#mountain living magazine

[sroiretni]

[havithreatendub4]

Published Oct 23, 2011 at 10:00 AM EDT

Updated Dec 05, 2017 at 5:27 AM EST

📸 Peter Mountain Photography

"Becoming Hunter S Thompson" for "Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas"

(Because I just prefer color photos....)

[timbarrus]

Truly great literature is written by outsiders—the unorthodox and the nonconformist. When their careers are destroyed before they begin, we all lose. Writers privately tell us that they are concerned about the inevitable literary pablum of the coming decade. It’s already here. 

Take notes. I live in a village in Appalachia. In the summer I am in the treehouse. I can see cerulean blue miles and miles of the Blue Ridge. Another country. Note the we, there is no we. I drive a dirt bike (the only way to get up here). My connection is a phone. I have a horse fence, a barbed wire fence, and a tall concertina fence. All posted. I built Numerous Signs: "No Trespassing. No hunting. No developers. We have shot guns (we don't)." A cherry bomb firecracker is louder than a shotgun. Home buyers and developers run. Developers have ruined your country. "Shoot To Kill." We don't shoot anything. No one on this mountain reads the New York Times. There are folks who live here with dirt floors. In Manhattan, you cannot imagine an entire house with dirt floors. It's inconceivable. We got the big snakes. Do not shoot them in the toilet. No more toilet. Shine as clear as a five in the morning waterfall. I know folks who live in their truck up on cinder blocks. Middle of the deep woods. Imaginative housing. Water when it rains. So take your moral judgements, erase the tape. You’all love to compare what you paid for your houses. We talk about how little we paid. I paid nothing. Gig economy. I'm a card counter, and everyone knows it. I advertise it. I don't participate much. If I did, they would shoot me. Around here, folks leave their shotguns on the table at the door. My presence is intimidating enough. So how big is your big house. I'll take my treehouse any day.

[aliyahwritings]

THE CONTRACTED HEART — Rafe Cameron (08)

MASTERLIST | Basketball Player & Model!Female Reader

Summary: Rafe Cameron, a basketball star, needs a marriage to fix his image, while Model!Reader needs one for citizenship. They may be the perfect solution for each other.

Warnings: smut, descriptions of violence, jealousy, usage of drugs, talks about body image/ed, angst, and lots of bickering. Reader is confident, a people-pleaser, has a traumatic past, and is a sunshine with an attitude. Rafe is a whore, possessive, cocky, and secretive about his past.

Word Count: 6.5k

Aliyah's Notes: i fucking hate this so much. i dont like anything about this chapter but the next chapters are gonna be yummy. hope u enjoy this trash :)

You stepped through the threshold into Rafe’s penthouse, and you were immediately struck by the space—clean, modern, and surprisingly immaculate. The quiet hum of New York City below faded, giving way to a silence you didn’t expect. The place felt polished, with clean lines and a minimalistic aesthetic that was entirely different from the messy and chaotic persona Rafe projected.

The living room opened up to an expansive view of SoHo’s city lights, stretching out in glittering rows beneath the vast windows. Soft, ambient lighting spills over sleek furniture—a large sectional couch in dark charcoal, a glass coffee table with a few tasteful magazines stacked in one corner, and a matching armchair positioned just right. Everything was so... neat. Even his shoes by the entryway were perfectly lined up.

You hesitated just inside the doorway, suddenly hyper-aware of the tension still knotted in your chest. After everything tonight, the walls of this calm, organized space almost seemed to close in around you, amplifying the turmoil still spinning inside your head.

“You can come in, you know,” Rafe’s voice broke the silence, snapping you back to the moment. He was standing beside you, watching as your eyes roved around the room. “Promise, there’s no trapdoor waiting to drop you,” he added, his attempt at humor softening his tone.

You managed a weak smile, stepping fully into the apartment. “Yeah, of course, no—uh, I guess I just… expected it to look different,” you admitted, letting your fingers drift over the cool surface of the console table by the door. There wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere.

“What did you expect?��� He grinned, kicking off his own shoes and motioning for you to make yourself comfortable. “Mountain of pizza boxes? A shrine to myself?”

The corner of your mouth lifted, and despite yourself, you chuckled. “Something like that.”

“Thank you.” He placed a hand over his heart with exaggerated gratitude. “I’ve put a lot of work into fooling people into thinking I’m a responsible adult.”

That got another smile out of you, and for a moment, the silence settled into something comfortable. You took a few tentative steps further into the space, letting yourself take in the polished decor, the subtle hints of personality hidden in the smallest details—a leather-bound book resting on the side table, a worn-in baseball cap hanging from a hook by the door, the faintest scent of coffee lingering in the air.

“Here, let me take your jacket,” Rafe offered, holding out a hand. His voice was calm, and there was a warmth in his eyes as he met your gaze. You hesitated, gripping the edges of your coat a little tighter before relenting, letting him slide it off your shoulders and hang it neatly by the entryway.

“Thank you,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

“No problem.” He gave a gentle nod, gesturing toward the couch. “Why don’t you sit for a minute? Or, if you want something to drink, I can grab you some water?”

The idea of sitting felt almost foreign to you, as if your body couldn’t settle even if you tried. “Water sounds nice,” you said, though your voice wavered as you followed him to the plush couch, perching awkwardly at the edge.

Rafe returned a moment later, handing you a glass of water. You muttered a thank you, taking a slow sip as he settled down beside you, keeping a respectful distance. For a while, the two of you just sat in silence, the soft hum of the city outside the only sound filling the space.

After a beat, Rafe broke the silence. “Wow,” he began, glancing sideways at you, “Tonight was insane.”

You nodded slowly, his words sinking in. For a moment, it felt like everything was too quiet, too still, and your mind began to race, searching for something—anything—to fill the silence.

As if sensing your discomfort, Rafe tried to lighten the mood, leaning back and stretching his arms across the couch. “So,” he started, an easy smile playing at his lips, “not to brag, but I make a mean cup of ramen. Best in New York. You hungry?”

The words landed like a trigger, setting off a wave of anxiety that you’d tried so hard to keep at bay. You felt your throat tighten, your heartbeat quickening as an overwhelming rush of emotions began to build. His casual offer had hit a nerve, and suddenly, the walls of the penthouse felt like they were closing in.

“I don’t… I don’t need anything,” you replied sharply, your voice wavering as your grip tightened around the glass of water. But Rafe’s well-meaning gaze didn’t falter, and the pressure inside you began to build, spiraling out of control.

"Are you sure?" he asked, his voice still gentle, still concerned, as if he wanted to make sure you were truly okay.

The question, that seemingly innocent offer, tore through you like a wound reopening. It was as if he’d taken a crowbar to a door you’d worked so hard to keep shut, prying it open until every raw, painful memory began flooding in, drowning you. Your breaths came faster, shallow, the room closing in around you as you tried to hold yourself together.

“No, I don’t want anything to eat! Why does everyone keep asking me that?” Your voice rose, sharper than you intended, and you could feel yourself teetering on the edge of something dark and manic. The walls seemed to close in around you as the noise in your mind grew louder and louder. “I don’t want to eat! I’m fine, okay? I don’t need anything!”

Rafe’s eyes widened in surprise, and he leaned back slightly, hands raised in a calming gesture. “Whoa, hey… I didn’t mean to upset you. I just thought… maybe you’d want something, that’s all.”

His words were gentle, but they only fueled the fire. “Everyone thinks I need to eat,” you continued, almost hysterical now, your voice shaking. “It’s always about food, isn’t it? Do they think I’m starving, or that I can’t take care of myself? I don’t need anyone to tell me to eat, or to make sure I’m doing it right, or to ask if I’m hungry every five seconds. I can take care of myself. I don’t need—”

Your voice cracked, and suddenly the weight of your own words hit you, the admission cutting deeper than you’d realized. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stop the flood of emotions that had finally broken free. All of the pressure, the expectations, the shame—it all came crashing down, suffocating you.

Without waiting, you shot to your feet, stumbling as you rushed toward the bathroom. Your breaths were coming in ragged gasps now, your heart hammering in your chest as you slammed the door shut behind you. The mirror loomed in front of you, but you couldn’t bear to look at your reflection, couldn’t face the hollow, haunted expression staring back at you.

Instead, you leaned over the sink, gripping the edges until your knuckles turned white, trying to keep the nausea at bay. But it was too much—the panic, the shame, the weight of Rafe’s eyes on you, seeing everything you’d tried so hard to hide. With a shaky breath, you turned away from the sink and sank to your knees, the familiar wave of nausea rising as the tears spilled over, thick and heavy.

The sound of your own sobs echoed off the tiled walls, and you buried your face in your hands, feeling the last of your composure slip away. It was a battle you’d fought alone for so long, a pain you’d hidden from everyone, even yourself. But here, in this stark, sterile bathroom, the weight of it all felt like too much to bear. The shame, the desperation, the need for control—it all crashed over you like a wave, drowning out everything else until you were left gasping for air.

Your throat burned, and the nausea twisted deep in your stomach, leaving you hunched over the toilet bowl. You gripped the sides of it, trying to will the shame away, trying to breathe through the crushing weight of panic that made it hard to even look up.

Then the door opened, and you froze, shoulders tensing as you felt his presence behind you. You wanted to scream at him to go away, to leave you alone, but before you could, you felt his hands on your back, warm and steady, rubbing gentle circles along your spine.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. I’m here,” he murmured, his voice low and calm, completely different from the usual playful, cocky tone. He crouched beside you, one hand reaching to hold your hair back, careful not to touch your face but close enough to keep it out of your way. It was a kindness you hadn’t expected—a tenderness that caught you off guard, that almost made it harder to keep from crying.

“Rafe…please…just go,” you choked out, voice barely a whisper. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”

But he stayed, his hand warm on your back, grounding you as your breaths came faster, rougher. “I’m not leaving,” he said quietly. “I don’t care about seeing you like this. Just focus on breathing. I’ve got you.”

Your shame deepened, the tears spilling over as the familiar cycle took hold, and you couldn’t stop it. But Rafe was right there, anchoring you, holding your hair gently and murmuring quiet reassurances as you retched, his hand never leaving your back.

When the worst of it passed, you slumped forward, feeling completely spent, the last shreds of your dignity scattered. You could barely bring yourself to lift your head, and when you finally did, you couldn’t bear to look him in the eyes. “You…you should’ve left,” you mumbled, your voice trembling as you wiped at your cheeks with shaky hands.

Rafe ignored your words, shifting so he could reach for a washcloth by the sink. He dampened it with warm water, and before you could protest, he gently tilted your chin, dabbing at your face with a gentleness that almost broke you. “Shh. You don’t have to say anything.”

The warmth of the cloth felt soothing against your skin, and the quiet intimacy of the moment—of Rafe here, with you in your most vulnerable state—left you speechless. He wasn’t supposed to see this side of you. This was meant to be an arrangement, something on paper, and yet here he was, his touch gentle, his gaze filled with an unexpected tenderness that left you feeling more exposed than ever.

Once he finished wiping your face, he reached for a glass of water, holding it out. “Here. Just rinse. You’ll feel better,” he murmured, his voice calm and steady, as though this were the most natural thing in the world.

You managed a weak nod, your hands trembling as you took the glass. After rinsing your mouth, you set it aside, still feeling hollow and raw, the weight of everything pressing down on you. Rafe didn’t pull away. He simply stayed close, watching you with a quiet patience that made your heart ache.

Then he reached into the cabinet, pulling out a tube of toothpaste. He unscrewed the cap, squeezing a bit onto a fresh toothbrush before handing it to you. “Here,” he said softly, his eyes meeting yours. “Trust me, it’ll help.”

His steady presence, his calm, unhurried movements, made it impossible to hide. You took the toothbrush, swallowing hard as you glanced away, barely able to hold back the fresh wave of tears that threatened to spill over. “You…you don’t have to do this,” you murmured, your voice breaking.

“I know,” he replied, his voice a soft murmur as he leaned back against the counter, staying close without crowding you. 

You closed your eyes, brushing your teeth in silence, every movement feeling surreal, like you’d stepped into someone else’s life. Rafe’s presence, his quiet support, felt too real, too genuine. For a moment, you allowed yourself to imagine that it was—all of it. That he was truly here for you, that you weren’t alone.

When you finally rinsed and set the toothbrush aside, he reached over, gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “There,” he said, his voice warm. “Better?”

You nodded, though words felt impossible. He offered a soft smile, his hand lingering at the edge of your shoulder. “You’re okay,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to keep this all to yourself, you know?”

You let out a shaky breath, feeling the ache of those words settle deep inside you. This was supposed to be fake—a carefully crafted arrangement, a performance for the public eye. Yet here he was, holding you in a way that felt so real it hurt.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, barely able to get the words out.

He shook his head, brushing a tear from your cheek with his thumb. “It’s all right. You don’t need to apologize.” For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence settling around you like a gentle blanket. Then, he tilted his head toward the hallway, his voice low and warm. “Come on, let me show you where you’ll be sleeping. You look exhausted.”

You nodded, the fight in you all but gone, and let him guide you down the hall.

He led you down the hallway off the living room, his hand light on your shoulder as if he was afraid to push too hard, but still determined to keep you steady. The quiet around you felt different now, no longer suffocating, but soothing. The weight of your earlier breakdown lingered, and you were acutely aware of his presence, the warmth of his hand anchoring you even as your mind replayed your outburst. But he said nothing, just kept moving forward, offering a silent comfort that, strangely, made you feel safe.

He opened the door to a room on the right, flipping on the light to reveal what appeared to be his guest room—if it could be called that. The room was filled with clutter: a stack of boxes against one wall, a few stray bags on the floor, and clothes that hadn’t quite made it into the closet. It was the only part of his home that didn’t feel curated, and you almost laughed at the mess, a strange relief filling you at the imperfection.

Rafe rubbed the back of his neck, looking almost embarrassed as he glanced around the room. “I, uh, haven’t really had the time to keep this room… organized,” he admitted, shooting you an apologetic smile. “Usually, it’s just storage, but—well, it has a bed.” He gestured to a neatly made bed tucked into the far corner, the only part of the room untouched by the chaos.

A small, involuntary smile tugged at your lips. “No, it’s perfect.”

Rafe’s expression softened, his hand dropping to his side as he watched you. “Good. I’m glad,” he said quietly. He took a step back, giving you some space as he gestured to the dresser by the wall. “There should be some extra blankets in there if you get cold, and if you need anything else…” He hesitated, meeting your eyes. “Just let me know. I’ll be right down the hall. Or, actually,” he added, seeming to correct himself, “I’ll probably be downstairs on the couch, but I’ll leave the door open. You know, just in case.”

What he didn’t say was that he couldn’t shake the worry gnawing at him. After seeing your outburst, and watching you throw up, he couldn’t bring himself to fully leave your side. He’d stay close enough to hear the slightest sound from your room, ready to be there if you needed him. The open door was his quiet reassurance: he wanted to be close enough to protect you, to do anything possible if the night took a turn.

You nodded, a quiet understanding passing between you. Despite everything, despite the tension and confusion that had brought you here, there was an undeniable comfort in his presence tonight.

Rafe lingered in the doorway for a moment, watching as you settled onto the edge of the bed, hands twisting nervously in your lap. You were still reeling from everything, still shaky, but the exhaustion was starting to settle in, weighing your limbs down. He looked at you, something unspoken flickering in his eyes, before he gave you a small nod and turned to go.

But just as he was about to close the door behind him, he paused. “Oh, wait. Here.” He pulled open a drawer in a nearby cabinet and took out a plain, oversized T-shirt, holding it out to you. “Thought you might want something more comfortable to sleep in.”

The kindness of the gesture caught you off guard, and for a moment, you just stared at the shirt in his hands, your heart unexpectedly warm.

“Thank you, Rafe,” you murmured, taking the shirt from him. The fabric was soft between your fingers, worn in a way that felt comforting.

He gave a soft, almost shy smile. “Anytime. Get some rest, alright?”

You nodded, watching as he closed the door halfway, leaving it just slightly ajar, a sliver of light from the hallway casting a gentle glow across the room.

Once alone, you changed into the shirt, the fabric falling around you in a way that was oddly comforting, like being wrapped in a part of him. You slid under the blankets, pulling them up to your chin, and tried to focus on the steady rhythm of your breathing. But even with the warmth of the bed and the security of the walls around you, sleep wouldn’t come. Every time you closed your eyes, your mind replayed the events of the night.

Minutes ticked by, each one stretching longer than the last. You tossed and turned, shifting under the blankets as you tried to settle, but your mind wouldn’t quiet, the unease creeping back in. Finally, with a sigh, you sat up, clutching the edge of the blanket as you tried to weigh your options.

You could hear the faint murmur of the TV downstairs, the soft hum of sound carrying through the quiet penthouse. Something about it felt reassuring, like a reminder that you weren’t alone here, even if everything in your mind felt isolated and dark.

Almost on autopilot, you slipped out of bed and padded toward the door, pulling it open quietly as you stepped into the hallway. Your feet moved almost without thinking, carrying you toward the staircase and down into the living room, where Rafe lay sprawled on the couch, his gaze fixed on the TV. He looked comfortable, one arm draped over his head, his eyes half-closed, the flickering light from the screen casting shadows across his face.

As you approached, he noticed you, his expression shifting from surprise to a warm smile. “Can’t sleep?” he asked, sitting up a little, his tone gentle.

You shook your head, wrapping your arms around yourself as you stopped just a few feet away. “I… I just couldn’t quiet my mind.” You hesitated, glancing at the empty space beside him on the couch. “Would you mind if I… joined you?”

Rafe’s eyes softened, and he patted the cushion next to him. “Of course. Here, take a seat.”

You eased down beside him, feeling the warmth of his presence as he settled back, his arm stretching out along the back of the couch. For a while, you just sat there in silence, the quiet hum of the TV filling the space between you.

After a moment, you took a steadying breath, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “I’m sorry… about earlier. About… the way I reacted.” Your voice trembled slightly, and you kept your gaze fixed on your hands, avoiding his eyes.

Rafe shook his head, his tone firm but gentle. “You don’t need to apologize, Y/N. Not for that.”

You managed a weak smile, feeling a twinge of relief at his understanding. “It’s just… sometimes I feel like everyone’s always watching me. Watching what I eat, what I do, how I look.” The confession felt raw, vulnerable, but sitting here with him in the dim light, it felt almost safe.

Rafe’s gaze was steady, attentive, as he listened to you, his hand resting on the back of the couch just inches from your shoulder. “I get it,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “Sometimes it feels like no matter what you do, someone’s waiting for you to slip up.”

You glanced at him, surprised by the understanding in his eyes. “I… I guess. I didn’t expect you to understand.”

Rafe’s expression turned thoughtful, almost pained, as he shifted, his gaze dropping to his hands. “I know that feeling more than I’d like to admit. It’s like… I’m always trying to be someone for my family, or at least… the son my dad wanted. And after my mom died…” He hesitated, his voice catching slightly, and he looked away as if he was afraid to let you see the rawness in his eyes. “I guess I felt like I had to fill a space I didn’t even know how to reach.”

Your heart twisted, a soft ache blooming as you watched him open up. You saw him differently in that moment, the weight of expectations he carried, the vulnerability he kept hidden behind the confident mask he showed the world. Slowly, you reached over, placing your hand over his, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your fingers. “I’m so sorry, Rafe. I didn’t realize…”

“It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice gentle. “It’s not something I talk about much. But… I guess it feels different with you.” His thumb brushed against your hand, the light touch sending a warmth through you that you couldn’t ignore. There was something in his eyes, something unspoken, a tenderness you hadn’t seen before, and it made your heart beat just a little faster.

The warmth in his voice, the sincerity, made your chest tighten in a way you hadn’t expected.

You managed a small smile, feeling a strange warmth settle over you. “Thank you, Rafe… for tonight. Really.”

He reached over, gently placing a hand over yours, his touch reassuring, grounding. “Anytime.” His voice was low, sincere, and the intensity in his eyes made your heart race, a warmth spreading through your chest that you couldn’t quite ignore. “I know this started out as a… as a deal, but I’d be more than happy to talk to your family, if that would help.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and you felt a softness in your chest that you hadn’t felt in so long. No one had ever made an effort like this for you. You squeezed his hand gently, meeting his gaze with a warmth that mirrored his own. “Thank you, Rafe.”

For a long moment, you just looked at each other, the quiet intimacy of the night wrapping around you, pulling you closer. His thumb traced slow, comforting circles over your hand, the warmth of his touch sending a thrill through you that you hadn’t expected. You didn’t know when it had happened, but something had shifted between you. 

As the quiet settled around you, the intensity of the moment began to ease, replaced by a warmth that made you feel unexpectedly at peace. Rafe still had his hand over yours, his thumb brushing soft, idle circles across your knuckles, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth as he looked at you.

“What?” you asked, noticing the spark of amusement in his eyes.

He shrugged, leaning back a little, though his hand didn’t leave yours. “I don’t know… you just have this look right now. It’s kind of cute.”

You laughed, rolling your eyes. “Yeah, right. After everything tonight, ‘cute’ is the last thing I’d call myself.”

Rafe’s smile softened, and his eyes held a kind of warmth that made your chest flutter. “No, seriously,” he said, his voice low and sincere. “You’re always beautiful, but right now… it’s like you’re letting go of something. And that’s what’s cute. You’ve got this calm about you, like you’re finally breathing easy.”

You blushed at his words, warmth spreading across your face. “I… I don’t even know what to say to that.”

“Say nothing,” he replied softly, his thumb still tracing small circles over your skin. “Just let me say something. I’ve been a mess lately… and I know I’ve been distant.” He hesitated for a moment, his gaze flickering away. “I owe you an explanation. About ghosting. The last two weeks… I know I hurt you.”

Then, just as you were about to look away, unsure of where this was going, Rafe continued; “I’m sorry for disappearing on you. I should’ve talked to you, explained. But I didn’t know how. I still don’t really know how…” He trailed off, his voice faltering for the first time since you’d sat down. “I didn’t want to mess things up, and I thought that if I kept my distance, it’d be easier.”

The honesty in his words made something ache in your chest, but it wasn’t just frustration anymore. There was understanding there too, a quiet sympathy for the walls he had built around himself, the things he wasn’t willing to confront until now.

“Why didn’t you just tell me that?” you asked, your voice trembling slightly. “Why pull away?”

Rafe’s lips twisted into a rueful smile. “I don’t know, Y/N. I don’t know why I do half the shit I do sometimes.” He shook his head. “But I didn’t want you to think I was using you. I didn’t want you to think this was just about the deal. Because it isn’t,” his gaze meeting yours, and the vulnerability in his eyes hit you like a wave. “Something happened,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “With my family.”

You frowned, trying to make sense of what he meant. “What do you mean?”

He let out a long breath, like the words were difficult to get out. “It’s about my dad—but it’s… more than that.” His fingers traced the edge of the couch, his eyes avoiding yours as he searched for the right words. “I didn’t want you to see me like this. I didn’t want you to think I was a mess.” He paused, then let out a humorless laugh, almost bitter. “But I am.”

Your heart sank as you watched him, the walls he had built around himself starting to crumble in front of you. Rafe’s eyes were distant now, focused on something you couldn’t see.

“My dad called me two weeks ago,” he continued, his voice tight. “He’s always… well, he's always trying to control everything. He told me I had to come to this meeting with him—something about my career and how I was handling things, how I’m not living up to the expectations he set.” He shook his head, a frustrated sigh escaping him. “But that wasn’t the worst part. It wasn’t just him. It was my stepmom, too. They’ve been pushing for me to change, to be more like my sister. She’s got this perfect life, the one my dad’s always wanted for me. And I don’t know how to explain it, but that day, I just… I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t keep pretending I was someone I’m not. So I shut off my phone. I just…” His voice trailed off as his hand dropped into his lap, the frustration still evident in the tension in his shoulders.

You listened in silence, the weight of his words sinking in. You had always seen Rafe as someone in control—confident, cocky, never afraid to face any challenge. But now, sitting here beside him, you saw a side of him you hadn’t expected. A side that was raw, real, and 2human.

“I couldn’t talk to you because I didn’t know how to handle it,” Rafe admitted, his voice softer now, more vulnerable. “I saw your texts. All of them. I just… I didn’t know what to say. I thought if I ignored it, it would be easier. But it wasn’t. And I’m sorry. I hurt you, and I should’ve been better. I should’ve communicated. I don’t expect you to just forgive me right away, but…” He paused, taking a deep breath.

Your chest tightened as you processed everything he was saying. It wasn’t just about the deal anymore, and it never had been. It was about everything he had kept buried deep inside of him—the weight of his family’s expectations, the pressure of trying to live up to something he couldn’t even define.

“I… I don’t know what to say either,” you whispered, your voice shaking a little. “You’ve hurt me, Rafe. You disappeared for two weeks without a word, and I didn’t know why. And it wasn’t just the silence—it was the feeling that I wasn’t even worth telling the truth to.”

Rafe’s expression softened, and he looked like he might say something, but you raised your hand to stop him, needing him to understand before he tried to apologize again.

“But I get it now,” you continued, voice a little stronger. “I get that it wasn’t about me. It wasn’t because of something I did. And maybe that helps, a little. But I can’t just pretend it didn’t hurt, Rafe. I’m not that strong.”

His eyes flickered with regret, and he nodded slowly. “I know. And I’m sorry. I really am.” He was still so vulnerable, still unsure of what the next step was, but something in his eyes—something raw and genuine—made you believe him.

The room fell into silence again, but this time it wasn’t the same heavy silence. There was understanding, there was pain—but there was also the unspoken possibility of moving forward. You weren’t sure where it was going, or what would happen after this, but for the first time in two weeks, you didn’t feel completely lost. You could see the cracks in him, and maybe, just maybe, you could help him heal them.

Rafe was leaning close, his hand resting over yours, fingers brushing softly. His thumb traced lazy circles across your skin, it felt like a reassurance. His gaze flickered down to your lips before meeting your eyes again, and you could see the hesitation there, the uncertainty, but also the longing.

You could feel the way your body responded to him. The way your chest tightened, how your breath hitched every time his thumb brushed your hand. And then, as if something finally clicked between you both, you leaned in, closing the distance just a little bit more.

Rafe’s eyes flickered down to your lips again, and this time, there was no hesitation. His hand, still covering yours, shifted until his fingers curled gently around your wrist, guiding you closer. His breath brushed against your skin as he closed the space between you, his lips hovering just inches from yours.

You both paused, breath mingling, sharing the same fragile moment. His eyes searched yours one last time, like he was trying to read you, to make sure you were truly there with him, in this moment. And then, without another word, his lips brushed against yours—a gentle touch, hesitant, as if he was testing the waters.

But when your lips met, it was like everything inside of you unraveled. His kiss was soft but insistent, like he couldn’t hold back any longer, like this was the one thing that could break through all the tension, all the confusion, all the weight of the unspoken things. And you kissed him back without thinking, without second-guessing, as if everything inside of you had been waiting for this exact moment.

His free hand lifted, gently cupping your face, his thumb grazing over your cheek as his lips pressed harder against yours. The kiss deepened, a slow, aching rhythm that made your heart race. You could feel the emotions, the vulnerability, the rawness in every touch, in every second of the kiss.

When you finally pulled away, it was only just enough to breathe. You rested your forehead against his, both of you trying to catch your breath. His eyes were closed for a moment, as if savoring the closeness, before he opened them, meeting your gaze once again.

“So…” You began, your voice light but purposeful. “About this whole marriage thing.”

Rafe blinked, pulling back, looking at you with a raised eyebrow. “What about it?” 

You smirked, feeling the words roll off your tongue before you could stop them. “I don’t know, I just keep thinking about how weird it’s going to be to call you ‘husband.’”

The effect was immediate. Rafe froze for a second, his gaze locking on yours, wide-eyed, as though the word had sent a shock through him. You noticed the way his breath caught, the way his hand tensed around yours, and the flush creeping up his neck.

“Wait, what?” He stammered, trying to mask the surprise but failing. “You’re—seriously, you just said ‘husband’ like it was nothing?”

You raised an eyebrow, your lips curling into a teasing smile. “Well, it is a word I’m going to have to get used to, right? You’re going to be stuck with it, whether you like it or not.”

Rafe let out a low, almost nervous laugh, but you could see the way his mind was clearly spiraling as he tried to regain his composure. “Yeah, well… I mean, it’s just—uh, it’s a little weird to hear it come out of your mouth. You know? ‘Husband.’”

You couldn’t help but smirk at the way he was tripping over his words, clearly caught off guard by the casualness with which you said it. 

“Oh, I’m sure it’ll feel more natural once we’re actually married.” You gave him a wink, knowing exactly how to throw him off balance.

But Rafe was looking at you differently now, his eyes softening as they flickered over your face. You could see the way his jaw clenched and unclenched, his gaze lingering on your lips before he snapped his focus back to your eyes, clearly struggling to rein in whatever thoughts were spinning in his mind.

And then, as though he couldn’t contain it anymore, he leaned in suddenly, pressing his lips to the side of your face, just below your ear. It was a quick, almost frantic kiss, like he couldn’t resist any longer. The next moment, his lips were on your temple, then your cheek, the soft, warm press of his mouth against your skin like an involuntary response.

You blinked, taken aback by the suddenness of it all, but a small, surprised laugh escaped you. “What was that about?” you asked, breathless from the unexpected affection.

Rafe pulled back, his expression almost shy now, like he hadn’t meant to do it but couldn’t stop himself. “I don’t know,” he muttered under his breath, not quite looking you in the eye. “You just… you said it again. And you looked so fucking pretty right now. I couldn’t hold myself back.” He was talking to himself more than to you, the words tumbling out as his hand found its way back to yours, his fingers curling around yours as though grounding himself.

You were silent for a moment, studying him with a mixture of amusement and something else—a warmth that spread in your chest, a recognition that maybe, just maybe, this whole marriage thing wasn’t so bad after all. His reaction was unexpected, but it made something stir in you. You felt a little giddy at the way he was reacting, the way he was unraveling in front of you. There was something so raw about it.

“Rafe,” you said softly, your voice teasing but with a deeper hint of affection now. “You’re really freaking out over the word ‘husband’?”

He gave you a sheepish look, a little embarrassed but still leaning in a little closer, as if he couldn’t help himself. “It just—did something to me, okay?” His voice dropped to a low whisper, eyes flicking from your lips to your eyes. “I don’t know. The way you said it… made me feel something I wasn’t ready for.”

Before you could respond, he kissed your cheek again, this time slow, deliberate, as if he was trying to savor the moment. He pulled back just enough to glance at you, his lips brushing against your skin as he murmured, “I swear, you’re killing me with that word.”

And then, almost without thinking, you whispered the word again, dragging it out just a little for dramatic effect. “Husband…”

His eyes closed at the sound, his breath catching in his throat. His reaction was instant. His hands cupped your face just as you had done, and suddenly, his lips were everywhere—across your forehead, along your jawline, down the side of your neck—each kiss soft, urgent, as if he couldn’t get enough. It wasn’t frantic, but it was definitely filled with a need that he wasn’t trying to hide anymore.

You couldn’t help but laugh softly between his kisses, your heart racing from the sweetness of it all. “Rafe,” you murmured through your laughter, “are you okay?”

He pulled back for a second, his forehead resting against yours as he let out a breathless chuckle. “Am I okay?” His voice was soft, almost incredulous. “I’m better than okay. I’m…” He stopped, looking at you with a look that was so intense, so unguarded, you felt it in your bones. “I’m kind of losing my mind over you right now, sweetheart.”

Your heart skipped a beat, the warmth in his eyes catching you off guard. The words hung in the air, a confession he hadn’t meant to make but couldn’t help. You swallowed hard, trying to keep your own composure. This wasn’t the time for heavy emotions, not when things were still so uncertain between you both.

But as you looked at him, his lips still slightly parted, his breath mingling with yours, you couldn’t deny the pull that had formed between you, something that felt more real than the arrangement you had set out to create.

“So… about that husband thing,” you said, a teasing smile curving your lips. “You sure you can handle it?”

Rafe chuckled, pulling you a little closer, his hands now resting on your waist as his eyes softened. “I’m starting to think I might be in trouble.”

“Trouble?” You raised an eyebrow, playfully narrowing your eyes. “Only if you keep kissing me like that. Otherwise, you’re fine.”

He smirked, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. “Good to know,” he whispered, “I’ll make sure to keep kissing you then.”

chapter nine

[dunmeshistash]

Ryoko Kui Exhibition & "Delicious in Dungeon" Exhibition

Kui's published mangas, descriptions from the exhibition english pamphlet

The dragon's school is on top of the mountain

This is Ryoko Kui's debut work, and her first collected volume of works. Published in 2011, it collects seven of her stories previously published on her website and in doujinshi (self-published works), as well as two new stories. It includes a trilogy of tales which may have taken place behind the scenes of the heroes' adventures in a Role-Playing Game; and which follow the conventions of an RPG. These are "Kikyō" (Return home), which portrays the sorrow of a hero having returned to his hometown after defeating the Demon King; "Mao" (The demon king), which tells the tale of the Demon King from his birth to his downfall; and "Maō jō mondai" (The problem of the demon king castle), which depicts the course of events surrounding the demon castle having lost its master. The story "Gendai shinwa" (Modern myths) depicts the daily lives of coexisting horsepeople (centaurs) and ape-people (homo sapiens), told from the perspectives of a centaur and homo sapien married couple, and a female homo sapien company employee and her junior male centaur. It comically depicts real-life issues such as anti-labor regulation demonstrations, and the disparity between retirement benefits and life expectancy, and as such can be considered satire of the diverse issues faced by modern society. The title story "The dragon's school is on top of the mountain" is set in a university that has the only "Faculty of Dragons" in Japan. It depicts the members of the dragon research society who seek out ways to use dragons, which apparently have no demand in modern society. They explore uses for dragons, such as for food, as pets, and as advertising media. Other highlights include Kui's sad love stories, told from unique perspectives, such as the fairytale-esque "Daikon yama no yome sagashi" (A bride for Daikon mountain) which tells the tale of a man's efforts to marry a female god in order to bring fortune to his poor village, and "Shingaku tenshi" (School-going angel) which depicts the woes of a high school girl with angel wings.

Seven Little Sons of the Dragon

This collection of short stories includes self-published works and short stories published in KADOKAWA publishing's magazine Fellows! throughout 2011 and 2012. The collected volume was published in 2012. The stories are set in different countries and time periods, featuring supernatural beings such as dragons, mermaids, gods, and werewolves. "Ryū no Shōtō” (The dragon turret) is set in two neighboring mountains and sea kingdoms. A dragon builds a nest and lays eggs on the border at the only crossroad connecting two warring nations. The nations declare a ceasefire in fear of the dragon, but as peddlers are also unable to come and go, supplies become scarce. A Sea Kingdom soldier who was taken as a prisoner of war by the Mountain Kingdom is tasked with transporting supplies between the kingdoms, and in time he becomes close with a girl of the mountain Kingdom. But the time for the dragons to leave their nest is approaching, meaning that the war will begin again. “Ōkami wa uso wo tsukanai" (Wolves don't lie) starts out with the premise of being a parenting manga by a manga artist whose son has "werewolf syndrome", then suddenly turns into a story told from the perspective of the son, who is a werewolf. The feudal drama "Kane nashi Byakuroku" (Byakuroku the penniless) tells the story of an elderly gifted artist who always leaves out one eye because otherwise his creatures come to life and pop out of the paper. He is deceived by his apprentice and left penniless, so paints both eyes into the only work remaining, counterfeit picture of a samurai. He enlists the somewhat incompetent fake samurai who has come to life, to help him raise money, and misadventures ensue. Each of these precious seven stories depict the bond between parents and children, family members, and loved ones. While humorous, they are also emotionally stirring.

Terrarium in Drawer

This is a collection of short stories that were published in the literary web magazine MATOGROSSO (EAST PRESS), as well as the cat anthology “Nyansolo” (EAST PRESS), Aoharu (Shueisha) and doujinshi. The story “Ryū no gekirin" (Wrath of the dragon) portrays the process of cooking dragon cuisine from preparation to seasoning with trivia about the ingredients. "Kigō wo taberu" (Eating symbols) depicts unique ways of cooking symbols such as circles being fied whole, while squares are sliced thinly and served with sashimi soy sauce. A motif that is also common in "Delicious in Dungeon" can be found in these stories. Other chapters include “Kawaiku naritai" (I want to be cute) which depicts the makeup techniques of a cat who wants to be beautiful; "Shōtoshōto no shujinkō" (A short, short story's protagonist) which is a meta perspective comedy while having many twists and turns; and "Yume no aru hanashi" (A dreamy story) set in a Santa Claus temping agency during the busy season. You can enjoy 33 diverse stories with creative perspectives and approaches, ranging from science fiction to fantasy and fairy tales. Another charming aspect of this book is the wide variety of styles it showcases, from shojo manga, to horror, gekiga, and even a simple touch of experience-based manga. The homages to famous authors and their works are also quietly amusing. In 2013, this collected volume won the 17th Manga Division Excellence Award of the Japan Media Arts Festival, organized by the Agency for Cultural Affairs, which is awarded to outstanding works of art and entertainment.

Delicious in Dungeon

This is Ryoko Kui's first long-running series. It began serialization in Harta published by KADOKAWA from February 2014 to 2023, spanning a total of 14 book volumes. The story is set in an expansive labyrinth that suddenly appeared on an island one day. The main character Laios is an adventurer whose sister Falin is devoured by a Red Dragon while exploring the labyrinth. Falin casts a final magic spell which lets Laios and the rest of his companions escape the labyrinth, but they return to rescue and resurrect Falin. However, having lost their equipment and supplies, the group decides to become "self-sufficient” by cooking and eating the monsters they defeat along their way, as they adventure deeper into the labyrinth. Grounded in the familiarity of classic fantasy RPG elements, the series adds its own unique settings and meticulous world building. Its monster cooking scenes are illustrated alongside detailed cooking instructions, making it a never-before-seen labyrinth gourmet manga, which has become an overnight sensation. According to Kui, the motif of "cooking monsters" was born from an idea she had of wanting to depict what falls between the lines of adventures, such as meals and camping, which are typically not depicted in roleplaying games*. The manga has been adapted as a television anime series to run for two seasons from January to June 2024. A second series has also been announced. The series was produced by TRIGGER inc., who also produced and animated a commercial for the manga in 2019.

[mxltifxnd0m]

heaven's in your eyes യ s. winchester

summary: you and sam are in a sticky situation and there's only one way to get out of it

pairings: sam winchester x reader, sam winchester x fem! reader

word count: 3.4K

warnings: vaguely set in season 3/4, fluff, mutual pining, slight angst, teasing from dean, sam in a tux (yes that's a warning), kissing, suggestive/spice, implied smut but no smut

a/n: i've had this one stuck in the noggin for a while and finally got around to writing it! this was heavily inspired by and based on the mall scene in captain america TWS between steve and nat and 3x6 episode with bela.

reblog and comment on the fic! I love seeing your thoughts on it sm 😊

𝘴𝘢𝘮 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵

You never thought you'd be in this position in a million years, feeling the heat of Sam's hands seep into the fabric on your waist as he pulled you in closer, sliding his leg between yours as your back hit the wall. This is not what you had thought would happen when you decided to ask for the Winchesters' help on your hunt.

You had run into the Winchester brothers after you had "accidentally" killed the witch they had been hunting. You had no idea that the three of you were hunting the same witch, but you had gotten to her first. You had no clue that the Winchesters were in the same town as you. Your paths never crossed until they found you hunched over the witch's body, blood splattered over your face and clothes, with the living room of the witch in complete disarray.

You looked up from the dead witch to see two tall mountains dressed in leather and flannel standing in the doorway. You remembered their faces were screwed up with expressions of surprise and puzzlement as you stood up from the carpeted floor with a grin on your face.

"Seems I beat the two of you to it." You said to them, slightly out of breath, and stuck out a hand for them to shake, introducing yourself to the two men who you deduced to be hunters. You instantly noticed that they were gorgeous. They seemed to walk straight out of a GQ magazine. But the thing that gave away the fact that they were hunters was how they held themselves like soldiers (and the fact they had guns in their hands as they burst into the house like madmen).

Your eyes were drawn to the taller one of the two (they were both pretty tall, but you could have considered this one a giant). He had shaggy brown hair with bangs that you just knew that he had to brush away from his eyes frequently and a nose that, if you followed the slope of it, you could see how it came to a cute point at the end of it. What really entranced you was his hazel eyes that memorized you as soon as you made contact with them.

They introduced themselves as Dean and Sam, the latter being the one you found yourself attracted to the most as his warm hand engulfed yours as the two of you shook hands.

From then on, you guys seemed to cross paths at least once a month on a hunt. Whether it was a nest of vampires, a vengeful spirit, or a pack of werewolves, the Winchesters and you would end up in the same place and time and end up working together. There was this unspoken agreement that the three of you would work together if you so happened to be working the same hunt.

During these hunts, you found yourself pining over Sam Winchester. You didn't know how it happened at first (okay, you do know how it happened, but you didn't want to admit anything at first), but you noticed how kind and sweet Sam was. Sam's empathy and positivity were a stark contrast to the bleakness you were used to as you worked on hunts, but it was a breath of fresh air for you.

It didn't help that the two of you got along like a house on fire. You met someone who could understand your weird niche literary references, match you in a battle of wits, and actually enjoy learning and the research aspect of hunting. And your yearning for him didn't stop there because it didn't help that Sam was devastatingly handsome and, at his core, such a gentleman.

The realization that you liked Sam hit you like a ton of bricks. So, you did what you did best when it came to your feelings, you ran. You distanced yourself from them. You would purposely dodge their calls (Sam's mostly). It was a dick move, and you knew it since they were most likely calling for help, but you couldn't bring yourself to call back.

But with this particular hunt, you were stumped and needed help. You had tracked down a necklace from the late 17th century that led a trail of bodies behind it. You surmised that it was cursed, and you needed to get to it and burn it. The only problem was that it was sold to a small museum owner in an estate sale from the previous owner and was going to be displayed in the town's museum for its grand opening, with the necklace being the main exhibit. You had no way of getting it without being caught, so you needed extra hands.

You paced the length of the motel room you were staying out, biting your thumb as you debated on calling in for some help. You would have called Bobby for help, but you knew he would just send the Winchesters over to you anyway. After pacing around your room, you bit the bullet and called Dean.

"Well, isn't this a surprise sweetheart!" Dean's voice filtered through your ears, and you couldn't help the slight smile that grew on your face at the sound of his cheery tone (even if you could hear the undercurrent of smugness in his words).

"Hi Dean," You greeted with a chuckle as you sat down on the edge of the bed, the springs creaking slightly underneath your weight.

"I hate to admit it, but I need your help on this hunt I'm working on." You asked as you bit your bottom lip, waiting for his response.

"You're in luck. Sammy and I just wrapped up a hunt here, where are you anyway?"

You felt your heart start to beat faster at the mention of Sam, which made you roll your eyes at your reaction to just a name. You told him the town and the state the hunt was in, and you could practically hear the grin in his voice as Dean replied.

"We're not that far from you. Just a couple hours drive from you."

"Well, if you're up for it, I could really use the help."

"Oh, we'll be there, sweetheart. Text me the motel you're staying at and the room number, and I'll let you know when we get there."

"Will do." You told him, and the two of you said goodbye as you hung up the phone. You fell backward onto the bed with a loud exhale. At least you had a couple of hours to compose yourself and try to breathe normally. You found yourself always short of breath while Sam Winchester was in the vicinity of you (you should probably go to the doctor for that, but it's not like you had good health insurance for a physical).

A couple of hours later, you heard the familiar rumble of the Impala just outside of the motel room. You felt something flutter in your stomach when you realized that you'd be seeing Sam after three months of no contact. There was a knock at the door, and after checking through the peephole of the door, you unlocked and swung the door open to be greeted with the broad grin of Dean Winchester, his brother, standing right behind him with a smaller smile on his face.

Dean had pulled you into a short but warm hug and brushed past you into your room, making himself home as you gave Sam a hug in greeting, feeling his arms wrap around you and squeezing before letting go. You could have sworn his touch lingered as he entered your room. You bit your bottom lip and released it as you shut your door.

Once Sam and Dean were settled at the table in your motel room and you on the bed, you gave them the rundown of what the hunt was and what you needed to do to get rid of the necklace. You were so engrossed in explaining your research and what you found out that you didn't notice Sam's eyes trained on you the entire time, a fond smile on his face as he listened to you talk.

"Not that we're not happy to see you, but this seems like a one-person job?" Dean questioned.

"That's what I thought too, but I found out that the necklace was going to be the main exhibit for the museum and unveiled at the end of the night. I was going to knab it beforehand, but this museum has pretty good security, and as much as I'm good at sneaking around, I don't have the measures to handle them without backup."

"We're just backup then? Oh, that hurts more than you could imagine sweetheart," Dean pretended to get shot in the heart, dramatically holding his chest.

You chuckled at Dean before you looked at Sam at that moment and caught him rolling his eyes at his brother.

"Quit being dramatic Dean," Sam said before his eyes met yours. "We'll help in anyway we can." The soft smile that was on his lips made you melt inside.

You smiled back at Sam. "Thanks, but there's another thing, it's a black-tie event." You winced a bit at your own words.

Dean groaned. "You're telling me I have to wear a tux?"

You scoffed at Dean's whining. "At least you could still hunt in a tux, wearing a dress makes it a little more difficult to move in."

A salacious grin made its way onto Dean's face. "Ah, but it's easier access if you know what I mean." He winked at you, and one of the pillows from the bed hit his face. You heard Sam chuckle, making your smile widen.

"Shut up, Dean. It's late, and the event is tomorrow. So you guys need to buy a suit and I need to go out and buy a dress." You all but shooed the brothers out of your room and bid each other good night.

Morning came faster than you anticipated, and the three of you went out for breakfast at the nearest diner before you guys went shopping for the outfits you needed for tonight.

"So, I was thinking, if the event is black-tie, wouldn't it mean this is invite only?" Sam asked while the three of you were eating.

You swallowed thickly and nodded. "Yeah, I was able to get two tickets, both of them with plus ones." The sweet old lady who ran the motel had given them to you, saying that she was too old to go and wanted to give them someone. She had given them to you since you had mentioned offhandly that you wanted to visit the museum after it opened.

"Good, I'll take the other ticket and Sammy here can be your plus one." Dean said with a wide smile as he patted Sam's shoulder. Your eyes widened at Dean's words, seeing the mischief glint in his green eyes.

You pursed your lips and looked at Sam. He had an unreadable face and looked everywhere but at you.

You cleared your throat to grab his attention. "Is that okay with you Sam?"

Sam finally looked at you and hummed. "Sorry, what?"

"Are you okay with being my date to the museum?" You clarified.

Sam nodded, his hair falling into his eyes as he did. "Yeah, it's okay." He reassured you, and the temptation to brush it away for him was at an all-time high. You couldn't help but feel a little disappointed when he did it himself.

From there, the three of you finished your breakfast and went out and shopped for your dresses and tuxedos, respectively. You had found a beautiful spaghetti-strap green dress; the neckline came at a v, exposing a large portion of your collarbone and chest, a slit on either side of the dress that went up to your midthigh. There was an open back that stopped right above your lower back. This was the first time in years you would wear a dress, and when you tried it on in the store, you couldn't help but get it.

Once you guys were done shopping, you went back to the motel to get ready. Dean teased you about how girls take longer, but you didn't dignify his teasing with a response. With a roll of your eyes and a wave of your hand, you went into your motel room to get ready and informed the boys to be prepared by 6:30 since the event started at 7.

You took a shower, shaved everything, and slipped into the dress. You did your makeup, and it was a little heavier than usual, having put some eyeshadow on your lids, smoking it out, eyeliner, and some lipstick to tie the look together. With your hair, you french braided the front of it, leaving some framing pieces out, and then took the rest of your hair and pulled it into a bun at the nape of your neck.

There was a knock on your door as you finished up, and you quickly left the bathroom and opened the motel door to see Sam and Dean in their tuxes. They both looked handsome, but your breath caught as you stared at Sam. His hair was relatively the same; it was just combed down, and some product was used to tame it. His suit fit him like a glove, and you gripped the door a little tighter as your eyes roamed his figure.

"Wow," Dean breathed out, breaking you out of your little trance. "You look great." Dean said with a genuine smile on his face. His compliment made you smile.

"Thanks Dean. You look pretty good too."

Dean scoffed playfully. "Just good? I think the words you're looking for are handsome, jaw-droppingly attractive or you know any adjective that means hot."

"Right," You drawled out. "Why would I lie to you?" You smiled sarcastically at him and laughed when his smile dropped into a scowl.

"I'll be in the car." He grumbled before stalking off to the parking lot and to the Impala.

You and Sam laughed at Dean before the two of you settled into an awkward silence.

You smiled tightly at him. "Let me get my bag and we can go."

Sam nodded, and you quickly grabbed your bag. You exited the room and locked the motel door once it closed. The two of you walked to the Impala and got in.

Once you had entered the museum, you knew you were doomed. Sam was acting like a perfect gentleman and date, always having a hand on you at all times, whether it be at the small of your back or your arm hooked around his as you walked around the ornate museum.

"I didn't get to say this earlier, but you look beautiful." Sam had whispered into your ear as the two of you walked into the museum, and you almost tripped on your kitten heels because of the sudden compliment. You felt your cheeks warm as you quietly thanked him.

The three of you decided to walk the museum and tried to find the necklace before it could be unveiled to the public. Dean had the first floor, while you and Sam had the second floor. Most of the second floor was the other exhibits the museum had. But you eventually found the necklace behind a locked room. Sam picked the lock to the door and saw the necklace in the corner of the room. The two of you carefully grabbed the necklace from the mannequin neck it was displayed on and put it in your bag.

Before you guys could get out of the room, you heard heavy footsteps heading your way. You started to panic internally as Sam looked at you urgently.

"Kiss me." You blurted out.

Sam's eyes widened. "What?"

"Look, we don't have a way out without being caught and public displays of affection make people very uncomfortable."

"Yeah, they do. Are you sure?"

You heard the footsteps get closer and closer, and you quickly pulled Sam down by his neck and placed your lips on his. Sam's hands found your waist as he pulled you in closer to his broad figure but also moved you backward until your bare back hit the wall.

His lips were soft and warm as they moved against yours, and you couldn't help but feel warmth fill your chest as you kissed him. Your hands made their way up his chest and wound up on his shoulder and hair, making him scoot closer to you, his leg fitting through the gap between your open ones and gasping into his lips as his thigh pressed against your core.

The door opened, and the both of you pulled away, slightly out of breath, and turned to see Dean grinning widely in the doorway.

"Well, as much as I love to see the two of you work your feelings out for each other, we need to leave before we get caught stealing a necklace."  

Your heart starts to beat faster than it already was at Dean's words. Sam had feelings for me? You thought to yourself as you looked at Sam, who was already looking back at you and seemed to think about the same thing.

Sam leaned down. "We'll talk at the motel." He whispered in your ear before pulling away and sending you a smile. You nodded and followed him out of the room, Dean leading the charge out of the museum.

You were nervous and antsy the entire ride back to the motel, having destroyed the necklace in the woods right beside the museum. You stared at the back of Sam's head as Dean drove, wondering what the hell was going through his head.

When you guys made it back, Sam had you followed back to your room. Dean noticed, and he started to make some teasing remarks about the two of you to keep it down. All you and Sam did was flip him off and go into your room.

After the door shut, you and Sam were standing in the middle of the room, staring at each other in a charged silence. You don't know who moved first, but the two of you were entangled in one another, hands pulling at clothes, lips, and teeth on jawlines and neck. Hips grinding into one another, low moans and groans filled the air as the two shared a passionate embrace.

Later, after the two of you cleaned up, you were tucked into Sam's side, resting your head on his bare chest, absentmindedly tracing his tattoo with your fingertip. At the same time, his hand trailed up and down your arm and shoulder and kissed your hair occasionally as the two of you basked in the comfortable silence.

"This isn't a one time thing for me you know?" Sam's voice broke through the calmness of the quiet room.

You turned your head to look up at him. "Really?" You asked him, and you could feel the corner of your lips threaten to twitch up into a smile.

Sam nodded a sheepish smile on his face. "I know I don't have the best track record, but I really like you." He said with a slight blush beginning to grow on his cheeks.

Sam had told you about his experiences with love in a late-night conversation you two had shared a couple of months ago. You could understand since you also didn't have the best experiences with love either and confided in each other about it.

But at Sam's admission, you couldn't help but smile widely as Sam. You moved from Sam's side to straddle his hips. He sat up a little, and you threw your arms over his shoulders.

"Well, you're in luck because I really like you too Sam Winchester." You leaned closer and brushed your lips over his.

You felt Sam grin as you pecked his lips. "Really?" He teased, his hands resting on your bare hips as he slowly moved them against his growing bulge under the sheets.

You kissed him hard before trailing your lips down his jaw and neck. "How about I just show you?" You mumbled against his collarbone and nipped at it before your lips trailed lower and lower down his body.

Maybe calling the Winchesters for help wasn't a bad idea at all.

[mead-iocre]

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

spoiled!reader who grew up going to a prestigious boarding school nestled between mountains in switzerland. breakfast at the dinning hall involved freshly baked pastries, aristinal breads, cheese boards, and locally sourced fruits that aren't even in seaosn. she gets taught latin on wednesdays and fridays, and horseback riding is part of the curriculum. fencing was optional, and the classes were always crowded, so she chose polo instead. the uniform was a crisp white blouse, tucked neatly into the pleats of italian cotton plaid skirt. the navy blazer, with the school crest—a silver eagle-- hand embroidered and shining proudly on the pocket. shoes had to be only the finest leather shoes, matte not shiny so no one stands out, and preferably with a inch or two heel for the girls. she detested the uniforms because it made everyone bland and constricted individual expression. also: her miu miu heels were not made to wear with an ugly plaid skirt.

as a result of being away from home so often for most of her childhood, she grows up quite detached from her parents. she's independent but because she really had no other choice. birthdays and christmases were always lavish, but never sentimental. every year she would get an email from her parents with a short, straight forward "happy birthday" and some more money added to her card that day. even though her family had a lot of it, money was always conditional. father’s greetings over the phone always start with “if” and mother’s favourite word was “but”.

"if you continue to get full merits on your quarterly report cards then we'll buy you that bag you've been asking for" or "your teacher says you have gone down a rank-- from top of the class to third which isn’t too bad but it’s disappointing" and "if you want to be home for Christmas, you'll finish and submit your project early or else Daddy won't pay for a flight"

as a result, spoiled!reader grew up thinking money was conditional. that whenever someone spent money on her, she needed to do something to earn it. but when she met leah that all changed. spoiled!reader will never forget their first date when she offered to split the bill (like she does with every single date she has ever been on), but leah adamantly refused. she waited for the condition to come, the "well since I payed you for you, owe me another date" because it always came sooner or later, but there was none. leah ended up getting that second date, and the third and the fourth...

so now as you ascend the stairs into the looming doors of the school entrance, it isn't as scary anymore. what used to be a place of dullness and routine, is now a mere memory tucked into the furthest places in your mind. you pull the hand that's holding leah, eagerly stepping into the grand foyer where you recognizes a few familiar faces. your pink Fendi heels, shiny not matte because you want to stand out, click clanking against the marble floor as you lead leah into the high school class reunion. some of the people in this room you have not seen once in 10 years.

"are you ready to meet the most pretentious, self-absorbed people you'll ever meet?" you whispers to your lover.

leah entwines your fingers together and gives you a grin. "remember, the safe word is apples"

in the middle of the conversation between acquaintances not friends, they speak about their current lives. subtle drags about how they can appear more fulfilled and better than the woman standing next to them. talks about law school and medical school, about how hard it's been to manage their careers. fruitless stories about how they were all busy these days that it was even a miracle they could attend the reunion. eventually, they turn their conversation to you. "what are you doing these days?"

swallowing the last sip of vintage white, you smile. "I still work at the magazine but part time now"

"oh."

you catch the note of pity in their voices, willing yourself to hold the smile threatening to crack on your face. you wanted to yank the tacky pearl necklace that rests against her collarbones. Veronica never liked you, even back then.

"Don't you want to do something with your life? You know, instead of wasting your days at some desk job"

Leah stiffens beside you, her grip on your hand tighter than it was a minute ago.

"I don't mind it, actually", your reply is curt. "My job allows flexibility for when I have to join Leah for away games and whenever I have to travel with her for work. One day we'll be in London and the next day we'll be in New York for fashion week events"

They nod along but they're obviously not too impressed. which is fine because you weren't here to impress them or participate in this little game they've invented about who has a better life post-high school. "I'm actually quite spoiled these days"

"Ahh still being spoilt by mummy and daddy?" she meant it teasingly probably but you caught the hint of scorn in her tone.

From your peripheral, you notice Leah talking a small step forward, positioning herself so that she is almost shielding you from the rest of them. her height towering slightly over the other women in your group. you notice the stiffness in her jaw and the way her eyebrows lift in mockery. she chuckles slightly into the rim of her wine glass "yeah her daddy definitely spoils her"

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

idk what I just wrote but i typed out that last bit with the biggest cheesy grin on my face lol

I'm sorry if this wasn't exactly what you were asking for, anon. if you want something else please send me another prompt in my inbox <333333

*This work is my original creation. Please don’t copy, share, or translate it without asking for my permission. Thanks for respecting that!

[tokutaiseichan]

B's-LOG October Issue's Tokyo Debunker Character Interview Translations

It's finally done~~~!!!! Me and @kurosagileo worked hard on it so I hope everyone can enjoy it too! Also big thanks to @tzutako for providing the raws of the interview!

Credits:

Translation: @kurosagileo (Frostheim, Vagastorm, Sinostra), @tokutaiseichan (Jabberwock, Hotarubi, Obscuary, Mortkranken) Raw Provider: @tzutako

FROSTHEIM

Jin

Incantation: Bianerus Effect: Commands have compelling power over others.

Q: What is your favorite subject? A: People who don’t understand Anomalous Information Studies have no right to talk about anomalies. That’s all. 

Q: Do you have any concerns with missions? A: …. If you’re talking about the mission, contact Tohma.

Q: What’s your favorite place on campus? A: The dorm balcony. Having a smoke there is especially nice. 

Q: Where would you like to go if you have your R&R permit approved? A: Should I go to my vacation home in Niseko and take a nap? …. It’s not impossible. Hey Tohma, get the helicopter.

ーーーーー

Tohma

Incantation: Argeas Effect: Vibrations can be transferred to distant places through materials like walls and floors.

Q: What is your favorite subject? A: I’m very sorry, but nothing in particular. Darkwick’s subjects are a bit unique, so I can just barely keep up.

Q: What is good about your house? A: It’s thoroughly cleaned and furnished to be pleasing to the eyes. Also, the elegant Frostheim students, perhaps.

Q: Do you have any concerns with missions? A: With the assistance of a uniquely talented master and the perceptive juniors, there are no concerns at all. The captain isn’t feeling well? No, that won’t be a big deal. 

Q: Where would you like to go if you have your R&R permit approved? A: If I get an R&R permit approved…… let’s see. For example,  how about going out to a nearby mountain and going trekking. That’s surprising? Hahaha…… Of course I mean it. 

ーーーーー

Luca

Incantation: Iggnaim Effect: Invokes an invisible barrier.

Q: What is good about your dorm? A: The atmosphere is similar to my hometown and it’s comfortable. And then, the air on the premises is so clear that at night there are times when you can see the Aurora. If I’m here, I feel like my soul is in harmony with nature. 

Q:  Do you have any concerns with missions? A: Actually, I want to be sent on a higher ranking mission. I train every day to make that wish come true. Definitely someday…… I will be able to subjugate a demon with my hands. 

Q: Where would you like to go if you have your R&R permit approved? A: I want to go to a restaurant that Kaito said “All the Japanese boys like.” If I remember correctly…… it was called Jiro style ramen. Since there’s not a restaurant like this in my hometown in England, I’m really looking forward to it. 

Q: What do you think about the ghoul(s) in your house? A: From the day I transferred to this school, Kaito was my first friend and has been a really good friend to me. I’m also very grateful to Tohma for all the help. Now, all that’s left is for Jin to fulfil his duties, but….

ーーーーー

Kaito

Incantation: Unknown Effect: Unknown

Q: What is good about your house? A: Hm…… my house, on the surface, is a symbol of authority! Or that’s what’s said. Honestly, commoners like me feel out of place… they’re all always trying to get the upper hand, I can’t stand it. 

Q:  Do you have any concerns with missions? A: Nonono, firstly I’m concerned that the mission itself even exists!? I just want to live a peaceful and fun school life!!

Q: Where would you like to go if you have your R&R permit approved? A: Um… wait a sec. I think it was featured in Men’s An’a*, but…. ah, yeah yeah! The number 1 for classic dating spots ranked…….. the Tokyo Skytree!!! [*Possibly a parody of An An magazine]

Q: What do you think about the ghoul(s) in your house? A: Hm…… the captain and vice captain honestly feel like they live above the clouds….. Rumor has it the two of them are colluding with Darkwick, I heard they’re doing something nasty. Eh? Luca? …… I don’t know that bastard with an unrivaled face. 

ーーーーー

VAGASTORM

Alan

Incantation: Yagsal Olbasa Effect: Specifics unknown. It seems to be a very dangerous ability.

Q: Do you have any concerns with missions? A: ……The path he chose, will it lead closer to the truth? I keep asking myself that.

Q: What’s your favorite place on campus? A: A fishing spot. Since it’s in the forest, no one usually comes there. How do you get there from the main building……? ….. I won’t know until I go back to the dorm.

Q: Where would you like to go if you have your R&R permit approved? A: Mount Hotaka. Ah, it’s in the Northern Alps. It’s definitely far from here, but…… I’d take the car so it’s not a problem. 

Q: What do you think about the ghoul(s) in your house? A: We’re just some random people who obtained power by chance. But, clawing their way up like their life depends on it…… those guys have that kind of nature. 

ーーーーー

Leo

Incantation: Haxs Effect: It can enhance hearing, allows far away sounds and sounds being shielded to be heard.

Q: What is your favorite subject? A: No~thing. You just have to memorize the textbooks. It’s so easy it’s boring. I had high hopes because it was supposed to be specialized study of anomalies. 

Q: What’s your favorite place on campus? A: The bath. When I enrolled, there wasn’t even a bath in my dorm’s shower room. I had to use my own money to remodel. It’s honestly ridiculous, right? 

Q: Where would you like to go if you have your R&R permit approved? A: The club. Since I entered Darkwick, I haven’t been able to go out at all. I’m so stressed I’m gonna go insane. 

Q: What do you think about the ghoul(s) in your house? A: No matter how you look at it, Cap is a himbo. Eh~, Sho…….. he’s my slave, I guess♡ 

ーーーーー

Sho

Incantation: Spurno Effect: Unknown

Q: What is your favorite subject? A: Nothing really……. ah, but Anomalous Combat is still better. Since I get to move my body, it’s a good stress reliever, y’know?   

Q: What is good about your house? A: What’s good about it? …… Since there’s a garage, bike maintenance is easy. That’s it. 

Q: Where would you like to go if you have your R&R permit approved? A: There’s a famous restaurant in Nakame that’s famous for its delicious broth. It seems like a creative Japanese restaurant. I’d like to go there once. 

Q: What do you think about the ghoul(s) in your house? A: Ah…. Leo’s the kind of guy you just can’t get rid of. How should I put it… we’ve just been hanging out together for some reason since middle school. Mido-senpai…… I never know what he’s thinking. That guy, he’s the type that doesn’t have enough words, right? 

ーーーーー

JABBERWOCK

Haru

Incantation: Bahnti Effect: Can freely reduce gravity effects on his own body.

Q. What is good about your house? A. You can feel healed and refreshed by numerous adorable anomalous animals! You'll even get a full hospitality service from Jabberwock's very own handsome ghouls!! What do you think, dearest customer? Would you like to come and try?!

Q. Do you have any concerns with missions? A. Hmm... I don't mind going for missions but there's no one to watch my kids while I'm gone. Even when I tried using an automatic feeder, the less domesticated critters just won't get used to it...

Q. Where would you like to go if you have your R&R permit approved? A. That reminds me! Recently Ren told me that I "looked like someone who wanders around Don Quijote late at night." When I looked it up, apparently it's a store chain that sells various useful appliances! Now that's music to my ears~ 

Q. What do you think about the ghoul(s) in your house? A. Both Ren and Towa have a nice build so I think it's better if they try to make use of it. If they make the most out of those muscles, they'll be much more reliable... Hm? This sound......... Oi, Towa! Hoooold your horses~~~~~~!!

ーーーーー

Towa

Incantation: Unknown Effect: Unknown

Q. Do you have any concerns with missions? A. ~~~~? ~~~~!

Q. What’s your favorite place on campus? A. ~~~~𝅘𝅥𝅮

Q. Where would you like to go if you have your R&R permit approved? A. ~~~~~~~~𝅘𝅥𝅮

Q. What do you think about the ghoul(s) in your house? A. ~~~~𝅘𝅥𝅮 ~~~~!!

ーーーーー

Ren

Incantation: Raothtas Effect: Specifics unknown. According to Ren himself, it's a rather useless power.

Q. What is good about your house? A. Nothing. It smells... and it’s gross too... I'm the one who wants to ask if there's anything good to say about this sorry excuse of a dorm. 

Q. What’s your favorite place on campus? A. At Darkwick, the only place where I can just lounge freely and do my own thing is my room... Well, it's nothing out of the ordinary; I'm just playing some mobile games and watching some movies...

Q. Do you have any concerns with missions? A. I have a lot: Sagara is being too loud, Sagara is being too pushy, and Sagara is being too. Damn. Loud.

Q. Where would you like to go if you have your R&R permit approved? A. Anywhere as long as that clown isn't there is great...... Oh, right. There's also this movie theatre in Shinjuku called Musashinokan. I want to go there... Huh? I'm going alone of course. Isn't that obvious.....

ーーーーー

SINOSTRA

Taiga

Incantation: Malab Effect: Unknown

Q: What is good about your house? A: Ah~? It’s getting money out of greedy small fry customers and unskilled dealers, isn’t it? Gyahaha!

Q: Do you have any concerns with missions? A: Whenever I go on one, I get hungry right away…

Q: Where would you like to go if you have your R&R permit approved? A: Macao. 

Q: What do you think about the ghoul(s) in your house? A: Lulu gets so angry every day, I could never get bored of it~ …… Ah~? Shinjo? Who the fuck is that? 

ーーーーー

Romeo

Incantation: Tiris Effect: Can turn objects into bombs.

Q: What is good about your house? A: This casino that can barely keep running has no good points. At best, it’s just a place to make a little money

Q: Do you have any concerns with missions? A: Hmph, that WTWUT, isn’t it obvious!? Wall to wall useless trash!

Q: Where would you like to go if you have your R&R permit approved? A: When I have some free time, I want to go to South Korea. Ha……. if I don't earn more, there won’t be enough funds for that……….. 

Q: What do you think about the ghoul(s) in your house? A: I’m fed up with my boss. No matter how often I say the same thing, it’s a WOE. Ha? “Waste” “of” “effort” obviously. Then, as for Shinjo, I’ll be giving him a thorough education from now on, and we’ll see how he turns out. 

ーーーーー

Ritsu

Incantation: Acimo Effect: His body becomes as hard as steel and heavier.

Q: What is your favorite subject? A: There’s something to learn from every subject, but my best subject is, of course, Anomalous Law. Instead of the basic Six Codes, the subject deals with special cases, like how the Anomalous Investigation Institute and Darkwick regulations handle legal proceedings surrounding anomalies. 

Q: What’s your favorite place on campus? A: There’s no location in particular, but the restaurant on campus called the Mystery Diner is a good choice. Since it is always deserted, it is a good location for client meetings. 

Q: Where would you like to go if you have your R&R permit approved? A: If I get permission to go out, I would like to go to the opera. Before entering this school, I often went to the New National Theatre in Tokyo with my mother. Bizet’s “Carmen” is recommended for beginners. Do you understand French? 

Q: What do you think about the ghoul(s) in your house? A: I have come to the conclusion that it is futile to try to change the violent behavior of the captain, Taiga Hoshibami, as well as the vice captain, Romeo Scorpius Lucci. From now on, I will defend them and certainly win the Laurel Crown. 

ーーーーー

HOTARUBI

Subaru

Incantation: Talnandio Effect: It's said to be a power that allows him to communicate with the "Tsukumogami" that resides in objects, but...?

Q. What's your favorite subject? A. Favorite subject... I guess you could say I like Anomalous Biology the most. Professor Hyde's lectures are always so interesting, I can't help but to be all ears whenever he talks...

Q. What’s your favorite place on campus? A. Lately I've been enjoying my lunch at the second floor terrace of the main school building. It's an easier place to stay for me compared to the ever-crowded cafeteria.

Q. Do you have any concerns with missions? A. Hotarubi normally doesn't really have many chances to go through difficult missions so I don't really... Oh, but if I must say, perhaps I rely too much on Haku... I feel awful for being such an undependable captain.

Q. Where would you like to go if you have your R&R permit approved? A. Shibuya...... I suppose? I've been living all my life in Tokyo but the truth is, I've never been there. Not even once. O-oh, no! Please don't mind me! I really just mean that I hope I'll get the chance to go some day......! I'm… not too good with crowds.

ーーーーー

Haku

Incantation: Unknown Effect: Unknown

Q: What is good about your house? A. Let's see... It feels humid everyday thanks to the rain and the building is so old that it’s probably on the brink of collapsing. Haha... I guess it's always easier to complain, huh. Despite everything, this place does give me a sense of tranquillity. Perhaps because the atmosphere is similar to my family's home.

Q. What’s your favorite place on campus? A. Can I choose a place from our dorm? Then I'd recommend the open-air porch of our guest room. Enjoying a cup of hot tea while your eyes feast on Hotarubi's esteemed garden一it's one of a kind experience.

Q. Do you have any concerns with missions? A. I don't really have any particular complaints... scratch that. There's one. Our dorm is a little understaffed. Well, I guess there are some who can help out—but asking them would be a little troublesome. We already have someone who can keep this place lively, you see.

Q: What do you think about the ghoul(s) in your house? A. Another difficult question, huh. Let's see... Subaru is a very capable leader. His only flaw is that he always tries to carry everything by himself. As for Zenji... how do I say this... being around him cheers me up. I'm grateful to him for that.

ーーーーー

Zenji

Incantation: Unknown Effect: Unknown

Q: What is good about your house? A. I'm so glad you asked! As a matter of fact, our esteemed Hotarubi house is an ensemble of chic, peaceful, and artistic boys and girls!

Q. Do you have any concerns with missions? A. Uh-hmm? Let's see... Concerns, concerns... if I must say something then I suppose it's how Haku seems to like working all by himself? Oh, but it won't be a problem! I'll simply put more work to help him...... from the shadows, that is.

Q. Where would you like to go if you have your R&R permit approved? A. Of course! Immediately to the left side as you start ascending Natsume-zaka from the Waseda intersection一there, proudly stands a black granite monument inscribed with the words "The Birthplace of Soseki Natsume"... It's my dream to be able to touch that monument.

Q: What do you think about the ghoul(s) in your house? A. If I were to describe Subaru as anything then... he's someone with a heart of glass... On the contrary, I can't help but notice Haku's tactless conduct. He ought to learn to be more mindful if he's going to call himself my manager.

ーーーーー

OBSCUARY

Edward

Incantation: Unknown Effect: Unknown

Q: What is good about your house? A. There are a lot. For starters, it's far removed from the boisterous campus and nobody dares to interfere with these grounds. But the best part is how there's no sunlight. I'm a vampire, you see. So a dorm that is always engulfed in night time is a comfortable place for me to live in.

Q. What’s your favorite place on campus? A. My own room would be the best place, after all. I can watch Youtube anytime and the Nishikawa bed that Rui picked is exceptionally cozy. What do you think? Would you like to try sleeping on it with me?

Q. Do you have any concerns with missions? A. I have no such concerns since I don't go on missions. Cough cough..... Aah, pardon me. The cold I caught last month still hasn't gone away, you see. Will it be okay to excuse myself soon?

Q: What do you think about the ghoul(s) in your house? A. I'm envious of how those two are so young and full of energy. When I was around their age, I....... oh dearie me. It's quite an old tale so I have completely forgotten about it.

ーーーーー

Rui

Incantation: Unknown Effect: By blowing a kiss, he can send a wave of energy with anesthetic effect一temporarily relieving pain and fatigue of the target.

Q. What's your favorite subject? A. Ehh~~~? I haven't been going to classes though~~~...... I don't even remember what subjects they’re teaching here. I try not to go to the campus building as much as possible, after all.

Q: What is good about your house? A. Most of the room interiors are hand picked by yours truly so I can recommend all of them~.... Ah! But only cute girls are allowed to stay the night!

Q. Where would you like to go if you have your R&R permit approved? A. Hmm~.......... If I can go out without worrying about curfew then I'd like to go shopping at Daikanyama and then go home after enjoying a pleasant meal at Yebisu Garden Place Tower~☆ Well, I can't really go out into crowded places though, so everything is just a pipe dream! Ahaha!

Q: What do you think about the ghoul(s) in your house? A. It's such a pain how Ed barely has any life skills to save himself. I'm practically nursing him at this point......... As for Lyca~..... Huh? That one is pretty much like taking care of a kid.... Oh, c'mon! What do they take me for?!

ーーーーー

Lyca

Incantation: Ramsochisa Effect: Allows him to know the location of his target and follows them no matter where they go一provided that he recognize their scent beforehand.

Q. What's your favorite subject? A. Hmm.... I don't really understand but everything is so fun!

Q. Do you have any concerns with missions? A. I told everyone that I'm fine doing missions on my own but they keep worrying about me.

Q. Where would you like to go if you have your R&R permit approved? A. .... I want to see Neros. I still don't know where he is though...

Q: What do you think about the ghoul(s) in your house? A. Exactly what I call them: a Moth-Eaten Casanova and a Blond Gigolo. I'm a human too so why won't they put me in the same house as Suba and his friends?!

ーーーーー

MORTKRANKEN

Yuri

Incantation: Agnihaet Effect: Hyperstimulates his brain cells so that it allows him to solve complex calculations and logically process informations in a matter of seconds.

Q: What is good about your house? A. Hmph! Other than the fact that it houses this genius doctor, Yuri Isami, do you really think there’s any other redeeming qualities about this house… No, about Darkwick at all?! Of course not!

Q. Do you have any concerns with missions? A. Thanks to all those brute germs from other houses destroying each and every anomaly, I never have enough specimens to use for my experiments!

Q. Where would you like to go if you have your R&R permit approved? A. Now that we’re talking about it, it’s almost time for me to buy clothes for the next season. Where am I going to buy them? Why, at the Nihombashi Takashimaya Shopping Center of course!!

Q: What do you think about the ghoul(s) in your house? A. Are you referring to Jiro, assistant and patient to the genius Yuri Isami? Well, he still needs a lot of training, you see. He lacks knowledge, skills, experiences, and education. That is to say, he’s 100 years too early to become a doctor of my caliber.

ーーーーー

Jiro

Incantation: Unknown Effect: Unknown

Q. What's your favorite subject? A. Anomalous Medicine, I suppose. But since I specialize in infectious disease, I usually research papers and materials that aren't included in the curriculum on my own.

Q. Do you have any concerns with missions? A. If I were told about the mission schedule in advance, I can prepare to increase my medication dosage from the day before. Oh, but everything will be fine as long as Yuri is there to give me immediate treatment if something happens.

Q. Where would you like to go if you have your R&R permit approved? A. Nowhere in particular. Or rather, I don't really know where I should go.

Q: What do you think about the ghoul(s) in your house? A. Okay... The only other ghoul is Yuri, though. He's my attending doctor. If it wasn't for Yuri, I may be as good as dead now. I feel grateful to him, to put it simply.

[pandapetals]

The Wedding

professor logan howlett x professor fem!reader - established relationship (y'all married), cute, fluff, teasing, no y/n used, no reader description, your an english professor, logan is a history professor - imagine days of future past logan with the white streaks in his hair

You and Logan get MARRIED! I know y'all been waiting for this one.

read on ao3 or find more parts for the series: here

also thank you to @coocoocachewgotscrewed for the idea of logan keeping the pen reader gave him and using it to write his vows.

"It'll be a small wedding," Logan grumbled, scratching the back of his neck with that familiar, slightly awkward air he got whenever something made him uncomfortable. He stood in the middle of the living room, looking like a bear that had wandered into a tea party, completely out of place.

You raised an eyebrow, glancing up from the pile of bridal magazines scattered across the coffee table. "Small? Logan, there's at least a hundred people living at the mansion alone," you said, your voice somewhere between amused and exasperated. "It’s not exactly going to be 'small' with that kind of guest list."

Across from you, Jean nodded, sitting cross-legged on the couch with a wedding planning book perched in her lap. "My wedding had three hundred guests, remember Logan?" she chimed in helpfully, flipping through a page on flower arrangements.

"Our wedding," Scott corrected from the armchair beside her, not even looking up from the paper he was reading.

Logan groaned, running a hand through his hair. "Exactly why we should skip all this crap and just get hitched already," he muttered, his voice low and gruff.

You shot him a playful look, shaking your head. "What happened to 'you can do whatever you want, darlin'?" you asked, mimicking his gravelly voice with a teasing smile.

Logan’s mouth twitched, almost into a smile, but then his eyes flicked back to the growing mountain of wedding plans, suggestions from friends, and magazines full of over-the-top ideas. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he stood just a little too rigid like he was bracing for an attack.

Truth be told, you were feeling the weight of it too.

At first, you had been excited—three months of engagement bliss, giddy over every little detail. The idea of a big, beautiful wedding had seemed like a dream. But now? Now it felt overwhelming. Everyone had an opinion, from the color scheme to the type of cake to the seating arrangements. You loved your friends, but the constant suggestions had turned into something else, something bigger than you and Logan. It had started to feel like the wedding wasn’t really yours anymore.

Jean leaned in, holding up a sample invitation. "Oh, and I was thinking," she began, clearly not picking up on Logan’s discomfort. "You could have this gorgeous ice-blue theme with silver accents—it would match the winter season perfectly."

Logan shot you a look—one of those looks that said I’m two seconds away from walking out of here. You couldn’t blame him. The more Jean talked, the more you realized something had shifted inside you. Somewhere along the way, you’d gotten caught up in making the perfect day, and forgotten what this wedding was really about: you and Logan.

Not the flowers. Not the guest list. You two.

Logan cleared his throat, trying once more to gently steer the conversation. "Listen, all this sounds real nice," he said, his voice tight with barely restrained frustration, "but what if we just kept it simple? Y’know, courthouse, couple of rings, call it a day."

Jean blinked, clearly baffled. "A courthouse? Logan, this is your wedding! It’s supposed to be a special day, something beautiful."

You opened your mouth to agree with Jean, to defend the idea of having a "proper" wedding. But then, you looked at Logan again. His eyes—those deep, hazel eyes—were watching you closely like he was waiting for you to decide. Not just about the wedding, but about what you wanted, deep down.

Suddenly, it clicked. You realized that Logan was right. You didn’t need a grand affair. You didn’t need three hundred guests or ice-blue color scheme or a designer dress. You didn’t need all the noise and spectacle. What you needed—what you wanted —was something that felt like the two of you. Something real. Something simple.

You smiled softly, the decision made. "You know what?" you said, standing up from the couch and tossing the magazines aside. "I think Logan’s right."

Jean’s eyes widened. "Wait, what?"

Scott finally looked up from his paper, equally surprised.

Logan raised an eyebrow, his usual gruff skepticism tinged with curiosity. "Really?"

You nodded, crossing the room to stand in front of him, resting your hand on his arm. "Yeah," you said, your voice quieter now, more certain. "I don’t need the big wedding. I don’t need all the fuss. All I need is you. " You smiled up at him, feeling the weight lift off your shoulders as the words came out. "Let’s just get married. Just us."

For the first time in days, you saw Logan’s shoulders relax. He let out a low breath, his lips twitching into that half-smile that always made your heart skip a beat. "You sure?"

"Absolutely," you said, your hand slipping down to intertwine with his. "Let’s get hitched."

A week later, you found yourself standing outside the courthouse, the sun just beginning to set in the late afternoon sky, casting a warm glow over everything. It was quiet, just the way you wanted it. No crowd, no elaborate decorations, and no endless chatter. Just you and Logan, and the soft hum of the world around you.

You looked down at the simple dress you’d chosen—nothing fancy, just something that made you feel good, made you feel like you. Logan, dressed in his usual button-up, looked handsome in that effortlessly rugged way only he could pull off. His shirt was slightly unbuttoned at the top, a teasing glimpse of his chest visible, and his hair styled in those little tufts as always, the white streaks more visible. 

"Ready?" you asked, your heart fluttering in anticipation.

Logan’s eyes met yours, steady and calm. "More than ready."

As you both stepped inside, the courthouse was quiet. There was no fanfare, no grand entrance—just the two of you, walking hand in hand, a quiet sense of peace settling over the moment.

The ceremony itself was simple, just like you’d wanted until Logan surprised you. He cleared his throat, looking a little awkward as he reached into his jacket pocket.

"I, uh... I’ve got somethin’ for you," he muttered, his voice rough but filled with something soft underneath. From his pocket, he pulled out a pen. Not just any pen.

Your breath caught in your throat. It was your pen—the one you’d given him two years ago when he had started his first-day teaching history at Xavier’s. A "good luck" charm, you had called it, but it had become something meaningful to Logan.

You felt tears prick at the corners of your eyes as Logan handed it to you with a small smile. From the same pocket, he pulled out a folded piece of paper, slightly crumpled, like it had been carried around for a while.

"I wrote somethin'," he said, his voice low as he unfolded the paper, his eyes flicking nervously to yours. "Figured you deserved more than just... y’know, me wingin’ it."

He cleared his throat, glancing down at the paper. Then, with that same rough tenderness that was so purely Logan, he began to read.

"I ain’t great with words, darlin'," he started, his voice softening. "But I figure you already know that. So, I’ll keep it simple. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I ain’t perfect... never will be. I swear to you, I’ll spend the rest of my life doin’ whatever it takes to make you happy, keepin’ you safe, and showin’ you that you’re loved. 'Cause you are, more than I ever thought I’d love someone."

By the time he finished, your vision was blurred with unshed tears. You didn’t need any more words. You didn’t need anything grand or fancy. In that quiet courthouse, with Logan standing before you, holding the pen you had given him long ago, you had everything you could ever want.

"Logan," you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion, "I love you. I never thought I could be this happy, but every day with you... you show me something new. You make everything better."

He smiled then, a real, full smile that softened the lines of his face and reached his eyes—a rare sight, but one you cherished every time. He stepped closer, his hand warm and rough as he gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch grounding you in the moment.

"I love you too, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice a low, steady rumble that sent warmth spreading through you, just like the way his presence always did.

You held each other's gaze as the quiet world around you seemed to fade, leaving just the two of you standing there. Together, you exchanged rings—simple gold bands that glinted in the soft light, but they felt like so much more.

Logan leaned in, his lips brushed yours, sealing the vows with a soft kiss. It was as steady and certain as the love you had found with him. It was simply perfect.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

How finfluencers destroyed the housing and lives of thousands of people

For the rest of May, my bestselling solarpunk utopian novel THE LOST CAUSE (2023) is available as a $2.99, DRM-free ebook!

The crash of 2008 imparted many lessons to those of us who were only dimly aware of finance, especially the problems of complexity as a way of disguising fraud and recklessness. That was really the first lesson of 2008: "financial engineering" is mostly a way of obscuring crime behind a screen of technical jargon.

This is a vital principle to keep in mind, because obscenely well-resourced "financial engineers" are on a tireless, perennial search for opportunities to disguise fraud as innovation. As Riley Quinn says, "Any time you hear 'fintech,' substitute 'unlicensed bank'":

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/01/usury/#tech-exceptionalism

But there's another important lesson to learn from the 2008 disaster, a lesson that's as old as the South Seas Bubble: "leverage" (that is, debt) is a force multiplier for fraud. Easy credit for financial speculation turns local scams into regional crime waves; it turns regional crime into national crises; it turns national crises into destabilizing global meltdowns.

When financial speculators have easy access to credit, they "lever up" their wagers. A speculator buys your house and uses it for collateral for a loan to buy another house, then they make a bet using that house as collateral and buy a third house, and so on. This is an obviously terrible practice and lenders who extend credit on this basis end up riddling the real economy with rot – a single default in the chain can ripple up and down it and take down a whole neighborhood, town or city. Any time you see this behavior in debt markets, you should batten your hatches for the coming collapse. Unsurprisingly, this is very common in crypto speculation, where it's obscured behind the bland, unpronounceable euphemism of "re-hypothecation":

https://www.coindesk.com/consensus-magazine/2023/05/10/rehypothecation-may-be-common-in-traditional-finance-but-it-will-never-work-with-bitcoin/

Loose credit markets often originate with central banks. The dogma that holds that the only role the government has to play in tuning the economy is in setting interest rates at the Fed means the answer to a cooling economy is cranking down the prime rate, meaning that everyone earns less money on their savings and are therefore incentivized to go and risk their retirement playing at Wall Street's casino.

The "zero interest rate policy" shows what happens when this tactic is carried out for long enough. When the economy is built upon mountains of low-interest debt, when every business, every stick of physical plant, every car and every home is leveraged to the brim and cross-collateralized with one another, central bankers have to keep interest rates low. Raising them, even a little, could trigger waves of defaults and blow up the whole economy.

Holding interest rates at zero – or even flipping them to negative, so that your savings lose value every day you refuse to flush them into the finance casino – results in still more reckless betting, and that results in even more risk, which makes it even harder to put interest rates back up again.

This is a morally and economically complicated phenomenon. On the one hand, when the government provides risk-free bonds to investors (that is, when the Fed rate is over 0%), they're providing "universal basic income for people with money." If you have money, you can park it in T-Bills (Treasury bonds) and the US government will give you more money:

https://realprogressives.org/mmp-blog-34-responses/

On the other hand, while T-Bills exist and are foundational to the borrowing picture for speculators, ZIRP creates free debt for people with money – it allows for ever-greater, ever-deadlier forms of leverage, with ever-worsening consequences for turning off the tap. As 2008 forcibly reminded us, the vast mountains of complex derivatives and other forms of exotic debt only seems like an abstraction. In reality, these exotic financial instruments are directly tethered to real things in the real economy, and when the faery gold disappears, it takes down your home, your job, your community center, your schools, and your whole country's access to cancer medication:

https://www.theguardian.com/world/2012/jun/08/greek-drug-shortage-worsens

Being a billionaire automatically lowers your IQ by 30 points, as you are insulated from the consequences of your follies, lapses, prejudices and superstitions. As @pixelpusher220@dmv.community says, Elon Musk is what Howard Hughes would have turned into if he hadn't been a recluse:

https://mamot.fr/@pixelpusher220@dmv.community/112457199729198644

The same goes for financiers during periods of loose credit. Loose Fed money created an "everything bubble" that saw the prices of every asset explode, from housing to stocks, from wine to baseball cards. When every bet pays off, you win the game by betting on everything:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Everything_bubble

That meant that the ZIRPocene was an era in which ever-stupider people were given ever-larger sums of money to gamble with. This was the golden age of the "finfluencer" – a Tiktok dolt with a surefire way for you to get rich by making reckless bets that endanger the livelihoods, homes and wellbeing of your neighbors.

Finfluencers are dolts, but they're also dangerous. Writing for The American Prospect, the always-amazing Maureen Tkacik describes how a small clutch of passive-income-brainworm gurus created a financial weapon of mass destruction, buying swathes of apartment buildings and then destroying them, ruining the lives of their tenants, and their investors:

https://prospect.org/infrastructure/housing/2024-05-22-hell-underwater-landlord/

Tcacik's main characters are Matt Picheny, Brent Ritchie and Koteswar “Jay” Gajavelli, who ran a scheme to flip apartment buildings, primarily in Houston, America's fastest growing metro, which also boasts some of America's weakest protections for tenants. These finance bros worked through Gajavelli's company Applesway Investment Group, which levered up his investors' money with massive loans from Arbor Realty Trust, who also originated loans to many other speculators and flippers.

For investors, the scheme was a classic heads-I-win/tails-you-lose: Gajavelli paid himself a percentage of the price of every building he bought, a percentage of monthly rental income, and a percentage of the resale price. This is typical of the "syndicating" sector, which raised $111 billion on this basis:

https://www.wsj.com/articles/a-housing-bust-comes-for-thousands-of-small-time-investors-3934beb3

Gajavelli and co bought up whole swathes of Houston and other cities, apartment blocks both modest and luxurious, including buildings that had already been looted by previous speculators. As interest rates crept up and the payments for the adjustable-rate loans supporting these investments exploded, Gajavell's Applesway and its subsidiary LLCs started to stiff their suppliers. Garbage collection dwindled, then ceased. Water outages became common – first weekly, then daily. Community rooms and pools shuttered. Lawns grew to waist-high gardens of weeds, fouled with mounds of fossil dogshit. Crime ran rampant, including murders. Buildings filled with rats and bedbugs. Ceilings caved in. Toilets backed up. Hallways filled with raw sewage:

https://pluralistic.net/timberridge

Meanwhile, the value of these buildings was plummeting, and not just because of their terrible condition – the whole market was cooling off, in part thanks to those same interest-rate hikes. Because the loans were daisy-chained, problems with a single building threatened every building in the portfolio – and there were problems with a lot more than one building.

This ruination wasn't limited to Gajavelli's holdings. Arbor lent to multiple finfluencer grifters, providing the leverage for every Tiktok dolt to ruin a neighborhood of their choosing. Arbor's founder, the "flamboyant" Ivan Kaufman, is associated with a long list of bizarre pop-culture and financial freak incidents. These have somehow eclipsed his scandals, involving – you guessed it – buying up apartment buildings and turning them into dangerous slums. Two of his buildings in Hyattsville, MD accumulated 2,162 violations in less than three years.

Arbor graduated from owning slums to creating them, lending out money to grifters via a "crowdfunding" platform that rooked retail investors into the scam, taking advantage of Obama-era deregulation of "qualified investor" restrictions to sucker unsophisticated savers into handing over money that was funneled to dolts like Gajavelli. Arbor ran the loosest book in town, originating mortgages that wouldn't pass the (relatively lax) criteria of Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac. This created an ever-enlarging pool of apartments run by dolts, without the benefit of federal insurance. As one short-seller's report on Arbor put it, they were the origin of an epidemic of "Slumlord Millionaires":

https://viceroyresearch.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/11/Arbor-Slumlord-Millionaires-Jan-8-2023.pdf

The private equity grift is hard to understand from the outside, because it appears that a bunch of sober-sided, responsible institutions lose out big when PE firms default on their loans. But the story of the Slumlord Millionaires shows how such a scam could be durable over such long timescales: remember that the "syndicating" sector pays itself giant amounts of money whether it wins or loses. The consider that they finance this with investor capital from "crowdfunding" platforms that rope in naive investors. The owners of these crowdfunding platforms are conduits for the money to make the loans to make the bets – but it's not their money. Quite the contrary: they get a fee on every loan they originate, and a share of the interest payments, but they're not on the hook for loans that default. Heads they win, tails we lose.

In other words, these crooks are intermediaries – they're platforms. When you're on the customer side of the platform, it's easy to think that your misery benefits the sellers on the platform's other side. For example, it's easy to believe that as your Facebook feed becomes enshittified with ads, that advertisers are the beneficiaries of this enshittification.

But the reason you're seeing so many ads in your feed is that Facebook is also ripping off advertisers: charging them more, spending less to police ad-fraud, being sloppier with ad-targeting. If you're not paying for the product, you're the product. But if you are paying for the product? You're still the product:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/01/04/how-to-truth/#adfraud

In the same way: the private equity slumlord who raises your rent, loads up on junk fees, and lets your building disintegrate into a crime-riddled, sewage-tainted, rat-infested literal pile of garbage is absolutely fucking you over. But they're also fucking over their investors. They didn't buy the building with their own money, so they're not on the hook when it's condemned or when there's a forced sale. They got a share of the initial sale price, they get a percentage of your rental payments, so any upside they miss out on from a successful sale is just a little extra they're not getting. If they squeeze you hard enough, they can probably make up the difference.

The fact that this criminal playbook has wormed its way into every corner of the housing market makes it especially urgent and visible. Housing – shelter – is a human right, and no person can thrive without a stable home. The conversion of housing, from human right to speculative asset, has been a catastrophe:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/06/06/the-rents-too-damned-high/

Of course, that's not the only "asset class" that has been enshittified by private equity looters. They love any kind of business that you must patronize. Capitalists hate capitalism, so they love a captive audience, which is why PE took over your local nursing home and murdered your gran:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/02/23/acceptable-losses/#disposable-olds

Homes are the last asset of the middle class, and the grifter class know it, so they're coming for your house. Willie Sutton robbed banks because "that's where the money is" and We Buy Ugly Houses defrauds your parents out of their family home because that's where their money is:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/11/ugly-houses-ugly-truth/#homevestor

The plague of housing speculation isn't a US-only phenomenon. We have allies in Spain who are fighting our Wall Street landlords:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/11/24/no-puedo-pagar-no-pagara/#fuckin-aardvarks

Also in Berlin:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/08/16/die-miete-ist-zu-hoch/#assets-v-human-rights

The fight for decent housing is the fight for a decent world. That's why unions have joined the fight for better, de-financialized housing. When a union member spends two hours commuting every day from a black-mold-filled apartment that costs 50% of their paycheck, they suffer just as surely as if their boss cut their wage:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/12/13/i-want-a-roof-over-my-head/#and-bread-on-the-table

The solutions to our housing crises aren't all that complicated – they just run counter to the interests of speculators and the ruling class. Rent control, which neoliberal economists have long dismissed as an impossible, inevitable disaster, actually works very well:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/16/mortgages-are-rent-control/#housing-is-a-human-right-not-an-asset

As does public housing:

https://jacobin.com/2023/10/red-vienna-public-affordable-housing-homelessness-matthew-yglesias

There are ways to have a decent home and a decent life without being burdened with debt, and without being a pawn in someone else's highly leveraged casino bet.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/22/koteswar-jay-gajavelli/#if-you-ever-go-to-houston

Image: Boy G/Google Maps (modified) https://pluralistic.net/timberridge

[tokoyamisstuff]

Fragments Pt. 1/3

Homelander / GN! Reader

Ch. 1: Fallen Angel

Summary: After a new drug rendered Homelander both powerless and amnesic, he gets saved by someone blissfully unaware of who he is.

Shoutout to @blindmagdalena who did the impossible: Making me simp for this guy. Your writing is simply impeccable! 💌

Warnings: Injury, blood, lots of exposition, not proofread

Notes: Hurt/comfort, OOC, pre-canon, Scientist! Reader, idc about logic gaps (I will cry if you point them out to me)

Four days already, and he still hasn't woken up.

Winter in the Canadian Arctic was rough, with the polar night bringing permanent darkness, as well as severe snowstorms that could last up to a week.

Luckily enough your old radio communication system was still functioning, so you were at least able to request a few necessities in advance: Food and water for another person, a doctor of course...

...and clothes for the guy you had to cut out of this ridiculous costume to patch him up properly.

Leaning back in your chair, you take some deep breaths, unable to concentrate on your work. Your glance unwillingly wanders back to the man lying on your bed, still unconscious.

Who knows how long the weather will cut you off from help arriving? You just hope he will make it until then.

Maybe it's for the better, though - since whoever had done this to him could still be out there wanting to finish the job, too.

It bordered on a miracle that he landed so close to your research station, when you were outside to notice at that. And the storm followed only shortly after you managed to pull him inside.

That man really had more luck than anything, even while having been messed up like this.

You watch him until you're sure he's still breathing and not in any discomfort, once again catching yourself admiring his handsome features.

If you didn't know any better, you'd say he was a literal fallen angel that crashed from the goddamn sky, right into your little front yard.

Damn it, the loneliness that came with this job made even your thoughts pathetic...

Well, to your defense, you've been raised pretty isolated your whole life, with parents being a doctor and a scientist that were devoted to spend their work at the most remote areas of the world.

It surely was a unique childhood with lots of traveling, and you were mostly spared the soulless corporate-controlled bullshit that was modern society. To add to that, your parents were never fond of using electronics for more than practical reasons. Not that there was internet connection where you lived either way.

All in all, while you obviously know about supes in general and might even have heard about Homelander the brief time you spent in civilization, the last time you've actually seen his face on a magazine or some sort was decades ago - and you didn't care enough to remember.

So it was no wonder that you were completely oblivious to who exactly was lying in your bed this whole time.

Sighing, you close your laptop with a dramatic gesture before making your way to the kitchen unit. You pour yourself a coffee to fill your rumbling stomach, having rationed the food in favor of your new involuntary roommate.

Having followed the footsteps of your parents - yet without proper funding - you led this mission all by yourself. At first it was bearable, since an elder native couple came to visit and assist you from time to time.

But your work demanded you to stay secluded from human intervention, deep in the mountains with the next tiny village being half a day march away. And now that winter made traveling scarce due to the dangers, the idea of some company certainly wasn't so bad.

You almost felt bad for being excited about him being here - whatever had happened to make him end up here was exactly the oppsite of great, after all.

Even though the emergency power aggregate was whirring loudly, the sound of strained groans reaches your ear - not the first time those past few days. So you immediately rush over to the man's side, pouring him a glass of water and dissolving some painkillers in it.

"It's gonna be alright" you assure him, unable to tell if he can even hear in this state. Blood is seeping through the makeshift bandages, making you realize you should probably reapply them soon. Maybe after the meds had some time to release their effect...

...however, just when the cup touched his lips, two icy blue eyes snapped open, making you wince.

"Don't touch me, fuck!" a raspy voice snapped at you, quite understandable in his situation. He pushed you away from him, causing you to stumble and fall as the glass scattered on the floor right next to you.

"Whe-where am I? And who the fuck are you?!"

"Who the fuck am I?" You felt almost offended at the accusation in his look, having to remind yourself that the person in front of you is in fact in an exceptional situation. "You're in my house. I found you injured in the middle of nowhere. So I should be asking you!"

His face fell in shock at the realization, internal struggle present in his features as he finally whispered - no, whimmered "I...can't remember..."

Racketing his brain around to make sense of the situation, he stumbled across his own words and repeated "I-I-I-I can't remember!"

"Can't remember what exactly?" You spoke more softly now as you got up, tentatively approaching him. He on the other hand jumped up from the bed, panic increasing with every passing second.

"Anything! I-I don't know who I am- shit, what happened?!" He was shaking, muscular chest having as he started to hyperventillate. You hesistantly put your hand on his back, feeling him tense at the sudden contact. "Please don't move too much. You're injured."

Only now he noticed the medical wraps around his chest, abdomen, left arm and both legs. Hell, his whole body was aching but the adrenaline wouldn't let this stop him from standing up, pacing around the small room.

Being overwhelmed with the situation as well, you decided it was best to tell him everything. "D-don't freak out, but we're in the middle of the arctic." Having a feeling that he wouldn't believe you - fair enough, though - you opened the door, revealing a snowy landscape. The doorway was already halfway buried under a snowy blanket, and the heavy winds were biting his exposed skin. "We'll have to wait until the storm settles. And even then, with your injuries you probably won't make it to the nearest village."

There was a long pause of silence between your explanation and his response, blinking at you in both disbelief and despair. "...if you don't know me, then how the hell did I get here?"

"My best guess is that you're a supe" you shrugged, hoping his memory loss didn't also affect his general knowledge. You pointed towards the torn bodysuit in the bin, stating matter-of-factly "You literally fell out of the sky. Even with the snow absorbing part of the impact, you should be dead - especially with those injuries."

Not really good at comforting someone, huh, you internally scolded yourself. Yet you gave it your best to calm him down and sign your goodwill.

"Sit down or your wounds will reopen." After a brief moment of looking at you all forlorn and maybe even a little distrustful, he accepted your help. You led him back to the edge of the bed, sitting next to each other as support for him to stay upright.

"Doesn't feel like anything about this body is 'super' right now..." he joked bitterly, rubbing his sides. You chuckle sympathetic, carefully patting his back in reassurance. "Maybe you don't have access to your powers because of the amnesia? I'm not quite sure how any of this works."

"Yeah, maybe..." His eyes were now locked on you, forcing a weak smile as he finally took a proper look at you. "You still didn't tell me to who I owe my life."

"Me?" as inappropriate as it was for the situation, he did manage to make you flustered just by that - and it didn't really help that he was still only in his underwear, testing your decency not to stare. "Oh, my name's Y/N Y/L/N. I'm an ecologist. Been here for eight months to document the effects of climate change on the biome, and-"

"Climate change?" he rose an eyebrow at you, "There's a goddamn snowstorm outside, woman."

Oh. He was one of those guys. Note taken.

"Anyways" you changed the topic to not provoke a pointless discussion, still unable to keep yourself from rolling your eyes. "Do you at least remember your name?"

The man clutched the ragged costume you had handed him, forcing his exhausted self to remember something, anything at all...

...but every time he tried, there was a sharp pain in his forehead that tore him away from the memories locked away somewhere in his brain.

And smehow, no matter how insane it might sound, he felt like this was his own mind's subtle warning to better keep it this way.

"I think...my name's John" he ultimately stated, rubbing his temples as his face contorted in pain. You continued rubbing circles on his back in an attempt to comfort him, whispering "Hey, don't overdo it. Focus on healing first, and then we'll see if anything else comes back. Alright?"

John nodded mutely, and you gifted him an uplifting smile, cheering "Well then, nice to officially meet you, John! Feel at home as long as you need."

He shook your hand almost symbolically, feeling almost hopeful knowing that despite the grim situation, he was supported by such a kind stranger.

"Nice to meet you too, Y/N. I'm all in your hands."

_____

A/N: This was written on my phone at 1am, so please bear with me. The next chapters are gonna be better.

[Part Two]

[itsabouttimex2]

Hahahah! The little healer stall sign says

itty-bitty-healing-comittee!

Here to heal you today!

Little Healer Headcanons

Sun Wukong, MK, and Mei

(That is so damn cute to think about- lil’ Y/N all dressed up like a mage/nurse behind their stall, but only their eyes peek over the rim cause they’re short af)

The Great Sage personally “finances” your little (probably unlicensed and illegal) stand by scaring off any cop or Karen who wanders by to try and cause trouble. He’s your number-one supporter at any given time, always on standby with a snack or hug to cheer you up.

It’s not uncommon for a client to lean over the side of your stall for a better look at what’s inside, just to find Ol’ Sun Wukong lounging on the ground.

When the king isn’t busy scaring people away by “accidentally” getting into their faces and pushing them around with a strength beyond their comprehension, he’s babying you.

Trying to, at least.

You work so very hard at your little repurposed stall, a handmade banner strung across the top, red crosses and flowers painted on the sides. It’s clear to Wukong that all you really want to do is help as many people as you can, however you can…

“But you can’t do that if you don’t take care of yourself,” he’ll remind, using legitimately good advice as an excuse to drag you off for mid-day snuggles.

The Great Sage will gently force you to practice basic self-care, even if it means dragging you back to Flower Fruit Mountain on his cloud for a hot bath and a cozy nap. Expect him to extend your “vacation” afterwards by asking for help with a few of his monkeys.

He is so, so good to you, in the worst way. A part of him knows that it’s wrong to load you with junk food and soda, but when he sees you all worn out and shaky on that wooden stool you have to stand on to see over the stall, his self-control fizzes out and the Great Sage is bolting off to “buy” you a horribly unhealthy combo meal from the nearest fast food place. (He steals it.)

And when you’re all tuckered out from a day of hard work and a belly full of sugar and grease and deep-fried fat…

Sun Wukong scoops you into his arms and starts the journey home, right back to where you belong.

Oh, how this kid loves you. MK is always lounging around the corner of your wooden street stall whenever he gets the chance, kicking back with a copy of some Monkey King sponsored magazine or playing Monkey Mech on his phone- it’s a great chance to just lounge around and genuinely relax.

And sure, there’s some concern from his friends and family about how MK seems to suddenly be prioritizing protecting a blatantly illegal street stall over his job and work as a hero…

“Saving the city can wait! Y/N needs me to find a rare herb so they can make an antidote!”

Yeah, you definitely come very close to first in this hero’s heart. He doesn’t outright abandon the city, nor will he put you miles above his desire to protect it- but you are extremely close to being the most important thing in his world.

Just… a cute itty-bitty “sibling” that MK can’t help but to cherish. At first.

As the seasons go by, though… you start being a strange sort of living coping mechanism. An emotional crutch. As his anguish compounds and stacks higher by the day, MK starts using you as an impromptu and unlicensed therapist, trauma-dumping whenever you aren’t tending to a customer.

Being too young and naive to shut down these conversations, you can do little more than fidget and squirm while you try to soothe the worst of MK’s sorrows.

And he misinterprets these awkward consolations as genuine care on your part, which leads him to repeat the process again and again and again.

As MK slowly builds himself up, he in turn breaks you down- entirely on accident.

If he knew that the constant barrage of fears and worries were grinding you down, MK would absolutely turn the valve and shut himself off. He’d go right back to closing himself off and shutting up about everything that’s torn a hole in his heart.

But he doesn’t. You don’t know how to tell him.

So on and on he goes with these traumas, head in your lap during a slow day, right when you finally crack and start to cry.

Good thing you’ve got a hero on standby to cuddle your tears away.

Each and every day starts with Mei prepping you for a long day at your “job”, and damn if the dragon girl can’t dote.

Special attention is given to your hair, little jeweled pins clipped into place just to give your outfit a bit of (expensive) sparkle- the motorcyclist believes with all her heart that you’ve earned it.

All your clothes are custom-made in whites and greens so that the two of you match, displaying to everyone around the bond she shares with you. Since your hands are so important to the work you do, Mei avoids giving you rings (and loose necklaces, just in case they get caught) and instead settles for thick golden bracelets (with trackers hidden inside) as a “gift”.

She tends to see you as more frail than you really are, so motorcycle rides are uncommon and uncharacteristically slow because Mei doesn’t want to rattle you.

Expect her to loudly and proudly proclaim “This is my little sibling!” whenever she gets the chance- and Mei will actively try to make this heartfelt delusion of hers a reality.

If you’re got a good home life, Mei imposes herself as an “honorary big sister” to justify all the time spent with you, painting herself as the sort of person who genuinely just wants the best for her community by looking out for everyone’s favorite healer.

But the moment she finds something solid against your guardians, this dragon girl blasts it all across social media to justify dragging you away from them- even if puts you in an awful and precarious headspace.

If you’re an orphan or stuck in a very bad home situation, Mei might just get her parents to adopt you- having a hardworking and adorable mage is not only good for the family’s reputation, but offers them a chance to expand their reach by having you lend a hand to influential and powerful individuals in their time of need.

And sometimes it feels almost like you’re being used, but they bring you back home after the work is done and allow you to rest and recuperate in front of their fireplace with a warm blanket (her mother wraps you up extra tight and kisses your forehead) and a cup of tea (her father pushes it into your hands and smoothes out your hair) before they dim the lights and bolt their lavish doors.

Really, you’re just part of the family now.

[sophaeros]

arctic monkeys for q magazine, june 2011 (x) (x)

ARCTIC MONKEYS: Inside Alex Turner's Head

Words Sylvia Patterson Portrait John Wright

The day Arctic Monkeys moved into their six bedroom, Spanish-style villa in the Hollywood Hills, where the first-floor balcony looked over the patio swimming pool, they knew exactly what to do.

"From the balcony, you could get on t'roof and jump in't pool," chirps the Monkeys' most gregarious member, drummer Matt Helders, in his homely Yorkshire way. "We looked at it and said, That's definitely gonna happen. So by the end, we did a couple of 'em. Somersaults in t'pool, from the roof. At night time."

In January 2011, as Sheffield and the rest of Britain endured its bitterest winter in a century, Arctic Monkeys capered among the palm trees, eschewing hotels for a millionaire's Hollywood homestead as they recorded and mixed their fourth studio album, Suck It and See.

The four Monkeys, alongside producer James Ford and engineer James Brown, lived what they called the "American man thing": watched Super Bowl on giant TVs, played ping-pong, hired two Mustangs, cooked cartoon Tom And Jerry-sized steaks on barbecues on Sundays, had girlfriends over to visit, all cooking and drinking around the colossal outdoor kitchen area featuring a fridge and two dishwashers. Living atop the Hills, they could see the Pacific Ocean beyond by day, the infinite glittering lights of downtown LA by night.

Every day, en route to Sound City Studios, they'd travel in a seven-seater four-by-four through the mountains, via bohemian 60s enclave Laurel Canyon, blaring out the tunes: The Stones Roses, The Cramps, the Misfits' Hollywood Babylon. For the sometime teenage art-punk renegades whose guitarist, Jamie Cook, was once ejected from London's Met Bar for refusing to pay €22 for two beers, the comedy rock'n'roll life still feels, however, absolutely nothing like reality.

NICK O'MALLEY: "It were really as if we were on holiday. When we came back it's the most post-holiday blues I've ever had!"

JAMIE COOK: "It's hard to comment on that. It were just really good fun."

MATT HELDERS: "We always said, As soon as things like that feel normal, we're in trouble. But it's just funny. You might think it would get more and more serious as you get older but it's getting funnier. We've done four albums now and I'm still only 24, I'm still immature to an extent. So who cares?"

Alex? Al? Are you there?

ALEX TURNER: "Yeah, it were good times. But we were in the studio most of the time. So there's no real wild Hollywood stories. Hmn. Yeah."

Wednesday, 16 March 2011, Strongroom Bar, Shoreditch, East London, 11am. Alex Turner, 25, slips entirely alone into an empty art-crowd brasserie looking like an indie girl's indie dream boy: mop-top bouffant hair which coils, in curlicues, directly into his cheekbones, army-green waist-length jacket, baggy-arsed skinny jeans, black cord zip-up cardigan, simple gold chain, supermoon sized chocolate-brown eyes.

Almost six years after I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor became the indie-punk anthem of a generation (from the first of Arctic Monkeys' three Number 1 albums), and nothing prepares you for the curious phenomenon of Alex Turner "in conversation". Unlike so many of the Monkeys frenetic early songs, he operates in slow motion, seemingly underwater, carrying a protective shell on his back, perhaps indie rock's very own diamond-backed terrapin. The most celebrated young wordsmith in rock'n roll today talks fulsomely, in fact, only in shapeless, curling sentences punctuated with "maybe... hmn.. yeah", an anecdotal wilderness sketching pictures as vague as a cloud. He is, though, simultaneously adorable: amenable, gentle, graceful, and as Northern as a 70s grandpa who literally greets you with "ey oop?".

"People think I'm a miserable bastard," he notes, cheerfully, "but it's just the way me face falls." Still profoundly private, if not as hermetically sealed as a vacuum-packed length of Frankfurter, his fante-shy reticence extends not only to his personal life (his four-year relationship with It-girl/TV presenter Alexa Chung, whom he never mentions) but to insider details generally. Take the Monkeys’ Hollywood high jinks documented above: not one word of it was described by Turner. Before Q was informed by his other Monkey bandmates, Turner’s anecdotal aversion unfolded like this:

Describe the lovely villa you were in. AT: "Well... we certainly had a... good view."

Of what? AT: "Well, we were up quite high."

The downtown LA lights going on forever? AT: "I dunno. It was definitely that thing of getting a bit of sort of sunshine. Is it vitamin D? If you can get vitamin D on your record, you've got a bit of a head start. So we'd get up and drive to the studio."

What were you driving? AT: "Nothing... spectacular. But yeah, we'd drive up the studio, spend all day there and sort of, y know, get back. To be honest... we had limited time. So we spent as much time as possible kind of getting into it, like, in the studio.

So your favourite adventures were what? AT: "Well, they were really… minimal. We were working out there!"

Any nightclubs or anything, perhaps? AT: "You really want the goss 'ere, don't you?"

Yes, please. AT: "I could make some up. Nah!"

And this was on the second time of asking. It's perhaps obvious: Alex Turner, one of the most prolific songwriters of his generation (four Monkeys albums and two EPs in five years, The Last Shadow Puppets side-project, a bewitching acoustic soundtrack for his actor/video director friend Richard Ayoade's feature-length debut Submarine), is dedicated only to the cause – of being the best he can possibly be. He simply remembers the songs much more than the somersaults.

Throughout 2009, Arctic Monkeys toured third album Humbug – the record mostly made in the Californian desert with Queens Of The Stone Age man-monolith Josh Homme – across the planet. While hardly some cranium-blistering opus, its heavier sonic meanderings considerably slowed the Arctic Monkeys' live sets and on 23 August 2009, Q watched them headline the Lowlands Festival, Holland and witnessed a hitherto unthinkable sight – swathes of perplexed Monkeys fans trudging away from the stage. With the sludge rock mood matching their cascading dude-rock hair it seemed obvious: they'd smoked way too much outrageously strong weed in the desert.

"Heheheh, yeah," responds Turner, unperturbed. "That's your theory. You probably weren't alone."

Back in the Strongroom Bar, Turner's arm is now nonchalantly draped along the back of a beaten-up brown leather sofa. He ponders his band's somewhat contrary reputation…

"I think starting the headline set at Reading with a cover of a Nick Cave tune perhaps was a bit contrary. D'youknowhat Imean?! But to be honest, that summer, at those festivals, we had a great time. And I know some fans enjoyed those sets 10 times more. And you can't just do, y’know, another Mardy Bum or whatever. Because how could you, really?"

With Humbug, notes Turner, "I went into corners I hadn't before, because I needed to see what were there," but by spring 2010 he wanted their fourth album to be "more song-based" and less lyrically "removed". He was "organised this time", studied "the good songwriters" (from Nick Cave, The Byrds and Leonard Cohen to country colossi Johnny Cash and Patsy Cline), discovered "the other three strings" on his guitar, and wrote 12 songs through the spring and summer of 2010, mostly in the fourth-floor New York flat he shared with Chung before the couple moved back to London late last summer (the New York MTV show It's On With Alexa Chung was cancelled after two seasons). The result: major-key melodies, harmonised singing and classic song structures.

At the same time he revisited the opposite extreme: bands such as Black Sabbath and The Stooges ("we wanted a few wig-outs as well"); he was also still heavily influenced by the oil-thick grinder rock of Josh Homme, who is clearly now a permanent Monkeys hero. After four months' rehearsals in London, on 8 January the Monkeys relocated to LA for five swift weeks of production and Homme came to visit, singing backing vocals on All My Own Stunts. Tequila was involved.

"Tequila is probably me favourite," manages Turner, by way of an anecdote. "But it takes a certain climate... It's not the same... in the rain. Yeah. [Looks to be contemplating a lyric] Tequila in the rain."

Vocally, he developed the caramel richness first unveiled on The Last Shadow Puppets' Scott Walker-esque The Age Of The Understatement, finding a crooner's vibrato. "Everything before was so tight,” he notes, clutching his neck. "Probably just through nerves. That's just not there any more." Suck It and See contains at least four of the most glittering, sing-along, world-class pop songs (and obvious singles) of Arctic Monkeys' career: the towering, clanging She's Thunderstorms, the summertime stunner The Hellcat Spangled Shalalala, the heavenly harmonised title track and the Echo & The Bunnymen-esque jangly pop of closer That's Where You're Wrong.

Elsewhere, in typically contrary "fashion", there's preposterous head-banger bedlam (Brick By Brick, the rollicking faux-heavy rock download they released in March "just for fun", featuring vocals by Helders; Don't Sit Down 'Cause I've Moved Your Chair, and Library Pictures). News arrives that the first single proper will be Don't Sit Down 'Cause I've Moved Your Chair. Q is perplexed. Brilliantly titled, certainly, but arriving after Brick By Brick, the new album will appear to the planet as some comedy pastiche metal album for 12-year-old boys.

You've got all these colossal, summery, indie-pop classics and you've gone for... The Chair? AT: [Laughing uproariously] "The Chair! I'm now calling it The Chair, that's cool. Well for once it weren't even our suggestion. It was Laurence's (Bell, Domino label boss). And I were, Fucking too right! He's awesome. It'd be good to get a bit of fucking rock'n'roll out there, won't it? It's riffs. It's loud. It's funny."

If you don't release The Hellcat Spangled Shalalala as a single I'm going round Domino to kick Laurence's "awesome" butt. AT: "I think it'll be the next one!"

The record's title, meanwhile, could've been more enigmatically original than the un-loved phrase Suck It and See. The band, struggling with ideas due to the opposing sonic moods, invented an inspiration-conjuring ruse: to think of new names for effects pedals in the style of Tom Wolfe, Turner being long enamoured with the American author's legendarily psychedelic books The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test and The Kandy-Kolored Tangerine-Flake Streamline Baby, "cos that just sounds awesome".

"There's the Big Muff pedal," he elaborates, "That’s the classic. I've got the Valve Slapper. And there's the Tube Screamer. So we came up with the Thunder Suckle Fuzz Canyon. And… wait till I assemble it in me mind… em… it'll come to me… The Blonde-O-Sonic Shimmer Trap. So we were going for summat like that."

A wasted opportunity?

"Nah. Because some of those things ended up in the lyrics anyway. Suck It and See was just easier."

Alex Turner, rock'n'roll's premier descriptive art-poet, still writes his lyrics long-hand in spiral-bound notebooks. "Writing lyrics is a craft that I've practised a bit now," he avers. "In me notebook it looks like sums. Theories. There's words and arrows going everywhere. There's always a few possibilities and I write the word 'OR' in a square."

For our most celebrated colloquial sketch-writer of the everyday observation (all betting pencils, boy slags and ice-cream van aggravations) the more successful he becomes, the less he orbits the ordinary. "I'm not struggling with that, to be honest," he decides. "In fact I'm enjoying writing lyrics much more than I did. Stories. Describing a picture. Um. There's quite a bit of weather and time in this one. Which is probably not reassuring. 'Oh God, he's writing about the weather.' Maybe leave that out!"

There are also some direct, funny, romantic observations: "That's not a skirt, girl, that's a sawn-off shotgun/And I only hope you've got it aimed at me..." (from the title track).

Some of your romantic quips, now, must be about Alexa. AT: "Right. Yeah. Definitely. Well... there's always been that side to our songs, when we weren't writing about... the fucking taxi rank. It's kind of inevitably... people you're with." [At the mention of Chung's name, Turner is visibly aggrieved, head sliding into his neck, terrapin-esque indeed.]

It must have been very grounding being in a proper relationship through all this madness. Because if you weren't, girls would be jumping all over your head. AT: "Em. Hmn. Well, of course that helps you to... I don't really know.. what the other way would be."

Does Alexa wonder if the lyrics are about her? AT: "Oh there's none of that. Yeah, no, there's no looking over the shoulder."

She must be curious, at least. "Maybe."

Did you ever watch Popworld? AT: [Nervous laughter] "Em! Now and again."

Did you ever see the episode where she helps Paul McCartney write a song about shoes? AT: "Ah, yeah I think so, maybe I did see that."

Well, if I was you, I'd have been thinking, "She's the one for me." AT: "Well. Yeah... maybe that would've... sealed the deal! Hmn. But maybe that wasn't when i got the ray of light. When was? Nah [buries head in hands]. I might have to go for a cigarette..."

Q can't torture him any more and joins him for a snout. Turner smokes Camels from a crumpled, sad, soft-pack and resembles a teenager again. As early song You Probably Couldn't See For The Lights But You Were Staring Straight At Me says, "Never tenser/Could all go a bit Frank Spencer…”

In January 2006, when Arctic Monkeys' Number 1 album Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not became the fastest-selling debut in UK history, inadvertently redefining the concept of autonomy and further imploding the decimated music industry (& wasn't their idea to be "the MySpace band", it was their fans': the Monkeys merely kick-started viral marketing by giving away demos at gigs), the 19- and 20-year-old Monkeys were terrible at fame. They weren't so much insurrectionary teenage upstarts as teenage innocents culturally traumatised by the peak-era fame democracy.

To their generation (born in the mid-'80s) fame was now synonymous with some-twat-off-the-telly a world of foaming tabloid hysteria where renown and celebrity meant, in fact, you were talentless. Hence their interview diffidence and receiving awards via videos dressed up as the Wizard OfOz and the Village People. Which only, ironically, made them even more celebrated and famous. (“That were a product of us just trying to hold onto the reins," thinks Turner today. "Being uncooperative.")

Q meets The Other Three one morning at 11am, in the well-appointed, empty bar of the Bethnal Green, Bast London hotel they're staying in (all three live in Sheffield, with their girlfriends, in their own homes). First to arrive is the industrious, sensible and cheerful Helders, crunching into a hangover-curing green apple. He has recovered from last year's boxing accident at the gym, which left his broken arm requiring a fitted plate. Now impressively purple-scarred, the break felt "interesting" and the doctor couldn't resist the one-armed drummer jest: "D'you like Def Leppard?"

Currently enjoying an enduring bromance with Diddy, he still doesn't feel famous, "it just doesn't feel that real, there's no paparazzi waiting for me to trip up." He and Turner, during the four-month rehearsals last year, became an accomplished roast dinner cooking duo for the band. "I reckon we could have us our own cookbook," he beams. "Pictures of us stirring, with a whisk."

O'Malley, an agreeable, twinkly-eyed 25-year-old with a strikingly deep voice and a winningly huge smile, is still coyly embarrassed by the interview process. A replacement for the departed original bass player Andy Nicholson in May 2006, he went from Asda shelf-filler to Glastonbury headliner in 13 months and still finds the Monkeys "a massive adventure". His life in Sheffield is profoundly normal – he's delighted that his new home since last October has an open-hearth fireplace: "Me parents had electric bars." He has also discovered cooking. “I’m just a pretty shit-hot housewife, most of the time," he smiles. "I cook stews, fish combinations, curries, chillies. I made a beef pho noodle soup the other day, Vietnamese, I surprised meself, had some mates round for that."

Recently, at his dad's 50th birthday bash, the party band, made up of family and friends, insisted he join them onstage "for ...The Dancefloor. So I were up there [mimes playing bass, all sheepish] and it were the wrong pitch, they didn't know the words or 'owt, going, Makin eyes... er..." He has no extra-curricular musical ambitions. "I'm happy just playing bass," he smiles. "I've never had the skill of doing songs meself. It'd be shit!"

Cook, 25, is still spectacularly embarrassed by the interview process. He perches upright, with a fixed nervous smile, newly shorn of the beard and ponytail he sported in LA: "Rockin' a pone, yeah, because I could get away with it." With his classic preppy haircut and dapper green military coat (from London's swish department store, Liberty), he looks like a handsome '40s film star. (Turner deems Cook "the band heartbreaker" and had a word with him post-LA: "I said to him, Come on, mate, you've got to get that beard shaved off. Get the girls back into us. Shift some posters.")

His life in Sheffield is also profoundly normal. He still plays Sunday League football with his local pub team, The Pack Horse FC (position, left back), remains in his long-term relationship with page-three-model-turned-make-up-artist Katie Downes and "potters about" at home, refusing to describe said home, "cos I'll get burgled".

A tiler by trade, he always vowed, should the Monkeys sign a deal, that he'd throw his trowel in a Sheffield river on his last day of work. "I never did fling me trowel," he confirms. "Probably still in me shed." He's never considered what his band represents to his generation. "I'd go insane thinking about it, I'm pretty good at not thinking about it… Oh God. I'm terrible at this!"

Back in the Strongroom Bar, Alex Turner is cloudily describing his everyday life. "I just keep meself to meself," he confounds. He mostly stays indoors and his perfect night in with Alexa is "watching loads of Sopranos. And doing roast dinners".

No longer spindle-limbed, he attends a gym and has handsomely well-defined arms – "You have to look after yourself."

Suddenly, Crying Lightning from Humbug rumbles over the bar stereo. "Wow. How about that? I was quite happy the other morning cos Brick By Brick were on the round-up goals on Soccer AM. It's still exciting when that happens. It was like Brick By Brick is real."

He spends his days writing music, "listening to records", and recommends Blues Run The Game by doomed '60s minstrel Jackson C Frank ("who's that lass?... Laura Marling, she did a cover recently), a simple, acoustic, deep and regretful stunner about missing someone on the road.

Lyrically, he cites as an example of greatness the Nick Cave B-side Little Empty Boat [from ‘97 single Into My Arms ], a comically sinister paean to a sexual power struggle: "Your knowledge is impressive and your argument is good/But I am the resurrection babe and you're standing on my foot."

"I need a hobby," he suddenly decides. "I'd like to learn another language." Since his mum is a German teacher (his dad teaches music), surely he can speak some German? "I know how to ask somebody if they've had fun at Christmas." Go on, then. "Nah!"

Where Turner's creative gifts stem from remains a contemporary rock'n'roll mystery; he became a fledgling songwriter at 16, after the gift of a guitar at Christmas from his parents. An only child, did his folks, perhaps, foresee artistic greatness? "I doubt it!" he balks. "Cos I didn't. I wasn't... a show kid." Like the others, he doesn't analyse the past, or the future.

"You can't constantly be thinking about what's happened," he reasons, "it's just about getting on with it." The elaborate pinky ring he now constantly wears, however, a silver, gold and ruby metal-goth corker featuring the words DEATH RAMPS is a permanent reminder of he and his best friends’ past. The Death Ramps is not only a Monkeys pseudonym and B-side to Teddy Picker, but a place they used to ride their bikes in Sheffield as kids.

"Up in the woods near where we lived," he nods. "Just little hills. But when you're eight years old they're death ramps." The ring was custom made by a friend of his, who runs top-end rock'n'roll jewellery emporium The Great Frog near London's Carnaby Street. Ask Turner why he thinks the chase between his writing and speaking eloquence is quite so mesmerisingly vast and he attempts a theory.

"Well, writing isn't the same as speaking," he muses. "Not for me. I seem to struggle more and more with... conversation. Talking onstage... I can't do it any more. Hmn. I'll have to work on that."

The ever-helpful Helders has a better theory.

"Since he's been writing songs," he ponders, “It seems like he’s always thinking about that. So even when he’s talking to you now, he’s thinking about the next thing that rhymes with a word. Even when he’s driving. We joke he’s a bad driver, his focus is never 100 per cent on what he’s doing. Which is good for us cos it means he’s got another 12 songs up his sleeve. I think music must be the easiest way for him to be concise and get everything out. Otherwise his head would explode.”

The Shoreditch.com photo studios, 18 March. Alex Turner, today, is more ethereally distracted than ever, transfixed by the studio iPod, playing Led Zeppelin, The Rolling Stones, a version of I’d Rather Go Blind. Occasionally, he’ll completely lose his conversational thread, “Um. I’ve dropped a stitch.”

The first to arrive for Q’s photoshoot, he greets his incoming bandmates with enormous hugs (and also hugs them goodbye). Today, Q feels it’s pointless poking its pickaxe of serious enquiry further into Turner’s vacuum-packed soul and wonders if he’ll play, instead, a daft game. It’s called Popworld Questions, as first posed by someone he knows rather well.

“Oh, OK. Let’s do it,” he blinks, now perched in an empty dressing room. He then vigorously shakes his head, “Um…I’ve gotta snap back into it.”

Here, then, are some genuine “Alexa Chung on Popworld” questions (2006-2007), as originally posed to Matt Willis, Amy Winehouse, Robbie Williams, Pussycat Dolls, Kaiser Chiefs and Diddy.

Why do indie bands wear such tight jeans? AT: “Um. I supposed they do. They haven’t always. When we first were playing I was definitely in flares. You need to be quite tall to get the full effect, though. So, that's why this indie band wears such tight jeans, cos we've not got the legs for flares."

What makes you tick in the sexy department? AT: "Wow. Pass. What do I find most attractive in a woman? Something in the head? That's definitely a requirement. Well... Hmn. I'm struggling."

Tell us about all the lovely groupies. AT: "No!"

If dogs had human hands instead of paws, would you consider trying to teach them to play the piano? AT: "Absolutely. I'd teach Hey Jude."

How many plums d'you think you can comfortably fit in one hand? AT: "They're not very big. [Holds small, pale, girly hand up for inspection] It's a shame. Probably three. Diddy only managed two? Maybe not then. I can carry a lot of glasses at once, though. If they're small ones I can do four."

Are you cool? AT: "Not as much as I'd like to be. There's this clip where Clint Eastwood is on a talkshow and he gets asked, Everybody thinks of you as defining cool, what d'you think about that? And he gets his cigs out, takes one out, flicks it into his mouth, lights it and says, I have no idea what you're talking about."

Here, Turner locates his Camels soft-pack and attempts to do a Clint Eastwood. He flicks one upwards towards his mouth. And misses. Flicks another. And misses. "Third time lucky?" He misses. "I'll get it the next time." And succeeds. "Hey. Fourth time. Don't put that in! So there you go. I'm four steps away from where I wanna be."

Thank you very much for joining me here on Popworld, here's my clammy hand again. There it is, let it slip, hmmn. You can let go now. AT: "OK! Were you a Popworld fan, then? It was funny. Cool. What were we talking about, before?"

Blimey, Alex. What must you be like when you're completely stoned out of your head? AT: "Stoned? What d'you mean, cos I seem like that anyway? Yeah. A lot of people... tell me I'm a bit... dreamy. But I like the idea of that. Of being somewhere else."

Two days earlier, Turner had contemplated what he wanted from all this, in the end. Many seconds later he gave his deceptively ambitious answer.

"I just wanna write better songs," he decided. "And better lyrics. I just definitely wanna be good at it. Hmn. Yeah.”

—

RUFUS BLACK: AKA Matt Helders, on his ongoing bromance with Diddy

Matt Helders has known preposterous rap titan Diddy since they met in Miami in 2008. “He goes, Arctic Monkeys! Then he said summat about a B-side and I was like, He's not lying! I just thought, This is funny, I'm gonna go with this for a while." Last October Diddy texted Helders, suggesting he play drums with his Diddy Dirty Money band on Friday Night With Jonathan Ross, to give his own drummer a day off. “I were bowling with me girifriend at the time. In Sheffield, on a Sunday." On the day of recording, says Helder, "We had a musical director. That were one of the maddest times of my life. Next day Diddy said, Why don't you just stay? Come along with me. So I went everywhere with him." Diddy had "a convoy of cars" and made sure Helders was always in his. "He'd stop his car and go, Where's Matt? You're coming with me! So I'd get in his car. Just me, him, his security, driver." Diddy, by now, had given him a pseudonym - Rufus Black. "He kept saying, I don't wanna fuck up your image. And I'm, I don't think it's gonna do me any harm!" He stayed in Diddy's spectacularly expensive hotel. Some weeks later, Helders almost returned to the Dirty Money drumstool for a gig in Glasgow. "But we were rehearsing in London. I were like, I might come, how are you getting there? And he were like, Jet. Jump on t’jet with me. But I had to stay in Bethnal Green instead.”

Love’s young dream: Diddy (left) with Helders

[bestiarium]

Am Fear Liath Mór, or the Big Grey Man of Ben MacDhui [Scottish cryptid]

The high passes of Ben MacDhui – the second largest mountain in Scotland – are haunted by tales of a mysterious creature that supposedly stalks hikers. Usually it is described as an impossibly tall, grey spectre, thereby earning it the name ‘Am Fear Liath Mór’, meaning ‘the big grey man’.

The story starts in 1891 with professor Norman Collie of the Royal Geographic Society, who happened to be a passionate hiker as well. The professor had just climbed the cairn on the summit of Ben MacDhui when he heard something that vaguely sounded like footsteps. I should mention that this area is notoriously misty, so you can imagine how easy it is for a lone hiker to get anxious when hearing strange noises.

The footsteps continued, but they were oddly spaced: for every ‘step’ the professor heard, he himself took three or four. It was as if this mysterious spectre was taking giant leaps or had huge legs. Eventually the professor was overtaken by panic and fled. Much later, in 1925, he recounted his tale and shared it with the newspapers, who were eager to publish and often exaggerate the story of a supposed monster or cryptid living in the Scottish mountains. At the time, the mystery creature was dubbed ‘the Ben MacDhui Ghost’ in the media.

Afterwards, multiple people came forward with claims about the mountain ghost, some of which were believable (hearing unidentified sounds) and some were more fantastic (Richard Frere and Peter Densham claimed to have had a conversation with an invisible, psychic creature).

Richard Frere would later claim that while he was hiking on the top of the Ben MacDhui, he had an unshakeable feeling that someone else was there with him, and he would hear a strange high-pitched noise that seemed to come from the soil beneath his feet.

Frere also gave a physical description of a creature he claimed to have seen (but it is difficult to verify whether this is the oldest actual ‘sighting’ of the supposed ghost): a large, brown creature was seen swaggering down the mountainside. It stood about 20 feet (6m) tall, was covered with short brown fur and had a disproportionally large head supported by a thick, muscular neck. It had broad shoulders but walked upright and did not resemble an ape.

Interestingly, only a single sighting happened on a nearby mountain, rather than on the Ben MacDhui itself: in the 1920’s, Tom Crowley, the president of the local Moray Mountaineering Club, claimed to have seen an apparition while descending from Braeriach to the Glen Eanaich. It was a very tall, misty grey figure with a humanoid shape, albeit with long legs that ended in strange talons (described as resembling fingers more than toes) and a head with pointy ears.

Dr. A. M. Kellas, himself a famed mountaineer, also claimed that a giant grey humanoid creature haunted the mountain. Among the many supposed sightings, I am uncertain which one is actually the oldest description of the ‘Grey Man’ as a tall, grey spectre, but it is certainly the most popular one. The grey apparition had cemented itself as a local cryptid and urban legend and many more supposed sightings followed.

Though it is often claimed that the creature is connected to ancient Scottish or Celtic mythology, this is most likely false. Gray Affleck, the author of ‘The Big Grey Man of Ben MacDhui’, attempted to research this link but could not find a single connection with actual Highland mythology.

In 1958, the June edition of ‘Scots Magazine’ told the story of Alexander Tewnion’s 1943 expedition to the mountain. While he was descending the mountain, a giant grey shape suddenly loomed over him. Having none of this bullshit, Mr. Tewnion immediately pulled out his revolver and fired three bullets at the thing. The mysterious apparition seemed not to notice, however, and kept walking towards him, upon which Tewnion fled.

Sources: Barrie, A., 2005, Sutton Companion to the Folklore, Myths and Customs of Britain, The History Press, 480 pp. Gray, A., 2013, The Big Grey Man of Ben MacDhui, Birlinn, 183 pp. (reviewed edition, first edition published in 1970) (image source 1 : Attila Nagy on Artstation) (image source 2: ManthosLappas on Deviantart, ©Fear Liath)

[jobean12-blog]

Wood You Be Mine?

Pairing: Lumberjack!Joel Miller x reader

Word Count: 2,667

Summary: Your work and Grandmother bring you away from the city and into the mountains and you find more than just some peace and quiet.

Author's Note: I'm really enjoying these AU's with Joel! Been fun to explore and he wears enough flannels LOL Thank you all so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy! 🥰

Warnings: it's fun and flirty and reader is sassy and Joel is grumpy and it's fluffy and soft too!

Joel Miller Masterlist

After several miles of driving along a bumpy dirt road, the cabin appears. A puffing chimney tops a two-story log house, and red checkerboard curtains line the windows. You park your car in front of the porch. The only other vehicle you see on the property is an old blue pickup truck.

When you step out of the car, a rhythmic pounding echoes from the backyard, somehow in tune with the abundance of sounds from the surrounding woods.

You sneak around the side of the porch hoping to catch a glimpse of your newest client. He’d reluctantly agreed to have his cabin featured in your magazine but only because the story was about eco friendly homes built by their owners.

You round the corner of the house and stop dead in your tracks. You had no idea what the man looked like from the front, but from the back…well you liked what you saw.

His strong arms raise an axe high above his head, then crush it down on a log propped on another stump. The corded muscles of his forearms flex with every movement and his biceps are barely contained by the rolled-up sleeves of his flannel.

Faded and worn blue jeans hug his ass and thick thighs and a pair of scuffed up work boots complete the ensemble. A real-life lumberjack.

He stops momentarily, leaning over to grab a rag, and wipes the handle of the axe. He swings the axe again, splitting the log in front of him, and the two half pieces tumble to the ground.

Whatever noise of appreciation comes out of your mouth was not meant for his ears but suddenly, his head whips around and he levels you with an aggravated glare.

He drops the axe to the ground and stalks over to where you stand, his dark brown eyes narrowed and his soft lips tight with his gritted teeth.

“Can I help you with somethin’? Since you’re trespassin’?” he rumbles.

His eyes rake over you and he glances toward the sky.

“From the city?”

You bristle. “Yeah, and what’s it to ya?”

He snorts. “Those boots look real practical darlin.’ I’m sure they’ll come in handy for the next snow storm.”

You look down at your heeled feet. “We plow snow in the city. Super convenient. You know since people like to get a life. Do things. Instead of hiding away in the mountains.”

He raises a bushy eyebrow. “Uh huh. Well, good for you. Any reason why you’re interrupting me.”

“Just here to take the pictures for Mountain Living magazine.”

You rummage through your bag and pull out some papers, passing them his way. You can’t help but notice how his hands dwarf them.

“So you’re the photographer.”

“Yep,” you answer, popping the p and giving him your name.

“Joel Miller,” he grunts and stands to his full height, crossing his thick arms over his broad chest.

You smile brightly and bat your lashes.

He scowls.

“Let’s go inside so you can take your pictures. And then you can get back to your fancy city life.”

You follow him inside, careful to avoid the mud puddles. A loud, keening screech shatters the silence and you yelp in surprise. You slide in your boots and bump into Joel, grabbing his thick bicep for safety.

A huge bird swoops by and lands on a nearby tree branch, ruffling it’s feathers and eyeballing you. Your fingers flex on his muscle and you gasp.

“What is that? It looks like a dinosaur! Is it going to eat us?”

“It’s just a hawk darlin’,” he answers with a shake of his head. “Shit, don’t they have any birds in the city?”

“I mean sure,” you begin, “but they are small and hop around a lot.”

He stares at you, unmoving. “Well, you’re not in any danger. Unless it decides to take a shit on your head.”

He says it without cracking a smile.

“Aren’t you hilarious,” you scoff with a roll of your eyes.

“Why exactly are you up here in the wilderness?” he asks. “You don’t seem too excited about it.”

“Other than work…I’m visiting my grandmother. She lives up here and I’m staying with her for the next month. Getting some fresh air and all that.”

“Just as you step up onto the porch you hear a whining noise. A fluffy yellow lab ambles over and sits on your boot, wagging it’s tail and looking up at you with big brown eyes.

“Who’s this?” you ask as you lean down to pet the dog.

“That’s Winston.”

“He’s a lab right?”

“Yep.”

You cough to hide your laugh. “He’s very cute but I thought it was mandatory for all people living here to have some huge breed like a Pyrenees or Saint Bernard.”

“Does your grandmother have some giant dog?” he asks.

“Two Swiss Mountain dogs actually. Bert and Ernie.”

He surprises you with a huge smile. His whole face lit up, his eyes even crinkling at the corners.

“Nice names. I like your grandmother.”

“She’s the best. Even if she worries too much about me. She wants me to move out of the city and come up here for the cleaner air!”

He opens the front door and ushers you inside. “She has a point. It’s much healthier here.”

“And boring-er.”

The door bangs shut behind him.

“That’s not a word.”

“It should be. At least up here.”

He doesn’t look amused and instead walks over to small desk in the corner and shuffles some papers.

You take a look around and blink in surprise. It’s gorgeous. The granite fireplace is surrounded by hand-made wooden furniture and the high ceilings and large windows create a rustic and beautiful scene.

“You look shocked,” he chuckles from behind you.

“Oh,” you startle. “It’s just…it’s so beautiful. How did you do all this?”

He smiles again. “It took a lot of time and sawdust.”

You walk around, running your fingertips over the curves of the furniture and firing off the names of all the different woods it’s made of.

“How do you know so much about that?”

“I’ve taken enough pictures of furniture and asked enough questions to know most types of wood,” you explain.

“Well, now, isn’t that funny. City girls knows all about timber but is scared of the outdoors.”

“I never said that!” you grumble.

“I could see it all over your face when the hawk flew by! You look around like somethin’s gonna jump out and eat ya!”

You narrow your eyes and step closer to him. “That’s just not true. I’m not scared of the woods…I’m simply afraid of…of…certain large mammals that might enjoy life in the woods…you know rubbing up against trees, eating berries and honey and maybe an occasional human!”

“What in the world…?” Joel smirks.

“I’m afraid of bears!” you say as you sit on his couch and slump back.

He tries to stifle a laugh. “I’m guessin’ there’s a story hiding somewhere darlin’.”

“I’m guessing my grandmother is expecting me for dinner. I better get started on the pictures so I’m not late.”

You shuffle with your camera equipment until you’re satisfied then start snapping shots. You’re in the zone and hardly feel Joel’s eyes on you as you work. When you’re done you pack up and hold out your hand to him.

“It was nice to meet you Joel.”

Your hand is engulfed by warm, rough skin and so much strength. You peer up into his face and expect a snarky smile but instead you gasp softly at the winded look you find. He blinks slowly and he tightens his grip before tugging on your hand.

Your boots slide across the hard wood floor until your inches away from him and his gaze drops to your mouth.

Your knees buckle when Winston slams against your legs and wiggles his body between the two of you.

Joel sighs. “Damn dog.” But he leans down and affectionately rubs behind his ears.

Winston sits on your feet and presses his body weight against you, relishing the ear rubs.

“Winston,” you coo as you join in.

“Sorry about him. He’s a big fan of affection.”

You clear your throat. “Isn’t everyone?”

His eyes level with yours and you get caught in his gaze, a warmth spreading along your skin.

“I better get going. I’ll be sure to e-mail you the proofs of the pictures so you can be part of the selecting process.”

You fly out of the house and into the car, tearing down the dirt road then peeking in your rear-view mirror to see Joel standing out on his porch.

“I need a drink,” you mumble before turning toward the small town.

Joel runs a hand through his already disheveled hair after he pulls into the parking lot of the general store in town.

He knows a hot cup of coffee will help and one of those muffins that the owner’s wife bakes.

The general store has it all…coffee, muffins, dog biscuits, a new axe…and you.

There you are, smack dab in the middle of the aisle stocked with wine. You grab a bottle and round the corner toward the register.

The owner, Mark, chats you up as you check out.

“Celebrating something tonight miss?” Mark asks.

“Actually no, just visiting with my grandma but I needed a drink,” you explain to Mark.

“Not sure that’s somethin’ your grandma should be drinkin’.”

At the sound of that familiar deep voice you grit your teeth and turn to face him.

The look of indignation on your face almost makes Joel laugh, the corners of his mouth twitching with his suppression.

“Grandma loves her wine Mr. Miller. And she’s old enough to enjoy it!”

Joel can’t hold back any longer and lets out a bark of laughter.

“What’s so funny?”

He steps closer and gives you a once-over before taking a sip of his coffee and raising an eyebrow.

You want to stomp your feet. “I’m surprised you even have wine in this town!”

“It’s not the middle of nowhere. We have electricity, indoor plumbing and the internet! It’s all very modern.”

“Oh yeah sure it is,” you tease. “That explains the jars of penny candy then! And if that’s what you call coffee…well…”

You look to Mark standing at the cash register, “no offense Mark.”

“None taken,” the old man says kindly, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Thank you Mark. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go enjoy this with my grandmother!”

You grab your bag of wine and march out the door, this time feeling the heat of Joel’s stare at your back.

“Is there anywhere else you want to go before we head back Grandma?”

She smiles and asks you to take her to the general store to visit Mark and get some coffee, telling you it’s been ages since she’s been in to see him.

“Sure Grandma. I’d get coffee too but I think I’ll pass…”

Your Grandma chuckles and pats your knee, still smiling.

As you walk around the store and listen to your Grandma talking with Mark you can’t help it as your thoughts wander back to Joel and the undeniable heat you feel whenever you’re near him. When you make it to the register your Grandma and Mark are talking in hushed voices, glancing your way and looking suspicious as you get closer.

“What’s going on?”

Your Grandma looks at you knowingly. “Mark here was just telling me that you took the pictures of Joel’s cabin for your magazine.”

Your eyebrows come together. “But how did he know that?”

“Joel told me,” Mark explains. “Said you took fantastic pictures. Really captured the heart and soul of his place.”

You smile at that and your Grandma’s face brightens.

“He’s a good man. A bit gruff, but good. Better than most actually.”

You look at your Grandma, letting her words sink in as you become more confused. “You know Joel?”

“Everyone knows everyone ‘round here baby,” your Grandma says. “And when I tell you Joel’s one of the good ones you best believe it.”

“Why should it matter to me?” you ask as realization dawns on you.

Your Grandma and Mark share an entertained expression.

“OH NO!” you say, far too loudly. “No way! There is no way in hell I’m getting involved with a big, cranky, grumpy, Lab-owning, house building, bearded lumberjack who lives in the middle of nowhere!”

Both your Grandma and Mark smirk and glance over your shoulder.

“Hi Joel,” Mark says. Good to see you again.”

You narrow your eyes at Mark. “Funny. You expect me to believe that he’s standing behind me?” Just how naïve do you think I am!”

A low rumble in your ear raises every hair on your body.

You turn until Joel’s face comes into view, his beard, complete with patches of gray, only inches from your lips.

“For the record, I’m only grumpy when people trespass on my property.”

He smiles and places some dog biscuits down on the counter before walking off down another aisle.

Your Grandma cackles. “Oh he definitely likes you.”

Mark nods enthusiastically in agreement before you look between them both and stomp off in a different direction.

Unfortunately that direction takes you smack into the hard chest of your grumpy lumberjack.

“Oof,” you mutter, closing your eyes when his strong hands close around your waist.

“You ok darlin’? You were comin’ round that corner so fast I didn’t have time to move. Sorry.”

“I’m fine,” you whisper, slowly opening your eyes until your vision is filled with the soft brown color of his.

“And by the way,” he continues. “I might be slightly grumpy, a lab-owner and a builder but I ain’t no lumberjack.”

“Really,” you muse, still standing close enough that you can feel his chest brush yours with his inhale. “Let’s see,” you point at his flannel shirt. “Plaid shirt. Check! Axe? Saw you use one of those! Check! Beard,” and you glance at his chin, your fingers slowly lifting until your brush them over his cheek.

“Check.” The last one comes out breathy and light.

Joel chuckles, dipping his head until his warm breath fans your cheek and his lips brush the shell of your ear.

“What do you say to lettin’ me take ya out for a bite to eat? There’s a local dive that makes decent food and I think they even have wine.”

You pause, trying to steady your shallow breathing.

“Well, I guess that might be okay. Considering there’s wine…and Grandma says the college boys are really cute here in town.”

Joel frowns. “College boys? I don’t think college boys would know how to satisfy a sophisticated city woman like you.”

He strokes his callused fingers over your soft jaw. “I think you might need a real man for the job.”

You still beneath his touch, then let out a slow breath.

“What makes you think I’m looking for a real man? Maybe I’ve sworn off all men for a while.”

“I don’t think you have any idea what a real man can do for you darlin’.”

Your eyes linger on his mouth and he clears his throat, but his voice still comes out gravelly and strained.

“Lumberjack men don’t fool around. What you see is what you get. And when we see what we want…”

He stares at your lips, pouting and inviting. “We take it.”

Your lips part on a breathy gasp before you recover and sass him with, “but you said it yourself, you’re no lumberjack.”

He just smiles and waits, softly tracing the outline of your jaw.

You run your tongue over your lips and stare at him.

“Okay. You can take me out.”

He grabs your hand and turns on his heel, pulling you right past the register and out the door.

(Don’t worry, Grandma got a ride home and is safe and sound- neither Joel nor our reader would never leave her hanging).

@pedritosdarling @lorilane33 @hiddles-rose @blackwidownat2814 @justkinsey @littleseasiren @laineyreads @beccablogsthings @kmc1989 @hallecarey1

[vellichor-of-the-solivagant]

How to Plant Snapdragons | 11

Task Force 141, Keegan & Konig x Female Criminal!Reader

Previous Chapter / Extra Chapter / Masterlist

“So—”

“No.” Ghost replied at once before you could even finish your complaint.

You clicked your tongue and bashed the head of the cartel man before you with a gun you picked up on the way. Blood splattered on the ground as he fell, yet still had the strength to hold onto your foot. You felt a twitch underneath your eye and raised your gun, then sighed. You tossed the gun away, useless without any ammunition, and shook off the man’s hand.

You coughed and wheezed, then massaged your scratchy throat. “Fuck, I'm thirsty.”

“Told ya to drink earlier from the ri—”

“Shut the fuck up, Lt!” you shouted at Simon, who you knew—even though his face, expressions, everything was hidden underneath fabrics—definitely looked proud at the moment as your irritation (instead) started to brew.

“Poor guy breathed his last breath with a living and walking broken record screeching in his poor ears,” Soap commented, shaking his head as he picked up a magazine to examine it to see if there was anything left, but to no avail.

You pitched a pistol at him. Purposely aimed at his face but he was fast enough to catch it. “Asshole,” you mouthed at him, which he merely smirked at.

Then, an explosion echoed from a distance, shaking the ground and air around you. You gazed up above and spotted Graves’ plane circling around the vicinity, aiding you and the group in handling the men of the Las Almas Cartel and your goal: to capture Hassan.

The explosion continued in a series, like an orchestra of death and destruction before you. You would have liked to watch it happening from above, but the circumstances forbid it and so, you had to settle for bashing heads with a gun.

And when your gun had run out of ammunition, you used your blades. The moment your blade had become dull against the skin of humans, you used your hands.

Blood seeped through the fabric protecting your hands, mixing with the sweat within. You let the dirt of people enshroud the own filth of your hands, and you let yourself be the unwanted Iudex of their crimes.

“Hey, hey!” Ghost shouted at you which made you stop breaking the man’s face underneath you with your fists. “That's enough, we have Hassan,” he claimed.

You shrugged your shoulders and patted off the dust from your clothes. “Just making sure he's not going to get back up, y’know?”

“Well, I think he's not getting back up anytime from the hell ya made,” Soap commented, staring down at the man on your feet, and nudged the poor guy. “I also think not any kind of plastic surgery would fix his face if he managed to get back up.”

You cackled, slapping his arm in amusement. “Hey, that's not nice!”

He made a face. “But breaking his face isn't?”

“Never said it wasn't.”

He shot a glance up and shrugged. “Good point.”

“Heh.”

“Are you two done?” Ghost grumbled, walking away with Alejandro. With that, you both followed him down the building and jumped into the helicopter awaiting at the bottom.

You scanned the people of the group, counting the members that arrived with you at the Cartel’s land, and sighed when the number remained the same, except for the ones who the group had lost in the mountains.

You sat on the flooring of the halo, and leaned on its wall, shaking off your balaclava and gloves. You swiped the sweat running down your face, smearing the blood left both on your cheek and fingers, painting your face in dark red.

With all honesty, it felt and smelled disgusting, even though you had gotten used to it.

“Colonel, sir,” you called on Alejandro. “You have a shower in your base?” you questioned, although your words were drowned in the noise of the chopper.

He raised his brows and yelled, “What?!”

“I'm asking if you have a shower in your base!” you shouted back as loud as you could and coughed. Your hand flew to your throat and with a grimace, you massaged it. You had been speaking too much and it showed, making your throat have this annoying, scratchy, and itchy feeling. Punishment for irritating the shit out of everyone, perhaps.

“We do!” Alejandro answered in an equally booming voice.

Not wanting to force your throat anymore, you gave him a thumb-up instead, making him frown and look away in confusion.

By the time the Los Vaqueros, the Shadow Company, along with you, Soap, and Ghost touched down at Alejandro’s base, the sun had already set. But with everything going on, you didn’t have the time to slip past the soldiers’ eyes to take a quick shower to clean yourself. You were dragged down to another vehicle and drove down the road once again.

You kept your mouth shut the whole time, much to the boys’ delight, and maintained your eyes on the road. However, almost everything was dark, even with the headlights of the vehicle, and it made it hard to remember your surroundings. You started counting on your head by from one to sixty and until the third lap, the transport made a stop.

Alejandro, who was in the same one as you and the 141 duo, stepped out first, followed by Graves who was in another with a couple of his Shadows, dragging Hassan out of the vehicle. Soap and Ghost jumped out as well, helping with hauling the guy out and leaving you alone in the car.

You sighed and slumped on the seat, enjoying the darkness and chill of your surroundings, but someone opened the vehicle door. You rolled your eyes and turned to Phillip, who had his hand resting on the roof, raising a brow at you. “You know what?” you started, narrowing your eyes at him, “You look like that meme of the guy with exaggeratedly arched brow, lip fillers, and—”

“Get out.” He snatched one of the straps on your vest, forcefully tugged you out of the vehicle with a grunt, and pulled you in front of the laptop Ghost had set up. “She’s here.”

You grimaced at the sight of Shepherd, looking lax as he had always been. “Sup,” you spat out, but before he could speak, you continued, “What do you need me for in front of the camera when you already have me monitored? It’s not like I can even run away in this . . .” you looked around and cringed at the sound of a howl in the distance. “Where the hell even are we?”

“That is none of your busi—”

“That is none of your business,” you finished, waving your hand around as though you had a puppet in hand. “Goodness gracious, ameliorate your vocabulary, why don’t you? You’re a General. Aren’t you supposed to have a broad lexicon in reserve for?”

Ghost and Alejandro snapped their heads at your way in sync, then glanced back at each other with questioning looks, before their eyes settled on you. Meanwhile, the Shadows stepped back into the darkness of the night, hitting each other to stop themselves from laughing.  On the other hand, Soap turned to his back and hid behind the Lieutenant, pursing his lips to not let out a chortle.

Annoyed, Shepherd frowned and brought his face closer to the camera. “Get her out of my—”

“You're the personification of an egg. A rotten—” Phillip’s hand landed on your mouth and heaved you away from the device. You did not bother to struggle from his grip and simply let him bring you to the 141.

“Keep your mouth shut.” He pointed a finger at you and strode away.

A hand patted your shoulder and you turned to Soap and Ghost.

“What was that?” Soap whispered with a grin playing on his lips.

“Roasted egg,” you replied without a blink.

He snorted, brought his head down to hide his smile, and gripped your shoulder. Whilst, Ghost stepped forward to hide the Sergeant from the camera.

“Hah!” Hassan scoffed loudly, bringing everyone’s attention to him. “To think there would be someone to talk to Shepherd like that.” He shifted his gaze from the laptop to you. “You amuse me, woman. But I don’t know if you’re insane or dumb.”

“The quantity of fuck that I’m giving right now is as much as the sum of the strands of your hair and Shepherd’s,” you remarked, making Soap cough, Ghost elbowed him in a heartbeat, and Alejandro’s mouth dropped open. At the same time, the Shadows turned away and both received knocks on their heads from their leader.

Roast? No. This was fucking furnace.

“Alright, people,” the Coffin clapped his hands and stood before the enemy, “Let's get down to business.”

“To defeat the Huns?” You croaked with a straight face.

Graves could only roll his eyes and mutter, “Lord, give me strength,” Then looked back down on Hassan.

“You speak Arabic? Farsi?” Hassan questioned, to which Graves merely responded with a couple of ‘No’s. Hassan scoffed, a smirk playing on his lips. “Of course not. Then, I shall speak to your lowly, bastardized medieval English, cause you are all uneducated street dogs.”

“He sprecþ swilce he wite þa word of þam Ængliscum Seaxe mid fægere,” you crossed your arms and arched your brow. Once again, attention turned to you and you huffed as you saw Hassan's frown. You stepped forward. “See? You dare utter  medieval English in spite of the fact that you couldn't even fathom what I've said.”

(He spoke as though he knew the words of Anglo-Saxon with fluency).

“You are speaking to a Quds Force Officer.” Hassan returned the glare equally. “Watch your mouth, wench.”

You strode towards him and glared down at the man. “You call us ill-educated alley vermins when you are inferior to maggots.” Then, you put a hand on the jut of your hip. “Be grateful I haven't squashed you under my foot.”

“What's your target, Major?” Graves joined back in and you stepped to the side, to let him stand in front of the Iranian.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he spat. “What was your target when you sent missiles to my land, huh?”

The Shadow painted a smile on his face. “To burn your asses.”

You cringed at his words. “Do a better line, jeez.”

He shot a glare at you. “You’re not helping.”

“Only three things are stopping me from speaking to him fully in his language: Laziness, keeping your fragile pride intact for not knowing how to speak other languages, and so we can all talk at the same pace.” You showed him three fingers, pulled a face, and brought down your arm. “I could talk to him in Arabic or Farsi, mistranslate it intentionally, and fail this mission.”

You gave him the nicest smile you could force onto yourself. “Well, what's your verdict?”

“Just step aside and let the pros finish this.”

“Okay.” You walked back to Soap and Ghost. “Don't come crying at me if he starts talking in Arabic.”

Just as you said that, standing between the duo of the 141, Hassan Zyani began to speak in Persian, bringing Graves' eyes to you.

The group, under Shepherd's command and Laswell’s guidance, was forced to let Hassan go, after obtaining information from his phone. Unfortunately, you couldn't put a hand on Hassan physically, and you couldn't bring yourself to show the others, especially the Lt. and the Sergeant, how exactly you would like to extract intel from people.

You almost burst out laughing when Hassan went along with your humor and made it hard for the Shadow. Nevertheless, you translated for them and talked with the hostage on their behalf, while having to deal with the stare of suspicions at every word you said, which later turned out to be true with Laswell's information.

Now, you stood on top of a building, taking in the sight of El sin Nombre’s Casa, with Ghost, Soap, Graves, and the Colonel.

“My intel told me all the VIPs of Las Almas will be there tonight.” Colonel Vargas stopped for a moment and pondered over his words, making you face him, watching his reaction. “Some are invited, some . . .”

“Voluntold?” Graves guessed, in which the Mexican nodded in agreement.

“Not surprising,” you butt in. “Gatherings like this always have some unwanted rodents. Most to gather intelligence, make amends, make friends, and make enemies. An endless cycle.”

“And why do you know that?” Alejandro questioned within a blink.

“I was raised in a household where such things are quotidian.”

“Are you perhaps  a part of an international cartel or mafia?” He asked, extending a hand to the side as if he was making a point.

“No.” You shook your head. “Not really. My father is a rich man, he hosts parties a lot, and people from different places show up every time. Scheming is a part of their daily palette.”

They all eyed you with suspicions, but among them, you knew Graves who wore a straight face but narrowed eyes, knew of your true upbringing.

“Well, we'll be party poopers then,” Graves shattered the silence. “I got enough shadows to make a whole new party.”

“I prefer if you don't, Hermano,” Alejandro disagreed, stepping a bit closer to the Shadow.

He shrugged. “I'm just saying, a house is easy enough.”

“Even a mansion is easy enough,” you commented, making Graves roll his eyes.

“We are not burning it down, lass,” Phillip replied and stopped for a second before he put a hand on your shoulder, which you inched away from, but kept his grip tight. “The key to opening El Sin Nombre’s doors is you.”

You stared at the hand on your shoulder and a grimace crawled its way on your face. “Ew—”

“No, she's not doing it,” Soap argued, pulling you away from Graves' hold. “I can do it.”

“If you get in there, Hermano, they'll kill you,” said Alejandro with concern on his voice, yet at the same time a warning.

You gave the Colonel a side-eye, offended by his words. He did not disagree to Phillip’s suggestions about you infiltrating the Cartel with the possibility of dying yet immediately spoke when Soap volunteered? Well, you get it, Soap was trustworthy, being a known soldier after all. Then, there was you, a criminal and what, an annoying yapper?

Still, how could he disregard your life after you fought along side him and saved some of his men? The audacity!

Soap was a real sweetheart, though. And to uphold your deal with Price, the best course of action was to walk in the lion’s den on your own.

You patted Soap’s hand on your arm. “I'll do it, Sergeant.”

“But—”

“Intelligence is what they need, no?” You waved a hand to the side. “Then, let me serve them what they want. If their leader is inside and I've confirmed they took a bite, I'll spread the poison as quickly as I can, and get you back better meal.”

Silence once again veiled over the group, their brows knitting in confusion, and Ghost decided to rip it off.

“Speak English,” he commanded.

You sighed and rested a hand on the crook of your hip. “I infiltrate, give them info, if the leader is confirmed, we pounce, and get back more info, clear?”

“Could have said it from the start,” the Lieutenant fired back.

“I did!”

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