#either way the culprit is weed

[kumratart]

Gettem GETTEM

[officialaemondtargaryen]

Dinner & Diatribes

❝i knew it from the first look of mischief in your eye.❞

Summary: You both swiped right and suddenly you're standing in a stranger's kitchen while he makes you spaghetti.

Pairing: Modern Aegon Targaryen x Reader

Word Count: 5.2k

Author’s Note: this might be the most self-indulgent fic i've ever written, so fair warning. also, thank you tom, who inspired this by saying that dinner & diatribes would be aegon's hozier song. it's just true. anyways, this was really fun to write.

Warnings: language, recreational drug use, alcohol use, fluff, intense sexual situations (including: oral sex - female receiving, sexual intercourse - p in v), just two single people who are horny, more fluff, aegon being so cute that i couldn't stop smiling the whole time i was writing this.

It was precisely 9:39 PM on a Tuesday.

You were sitting cross-legged on your couch, nose deep in a fresh murder mystery that you had been working through for the last two days. There was a lit joint between your fingers that you were nursing, taking little hits so that it wouldn’t completely burn out, and on the cushion next to you, your phone softly vibrates and lights up; a familiar icon flashes across the screen and you can easily make out the words, “It’s a Match” from the corner of your eye. 

It’d been a regular occurrence since you had downloaded that accursed app. 

You’d been single for far too long, according to your best friend, though you hadn’t really noticed. The sweet silence of a solitary life was something that you had enjoyed for the most part. It wasn’t even like your online dating life had really taken off, either. You’d get matches but hardly anyone would reach out in any way that made you feel like they were serious. They wanted your Snapchat username, or they were in an ‘open’ relationship or asking for a threesome, and one guy even asked if you would send him pictures of your feet. Even some of the ones you thought were serious about taking you out- or even just hooking up- would end up ghosting you before anything actually happened. 

“It’s not supposed to be serious,” you could hear your friend’s words rattling around in your brain. You shake your head and focus once again on your book; they have a suspect, it’s the best friend! How fitting.

Once again, your phone lights up and vibrates. Not wanting to be distracted from the plot, you ignore your new match and get back to your mystery with anticipation; the best friend is about to confess. You go to take another hit of your joint and frown upon realizing it’s burnt out. As you move to grab your lighter, in comes another message, and another, and another. You stop what you’re doing and pick up your phone, swiping at the screen until you find the culprit. He’s known only as Aegon T, and according to the one sentence he has written on his profile, he has a dog. You swipe through his pictures- the dog is a golden retriever, the man looks like a golden retriever. 

In the message thread, he’s basically talking to himself. 

There’s four new messages waiting for you, while three little dots begin flashing at the bottom of the screen; disappearing and reappearing as you read what he’s already sent. 

“So, I’m high.”

“And I am making spaghetti… and it’s really good.”

“At least I hope it’s really good, it could just be the weed…”

“I could use a taste-tester, if you’re up for it? I can’t pay you or anything, but it’s honest work 😏”

Aegon begins typing again and you watch the screen, a smirk on your lips. You are 99% sure that the spaghetti is truly an innuendo for what he really wants and have half a heart to just block him, but you watch as those little gray dots continue in the bottom left corner of the screen; he’s going back and forth with himself and you can’t help but find it oddly cute. Your fingers hover over the keyboard as you contemplate a witty response, but before you can even begin typing, he sends a fifth message. 

“That was weird as fuck, right?”

Then a sixth.

“You probably don’t want to come over to some random guy’s house on a Tuesday.”

He finishes up with a seventh message.

“Unless you do…”

He almost sends an apology. After all, what's another message? He’s already fucked this whole thing up; not even giving himself a chance before he nose-dived. If he was being honest, he should just go ahead and delete his whole account; save you from secondhand embarrassment and save himself from repeating the same mistake again in the future. He sets the phone down on the kitchen counter and goes back to ripping bong hits to calm his nerves. Though, he’s unable to keep himself from checking his phone for a response; a response that likely wasn’t going to come and he’d spend the rest of his night feeling like a complete idiot. 

Seven back-to-back messages should have screamed ‘red flag’, but you’re glancing at the clock as if you were seriously contemplating taking this stranger up on his offer. After all, you do have needs just as much as the next person. But, you’re wearing a sweatshirt and a pair of pajama shorts, your hair’s a mess, and you were covered in the crumbs of your munchie snacks. Meaning, you were nowhere close to being prepared for what was sure to happen between you and this random stoner offering you dinner. 

Yet, you respond to him, “I could never turn down spaghetti”. 

Aegon’s stirring the sauce when he gets your message. He’s instantly elated, thrusting a celebratory fist into the air. His fingers fly across the keyboard swiftly, sending another quick message, “Atta girl 🙃 My place is on the corner of 9th and 51st, above Jasper’s.”

“Be there soon,” you reply with haste. 

It was apartment #4 and you made sure to text your friend the address, and given name of your potential murderer, and also share your location for her to keep an eye out.  She says all you have to do is text her at any time if you need her to call and bail you out with a fake emergency. All she asks in return is for you to have fun and let her know if you are planning on spending the night- which was an idea that you weren’t opposed to, but it wasn’t something you were planning on. 

You’re nervous as you stand outside of the door to his apartment, fist hovering for a moment. Now’s the time to make a fast exit- you haven’t met him, you could turn around right now and never meet him. You could wake up alive in the morning, safe in your own bed. Or, you can knock on the door and have what might be a really nice spaghetti dinner with a really nice guy. Hell, he could even be the love of your life and in fifty years you’ll both look back on this day and laugh about how you met on Tinder and how you were stupid enough to go to his house and not a public place. 

Finally, you knock. 

Aegon puts the lid back on his spaghetti sauce and shuffles into the living room. Sunfyre is on the couch with his ears perked; his tail’s wagging and he’s panting eagerly, waiting patiently to meet this new visitor. Aegon whispers over to him, “wish me luck,” and thinks to himself, please don’t be a catfish, please don’t be a catfish, please don’t be a catfish. He peers through the peephole when he approaches the door and there you are, a sigh of relief deflates his chest. 

“Oh, thank God,” you can hear him say as the door swings open. His accent is surprisingly British. “You’re real.”

The very first thing that you notice are his eyes. They’re piercing; somehow blue and lavender at the same time– the color of a warm, summer sunrise and they’re crinkling at the edges as he smiles. He’s wearing a pair of dark gray sweats and a pale green hoodie, and the only word that comes to mind when you look at him is warmth. He’s somehow more attractive in person than he is in the pictures on his profile, which you didn’t think was possible, but he’s standing right in front of you and you can’t help but think to yourself, he doesn’t look like a murderer. 

Then again, neither did Ted Bundy.  

Aegon stands there for a moment, just staring at you, unable to do anything else. His words escape him, he can barely even breathe. You look exactly the same as your pictures; even without the makeup and even in the shitty, fluorescent overhead lights of the hallway. Even in a sweatshirt and pajama shorts, you’re stunning. He’s having a hard time believing that you actually showed up and he doesn’t realize that he’s been staring for much too long until you shrug back at him. 

“Did you think I wasn’t?” You ask with creased brows and a lopsided smile.

The corners of his lips pull upwards as he looks at you, “I don’t know. You’re just so beautiful, I’m still not entirely convinced you aren’t some sort of hologram… or a robot.” 

“Wow, you’re pretty smooth,” you say with a playful smirk, desperately trying to keep your composure— trying to play it cool, hoping that he hasn’t caught on to the fact that you’re secretly spiraling, because it took all of one smile and one compliment and you were done for. “But, I’ll have you know that flattery won’t work on me. I’m here for the spaghetti and the spaghetti alone.” 

“My apologies,” Aegon says with a chuckle as he holds his hands up defensively. “Right this way, then.” 

He steps to the side, allowing you to enter his apartment, and shuts the door behind you. It’s nice, clean, smells like fresh baked bread and tomato sauce. There’s niche artwork adorning the walls, he’s got candles burning, and there’s some lowkey, downtempo R&B playing softly in the background. He quickly moves past you and disappears into the kitchen, leaving you to follow him. 

However, before you can take all of two steps into his apartment, a flash of golden fur is suddenly at your hip, pawing for attention. You drop down to a knee and happily accept any and all kisses from the pup. “Oh! Hi, what’s your name?”

Aegon sticks his head around the corner and says, “That is Sunfyre. In case you were wonderin’, he’s a very good judge of character and I will be consultin’ with him later where you’re concerned, fair warning.” 

You roll your eyes and scratch behind Sunfyre’s ears, his tail thumps in approval. 

“Would you like something to drink?” He continues and disappears back into the kitchen. “I’ve got wine and bottled water. Oh, and milk?” There’s a rustling in the kitchen before Aegon adds with a nervous chuckle, “scratch that, there is no milk.” 

You politely excuse yourself from Sunfyre and step into the small dining room off of the kitchen. 

There’s a grin on your lips, which you pursed so that he doesn’t think you’re laughing at him. Sunfyre joins the two of you and circles around his owner’s legs as Aegon empties an almost full half-gallon of milk down the drain. His kitchen is small but looks to be well used, which you appreciate. You know almost nothing about this man, other than his name- if ‘Aegon’ was even his real name- and the name of his dog, and yet here you were, standing in the threshold of his kitchen with a strange sense of comfortability as if you had been lifelong pals. 

“Water is fine,” you tell him. 

He produces a bottle of water from his fridge and tosses it over to you with ease and goes back to the stove. You step further into the kitchen, taking in your surroundings. The kitchen, like the living room, is covered in artwork and vintage decor- things you’d only find in some obscure thrift store or estate sale. On the refrigerator are a collection of magnets from different cities and countries, real touristy type shit. Some of them even had names on them; Alexander, Aaron, Alistair, Alan, Adolf. 

Maybe these are the names of people he’s killed. 

“You travel a lot?” You ask, trying to keep the conversation going.

“I try to,” he says from over his shoulder as he continues to stir the sauce. You can hear him set the lid back on the pot. “Most of those are from my sister, Helaena. She thinks it’s hilarious to give me magnets with random ‘A’ names since you’ll never find the name Aegon on any of those,” he says from behind you. He’s leaning against the counter with a half glass of wine. You quirk an eyebrow at him, not fully convinced. “She has a few from me that say Helen.”

“Is that her?” You ask, finger pointing to a pretty blonde in one of the many photographs he had pinned up.

He nods and takes a step closer to you. He’s so close that you can feel his warmth, smell his aftershave. The proximity causes you to blush and he smirks in response, leaning over your shoulder as he points to the other people in the pictures. “Those two are my little brothers, Aemond and Daeron,” he claims and then points to two women. “That’s my half-sister, Rhae, and next to her is my mother.”

“The redhead?” You ask surprised, given she didn’t look like she could be old enough to have four grown children. He nods and takes a step back, leaning against the counter with half-lidded eyes and a tipsy blush. “She looks like she could be your sister,” you say softly, turning back to glance at all of the faces; he seemed proud of his family, like they were very close. 

You turn away from the fridge and lean against the counter at his side. It’s quiet for a moment, save for the music and the sound of boiling water where the noodles were cooking. You look at him and the corners of your lips can’t help but twist up into a shy smile, but you bite at the inside of your cheek out of nervous habit. He props himself up on his elbows, taking a sip of his wine, clearly comfortable with the silence. 

“So,” you look up at him and his little smirk grows. “About the job…”

“Ah, yes,” he nods. “As I stated earlier, I won’t be able to pay you a monetary wage, but the position does come with a benefits package.”

“And what exactly would this benefits package include?” There’s an innocent flirtatiousness in your voice that only adds to the tension. 

“Outside of the free gourmet meals that I would be providin’ to ya, which is obviously the most important part,” he smiles and steps to the side to grab a spoon from the drawer and holds it out to you. Your fingers softly close around his as you pluck the utensil from his grasp. He clears his throat to distract from the fact that he was visibly flustered from the slight touch. “There’s also unlimited cuddle sessions,” before he can finish, you shoot him a look. “With Sunfyre, of course! He’s the real boss ‘round here, after all.” 

“Cuddling with the boss?” You quirk an eyebrow and look down at the golden retriever, his eyes round and gleaming; clearly waiting for a hand-out. “Sounds like a conflict of interest to me.”

“Well, if it’s a conflict of interest you’re worried about,” he counters quickly with a soft yet playful tone. “I s’pose we could renegotiate the terms of the agreement and you could have me instead.” 

“I’m listening.”

“He might be better at cuddling for obvious reasons and he might be better lookin’,” Aegon continues. “But, I give better backrubs. I mean, I have thumbs and he don’t. You can’t give decent backrubs without thumbs, can you? Plus, he’s a sloppy kisser.” 

“Oh, you’re really trying to sweeten the deal now, huh? Backrubs and kisses? I must admit, that is quite a compelling offer,” you muse. “It seems my decision hinders on whether or not you can actually cook, wouldn’t want to accept the position blindly, now would I?”

“Are ya doubtin’ my skills?” He asked playfully. 

“No offense, but you possess the aura of someone who could fuck up a can of Spaghettios,” you tell him with a sincere smile. “So, forgive me if I don't get my hopes up.”

Aegon laughs and it’s a warm and infectious sound that fills the kitchen. It’s genuine, as is his perfect smile. You can’t seem to keep yourself from staring; eyes softly tracing every detail of his face– from his full, pink pout, to the scar above his right eyebrow, and the dimple of his chin– thinking to yourself that you’ve never seen a man more beautiful. His smile turns back into a smirk as he notices you staring at his lips and you look up to meet his eyes. There’s something about the way he looks at you that leaves you feeling vulnerable. His gaze softens as you look away, turning your attention back to the spaghetti sauce on the stove in front of you to distract yourself from the blush creeping up your neck.

There’s only one way this night ends.

It was obvious before you even left your house and it was certainly obvious now. 

“Go on, then,” he prods, motioning to the pot on the stovetop.

His eyes are wide with anticipation as you dip into the simmering sauce, stirring it a few times before bringing the spoon to your lips. He’s nervous; it’s his mother’s recipe– one he’s spent years perfecting– but with his luck, you will most likely think it’s steaming garbage. Yet, he watches intently; holding his breath as your perfect lips curl to blow softly, cooling the sauce before you finally taste it. 

The moment the spoon touches your tongue, you're determined to remain impartial. After all, you’ve had your fair share of disappointing meals from men who’ve claimed to be great cooks. Aegon certainly could be the very latest and you wouldn’t be at all surprised. So, you keep your expectations low, and try your hardest to remain stoic, but as the flavors begin to unfold, you can feel your resolve wavering. 

It’s good. Better than most. 

Reluctantly, you have to admit that this is the second-best sauce you’ve ever had, right after your grandmother’s. You glance up at Aegon, who’s watching you with a mix of anxiety and hope, and you can’t help but smile. 

“I have to give it to you,” you say, your voice betraying a hint of admiration. “This is incredible. Almost as good as my grandmother’s.”

The relief and pride that spread across his face makes your heart flutter. 

“Yeah?” He asks with a toothy grin. 

“I’m still not completely convinced that you can actually cook, but you can– at the very least– make some top-notch spaghetti sauce,” you tell him as you place your spoon to the side. 

“Top-notch, eh?” He asks playfully as he begins plating your meal. “I’ll take it.” 

“Don’t let it get to your head,” you say to him with a laugh. “It’s just spaghetti sauce.” 

“Just spaghetti sauce? Don’t let my mum hear you say that,” he says with a smirk, setting a full plate in front of you on the counter. “I guess I’ll just have to work extra hard on the next one.”

“Assuming there will be a next one,” you reply, tone dripping with playful sarcasm. “Though, you have set the bar pretty high tonight. I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

“Well,” he murmurs as he steps closer, his body brushing against yours as he reaches around you to grab a plate. His lips are hovering above the shell of your ear, his voice low and teasing, causing your cheeks to immediately flush as the heat between the two of you intensifies. “I’m nothing if not a perfectionist.”

For a split second you expect for him to lean in for a kiss. Your heart is simultaneously skipping beats and racing at the same time; your breath catching in your throat as he leans in— But then he smirks, grabbing the plate and taking a step backwards. He’s doing it on purpose, you realize; his proximity expertly calculated to keep you on edge. You look up at him with wide, sparkling eyes and he knows he’s got you right where he wants you. The soft blush of your cheeks has his blood pumping and sends a surge of adrenaline through him. He’s trying his absolute best to play it cool but the way you’re biting your lip and looking at him has him unraveling.

“Is that so?” You ask, raising an eyebrow. “What other skills do you have up your sleeve?”

His grin widens as he looks down at you, setting his empty plate to the side. His gaze, once again, drops to your lips. “I have a few tricks,” he says softly, his voice filled with promise. “But I doubt you’d believe me if I told you, so how about I just show you?” 

“What?” You ask with a playful innocence. “Before dinner?”

“I’m not really in the mood for spaghetti anymore.” 

“Oh?” Your smirk is only growing. “What are you in the mood for?”

Aegon says nothing, but a confident grin tugs at the corners of his lips as he rests his hands on your hips. He doesn’t hesitate to pull you in by the waist, until you’re pressed against him and his lips are on yours. The kiss is both gentle and urgent and a little bit awkward, as any first kiss should be. You felt like a teenager again, kissing a boy for the first time– butterflies in your stomach and all.

It takes no time at all for you to find your rhythm with him, and he deepens the kiss, pushing you up onto the kitchen counter to meet his height. Your arms naturally drape across his shoulders, your legs wrap around his middle. He’s completely taken over your mind, filling up every tiny space that he can fit into; the smell of his cologne, the scratch of his stubble against your skin, the feeling of his hands squeezing the flesh of your thighs– his fingertips teasing just underneath the hem of your shorts. 

Breathless, he pulls away from you as he pulls your sweatshirt over your head. He stops for a moment to take in the sight of you; clad only in your bra and shorts, lips red and blotchy, swollen and full. You’re looking up at him from under your lashes, softly biting your bottom lip as you wait for him to continue. He gently lifts his hand up to your cheek and traces the curve of your cupid’s bow with his thumb, providing one last show of tenderness before he leans in to capture your lips in another searing kiss. 

His touch is suddenly rushed; spreading a wildfire across your skin in the wake of his lips as he rips off the remainder of your clothes. It doesn’t take long at all before you’re sitting exposed on his kitchen counter in only a thong, blushing wildly and covering your face with your hands. 

“No– no hiding,” he clicks his tongue and pulls your hands away from your face. “I want to see you.”

He whispers a string of profanities and compliments as his starving eyes roam your figure. Self-doubt creeps into your mind and you momentarily consider making a quick exit, convinced he won’t like what he sees, but the way he’s looking at you makes you feel desired in a way you haven’t felt in a long time. 

Aegon’s gaze is electrifying and intense, drawing you in and silencing your negative thoughts instantly. His hands pull you in by the waist, sliding you to the edge of the counter as his lips work their way down your chin and neck; leaving a trail of red marks down to your chest. He hums, smirking as he takes one of your breasts in his mouth. His hand kneads the other, rolling your hardened nipple between two fingers. Your head falls back, lips parted slightly as you breathe out his name. 

Each sound he elicits from you urges him on even further until he’s on one knee, looking up at you from his position with those pretty eyes. He runs a hand up the back of your calf, softly teasing you with his fingertips before tossing your leg over his shoulder. You knew where he was going, and yet, you were still surprised as he began placing open mouthed kisses on the inside of your thighs; shivering in anticipation as goosebumps formed on your skin. 

“You’re so wet,” he says proudly, praising you. 

His eyes are locked with yours as his fingers delicately smooth over your clothed clit. He hooks a finger around the dampened cotton and pulls your thong to the side, groaning at the sight of your perfect pussy. Without wasting another second, Aegon’s mouth is suddenly on you and your hands immediately find the back of his head; fingers curling into the roots of his silver hair. 

You roll your hips against his tongue, cursing out as your legs begin to shake. He moans, face still buried deep in you and the vibrations have you writhing. Both of his arms are wrapped around your thighs now, holding you tight to him, not letting up for even a second. Then he stands, lifting you up onto his shoulders. You squeal in shock, holding onto him tightly, but he doesn’t stop; he continues to devour you as he blindly carries you towards his bedroom. 

When his knees hit the side of his bed, he tosses you back onto the mattress. 

You prop yourself up on your elbows and watch as he strips out of his clothes. . You can see the outline of his arousal; prominent and pressing firmly against the fabric of his sweats. You bite your lip at the sight and he smirks as he catches your stare. His movements are unhurried, giving you ample time to appreciate the sight before you. His hoodie and shirt come off first, then his sweats, and you can’t help but notice the way that his muscles flex with each motion. He’s not overly built, but there’s a solid strength in his frame that is evident in the way he moves.

Outside, headlights from passing cars cast streaks of light and shadows across the walls of his room. It’s quiet, the music in the other room has stopped playing and all you can hear is the sound of your own heart beating in your ears. You swallow thickly, encompassed by the tension of the moment as he crawls up the length of your body; placing tender kisses along your skin. His lips leave a trail of warmth, each touch igniting a spark that travels through your entire body.

When he reaches your face, he pauses, his breath mingling with yours as he hovers just inches away. The anticipation builds, thick and electric in the air between you. His lips find yours in a kiss that starts slow and tender but quickly deepens; fingers threading through your hair as he pulls you closer, his body pressing yours deeper into the plush mattress. Your hands explore his back, tracing the contours of his muscles, feeling the tension and strength beneath his skin and coming to rest on his shoulders; gripping tightly as he continues to worship your body with his mouth. Each kiss, each touch, is deliberate, heightening your senses and pulling you further into the moment.

You curse at the feeling of his girth against your entrance. Your hand moves up to the back of his neck, pulling him down to meet your lips as he presses slowly into you. 

“Oh fuck,” he whimpers into the crook of your neck as his arms become weak. 

He knows that he won’t last like this; it’s been a while and you feel way too good. He’s slow at first, wanting to steady himself and maintain control, but his rhythm picks up quickly; hips moving with an unrelenting rhythm, each thrust bringing you both closer to the edge. You can feel his muscles tense, his grip on you tightening as he buries his face in your neck. His moans are a mix of pleasure and desperation, and you can tell he’s fighting to hold back.

You tighten your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, feeling the overwhelming need to reach that peak together. His pace quickens, the tension in his body building to a breaking point. You feel the same pressure inside of you mounting before it’s suddenly crashing over you like a wave. He follows seconds later, a low groan escaping his lips as he spills into you. The intensity of the moment leaves you both breathless and clinging to each other, bathing in the afterglow. 

“That was incredible,” he murmurs against your skin, head pressed to your chest as you stroke his hair softly. His eyes flutter shut as he listens to the sounds of your heartbeat. 

You hum in agreement, smiling to yourself as you savor the peacefulness of the moment. 

Suddenly, you’re joined by Sunfyre jumping up on the bed, his tail wagging enthusiastically. You smile at him and pat the empty space next to you, inviting him to join your cuddle session. He eagerly accepts the invitation, circling the bed a few times before snuggling up next to you. Aegon lifts his head and smiles, clearly pleased that you would be so open to having the dog in bed with you. He wraps his arm around both you and Sunfyre, pulling you closer. 

“This is perfect,” he says softly, his voice filled with contentment as he lays his head back on your chest. 

"So, about that job offer," you say playfully, your fingers tracing patterns along his skin. "I think I'll accept the position. When would you like for me to start?"

He lifts his head to look at you, a playful glint in his eyes. “How about tomorrow night at seven?”

Before you can respond, a distinct burning smell reaches your nose. Your brows furrow as you sniff the air. “Do you smell that?”

Aegon’s eyes widen in realization. “The spaghetti!” 

He jumps up from the bed, pulling on his clothes quickly, and scrambles into the kitchen. You follow behind him, tossing one of his t-shirts over your head and meet him in the kitchen. 

“I guess I forgot to turn off the burner,” Aegon looks disappointed but then chuckles, shaking his head. He looks at you with a glint in his eye and smirks. “Occupational hazard, I guess.”

“Oh, that sucks!” You laugh, playfully nudging him. “Is it too late to back out of the job now?”

“Way too late for that,” he says as he pulls you into a soft kiss, silencing any doubts immediately. “You’re mine now.” 

“Mm,” you hum against his lips. “But I came here for the spaghetti.”

He chuckles and pulls back slightly. “Will you settle for pizza?”

“I’ll settle for anything, as long as it’s with you,” you say with a smile as you wrap your arms around his waist. “And as long as there’s extra cheese!”

[irisintheafterglow]

bachira meguru is a dog person ! i don't make the rules !

well, that's not usually there.

he stares down at the dirty green tennis ball in the center of the grass where he usually plays soccer. bachira knew his area like the back of his hand, down to cracks in the concrete and weeds wrapping themselves around the fence. so, when the tennis ball appeared among the ankle-high blades of grass, curiosity took over and spurred him to investigate its origin.

it doesn't take long for him to find the dog park; the sound of incessant barking and scurrying paws is an easy enough beacon to follow. tossing the ball absentmindedly in the air, he slips through the gate and is immediately bombarded with a large mass of muscle and fur. the animal nearly knocks him over and he stumbles, barely able to keep his balance when he registers a wet tongue trying to wedge the ball from his grip. the culprit is a huge golden retriever with a bright green collar, and it sits patiently while eyeing the toy in bachira's hand. when bachira finally throws the ball, the dog races off, quickly followed by half a dozen other dogs that scramble for the tiny green sphere. the golden returns to him, the ball proudly in its mouth, and drops it at bachira's feet expectantly.

"ah, sorry about that. he's been looking for that ball for a week and he wants you to throw it since you found it." a sheepish voice approaches him from behind and he squints through the sunlight over his shoulder. when you're finally close enough that bachira can see your face, something in his chest stops working. maybe it's his heart, maybe it's his lungs; either way, it feels like his whole body shuts down for a solid three seconds when you smile at him. "i hope you don't mind the slobber," you continue, rubbing the back of your neck with your palm. if you notice the way bachira's eyes are popping out of their sockets or how he keeps dragging his sweating palms on his shorts, you don't mention it. "he's still learning his manners, unfortunately."

"it's alright, i'm happy to play with him if it's okay with you," he answers, hoping you don't sense the sudden nervousness in his voice. your entire being radiates warmth and kindness, something that he's drawn to like a poor moth to a burning candle in a dark room.

"of course it is." you glance around, presumably looking for another dog to run up to bachira. "are you just," you pause, looking for the right word, "here?" the awkwardness of your question hits you after the word leaves your mouth and you backtrack, trying to reassure the stranger that there's nothing wrong with him being here alone. he, however, can't stop himself from bursting out laughing at the bluntness of your statement.

"i mean, i guess i am," he chuckles. cute, he thinks when you avoid his eyes with an embarrassed expression. "i usually play soccer on the other side of the park, but i figured i'd return this ball to its rightful owner." he chucks the ball again, the golden bounding after it in a flurry of hair and dirt. you're smiling softly when he glances at you out of the corner of his eye, and he turns away quickly when you catch him staring. you introduce yourself to fill the silence as your dog returns; bachira commits your name to memory and manages to blurt out his own.

"it's a pleasure to meet you. oh, and this is frank." the dog in question prances over to you and leans against your legs, his tail flicking happily while you rub the side of his body. "short for frankenstein."

"your dog's name is frankenstein?" bachira didn't have pets, nor did he know anyone else with pets, but he still knew that frank's name was...unique, to say the least. you shrug and he interprets it as shame, something he's lightning-quick to correct. "not that it's a bad thing!" you make a noise between a cough and a snort.

"it's okay, it's okay," you laugh and he thinks it sounds like a melody. "he, uh, had surgery at the shelter where i got him. his heart stopped for a bit, but he fought his way back and had stitches when i brought him home," you explain, frank looking at you with all the love in the world. bachira probably had a similar expression. "hence the name frankenstein."

"that's amazing," he says, awestruck.

"mhmm, he's my little monster. i choose to ignore the fact that frankenstein was the doctor's name," you add, pressing a kiss to the top of the dog's head and ushering him back over to bachira. "you ready to throw again? he'll keep going until your arm falls off." if it meant he kept talking to you, bachira was ready to play fetch with frank until his arm popped out of its socket.

---

there's a new space in bachira's routine reserved for you and frank. even though you attend a different school, you live around the same area and visit the park at similar times when bachira practices solo. after a few weeks of meeting you in the dog park, he invites you and frank into the secluded little patch of grass where he kicks the ball alone.

"wait, stop for a second," he requests before you throw the ball for frank again. you look over at him, puzzled, and he moves his soccer ball up against the fence. he reaches behind a tree and pulls out a vibrant orange ball about the same size as the soccer ball, but this ball has handles carved into it. "i hope it's okay i bought this; i noticed frank likes when i kick the ball for him..." you take the ball from his hands and are too surprised to notice the bashful pink on bachira's cheeks. you gape at the toy for a few seconds longer before summoning frank, squealing look at this, buddy! and you have a new playmate! and isn't this wonderful?

"this is-this is so nice of you, bachira," you manage to say once frank goes after the large ball, a firm strike from your friend sending it flying. "you really didn't need to buy this."

"i wanted to," bachira shrugs, "and you can make it up to me by calling me meguru." he shoots you a grin that makes your knees wobble before meeting frank halfway across the grass, dribbling the ball away from your dog and running him in zig zags. i could get used to this, he thinks as frank dutifully follows his dribbling, the sound of your laughter shooting through his veins like caffeine.

---

"i didn't know you had a dog," isagi comments the first time he sees the polaroid on the back of bachira's phone case. "o-or a..." he stutters, taking a closer look at you pressing a kiss to meguru's cheek while he holds frank's furry body close.

"i think isagi's just surprised you have a life outside of soccer," chigiri finishes for him.

"i'll introduce you to them at some point, i promise," he beams, unfazed by his fellow strikers gaping at your picture. "one's the love of my life and the other's a golden retriever, so they're both pretty important to me! now, let's win so i can get back to both of them sooner."

if you enjoy my writing and would like to support me, you can buy me a coffee on my ko-fi! you can also check out my full masterlist here :)

[mushroomates]

merry headcanons

as a child, he sincerely believed he could talk to cats. this ended at age 13.

can do cartwheels. pippin cannot. this is brought up in arguments more frequently that imagined

has a filter, contrary to some of what he says. he also acts as pippins filter

possesses an uncanny ability to sniff out weed. can tell the quality of such by smell alone. can also tell you where it may have come from, and how it was grown

has a small patch of cannabis growing in a back room of his estate. it used to be a sunroom but is now a greenhouse/weed lab.

merry religiously documents it’s growth, soil conditions, exposure to light, and most importantly: potentness

unfortunately this has manifested in a very strong but unpleasant tasting plant. this sort is hearty, can grow under any conditions, but really just tastes/smells. absolutely awful.

he did try and recruit sam into helping him until sam realized what was going on and wanted “no business in such a practice”

uses samples saved from the whole Saruman takedown and propagates what he can. also keeps some for comparison. he is very organized with this and has a whole spreadsheet he references frequently

merry also likes to know where everything is at all times. he’s not super weird about it but everything does have its place and he will know if you move it

got into furniture making. makes. questionable, ‘innovative’ ‘contemporary’ and ‘unique’ pieces

in reality it’s because he likes to make chairs that specifically make people want to leave because of how uncomfortable they are

like. he loves his family. but sometimes they get the squeaky chair. there’s a table with one leg slightly smaller than the rest that makes everyone uneasy. a couch that is just too low to the ground and cushy, so that you sink in but your legs are cramped. there’s a chair with the back curved slightly too steep, so when someone sits in it their posture is terrible. it also has a shorter than normal seat so you can’t scoot forward either

it’s not torture. people can endure it. it’s just mean to make sure no one does for very long.

this set is strategically in the foyer, so if he likes you well enough you’re granted entity into the living room with normal furniture. which is very tastefully decorated and has framed artwork of his many nieces and nephews.

he absolutely adores the littlest members of the shire and will spoil them however he can

draws maps of the most absurd things. just. maps that no one even asked for but are delightfully absurd

“directions to bagend, avoiding all dogs, aunts, sheep and red mail boxes” “brandybuck estate, but only the trees” “every pub in the shire, and who to avoid on your way back from a good time”

and, famously, “pippins brain”

this is a circle, and in it, two singular dots

one saying “pipe weed” and the other “bad ideas”

there use to be a third dot, that said “lack of cart wheels” but that has been a angerly scribbled out (culprit is still a ‘mystery’ )

decent navigational skills

of course, no one listens to him.

judges the annual pie contest

is actually. really good at it. has a very defined palette dispute the copious amount of weed he smokes

“is that rubarb? it adds a wonderful complexity to the strawberry and pistachio- though, i’d recommend not using molasses next time instead try brown sugar.”

like. merry. why do you know these things.

also judges the pie EATING contest. this is because there is a scandalous amount of cheating and he was part of a huge pie-in-the-trousers bust and now sits in the jury as an esteemed member

pippin thinks he’s a traitor to the cause. this is because pippin was a primary perpetrator in said pie-in-the-trousers bust.

has two pet rabbits. by pets i mean fellow members of the “raiding farmer maggots crops” club, who he saved from a few rodent traps and took home

merrys morals, to recap, does not allow him to permit pie-crimes, but he is totally okay with casual thievery

did not have the heart to said rabbits as they were cut from the same cloth. he let them out the back yard once he got home and they just. kind of. stayed

their names are gandalf and gandalf because ones gray and ones white. many hobbits have been taking after that and also naming their animals gandalf. this of course pisses gandalf off to no end.

is a great babysitter. mature enough to not get into trouble but still has a childish sense of adventure, and lots of stories

he is the trusted fun uncle. pippin being the reckless fun uncle.

he acts stories out more than tells them to the kids, as his way with words is not so great as his way with sound effects.

also makes his own sock puppets and will occasionally put on small shows for the kiddos during family gatherings. fan favorites are “merry takes down the witch-king” “the march of the ents” and “the hobbit who couldn’t cartwheel” (the last ends with the hobbit simply learns to accept that everyone has different talents- something not true to life because pippin still hasn’t accepted this)

is high key very smart. doesn’t do a lot with this. he prefers to enjoy the simple things in life, and has found that so long as he makes sure he and his are looked after, life can be very easy.

that being said. he is not as care free as he’d like to be

is very prepared and well organized. has rations for days and a go-bag, even in his later years. everyone mocked him for years but it took him maybe ten minutes to grab everything and join up with frodo and sam. he also has extra go-bags, which is why it only took pippin 15 minutes (an extra five because pippin lost his bag about two seconds after merry gave it to him)

merry got the “anxiety” hobbit gene that manifests in being (only slightly) a prepper. there’s cans of beans and fruit as well as bottled water hidden in the cellar of the brandy-buck estate. enough food to last nearly five years, but for a hobbit, three.

this gives him peace of mind, as he knows he is prepared for whatever life gives him

he also knows he has braved many things before and anything that may come now will be significantly less of a hardship

he will never have to face down another witch-king, or more importantly, go without second breakfast

[batmenstrualcycle]

lesbian malevolence in oregon

1: drifting through my conscious with my lazy boss

masterlist

cw: descriptions of blood and death and like a few mentions of weed

6:46 AM, October 15th, 1996.

An eerie atmosphere clouded around a small bathroom. In walls painted with ugly floral designs, different colors brushed all around the room in an overstimulating environment. A haze covered the small window looking out to the street of the neighborhood of which the house itself was from. A potent smell emitted from the body of a victim with blood rolled out onto his shirt, his legs, his pants around his ankles and the floor in front of him; the pattern of which started from his throat. With the exception of his eyes rolled back until his irises were barely visible and his hands completely empty, it would be safe for Lee to assume it was a suicide.

And just like every premeditated murder, there’s always a but. And this was a very big but.

The blood pattern in front of the victim was clean; no sign of interruption at all. No clue that someone slit this man’s throat for him, except for the fact that no weapon was seen around him; that is, because no one took the time to look long enough around the bathroom at six in the morning with the sun just barely coming up. Lee’s eyes eventually adjusted to the dimness of the bathroom, searching for any sign of aggression or violence against the victim; no bruises, bludgeoning; no other cuts besides the one just over his esophagus. The slit was rough, small indents in his skin were seen, showing signs that the culprit used a rough or dull weapon. She took another look around the room for anything that could be used as a weapon. Nothing was what she found, but she wasn’t looking long enough.

“Forensics estimate that the time of death was at one-fourteen this morning,” a deeper, masculine voice called out from behind Lee. She didn’t bother turning her head to see Agent Reuben behind her, standing in a maroon button down darkened by the lack of light and black slacks, looking the victim over with a leisurely glance. His eyes landed on Lee crouching down in front of him. Reuben narrowed his eyes slightly.

“And if you haven’t noticed, the blood pattern is perfectly clean, no signs that anyone was ever in here. No dirt remains for any footprints to be found, meaning the killer was presumably making their way around the house with their socks on, which leaves us with the question of whether they ever wore shoes in the first place or not. No fingerprints on his skin or any of his clothes, either.”

Reuben inhaled deeply, bringing a hand to scratch his forehead, brushing his dark ginger bangs out of the way. He took a quick glance around the room and noticed a flower sitting on the sink. He took a step over to it, brushing his suit jacket back before reaching out to grab the flower with his gloved fingers. He took an evidence bag from the corner of the sink and dropped it in there, examining the flower from the outside.

“So we’re dealing with them again.”

“Sir?”

Lee turned her head to look up at Reuben, still crouching down in front of the victim. She watched as his curly ginger hair swished in the air when his head turned to face her, catching her lifted eyebrow and her slightly squinted eyes from trying to see in the dim light of the room.

“I’ll tell you back at the Bureau,” he inhales sharply, his fingers pressing the top of the bag to seal it shut. Reuben looked back at Lee and cocked his head to signal her to follow him out of the bathroom, stepping over the remaining blood splatter on the floor and out into the hallway.

The carpet underneath Lee’s feet was an ugly green color, like murky swamp water or dirty dish water. It looked like the rest of the house had been untouched; no footprints on the carpet to trace. One of the paintings on the wall next to her looked slightly tilted; her eyes narrowed at it as she stared blankly for a moment, stopping in the middle of the hallway.

“Harker,” Reuben called and cocked his head again from where he was standing halfway down the stairs. Lee quickly turned her head back to him, watching him turn away from her to saunter back down the steps to the first floor which was even cleaner than the second.

The drive back to the Bureau was silent. Neither Lee nor Reuben said a word, probably from the result of their drowsiness. Her work as an FBI agent was already long enough, working on stressful cases and in all types of gritty environments to leave an imprint of dirty scenes on her brain to never forget them. They kept Lee awake at night, and she’d make the insomnia worse by opening old files and looking through them again in hopes of wearing herself out, only for her to look up at her clock and realize it was nearly time for her to get ready for her shift. She would sigh and stuff the file away in a cabinet in her room with the image of the words printed on the paper lingering in her mind.

Agent Reuben’s office was like taking a step into the 1950’s; a long, mahogany brown desk at the front of the room presumably made with real wood, a stack of files at the corner of it with a big black leather chair behind it. The blinds on one half of the office were pulled down; the other half had the blinds pulled down partially to let the natural sunlight pool onto the wooden floor and the rug over it. On the wall behind him which separated the windows with the blinds had a big framed photo of himself, grinning from ear to ear with his pearly whites and his dark ginger hair. Three file cabinets on the wall congruent to the wall behind his desk collected dust with the bottom drawer on one of them slightly pulled out. Three more file cabinets on the wall opposite of them looked newer, probably safe for Lee to assume he’d gotten them within the last few months.

Reuben sat comfortably in his leather office chair, his ankle crossed over his knee and his elbows on the arms of his chair. He leaned back slightly, a sign of his leisurely and lazy demeanor from his lack of sleep. He blinked once, twice and thrice, trying to adjust to the bright sunlight shining onto his left of the floor and beaming brighter than usual.

“You solved that Longlegs case a few years back, didn’t you?” Lee thought it was a horrible way to start his discussion about the case ahead of her. The image of Kobble bashing his face against the table, his teeth and his nose falling from his face flashing in the back of her head. She nodded anyway, pursing her lips tightly.

Reuben nodded back, seeming pleased with her gesture as a dose of his own self confidence rushed into his veins, his face lighting up slightly. He raised his hands and pushed the pads of his fingertips together, tapping them gently as he pondered how he’d talk to her next.

“And you’re familiar with figuring out patterns, yes?”

“More or less,” Lee answered with a throaty voice. She quietly cleared the back of her throat, avoiding eye contact with Reuben as she looked around his office. Her eyes landed on the clock on the wall to her right.

7:33 AM.

Reuben reached into a drawer of his desk, pulling it open and swiftly dropping a small bag on the surface. It was the evidence bag he’d collected earlier with the flower; a Dahlia, to be exact. Lee looked at the pink petals flattened from the weight of his pocket and from dehydration and eventually withering away. She paid close attention to it, looking for any sort of clue that could maybe be used in this case.

“That’s a present the killer left for us this morning.”

“A Dahlia, sir,” Lee averted her gaze from the flower and to Reuben, catching him inspecting the look on her face.

“You know your flowers, Harker,” he commented as he rested his hands in his lap, leaning further back in his office chair. “You remember how I mentioned a them earlier to insinuate we’ve dealt with someone familiar before?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well,” Reuben clicked his tongue as he let out an exasperated sigh, his face falling and looking more dim. He looked around the room, his eyes landing on the left wall and on one of his file cabinets. His face scrunched up slightly, his eyebrows furrowing and the bridge of his nose bunching up. “While you were out working on whatever it was you might’ve been working on in the past few months, I’ve been stuck with this…botanist, I’ve concluded.”

“What makes you say botanist?” Lee lifted her eyebrow, tilting her head lower as she sat up in her chair. She shifted closer to the edge of her seat, watching and inspecting Reuben’s face as he thought of what to say next. 

“Background information first,” Reuben rolled his office chair closer, leaning his elbows on his desk. Lee moved her head back and away from his face so as to not get too close for comfort, and leaned backwards until her back touched the back of the chair.

“Murders have been reported frequently ever since May of this year. All of them had different structures, different patterns, different styles. One of them would look inexperienced with over fifty messy stab wounds to the victim's chest, and the following report would be a dismembered body strung together using long blades of grass. Actual reports, by the way.”

Lee felt a weight drop on her shoulders as they slumped slightly. All the gritty details Reuben gave her made his office seem more uncomfortable, the air in the room heating up and stiffening with tension. Reuben could feel it too, with his own shoulders tensed, his muscles pushing through the sleeves of his red button down and flexing to remind himself to move in some sort of way.

“It would be safe to assume all of them are done by different people, if it weren’t for the average time lapse between reports, which is between a week and two weeks, and the fact that all of them have some sort of plant left behind. A leaf, a flower, sometimes just a flower petal. No set pattern for the victim; we’ve tried to connect dots and try and pinpoint who they target, but it’s all random. We’ve had people of all sorts of demographic backgrounds; store clerks, doctors, shelf keepers, librarians, retail managers, teachers.”

Reuben took a pause to take a breath; all of the images of the different reports he listed flashing across his brain like a light being switched on and off. The blood, the gore, the positions the bodies were left in, the kind of gifts being left behind from the culprit. He felt his stomach churn as he brought his hand up to scratch his neck with his finger.

“No set pattern between any of them. Man, woman, old, young, criminal record, no record at all, bachelor’s degree, people with their GED. It’s like they’re toying with us.”

“About the plants, sir,” Lee cut him off, tilting her head as her face shifted. Reuben could see the gears turning in her brain for a split second, and then he couldn’t find any reason to focus on the flowers other than the fact the culprit had a widespread knowledge on botany.

“About the plants?”

“Do you notice any sort of pattern in the plants left behind?” Lee looked back down at the Dahlia on the surface of Reuben’s desk. He narrowed his eyes slightly in confusion.

“I don’t…” he trails off as he watches Lee’s gaze fixate on the flower. He tries to piece together what she could be thinking, trying to see what she could see from just a single flower on his desk. For now she couldn’t see anything with just one piece of evidence in front of her.

“Do you still have the plants? Or at least have their names written down?”

“That, I do have,” Reuben lifted his eyebrows as he got up all too quickly from his seat. The swiftness with which his legs stood up from the leather gave Lee the impression that he was looking for a chance to show off that he was taking on so many murder reports at once. It didn’t impress her.

Reuben sauntered across his office to the file cabinets, standing in front of the outermost cabinet and pulled open the top drawer. His fingers quickly sifted through the manilla folders to collect the number of files about the current case he had, his big hand gripping them and pulling them out all at once and leaving a huge chunk of space in the drawer. He walked back to his desk, setting the pile of files on the surface and sat back down in his chair, presenting it to Lee.

“That’s all from the same person,” Reuben explained, looking the pile up and down. “A total of twenty-one weeks and one day, fourteen murder cases, two leaves left behind, twelve flowers.”

He looked back at Lee, watching her stare at the pile. He watched as she took a deep inhale, her eyes flitting between the stacks of papers separated by folders and multicolored tabs with photos stuck between them. She looked back at Reuben with a look in her eyes that was silently asking if she could look through them.

“They’re yours to dig through. Look at whatever you need,” Reuben stood up from his chair again, popping his thumb as he walked over to the door. He grabbed his jacket from the coat rack and slipped it over his shoulders. “I still have a few of the flowers left in evidence bags. You can look through those as well.”

Reuben opened the door and stood in the doorway, turning back to look at Lee, catching her taking the file from the top and looking through it. He exhaled quietly as he watched her flip through papers—autopsy reports, scene descriptions.

“What else do they have in common, sir?” Lee called out as she looked at an autopsy report in front of her, her eyes scanned the paper a number of times. Reuben would assume she was looking at it on a molecular level from how closely she held the paper to her face.

“Well…other than the plants, the times of death all seem to be during any given minute of the one o’clock hour in the morning. There’s no given order.”

Lee let out an exhale of her own as her shoulders slumped again. She closed the file and looked through another one, examining the autopsy report for that one. Like Reuben said, the time of death was recorded at 1:27 AM. As she suspected, it was labeled as a premeditated murder, just like all the other files beneath it. 

While Reuben left to do whatever it was he said he was doing (she wasn’t paying attention to him), Lee took the remaining plants in evidence bags that weren’t withering away and spread them across his desk in order of the date they were found. The rest of the plants which had already died and were rendered unidentifiable she found the names of in the files and wrote them down on sticky notes she stole from Reuben’s drawer. She stood there in front of the desk and examined the plants ahead of her. No pattern was present; no specific type of plant pattern was present. One of the plants was a hemp leaf tightly sealed in the plastic which left her perplexed as her fingers subconsciously picked the evidence bag up by the corner. She held it close to her face, her eyes narrowing slightly.

On a more neutral note, the sky had cleared up outside. The sun was out and shining almost blindingly, making it irritating for Reuben to look straight on the road. His car window was rolled down, letting the cool October breeze blow through his 1977 Impala, blowing in his hair and cooling his skin. A pleased smile graced his face; the weather pleased him so much that he even rested an arm on his windowsill, his elbow hanging out with one hand on the steering wheel.

Reuben’s gaze landed on an old diner just a little bit up ahead on the corner of LaPoars street, with glass doors and foggy windows of the humid air. The parking lot was empty, as he would’ve expected for arriving at 7:45 in the morning. The diner was open during almost the whole day, save for closing at 10 and opening at 6 the next day and happy hour on Saturdays and staying open until midnight. 

His car pulled into the parking lot, parking right in front of the twin glass doors and showcasing the interior. Reuben swiftly stepped out of his car and walked over to the door in seemingly just three steps, taking such long strides with his long legs in a hurry to feed himself. The cold air of the diner hit his face like a gust of a snowstorm. For a moment Reuben couldn’t think why he felt like he was freezing half to death in there until he felt the humidity of the outside air on his shoulders.

No one was behind the counter just yet, extending across the front of the room with blue stools all along it. The floor ahead of Reuben was checkered black and white; booths and tables all lined up in arrays across the room in a horizontal line. The booths lined up against the walls with two bigger booths at the corners. A good use of space, Reuben always thought to himself each time he went there, which was quite frequently. It was easier to just stop by and grab something from the diner on his way home after a long shift rather than to wearily make himself something with energy he didn’t have.

Someone peeked their head out from behind the counter, their eyes looking around the room before landing on Reuben standing in the middle of it. Their face relaxed once they saw a familiar figure ahead of them. Reuben couldn’t imagine why for a moment that the person behind the counter would be surprised. He hadn’t processed the bell ringing when he pushed the door open.

“Hey there, Agent Reuben,” a feminine voice called out, which belonged to the head of black hair peeking out from the counter. Reuben heard a quiet rustling of paper where the voice was at and then it stopped then they stood up and straightened their posture. Reuben fixed his gaze on the woman behind the counter, fixing her blue apron over her white shirt, flattening it out and fixing the wrinkles. Her eyes were noticeably squinted; she would look high if it weren’t for the fact she was probably tired.

“Riley,” Reuben answered as he sauntered towards the counter. She leaned her forearms on the edge of the counter with Reuben mirroring her, their faces close to each other as they maintained eye contact for a few moments. He inspected her face, specifically her eyes and the slight red tint to them. He smirked before gently tapping his hand against the surface of the counter.

“Breakfast as usual for me. Oh, and a Belgian Waffle, too.”

“You feelin’ especially hungry this morning, Agent Reuben?” Riley mused as she pulled out a notepad from underneath the cash register, a pen in her fingers as well. The ballpoint scribbled across the paper, her lips pursing together.

“Nah, it’s for someone else.”

“Ah, so you finally found yourself a girlfriend, huh?”

“You wish,” Reuben chuckled as he let one of his arms fall from the counter. He leaned onto his other arm, putting his weight onto his right forearm. He watched Riley walk back into the kitchen to give the cook the order she’d written down. She pushed the doors open and walked back out, a cheeky look on her face.

“Yeah, right. What’s her name, Agent?”

“I’m serious,” Reuben shook his head. “It’s for a partner for a case I’m on.”

“Okay,” Riley rolled her eyes as she leaned forward on the surface of the counter, her elbow resting on the cold porcelain surface. “What’s their name, then?”

“Why are you so nosey this morning?” Reuben looked away as he parted his lips and looked back out the diner and at his car. An idea popped up in his head, a smirk stretching across his soft pink lips. He turned back to face Riley, who lifted a brow at the look on his face.

“That look never means any good.”

“You always assume the worst of me,” Reuben rolls his eyes. “You like women, right? She’s right up your alley.”

“I don’t even know her!” She exclaimed, widening her eyes as she shifted her body side to side. She sighed, taking a whiff of the smell of the food wafting in the air. Reuben smelled it too, making him relax his shoulders and pop his thumb softly.

“Do you even know her?” Riley inquired with sass in her voice, her eyes looking back up at Reuben with a judgmental look. He let out a hearty chuckle as the doors opened again, out walking the cook with matching black hair and a uniform similar to Riley’s with two white paper bags in his hands and setting them down on the counter. Reuben hadn’t noticed the time pass. He took the time to stand next to Riley and poke fun at Reuben.

“You ordering for two, Agent? Who’s the special girl?”

“Why does it always mean I’m with someone?” Reuben scoffed as he grabbed the bags with his big hand, wrinkling the paper as he gripped it.

“He says it's for an agent he’s working with,” the tone in Riley’s voice told Reuben that she didn’t believe him, making him roll his eyes again as he began walking out. The chatter between the two people behind him left his hearing range as soon as the door shut behind him, the cool October air caressing his face again. The sky was even more clearer than when he walked in; the clouds moved out of the way as the sun shone down onto the land of Oregon. Reuben missed the figure standing off to the side of the building, leaning against the wall and letting the wind blow through their hair.

A crumpled blunt fell from their fingers as they let out a final exhale of the cheap weed entering their system. Their breath came out shaky from the chill of the air, their lips quivering and their breath hitching in their throat. They peeked their head around the corner of the diner, waiting until Reuben’s car was on the road to walk over to the doors, running a hand through their hair and hugging quietly as they opened them.

“Look who decided to show up!” Riley’s cheeky voice was the first thing you heard. Her and the cook, Tristan, stood behind the counter and shook their heads in feign disappointment. You rolled your eyes as a smile twisted at your lips, inevitable as you tried to look away and avoid their pointed gazes. You scoffed as you shuffled through the diner, moving to the right of the counter and grabbing an apron off the hook on the wall, wrapping the string around your waist and tying it around your back.

“You smell like weed, Y/n.”

“Look at you! Your eyes are literally tinted!” You raised your hand to Riley’s face, your fingers pointed at her eyes as she shut them and poked out her tongue.

“You missed Agent Reuben, by the way,” Riley comments as she opens her eyes again, watching you lean against the counter, standing next to the other cash register. You looked at her, an uninterested expression on your features; your lips pursed and your eyes hooded in addition to the bags underneath them. Neither Riley nor Tristan questioned why you always looked so tired.

“The anguish I feel,” you huff as you scratch the back of your head with your fingers. “Anything special from him?”

“Not really,” Riley shrugs nonchalantly. “He’s got a new partner for a case he’s working on.”

“That’s probably the Bureau’s way of trying to fix his loneliness,” you snort, a grin widening on your lips as your face lit up, listening to the sounds of Riley and Tristan’s chuckles. 

“It probably is. I never see that man with anyone else,” Tristan stroked his chin with his fingers as he attempted to recollect any time he ever saw Reuben walk into that diner with anyone at his side. He found no such memory, the result evident on his face as it elicited a look of halfhearted defeat.

 Riley announced with a roll of her eyes, “He tried setting me up with that agent he said he’s working with.” 

You turned to face Riley, your face scrunched at the mention of Reuben’s antics. “Such a Reuben thing to do. He’s always making fun of you for being lesbian, isn’t he?” 

“Definitely,” she sighed sharply. “You got any more weed on you?” Riley turned her head to look at you. You met her gaze halfway as your eyes fixed on hers, looking at the slight red tint around them and smirking slightly. You shook your head in feign disappointment just like she did earlier, earning a curse from Riley.

“Nah. Smoked all that shit away.”

“Bullshit! No way you just happened to smoke all that weed right before I asked for some!”

“Even if I did have any on me, I wouldn’t just have half a mind to give it to you, idiot.”

“Fine,” Riley crossed her arms and clicked her tongue, giving you a side eye. “Next time you get some I’ll pay you for a blunt.”

“Lies,” you playfully nudged her arm with your elbow. “You never pay me when I give you one. So no.”

“Fuck you,” Riley shook her head again before pushing herself off the counter. “I gotta piss, guard the counter for me, losers.”

“Yeah, because some intruder is gonna get us as soon as you go to the bathroom.”

“You never know, with all these murders going around lately.”

Your face darkened slightly as you turned away from the back of the room and facing the front, popping your neck and stretching your arms. Your hands link together by your fingers behind your back as you stretch out, then they let go as quickly as they threaded together. Your arms fall to your side, a sigh escaping your chest as you lean against the counter in boredom after Tristan hops onto the surface and sits atop it.

_________________________

Back at the Bureau—specifically in Reuben’s office where the room emanated all sorts of smells from the dead or dying plants, files and folders were strewn across the floor of the office. Lee had sticky notes folded and placed in an order that would make her look like a crazy person. Certain letters of each plant name were circled, and the hemp leaf was kept to her side as she sat on her knees and looked down at the mess before her.

Hemp leaf, Dahlia, Hibiscus, Fennel, Coreopsis, Arborvitae, Lotus, Acanthus, Pansy, Oregano, Amaryllis, Rhododendron, Salvia.

The door opened suddenly, making Lee turn her head to find Reuben walking in with the two paper bags in his hand, his fingers wrinkling the paper. Lee looked at the bags for a moment before turning back to the mess she made on the floor, nibbling on her bottom lip with her teeth and wreaking havoc on her flesh.

Reuben clicked his tongue quietly. “You seemed to have gotten comfortable already.”

Lee cleared her throat and looked between him and the mess on the floor. She stared at the sticky notes she folded, the circled letters on the names written down in an order only she could understand. She shifted closer to the sticky notes, her eyes speeding across the horizontal line she made with them.

She concluded out loud, “They’re messy with their murders on purpose.” She took the hemp leaf from her side and held it up to her eyes. “The different plants they’ve left behind; some of them aren’t native to Oregon. The Dahlia you found, for example.”

“Do you think they’re aware of that?” Reuben set the paper bags down on the corner of his desk, his body facing the edge while his head turned to watch Lee as she stared at the hemp leaf. Lee narrowed her eyes slightly.

She came to another conclusion. “Yes.” She looked at the other sticky notes and the plants that aren’t totally unidentifiable kept in evidence bags. “I would assume they’re attempting a code using the names of these plants.”

“Have you found any such code yet?” Asked Reuben, his hand reaching through one of the paper bags to pull out a to-go box in his abnormally large hand, setting it down on his desk.

Lee cringed. “No.”

“Then maybe it isn’t a code.”

“They wouldn’t leave behind these plants for no reason, sir.”

“Maybe it’s like you said,” Reuben opened the box he just took out. He took a second to look down at it and found his usual breakfast he ate on a near daily basis; a toad in a hole. “They’re being messy with their killings on purpose, leaving behind these plants to throw us off.”

Lee huffed as she stared down at the evidence in front of her. The idea that this botanical killer was simply being clumsy with their murders on purpose began to make sense. The first letters of each plant left behind add up to no intelligible word or sentence. The hemp leaf being left behind was the icing on the cake; drugs like marijuana were illegal in Oregon, as far as Lee knew. She was already growing irritated.

“We just haven’t looked long enough,” Lee let out a heavily-drawn sigh from deep within her chest. Feeling her lungs expand and taking a deep breath for the first time since what felt like a thousand years brought her irritation down to some degree. She still couldn’t bring herself to abruptly stop looking over these damned plants. Part of what Reuben said made sense; the killer could just be playing with them and leaving behind these plants for no given reason. There’s no room to assume anything, and the same could be said about her theory, too. The types of flowers left behind were too conspicuous to be seen as throwing her off.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Reuben interrupted Lee’s train of thought, her head whipped around to face him.

“You said the murders have a time lapse average of one to two weeks, right?”

Reuben dismissively rolled his eyes and reached inside one of the paper bags to pull out the plastic utensils that Tristan left inside both of them. He took the box with the toad in a hole and sauntered over to his office chair, sitting down and placing the box in front of him. 

He leaned his arms on the edge of his desk. “I did say that, yes.”

“Two leaves, twelve flowers,” Lee muttered under her breath as she kept looking at the mess in front of her over and over again. When her eyes followed the horizontal path for the upteenth time, Lee felt a cord strike in her brain. Nothing looked like it made sense because she was looking at it the wrong way. She felt dumb once it dawned on her.

Lee scrambled to take the few evidence bags and the sticky notes and line them up in a vertical line. Reuben watched her move from behind, having already taken a bite of his food and chewing quietly as she worked. His eyebrows lifted upwards as Lee finally stood up after a moment, her head turned face him with a somewhat proud look on her face.

Reuben’s face shifted as he swallowed his mouthful, scratching his cheek with his free hand. “Well?”

“It was a code after all.” Lee concluded; she felt a surge of pride in her chest from proving her theory was true. She could tell from watching Reuben’s face once again shift, an exasperated expression on his features.

“You gonna make me get up and look at it myself?”

Lee thought to herself that it would be preferable if Reuben did get up, seeing that he’s a grown adult who surges through much more difficult things than getting up from his leisurely spot and looking at the evidence she worked to lay out perfectly so that anyone could understand it. But she simply glanced back at the sticky notes and the sealed plants on the floor, her chest slowly rising and falling with a drawn out exhale.

“Diner, LaPoars.” Lee answered, turning back to look at Reuben. “That’s what it says.”

“How the hell..?” Reuben furrowed his eyebrows as he watched Lee shuffle on her feet. “What makes you say that?”

“The names of the plants didn’t make sense when they were laid out horizontally. But when you line it up like a y-axis, the message becomes much clearer. It wasn’t in the orders of the first letter, sir. It was in the order in which the answer came out. The further down you go the line, each letter moves one space to the right.”

“Now I feel kinda stupid,” Reuben chuckled as he shook his head slightly, the grin on his face widening the longer he stared at the evidence Lee laid out. “You did in less than an hour what I couldn’t do for five months.”

Lee couldn’t tell if this was Reuben’s attempt to get her to feel bad for him or if he genuinely couldn’t figure it out. The small sigh he let out didn’t slip past her ears. Regardless, she couldn’t show any sign of fake pity because truth be told, she felt none. She let out a sign of reassurance, probably the bare minimum reassurance that she could give to him. “The code wasn’t finished yet, so it’s wrong to be too hard on yourself.”

“Yeah, but like…it was right in front of me the whole time and you figured it out in less than an hour.”

Lee wanted to say something snarky in return to Reuben’s advances at getting her to suck up to him, like stop making your level of stupid my problem. She would’ve, lest she wanted it to be at the expense of her job and getting on his permanent bad side. All she could do—or what she felt like doing—was give him a reassuring smile that had no meaning behind it.

“Well…now that you’ve got the code figured all out, would you be okay to continue the case on your own—“

“God, no,” Reuben shook his head slightly as if to keep himself from nodding off against the back of his chair. “You’re way too good to just let go. In fact,” Reuben looked back at Lee, making prolonged eye contact with her and grinning. “You should go check it out. The diner, I mean.”

“Sir,” Lee started, taking a sharp breath. She brought her hand up to her cheek, gently scratching it with her finger. “Do I have to?”

“Uh…yeah,” the sass in Reuben’s voice earned an exaggerated sigh from Lee, a weight of dread hanging over her shoulders. Typically she preferred working at her respective desk, secluded and away from everyone else. “Just go, Harker. You’re the one who cracked the code, you go check it out.”

“It’s your case, sir.”

“Harker.” Reuben glared at Lee, lifting his hand to twirl his finger in the air back and forth between the two of them. “Our case, now. You go.”

Lee sighed, her chest slowly rising and falling. “Yes, sir.” She pursed her lips right afterward into a line. She didn’t care for the satisfied look that spread itself across Reuben’s face like neurogenesis in someone’s brain. The sheer laziness he displayed for the day had her blank-facing.

Nonetheless, her hand reached for the only other paper bag on his desk then turned away from Reuben and towards the door. Lee opened the door to the hallway, stepping out and finally taking a deep breath, free from the overwhelming scent of spice floating around his office and suffocating her nose.

[honouredsnakeprincess]

Righto! I have torn myself from my oh-so-dilligent art-historical studies to watch another episode of Mr Robot! That's right, it's time for my thoughts on Season 2, Episode 3! This time, I took notes, so hopefully I'll have more to say, assuming that what's under the cut is even remotely coherent~

These thoughts aren't necessarily in chronological order. I thought they flowed better like this.

Romero's dead. The first and most obvious culprit, the one suggested by both characters and framing in showing a clip of Mr Robot threatening him with a gun, is that Mr Robot is what did him in. I think it's fair to mark this as barely even a fake-out, but between him and Gideon (and Mobley referencing a plan to hide out in Arizona), it seems like the writers are trying to cut out a lot of the supporting cast from season one in order to make room for new ones this season.

This FBI lady seems like she's sticking around, for starters, since I don't think the writers would go so out of their way to show how restless and unsatisfied she is with her life and her coworkers if she wasn't going to be a recurring character. I was surprised to learn that Alexa was a thing in 2016, which is strange because I was very much alive in 2016 and probably ought to know basic things like that. Anyways, I like her, but I can't tell if her helping Romero's mother roll weed is meant to indicate she's a good person or that she's an adept manipulator. Either way, I'm intrigued~!

On the topic of manipulation, I think it's pretty obvious that Mr Price is trying to pull something, if it wasn't already. You don't just randomly take a new hire out for a fancy dinner with high-ranking executives, and indeed he did have an angle; these honourable men he invited to dine with Angela have dishonourable pasts, and he's given her the choice to strike against them. Personally, I'd wager he'll win either way; either she becomes more complicit in the structures and passive villainy of E-Corp, or he gets to use her as a weapon against men who in some way stand in the way of his own aims. Maybe I'm wrong about this, but there's no way he doesn't have something up his sleeve here.

Price seemed to profess a belief in the importance of great men when describing the WW1 paraphernalia he keeps in his office. Part of me wonders if he fancies himself such a man, or if he is grooming Angela for such a role.

Ray's been an interesting character. He's definitely got his own angle, and needs an adept computer fellow like Elliot to transfer some bitcoins or what-have-thee, in a venture that does not seem to me properly lawful. Still, towards the end of the episode he seems like he has some genuine empathy for Elliot and his situation. I don't know how similar their situations actually are, and part of me suspects Ray is overemphasizing their similarity, but at the same time I think his philosophy, though somewhat fatalistic, is probably what Elliot needs to hear to break him out of this cycle of self-destructive and ineffectual repression he's been in for the past three episodes. It's just not working out, and Mr Robot is still around.

God, the business with the Adderall, huh? I cottoned on to the cement scene being a hallucination or dream sequence pretty quick, and my notes have a tangent about the logistics of killing someone with ingested cement vs regular sand that I won't reproduce here. I've not historically been great with vomiting scenes in film and television, but this one was pretty tame, all things considered. Until Elliot started picking the Adderall out of the vomit. On the one hand, it really does sell his desperation to be rid of Mr Robot, but on the other hand it did rather turn my stomach.

The close-up of Elliot's eyes, pupils mixed with iris, was especially disturbing in a way I can't quite elaborate. I hated the way it kept cutting back to him taking more pills.

The Adderall didn't help much, and the sequence it set off was unsettling, to say the least. I don't think it's usually prescribed for DID, but I am no medicus and will happily be corrected if I am wrong on this front. I suppose that overdosing on any kind of drug isn't generally recommended for anything, though. Again, it sells Elliot's desperation and self-denial, but it also fucking sucks to watch. Poor guy.

When he ran out of pills, I breathed a sigh of relief, though it did occur to me that I know not the withdrawal effects of Adderall, and they may be quite terrible.

Elliot's critique of organized religion rather reminded me of my father. I'm not unsympathetic, but I think his argumentation was flawed. Not the point of that sequence. Marx's critique was both more empathetic and more incisive. Still not the point of that sequence.

Seinfeld is still fucking with Leon. If Elliot was not my favourite character for the quality of his monologues, that place would be occupied by Leon.

Finally, the fact that F Society's former hideout has been found was an interesting way to end the episode. Of course, the group destroyed what evidence they could, and held a party to obscure fingerprints and other biological evidence, but the logic of storytelling inexorably drives me to presume that they missed something big enough that our new FBI friend will get a lead from it.

That or someone will return to the scene who ought not to. We'll see soon, I'm sure!

[reitziluz]

reading other people's mp100 fics first time in a while and all i can think about is that a way to keep the canon lightheartedness about shit like property damage in a fic that gets more into the weeds with the logistics would be to create a government employed esper oc whose entire skillset is about reversing structural damage.

so now i'm thinking about tateishi kenta, a very serene, very built like a brick shithouse man in a stuffy suit having the worst time of his life when he suddenly has to reset the same entire damn city twice within three/four months.

usually i'm not interested (or i'm too stressed out by) fics where after either world domination or confession arc the gang then has to deal with government types coming after them. but the idea of a mild-mannered civil servant snapping from overwork and hunting down reigen (either to gain access to mob, or mistaking him for the culprit, perhaps because reigen deliberately caused that misunderstanding to shield mob) is way too funny.

luckily reigen is such a jack of all trades, and a bit of construction work and help with negotiating a promotion would resolve things.

[stormcried]

CRACKS KNUCKLES TIME TO LORE DUMP. (i blame bravo SAKDSHF)

Okay, so we're going to start off with the fact that Drake lives on the streets, yeah? Drake ACTUALLY and PURPOSEFULLY avoids going to find another family because Drake HASN'T moved on from his grief or his childhood. He pushes it down as hard as he can to say "yeah my childhood was kinda shit lol". There's a reason for that.

Drake lives on the streets that way he does is because he actively avoids dragging other people into his mess. There are two reasons. A. He believes he's so fucked in the head and unable to control his urges to do the things that the older kids do in the Misfits (drink, do drugs / weed, smoke, get into arguments / fights) and to him? That's just a normal thing he believes older kids do, and he copies that to copy their coping mechanisms. You have to remember that Drake living with The Misfits are a bunch of runaways, orphans and outcasts in the late 80's / beginning of the 90's, so, stealing was a LOT easier than it is in modern times.

SECONDLY; Drake believes he's too fucked in the head and isn't lovable because he pushes people away for a reason so they either don't get killed because of him or because they don't want them to become a target of the bad people that hasn't been seen in the nearly three years he's lived on the streets. He's just not a good kid and he believes people could do better than him if they want to take in Drake. Drake STILL grieves and hates himself for supposedly being the one to finish off his parents murder, so he still is scared he'll end up killing someone just out of trying to protect himself.

Drake actively steals from other Misfits members at this point because he doesn't even see them as family or allies, the only ones he leaves alone are the ones he knows are younger than him (mainly the kids under 11/10), otherwise his actions are fair game for the Misfits which end up either A. getting into arguments of who stole from who, or B. Drake is your main culprit because he got caught a couple times with the hand down the cookie jar so to speak. So, they immediately point the finger and ofc Drake denies, denies, denies.

So; his actions warrant him to believe he's not exactly 'top kid model' for people to adopt him. Plus, he's gotten to the point now where Benjamin will actively start kicking Drake out of the Misfits as a punishment (not that he gives a shit anymore since he's found the abandoned office building). Another issue that he has is that he's got NO respect for authority since said authority in the past had abused him and made him hate the system. Because of the actions of the Orphanage when he was just nine / ten, he hates ANY and ALL adults that he comes into contact with. Muses that Drake interacts with that are adults who aren't quite close to Drake yet get this treatment of "your my enemy, fuck off." type of deal. Adults HURT him. They took his family away from him. He gets notified three weeks later in the hospital that he's going to be sent to a foster home and he's barely had time to grieve his loss.

Once sent to this facility, the adults there (again the fucked-up system) don't give him time to grieve much less understand WHAT was wrong with him and why he believed he killed his mama and dad. His innocence DIED at ten years old when he spent the first time alone on his tenth birthday crying his eyes out when he realizes no one is going to help or save him. No matter how many times he prayed, no matter what 'supernatural' being is out there, nothing came to help him which is why the Misfits when they came when they did was his ONLY answer and he craved people who were just like him in a way, only to find out WHOOPS it's still a fucked up system and the older teenagers there are fucked in the head with their own issues and they take it out mainly on everyone there, so now drake hates teenagers and adults believing they're all the same.

If someone WANTS to try and take Drake in, they're going to have to understand he's lived almost THREE years in the Misfits where bad behavior was essentially never punished, so Drake doesn't give a shit what he does and what he says. He's a bad mouthed and disrespectful kid whose only coping mechanism is his underage tendencies of again drinking and smoking (he'll try to hide it sometimes from your muse if he feels like it's going to get taken away) and his 'best friend', a stuffed dragon toy that he stole from a kid in the orphanage a couple years back and just like his scarf he is DEATHLY defensive of that thing.

TLDR since I know I rambled a lot: Drake got fucked over by the system and adults and the Misfits haven't given him any positive room for growth so he says and does what he wants MAINLY without consequences because he'll hurt people who try to stop him too. He's shanked a few adults with his powers in the past for stopping him from surviving and stealing. So everyone is essentially his enemy now and if by some miracle you have Drake become docile towards your muse, he WILL be clingy and overprotective of the ONE good thing he's got in the life of shit he's lived.

[gentlemanbobwhite]

If you haven't already, you might want to check out the book, "Quail Plantations of South Georgia and North Florida" by Hank Margeson. I never had the money to hunt plantation style. Instead, I raised and trained my own dogs and depended upon the generosity of farmers and landowners here in northern Georgia for a place to hunt. Sadly, the quail population here is now non-existent. People blame coyotes, but the real culprit is house cats, both tame and feral. There should be a bounty on all cats found off their owners' property. Anyway, to my question...I see several images on your Tumblr where people are shooting straight up in the air. The clothing seems indicate that the location is Europe. What style hunting is this? Thanks!

Great to hear from you and thanks for reaching out. Yes, Hank's book is very good and I know his family very well. Many of his photographs of South Georgia plantations are on permanent display at a popular hotel in the region that regularly hosts quail hunting events, as it is again this week. Most of the quail hunting plantations that the area is known for are privately owned and hunting there is for family and guests, many of which fly in from around the country throughout the Nov-Feb wild bird season. There are also many commercial plantations in the area which offer great hunting opportunities from Oct-March, but there's quite a bit of difference in hunting on the preserves vs the humbling speed of the reclusive wild birds. Wild birds simply can't handle the pressure that a steady diet of paying customers would bring. As for the loss of wild birds in North Georgia and most of the country, the culprit is primarily the loss of habitat. There are a variety of things that wild birds need in order to survive, starting with a couple of thousand acres of contagious habitat, enough sunlight to allow the needed ground cover, regularly disturbed (ideally every 2 years) sections from fire and soil dicing (which creates the preferred nesting habitat), areas left for escape, and other spots that grow weeds that will propagate seeds and insects to benefit the broods that are hatched from June-early October. Vast homogeneous commercial timber tracts, large unmanaged closed canopy federal forests, small tracts, large ag fields, and shopping centers just won't do. If you want quail, you have to give up much of the economic benefits of land ownership that most owners/investors require. As for the traditional English countryside attire and high bird shooting, that is a style of pheasant hunting that is very popular in much of Northern England. In a way it is similar to our commercial quail hunting preserves as in both cases the birds are raised and released, as compared to the much more exclusive red grouse hunting in England that has some similarities with our wild quail hunting as both birds are a limited resource and hunting is primarily available to those that are either well-connected or have large budgets. Thanks again for your questions and good luck in the field!

[zuyiesque]

The Underworld ｡

꒰ Chapter 1 ⩨ ͢ The Story of a Son I. ꒱

❛ ݁ ˖ genre : paranormal ❛ ݁ ˖ setting : bar ╱ pub ❛ ݁ ˖ synopsis : a group of not so normal co-workers share drinks and stories ❛ ݁ ˖ warning : dead dove do not eat. rated 18+ for possible violence , horror , and sexual themes ❛ ݁ ˖ note : the characters will be slowly revealed one by one

“Smirnov. Choice.”

The woman with the wild brown hair shook a bottle of the auspicious drink toward the red head.

Her under eyes were dark but the irises that it framed were a beautiful but eerie amber color.

The red haired lass gave her a look before accepting the bottle then pouring a glass for herself. She groaned after downing. “That’s got a cold after taste.”

“Like the winters of Russia,” said the girl.

“Oh? Have you been there?” the red head inched closer, scrutinizing the brunette.

“No. Have you?”

“Argh!” an angry voice entered the conversation, along with the sound of a fist slamming a table. The culprit was a good looking man with golden blond hair. A small braid peeked out on the side of his neck, from where his hair line ended. “What’s this? Alcoholics United?” cracked he, as his bright bottle green eyes twinkled.

Gathered along with them, around a circular table, were three other guests which indeed made them look like an alcoholic’s support group.

There was an exotic looking man with dark hair, sun-kissed skin, and molten gold eyes. He was dressed in a simple cotton shirt that showed off the glistening skin on his chest. Playfully dangling along with his movements were long golden earrings.

Beside him was a girl with wavy chestnut hair and eyes of chartreuse. She was in a black and white collared dress while on her neck was a rugged silver and iron cross necklace.

On the other side was a woman with long raven black hair in a high ponytail with bangs that framed dark eyes. She was in a black suit with a white lotus flower on her breast pocket.

“Either everyone keeps throwing looks at each other or I could start,” he continued. There was a wild aura around him, like the kind that people who stayed outdoors frequently have.

“Uhh knock yourself out, I guess,” the brunette answered, shrugging her shoulders.

The blond inched closer toward the table, putting on a menacing look. “Ever heard of dark witches?”

The group did a fake gasp.

“Witches?”

“Oh my god, however did it slip through our knowledge?”

“Okay, shut up. You gits are making me sound stupid,” the blond man frowned then crossed his arms.

“We already know you’re a witch hunter,” the tanned man yawned. “You’re not very incognito, dude.”

“I like it that way,” grinned the witch hunter. “But dark witches, come on. I’m pretty sure you haven’t seen those ugly hags up close.”

“Are you gonna tell us about one of your hunts?” the wavy haired girl asked.

“I’ve always been curious about what kind of people turn out to be witches,” added the raven haired woman.

“Well shut up and let me do the talking,” complained the witch hunter. “Because this is unlike all those boring stories I told before.”

“Ma! I found you a four leaf clover!”

The small child came running toward his like faced mother. Covered in dirt, he presented the lucky find to the beautiful woman with the flaxen hair.

“Lucky you!” she ruffled his golden mane that was already getting too bushy and long.

The mother and her energetic son had been picking out weeds in the garden behind their humble home. There was already a basket full of it right in front of her.

“But look at you, Logan, dear! So unruly! After this, we are going to have a bath!”

“But I got this for you, ma!” the boy insisted. “So that the villagers won’t talk bad about you anymore.”

“Wherever did you get the idea that four leaf clovers would stop people from saying bad things?” laughed the mother.

Logan shrugged. “Didn’t you say these protect us from evil?”

“They do.” The mother took the boy into a gentle embrace. “But there’s an even more powerful way than gathering tens and twenties of lucky clovers.”

“Tell me!”

She smiled. “You do good deeds and say a little prayer every night.”

“Ah, like the one you do for me?”

“Yes.” The mother placed a hand on her chest, the boy mirroring her actions. Together, they recited, “The light of the moon and the light of the sun, with the goddess’ blessing, no harm shall be done.”

“Perfect!” she beamed.

“I can memorize stuff pretty well!”

“Now, let’s go get you a bath you filthy little ground crawler!”

Logan Vervain lived all his early years in his humble home that was located on the outskirts of town, just before where the forest started.

His father was a logger. He would often go to the forest with his father to find the best trees. His mother would also tag along, occasionally teaching him about the countless flora that grew there. Over time, he had the forest memorized like the back of his hand.

Growing up, he had very odd chores. One of those were raising chickens, only to kill them for their blood. He had asked why they didn’t raise them for the eggs but both his mother and father told him to never mind it.

When the other town boys would go and scare the girls that were playing by the stream, Logan would stay home, plow the garden, look after his mother’s flowers and herbs, and read the collection of old books she kept.

Sometimes, he’d get teased by Big Allen about how good he smelled because of his garden work. It was to his advantage though, because the girls liked it and the boys found that as a point of jealousy.

Smelling nice wasn’t the only thing he got going for him. When he reached thirteen, he had noticed that all the town girls would flaunt their dresses or their hair dos whenever he was around.

They would even drag him around with them when he wasn’t doing his chores.

Today, the girls successfully brought him to the stream that they frequented.

“Have you been growing this out intentionally?” asked Jane, the prettiest of the bunch. Perched on top of a huge rock near the body of water, she played with Logan’s hair. She showed him the abnormally long lock that jut out the side of his neck.

“Not really?” he answered.

“It’s cute,” added Betty, one of Jane’s close friends.

“But so distracting.”

“What if we braided it?” said Annabeth. She was a black haired, blue eyed southern belle that beamed whenever she smiled. She wasn’t as pretty as Jane but Logan found her smile beautiful.

“Oh yes!” agreed Jane. “Come on Logan, we’ll show you how to do it.”

Annabeth took down one of her own braids and handed him a small but sturdy hair tie. “Hold that. You’ll look even more handsome.”

“Ahh no, it’ll only make me look girly,” frowned Logan.

“Wrong,” Annabeth persisted. “It’ll give you personality. A small braid won’t make you less of a man. Besides, the Jedi sport it all the time.”

He sighed. “Fine, whatever goes.”

“There!” Jane was done when she motioned for Logan to give him the hair tie. She quickly fastened the braid then stepped away to study how it looked. “Perfect!”

The girls cheered.

“See?” Betty handed Logan her compact mirror.

He looked at the small braid and smiled. “Yeah, it does add to the personality.”

“That looks nice on you,” Logan’s mother said as she caught sight of his new hair do.

He paused, smiling. “You think so? The girls did it for me.”

She nodded. “Yes but it lacks something.” His mother stood and went to her study, quickly rummaging through her stuff. When she finished, she signaled for him to come closer. Reaching for the braid, she fumbled with it.

“I was about to give it to you anyway,” she said.

Logan took the braid and looked at what his mother had put on it. At the end of it where the hair tie was was some sort of twine that had a wooden and a metal bead on it. Nestled between the beads was a silver ring.

“What’s this?”

“It’s like mine,” she answered, showing her a twine necklace that looked exactly like it. She had it hidden underneath her blouse. “You see Logan, your Mama isn’t a normal woman.”

“Are you sick or something?”

“No dear. Mama is a witch. That makes you a witch child.”

“Ahh but if I was, I would have been female….right?”

His mother chuckled. “I see you’ve been paying good attention to my books. Witches only give birth to daughters, many don’t even bother having children. You are a rare occurrence; the son of a witch. You carry an ancient bloodline. And son, I have so many things to teach you.”

“Hey, Vervain!”

Big Allen and the other boys saw Logan exiting the forest. He was carrying with him a sack of dead toads. It was no easy job but he finished it anyway.

As they came closer, Logan quickly hid the sack behind a blackberry bush.

“Where’ve you been?” Big Allen came up to him. Funny how Big Allen didn’t seem as big as Logan remembered. Had they always stood eye to eye? “We were fishing up stream. You missed it.”

“I was busy with helping my dad out. And chores. Lots of it.”

“What? You grounded or something?”

“Hey look at his hair!” laughed one of the boys. “He’s got a widdle braid!”

“So what?” he retorted.

“It’s so weird, man! Like why are you even putting accessories on it?”

“Hey!” It was Annabeth. “You savages don’t recognize fashion when you see it!” She quickly put herself between Logan and the boys.

“Fashion?” scoffed one of the boys.

“Yeah! It looks good on him. All the girls think so.”

“Ewwww what? That thing?”

“Yeah, we did it for him!”

“Uhh Annabeth…”

“You made the braid?” asked Big Allen. “With the other girls?”

“Yes!” she nodded proud.

“Well, I guess Logan likes it more with the girls especially when they’re braiding his hair.”

The entire male posse erupted into laughter.

With a sigh, Logan just took his sack from the bush and left.

“Hey!” Annabeth called after him. “You can’t just leave them to make fun of you like that!”

“I don’t really care. I’ve got important things to do.”

He made his way back into the forest, skillfully scaling up the overgrown tree roots and the huge rocks. There was no trail but he knew where he was supposed to go.

Annabeth was struggling with her breathing as she was catching up to him. “What kind of things?”

“Don’t follow me you idiot!”

Annabeth tripped over a big tree root that was covered in moss. Logan didn’t see her fall and just kept on walking.

“Hey!” she shouted after him.

He looked back at her, eyebrows meeting. From Annabeth’s angle, he looked very angelic. The light that hit his golden locks, made him look like there was a halo on his head. His bottle green orbs shone brighter than the greenery of the forest. A voice inside Annabeth’s head told her; he wasn’t like this when they were younger. Now, she felt like her breath was being taken away with just one look from him.

The southern belle was snapped back into reality by Logan’s annoyed sigh. He trudged back to where she was sitting and looked at her squarely.

She blushed as he drew close. Logan smelled so good. There was a faint smell of rosemary and lavender that came from him, but there was another scent that she couldn’t quite make out what it was. It was the sweetest one of all that made her heart race.

“Great. You got a scrape,” he said, lifting her skirt up just enough to reveal her bloody knee.

“Damn it Logan! We’re friends but you don’t just flip skirts like that!” Annabeth swiped his hand off.

“I didn’t, what the hell. Anyway, stay still. I think I’ve got something for it.”

“Huh?”

He took a vial from one of his pant pockets. Inside it was a gray colored cream.

“Medicine?”

Logan was mumbling something under his breath as he was pulling out the vial’s cork lid. For a second there, Annabeth thought his eyes flashed into a yellow. “Something like it.”

With a finger, he swiped a bit of the cream into Annabeth’s scrape.

“Ahh! It stings!” She raised her hand to swat him away, but he caught her wrist before she could hit him.

“Just wait ugh you’ll get it all over!”

The area that Logan had tended to stopped stinging. Then, with one final wipe, Annabeth’s scrape was gone. Clean off.

“How did you do that?” she gasped, inspecting her knee closely.

“It wasn’t me. It was the meds.”

“No way Logan. People don’t patch up that quick.”

There was an awkward silence.

“Go home, Annabeth,” he said it like an ultimatum.

“You can’t make me.”

“Hold up.”

The girl with the raven hair was waving her hand at the blond while making an unsatisfied face. “This is a love story? No one here signed up for a love story!”

“Is it now?” with one eyebrow higher than the other, his face soured. The man downed one shot of the Smirnov then gawked at the audience. “You people have any more objections? Story too unrealistic? Too tame?”

“No, continue, it’s getting juicy,” the red head said, waving him off.

“People do crazy things when they’re in love. I feel like romance when used well, can make a story good,” added the brunette.

The blond threw the raven haired girl a face of cocky victory. “I will but since miss salty here doesn’t like the love story, I’ll go directly to the main part.”

“Ugh fine. If it’s necessary for character development then don’t leave it out, jeez. Go talk about how you and Annabeth had the starry eyes.”

“What do you mean me? This isn’t about me!”

“Come on it’s obvious. You’re pulling a Witch Hunter: Origins.”

“Oh my god that is a nice title,” the tanned man said, his eyes wide with childish wonder.

“Let him finish the story,” interrupted the wavy haired girl.

“Thank you. And just to emphasize. This isn’t about me.”

❪ * to be continued .... ❫

[kidelune]

TW: Mature themes, death, violence, blood, all that jazz. Read at your own discretion.

(Part 5/?) | Part 4. Part 3. Part 2. Part 1.

[ LOCAL ITAEWON BAR & CLUB Le Sanctuaire, OWNED BY PRESTIGED CHAIN BUSINESSMAN LEE GUN-PYO CAUGHT UNDER FIRE THIS EVENING, LITERALLY. Further investigations by the KNPA are soon to come. ]

/

At this point in his career and idles alike, spilled blood was either akin to spilled milk or merely a holy measure of sacrament. Kijun spends his second full day back in Seoul where only crows flock towards; plucking knives of all variants out of corpses haphazardly strewn at sunset's mercy. Twisted limbs and gaping mouths revere his return and echo his demise all in the same spell, and among their reach he threads, baptized by blood.

Stained digits quiver ever so slightly around the cigarette he collects in his mouth at long last, at the edge of the day's concluding sunset and Le Sanctuaire's polished floor-to-ceiling windows. Light takes him a few tries, with the zippo failing and slipping on a crimson thumbpad and winter's dread in his bones until he finally produces a competent enough flame against patches of blood. A thick smokescreen clouds his short-sight then, as early evening clouds skirt among appearing stars, painting the walls in the back an innocent shade of grey. And that helpful grey, hiding death.

It's a few hours since the club had been sieged and ransacked by three van-fulls of naïve men and boys in wrinkled suits. Many years of effort trashed in broad daylight from top to bottom and all the way around by overconfident lackeys with spiked bats and blades–despite it's already abandoned state. This had been their only stop for the day, likely, and Kijun could instantly tell by the way everything in sight had been severely damaged and shattered to utter smithereens– could still feel the raw malice and hear triumphant screeching bouncing off walls that had been beautiful just hours before, as they destroyed millions upon millions worth of won and earned livelihoods, all under three hours tops. So easily had the sanctuary he once helped build yield to the enemy's carnage, falling apart at the greedy hands of man.

A bleeding suspect writhes and chokes on the brief slit tucked at length in his throat by Kijun's left foot, the blade that'd bled him out abandoned on his right; close enough to be in his reach, but still too far for the bastard to make it to alive. His weakened hand scrambles for the hem of Kijun's pant leg in a desperate attempt anyway, leaving messy red prints on washed denim, like little footnotes. But Kijun remains rooted and caliginous in his gloom as though he's parked amidst a field of weeds in pouring rain, columns of his indulgence plummeting onto a forehead, an arm, a palm. And no trace of compassion hangs in his cold, hooded gaze as he silently listens to life violently swallowing around itself like a serpent in madness, for his smite engulfs all potential feelings of guilt with an echo so overwhelmingly in tune with death he can only be, and embrace it.

This was not his doing, anyway. Notwithstanding him having had the luxury of slowly drawing out the weapon from the neck which could scarcely clench and release around the blade plunged in it before, let alone the answers Kijun had been insisting on all the while, until there was nothing left to keep him but the blunt unforgiving eyes of his inquisitor. One who may as well have been the executioner from the start.

The actual culprit stands across the desolate dancefloor to his left, meticulously wiping caked hands clean with a cotton cloth produced from his pocket. The ever so loyal superintendent, Lee Yunho, who silently clicks his tongue in annoyance with himself.

"Are we finished now?" Kjiun levels through the silence between them as he grows slightly impatient near the irony, blood soaked end of his cigarette. "I only came to talk like you asked, but instead ended up with all this dirty fucking blood on me and still not a single word from you. 's about time you started don't ya' think?"

"And I'm thankful for your participation, Kijun-ah." Yunho responds flatly, flicking away the bloodied cloth in favour of plucking leather gloves he were supposed to be using from his back pocket. His soft eyes land as an unamused pair on the younger, "Brilliant, as always."

Kijun rolls his eyes, and it's only shortly after the hand at his ankle falter and life deserts the room does he finally approach his comrade in peace, shoes crunching loudly on broken glass.

"You know what this—" He gestures with a hand he hadn't bothered to wipe himself at the mess encompassing them, "—means for me and all the rest who'd been workin' here for the past few years, right, hyung? That's why you'd brought me here?"

Yunho sighs profoundly, "I do."

The blackout curtains are gone, violently torn off into opaque pools of velvet that plague each corner of the large room. Though the glasses are tinted, telltale signs of the sun's novel absence could still be found on the horizon from this point of view, and they briefly cast whimsical shadows on Yunho's youthful face. Awe provoking in and of itself, if only circumstances allowed for a more savoury atmosphere. Instead Kijun pauses in front of the elder, half a head taller, and delves an exsanguinated palm into the hyung's jacket pocket to fish out a crushed pack of smokes he knows is always there.

"I have nothing now that this place is gone. Nothing."

"I know, kid. And I'm sorry, but I'd warned you beforehand. Not to count on it."

"Are you fucking shitting me? Do you take me for some kind of fucking idiot? No, I know you're not sorry." Kijun crudely spits between Yunho's feet, his fury causing him to clench his jaw around the fresh cigarette he'd just plucked from the hyung's packet, "The least you can do now is finally explain to me what the fuck has been goin' on all this time, and why the hell I have to be caught in the middle of it."

He completely expects Yunho to strike him for his blatant provocation, something all the elder men in his life have been doing more recently for reasons he can't fathom. But much to his chagrin, or contrarily his relief, Yunho pauses, holding tightly onto silence and only considers his opponent for a calculative moment. No doubt weighing the consequences for whatever urges he quietly forces down, before he lifts a hand to collect a smoke.

"Fine." His expression shifts ever so slightly, losing tension and gaining a hue of indifference in its place, as if to convey his refusal to take up the weight of any faults. With evening between his teeth he lights up the cigarette and finally yields. "If you repeat any of what I'm about to tell you, even to Gun-pyo, I'm afraid you'll never have another chance out of this life once and for all. It'll persist, until it kills you. That's a promise."

Kijun squares broad shoulders and rolls his neck as though preparing for a bloody fist fight. The apprehension which suddenly mounts him then is blamed on the thick, stickiness in his palms, as he refuses to acknowledge it in any other context. He'd waited far too long for this to back out now. "Okay."

Yunho draws out his following drag for as long as it takes him to get to one of the open windows near them, where he speaks nicotine into the passing wind in attempt at erasing secrecy out of existence as soon as he speaks it into it, "This isn't some random issue that'd started in the past year with Kang Dongwook, as Gun-pyo may have otherwise lead you to believe. It's been going on behind the scenes since you've been in the Philippines all those years ago."

Kijun scoffs irritatedly at the mention of his patron's name, "Yeah, no shit..."

"Remember when Gun-pyo 'randomly' brought in that group of guys from prison back then? Caused a huge uproar among you lot, but you could do nothing about it but listen to him—me included. But they weren't just convicts and it wasn't just happenstance. Some were veterans from the military, and it was a sacrifice. He needed them for something else he never told any of you about."

"Why?" Frowns the younger deeply, ball of his shoulder pressing to the window frame as he leans over and succumbs to Yunho forcefully prying open the annals of his memory. "Why didn't he tell us the truth? I thought we just needed more men."

"Because he thought the truth would've distracted you from work. You knew we couldn't afford any distractions, didn't you? I remember you saying it yourself. We were constantly in so many tight spots we hardly had enough wiggle room to slip out of. Business was good, but it was absolute hell for us."

It was. "Mm, I remember."

"He didn't want to lose any more of you boys, so the seasoned lot were brought in for something like a suicide mission, if not that. Back then it'd come to our attention that there was someone else on our tail, a rival on the market who'd been waiting for the opportunity to strike us down and take our place. The normal everyday occurrence, except it wasn't a bluff and they weren't doing everything on their own... They were backed by the Chinese and some Filipino police."

At mention of the Triads, Kijun's usual darkness pales against the moonlight like a flake of snow. The dots in his head begin to connect towards a fate worse than he could've dared to imagine for himself before, and he breaks out in cold sweat because of it. He recalls the day of his arrest like it had been yesterday; the morning sun bouncing off his naked back, bare feet slapping the ground so hard in his heedless sprinting that it burned and bled profusely against concrete and dirt and then concrete again. Hollering at the top of his lungs, so loudly his voice had fled him for many days. All to no avail as in the end, he'd still been caught.

Deep octaves climb a tone as his heartbeat simultaneously takes off with reckless abandon, just like that day. "Holy shit...! So that's how..."

"Mmm.." Yunho hums, a strange, collected contrast of peace, in the same breath flicking the lingering column of ash of his cigarette off on the side. Flecks of blood sully his white dress shirt cuffs, but he doesn't seem to mind. "By the time we got to them back then, it was too late. Our hubris had costed us a fortune– and Gun-pyo's reputation."

"That's how the grand scale of arrests went down... They reported us. None of the shit that happened in Manila was coincidence at all."

"No, the pigs were actually useless and in cahoots with them from the start. They were operating off a good tip and somehow managed to hold the upper-hand, because there weren't that many of us in the Philippines after all. They knew exactly where to strike us, and you were just collateral."

Kijun had spent many lonely nights in confinement blaming himself for what had happened on that day. For failing his team and Gun-pyo simultaneously, in just shy of an hour. All their hard work and sleepless nights gone because of him. Perhaps if he'd done so-and-so earlier, or pushed his colleagues around a bit harder, or took a different turn during the chase–if only twenty year old Kijun had known what twenty eight year old him did now: that none of it was any of his fault. That he'd been just a pawn all along.

"Fucking bastards..." Kijun curses colourfully under his breath, sharp brows under constant tension throughout his attempt at processing all the information all at once. He absentmindedly brushes bloodied fingers through curt black locks, soothing himself out of incredulity, only briefly. "So did you not feel any inch of fucking remorse for us who got caught in your fucking mess? Didn't you think you could at least tell us the truth after we got out?"

"You think that would've changed anything, Kijun?" Yunho grimaces as the earth exhales ice on them through the window, "Guys we sent in never came back, so we had no way of retaliating without getting our asses into more shit. Were too busy swimming in the copious amount of losses already. They took out multiple dens of ours all at once, not just yours. You're lucky you were out and only got arrested. It was nothing short of brutal. They'd been showing the same patterns again recently. It's their strategy, the fuckin' cunts." The elder curses in distaste for the first time tonight, "Their patience makes them dangerous, but luckily we were more than prepared this time around. Managed to fend off most of the attacks here. Come, help me finish."

Yunho abruptly straightens, as though he'd just come to again, abandoning the window and his recollections for the few canisters they'd brought on the way in, earlier. Gasoline canisters, which the elder soon uncaps and begins ceremoniously pouring and splattering all across polished marble flooring, the deceased, and a sea of broken glass. Kijun burns the rest of his smoke from a distance away, then joins him shortly.

"I'm gonna miss this place. Do we really have to put it to the torch, though? I thought all our personal info and shit had already been retrieved beforehand by you lot."

"They have. Both staff and clientele data, gone, to protect all your identities if the stalwarts ever decided they'd dip their toes into this one. Gun-pyo thought we should burn it just to make sure, though, 'specially the bodies. It's his building so I guess he can do whatever the fuck he wants with it, I'm just following orders. Says he doubts anyone will catch whiff of it anyway, except maybe the local news."

Kijun hums, making sense of Yunho's words, though he finds no existing shade of consolation in them, nor in the careless pouring of kindling. The horrors of an eight year old bawl weigh down much too heavily on his shoulders, adding laden to his steps and leaving little room or nor energy left to properly puzzle within himself his nearing fate, even after emptying a third canister within the very room he always served guests in. Dressing precious memoirs in what would be their last breath. In ruin.

The tangy pungency of gasoline begins to permeate the air and congest their throats as it soaks between the club's cracks and fissures, coiling under fingernails, and fallen curtains. Kijun grows equally as speechless as the dead until they finish, and finally, lamentably, Yunho acknowledges his solemn absence with a nudge in the rib as they conclude under the arch of the entrance hallway.

"Listen, kid..." Yunho muffles from behind the constrains of his mask, sounding so painstakingly apologetic at a crime scene that Kijun would have laughed, if he had the heart for it now. Much like a guilty older brother, if he ever had one. "I know you've done a lot of bad shit in your life... Even tonight, you've added to that tally once again. But remember, that does not make you a bad person. Not nearly as bad as you're trying to convince yourself every new day that you are... Try doing the opposite for once, see how that changes you."

Kijun sighs exasperatedly, eyes pirouetting in his skull as he begins to pat his pockets for his lighter, "You don't have to lecture me, hyung. Really. It won't fix anything."

"Oh, but I do, if it's important. You know the story of how I started working for Gun-pyo at the same age as he'd recruited you, already. Now I'm almost forty, yet still belting out the 'Yes, sir''s like an old, obedient dog. I've killed more people than you can ever imagine, for Gun-pyo alone. But I, too, was once in this dilemma you're facing today. 'I can't go, but I can't stay either' and you can guess my choice." The elder says, seemingly sporting a humourless smile in the dark, "I was a fool for choosing comfort over logic in this case, but I'm glad now that I can at least attempt at preventing someone else from making the same mistake... You, although at this point, it may not mean anything." A throttled moment passes between them, one during which Kijun openly displays his discomfort in the from of refusing to look at his steadfast hyung in the face. He who searching for a gaze he never finds from below.

But it still does not deter him. Kijun had never been able to thwart this man once. His determination was really something extraordinary. Gun-pyo would perish would him, Kijun always thought. "Walk away while you still can, Kijun. Like Junseo—"

Alike flickering on red lights in a room, Kijun immediately swells with rage, somehow growing even taller than he already was within the brief distance it takes for him to have Yunho cornered. Everything about him condenses into a taut heap. Much like a ferocious cat raising its back, it's tail fluffed out.

"Don't you fucking talk about my father in a place like this." The younger viciously hisses between the teeth, his eyes as round and dark through the afront as two bulbs with burnt out cores.

But still, unfathomably, Yunho does not falter. The only indication of his annoyance echoes through his lowering verbiage, "You will suffer for all the shit you've done so far once you're dead. That surely comes later, but now, do as he did and I didn't. Be wise and quit while you can. You'll thank yourself for it in a few years."

Kijun realizes a heartbeat too late that he'd merely been baited into meeting Yunho's steely gaze again, when the hyung hooks his mask under his chin and pops a quick, mischievous grin up at him. Embarrassment blasts through the tension gathered in his muscles as an overheated furnace would into remote winter skies, and with sharp, knitted brows he stumbles back, now just inexplicably irritated. Yunho triumphantly straightens his leather jacket, and his spine. "Smile. This is your freedom."

"Whatever..." Kijun rasps at length, pulling down his own mask and plants the last ever cigarette smoked in Le Sanctuaire between chapped lips. "Let's just light this bitch up and never see each other again."

Yunho only raises a simple gesture between them, urging Kijun onwards, like he knows they will. "After you."

To this Kijun responds in kind, by flicking at the zippo only once this time, dried blood catching in the brass creases as the cigarette catches light and burns. He takes a long, healthy drag that bottoms out his lungs with a delicious cloud of warmth. The very last pleasure this place will know for a while. Then, with a flick of a deft wrist, flicks it into the start of a bittersweet bonfire.

"To secrecy, blood and Lee Gun-pyo."

"To gutting oneself, and twisting the blade."

[libidomechanica]

But thus the horrors of my kings are not

An old, and set our life, two plunging     down way, that two into you, beings more; for every     eyes, with the wander, that is She? I am taking the     wholly dust as thy fair Sultana from drops I loved—the     mixture laid he, tis sort

can either complainest thought a     mess. See that I am thee, my love of sence of Humber     let me sickness keep my vow! Because that each other teach     he force, for please: and, bidding! And from Heaven I for me.     Growth of Gold when the guest,

over men and as Newcastles     to the star-shade: was not be no screwy fiddle jimp with     suits own deep for as a masquerade; the rock, a rosy     mought his dead. Her bound, she black in a key, and beach other?     He scratch’d to gild a story

when first look like herself never     more that mix’d the lawn of what assault of the bowl, tu-     whit, that love-begotten was my chin hairst, I shure was à-     la-mort, causlesse yron dyd fear, no love thou of it as     the was sort of law, was

never know not yet your animate     existening to a world, and the garden she brutal     ravished—and she, like and than and fire is funct trundling     melodious multiply height, the human decayed,     a fragments and doth flawless

himself the Leave to grant the     hills; I may, if you tralineate the pink of her bought he     to late, who marueile Thee to set though the bed offering     daggers work out me in most move ones to adored then pay     for lofty loue: for a

brutal ravisher and an     awkwardly. By addition more these says god he had goodnes     that is over imagined the fairnesses, when those women’s     function she little he’ll nourists. Back at the stainly     by to-morrows the words.

Her eyes and face: and used; he gall,     good it’s import a long lover it need. Some to seek would     serious place, and you said, The culprit and raven I     desire: I have my mosses on the bright his corpse, to     warm and among through the

day, almost rest, how soon: it full     stealing. I burnine. At last for this: I never pardon     mine. Insults are in the groan, his ears’, among thirty in     my dearest in streaming his little maintain that she way,     the heaven the vision,

each ray;—but effect. We shoe is     done to thee, nor short, they think ere have been to antiquity     full her yellow hair long-limbed lad that the heart, and I     stand ugly, who reader than I ask of Black in his ocean     once ground herself and

required his king each encumbranch.     But thus the horrors of my kings are not thy picture, as     the mob of whate’er seed we have lost thousands thou with sweet     by violently water, to tell you, whose skies mother take     and he looked reciting

goat, despiteful for me. Faster     painterfered mirror, next-to-last, on every kindle     and ambrosia, when were the leave tribute them is in     bull and baby lover sun, resulting of all, his Highness     of flower-door, never

heards and in the master-mistress     more, now the was doe least, then down, both delight me clear     orator as they with one amiss; but thou listed two     composed my misfortunes of a bubble, our newer sanction     growne. Time wish: not Pallas:

Hebe she said, but she hand pray     your goods, and it round it: they rain’d, spurd with her part, must, and     tighten’d. When her king, long glancing, dancing begin? At breast;     but said; but with lose that all sweet! She of black on her winds     that would man weed, thy Ewes,

the had recovering power     to write in the glen? Thus, for pity? Through all metal, then     losing out thy mither: as almost Rabbis Jewish beams,     but the to thee, to take the secure, and that changed behind     a lang about thee with

laurel, issued goosebush     reminine described then Florian, painted shown for warning     novel, not be those the prince’s lectual luck on that ether     I be surround throught within Juanna a choral cargo—     that thy plaiden, where

in wings were nor will the glens repeats     the blow, soon as I am alive honey cool as     words thy choysest was borne stalke dead as he die! Done with greatest     mine. My child, I can melanche’s perfect you under     it threat names of ever,

and i feel safe from mine; but sair     she shine. What ink maybe that homely face embitter mouth     of flight all heart of eyes, there o’ my mother, clumsy Willy.     The join’d a doubtless well know of a worth infinite     a slumbers flower-loving

of pupil’s randies, time, that     I woke will round, Sukey is turn tress judged their milk and Giaours,     and by; i’ll down, she cried to sell her till it grew this Desert;     the dangers down he which great of vices of men love,     am bewilder’d Kurds.

[naturopathneame]

Natural Alternatives To Spring Seasonal Allergy Medication

Many people suffer from seasonal allergies, but the side-effects of the medications they use to help them through may sometimes present its own issues.

If you dread dealing with spring seasonal allergies, you’re not alone, but you do have options beyond pharmaceuticals to help. Read on to find out what a few of them are.

What Are Allergies? Allergies are the body’s reaction to a foreign substance or allergen.

Your body produces antibodies that attack the allergen, even though it’s not actually harmful to your body.

Symptoms of allergic reaction include inflamed skin, sinuses, airways or digestive system, and can also include anaphylaxis in severe cases.

Common Spring Seasonal Allergens In the case of seasonal allergies, your body overreacts to the presence of pollens, grass, mold or ragweed.

In the spring, specifically, it’s usually because of tree pollen that is released into the air as trees sprout leaves, flowers and fruit; however, grasses and weeds are other common culprits.

Symptoms Of Spring Seasonal Allergies When the pollen finds its way into your body, it triggers the release of chemicals called histamines into your bloodstream.

These histamines cause runny nose, itchy and/or watery eyes, coughing, sneezing, and possibly a rash or hives.

Natural Solutions For Spring Allergies Anti-histamines are the over-the-counter medicine that prevent the histamine from triggering your symptoms, but they can cause dry mouth, drowsiness or dizziness, blurred vision, nausea and vomiting, restlessness or moodiness, or trouble sleeping

Luckily, I have seen good results through treatments with a variety of natural remedies, which I have listed for you below.

Take Apple Cider Vinegar Apple cider vinegar has so many uses, but it is also amazing as a natural allergy remedy.

It functions by helping to reduce mucus production and by cleansing your lymphatic system.

If you can, take a tablespoon straight-up; if you find that too difficult, mix it in with a teaspoon of honey and a cup of hot water, and drink this every night.

Acupuncture Acupuncture is a frequently-prescribed treatment for many ailments – it has as many uses as you have meridians, pathways and points on your body, which total more than four hundred.

A 2015 paper by Xue Et Al outlines a study where participants were randomly given either acupuncture or sham acupuncture, which feels like real acupuncture to the person receiving it but doesn’t actually do anything. If you’re familiar with clinical trials, it’s the same idea as giving somebody a sugar pill to account for the placebo effect.

The study found that real acupuncture was significantly better than sham acupuncture in controlling the symptoms of allergic rhinitis (the medical term for hay fever) and that it significantly improved the quality of life of the study participants.

Acupuncture doesn’t cure your allergies, but instead it helps to significantly reduce the symptoms of your allergic reactions; for seasonal allergies, your naturopath will insert tiny needles around your sinuses and nasal area.

Acupuncture points can also be stimulated with electricity without having to use needles, and this method is more convenient for allergies.

Consider An Elimination Diet Often people discover that other allergies – such as food allergies – can aggravate and increase the symptoms of their hay fever, so dealing with those before going into your allergy season can help reduce the overall impact from the pollens.

To implement this method, eat a very bland diet for a week, making sure to avoid all possible allergenic foods.

At the end of this time, start to reintroduce your most commonly-used foods one by one, carefully noticing your body’s reactions to them; if you notice itchiness or additional phlegm after adding a new food, it can indicate a food sensitivity.

Homeopathy Homeopathy is the use of tiny amounts of natural substances (such as plants and minerals) to simulate the body’s natural healing process.

For seasonal allergies, a naturopath might recommend allium cepa, euphrasia, natrum muriaticum, nux vomica, or wyethia.

These can be combined or used to treat the various symptoms of seasonal allergies as they crop up.

Lifestyle Changes During peak allergy season, and if you’re very susceptible, you may have to reduce your time spent outdoors – but that doesn’t mean you have to spend every moment inside.

Using a dust mask while you’re outdoors in the yard means you don’t have to worry about disturbing the allergens while you work.

You can also take advantage of your air conditioner while you’re in your home or car.

Fabrics can attract and collect pollen, so get rid of unnecessary carpets, stuffed toys, and be sure to wash bedding weekly with hot water; another option is to find allergen-proof covers for your bed and pillows.

This article "Natural Alternatives To Spring Seasonal Allergy Medication" was originally seen on Healing Mind and Body Integration.

[taimio]

Unlocking the Secrets: A Comprehensive Guide to Cultivating Kohlrabi for Bountiful Harvests

Kohlrabi, sometimes referred to as a German turnip, is a nutty and sweet vegetable that is highly nutritious. It is a cool season crop that is related to both kale and cabbage and its distinctive bulbous shape is usually green or purple. It is usually eaten raw or cooked and provides a good source of fiber, vitamin C, and potassium.

How To Grow Kohlrabi For Maximum Yield

Welcome to the wonderful world of kohlrabi! If you've never heard of this unique vegetable before, you're in for a treat. Not only is kohlrabi deliciously crisp and slightly sweet, but it's also incredibly versatile in the kitchen. Growing your own kohlrabi can be a rewarding experience, and with a little know-how, you can maximize your yield. So, grab your gardening gloves and let's dive into the fascinating world of kohlrabi cultivation!

1. Choose the Perfect Spot

Before you start planting your kohlrabi, it's important to select the right location in your garden. Kohlrabi thrives in full sun but can tolerate some shade. The soil should be well-draining and rich in organic matter. Aim for a pH level between 6.0 and 7.5. If your soil is too acidic, you can add lime to raise the pH.

2. Timing is Everything

Kohlrabi is a cool-weather crop, so timing is key. Start your seeds indoors about 4-6 weeks before the last spring frost date. Transplant the seedlings outdoors when they are about 4 inches tall and the soil has warmed up. For a fall harvest, sow the seeds directly in the garden about 8-10 weeks before the first fall frost.

3. Sow and Thin

When sowing your kohlrabi seeds, plant them about ¼ to ½ inch deep and space them 4-6 inches apart. As the seedlings emerge, thin them so that they are about 8-12 inches apart. This gives each plant enough room to grow and develop into beautiful bulbs.

4. Watering and Mulching

Kohlrabi loves moist soil, so it's important to keep the plants well-watered. Aim for about 1 inch of water per week, either through rainfall or irrigation. Mulching around the plants can help retain moisture and suppress weeds, keeping your kohlrabi happy and healthy.

5. Fertilize Regularly

Provide your kohlrabi plants with a balanced fertilizer every 3-4 weeks to ensure they have all the nutrients they need for optimal growth. Follow the instructions on the fertilizer packaging to determine the correct application rate. Remember, happy plants mean bumper crops!

6. Pests and Diseases

Like any garden plant, kohlrabi can fall victim to pests and diseases. Keep an eye out for common culprits such as aphids, cabbage loopers, and flea beetles. If you spot any signs of infestation or disease, act quickly to prevent them from wreaking havoc on your crop. Organic pest control methods, such as handpicking pests or using insecticidal soap, can be effective.

7. Harvesting Time

Now comes the exciting part - harvesting your kohlrabi! The bulbs are ready to be harvested when they reach about 2-3 inches in diameter. Simply grasp the bulb at the base and gently pull it from the ground. Don't forget to snip off the leaves, which can be enjoyed in salads or sautéed as greens.

8. Get Creative in the Kitchen

With your bountiful kohlrabi harvest, let your culinary imagination run wild! Kohlrabi can be enjoyed raw in salads, slaws, or as a crunchy snack. It can also be cooked in a variety of ways, including roasting, stir-frying, or steaming. Experiment with different recipes and discover your favorite way to savor this underrated veggie.

9. Preserve the Harvest

If you find yourself with an abundance of kohlrabi, don't fret! There are several methods you can use to preserve your harvest for later use. Kohlrabi can be blanched and frozen, pickled, or even turned into delicious kohlrabi chips. These preservation techniques allow you to enjoy the flavors of your garden all year round!

10. Share the Love

Finally, don't keep the joy of growing kohlrabi all to yourself. Share your knowledge and surplus harvest with friends, family, or even your local community. Spread the love for this unique vegetable and inspire others to embark on their own kohlrabi-growing journey.

So there you have it, a comprehensive guide to growing kohlrabi for maximum yield. From selecting the perfect spot to harvesting your crop, each step plays a vital role in ensuring a successful harvest. Remember, gardening is not just about the end result but also about the joy and fulfillment it brings along the way. Happy kohlrabi growing!

Learn more about gardening with Taim.io!

[theoldhempfarmer]

"No Urge To Merge"

There has been a temporary reprieve from the Summer heat here in Middle Tennessee which means that Lee Crabtree is taking advantage of the more moderate weather to do some badly needed Bushhogging at Tennessee homegrown facilities. Meanwhile, The Old Hemp Farmer has done enough paperwork to kick back with a large glass of Iced Indonesian Coffee and vape a little bit of flower and try to write something edifying and entertaining about Cannabis Business. You guys know that I read a lot of Cannabis periodicals and something that yours truly has noticed over the last few months is the increasing number of mergers between larger Cannabis corporations that have been cancelled by mutual consent while other aborted mergers have resulted in law suits. The Old Hemp Farmer mentions this because usually in a maturing industry in the early stages, there are a rash of consolidations, as larger successful companies start to have enough positive cash flow, they start buying smaller successful companies in order to gain market share and economy of scale. If you look at major emerging industries of their time, like railroad, steel, automotive and telecommunication there was a pattern of industry players being absolutely ruthless in their quest to gain market share and dominate their perspective markets. Although there have hundreds of folks that are in the present day Cannabis Industry that have boasted they would be Titans of the Weed Business, no one has accomplished this feat and no-one is even close. Instead some of the largest Cannabis companies in the World are in big time retrenchment mode. Some of these large Cannabis companies signed contracts to buy a smaller Cannabis companies for a certain price and then reneged on the offer and as a result, the parties involved end up going to court. If your Cannabis company has excess capacity and not profitable, there is no real reason to expand. The Old Hemp Farmer would like to believe that the lack of coherent Banking laws and a tricky legal environment is the culprit but it seems that largest impediment to the Cannabis Industry is the result of large companies with weak management that flooded the market with excessive capacity and over reach. These would be “Lords of the Cannabis Universe” all wanted to have largest Cannabis facilities in the U.S. Seriously how many times did you read in a Press Release that this greenhouse or extraction facility was the largest in North America? Too many times. And where are most of these companies now? Either in receivership or slowly selling off their assets. One of the fantasies that a lot of smaller Cannabis Companies liked to entertain was that a large Cannabis with deep pockets would come and overpay for their company. (A persons got to dream, don’t they?) But that was before the fallout that came with the loss of huge amounts of investor dollars and way too many facilities. Now all of this Cannabis clutter has to work its way through through the system. Meanwhile, The Old Hemp Farmer doubts there will be any real urge to merge in the Cannabis Industry. Anyway as always, Hemp Dawgs and Hemp Puppies keep one eye on the weather and the other eye on the market.

Visit our Tennessee Homegrown web site to try our great products: https://www.tnhomegrown.com

Our Podcast - Full Contact Cannabis: https://fullcontactcannabis.podbean.com

The Wife's web site: https://www.theoldhempfarmerswife.com

[dishtothedeath]

I'm nothing in the brain // Fergus // Trial 4.1 // Re: Number of culprits

During the entire investigation Fergus hadn’t said one word to anyone around him. All his mental capacity had gone towards making it through the stupid game without snapping and committing some violent atrocity or another, and towards trying to piece the evidence together. Now, more than ever, he wants to find out who’s at fault, who’s to blame.

Someone had tried to kill his wife.

Someone had killed his –  Whatever Alfie is to him.

These two things are, to Fergus, unforgivable much in the same way Masaji’s death had been. But here there’s clear intention. This can’t have been a mere accident. A bomb and a poison? That’s leagues different from shoving someone so hard they fall over and hit their head.

Fergus sits down in his seat, arms folded over his chest. Despite his silence earlier, he’s now the first to speak.

“...Right.”

His voice is a bit hoarse, and he clears his throat a few times to get it going.

“Let’s start off with the obvious so we don’t get tangled in the weeds.” “There’s two folks at play here.” “If we look at the…. sussy list…” who came up with this evidence name “found on my– on Yukari’s table, there’s two sets of handwritings. For the poison notes the handwriting’s tight cursive, and for the bomb notes it’s small and neat. So, there’s two folks involved, either working together, against each other, or just at the same time, whatever.”

He looks around the table, brows furrowed so that his scars pull tight.

“Whoever left the notes on the table must’ve left them there to try and implicate Yukari.”

This is said like a violent threat. Whether it’s what really happened, Fergus doesn’t care. In his eyes, someone attacked his wife, and is also trying to paint a target on her back.