#Milk Processing Plant And Machines

[swetatiwarib2b]

Shaping the Future: How Dairy Automation is Revolutionizing Milk Processing

In the ever-evolving world of food production, dairy farming stands as a pillar of daily nutrition. Yet, like many sectors, it is not immune to the transformative impact of technology. The dairy industry is experiencing a revolution, driven by automation. This transformation is not only enhancing efficiency but also reshaping the way milk processing is approached. Let’s delve into how dairy automation is steering the future of milk processing plant and machine what it means for the industry.

[pranamjiengineeringworks]

What is the cost of 500 Litre milk processing plant?

Pranamji Engineering Works is a renowned manufacturer and supplier of 500 LTR Milk Processing Plants in India, offering advanced solutions for the dairy industry. With a commitment to quality and innovation, Pranamji Engineering Works designs milk processing plants that cater to the needs of small and medium-scale dairy businesses. These plants are equipped with state-of-the-art technology to ensure efficient and hygienic milk processing, including pasteurization, homogenization, and chilling.

The 500 LTR Milk Processing Plant by Pranamji Engineering Works is built to meet the highest standards of safety and quality, ensuring that the milk is processed under optimal conditions. The plant is designed for easy operation and maintenance, making it an ideal choice for dairy farmers and processors looking to enhance their production capabilities.

With a focus on delivering reliable and durable equipment, Pranamji Engineering Works has established itself as a trusted name in the industry. Their milk processing plants are backed by excellent customer service and support, ensuring that clients receive the best possible experience. Choose Pranamji Engineering Works for your milk processing needs and benefit from their expertise and commitment to excellence.

Our Related Products are :-

100 LTR Milk Processing Plant

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5000 LTR Milk Processing Plant

Dahi Dairy Plant

Doodh ka Plant

For more details, please visit:-

Website :- https://www.pranamjiengineering.com/

Contact No. :- 09997737365, 7017598033

Email :- salespranamjiew@gmail.com

[indiantradebirddigital]

 Top Milk Processing Plant and Machine in India

For Milk Processing Plants and Machines, Indian Trade Bird offers the finest prices. We are the top manufacturer, supplier, exporter, and retailer of cream separators, milk boilers, mini dairy plants, batch milk pasteurizers, powder plants, milk dairy pumps, milk homogenizers, milk chilling plants, curd-making machines, ghee plants, milk centrifuges, can scrubbers, can scrub brushes, evaporated milk plants, egg pasteurization machines, can drip savers, skid mounted process modules, curd separators, soya curd machines, and many more products. You can increase productivity, simplify your manufacturing process, and uphold the strictest safety and hygienic regulations with our milk processing plant and machine. Indian Trade Bird connects you with trusted manufacturers and suppliers, ensuring reliability and superior performance. We are able to deliver every order on time since we have first-rate distribution methods. In addition, the provided machines are assessed based on multiple quality criteria in order to provide hassle-free output.

[mahavirmachine]

Mawa Machine Manufacturers | Khoya Machine Manufacturers

Mahavir Industries is a renowned name in the market of Mawa Machine Manufacturers. Our machines are made from high-grade stainless steel, which ensures durability and long-lasting performance. We also offer machines made from other materials such as mild steel and aluminum, based on the specific needs of our customers. Our mawa machines come in various sizes to cater to the production requirements of different industries. We offer small machines for home-based businesses as well as large machines for commercial setups. Also, the machines are designed to produce high-quality mawa/khoya consistently, with minimal maintenance and easy operation. We use advanced technology in our machines to ensure energy efficiency and low operating costs.

[mahavirkhoya]

Mini Milk Plant Manufacturers

Mahavir Industries, a Mini Milk Plant Manufacturers, is able to offer its customers high-quality small milk dairy plants because of the great assistance and engineering of our gifted personnel. These dairy facilities were built with top-notch materials and in accordance with accepted industry standards. To ensure their impeccable quality, the dairy plants that are given have undergone thorough inspection in various locations. Customers can choose from a range of dairy facilities that we offer.

We take seriously our obligation to fulfil client requirements. Each design that leaves our website will give our customers a novel experience. We offer products of the finest calibre, recognized customer service, and affordable prices. Due to the numerous quality checks our products have already undergone, our customers can have confidence in them.

[rottenpumpkin13]

I can't remember if you were the one who made the gag that Cloud, being from a mountain town, can handle extremely low temperatures without any issue. I have a question!

What happens if Cloud GETS a cold?

• When Cloud gets a cold, suddenly everyone is a licensed physician with at least 20 years of medical practice. Angeal is the first to notice Cloud's unusual sniffing, runny nose and sneezing.

Angeal: I know just what you need.

*He makes Cloud a soup that smells like Zack's fermented socks*

Angeal: Don't worry, this soup will cure you instantly. It's an old recipe back in Mideel, mothers make it for their sick children.

Cloud: What's in it?

Angeal: Banora White apples, chocobo feet, the dirt from your healthiest plant, chocobo liver, coffee beans, chocobo wings, vinegar, chocobo breast, spoiled milk, chocobo tongue, ginger root, chocobo bones, mushrooms, chocobo—

Cloud: WHAT DID YOU DO TO THE CHOCOBO??

• Zack is the second to notice Cloud's chills and shivering.

Zack: I know just what you need.

*Zack wraps him in 13 fluffy white blankets, making a Cloud burrito, and leads him towards the stairs*

Zack: Isn't it cozy? Let's take the stairs so no one makes fun of you.

*He leaves Cloud on the edge of the stairs and turns around to tie his shoes*

Zack: I'm telling you, Cloud, you'll warm up in no time!

*Zack turns around, Cloud is gone*

Zack: CLOUD? CLOUD!

*Meanwhile Sephiroth is taking the stairs in an effort to be healthy, and is knocked down by a giant marshmallow*

• Genesis is the third to notice Cloud's clogged nose and inability to breathe, and knows exactly what to do.

*Genesis leads Cloud to his office, where he set up a smoke machine to diffuse essential oils*

Cloud: *cough* This is a lot of smoke *cough*

Genesis: Trust the process, Cloud, inhale the—

*Lazard beats the door down*

Lazard: ARE YOU SMOKING WEED IN HERE?

Genesis:

• Lastly, Sephiroth notices how sick Cloud is and tries to help with a remedy from his childhood.

*Sephiroth hands Cloud some pills*

Cloud: I'm not so sure about this...

Sephiroth: Trust me, Professor Hojo used to give them to me whenever I was sick, and I turned out fine.

Cloud: No the fuck you did not.

Sephiroth: .....

Sephiroth: Just take the pills.

*Cloud reluctantly takes the pills*

Cloud: Huh.... nothing happened. I was expecting to be turned into a—

*Cloud faints and is out cold*

Sephiroth:

Sephiroth:

Sephiroth:

Sephiroth: Perhaps it would've been wise to mention that Hojo used to sedate me when I was ill.

[aduckinpain]

The Sunset clashes on waves of Cobalt

Tags: Character study style writing, Hurt/comfort, Happy Ending, Pure Soukoku, Everything in chronological order, Dazai Osamu's in character existential crisis, They're in love, Dazai's obsession with Chuuya's corruption, his obsession with chuuya honestly.

Word Count: 7.3k

This is also on AO3 by roianamustang (me).

Life is finicky. Evasive. Confusing. A fluke. Something, created from nearly nothing, by pure chance. It’s involuntary. You wake up one day, only to acknowledge your newly discovered existence by at least 2 years. Your lungs expand, your heart beats, your blood rushes, your ears hear and your eyes see. And your mind runs. It runs and runs, it runs out of breath. It searches for more, information flooding from every crevice.

Life is important, according to every living being. Even the most miniscule little creature will value it over anything else, whether that be by running, hiding or fighting. Even plants reach for the sun in hopes of waking up the next morning.

Dazai Osamu reached for the Sun when he was five and it burned. Leaving trails in its wake. 

Life is a continuous string of events that emerges by chance. It has variables so intricate, they can’t be calculated. Time, variety, coincidence. Fate. It starts unknown, and it ends the same.

Depending on where you live, people can live a healthy 80 years, and die peacefully in their bed, surrounded by loved ones. Yet, one lifetime is not enough.

We enter this world unwillingly, so why do we fight so hard for it?

Why are we so scared of death? Of the unknown?

How can you love life so much, that you fear the end of it?

What’s so unique about monotony and routines?

At the end of the day humans are mammals. Their ability to produce milk and have hair puts them in another category, while their capability of thought and intelligence, puts them in another rank. 

And still, our reason for living is to just not die. Survival, something every other creature on this earth, prioritizes.

So he doesn’t get it. 

Things can be pretty, things can be sacred, they can be fun, loving, but they are all temporary. Most of the emotions a human being feels in a lifetime are neutrality and anxiety, stress, fear, sadness, nostalgia and melancholy. Happiness and excitement, in its purest form are the rarest, with sudden entrances and premature disappearances. They’re hard to find, hard to replicate, hard to give. 

And at the end of it all, you die and everything is forgotten. You are a machine run by tubes and liquid that shuts off and that is it.

The world with all of its colors is bleak, the humans vary physically yet act similarly, predictably, and life dies.

But normal people don’t think like this. Normal people don’t stare at their ceiling willing themselves to drink water or eat food. Normal people don’t burn when others touch them. They don’t numb when their surroundings become too much. They don’t hate. 

They care and they love and they find meanings in everything.

Dazai doesn't.

Dazai hurts.

Why can’t he just be normal and meaningless and random and flitting and living and dead? 

Why can’t he be human?

What is he?

15 years of Dazai’s life have passed and he can confidently say that he has effectively erased his first 10 and blurred the last 5.

It all comes to a shocking halt, or more accurately, a start, when one moment he was walking in the empty, dusty streets of Suribachi City, with its secrets and rats, and the next he was…not?

Air escaped his lungs so fast, Dazai couldn’t even process the ever moving environment. 

Blink.

He blinked and he saw blue.

He blinked again, and he saw waves of cobalt crashing upon the sunset’s rays.

Or more realistically crashing into him.

A foot holding him down and the other kicking his face, Dazai Osamu breathed and felt air enter his blood for the first time since he was born.

The sun shone. 

And so did his eye.

His heart filled with oxygen. Beating steadily for the first time.

When Mori told him ‘Nothing dangerous’, he of course didn’t believe it. And looking at the bright red head of hair next to him, so tiny, so miniscule, so small, compact, microscopi-

“The fuck you looking at?”

Blue turned to him, glaringly darker and in the background he was very aware of the noise leaving its mouth. 

He just didn’t care to listen.

Nakahara Chuuya. 15 years old and yet, here he stood. The leader of The Sheep. So loud. So present in such a small body, as if it couldn’t contain him. As if it held death and destruction, and life.

Even by Dazai’s own standards, he wasn’t stupid. Chuuya was dangerous. To what extent he’s not sure yet, still willing to push some more buttons, to see some more outcomes, but still at the very least, he is very strong. And while he would love to pester Mori about this sudden mission, something was holding him back.

The next thing Dazai knows the gun is getting kicked out of his hand.

Blink.

And another blink. His eye captures life and Dazai Osamu jerks in its hold.

‘In other words, the suicidal maniac wants to live.’

‘I’ve come to think its worth trying.’

Because of you was left unspoken and yet to be understood by either one of them.

With Randou dead, Dazai had already started putting other plans in motion. 

Nakahara Chuuya lost a bet after all, he now needed to pay the price.

Looking at him now, on top of rocks, rubble around him, water rising and waves crashing, never getting close to that blue of his, breath stuttering, eyes hurt. 

Dazai had never seen something more human.

He wanted that.

He wanted Chuuya.

Dazai wanted Chuuya.

Odasaku was quiet. As a man yes, but also as a presence. Odasaku was a blank slate willing to hand you the pen, write on him and react accordingly. He did not uphold expectations or even judgment. 

Dazai liked Odasaku. 

If he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend to sleep with the man’s presence next to him.

Odasaku listened and answered in seemingly normal replies that sometimes caught Dazai by surprise. So when he had ranted about Nakahara Chuuya to him the last thing he had expected was the man to say that ‘Nakahara seems like a nice guy then yeah?’. 

A small moment of quiet had made Oda turn, locking eyes with the fifteen year old. 

And he halted.

Dazai made some sort of noise of surprise and frustration and went through another round of ranting, screeching, he wasn’t sure at this point, all of it to properly make Odasaku understand the vile creature he had been stuck with babysitting.

He could keep yapping all he wanted, cause Oda Sakunosuke had never in his life met a kid like Dazai Osamu. 

And until now, Oda Sakunosuke had never seen that singular brown orb turn caramel with light. 

He had never seen Dazai Osamu look so alive before. 

Smiling, he continued listening to the annoyed voice of the boy next to him.

Seemingly out of spite, in Dazai’s eye at least, Odasaku, very out of character just replied with an outrageous statement that Dazai could not allow to even exist, never mind be thought, even worse be stated to the air surrounding him.

‘You really like this guy huh?’

And the cycle repeated.

As it would for the next 3 years.

Arahabaki, the lab, the Flags, Verlaine. If he couldn’t have a break, he can’t imagine what it is like for Chuuya. Well, if he cared enough in the first place.

Dazai is a notorious liar. He knows that, after all, he did perfect the skill on his own. However, in this moment, after all of these fights and new revelations, he can’t lie and say that he isn’t just tired. Having to deal with Verlaine’s corruption activation and planning for counter attacks was a new challenge, yes, but one he would have enjoyed more if his dog wouldn’t be the center of them in the first place.

If Dazai was tired, Chuuya was exhausted. 

And grieving.

He’d watched Chuuya fight, watched him anger, rage. But after the Sheep, he didn’t think he’d ever watch him break.

Following the beeping red light of his tracker, that he'd placed in Chuuya’s shoes, of course without his knowledge, the last thing he had expected was to be led to the Mafia’s transportation unit. 

Walking in, the echo of the weird fancy shoes that were given to him collided with the walls of the garage. The lights flickered in certain spots, almost as if on purpose.

It was so quiet, he’d imagine that if a feather fell, it would still be heard. 

Which is what confused him.

Nakahara Chuuya was not a quiet person. He was loud, deafening and present at all times. Everything he did was flashy, deliberately or not. 

‘Finding Chuuya is always easy. If you head towards whatever is making the loudest noise, he’ll be there.’

So either his tracker:

a) didn’t work

b) was found and eaten by his dog

Or

c) Chuuya was like dying or something.

The echo halted along with every other noise when he stepped into the small side room. 

He blinked again. Life was flickering.

Anything. 

He would do anything for it to be one of those options.

He would do anything just to have Chuuya rise to his feet.

He would do anything just to have him stop crying.

Dazai was frozen there. For the first time in a long while he felt powerless. He knew what to do when he was feeling this way but he’d never do those things to Chuuya.

Chuuya just stood there, sitting against an obnoxious pink motorcycle, heaving. 

And yet, he was quiet.

You could barely hear his breath stuttering, almost as if he just wanted the ground to swallow him whole, his existence to stop, to just disappear. He seemed so out of it, that he hadn’t even noticed Dazai just standing there.

Feeling his brain reboot, Dazai went to work. He’d treat this like a mission if he had to.

Chuuya liked touch. Not with just anyone no, however one of his main ways of expressing affection and care always seemed to be with vague caresses. Or punches.

But whenever Dazai got like this, he hated touch.

Brows furrowed in confusion, he tried racking his brain for a solution. He’d do both.

Making his steps loud and clear allowed him to be processed by Chuuya’s already small, but now hindered brain. Dazai took off his jacket and lowered to the ground, putting himself between the wall and Chuuya, taking off Chuuya’s hat and wrapping him head to toe. 

Chuuya had somehow gone even more quiet, and now he’d gotten tense. He can’t have that, so Dazai, for the first time in his life, hugged.

He closed his arms around the small frame and hoped.

A minute passed, maybe two, before he felt Chuuya deflate. He didn’t try to stop him from crying, that wouldn’t help, he just held him closer, allowing the weight of the smaller body to push him towards the wall behind his back.

The man- no the boy in his arms kept shaking and Dazai just didn’t know what to do. Reluctantly, scared to do anything wrong, he let his right hand rake through the now freed red locks and pushed his head closer to his own shoulder, this way Chuuya wouldn’t get even more tired.

A gasp of air, a gulp, a sharp intake and the words coming next broke Dazai’s already dead heart.

Why?

Why?

Why me?

What did I do?

I'm sorry. I’m sorry, I'm sorry, please just stop.

Because if Dazai had to name the most human person he’d met, he’d always say Chuuya.

If Dazai had to name the most raw showcase of human range, he’d always say Chuuya.

If Dazai had to name a person, he’d always say Chuuya.

Not your fault Chuuya, it never is.

He won’t hurt like this ever again.

Dazai will make sure of it. Nothing has the right to hurt his Chuuya like this, not even him.

Molten brown had turned dark and Dazai Osamu made a promise to himself.

He never made promises, they required you to stay alive.

But this one was the first one. 

The first one he’ll make sure to bring to his grave.

The entrance to Dazai’s office has a dark oak door, engraved with vines that curl on its edges. Its handle is typical Mafia gold. The office itself is nothing special, he made sure of it. Pristine, dark plates built his floor, almost mockingly, a carpet lay over them, right in the middle and a dark red Chesterfield sofa stood to the side of a small table. If he had to give it a color it would be deoxygenated blood. Or Corruption swirls. He certainly liked one more than the other. 

Today Mori sounded weird.

-er than usual.

Dazai makes a point to not use this office, but today it awaited him with a small stack of papers smack dab into the middle of his wooden empty desk. No pen in sight. This document wasn’t paperwork, it was information.

It would be ironic to say he had a bad feeling about it as some people would argue he’s got those all the time and they overwhelmed him. Some would argue he isn’t capable of feeling them in the first place. Both arguments are stated in late nights between missions and a very talkative red blob in his (read: Chuuya’s) apartment. 

Its quiet in this office, his shoes echo and he’s distinctly aware of the air around him colliding with his skin. A quick look around with his eye showed no signs of a trap.

Mimic.

A guerrilla organization from Europe that escaped to Japan after committing a war-crime sometime during the past global war. Mori wanted them dead. Or at least that’s what he said. But this apparent important information of a highly dangerous organization was not given to Soukoku.

No, it was given to the low-leveled grunt worker, Oda Sakunosuke. 

It was given to Odasaku.

Skimming through the documents, Dazai swiftly left the office.

He would never see it again.

Odasaku was quiet. As a man yes, but also as a presence. Odasaku was a blank slate willing to hand you the pen, write on him and react accordingly. He did not uphold expectations or even judgment. 

Dazai liked Odasaku. 

And at this point he could safely claim that new information had been updated in his Odasaku file.

Odasaku, throughout the years, cared for Dazai.

Now, Dazai cared for Odasaku.

The longest of nights, when he didn’t want a loud distraction or bloodied floors, he texted Oda. He would always answer, they’d meet up and they’d stay quiet. Just in the presence of the other. 

Dazai always felt safe and against his better judgment, understood by Chuuya, but being near Chuuya meant that at some point vulnerability would rear its ugly head, on those days Dazai just wanted a known space with a comforting presence. Odasaku was just that.

Chuuya was warm and bright and alive. He tethered Dazai to the concept of a human being. But sometimes Dazai just wanted an empty, fuzzy head. Sometimes the only exception of touch for Dazai was not what he wanted at the moment. So he searched for long nights and useless topics followed by silences and burning drinks or scalding curry.

Dazai found his constants for however many more years he’d survive this Earth.

The narrative was written and he felt content enough.

So why did the story change?

It had been a close call, a stroke of luck you could even call it, saving Odasaku in time the first time. And it has and will always be a lost cause convincing the man to kill instead of flee. 

It had been a close call, a stroke of luck you could even call it, saving Odasaku in time the second time. An extra wound added from Ango’s betrayal. 

If he could do it twice, what was a third time?

A bullet was shot. A body was falling.

So why were his hands warm? Why did they match the color of his sofa?

Why did it have to be Odasaku?

He found out about the kids but it was too late.

He found out about the motive but it was too late.

He figured out Mori’s plan.

It was too late.

You won’t find it.

Be on the side that saves people.

If both sides are the same, become a good man.

It’s pretty fady after that.

Contacting Ango was easy.

Burying Odasaku wasn’t.

Dazai Osamu, Demon Prodigy, youngest Port Mafia Executive, existed no more.

The only loose thread he had, was his other half on the other side of the world waiting to finish a mission.

He’d leave that thread sewn in.

He’d plant a bomb. 

He’d send a message.

He’d go into hiding for two years.

And for now, he’d live.

In the blink of an eye, Dazai Osamu had disappeared. 

People exist to save themselves.

A year and a half had already passed but it's not like Dazai had a concept of time anyways. The hiding and the erasure was easy. The boredom was not. Boredom brewed silences. Silences happened alone now. Being alone let his head be free. Or trapped he’d say, is the better description of it. 

It was raining today. Enough to keep the ground wet. Being in hiding didn’t really allow Dazai to wander but no one was looking for him under a lone tree, leaning on a gravestone in the middle of a field, so he let himself have this. 

He leaned his head on the stone. The rain wasn’t just heavy enough to keep the ground wet but also to drench him completely, but the sound of it was almost comforting in a way. The sky a uniform gray spanning into the horizon boringly, something it rarely does. 

The bomb had taken a bit to be processed by the slug’s brain, but it was successfully understood. For the first time in a while Dazai had reached out his hand first and let Chuuya make the decision. Contact would be hard, dangerous and almost non-existent, but he was willing to try. 

Of course after an even longer period of silence, because if Chuuya was one thing, it was petty.

So every now and then, on an anniversary or birthday, a mysterious little bouquet of Red Camellias would show up on the red head’s door.

A symbol of death yes, but that of a noble one. Sacred, godly. Left to the hands of a God of Calamity.

Unwavering loyalty.

Trust.

And every now and then, on an anniversary or birthday, something would be awaiting Dazai right next to the door. Whether that be a set or freshly rolled bandages or a gaming console.

A sigh left his lungs, uncovered irises following its trail disappear into thin air.

He got a soda before coming here, a funny joke he thinks Odasaku would chuckle with. Laughing just by yourself is just sad at this point.

S. Oda engraved in stone, buried in soil, clawing his head.

He’d use that as an excuse for the extra weight slipping from his eyes. 

Beige felt weird on him. It had been Odasaku’s signature color and Dazai was wearing it in tribute to that but it felt weird on him. 

Nevertheless, this wasn’t about him.

He climbed the stairs of a fairly new Detective Agency. He could almost feel the nerves, if he’d let himself feel in the first place.

The door opened almost dramatically, and the sun was shining brightly, reflecting off the nearly white tiles. 

“You’re here.”

Before him stood an older man with horrifically gray hair. The Boss of this thing then. Coffee brown eyes took in everything around him. There were three more people there.

A man sat behind a desk with curiously shut eyes and an insane amount of candy lay in front of him. That one was dangerous, he knew things and knew that Dazai knew he knew things.

A woman stood by the side of what looked like to be the inside of an infirmary, he knew of Yosano, or more accurately, of the consequences of her existence.

The most normal one of all had to be this one blonde man who looked like he’d blow a fuse if something didn’t go his way. Perfect, he’d need one of those.

Blinking for a moment, Dazai almost went into autopilot.

This would be different.

Everything Dazai did was deliberate. The only thing that could either act exactly according to his plan or be entirely unpredictable comes in the form of a small, small, horribly dressed, fancy street magician with a choker, that is currently walking, very loudly down the Port Mafia’s basement stairs. 

And oh, did Dazai miss this. 

Sure, during his hiding he may have gone once or twice to look at the slumbering, probably drunk at the time, man in front of him. But seeing Chuuya Nakahara subdued by slumber is like missing the Sun behind dark thick clouds. 

Chuuya spoke and he answered on instinct mostly. A knife at his throat and Dazai Osamu hadn’t felt alive in years with no contact from blue hues. 

A punch, a kick, the ground crumbled beneath his feet, Dazai didn’t care he was just about ready to kneel at this point. 

A sharp movement from the man in front of him made him pause. That was as much as a question, statement and reminder Chuuya would give him. This was Port Mafia territory, the hand holding the deck here was Mori.

They snapped back into their roles quickly, but he just couldn’t resist making that joke.

And if he saw Chuuya smile while climbing the stairs he can’t say, because for the first time in 4 years Dazai Osamu laughed and his heart started beating again.

Contrary to popular belief, Dazai didn't mind kids. In fact they always seemed increasingly intrigued by his presence. Odasaku’s orphans seemed absolutely delighted when he showed up.

Yumeno Kyusaku, better known as ‘Q’, was honestly not any different. Dazai had recruited them, finding resemblance to his own situation and past. 

However Q was not Dazai. They were just a kid. A small child with an incredibly dangerous ability and puppeteer, being pulled from one direction to the other only to be returned to a cold, desolate room at the end of the day, alone.

So to be completely honest, he didn't mind this mission. Or at the very least, he didn’t mind this mission’s goal. The variables needed for it to succeed however, were not, as you would say, one of his greater fortés. Technically it was his greatest.

Heavy, determined, meaningful footsteps fell into silence on his left side. A flash of red, contrasted by dark, gloomy clothes, stood beside him, calm.

Who's he kidding? Since when was Chuuya ever quiet, nevertheless calm. Well, towards him anyways.

“Are we just gonna stare at the door and wither away, or should we get a move on already?” Glaring blues had turned toward him. He could always feel their presence.

Dazai had no interest indulging a loud, yapping dog, so with an exaggerated sigh and some kind words exclaimed, that definitely did not have him nearly lose an arm and a leg, they entered the weird cottage-house-situation-thing.

Their steps immediately fall into sync and echo throughout the empty walls, while Dazai's heart sang and asked and wanted. 

4 years of quiet actions and no contact, the yearning reaching every crevice of his mind at every second. One meeting and a truce and comfort had finally arrived at his doorstep, again. 

As he, of course, sidestepped a kick aimed at his head.

Glancing slightly to his side, even the bland stone walls seemed to shine and sparkle. Banter jumped off each stair along with them.

“The only thing I like about you is your taste in shoes.” A slight pause and the other pair of steps stood still for a second.

“You think?” Was said sarcastically with a slight shine of hope hidden underneath it, as if anything would change in these 4 years. 

“Just kidding, of course.” Before even finishing the sentence, a crash and a yell were heard. Giggles collided with the surrounding bricks. 

They were Soukoku after all, they knew each other from the inside out.

Whatever this thing was, it definitely was not human. It didn’t even seem made. Every limb, or more accurately, goo, that was cut off would regenerate in seconds. So while Chuuya was doing his job as the brawn of the duo, Dazai, as the brain, was supposed to be planning ahead.

But he was stuck.

Was this it?

The downfall of the deadliest duo in Yokohama, possibly Japan, and in Dazai’s humble opinion, the World?

Had they changed so much?

He had two constants in life and one had already left him, he couldn’t lose this one.

As if sensing his turmoil, a slight kick to his feet made him blink rapidly. Turning towards the ginger he locked eyes with the annoyed glare decorating his face.

He could practically hear ‘Stop with the theatrics already’ with a small chihuahua animated right beside it.

Before he could get a full sentence out Dazai was slammed vigorously at the trunk of a tree. Vision whitening for a good second, his hearing quickly came back to the rushing footsteps and dare he say, panicked voice of Chuuya.

Coughing blood he slowly tried to rise up. “Those tentacles sure are strange.” Confusion showed itself on the shorter man’s face. “I can't disable them.”

“Bullshit. Is that even possible?” brows lifting upwards, Dazai could see Chuuya trying to grasp the situation.

The thing that works about Sokouku isn’t just the cards up their sleeves, Dazai’s capabilities and Chuuya’s prowess. No, it's more of this. Of looks being exchanged, the air between them still, no words to break it. It's this weird connection, that no matter how many times Dazai tried to replicate, run away from or find, it would lead back to a penthouse and blood money and his first reason to live.

Grinning in a way he hasn’t in a long time, Dazai could feel the adrenaline building up. “All right. Let’s do things the old way.”

Letting his eyes wonder about on the other man’s features, always searching, he asks. “How about Operation Shame and Toad?” A miniscule movement of the redhead’s left brow already had given his answer.

“What is this, Rain beyond the Window?” Chuuya put his hand on his hips, slightly leaning on one side. ”It’s more like The Lie of the Fake Flowers.”

Fond delight brewed in his chest, leaking when he could finally say the others name face to face after such a long time. “Chuuya, when have my tactics ever been wrong?

The fight went on for about 3 minutes and 49 seconds. A monster arose and so did a choice.

Whenever you ask that of me, it’s never really a choice.

Dazai watched with a bated breath as the other half of Double Black slowly slid down his gloves, letting them fall on the ground below. 

He thinks that if Chuuya had at least hesitated, let himself have a moment, Dazai would be just a normal man with a normal reaction. 

4 years later and his partner’s blind trust towards him managed to sever his eyes and clutch his heart. He’d never manage to replicate the pure exhilarated feeling he gets near the man he's known since he was 15. 

As lines fell from soft lips, red markings started traveling up Chuuya’s face. 

O’ granters of dark disgrace,

need not wake me again

It seems that alongside Dazai, a god was awaiting for the same thing.

When Corruption was first triggered, they were dead men on a mission to the underworld. Two fifteen year olds with too much power and responsibility over their shoulder, in their hands, dripping over their head, falling down the tiles of the Port Mafia territory. They’d shaken hands with Death so many times already, ready to surrender to its clutches. But if there was one thing— one person who always seemed to look at Death in the eye and crumble its skull into pieces, it would be Chuuya.

It was beautiful.

The air around it came to a stop as if the man, the god, before him could change the direction of that and more with a flick of his wrist.

Destruction reigned a victor in the remains of anyone or anything that could gather the courage to go against it, most of them being oblivious men in insignificant organizations. Ignorance truly is bliss.

Blood dripped down onto the ground staining it, feeding it.

Mortality looked beautiful on Chuuya.

And it danced in between Dazai’s ropes of bandages.

Nakahara Chuuya was a phenomenon a normal man would witness once in his life before succumbing to death, and Dazai Osamu was blessed to have him on the tips of his fingers and in the depths of his withering soul.

Touching the floating man’s wrist shortly thereafter silenced the god, trapping it in its cage of human ribs and indomitable spirit.

Looking down at the man on his lap, Dazai allowed himself a moment of want, tracing down the nose bridge. It was honestly unfair, the lab didn’t have to make him pretty.

Slowly folding Chuuya’s coat and finding his stupid hat was slightly harder considering the state of the environment around them, but he managed as always. 

Now came the hard part. Throughout their time as a duo, any time Corruption was activated, Dazai had two jobs.

Save Chuuya and bring him home safely.

However after his defection from the Mafia, he couldn’t exactly do that, as it would be considered kidnapping.  

But he could wait a little bit more. Until he would hear Hirotsu’s men running towards the designated coordinates. 

So he let himself have this and if you asked him after two bottles of Sake and a night of no sleep, Dazai Osamu might admit that he missed Nakahara Chuuya.

One last stroke of his fingers on the other’s eyelids, feeling his long eyelashes beneath his fingertips and promises whispered in quiet ears, and Dazai left the forest.

He never made promises, they required you to stay alive.

But it seems he can’t seem to stop making them when a certain man slumbers rent free in his troubled mind. Strong and untouchable even amidst the chaos in his brain.

Dead Apple, the ADA, Fyodor, Shibusawa, Corruption.

Chuuya.

Chuuya.

Chuuya.

When was it ever not Chuuya?

A sharp pain flooded his senses, making Dazai cough the blood out of his mouth and open his eyes. A smile immediately followed. The view before him could rival centuries of human art.

‘You used Corruption, believing in me?

How beautiful.’

To anyone else, it would be insanity. 

Gigantic ability merging dragon shows up and renders every human with gifts useless. People flee and fight and die. 

In their case, Dazai sends a message and Chuuya, as always, understands.

No matter the encryption or the complexity of it, the choice was sent and explained and was always followed through.

Because who else would put the lives of a country on past intertwined hands and shared breaths?

Who else would see the afterlife and jump at it in pure trust that it would be fleeting?

Who else but Dazai and Chuuya.

Chuuya and Dazai.

Soukoku.

Double Black.

Scariest and strongest duo in Yokohama and possibly more.

One soul, two bodies.

One human, one not.

Depending on who you ask about it, they'd have conflicting answers, but in the end, it never mattered.

Brushing away the red locks from Chuuya’s face, Dazai looked at the sky and smiled.

The galloping of horses’ heels chips away at Dazai Osamu’s thoughts. The Decay of Angels with Fyodor at its head will always be a danger. To be fair to the demon, everything with him in the center of it would always be a danger to itself and others. 

After the Sacramental Bow Award was given to the agency, the greatest work they had had was 

Mushitarou Oguri and his Perfect Murder ability. The case had stumped Ranpo, even if it was for about 2 minutes, and had proven itself a challenge and an award. However the last words that Mushitarou guy said, more accurately screamed, at them had been ringing in Dazai’s and Ranpo’s heads.

‘The Detective Agency is about to get a huge job offer! Don’t accept it! If you do, it’ll be the end of the Agency! You hear me? Don’t you dare accept—’

A man had fallen into step next to him, watching the race. Dazai particularly hates small talk but he’d learned to act a long time ago. 

Not just that but something was off.

In the blink of an eye and a twitch of a smile,

‘You won’t have tomorrow, former Port Mafia Executive, Dazai Osamu.’

Meursault Prison opened its doors and the Detective Agency plunged to its doom.

The Agency was framed and named a terrorist organization. That wasn’t the worst of it either, from what Ango had informed him, the world had seen the whole thing. On live television.

They had seen the execution of more than 10 political figures, their bodies cut right in half. A rising reputation had changed at the drop of a hat. 

Sighing deeply, he couldn’t help but think that he still had it worse than the others. Turning his head towards his left, he locked eyes with the thing across his cell. Fyodor Dostoevsky stood there, a permanent, horrendous smile on his disgusting face.

Honestly, he couldn’t wait for Chuuya.

Dazai’s big secret to communicating with the outside world was, ironically, his heart. His immediate point of contact was , as always, Ango Sakaguchi. 

When he was 15, one bright, sunny day, Dazai was bored. When tinkering around Mori’s office and bothering said man, did not bring him any more joy, he let himself bend over one of the many tables filled with medicine. Purple orbs flickered towards him for a moment, before a small, in Dazai’s opinion and many others, repulsing, smile showed on the face of its beholder.

Morse code was old news and bored thoughts to Dazai, but a new option was introduced.

With this in mind, when the vampire outbreak broke, Dazai was one of the first people to find out. 

Leaning on the small table, blinking, can only do so much for a grown man. “Maybe it’s time to do the thing.”

“The thing?” The thump of the book closing would’ve echoed if they weren’t in an ability protected prison.

Before Dazai could fully explain his, obviously, genius plan, the ground opened and swallowed him whole.

Literally.

Breathe in, breathe out, expand, contract, pump. Silence is noisy, until your vision sees bright flashing lights and your ears hear loud, blaring alarms.

Warning! Warning!

Intruder in the Level One Delivery Bay!

Anti-Gifted Fast Response Squad Hecatoncheires has been eliminated!

Neither the poison in his blood, nor the commotion on the outside managed to increase Dazai’s beats per minute. 

The shaking of the building and Fyodor’s smile didn’t manage to either. 

The sight of bright red locks did.

An angel whispered in my ear.

‘Chuuya, it looks like this is goodbye.’

As if. If that ever happened, they’d both be gone. 

‘It’s a shame it had to happen this way.’

It’ll never happen like this. Not on his watch.

‘It’s been seven years since we met. ‘

Feels like forever. It’ll always feel like that when Dazai started living on that very same day they met.

‘We never did get along, did we?’

Bullshit and they both know it.

‘But, come to think of it now, there were times where we understood each other.’

Every day, every hour, minute, second. Dazai’s lungs breathed the same air as Chuuya's on the chance that he could always be engulfed by his presence.

‘Sorry, I couldn’t think of anything Anyway… Goodbye!’

It was getting a bit too gay anyways. Even by his own standards.

Breaking bones hurt. Walking hurt. A bullet in your shoulder hurt.

Everything hurt. Dazai hates pain.

The tapping of fancy dress shoes were not lost in his delayed, post-blood lost brain.

A sigh slipped out before he managed to catch it, but if Dazai was one thing, he was but a yapper at heart.

This has to finish soon anyway, that horrid misty red did nothing to Chuuya’s composition. 

Blue was nice, he missed blue.

A bang ricocheted off the prison walls and Dazai’s head fell.

Power of friendship his ass. It was more on the realm of homosexuality.

From then on things happened slightly in a blur. Sigma was still asleep, Fyodor was a fresh smoothie, Gogol, or whatever his name was, was gay, he guessed.

And Chuuya was fine. He had taken off those horrendous contact lenses and was currently trying to pull out the fake teeth Dazai gave him.

Should’ve known better than to use the glue in the box, as it was insanely easy to exchange for a stronger, not water soluble glue.

But now Dazai was tired. So, so tired. So he let himself be caught by unrelenting, familiar arms and he closed his eyes.

Life is finicky. Evasive. Confusing. A fluke. Something, created from nearly nothing, by pure chance. It’s involuntary.

Life is important, according to every living being. 

We enter this world unwillingly, yet we fight so hard for it.

And at the end of it all, you die and everything is forgotten. You are a machine run by tubes and liquid that shuts off and that is it.

But is it really that easy?

Human beings' evolution stemmed from the ability to be conscious and aware of the fact that they are alive. Because in reality we are not just a machine run by tubes and liquids. We feel too much and think too little and live too hard.

We fight for survival to the point where we start thinking, is it worth it?

But normal people don’t think like this. Normal people don’t stare at their ceiling willing themselves to drink water or eat food. Normal people don’t burn when others touch them. They don’t numb when their surroundings become too much. They don’t hate. 

They care and they love and they find meanings in everything.

And so does Dazai.

It took him a bit. It took him actually trying to see, that he does.

Why can’t he just be normal and meaningless and random and flitting and living and dead? 

But he is. Isn’t he?

Why can’t he be human?

What is he?

What else can a creature with this much awareness, curiosity and confusion be?

Nothing really changed, not really. He just gained experience. And lost some.

Walking turned out to be harder than you remembered when one of your legs is utterly fucked. 

Left.

Right. 

Left.

Right. 

Slip.

Hold.

Or at least try to. Close your eyes, brace for impact. A well-oiled machine of repetition. 

He’s used to that, after all the human body learns ways to cope everyday.

Before Dazai’s face kissed the broken tiles of the prison, he was…..floating?

A singular brown orb slowly opened taking in the environment around him. His head felt fuzzy.

Gray tiles turned to smithereens contrasted expensive inky shoes. Following the line of, admittedly, short legs, the puke green jacket emerged forth an expression of disgust on his own face. It reminded him of stupid, white fluffy animals and bloody betrayals. 

Before he managed to follow the tendril of red laying on a shoulder, a black glove shoved itself on his face. On instinct he opened his left eye and followed the trailing finger currently smoothing the space between his eyebrows.

“You look incredibly stupid right now.” Snapping his eyes to the source of the voice Dazai blinked.

When no answer was exclaimed, a tilt of the head was translated and understood by both parties. Chuuya let him take it in for a bit, as he was now stupidly aware of everything. Almost as if he knew it before Dazai’s own body, the gloved hand pressed itself again. 

A scarlet eyebrow arose and Dazai blinked in approval. The hand previously holding his expressions hostage snapped. Ow echoed through the prison walls, a pout quickly forming.

Rolling his eyes, Chuuya quickly, almost instinctively started pulling him on his back. “Oh shut up, you big baby.”

“But Chuuya, you would dare hurt an injured hero!”

Blah, blah, blah.

Dazai couldn’t tell what that conversation was for the life of him but he doesn’t need to, not with Chuuya. On his best attempt to be conspicuous he put his face on the shorter man’s junction between his shoulder and neck, and slowly rubbed against it, a small smile emerging. Somehow even though the ginger went through each horrendous trial that he did, he could smell the insanely expensive products he used on his hair. Closing his eyes Dazai felt the rhythmic sound of each step, allowing himself to be safe in the only place he’s ever been. Before succumbing to slumber he felt a reassuring squeeze on his thighs.

And if another pair of lips stretched to accommodate a small smile in return, that was only for Chuuya to know.

Let’s go home.

The sun stretched languidly, filtering itself through the curtains of a penthouse. Its walls built on blood money and memories and two people, awake, aware and human.

Tangled limbs transacted warmth as Dazai felt his awaken. Arms coiled around his head blocking any sound the city could make, while fingers thread through his hair. If he closed his eyes now, he’d just fall back asleep. Clenching his own arms reminded him of the human shaped lump engrained on his person. Small puffs of breath slightly hit his head from above. His head was so quiet. His heart calm. This time Dazai didn't burn.

A small pull on his hair made him turn to one side, letting himself gaze at the view before him. It was truly unfair that something so small could be this pretty. 

Almost as if sensing his train of thought, another slightly stronger pull tugged his head back.  He let himself be the picture of innocence, all big honeyed eyes and pouting lips. His own mirrored blues squinted slightly and the man under him scoffed. 

The next time safe hands touched him, they pulled him towards warm skies and melted ice. Softened lips met his chapped ones and they lingered there for a while. The time for frantic breaths and sharpened moves passed when they were young and fearful, and may return in scattered forms in the future, but not today.

Angled forms and the slide of lips and shared sighs were a dance form they’d perfected the second they locked eyes. A hand pulled on Dazai’s neck and he let go.

If there was one thing he knew, it was that there was one absolute in this universe. One absolute that transcended human perception of science and the world.

Where there was Chuuya there’d be Dazai.

Where there was a Dazai there’d be Chuuya.

And so, the clouds glide, the winds hollow, flowers awaken and sleep, opening their petals, and people go about their day, exchanging words for carbon dioxide and laughs for oxygen.

And so, two human beings entangle through the most intimate ways human beings can. Existing next to each other through memories and unknown futures.

One coin, two sides. 

One soul, two people.

A house merged with safety and turned into a home. A home moved and grew legs and a heart and a brain and red locks and cobalt eyes and strong arms and Dazai walked in and never left.

Odasaku would be proud.

Odasaku is proud.

-End-

I will be writing my analysis on some of the things that may be confusing:

Any time Dazai's eyes are mentioned as singular or plural is deliberate. I am referencing his time in the mafia and his obscured view of the world.

Any repetition of sentences or paragraphs is also deliberate an example being Odasaku's description and most importantly, the beginning and the ending of the fic.

I have not yet read Stormbringer, however I have severely spoiled myself. That is why I only briefly caught onto its story and focused more on its consequences.

‘Finding Chuuya is always easy. If you head towards whatever is making the loudest noise, he’ll be there.’ is a quote Dazai used in the light novels.

Promises are extremely important as it shows Dazai on the cusp of finding a reason to live.

In the prison Dazai communicated with morse code by controlling his heartbeat.

When walking in the prison I wrote Slip after he took his right step and his next step would've been his left, which was broken.

Dazai's unknown origins have convinced me that he at the very least was abused by Mori, if not his parents. When I write 'Close your eyes, brace for impact. A well-oiled machine of repetition. He’s used to that, after all the human body learns ways to cope everyday.', I mean it as him flinching and expecting the pain.

Stupid white animals and bloody betrayals means The Sheep, as Chuuya's jacket when he showed up in the prison was nearly identical to the one where he was 15.

It was not my intention to insinuate sex at the end but I don't see why it can't be, so when I say entangelment of limb in the most intimate way humans can, it is up to you to decide.

The end is closure on Dazai's end with Odasaku, but if you want and believe so also Odasaku's spirit.

The title 'The Sunset clashes on waves of Cobalt' Is just Chuuya. His hair clashing with his eyes. Blue is also Dazai's color.

Soukoku have unironically probably kept me alive in certain moments, so I've always wanted to write for them, however I needed it to be at least good. Hopefully this is that.

As for my other fic about them, I am planning on rewriting it as it's honestly so, in kinder words, satisfactory to the way I write now.

Thank you so much for reading! It would mean a lot if I managed to get some reposts, comments or likes!

If you like this, I have written more stories that can be found on my main masterlist. Including: Soukoku, Moon knight, Formula 1 Lestappen, Landoscar with more to come. If it manages to spark your interest, please go support those as well!

[barbatos-sama]

my review of fae farm that nobody asked for:

so, it's a cute game but it's very,, standard farm game. basically harvest moon with not much to set it apart. i was hoping there would be that whimsical feeling with unique magic mechanics but for the most part it's just standard farm game stuff retextured as magic stuff. the biggest example being that the magic staff is literally just a retextured sword. it can do spells sometimes that are useful, for example you have a whirlwind spell that can be used to easily harvest a bunch of crops at once, so i wish there was more of that kind of thing. it also kinda pushes the 'magic' mechanic onto standard farm game things that feels unnecessary. for example, like you have a mana bar like most magic-based games have. you can't do magic once your mana bar is depleted. the problem is that it counts things such as watering multiple crops at once as magic. meanwhile in stardew for example you can just do that with the only expense being stamina and water consumption. this takes both of these things And the mana cost, making it more annoying.

it has another big problem that i think most farm games have, that being that animals take way too long to take care of every day. it requires you to brush them all, pet them, sheer/milk them, and all of those things have animations that take Way too long, making the animal husbandry feel soooo annoying and time consuming. this problem isn't unique to this specific game but the fact that you even have to brush the cows is something i've never seen. it almost makes me want to just get rid of my animals and ignore that mechanic entirely. their products don't seem worth it even after putting it through artisan processing, so i find myself like 'what is even the point'. it also takes a lot of resources to process them into something usable, for example i think you need five wood you cut from a tree to make a single processed lumber, which you then need a lot of to make anything with. same with ore and artisan goods. it makes things take too long, like you could spend the whole day chopping wood and only get like five usable lumber out of it.

you also don't really get into the 'fae' part until like chapter four of the game which is too long in my opinion, i only Just got my wings like the day before yesterday. now i've opened the fae portal so im seeing more fairies around (and romancing one) but it took so long :I SPEAKING of the npcs, they REALLY lack dialogue or personality. i'm talking like maybe three lines of dialogue per friendship level. i've barely even talked to the guy im romancing and he already says he intends to court me (exact quote, i appreciate the bluntness ADGDJ) i think that's one of my biggest problems with the game, these characters have no substance to the point that i literally haven't bothered to learn any of their names because they're That nothing to me.

also there's a hybrid flowers mechanic in this game which would set it apart from other farming games But it takes SO long to breed the flowers it feels pointless to me, esp cause you need a lot of hybrids to get things like different colored wings for example and locking them behind something that takes so long is a big turnoff for me. like give me blue wings, this is Fae Farm, i shouldn't have to work so hard to be a fairy!!

the biggest money maker seems to be mining, processing your gems is what's made the most money for me (it's baffling how hard making money in this game is, i thought my usual strat of 'plant a fuck ton of crops' would work but it doesn't at all) and like, idk i think a Farming game should focus on farming yknow.

i've been talking a lot abt negatives, i suppose some positives are the aforementioned whirlwind spell making crops easy to harvest, and a big one is that there's a universal storage on your farm, so like you put everything in your one storage shed and you have access to that on every one of your processing machines without having to actually take the items out of your storage. so that's really helpful. the characters are quite cute and they give me kind of mysims vibe based in the style, but it doesn't have the charm that mysims had. mysims got away with simple characters with not much dialogue by making their animations very expressive as well as just having strong fun gameplay. only example i rly liked in this game was that my future boyfriend swings his little feet when he sits in chairs and i think it's really cute.

yeah uhhhh idk i was having fun with the game but am already feeling burnt out because this game just feels like a generic farming game that i've played a thousand times, kind of like copy of harvest moon with all the same problems as harvest moon. kind of makes me feel like i wasted 40 bucks ;-; i liked the demo but it felt like they kinda hid the parts that sucked outside of the demo AHDHHDHD like the very beginning of the game is fun but once you get into it more you realize how stupidly grindy it is

[merge-conflict]

catch for us the foxes

cyberhanami day 3: "love is blindness"

content warning: none, just pure fluff :)

Valentine/Goro

summary: Five times Valentine and Goro ignored each other's flaws, and one time they didn't.

The Coffee

If there was one thing about Abernathy that V could still appreciate, it was her commitment to stocking her conference room with the best array of coffee Night City could offer, freshly ground and pleasingly presented. Their weekly status meeting was immeasurably improved by the aroma alone, and it was the one day of the week that she was eager to reach work early. Still, no matter how early she managed to arrive, Goro was nearly always there before her, looking well rested and without a hair out of place.

This morning was much the same, and V slid into her chair, trying not to stare at his back as he busied himself making his usual cup. Once, he had talked at great length about the virtues of tea, from the plant to the processing to the ritual of consuming it, and so it was only with great difficulty that she endured the sight of him configuring the machine to brew the ugliest, thickest, oiliest brew of coffee it could create only to cut it with an obscene amount of milk and sugar. That he viewed even the finest coffee only as a convenient source of caffeine was endurable, but to watch him produce such a monstrosity in front of her was too much to bear.

V dove into the sanctuary of her interface instead, opening her neglected inbox and sorting through the newest wave of emails. So distracted was she that the sound of a heavy mug clinking onto the table made her jump. She dismissed her interface to find her preferred blend steaming gently in front of her. It was brewed to perfection, smooth and with just the barest hints of chocolate, without being muddled by pointless additives. Goro, settling into the seat across from her, returned her smile, the corner of his eyes crinkling momentarily before Abernathy entered the room.

2. “Food”

The past few weeks had been illuminating in several respects when it came to understanding the daily life of office drones, but Goro sometimes wished he had remained ignorant. He didn’t often have a reason to spend much time in the special operations war room, thankfully, and so was able to avoid the pervasive aura of stress and body odor– but what time V did not spend cloistered with Abernathy in her office she spent here. It gave him the opportunity to observe her in her natural work environment.

Normally she always knew when he walked into a room unless his interface was running silent, but it had been twenty minutes and she was still oblivious to anything outside of her computer screen. From the looks of her and her companions, they’d been working in the room since the previous night, no doubt poring over the data that had recently been recovered.

V stood abruptly, as though summoned by something, with the same determined look in her eyes that she had when she had decided to stab someone. Her aim today, however, was the small table shoved in the far corner of the room which served as a mini-canteen, stacked with all manner of plastic-wrapped garbage, all of which could scarcely be called food. She walked by him twice without noticing him, returning to her workstation with a plate stacked with two grayish lumps, which he supposed were intended to resemble burritos.

He could not help but watch in fascinated horror as she sat back down and proceeded to methodically eat both, one after the other, with exactly the same number of bites– as though it were something she had done many times before. It was entirely revolting, and yet, when she had finished she sat back with a privately satisfied smile which reminded him how she had stolen his heart. If he tuned his hearing and listened closely he could just pick out the faint sound of her humming, and he had to look away, or risk breaking into his own smile.

3. User Experience

After the fourth time Goro frowned at the tablet in his hands, tapping at it with growing frustration, V had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep herself from saying anything. No matter how long he wrestled with technology, he was incredibly resistant to even the gentlest suggestion of assistance– the only way she’d found to help was to intercept him before he became entangled, a point which had long since come and gone. If they had not been within the confines of an office, she was almost entirely certain he would have snapped the tablet in half, and only his strong sense of dignity and propriety was keeping him from doing so now.

He swore under his breath, and then looked up too quickly for her to pretend she had not been watching. “Whoever made this software should be retired.”

“The menu options aren’t laid out very well,” she said, diplomatically.

“The menu?” he repeated, as though she had said something incredibly stupid. He managed to rein himself in somewhat, although he was still over-enunciating, which was a clear sign of his anger. “It is not the menu. I cannot get the blueprint to correctly rotate.”

V’s hands twitched, and she raised them enough to show him the gesture as she said, “Perhaps the screen is glitchy?”

He frowned deeply, inhaling before he set his jaw, the muscle at his temple jumping. To her great surprise he held the tablet out to her, although he looked like he would have preferred to hurl it into the nearest wall. “Show me.”

She kept her face neutral as she took it from him. The diagram he was looking at was rotating around some arbitrary point rather than the center, which was causing some strange behavior because of its size. Although the fix was rather simple she deliberately slowed her taps as she sorted through the menus and locked several of the settings to prevent the same sort of mistake before she corrected it and handed it back to him.

“What did you do?” he demanded.

“One of the techs must have configured it wrong,” she lied, with a dismissive gesture. “Happens more often than you would think.”

“Hm.” He exhaled through his nose. “Thank you.”

“You’re the one getting me out of that office. She’s in a fine mood today,” she said, which was only partially true. “I should be thanking you.”

His expression softened, annoyance dissolving. “Of course. I am happy to be of service”

She bit the inside of her lip, practiced smiling with only her eyes. “Of course.”

4. Laundry

The room in Konpeki that V had been provided was much smaller than Goro’s own, and perhaps half the size of the apartment she had used to rent– but it did have the advantage of not being located on the same floor where Yorinobu was being held, which meant it was much less closely watched. Unfortunately, while it was not nearly as disorganized or cluttered as her previous home, it seemed to be only a matter of time before it reached such a point. The bed was clear, at least, and he could safely sit on the edge without disturbing the expanding pile of tools and hardware piled between the far side and the window.

“They’re going to miss you, aren’t they?” V asked, as she stripped off her undershirt and tossed it into a growing pile of similarly discarded clothing that blocked the bottom drawer of her dresser from opening. “Oda will.”

“Mm. Not for an hour, at least.”

“Oh.” She turned sharply on her heel, blinking as she met his eye. “This is your dinner?”

The concern in her expression was so genuine that he felt a surge of guilt for his judgment. But right on its heels was a bloom of appreciation. Once, she had been hesitant and uncertain to bare herself before him, afraid he would condemn her as Arasaka did. She still flinched occasionally under others scrutiny, but right now she stood handsome and comfortable in her own skin: the thief with his heart in her hands.

He rose. “I am not hungry.”

The corner of her mouth tugged upwards. “No?”

He hummed, pulling her a little closer so he could run his fingers up the back of her neck and be rewarded with her ravenously barbaric smile. “Perhaps I am.”

When it came down to it, he found he did not mind when his own shirt joined the top of the pile.

5. Form

If it had surprised V that Goro had agreed to bowling, it did not surprise her at all that he was good at it. He had claimed not to be practiced, but whether that was modesty or the truth she hadn’t decided. She had lied and told him she had been part of a league, once– which had naturally brought out his competitive nature. Which was the reason, as the ball clattered into the pins for a strike, that he looked so morose her composure almost cracked.

“You’re catching up,” she told him, as he rejoined her at the table.

He gave her a withering look. “Do not patronize me.”

She had to get up then, or risk laughter. In truth he was bowling very well, but in another three frames she’d have a perfect game, and his own score was marred by several spares. He was a sore loser, but what was really eating him was not her victory, but the way she was earning it.

With an unnecessary flourish she pulled her ball from the return and lined herself up on the lane. The software she was running had been refining its predictions based on her earlier performance, and so with each frame her job had gotten easier. But the real trick was the correct stance, and when she had picked her line of attack she carefully dropped into a squat, and bowled from between her legs, sending the ball rolling along the exact line trajectory projected by the software. The speed left a little something to be desired, but by the time she had walked back up to the table to retake her seat, she heard the clatter of the pins and the celebratory chime that announced a strike.

Goro’s hands were relaxed, but he was tensing the muscles in his arms so strongly she could just make out their shape through the sleeves of his shirt. “I suppose you will be choosing where we eat.”

V raised her eyebrows in an imitation of his own version of a shit-eating grin. “I guess so.”

Catch for us the foxes / the little foxes / that ruin the vineyards / our vineyards that are in bloom.

While he still had not been cleared for active duty, Goro felt better than he had in weeks. He was still adjusting to his new pair of lungs, and while he was not up to his usual standards he was more than comfortable enough to spend some time on a surprise for V. And when he was finished, there was nothing to keep him from enjoying the comfort of her couch for a well-deserved nap.

He was awoken a few hours later when V flicked him in the forehead, looming over him with an intense expression that sparked a flame in his chest. She said, “Good morning.”

“It is evening.”

“Good evening,” she said, in the same tone, the muscles in her temple jumping rapidly. “You cleaned my bench.”

“Yes,” he agreed, carefully sitting upright.

“You–“ V repeated, grinding her teeth. She turned away, taking in a deep breath before she turned back and tucked her fingers loosely into his collar. He stood up and obediently followed her restrained pull, until they both stood next to the desk that took up one entire wall of her new apartment. She paused for a moment, clearly picking her next words carefully. “How long?”

“A few hours,” he said, trying and failing to keep the smugness from his tone. “First, I had to find the clips to organize.”

The surface of the desk, once buried under several layers of broken tech and abandoned projects, was now entirely clear save for the box of tools he had organized to make it suitable for display. The largest drawer, which she now had opened, was stacked neatly with various types and lengths of cables, all neatly secured with clips. He had been required to guess the various functions of some of the objects, but while his methods had been crude, they were now organized and easy to find. V looked as though she wanted to murder him and was just working out the details.

“You did this on purpose,” she said finally. Her restlessness was starting to win out over her attempt to remain unmoved, and she smoothed down his collar and tucked all his stray hairs neatly back behind his ears.

“Yes,” he agreed again, not bothering to conceal his smile.

She grimaced, and pushed him gently back against the desk. He sat obligingly, as she pressed up against him, hands braced on his legs. She spoke through her teeth with a smile that was anything but friendly. “For the love of all that is holy Goro, why?”

He put his hand under her chin, gently stroking her jaw with his thumb. “Do you remember the last time you chose where we ate? I believe you described it as ‘your favorite place for dumplings’.”

Instantaneously all of her fury dissolved and her smile turned coy as she looked poised to break out into the same cackling laughter as she had when he had first sampled what could not in any civilized manner be described as “food”. Even now she displayed not the barest hint of regret.

“Oh,” she said, leaning into his hand.

“Mm.” He pulled her in for a chaste kiss, lingering as her thumbs dug into the meat of his thighs. “I thought so.”

“Well,” she said, sounding reasonably chastised. “I suppose now we can call it even?”

He laughed, pulling her closer by the hips. "Yes, I think so."

[shoshiwrites]

while spring is making promises outside — a flower shop AU featuring my OC Jo. Chapter 1/9. Later chapters a little NSFW. Title from "Little Numbers" by BOY.

"Well," says Frankie, as she surveys the store floor with a degree of serenity that Jo can only puzzle at this early in the morning, "you can clean buckets or you can work the machine."

The machine is a temperamental De'Longhi that Frankie got off Craigslist a few years ago for three hundred dollars flat and a not-zero amount of sweet talk. According to Frankie, Jo is the only one who can read its many moods. They don't even technically serve food; Jo is sure that a health inspector would have something to say about the de facto café set up in the back corner of the store, the trays of cookies and espresso cups carefully camouflaged behind a fiddle-leaf fig.

She's less sure where Frankie got the idea that she's a coffee whisperer. Maybe it was the twenty months bouncing between barista jobs in Berlin, she notes, too tired to be acidic about it. She'd spent more time there mopping up beverages than pouring them. That's what you got for trying to escape your life, right? Kreuzberg hipsters arguing with you about oat milk and avocado toast. If she takes the machine, then Clara is stuck on clean-up. And Clara's too nice to be stuck on clean-up.

"Buckets," Jo says.

"Your choice."

"Buckets." Maybe if she says the word buckets enough times it will become a substitute for speech.

Frankie shrugs, and goes to unlock the back door for the morning delivery. "Don't forget an apron," she throws over her shoulder.

Jo hums, conceding, and promptly passes the rack without grabbing one.

The rest of the morning proceeds without comment. Although by this point Jo might well consider Clara's raised eyebrows at her t-shirt a comment soaked with faucet water and dabbed with bleach.

Clara just sips her coffee, which Jo knows by the half-empty honey bear on the counter is unbearably sweet, and gets to rearranging the small pots of rosemary and mint by the register. It's too cold by the door now to keep many flowers, despite the thermostat that Frankie keeps at a luxuriously warm temperature compared to how any of them were raised. Blooms for winter wedding bouquets crowd the back half of the store, white camellias and anemones and dusky pink hellebores. Somewhere in a corner Italian pop music twinkles from a small speaker.

It's a little wild, Jo thinks, this thing that Frankie's built here. She's always been into plants, ever since Jo's known her. There was a relative once, or maybe Frankie only called him uncle, who'd taught her how to care for the flowers, told her she had an eye for arranging. And then there was the couple whose shop she now owned, who she'd worked for for years and took over the place when they retired south. They still sent postcards and called, even asked about Jo too. God knows Jo had spent enough time hanging out in the shop sketching back in high school. Trying, she can admit now, now that she and Frankie have cycled through A Relationship to the other side, to get Frankie's attention with her careful sketches of herbs and blossoms. Their first kiss had been behind sunflowers in the back corner. 

The previous owners had once offered to make cards from her drawings and let her sell them, but it hadn't gone anywhere. Which meant she'd been too scared, preoccupied. Something that feels shapeless now.

Eventually her shirt starts to dry — it's already stained with paint anyway — and she warms to the air. She spends most of the hour before lunch processing the shipment that came in the morning, slicing stems off roses and filler flowers with a satisfying chop of the blade. They move between noise and quiet, the small lulls of the store between customers and phone calls and Clara talking up the newest arrivals to their display of potted succulents. As a testament to her skill, they've sold fifteen in the past three days. Frankie's voice on the phone is patient or conversational or no-nonsense, usually all three at once. 

The sharp green smell of the flowers and greens fights with the coffee in the corner, and almost wins. Evie drops by to pick up her weekly bunch for the jar at the front table of her tattoo parlor; this week it's dahlias in a sunset ombré of purple and orange. They're the kind Jo would have once died to paint, to use watercolor for or maybe some kind of brush marker.

She's about to see if Clara wants anything from the shawarma place at the end of the block when the buzz of the back doorbell echoes through the store.

Bill, Frankie's delivery guy, acts like he's known all of them all of their lives, and Jo would never admit it but it's probably her favorite part of the day, listening to their rapid-fire logistics about who's getting what, and then in the next minute his voice as he's talking about his fiancée, the baby they're awaiting together. Frankie takes care of her people — Bill doesn't make it out of the back dock without a container of at least two kinds of dessert and leftovers from a giant platter of something, and a plate of ginger chews. Sometimes she threatens to cut him in off, when they're jabbing back and forth in English and Italian and Sicilian, and he pretends not to know what she's saying, but she never does.

She's been back almost two months already, but she hasn't gotten used to the climb up to Frankie's apartment, above the store, the fact that it's where she's crashing too. They've lived together before, of course — years at a time, in fact — but when she'd left the city they'd been a few bus stops apart. And then, of course, the ocean. It's weird to be back like this, and Jo hates that she can't find another word. Weird to feel like...like a charity case, although she'd never say that to Fran. She pitches in for groceries and some of the utilities but it still makes her body feel like a sticky door with a bad lock, having to let someone cut her a break on rent and feed her dinner at night. Frankie's the only person she'd ever accept that from, even when accept is much too graceful a word for any of how she's acting.

Frankie's spending the night at Anita's, so the apartment is quiet, except of course for the street noise. She settles into the couch with a bowl of cereal and her laptop, some shady site where she can stream German soap operas without ads. It's easier to stay awake until her eyes feel propped open, than it is to try and fall asleep in the darkened living room by herself.

Frankie and Anita met at a flower show where Anita was offering services as a business consultant. She wears actual suits to work and runs in the morning and takes vitamins, and is way nicer than anyone who does any of those things has any right to be. Jo goes through the roster in her mind. Evie and Angelo, together for almost the entirety of their natural lives, got married a few years ago, and run their shop together. Clara's boyfriend is with AmeriCorps for another couple of months, and they're both so disgustingly cute together that even Frankie can't get mad when Clara calls him from the store. Lena, Jo suspects, also has a boyfriend. If Clara is an open book than Lena is a lockbox, although Jo did catch her once blushing into her phone after a consult with Frankie about the store's business plan. Berlin feels like the bubble and crack of paint on rotting wood, smoking in bed with artists who all looked at her the same. 

Now we don't have time to unpack all of that, she thinks sourly, or sorely, whatever adverb describes the pressure squeezing at her ribs, and gets up to wash the dishes. She might not be a model roommate, but she knows better than to act like she were raised, as Frankie says, in a barn. She's being so good she doesn't even crack the window for a cigarette instead of going outside. It's too cold for either tonight, which is saying something. 

Maybe she'll bring her notebook downstairs tomorrow. There were some alstroemerias along the far wall that had caught her eye. It's something too, she thinks, to feel that itch again. She fights the urge to flinch.

[dreamsy990]

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[swetatiwarib2b]

Innovative Dairy Processing Equipment For Balancing Cooling And Heating Needs

Balancing cooling and heating requirements is critical in dairy processing operations to ensure product quality, safety, and energy efficiency. Pasteurization, fermentation, and storage are all processes that require precise temperature control and can be streamlined with the correct equipment [ Milk Processing Plant and Machines Manufacturers ]. Let’s look at some cutting-edge dairy processing equipment that helps to attain this equilibrium.

[static-electric-dreams]

my current farmer, Bellatrix, and her wife Sophia :) Bellatrix is a vampire who grew tired of feeding on corporate Joja employees and decided to take over her grandfather’s old property in Stardew Valley, vowing never again to drink human blood. (She grows meat plants and has to go through a process to extract “blood” from them, but hey, it’s vegan!) Her cat’s name is Skullcrusher; their dog is Madoka.

Bellatrix and Sophia welcomed their new daughter Maka into the world while I was in the middle of drawing this, so I may draw an updated version in the future!

Some fun facts about Bellatrix:

She’s a monster-killing machine

She produces fairy-rose candles for Sophia in her spare time

She’s best friends with Abigail, Sebastian, Sam, and Victor as well as Sophia

She is obsessed with finding out if Mr. Qi is also a vampire

She forgets whether the goats are ready to be milked every day no matter what

[femmefatalevibe]

Hi babe!

I have seen a lot of your posts about routine in the day and it could be starting the morning with a nice coffee made from home. However, my problem is I seem to always buy takeaway coffee. I’m not sure weather it’s the addiction to just buying something and of course I love my coffee! Or is it that I just am not finding a way to make my coffee at home appeal to me. How can I have that self discipline so that I can make my coffee at home and at the same time enjoy my coffee at home? Any tips

Hi love! Totally get it, I was this way pre-lockdown. Now, I could never be bothered to get dressed and leave the house before having my coffee in the morning, lol.

I think it comes down to a few elements – the coffee itself, the machine/process you use to make it, and any add-ins you desire. It's essential to enjoy your morning coffee, IMO, and the clean-up needs to be relatively easy.

Personally, I'm a straight black coffee type of woman, so making a good cup of coffee at home only requires high-quality coffee grounds (my ultimate favorite is Lavazza Ground Coffee, 100% Arabica, Light Roast, Gran Aroma!). To make your coffee you can use a traditional coffee maker (the Black & Decker one is reliable and affordable), but I prefer a French Press for a richer cup of coffee (get the Bodum 1928-16US4 Chambord French Press Coffee Maker, 1 Liter on Amazon – you can get the Chrome, Gold, or Bronze to match your kitchen decor) with a water electric kettle. If you like espresso shots to make your coffee, consider getting a Moka pot (you can use Illy Caffé Moka Ground Coffee or Lavazza Crema E Gusto Ground Coffee varieties for this).

Regardless of the method you use, all of them should take around 5-10 at most to prepare. Cleaning my French Press only takes a couple of minutes after usage. I usually clean it while making dinner, so it takes no extra time during the day.

If you don't prefer a black short or long coffee, some of my favorite add-ins include:

Ripple Plant-Based Milks (Unsweetened, Vanilla, or Chocolate for a more mocha taste)

Cinnamon, Pure Vanilla Extract, Unsweetened Cocoa Powder, BEAM Protein Powder (Vanilla, Chocolate Brownie, Brown Sugar Oatmeal, and Cinnamon flavors all work well)

For cold brew, I recommend the La Colombe Colombian Light Roast Cold Brew Coffee. It's not cheap, but you get 3-4 servings out of each bottle, so it's much cheaper than purchasing a coffee daily.

Hope this helps xx

[mahavirmachine]

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[mahavirkhoya]

Paneer Plant Manufacturers

A wide range of high-quality products are produced, exported, and supplied by Mahavir Industries. The choice we offer has been thoughtfully created and developed in accordance with recognized industry standards. One of the most popular vegetarian party foods is unaged cheese, or paneer, which is recognized as a traditional Indian dairy product. Paneer is without a doubt the most well-liked main course, side dish, and appetizer delicacy. Regardless matter how it is made, paneer has a delicious flavour that is perfect for any party or occasion. Your eating experience will be enhanced by paneer, a common element in South Asian cuisine, notably in India. Everything from appetizers to desserts can contain it. It's noteworthy to note that 5% of milk is converted into paneer each year. Mahavir Industries is the leading Paneer Plant Manufacturers.