorated room that was no doubt a child's. A few toys were strewn across the floor and small paintings, painted by a child's hand, hug on the wall. She was gently stroking their daughter's head, while singing an old Camorri tune they often heard the sailors sing when they were growing up. Sabetha stopped at the end of a verse, and Locke continued the song, perching next to her on the cot. Soft snores could soon be heard from the little being on the bed.

Sabetha then stood up slowly, and Locke followed her out of the room, where she closed the door softly behind them. Neither of them made a move to step away from the door, and stood in silence for a few long moments.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here for the first few years of her life, but I would like to be in the future ones." Locke said softly, careful not to speak too loudly.

Sabetha didn't reply for another long while and turned away from him as she said, "Well, that depends. Are you going to insist on continuing your ridiculous schemes, because I told you once and I will tell you again Locke, but I can’t live with you as a garrista. And I don't want that life for our daughter either."

"If that is what it takes, though I don't know what I will do with myself I will admit."

Sabetha turned around slightly, "enjoy life, instead of living scheme to scheme and destroying people's lives. I admit it is fun, but there are other jobs that also require our particular skill set." She took a few steps towards him. "I've taken up acting. There's a small theatre troop here and I work with them. It's not a lot of money, but for once I don't have to worry about being caught. Join us, have a break and raise our daughter with me."

"What if I'm not any good and I mess her up somehow?" Locke said, taking Sabetha's hands in his own.

"You have to trust yourself. She can't be as messed up as we are. I've coped this long on my own, trust me, it's not easy, but it's a lot of fun." Sabetha reached up a hand and cupped Locke's cheek, he gave her palm a small kiss and covered her hand with his own.

"I'll do my best, you can be garrista for this," Locke smiled.

Sabetha gave a small chuckle, "Trust me, the only garrista here is snoring away in her bed."

"Is she really that much trouble?"

"Oh, just wait and see."

#the gentleman bastard sequence #gentlemen bastards #the lies of locke lamora #locke lamora #Sabetha Belacoros #sabetha x locke #jean tannen #locke #sabetha #Jean #fanfiction #gentleman bastards fanfiction #the lies of locke lamora fanfiction #gentleman bastards spoilers #the lies of locke lamora spoilers #red seas under red skies #Republic of Thieves #post republic of thieves

[ihopuhopwehop]

My Favorite Fremione Fics

Hello! Here is a list of my favorite Fred x Hermione fics!

Multichapters:

"The Brightest Witch of Beauxbatons" by free_bee

32/35 chapters posted. WIP

Rating: T

Summary:

"~July 1984~ Mr. Hugo Granger lived at number 84 Rue de Pierre de Lune, in Paris, France. Every morning he would collect his paper from the doorstep and retreat back to his kitchen where an owl would be waiting with his other paper at the window. However, on this rainy Tuesday, there was more than a newspaper in this owl's talons.

After the death of her parents, Hermione goes to live with her uncle at the age of five, discovering she is a witch from her magical uncle. Attending Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, Hermione joins her school on a trip to Hogwarts in 1994, where three schools will be competing in the Triwizard Tournament.

Hermione meets many friends at Hogwarts, spending her sixth year amongst the other school's Houses, and discovering friends and loved ones that will last her whole life. If only she could figure out a way to help her new friends in the fight against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, while desperately trying not to fall head over heels for a certain mischief-making red head who seems intent on having her do just that.

My notes on the fic: AU- canon divergence. Where Hermione grew up going to Beauxbatons instead of Hogwarts. She comes to Hogwarts for the Triwizard Tournament. I love this fremione fic because of how Fleur is written. I haven't finished reading this one yet, but I have enjoyed it so much that it must be added to my list!

"The Trouble with Wanting" by WrathOfMacy

39/? Chapters posted WIP

Rating: M

Summary: "This is a series of drabbles, ficlets and one-shots following our dear Fred and Hermione from June of 1995 (shortly before the third task of the Triwizard Tournament) to an as-of-yet undetermined point post-war.

Let's just call it the bastard love child of Alternate Canon and Fix-it Fic and leave it at that.

*Regarding the Underage tag, the characters are ages sixteen and eighteen at the first occurrence. If this upsets your sensibilities, this is not the story for you.*

**TAGS AND CHARACTERS WILL BE CONTINUALLY UPDATED AS NEEDED**"

My notes: I literally love this fic with all my heart. I subscribed to it and try to comment on every chapter kind of love. IT DOES HAVE SEX IN IT, CHECK THE TAGS BEFORE YOU READ.

"Things Have Changed" by marblewaves

33/36 Chapters posted WIP

Rating: M

Summary: "Fred Lives. Which is good because the world would be terrible without him. Snippets from 4th book on-"

My Notes: Soulmate AU. Slow Burn. I also really love this fanfiction, however I haven't read it in awhile otherwise I could give better notes lol.

"Not a perfect gentleman" by @ralina003 & Quartz

14/23 Chapters posted WIP

Rating: M

Summary: "Entering her second season in London, Miss Granger is already bored out of her mind. She is not interested in entering a marriage with one of the gentlemen, pursuing her only because of her dowry. Mr Weasley, who is the fourth son of a landowner not even having a title surely is no exception there. Or is he?"

My Notes: MY FAVORITE FICS RN Regency AU. I recently watched bridgerton and this is very much like bridgerton and I am LOVING it. I love how both Fred and Hermione are written. Highly recommend

"It Looks Better On Me" by SunshineSkies13

3/4 chapters written WIP

Rating: T

Summary: "* BY POPULAR DEMAND, 4th CHAPTER TO BE ADDED SOON* After a prank gone wrong, Fred lends Hermione his jumper. A few days later, she lets him borrow her hat. That should have been the end of it, except he refuses to give it back. She decides the only way to get him back is to 'borrow' something else, he decides to return the favor, and the Gryffindors place bets on whether they will empty each other's closets before admitting their feelings."

My Notes: Romantic Comedy. This story is so cute! I love the mischief both Hermione and Fred partake in.

"Prosturing and Prose" by evidenceclaimed

8/8 chapters posted COMPLETED

Rating: T

Summary: '"If I’m tried before the Wizengamot on accusations of moral ambiguity, you’ll be the first to say ‘I told you so.’”

“So glad we’ve established my favourite thing to say to you"

“I’ll be careful not to develop any pavlovian responses.”'

My Notes: Soulmate-identifying marks au, Enemies to friends to lovers. I love this fic so much as well. It was one of the first one to get me hooked on Fremione.

ONE-SHOTS

"Purr-fectly Matched" by omnenomnom

rating: T

Summary: "Crookshanks is fond of his servant. She is generous with both treats and affection while still knowledgeable of her place as his attendant. However, when she starts making that wailing noise, he decides the best solution would be to find her a mate. The question is, which male is worthy?"

My Notes: this is an interesting perspective that I love because Crookshanks is a distinguished gentleman.

"both hands outstretched (for meeting your hands)" by @gingerteaonthetardis

Rating: T

Summary: "a collection of fremione oneshots, featuring: early morning snuggling, soulmarks, time travel, domesticity, arguments about marriage proposals, and similar nonsense."

My Notes: I really like this one because it is a collection of one shots and I like the prompts within it.

"Don't pull away...not yet" by (me, myself, and I) Ihopuhopwehop

Rating: T

Summary: The war has finally ended and Hermione comforts Fred when he wakes up from being in a coma.

My Notes: Angst, Fred Lives

"Not So Perfect Prefect" by Ihopuhopwehop

Rating: T

Summary: For a tumblr Prompt of Fremione kisses with someone catching them

My Notes: In a series. I wrote this fic and I included the ones I wrote because I apparently don't book mark my favorite one-shots :(

#fred weasley x hermione granger #fred x hermione #hehe #harry potter #fred weasley #hermione granger

[thekatebridgerton]

Someday I'm gonna wake up, check my social media and I will not see comments about Sophie being deminish, insulted or erased, Someday I'm gonna wake up and there will only be good and positive comments about her and how brave she was by not letting Araminta brake her spirit in anyway and always manage the way to stood up against everything she went through because I'll never accept her being called weak for her quiet strenght and surviving mechanism, that day will be a good day for me

First of all Anon who do I have to kick? Because some people go around disrespecting our Sophie and that's not nice. Come on give me names, I'll get my vodoo dolls.

Second, I rarely see Sophie hate in my dash because I use the block button liberally and I'm not on Twitter. Because angst is not my thing. (Unless we're talking fanfiction aus with a happy ending) this is an angst free blog. Safe for all of you who want angst free content.

That aside, this IS a blog where one is free to rant about fictional injustice so thank you for coming.

I know a lot of people don't like to hear this but Sophie Beckett is a perfectly fine character! She is not passive, or weak or a coward. I've said this in previous posts, only a person who's been trough the kind of abuse Sophie suffered under Araminta knows exactly WHY she's such a strong character in the first place. And why her quiet defiance is admirable.

If you don't know what it's like to be stuck since childhood with nowhere to go, in an abusive household, where the main abuser is a woman, traditionally seen as a caregiver who instead of offering warmth or love, holds food and shelter over Sophie's head to make her behave, while Sophie had nowhere to turn to and no friends to support her. Then you don't know why she's such a strong character.

Sophie's backstory is super tragic and this is a fact. Araminta was a gaslighter of the highest caliber. And Sophie's status as a bastard meant that she virtually had no rights and wasn't entiled to demand anything from anyone. So her surviving within her circumstances, without becoming an abuser or a cold unemotional asshole, was an act of superhuman mental strength and courage .

Sophie haters are like those people you meet when you're clinically depressed who ask 'But why don't you think more positive?' and 'why don't you smile more'

And you want to tell them 'I don't know Brad, maybe because it's hard? Ever thought about that??? Must be nice living in your head, without self criticism voices telling you that you suck, wonder how that fantasy land feels like'

For those of you who don't know what being a bastard was like in regency england (the following also applies to Gareth Sin Clair, if you're wondering). It was like having a stamp in her national ID, right next to date of birth and natal country, an ugly stamp that said 'born out of wedlock: Do not treat with respect' by all intents and purposes commoners had it better. But Araminta gaslighted Sophie so bad since childhood!!

And I really don't know what's up with people these days and victim blaming. But here's a tip ANYTHING THAT ISN'T KINDNESS AND SUPPORT TOWARDS A VICTIM OF ANY KIND OF ABUSE, IS UN-WEL-COME.

So those people that say Sophie could have gotten out of there, that she could have done this and that or left Araminta, or punched her sooner etc. Check your victim blaming at the door please. It was not Sophie's responsibility to get out of that abusive situation when she was virtually powerless. It WAS ARAMINTA'S RESPONSIBILITY TO TAKE CARE OF HER. Why aren't more people talking about what an absolute asshole Araminta was to do that to little Sophie, for her whole life?? Let's put the blame where it belongs, in Araminta's door and in the Earl of Gunningworth's ass.

Guys Araminta was the bad guy, I know it's obvious enough in An offer from a Gentleman, but let me spell it out, Araminta was an abuser, a gaslighter, a psychopath, the kind that lives under the beds of abusive homes and makes the victims of her criminal behavior call her 'mommy' a ne'rdo well asshole who treated a little girl with the utmost unfairness, who bullied and humiliated Sophie for half her life, just for funsies! She was evil and got away with it.

So when we meet Sophie in an offer from a Gentleman, we meet her after years of THIS 👆 And what we meet isn't a jaded, depressed girl. We meet Sophie, Sophie who is a kind, stubborn, warm-hearted person with only her integrity to comfort her against the world that has hurt her. By the time Sophie meets Benedict, Araminta has already taken everything else she has.

The psychopath she's lived with her whole life probably used the words 'your mother was nothing more than a _____' to further verbally abuse Sophie all the time.

When she meets Benedict, Sophie is clear that the ONLY thing she has that can't be taken from her is her agency. She's constantly using her agency around Benedict. Because it's something Araminta denied her for so long!. So of course she refused to be his mistress. She CAN, that's the whole point, she's been robbed of choices her whole life.

And now that Sophie sort of escapes, now that she can make her own choices she's saying NO! Call it morals, integrity or simply Sophie expecting Benedict to respect her use of agency. Saying No to Benedict might not look empowering for us but it IS empowering for her! And that makes Sophie Beckett awesome.

And I know I know, Benedict is a product of his environment and ya di dah. but the Book is titled 'An offer from a Gentleman' for a reason! It's a sarcastic dig at the fact that Benedict doesn't behave as a gentleman for almost all the book. Because a true gentleman would never ask any woman to be their mistress under any circumstance. Virgin, married or widowed.

Benedict SHOULDN'T HAVE ASKED. Had he truly been thinking like a gentleman he would have done that gentlemanly thing and rescued Sophie chivalrously, worked towards bettering her life circumstances and eventually asked her to marry him like a character out of an Arturian legend. But Benedict is no sir Galahad. The whole irony of the book title is right there. That people in the ton call him a gentleman but in reality he's a total poser. He's faking it, he's pretending, he's of as ungentlemanly as his brothers! Sophie's just calling him out on it!

And Sophie who is a woman and a bastard, who is penniless and is by every means supposed to be inferior than him. STILL HAS MORE INTEGRITY. Her morals are better than his, she keeps her word, she feels more guilty, has more patience and definitely takes more responsibility! Sophie in every sense of the word might not have been born a Lady but she IS better than Benedict. Who's the brother of a Viscount.

Go Sophie! You Rock!

I'm just glad Benedict recognizes what an absolute goddess he married and spends the rest of his life worshipping the ground she walks in because it's what Sophie deserves.

I hope she's already been casted, I hope it's an incredible actress that brings us the mix of absolute innocence and fierceness that is Sophie Beckett. Because it's what I want to see.

And you know me #JusticeForSophie4k I'll always be here to support our one only non problematic fave. Sophie has done nothing wrong ever, she's a fun chaotic sister in law and we love her just like Benedict. End of story

#bridgerton #sophie beckett #benedict bridgerton #benedict x sophie #Benophie #justiceforsophie #Sophie slander is so unless like why #she's perfect

[miss-goblin-tries-writing]

I watched Tokyo Mew Mew years back, and became obsessed with the idea of Kisshu/Ichigo. With the reboot, I've started getting back into it, even reading manga I didn't know had been published, so I've decided to have a bash at writing fanfiction. (This is all have so far).

___________________________________________________________

It was a kick in the gut - metaphorically speaking - when Ichigo woke alone on the grass to the sunset and no Aoyama-kun. It took her a second of staring at the sky to get her bearings. She had to remember where she was and what was happening; the date with Aoyama-kun, the Red Data Animals Exhibit, and then the earthquake. The earthquake and then nothing - she must have fainted? But where was Aoyama-kun?

Ichigo eased herself into sitting up, wincing at her stiff muscles protesting. It was sunset - how long had she been unconscious? Hours - it was sunset now, and the afternoon had barely begun when they'd left the exhibit. Had Aoyama-Kun gone to use the bathroom? He hasn't left her in the park alone, right? He hadn't, right?

Minutes passed, and Ichigo began to get anxious. Aoyama-Kun was kind and considerate; he was a gentleman and far too gallant to leave an unconscious girl alone in the park. Especially not a girl knocked out because of an earthquake; he wouldn't have just left her.

Ichigo tucked her knees to her chest, shivering in the evening chill. Aoyama-Kun wouldn't, he wouldn't just -

Except… There was no sign of him. There was no sign to say he would return and none to say he'd ever been there recently. There was no jacket, no drink or anything at all. Even the ice cream cone he'd purchased was gone, leaving hers on the grass in a melted puddle of strawberry. The red-haired girl buried her head in her arms, sorrowful and hurt. How could he have left her here? Left her unconscious in a public park where anything could have happened to her?

"That… That… Bastard!" Ichigo wailed, sobbing into her arms, her small frame shaking. Ichigo thought their date had gone well; granted, she'd felt a little foolish as he'd given her so much information about nearly every animal in the exhibit. He was so intelligent, and in comparison, she felt so small. Did he think so too? Ichigo admired his intelligence; it was one of his best qualities next to the gentleness of his character. But what was clever or gentle about leaving her here like this? There were far better ways to break up with someone!

"Well, well… Such a big bad word for such a small thing." Ichigo's head snapped up at the sound of the new voice.

#miss goblin wrote stuff #fanfiction #tokyo mew mew #kisshu #momomiya ichigo #kisshigo #kisshigo ship

[captain-aralias]

Fic’s finished - here’s some trivia!

Includes: 

References to 90s RomComs

Writerly ephemera

Baz’s wardrobe / Simon’s wardrobe

A deleted scene

90s RomComs

In the prompt, Liz mentioned Four Weddings and a Funeral and My Best Friend’s Wedding. (And The Proposal, which honestly I’ve never seen, even though now I’m thinking I should.) I didn’t really go with the vibes because I wanted to do a break up, but I put at least one reference to these films in every chapter. For fun. 

He was the love of my life. My North, my South, my East and West. (Chapter 1) 

It also, horrifyingly, sounds a lot like that awful song Daphne made us listen to earlier. I can’t laugh, and I can’t sing. (Chapter 2)

The whole ‘forgot the rings’ thing is reference enough

I like him dressed for weddings. (Chapter 3)

He crosses his arms. Pretends to be unmoved, even when half the bar joins in (I tipped Shepard off) (he thought the plan was brilliant) even the lobsters. They’re waving their claws in the air. (Chapter 4 - the only reference to My Best Friend’s Wedding)

“The boy’s a liar,” someone barks from behind me. “Tyrannus Pitch has been dead sixty years and good riddance.” (Chapter 5) 

“Simon,” I say. “I do.” (Chapter 5) 

Writerly Ephemera  

Amy had this lovely idea a few months ago: Find bits of yourself that you gave to your fiction (memories and places and phrases and things into our stories).

Usually, there’s hardly any of my life in my fic, but I stole a few bits and pieces for this fic: 

My father got re-married when I was at university. I like his wife, but I barely knew her then - I just knew, she’s the woman my dad left my mum for! He asked me to choose a reading and I had literally no idea what to pick. Retrospectively, I should have said no, you choose, but anyway. I chose a bit of Jeeves & Wooster where Bertie talks about wanting to get married for some reason - both my aunts loved it, the married couple were completely bemused. No idea what I was on about. 

Also, their recessional music was Whitney Houston. The theme from The Bodyguard. I’d originally written this as the Spice Girls, since Daphne would have grown up in the 90s, but then I thought of the end of Chapter 2 joke, and I was like - going to troll my father from this gay fanfiction, I guess. 

It was really hot when I was writing Chapter 3. That’s why it’s very hot in this chapter.  

Simon and Baz choose not to get married at the end of this fic - not yet anyway. In part, because I didn’t want to re-do Golden Years, in part because that’s the end of Four Weddings, and in part because I feel a bit like I’ve written Baz in this fic. I thought I liked weddings, until I thought about it properly ... (N.B. I think actual Baz totally wants to marry Simon, btw, and Simon longs for an official family. But I had to get to my ending, so here we are.) 

Baz’s wardrobe

You can still buy a very similar McQueen blazer if you like. Which I like even more. It’s completely not my vibe - unlike the Harry Styles Gucci below, which definitely is – and it’s a thousand pounds, but several times during this fic, I thought... I mean, maybe?

There’s no reference for the burgundy suit - I just wanted it. 

Simon’s wardrobe

He’s wearing the Leaver’s Ball outfit at Jamie & Beth’s wedding, followed by a suit that has no reference, but is based - in my mind - on one from RooBadley’s Use Your Words 

I consulted Roo about Simon’s wardrobe for this fic - for one summer wedding, one winter wedding. They gave me these: 

I really liked this second suit for Simon - so much that when I remembered Simon was the best man in Chapter 5 and should probably be wearing some sort of matching outfit with Shepard, I was like... to hell with it. He’s wearing this!!!

I switched the green for undyed linen. Roo and I also had this conversation, which I wanted to use in the fic but never managed to fit in.

aralias i'm just reading in the gentleman's gazette that it's actually OK for linen to be creased

RooBadley

I would very much love for this to be a fact that Lady Ruth reassures Simon with and Simon then repeats to Baz his one bit of fashion knowledge

aralias "the really pronounced characteristic wrinkles of linen are a sign of a sophisticated casual style, actually, Baz"

RooBadley Baz: Shall I spell those wrinkles out for you, Snow? Simon: Actually, creasing is fine and acceptable when wearing linen, Baz. Though'd you'd have known that. ~smirk~

aralias i like the way this dude has rolled up the trousers too - it's not a safari, it's hipster

Deleted scene:

After the success (I think) of the end of chapter 1, I started to think ‘maybe every chapter will end with some texting!!!’ 

I started writing this conversation for the end of chapter 2 before I’d finished it - almost unheard of - but then I decided I hated it. Very info-dumpy. I kept the homo-positive joke, as you can see, even though I’m not sure it deserves to be kept. 😂

“HOLY MORGANA. penny just told me.”

“I know. She called me as well. It’s some sort of visa thing, I think. And she thinks it will be helpful in negotiating back all the children he’s bartered away, if she can tell people she’s his wife and has a claim on them.”

“it was more romantic when penny told me about it. shepard asked me to be his best man.”

“Oh dear. Are he and Bunce going to fight over you?”

“obviously not. penny’s a woman.”

“So? I’m going to be Fiona’s Best Man. Or Man of Honour – whatever the term is.”

“yeah, but that’s different.”

“How? Choose your words carefully, Snow.”

“I mean, because fiona doesn’t have any other friends & her sister is dead (sorry). who the fuck would she pick if not you? penny asked her sister.”

“Oh. I thought you meant because I was gay. And like to wear flowers.”

“wtf. no. i’m not homophobic. i’m LITERALLY homo … positive. (is that a thing?)”

“I think you can just say gay.”

“i’m not gay, tho”

“Right. Well, this is awkward.”

“why?”

“baz? you know i don’t know what i am. and you know it doesn’t matter, because the only person I want to be with is YOU. even tho you’re a touchy bastard.”

“man of honour suits you. you should go with that.”

“Best man doesn’t suit *you* at all.”

“fuck off.”

“are you going to come to penny’s wedding?”

“Yes. Even now I know you’re helping organise it. Do you want to come to Fiona’s?”

“fuck no. she tried to kill me. unless you want me to. i’ll go if you want me to. i’ll even buy her a gift”

“I would like you to be there.”

“all right. send me the invite.”

that’s all, folks!

Four Funereal Weddings and an American Stag Do

#carry on #awtwb spoilers #my fic #my deleted scenes #my content

[thewheelsofsteelareturning]

“Maxilan, darling.” Locke raised one eyebrow and smiled. “I knew you were driven, but I had no idea you could smolder. Come, take me now! Jean won’t mind, he’ll avert his eyes like a gentleman.”

no. this isn’t fanfiction. this is PAGE TWO HUNDRED AND FORTY SIX of Scott Lynch’s second book in the Gentleman Bastard series. THIS IS STRAIGHT FROM HIS NOVEL. DIRECTLY. THIS IS HIS.

LOCKE LAMORA IS A FUCKING FIVE ON THE GODDAMN KINSEY SCALE AND IF WE DONT TALK ABOUT IT BEFORE THE END OF THIS SERIES I AM OFFICIALLY GOING TO REWRITE THE ENTIRE THING AND REPUBLISH IT WITH DEL RAY AGAIN. AND I KNOW THEYLL LET ME. THEYLL HAVE TO WHEN I SHOW THEM THE EVIDENCE.

#locke lamora #gentleman bastards #scott lynch #jean tannen #red seas under red skies

[ieatmorecrispsthanyou]

Half-hearted criticism: a series

The Gentleman’s Guide to Vice and Virtue by Mackenzie Lee

This book is not intended to be a serious foray into the socio-political world of 18th-century Europe, nor does it intend to encapsulate the experience of being queer, black and/or disabled in an unforgiving world. It would be much less enjoyable (and perhaps more problematic) if it had, as gritty realism is quite clearly not the point of the story. Tired of seeing the queer experience under-represented in Young Adult fiction, and hardly ever in historical fiction except as a tragic backstory, Mackenzie sought to create a fun, romantic romp through Georgian Europe with a sprinkling of fantasy and social commentary. She found a niche and made it her own, and this definitely warms the hearts of its target audience, if not the critics. This work is significant because it does not come with the usual tropes associated with its subject matter - its characters do have a happy ending despite the world they live in, and the main struggle they overcome is not to do with their differences but something completely unrelated, which is sorely missing from fiction with the marginalised experience at its heart. I think Mackenzie tried hard to include diverse characters, and mostly succeeded in making them realistic, although she was limited by not being from the minorities she was attempting to write about and could definitely have done with some proper advice.

Henry ‘Monty’ Montague is a bisexual upper-class nobleman, with all the privileges and challenges that entails. His self-destructive drinking and partying is a way to cope with the fact that after his Grand Tour is over, he will be forced to manage his estate without his crush and under the eye of his abusive father. His sister, Felicity, is unimpressed with Monty’s behaviour and would rather be studying medicine than etiquette at ladies’ college, while Percy (who is biracial, intellectual and sardonic) is nominally off to be a lawyer but in reality off to a lunatic asylum due to his epileptic fits. This tour, beginning in France, is a last hurrah before they are sent to their respective dooms, and it is not long before Monty manages to land them all in serious trouble after he insults a valuable contact, gets caught in a tryst and steals a mysterious box which some equally murderous men will stop at nothing to reclaim.

The narrative voice is one of the book’s strong points: Monty’s voice is as authentic as it is witty, and while you may get frustrated at his actions you will never be in any doubt as to whether or not they are believable or justified. As a whole, Monty is an absolute bastard, although a likeable one - and his character growth is supremely enjoyable as he learns to realise that his coping mechanisms are causing real harm to the people around him, and that the only one standing in the way of his happiness is himself. In contrast, while Percy and Felicity are given rounded backstories and non-stereotypical character traits, they do not get much in the way of narrative attention save to further Monty’s story, and Percy is not perhaps portrayed with due sensitivity although it is not my place to comment on that. The relationship dynamic between the three is one of the novel’s finest elements - it is a novel about learning to appreciate the collection of parts which go into the whole person, and to re-examine your perceptions of behaviours you find challenging. I feel like the relationship between Percy and Monty never quite crossed the line into fanfiction territory, but it came dangerously close at times.  I enjoyed the setting, and the author cleverly weaves in period details alongside modern dialogue, which, although jarring, does ground the story in a realistic world while making it relatable.  I also like how Monty’s height is portrayed, as you don’t often get short male protagonists. Mackenzie also found the perfect balance for light-hearted treatment of dark subject matter, and one of the book’s most shocking elements was the way you come to realise that Monty’s bravado is the result of his trauma and the real person underneath is much more layered. Felicity’s misunderstanding of this was another clever detail which gave the book an interesting layer.

The first half of the book was in danger of becoming too painful to read, but was vital in terms of setting up the rest of the plot. The pacing was frustrating at times but also necessary. However, one of the book’s weak points is the way in which Mackenzie works extremely hard to create a believable period setting, and then asks you to suspend your disbelief with the arrival of something that can cure everything and even bring someone back from the dead. After grounding the first half of the story in such a realistic period setting, it is jarring and while admirable in terms of fantasy, could be equally as good if treated more realistically. That is another of the book’s weak points - it becomes rather melodramatic and some background characters descend into stock villains and troubled heroes, and there are rather too many of them. It is the fact that the book does not take itself seriously that allows it to get away with this, and after all, you knew what you were in for when you started reading it, so largely it serves to enhance the story rather than hinder it.

The second half of the book becomes rather saccharine, but Mackenzie’s gift for fast-paced action prevents this from becoming dull. I found the ending rather pleasing, and it could have worked as a standalone novel rather than a trilogy. Sometimes you need a story with a simple resolution, where you can pretend that everything will work well for everyone and character growth is a trajectory with an end-point (even if Percy’s own character growth is largely ignored).

However, there are some issues with the way Monty and Percy are portrayed. Monty is bisexual and his attraction to women is not really explored properly - it may come as a surprise to readers when he gets off with a lady, after spending the first half and subsequent chapters not giving them a thought. This could be forgiven as a realistic portrayal of the bisexual experience, except Monty’s habit of using sex as a coping mechanism falls into the stereotype of bisexuals being promiscuous. I didn’t like when after his ‘break-up’ with Percy he immediately gets off with someone else, even if it is a distraction. Monty also fails to view Percy as a complete human being but rather a fantasy at times, and by failing to completely acknowledge the racist times in which they live and Percy’s experiences as a person of colour, he opens up a character fault which is not really addressed or resolved properly. Percy’s illness is interestingly and sympathetically depicted, to give Mackenzie credit.

All in all, this book does what it set out to do, and very few readers will be disappointed. As a part of the Young Adult genre, it is stand-out and does not attempt to patronise its readers, but simply to entertain them. If it is lacking in certain elements, this can be forgiven - after all, this is a book about learning to accept the whole as a sum of its parts and in the context of its time.

#eli reviews

[darklylucid]

Why Must I Tease...Myself?

There’s only so much you can do to influence your dreams. Oftentimes, the subconscious mind will see and do what it damn well wants to see and do. I can watch as many gory, violent horror films as I can before bed, but all I can do is hope for the best and see if I can trigger a ‘fun dream’.

But then, sometimes it’s easy. Freddy Krueger, aka ‘Crispy Bastard’ is easy. I watched the entire ‘Nightmare On Elm Street’ movie series in one go, and I got three nights in a row worth of Freddy dreams. Yes, they were awesome. 

I my dreams, my subconscious has apparently ‘family-zoned’ him. He’s like the weird uncle your parents don’t want you talking to that gets you plastered at the family reunion and then hauls your ass to the local strip club for some ‘fun n’ tiddies’. He’s never boring, that’s for sure.

Then again, there’s Hannibal Lecter. I stopped counting when he made twelve individual appearances in my dreams. All I have to do is apparently read one of the books he’s in and BOOM. He’s always such a gentleman, even when using his teeth...

But sometimes, all your best efforts get...unexpected results. 

Case in point - I watched two ‘Texas Chainsaw Massacre’ films in a row, hoping to get Leatherface to make an appearance. What did I get? An *exceedingly* amorous Tony Stark (HELL NO not complaining!)

The following night, I read filthy Bucky Barnes fanfiction right before bed. A LOT of it. What did I get, you might wonder?

Well, apparently, my subconscious somehow went “Well, I’m not gonna work with that tonight. Oh, I know! I’ll give her some down-home Southern comfort food!”, promptly brought in Thomas Hewitt as my full-on domestic househusband and had him cook me fantastically delicious, slow-roasted, heavily caramelized, fall-off-the-bone BBQ. 

Yes. BBQ. 

If you know who he is, you know what he cooked. 

WTF, subconscious? It’s like herding cats, I swear...

#You're eating people! #Dream food WTF #Why subconscious...WHY? #The Texas Chainsaw Massacre #Thomas Hewitt #slasher #Slashers #Slasher Fandom

[holylulusworld]

For Chris Evans and his characters; do you have any tips or advice on how to best portray him? I'd like to venture into some Ransom or Chris, Steve but I don't know where to start or how to perceive him in fiction. I know you do a great job with Steve so I'd like to know your take on this. ❤

Hi there! Thanks for the question. Let’s see...

#1 Ransom is an ass, self-centered, and smug bastard in the movie. He believes no one will ever stand up against him - especially no girl. He screams dominant alpha male. (In my opinion.) He tries to manipulate people and takes advantage of their downfall or naivety. Just look at that smirk in the GIF.

It’s up to you if you want to stick to his character and make him an ass or give him a soft side too. I like to show the ‘bad guy’ (like Negan or Ransom) can have a soft spot for the reader or someone else.

#2 Chris, well I don’t know him so all I can use are interviews and the way he acts in public. I think he’s an adorable dork (the way he treats Dodger is an indication.) But it’s fanfiction so you can turn him into a cocky ass too. ;) I did this before.

Did I mention he’s hot as f*ck?

#3 Steve. He’s Captain America righteous, brave, strong. In some of my fics, he’s in character. But, I like to play with a character too.

You can make the golden boy a cheater or someone breaking your heart. It is up to you.

Steve is an old-fashioned gentleman, but he doesn’t treat women like a 40′s man - the way he fights alongside Wanda, Sharon, and Natasha shows you he doesn’t believe they are weaker only as they are women.

He’s reliable but hangs his heart a bit too much on the past. (He leaves the Avengers to return to Peggy and tried anything to save Bucky.)

Steve was and will always be a man out of time. He picked up the Shield and fought alongside the Avengers after he woke from the ice as he believed it’s the right thing to do, but he never got over the fact his old life was just gone...

If you write for Nomad Steve you can make him less 'golden boy’. He’s rougher, went through shit, and doesn’t ask for permission. He can take you against a wall and call you his s*ut and be sweet the next moment.

[salemsoul]

Thorn of Emberlain: Sabetha FanFic.

A little something I have written exploring what Sabetha could be dealing with after she leaves Karthain. (Spoilers for the first three books in the Gentleman Bastard Sequence). @incorrectgentlemanbastards this is about what we were talking about the other day.

Sabetha stepped off the boat and into the docks of Ashcoppin. It was a city north of Karthain in Balinel, far enough away she hoped nobody would recognise her and she could think about how she was going to make enough money to survive on for a while, before moving somewhere else. Not something she could dwell on for long, as she wasn't quite sure how long she had before making money in her usual means became difficult.

The docks were bustling with workers that paid her no heed as she walked past in her long chocolate skirts and red velvet jacket. Just another traveller passing through. She only had one bag with her filled with the only belongings she could pack when she left Karthain. The thought still weighed heavy on her heart. What, who she had left behind. And what that would mean for her now regarding her own situation.

Sabetha sighed, letting the thought go, and walked deeper into the city. Most of the people who lived here were merchants or were travellers waiting for the next ship out into the Sea of Brass, so the streets were very busy, enough so that she could disappear into a crowd if unwanted attention arose. She passed a few inns, but decided to opt to one deeper into the heart of the city so that she would have less chance of meeting so many travellers that could potentially recognise her. An added bonus to this, was that the inns deeper into the city were significantly grander, as they expected visitors to stay for far longer than a night or two.

She walked between two large brass columns and through the glass doors on one such establishment. The smell of citrus and lemongrass greeted her, a welcoming smell, and she paid for a room on the top floor. As she was now going to be careful about climbing for a while, at least she could enjoy the view of the city from her window.

She climbed the several floors to her room, surprised at how out of breath she was when she reached the top and settled in. The room indeed had a view of the city, and over the expanse of land, she could just see the glistening waves of the Sea of Brass. She could just about make out some features of people milling about below. An apple seller, basket in one arm, doffed his hat to a passing women, as her children hurried up to him, coins in hand and greedily grabbed a few apples. Sabetha's hand drifted absentmindedly to her lower stomach, as she stared transfixed at the children as they ran around in circles, taking large chunks from their fruit as their mother giggled, shaking her head.

She had been that young once, but she never remembered being so carefree. Would she have been different had she been allowed to grow up in her own mother's care instead of cradled in the harshness of the streets and what kind of mother would that make her? Had there ever been a point when she just lived without a thought but freedom and happiness. Her life had been carved in coldness and brutality. How was she supposed to raise someone differently?

She had found out when she reached the Ironhorn Mountains to secure a boat here. It had been a few weeks walk from Karthain, and when some of the mountain people had offered her some fish for dinner, the smell had caused her to throw up, then and there. One of the women joked about her being pregnant, which sent a cold chill down her spine. She had racked her brain for when her last bleed had been, when she had met Locke for dinner on the barge. Five weeks before.

That caused her to throw up again.

She had always been so careful in taking her daily tonic, since her first bleed, that in the flurry of running, Karthain burning behind her, she must have forgotten. Those first few days after she left were a blur in her mind.

Their local physiker had confirmed her thoughts, and for the rest of her stay she had stayed in quiet contemplation alone waiting for the boat. She would not be lying when she said her first words after that had been a string of colourfully arranged curses that would not be far from home in a sailor's mouth.

When she had left that night she packed everything she would need in sight before quickly leaving, never could she have guessed she had left with something she didn't pack. A stowaway, in her womb. Reminding her just exactly how much of a bad decision it was to leave. Preva, it seemed, had a sense of humour.

A few weeks on now, Sabetha had warmed to the idea of becoming a mother. Silently in her heart she hoped for a daughter. To have her own little girl to cherish, though a son certainly would not be unwelcomed. A daughter would be harder for sure. There are so many ways this world was more dangerous for a little girl, especially if she shared the colour of her hair. But Sabetha had survived, and thrived. She was certain if she had a daughter, through her careful guidance she would too.

Sabetha moved away from the window at last, shaking off her boots by the bed and undoing her jacket. Later, she would go downstairs and scope out any potentially targets using her feminine wiles, though that was the last thing she wanted to do, but now all she wanted was to rest.

She laid down atop the silk sheets and comforter and stared at the ceiling. She had a few months at best before she started to show, though she wouldn't be barred from making money her usual way, it would certainly be more difficult, so she would make as much money in these next few weeks as she could so she could seclude herself and raise her child comfortably for a little while after they were born. Or at least enough to live on until she hears about a city collapsing and heads towards where Locke and Jean were surely to be.

Locke. He had no idea. Not that she had known that their final love making that night of the election would lead them to this. Not that it would even cross his mind. He knew how careful she always was. Had witnessed it from when they first started their courtship that summer in Espara so many years ago. A part of her regretted not taking that tonic. How much trouble she surely was now in, completely alone. But mostly, she couldn't care less. She finally had something that was hers that nobody could take away from her.

She would find him one day, and tell him. Whether that was before or after their child was born was yet to be known. He would blame himself to be sure, and curse her for not finding him sooner. All of which she was prepared for. She cursed herself too.

She wondered if their child would be as troublesome as Locke. Whether they'd come out of the womb and pickpocket the physiker and drive her up the wall with their intelligence. She giggled to herself; a girlish sound she hadn't made in too much time. A child like Locke she could deal with, it was a child like her she was afraid of having. Stubborn and secretive. A child like herself, she wasn't sure could read.

Sabetha laid there, thoughts of the future swirling around her head as she slowly drifted off to sleep.

#the gentleman bastard sequence #gentlemen bastards #Sabetha Belacoros #sabetha #sabetha x locke #the lies of locke lamora #locke lamora #jean tannen #locke #gentleman bastards fanfiction #gentleman bastards spoilers #fanfiction #the lies of locke lamora fanfiction #karthain #this is completely self indulgent #sabetha is queen #love for sabetha always

[tobeathief]

Prophecies and Spiky Cats Chapter 3: Also available to read on Ao3, fanfiction.net and wattpad

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Two weeks had passed since Sabetha had decided to leave Karthain, to leave Locke and Jean, at the strong encouragement of Patience. The ship's crew had taken to calling her the demon tamer, due to the fact she would scarcely be seen on deck without Locke, the little cat she had adopted, around her neck.

He refused to go near anyone else and would hiss and scratch at them if they so much as looked at him the wrong way, a fact Sabetha felt very amused by. The cat kept any would-be handsy sailors well out of her path, and for that, she was very very thankful.

They were just south-east of the Sea of Brass when a storm picked up around the ship, whipping the deck into chaos. These past weeks had been a leisurely cruise, idyllic weather every day, that with the quickness that this storm came in, it could only be God's given.

The ship was quickly turned into chaos and Sabetha didn't know what to do. For the first time in her life, she was in a situation she didn't have any skills in. She didn't know how to hoist the mainsails or man the wheel.

Her hair was whipping in her face, drenched by the cold rain and seawater, as she noticed the lifeboats clattering cautiously in the wind. Thunder rumbled all around her and mixed with the shouts and screams of the crew.

Locke was wrapped frightened around her neck, hiding in her hair. His claws digging into the sensitive skin there, Sabetha tried not to grimace. One of the sailors rushed past her, knocking her to her knees on the wet deck as a bolt of lightning split the sky and hit one of the ropes of the lifeboats, breaking it effortlessly. The lifeboat began to sway with the force, and dangling by one rope, started swinging dangerously close to the crew's oblivious heads.

Sabetha scrambled to her feet, Locke still firmly fixed on her neck and raced for the snapped rope. She leaned over the railing grasping for it as the ship swayed and creaked beneath her feet. After a few perilous tries, Sabetha succeeded, pulling the rope down just in time for the lifeboat to swing up and narrowly miss decapitating Solus Volantyne. He clutched his chest in shock as in his worried state trying to keep the crew in order, he hadn't seen it swinging for him.

"I owe you my life Verena," he remarked as Sabetha struggled with the rope.

"Don't thank me yet."

Volantyne then continued to shout orders at his terrified crew, and Sabetha was left to wrestle the rope herself. The rope creaked and strained, burning her hands as it tried to pull out of her grasp. Sabetha bit her lip with the strain, and Locke yowled in fear.

Another big wave crashed onto the ship, drenching Sabetha and Locke to the bone. The cat let out another yowl. In the shock, the rope began to pull again, finally slipping out of Sabetha's grasp. "NO!" she shouted, reaching over the railing again. Another wave crashed on the deck and washed Sabetha over with it.

She hit the water with a painful splash. The ice-cold water biting her as she struggled to stay afloat. Locke was miraculously still attached to her, stiff and shivering, tension down his long body. Sabetha tried to shout up, but the commotion was too load, the storm too violent. Nobody could hear her. So she continued to kick uselessly at the water. A few metres away something else fell into the water, causing another splash to coat the pair. The lifeboat Sabetha had been wrestling with.

Sabetha tried not to think too much as she felt something rub up against her leg and paddled for the empty boat. Reaching the side, she grasped ungracefully for the rim. The hardwood pinched her palms as she struggled to pull her weight up into the boat. After a few useless pulls, she finally did it, and woman and cat splattered into the hull.

Locke was shaking and was no doubt as scared and wet as she was. He was wide-eyed and his fur was sticking in all directions. Both hacked up seawater immediately, the feeling of it burning Sabetha's throat, and then collapsed in a heap.

When she had caught her breath, Sabetha again tried to shout and signal the crew on the ship. She cautiously stood up on shaky feet and waved her arms about, pleading for anyone to notice her, but no one did. And they were drifting further and further away. Locke yowled an even uglier sound and hide beneath one of the benches as they watched another bolt of lightning hit the Volantyne's Resolve, setting fire to one of the mainsails.

"Shit. Shit!" Sabetha cursed, shouting again with all the air in her lungs. She continued shouting until her voice was coarse, and the Volantyne's Resolve was too far out into the horizon. She collapsed back into the hull and coughed again. This time blood spattered onto her and wiping her mouth decided it was in her best interest to ignore that.

Locke looked at her nervously from his hiding place and she just sighed, before everything went dark.

Sabetha woke up to burning hot sunshine, and with Locke nervously licking and nipping at her face. She brushed him off and he let out an excited and relieved meow in response. Her neck and shoulders killed from where Locke had been digging his claws in for so long, and her whole body ached. She could barely move.

The calm ocean was a mockery to what it had been the night before, and no ship could be seen as far as Sabetha could see off into the horizon. They were well and truly lost at sea.

It served her right. She should have stayed with Locke and Jean, discarded Patience's words. At least then she might have been able to die with her family. She had run to protect a future she will no doubt not get. She would have been a useless mother anyway. She's too stubborn and aggressive to ever hope to be the calm and caring mother she hoped to be.

Patience had tricked her. And she fell headfirst for it. Locke yowled and started to bite at her hand. He was no doubt still frightened and hungry. She was too. But this was how they were to die. Miles from home, from the man she loved. In an empty boat with a grumpy cat. If she was to die first, the cat would no doubt eat her. By the time anyone came across her corpse, it will be half-rotted and mauled. Completely unrecognisable.

Locke will no doubt think she had abandoned him forever, found a wealthy man and lived a wild life. He'll no doubt die alone and cold and bitter. Cursing her name in his last dying breath.

Jean would hate her. That she knew. Hate her for the pain she will have caused his particular friend who he is devoted too so tenderly. A devotion that caused ice to form in her heart.

That second night was one of the worst. One she spent the whole time awake. Locke had propped himself up on the edge of the boat and tried to drink the seawater, but she battered him down telling him how dangerous it was.

In the early glow of the morning, Sabetha spent a few hours trying to grab a curious fish to eat. Eventually, she succeeded, but it was barely longer than her finger. She fed it to Locke. He needed it more than her.

As the third night crawled in, cold wrapped itself around the boat. Locke snuggled into her for any remaining warmth, and they laid curled up shivering.

By the fourth morning, and the blistering heat, Sabetha drank the seawater.

The fifth morning, Sabetha woke to shouting and banging. Locke was freaking out, yowling with all his little lungs could muster. Sabetha sat up groggily to be face to face with a pirate and she yelped.

"I'd be damned Captain. The redhead is alive!" Sabetha tried to shuffle back only to notice she was stuck in her little lifeboat surrounded by pirates. Sabetha threw up once again, seawater coating her shivering form. The last thing she saw was a striking woman, with black skin and braided hair, rings pierced the arch of her ear and her eyes burrowed into Sabetha's soul, and then everything went blank.

Sabetha awoke in a cabin. Not as lavish as her one of the Volantyne's resolve, but smart and cosy enough. She could feel a little hand stroking her head and for a minute she thought it might be the little cat. To her surprise when she opened her eyes, two pairs of striking young eyes stared down at her, Sabetha sat up with a start.

"Ok, give her space now you two." The children backed off immediately and sat legs crossed about a metre away patiently. "I hope you don't mind, they were worried about you and I've been trying to teach them about medicine." Sabetha shook her head. The owner of the voice was the woman she has seen before she had passed out, but Sabetha had been sure she was the Captain, why would she be nursing her? "Now drink this." Before Sabetha could argue, a cold sour liquid was forced down her throat. It was probably one of the worse things she had ever drunk, and she gagged. "Ah ah ah," the woman warned, "don't go throwing that up in my lovely cabin, I won't be able to get the smell out for weeks, and it's good for you, you need the nutrients.

"How long have I been out?" Sabetha said, the sound coming out a raspy whisper.

"A few days. You have woken up a few times like this, I've shoved this tonic down your throat, and you've fallen back asleep. Something I suggest you do again."

"What about the cat I was with, he's mostly black and he's got a little dot of white on his neck."

"The cat is safe too. Already running the mice on board wild."  

Sabetha smiled in relief and let herself slip back into sleep.

It had been a week since she had initially woken up on the ship when Sabetha had enough strength to take a walk up onto the deck. As she pushed open the door, she was momentarily blinded by the brightness of the sky and swayed unsteadily on her feet.

"Oh, steady their redhead, don't want you falling overboard when we've just fixed ya up." It was the pirate she saw when she first awoke. She stood about an inch shorter than Sabetha and had light brown skin with cropped dark hair. Her eyes were the beautiful green of seawater, and her face was slightly flushed with the sun.

"Thank you," Sabetha said, rather breathlessly gripping onto the arm she held out for her.

"The names Asha, I'm the second mate on the Poison Orchid, nice to meet you," Sabetha smiled. It was welcoming to have a friendly face and Sabetha was put at ease.

"I'm Sabetha." Before she could stop herself, her true name slipped out of her throat, she cursed herself for being so clumsy and hoped it wouldn't come back to haunt her.

"Sabetha…" Asha let the name roll on her tongue a few times, "unusual."

"Uh, thanks," Sabetha replied, still squinting in the brightness of the sun.

"Want to take a turn around the deck with me and then go and eat something?"

"I've already had my tonic today."

"I don't mean that corpse shit, I mean some proper food. We haven't long stopped off at shore, so we've got stocks of it, and it's more than just ships crackers!"

Sabetha smiled again, "That sounds great." Asha linked her arms through hers and took her for a walk around the ship. Asha muttered on about all the different parts and where not to go, as well as the latest crew gossip. Sabetha smiled a real smile for the first time in a while. It had been a very long time since she had had a friend like this.

Memories of her times with Nazca at the last mistake, sat on the roof drinking brandy filled her mind. They would both talk over each other in an excited rumble Sabetha was surprised they ever understood each other. Nazca would talk about her brothers, and her dream to be Capa one day and laugh about all of the men who would hit on her to try and win her father's favour. Nazca had only told Sabetha as far as she knew that she was only interested in women. She kept it a secret from her father and brothers and though they loved her very much, she knew it would go down like a sinking ship. If she was to be Capa, she needed to have children to pass on the legacy. Something Nazca had no interest in doing.

Nazca often told her about her dalliances with women. They were frequent, and rarely with the same person. Sabetha often thought that Nazca might have a sex life to rival that of the Sanza's. She'd even slept with both of the Berangia sisters. To think they caused her father's death filled Sabetha's stomach with disgust. To think they were flirting with Nazca while plotting her father's death. They deserved the death they got at the wrong end of Jean's hatchets.

"Are you ok? You've gone all glassy-eyed?" Asha said, breaking a roll of bread in half and offering one half to Sabetha. She took it and didn't hesitate in taking a bite. Her first real bite of food in weeks. The bread was slightly bland, but Sabetha ate it as if it was the last thing she would ever eat, and then helped herself to another full roll.

Asha didn't comment, just offered her olives and little fish, which Sabetha graciously accepted. "I'm good, just really hungry apparently," Sabetha smiled between mouthfuls. Asha nodded and then walked her back to her cabin.

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