Shaded forearm tattoo of a snarling wolf head in a vape mod, with a green cap, a blue digital display showing 150 and a smoke cloud behind.

Wolf vape mod on a forearm

Forearm · Mixed · Photo

A snarling wolf head with bared teeth wraps around a vape mod, and a digital display reading 150 sits on its side. The tattoo uses grey shading for the metal body and the wolf, with soft smoke rising above the device. Green colour fills the cap and the display glows light blue, with the rest in black and grey.

Forearm Wolf Smoke

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit down by the ovens, you'll not get warm standing there, and I'll tell it while the dough proves. My grandmother told it to me in this same kitchen, before the shutters went up, when the flour still hung in the air like breath. There was a wolf once who lived in a grey box on the high shelf above the flour bins. He had a mouth wide open and a green cap on his head, and when he was cross he blew smoke clean across the room, so the bakers coughed and blamed the yeast.

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The wolf had a little window in his side, and in it a number glowed pale blue: 150. Every morning the baker turned the oven dial to that number, because 150 was the heat that lifted a loaf without scorching its heels. The wolf liked to think the number was his own, that he was the one keeping the bread honest. He grumbled through the cold nights, growling at the mice, and nobody told him he was only a box that held the warmth.

One winter the old baker's hands shook too much to work the dial, and his son came in from the frost, half asleep, and set it wrong. The oven roared. The wolf, for once, had nothing to say. He sat hot on the shelf and his smoke rose and rose until the son turned him down, but by then the loaves were black on the bottom and the whole street smelled of it.

The son stood with his hand on the box and said sorry to it, which is a foolish thing to say to a wolf made of metal. But the wolf had learnt something that morning. He had never kept the bread warm. He had only ever been the thing people looked at. So now, every dawn, he waits quietly on his shelf, and the first loaves come out gold, and the baker says, mind yourself, it's a hundred and fifty, and he knows who he has to thank.