#so they decided to have the badlands for themselves

[sofia-in-nc]

[minkydinks]

SandWings

It's finally time, people!!!

SandWings have been on the agenda for a while and I'm so happy to finally have them done. Here's as much info as I can give right now.

General

SandWings are medium-sized bipedal dragons that inhabit the desert, badlands, and other transitional biomes of Pyrrhia. They come in a variety of muted desert-y colors, but the most common include: Yellow, brown, red, dusty orange, and some black.

SandWings, unlike most other tribes, are built for running long distances rather than flying. While their wings are still perfectly good for travel, it's far more efficient to travel on foot, since they are the fastest tribe on the ground.

Their wings are smaller in comparison to their body than most other tribes as well, so they largely rely on desert thermals to keep them aloft. In places with minimal air currents, or with excess cold, SandWings have trouble gaining lift.

SandWings have light armoring along the scales of their back, although these armor-plated scales are not quite as tough as you would expect. These armored scales are thicker than the rest as to protect them from the harsh sun; although they do double as a nice additional protector from other SandWings' venomous tails. Otherwise, they're not great for protection.

Their armored appearance bears heavy resemblance to MudWings, and it is believed that MudWings and SandWings are quite closely related; albeit MudWings are much more on the heavyweight-end.

A SandWing's horns can be of any shape and array, although most commonly, SandWing horns protrude forward like bull horns; especially female SandWings, where they're used to vie for the throne. These horns are utilized at high-speed to ram into targets, and to duel with rival SandWings. Being hit by a SandWing horns-first at top-speed is near equivalent to being impaled by a motorcycle on the freeway.

SandWings are also adorned with frills along their head, neck, & chest. Male SandWings have additional frills along their lower jaw & lower torso.

These frills are continuously-growing, meaning that SandWings typically cut, style, & shave them at their discretion. Some SandWings prefer their frills long, like Princess Blister. Other SandWings cut them quite short to keep them out of the way during battles, like Six-Claws. Short frills became standard for SandWings during the War of SandWing Succession, as they became a distraction or a detriment otherwise. It was rare for a SandWing not to have short frills during the 20-year conflict, if they were battlers and not factory-workers.

SandWings are notorious for their potent venom. This venom is created and stored in sacs inside the barb at the tip of their tails.

While adult SandWings are perfectly capable of killing another dragon with a lethal dose, SandWing dragonets are far more deadly. Not strictly because of the venom, but because they lack the control needed to limit how much venom they inject. A sting from a newly-hatched SandWing is more likely to kill you than a sting from an adult, who can decide how much they want their sting to hurt.

Culture

SandWing culture is nothing mysterious; they have some of the most well-known festivals and armaments in the continent.

SandWings, having so much land to themselves, utilize much of it for factories and plants. They are one of the most technologically advanced tribes, with steampunk-esque mechanisms and structures throughout their kingdom.

Their metals of choice include copper, tin, and bronze; much of it mined within the desert itself. However, with the SkyWings' alliance, SandWings on Burn's side of the war have been able to import metals and other materials from the mountains to create stronger weapons & armors. Similarly, Blister & Blaze's forces have been able to do this as well, albeit with fewer materials overall and less armored dragons total.

Weapons and armory aren't the only things SandWings create with their metallurgy though. SandWings, having deep respect for their veterans and a cultural motto that you will always survive to fight, also create advanced prosthetics.

Prosthetic legs & arms are the most common, but you might also catch a SandWing with a prosthetic wing or tail. Some SandWings get horn replacements if their horns break off in battle and become less effective at fighting with.

Prosthetic wings are by far the rarest to find, since they are the most expensive to make & obtain, and don't actually perform quite as well as a normal wing. Most dragons with prosthetic wings use them to show off their worthiness in battle, how they survived and were heavily rewarded for their supreme skill and efforts.

Each prosthetic, weapon, and piece of armor comes branded with several labels: The name of the factory it was made in, the name & seal of the queen/princess it was made under, and its serial number. These labels would allow each rival sister to check their dragons' true alliance. SandWings with the seal of a rival sister would be killed, as it would then be apparent who they went to for their supplies.

After the end of the War of SandWing succession, the seals for Burn, Blister, and Blaze were retired in favor of Queen Thorn's own seal. As a result, armor with the royal SandWing sisters' seals were considered limited collector's items, and have increased dramatically in their value.

Prior to the death of Queen Oasis, these seals were not a generic serial label, but a gift from the Queen, almost like being knighted. To have armor with the Seal of the Queen was considered a great honor, but times have changed.

RGAAAAH I HOPE Y'ALL LIKE THIS If you have any questions or ideas you want me to fill in on, please shoot me an ask or something bc I would love to answer !!

[yerrenica]

⋯ JAHA LEE x READER | to call a dog back home

⬦ info; pwp, the p is set up for the p?!?!, enemies to lovers speedrun, size kink, hookups, snow storms, dom/sub, associates with benefits?, fucking for warmth, petplay, vaginal sex, topping from the bottom, under-negotiated kink, voyeurism, handjobs.

⬦ wc; 6.8k

The only thing predictable about Jaha's life is its unpredictability, and it is this precise lack of predictability which has placed Jaha in this particular predicament.

Tell Mongrang to say that three times fast.

Everyone shivers as an angry gust of frigid air blows through their squad. That's something about the wind during this time of year, especially this far out, it blows right through you, cold and cruel like icy knives cutting into your very soul. Jaha had missed the snow during summer, but now he's not so sure. It's midday but the sun is already threatening to set, making it even colder. This far into the snow fields, death could come for anyone at any moment. 

Jaha had tasked himself with leading a team through the dregs of the country's badlands to retrieve something that should've never gotten this far in the first place. What sort of old coot decided to hide his most treasured sword in such a place was beyond him, and honestly, forming a grudge against him didn't seem too far-fetched at the moment.

To think that the geezer also did it while on his deathbed was absurd to Jaha. If you're going to die, then spend your last moments in comfort and warmth and save future generations the trips to icy wastelands.

But alas, what's done is done.

"Alright, it's official, we're lost," said one of their team members, Bitgaram, when they passed the fourth identical snow drift in a row, shaking snow from his hat. Fractured snowflakes collected on his hair and he futilely attempted to brush them away.

"Bitgaram, do you have anything useful to share or are you interested in losing your tongue today?" A raspy, cruel voice floated from somewhere behind Jaha and — ah, and there's the other thing. He's not the only one going after the treasure.

Usually, Jaha wouldn't mind too much (more carnage), even though he doesn't really get along with most other sword masters. But there is a particular brand of animosity between the two of them that Jaha finds a bit exciting, but also exhausting. They don't get along and neither plan to rectify that any time soon.

[Y/N] has spent their entire 3-day freezing expedition insulting him just to make sure of that fact. 

"Apologies, miss [Y/N]," Bitgaram seemed a bit nonplussed, a short stocky kind of man with a wiry moustache, he is one of [Y/N]'s because anyone under anyone else would surely piss themselves. The woman's soldiers held a healthy dose of fear for her, but throughout this outing, Jaha has come to understand that they also have a bit of a suicidal streak. You can only be threatened with bodily harm and mortal peril by your commanding officer so many times before you just stop giving a shit.

The fight itself had been pretty simple, just a group of unlucky swordsmen that'd gotten a little too cocky and refused to hand over the treasure. Jaha had retrieved the sword with some other trinkets from the big box of treasures, and [Y/N] had, well– massacred them.

She'd made quick work of the swordsmen, pushing furious waves of power through the snow.

Their own ranks were fine. Jaha's brothers had taken position above the field, hidden in the tree branches. Jaha's own skills kept him safe and all of [Y/N]'s soldiers were issued rubber soles after an unfortunate mass casualty incident.

The swordsmen, on the other hand, weren't so lucky.

Embarrassingly enough, the woman's shit personality and proclivity for violence was kind of doing it for Jaha, it always has. He supposes that this was a natural progression of his thoughts.

Earlier when they had surveyed the battlefield post-fight, the one [Y/N] had littered with mangled corpses, Jaha would be remiss if he didn't admit that it sparked something hot and heady in the pit of his stomach.

He pushes those thoughts from his mind, letting the icy wind take them away. Well, he makes his best attempt to. He's probably just getting brain damage from the cold. There cannot possibly be another reason that he doesn't want to wring her neck.

To be fair, he's always been a bit intrigued by her, sue him. She'd be right up Jaha's alley if it weren't for the fact they utterly despised each other.

Her tactics on the battlefield were impressive and her bias for extreme violence was just to Jaha's taste. She was also hot, objectively, in a purely work-appropriate observational way.

And then there was, of course, the avalanche.

"Miss [Y/N]!" Officer Occupational Hazard Bitgaram yelled as they trudged through the Northern mountains.

Everyone tensed as the woman swung around to see who exactly had sealed their fate, walking far faster than she should've been through knee-high snow before there was a deep rumbling from somewhere above.

"Take cover!" An angry avalanche set course for them.

Thick sheets of ice and snow threatened to sweep them away and consume them. The team dove to take cover behind trees, hands over their heads to make pockets in the snow in an attempt to save their lives.

Without thinking Jaha had grabbed the person closest to him and dragged them under an outcrop, watching as furious snow passed them by.

A smaller body pressed against him and Jaha subconsciously pulled them closer, burying their face in his chest. Whoever it is is freezing, all hard muscle, and smells good. A fraction of a second later, he realized that they were also tiny, and all of his hair was standing up from static electricity.

Oh shit. He tensed. He's dead.

In an attempt to pull away, his foot slid on a patch of covered ice and a twinge in his ankle made him stumble. Travelling in a group meant less time for his usual morning training. 

That was fine, Jaha thought. With a sound that felt a little too much like a yelp, he channelled his qi. Not the full thing, not all the way. It was too abrupt for him to do that. But it was enough to get blood to his muscles better.

Of course, that didn't make travelling within an avalanche any more pleasant. But at least it kept him from dying.

Ha. A mountain blizzard was a staggeringly vicious thing. He hadn't given that old coot enough credit. This was hard. But he supposes that's what the old man was striving for, to leave behind a legacy. To be remembered for generations to come.

To have been something.

It wasn't all bad, to exist for a purpose. A fixed point to move towards, the surroundings happily out of focus. Jaha had always known that. 

Or at least he did now.

"You'd have crawled into my lap back there if I'd let you, wouldn't you, Master Jaha?” The sounds of the party had been muted from wherever [Y/N] had pulled them to. Some abandoned corner of the building. It was huge, and there were a lot of those. This one had big curtains and wood that were obviously not installed with drunk sword masters in mind.

There was a hand up his shirt and one down his pants. Jaha swore. They were pressed close. Damp wood against his back. Whatever the woman was doing with her hands was making words form slowly, and even then only in fragments. 

Gods, he was sloshed. Seongtae had picked out a deadly slew of liquor for their victory lap.

"Drink a little too much?" [Y/N] asked.

Maybe. "Never."

He tried to coordinate his limbs to do something resembling reciprocity–he wanted to touch her, too–but he only ended up leaning his forehead against the other's hair. His vision swam as he watched his shirt be undone, hands tightening and loosening on black fabric. 

"You're so easy."

Was that true? Yeah, probably. A few drinks, a few murders. The music and food weren't half bad, and things were always so dull otherwise. Didn't he deserve this?

"Look at how simple it is to make you fall apart," [Y/N] had a giddy sort of sneer on. Jaha should say something.  

"Yes'ma'am," he hissed. He wasn't even sure what he'd chosen in reply, but that surprised laugh he got in response sounded mean and hot, so hot. God.

"Is this all I had to do to make you mind your manners? A drunk handjob?"

Jaha's hips jerked. Maybe. Okay, maybe.

"I prefer you like this," continued the woman, "Stay mindless next to me and maybe I'll keep you."

Jaha didn't want to be kept. That was not anything close to being in the script. This whole thing was just a stepping stone, conquer it and move on– oh, but he was close. 

Kept. His dick certainly liked how [Y/N] had phrased it. Maybe he did want that, just a little? His brain was soft and the woman was smiling up at him with eyes that promised something. Like waiting to reward him if he just–

"Uh– fuck," his brain couldn't keep up with his mouth, "Yeah. I'm, agh–"

"Good dog."

He didn't notice he had fallen asleep until something nudged him awake. It had all felt the same: when he opened his eyes he saw white and when he closed them he saw a slightly duller white. The cold was always there. But now it was different. There was someone there, too, against the bleached sky.

"No one could actually be this stupid."

Jaha saw himself move rather than felt it, but he realized dully that [Y/N]'s boot on his chest was the reason, "Get up."

"[Y/N]?" asked Jaha. It hurt to blink, so he kept his eyes shut, "Hi. What're you doing here?"

"Hi yourself," the woman frowned down at him. 

"How did you find me?" He had to be a mile or so from where he had left the others.

"The smell," she huffed, "I followed the smell of pure idiocy, and it led me here. Now get up," she repeated.

"Alright, yeah," said Jaha. It wasn't his idea to be hurled away by an avalanche and pass out, but at least it was [Y/N] who found him, and not the rest of the crew. It might be quicker this way, too.

"Did you not hear me?" came a sharp voice, "Jaha," it said sternly.

"What is it?"

"Stand up."

"...Am I not?"

He was not. It seemed he hadn't moved from the first time he had been instructed. Which was strange, because he definitely remembered doing so. But now that he was being hefted up, it struck him that this was completely different. 

Jaha looked back over his shoulder, towards the top of the mountain, "What about the others?"

"The others–?" The woman seemed to remember all at once what Jaha was talking about, "Forget about them."

"Huh– why?"

"What do you mean why? Because you're barely conscious," [Y/N] snapped, "There's a cave up ahead. I'm bringing you there."

Jaha scowled. He wanted to argue, to protest, but the words wouldn't form right through the clacking of his teeth.

The maw of the cave was sizable and opened wide onto the white. This must be why there had been a cliff in the first place. The howling immediately stopped as they crossed the threshold. Temperature-wise, there was not much of a difference. Being out of the wind, however, did go a long way. Jaha felt like the boulder resting on his lungs had been downgraded to a large rock.

"Well," began [Y/N] with a sigh. Jaha had been aware in a vague, through-water sort of way that he had graduated from leaning on the other to being dragged by her, "You've really outdone yourself this time."

He was deposited onto the floor. His vision swam between the blinks of his watery eyes. It was as he pondered the ceiling of the cave, slanted and pockmarked, that Jaha came to the conclusion that he must be lying on his back. There was a tickle in his throat that he couldn't dislodge with coughing. Thoughts came slowly. Irritability lingered.

"That's an ugly face you're pulling towards the one who just saved your life," said [Y/N] from somewhere next to him. 

The last cough left Jaha's chest like a growl. His head spun as if he were falling. Unable to get his bearings or discern where exactly [Y/N] was to glare at her, he rolled himself sideways and spoke with his cheek pressed to the pebble-laden floor.

This whole situation was too reminiscent of his past life.

"If you hadn't intervened, I would have been just fine," Jaha replied. Now that he was slowly regaining some small awareness of his body, he became aware of an acute pain in his temple. His knee was beginning to ache as well.

"Even for you, this is a new level of insanity," [Y/N] continued in a terse tone as if Jaha hadn't spoken. The ground crunched as she busied herself with something the man couldn't discern, "Be grateful that I deemed having you alive would be less work than dragging your dead body back to your subordinates."

There was a retort ready in Jaha's throat, but as footsteps approached, it became harder and harder to remember it. His field of view was overtaken by two boots, the snow on them melting. Then one disappeared from view, and there was a pressure on his chest as he was rolled over onto his back once more.

Many layers of clothes further numbed the sensations that were barely getting through to his body. Still, when [Y/N] threw a leg over him and sunk down to straddle Jaha's hips, he at least attempted to lift his head up.

There was no need. The back of his skull hit the ground immediately. His jaw was opened by one finger pressing into his canines, but then the other paused.

"You channelled your qi. Poorly, at that."

Jaha couldn't well answer with the way his mouth was being held open. 

"You did. There are burst blood vessels in your eyes," [Y/N] sneered as she used her thumb to pull down at the bottom of Jaha's eye. The man wanted to ask why it mattered. Before he could, though, something was poured into his mouth.

"Don't make a scene. Swallow it."

His mouth was held shut. Jaha breathed hard through his nose, clenched his teeth, glared fucking daggers. The woman wore an expression that suggested she might have been reading a particularly uninteresting field report. 

"Swallow," she repeated with an upward nod like it was only a matter of time before she got what she wanted. All Jaha's nerves seemed to come back online at once. He whined from behind closed lips.

It burned worse than Eastern alcohol on the way down. 

He understood then that his body had been on pause, and now everything was back online all at once. 

Feeling spread from his throat to his stomach and into his limbs. Now the threat of not freezing to death had passed, and every other pain sang to life in a horrible chorus.

He became aware that he was shivering– had he been so the entire time? Fatigue swept through him, worse than what he usually felt while training in his past life. His bones and teeth hurt. 

Jaha cursed as he sat himself up, coughing. His lungs took in stinging cold air but he couldn't even catch his breath. He watched as the woman walked back over to her knapsack and slipped a small bottle back into one of the many pockets. 

"What was that?" He wiped his chin. 

"You're overreacting. It was a warming vial."

Jaha's addled mind spun for a bit before he put meaning to the words. The little glass bottles parents gave their kids when playing in the snow. They'd place them in their pockets to keep their hands warm. He never questioned what they were filled with.

"You're not supposed to drink those, last I checked."

'Doesn't matter," [Y/N] shrugged, "You just did."

Being horizontal was suddenly very unappealing. Groaning, the man slid himself over to lean against the wall of the cave, far from the entrance. His mood was sour and just about everything that could hurt in his body did. He didn't typically mind pain much– but miscalculation stung more when he'd had to be rescued as a result.

"What about the others?" asked Jaha, dimly. 

"I told them to stay put."

"I hope we don't return to them frozen to death." He shifted his knee up and sucked in a pained breath. 

"Oh please," huffed [Y/N] at Jaha's bellyaching, "You aren't dead just yet."

The snow whirled outside without stopping. He felt almost like a stupid kid again. Playing out in the snow too long, getting scolded by his grandfather. The neighbourhood kids that'd stuff rocks into snowballs. Those bruises always took forever to stop aching.

Jaha watched in silence as [Y/N] built up a small fire. She took materials from the knapsack by the wall. It was one of the ones their crew had packed before setting out; she must have grabbed it before she came to find Jaha. 

"How do you even know about this place?" The man squinted, rubbing at his ribs.

"It might be your first time out here, but it isn't mine," replied the woman easily.

The fire, now lit, drew him in. Jaha shifted closer to be nearer, ignoring the way [Y/N] stopped to scoff. Even the sound of the wood popping under the heat felt good.

From a rock near the entrance, [Y/N] looked out at the storm, "We'll stay to wait out the worst of this. I doubt it'll last longer than the night," she paused for a moment, "And Master Jaha..."

Jaha groaned in acknowledgement. His eyes were closing.

"The next time you decide to face a natural disaster, be honest about your limits," her voice seemingly softened, but Jaha brushed it off as just him being tired and hearing things.

"I won't know them until I find them," mumbled the man, "And like you said, I'm not dead just yet."

"We don't happen to have some chicken noodle soup stuffed in that pack, do we?" groaned Jaha haplessly. Sometime between falling asleep and the sun setting, lying down had become appealing again. Sometime between lying down becoming appealing again and now, a ratty blanket had been placed underneath him.

"I've got another warming vial if you'd like," said [Y/N]. 

Jaha pursed his lips, sulking.

"Then stop complaining."

[Y/N] was still sitting where she had been when Jaha slipped out of consciousness, the only difference being now she was whittling something. Her hands moved slowly, but the tiny pile of wood shavings next to her suggested she'd been at it for some time. It was too small for Jaha to see from where he lay.

Next to him, the fire was still going, but growing weak. It left a stark desire for warmth in its embers. The woman had already informed him that there had only been enough materials for one in the pack. Once this was gone, he'd go back to devoting half of his thoughts to craving any sort of warmth.

"So you've been to this place before?" Jaha asked. Without waiting for an answer, he continued, "Did you mean the village near this place?"

[Y/N] hummed, along with a sigh, "Yes. It was part of my training growing up."

Training all the way out here while growing up? Suddenly, her attitude made sense to Jaha. After all, these mountains served as a place for outcasts to gather.

"This is the middle of nowhere," Jaha paused, "Do they have running water?

"I would hope so. There may be some rejects who forgo hygiene but I'd like to believe most are in the habit of bathing."

"A hot bath sounds good. Do you like baths?"

"Occasionally. Not for such juvenile purposes as relying on it to warm myself," she eyed Jaha in mock ridicule.

"Well, once we make it there, we can share one."

The small sound of scraping wood and the ever-present wind was all that could be heard for some time.

"You really don't feel cold?" Jaha said after a moment, turning his head slightly, "Not at all?"

"No," said [Y/N] to the blizzard, "Not at all."

The man blinked. The whirl behind [Y/N]'s silhouette seemed as if they were going to catch on her figure and swallow her. Like between this fluttering closure of his eyelids and the next, Jaha would find himself alone. He wondered why she had come. Responsibility as a teammate was the most sensible answer. But the martial masters didn't really rely on such routine ways of thinking. So why not just leave him to die in the snow? 

Nothing [Y/N] did was without some sort of contradiction, Jaha had realized.

"I don't believe you."

At this, the woman turned. They held each other's gaze for a moment. Jaha's chest panged with how much he wished her closer. If the situation were different, he'd say some nonsense and suggest so. That worked about half the time if his math was correct.

[Y/N] did make to move, though not towards Jaha. She placed down what she had in her hands and stood, slowly. 

"My subordinates would hardly hold me in their high graces if something like the cold could deter me from my goals."

Jaha wondered, was that a jab at him?

She worked at the neckline of her cloak for a moment. Jaha didn't understand what she was attempting to do until suddenly her cloak dropped to the ground and she stood in clothes unsuited for the temperature.

Jaha's heart jogged in his chest as if on instinct. His head still pounded, but he knew how it felt to touch that body and his palms itched. 

"What're you…"

"You're cold, aren't you?" She asked as she bent over to pull off her boots, "The fire's almost died out, after all."

Jaha kept quiet, tracing her movements with his eyes.

His mannerisms made her scoff, "Stop gawking. As if this is something I haven't shown you before."

As if there were anywhere else to look.

Thumbs hooked over the waistband, pulling her pants off. She pushed both it and her underwear down in one motion, before tossing them to the side carelessly. Then she stood there, watching Jaha watch her. All of her. Every piece. There was a mild amusement in her eyes.

Jaha stared directly at that form, but it was like trying to focus on an aftereffect. Everything was reflected through that hue. The hair that ghosted the base of her neck, the dip of her shoulders, her breasts, her tummy, the ever so slight flare of hips, the curve of the back of her legs. 

It was true, Jaha had seen her body before. But had always been denied the opportunity to take it in. Always so rough and fast and hard. Frantic. Now, there was quiet. Not calm, but something like a perversion of it. And [Y/N] looked, against the cragged rockface really, truly, exactly like a deity.

"Something you want to say?" [Y/N]'s eyes stayed locked onto Jaha's. At that, he couldn't hold it, and looked away, earning an amused scoff.

"You're a real petty piece of work, you know?" Jaha said tersely, mostly to distract himself from how he could feel his dick stirring. Even looking away, the thoughts flowed into his brain like sewage.

"Hmm?" Her lips quirked up into something that resembled a smirk, "Here I was hoping you'd be grateful."

Jaha scoffed quietly, observing as she approached him.

"I wonder," said Jaha. [Y/N] was kneeling in front of him before moving to straddle him, looking vaguely interested, but not really, "Will the others really be alright?"

"They'll figure something out," [Y/N] replied, "They can huddle for warmth if anything."

Warmth. Pressed up against a solid, beating thing. Images had washed over his mind in that instant. The woman was like a conduit for heat. It always began cold whenever they slept together and slid into something warmer.

He must have been staring because [Y/N] had a strange expression on her face.

"What?" asked she.

"No, it's nothing."

There was a slight pressure on his cheek. He felt soft, malleable. He realized [Y/N] had his face cupped in one hand, "Not getting ideas, are we, Master Jaha?"

He had been until this touch had stopped everything short.

"Not at all."

"Don't lie to me."

The promise of being done with this terrible feeling, even for a moment, was too strong. He knew he was going to lose this fight. 

"[Y/N]," he began. The only thing he could hear was his own harsh breathing.

"What?"

There had been words he wanted to say. Something to articulate. But all that he managed was, "M'cold."

"I know," there was a small pleasure in it, "That's why I'm here."

Jaha's eyes looked her up and down.

"What do you need?"

He felt like he was stuck underneath a frozen lake. Losing without putting up a fight. She wouldn't tell anyone, would she? 

"You."

The hand holding Jaha's face dropped away, "But I can't keep you warm for long." 

He understood what was going on. That he was being baited. But if he did as he was told and laid a hand on the bare body before him now…

…he could slip his hands to lay on either side of [Y/N]'s neck. He might slide them lower then, down her shoulders, to her elbows. Press at her ribcage, and move back up. Jaha may squeeze at that chest.

And yet...

[Y/N] raised her eyebrows. A small tilt of her head, "No? You're getting cold feet now?"

"I can't tell if this is what you want," Jaha managed to reply, his mouth fuzzy, “My head… kind of hurts."

"Then you don't have to think. Isn't that what you've always done, anyway?"

Heedless instances and red flashes and split-second decisions. Impulse and action were what made him up. Yeah, it was what he had always done. 

"Go on. Lead with your hands," said she, "Lean towards what you think will warm you up."

Jaha reached out. It felt like it took years for the gap between their bodies to end in a small point of contact. Just the flat of Jaha's hand on the base of [Y/N]'s neck. Thumb at the corner of her jaw. 

As if it were the easiest thing in the world, the woman shifted in Jaha's lap. So little work for so much reward. The pressure of her body was proof that sensations other than cold existed. Bare legs on either side of his hips, [Y/N] sat for a spell, watching. That hand was still resting on his neck. She narrowed her eyes and nudged it.

"Is this all you want to touch, Master Jaha?"

His cheeks burned, though he didn't know why. They'd done this before, and every time Jaha was always overeager. 

"I've already given you permission," said [Y/N] complacently, "Do whatever you want to me," She grabbed Jaha's hand and brought it to squeeze her breast, "After all, you're a stupid dog. You can't help yourself."

His dick jumped. More bait, he thought dully, but pride was much harder to touch than [Y/N]'s skin. And shame couldn't be all that bad if it set his nerves alight like this. Jaha kissed the last bit of his senses away. 

It wasn't all that difficult afterwards to pull her closer. He panted against that tongue and whimpered at the bites on his lips. Hands rested on his shoulders, bunching in the fur of his collar. With nothing of his own to hang on to, Jaha held tight to the skin on the back of [Y/N]'s upper arm, the base of her spine, her hips. His hands felt clumsy, without purchase.

"Tell me what you're thinking."

[Y/N]'s hand in his hair tightened into a fist and settled Jaha's head back against the wall. He was trying to breathe through his nose so that the air wouldn't feel as cold.

"I– I–" Fuck. His mind was slipping into those soft, easy places. He wanted the simple shame badly. Sit. Stay. Roll over. 

"I need you to tell me I'm a good boy."

It should be something admitted through clenched teeth, a bitten-off confession wrenched from him by force. But Jaha knew how good it could feel, and he also knew [Y/N]'s bored eyes would grow that much sharper at how ineptly it tumbled from his tongue.

Fingers were at his neck. They rested just below his jawline and sprouted a fire there, like everywhere else that [Y/N] touched. Those hands weren't hot, or even warm, so there must really be something wrong with Jaha's head. A thumb trailed up to press into the hollow beneath his bottom lip while the other fingers curled beneath his chin. Jaha's mouth hung open in small breaths.

"And are you?"

"Yeah."

[Y/N] cupped him through his pants, "You are? You're not a mutt with nothing in his brain but when he can next get his dick wet?" 

He winced but managed to hold their eye contact. He wanted to earn this, "No— I'll be your good boy. Really good for you. Please."

"Haha," [Y/N] sat back, "Haha! Is there anything you won't do? Would you splay your stomach for me?"

Jaha nodded until he was sure he'd pulled something in his neck. 

"Show me just how good you can be," breathed the woman. She released her hold on Jaha and sat back, "Get yourself off."

If there was still such a thing as shame in this little world they'd trapped themselves in, then maybe Jaha would have hesitated before fumbling out of his pants. 

[Y/N] seemed to remember something, and only deigned to move from her position in the man's lap to root through the knapsack again. She threw a small vial at Jaha before sitting right back down.

Regular oil. [Y/N] had used it to wet the tinder for the fire earlier. 

He unfastened his pants and slid them down his thighs just enough to free his dick. He then tipped the oil into his palm and started to stroke himself.

It hurt, his hands shook, but the friction felt good. The impulse to shutter his eyes nearly won out–but he wanted to be seen. To perform well and do as he was told bore the risk of reward. If the woman was feeling generous. 

There was a chance Jaha would be delegated to finishing in his own hand with nothing so much as another touch from [Y/N]. Just a bored look and a mildly amused, pitying expression; Jaha had seen it before. It didn't matter, not really. There was heat in being the subject of such strict attention.

"Is this how you treat yourself when you think of me?"

"Yes," Jaha was distantly surprised at how desperate his voice sounded. 

"Go on, keep talking. You wouldn't want me to lose interest."

"I think of our fights, the way you hit me."

"A dog who likes being disciplined."

"It's so hard to find someone who's able to keep up," Jaha twisted his wrist. He swore he saw real contempt pass over [Y/N]'s features, "You fight me like you really– hah –want to kill me.

"But I also," Jaha swallowed, "I really like when I can throw you off balance. And you give me that look like you're impressed with me."

"How honest."

"Ha… a nice break from all the treachery at Gangho, right?"

"Yes, but a mind as empty as yours can't contain shame. A mindless, pretty, obedient boy."

Jaha's hand stuttered for a moment on the upstroke. He pressed a thumb into the head of his cock to keep from coming right then.

"Maybe I'll reward you," the woman hummed for a moment. Her eyes raked over Jaha's body. He was the one with all his clothes on, but he felt seen through. 

His wrist was swatted away as the woman took Jaha's cock into her own hand. And unlike Jaha, she set a much faster pace. 

He didn't know how often they'd fucked. There were too many instances of a fight becoming something more, or an ill-advised dare between them, to count it properly. Still, they hadn't been at this all that long. And yet [Y/N] knew exactly what touches shook Jaha out of his mind with pleasure. His brain went white like the storm outside.

"Stay," instructed she. Jaha's hands bunched in the blanket underneath him. 

He had to be good. He had to be good because if he wasn't, then [Y/N] would stop, leave him here. No use for a defunct weapon, a disobedient dog. He felt like he could cry. The brief brush of a nail against the underside of his cock, the way the heel of the woman's hand pressed into the head.

"God, [Y/N], Please, please, please–"

The touch vanished. Jaha buckled forward with a strangled sound. His hands flew to [Y/N]'s shoulders, his head rested against her neck. His shaking arms wrapped around her. His chest heaved. 

"You can show discipline when you want to," a pitying hand carded through the hair at the nape of his neck, "Or is it only just for me?"

Yes, for you. Jaha wanted to say. No one else has ever been able to do this to me. I'm stuck with you.

"Please," Jaha swallowed, "Please."

"I don't know what you're begging for," said [Y/N], nonchalantly, "Tell me what you want, dog."

"I want to be inside you. Where it's warm."

"I've already given you my whole body. You still want more?"

He didn't know how he'd ever stop wanting more.

"Yes."

"Hm. And you'll be good?"

"Yeah. Promise."

[Y/N] pushed him back. With efficiency, she splayed herself out on the blanket, leaving Jaha to do his best to situate himself. The woman waited as Jaha stumbled out of his pants. Then he shifted until he was on top of her. His cloak covered most of their bodies. It gave the whole thing a bit of modesty, and even though there was no one but them, Jaha didn't want anyone to see how she let herself be touched by him.

He brought a shaking hand down [Y/N]'s stomach, down to between her legs. 

"You're wet," Jaha realized happily. 

"Yeah," [Y/N]'s eyes lidded, "And I can see your tail wagging."

Jaha had wanted to be asked, to be guided through, but he didn't need to be asked twice. He lifted up [Y/N]'s hips to position himself. He spread her legs apart, and the woman just allowed him to, limp and expectant. Jaha let one leg rest just over his shoulder. 

And then he couldn't wait anymore. He pushed himself inside with a sigh. Perfect and tight and warm. 

"Not just anyone would do this for you, you know," said [Y/N] from under him. 

"I know," Jaha nodded as he began to move. Nothing, not the fire, or the draught or anything had felt as good as this. 

He dipped his head and kissed the woman's neck. As he sped up it became sloppier until he was panting open-mouthed against the skin. There was so much sensation after hours of nothing. [Y/N] safe underneath him and Jaha safe in her hands. Everything else seemed small in the light of these facts. Being of service. Doing what he was told.

"How does it feel?" asked [Y/N]. As tight as Jaha was holding her, she didn't cling back. It wasn't uncommon to spot this detached look in her eyes, though Jaha never knew exactly what to do with it. 

He settled for being earnest. It pushed its way past what little else was in his mind, "So good, thank you–"

There was a pressure building near the base of his spine, his stomach. Jaha was well aware he was close. But if he finished now, then she would move away again. He'd be without anything to grasp. And then what? Worse, getting himself off first felt selfish. He should take care of [Y/N] first, shouldn't he?

It must have shown on his face because [Y/N] spoke. 

"Slow down."

Jaha whined. He wanted to. Only it was impossible, it had to be. But that's what he'd been told. Commanded. Somehow, his hips slowed and stopped. 

A hand came to rest at his jaw. [Y/N] looked so composed, and Jaha felt ruined. But the woman's eyes were so pretty. They narrowed in a small laugh. 

"Good boy, Jaha."

His heart skipped. His hips moved on their own. 

"Sorry–"

"Oh, you do like it. No one calls you that anymore, do they?" He was being teased, but there seemed to be something more behind the words. Like she was happy to have this knowledge. And Jaha knew, somehow, that she'd hold it safe. 

"Do you miss it?" A thumb over his cheek, "Does it make you feel whole again?"

"Yes," Everything felt raw and real. His heart was flayed and pumping hot blood. He wanted to move, needed to move.

[Y/N] did so first. She rolled her hips down and before long Jaha was meeting her. They found a rhythm easier than usual. The usual was claws and teeth and grasping onto whatever they could. Here, Jaha had given up the reins. Heat swelled up between them. 

It was so soft and so warm. Jaha drove himself over and over and over into that heat, watching the way the skin of the woman's stomach buckled and moved.

He looked up, perhaps meaning to say something, but was distracted by the look he found on [Y/N]'s face. How empty it appeared at that moment. Their eyes met, but the woman only blinked.

Jaha wanted to bury himself inside. Would that draw out a reaction? Not just fucking, or fighting, but to live underneath that skin. There, he'd never be cold again, he was sure. How could he be, with someone to guide him from the storm?

Small hands went to grab the back of Jaha's arm, and that was all the warning he received before [Y/N] tightened around him. The minute movements in her expression, the clenching of her jaw, the too-fast blink of her eyelids. Jaha watched it all. The woman looked, for the first time since she had stripped herself, vulnerable. 

He should stop. Jaha knew well how [Y/N] must feel right now, oversensitive and spent. But there it was; the urge to gorge himself on it. [Y/N]'s ankle behind his back pulled him closer. If he didn't stop at this moment, he knew he was not going to be able to. 

"I–"

"Go on."

He thought he heard a sob, and then realized it must have been his own voice. A shudder wracked his body as he came–but shuddering from something other than cold felt so good. 

It hurt dully when he collapsed to the side. The blanket really was not very thick at all. As if on impulse, he gathered her up in his arms and pressed her bare body close. Jaha worried for a moment that it was going to earn him a smack, but it was only the cloak being pulled over both of them. The sounds of the blizzard filtered back to the forefront. Then there was oblivion inside, as there was outside.

The other team members were fine, only nearly cried when they saw the two of them return safe and sound. Whatever paperwork it would have been for [Y/N] if a few of them died under her watch, it would've probably been leagues worse if she and Jaha had died instead.

The village, when they finally reached it, was more elaborate than Jaha had expected. They had only lost half a day to travel, and with a clear weather report for the next few days, they should be able to make it on time.

That night, Jaha knocked on the door to [Y/N]'s suite. A maid opened it. Her forearms were damp and she had a wood bucket in her hand. She dismissed herself with a bow.

"So," Jaha said, taking a seat on the bed, "About that bath offer."

[Y/N] didn't look up. She was in front of the bathroom sink, undressing. Jaha walked up behind her and untucked her shirt. 

"It was you who offered if I recall correctly," [Y/N] said to the mirror.

"Yeah, but your bathroom's bigger. Perks of being a little more renowned than me."

"A little?"

The shirt fell to the tiled floor. [Y/N] turned to face him. Around her neck, she wore a necklace.

"Is this new?" He touched it with one hand, "I've never seen you wear it before."

It was long and wooden. He could see the lines of precise carvings on it. 

"Yeah," [Y/N] brought it to her lips, "Want to hear it?"

The sound was faint, high-pitched. It was made to echo off trees and call well-trained pups back home.

A dog whistle.

© yeri (@yerrenica) ⬦ do not repost, copy, translate, nothing. huhu, I've been gone for too long again, my baadd..... I have to posture here, though, that you can use oil (olive/canola/etc) as a way to wet tinder for fire. and if you didn't know, olive oil was historically used as lube. It's important to me to tell you that I didn't bs that.

[rootandrock]

There I was in a Circle doodling and note-taking in my "workbook" when I get The Vibe.

The Vibe is when one of the principle players in The Nocturnal Gatherings decides to nudge into my personal bubble. This nudge is, I think, another 'priest'. Certainly someone touched by Herself in a particular way, anyway. I am paraphrasing their words, because I get it as more of a "meaning" that my brain attempts to assign the best possible word choice to almost as fast as I get it. There's 'input lag', and a bias for sure, it's sometimes hard to convey the full spectrum of what I 'get'.

It is late, and my brain is half-asleep anyway, owed to a very loose border between the two states for me, so I lean a little more into "sleep" to tune in better.

"You're going to need to start writing the [grammar], and the [rites], and the methods for traversing the [badlands] to get to [the gathering place]." Says the Nudge.

Now, in this message I also get Jake Stratton-Kent's name, the word "Grimoire" (Which seems fairly self-evident... pick up their version of The True Grimoire, or maybe some of their other work) someone with a Swedish accent/low voice, saying "sigil", the image of beads being strung. A few more images like that, and those will take time to puzzle out.

"We'll assume I believe that this is genuine communication, and a genuinely communicated wish of the Whole of The Assembly and Herself. Then what is the meaning of doing those things?" I reply.

"You have heard most of the words, and found the right replacements when you couldn't. You found the right way - without losing the meaning - to leave behind the [parts that would cause genuine harm]. The [Ludo narrative, mytheme, mythic truth, 'dream logic', Magical Truth] is now good (as in "proper and useful" but also good as in "not harmful") enough to share."

As they say this I also get that their 'meaning' is intended to match how I describe my own 'traditional witch' as more of a literary tradition than a direct, physical, person-to-person, lineage due to the complications of spirit interactions just like this one. I also get flashes and bits of the things they're referencing that are harmful, and the mitigating factors I've employed.

So I take a second. I think hard about what I just picked up. "So, you're telling me y'all want me opening the way for more people...?"

"They will arrive either way. They sometimes come without being invited, and bring trouble [A flash of the visitor who got their head ripped off for rudeness]. Aren't you the [Image of a retriever gently offering a duck to a hunter]?"

"No, you know very well that if I am a dog I am far more the [Lurchers running down hogs, Border Collie directing a herd, Kangal soaked in blood]. Maybe I can show people how to shape and fashion the right keys, and prepare themselves the right way to gain entry into their version of the roads and ways? Maybe I can nip their heels to keep them walking in the right direction? And uh... keep the rabble out."

The Nudge is nodding slowly, but enthusiastically. "Even if they do not come to us, they go where they belong."

"Well, there's a tiny problem with that: You and I both know the writing would have to be a physically delivered medium, and the last four printing houses I talked to said no in the strongest possible terms with one of them threatening to send the prayer warriors... so..."

"[That sounds like a you problem.]" says The Nudge, and is gone.

Wow thanks.

[arminreindl]

Prehistoric Planet Croc Ideas

So this was a thing I did on Twitter in anticipation of Prehistoric Planet. Obviously crocs (in this case meaning crocodylomorphs) were a pretty massive part of earth's fauna during the late Cretaceous, and seeing as the first season featured NONE I came to speculate which taxa could hypothetically make an appearance. Now part of the challenge for myself was to come up with a new, interesting contender every day in anticipation of the show's release, each based around the confirmed episides we had and restricted purely to taxa from the Campanian and Maastrichtian. While it took a lot of energy, I did manage to do so. Hell, halfway through they dropped the reveal of Simosuchus, which I had saved for later.

Obviously we didn't get much still, but I'll regardless post my list of candidates and ideas here, perhaps third time's the charme for a lot of these (tho for convenience I'm still ordering them by S2s episode titles). I'll also try to break them apart roughly by biome, starting with islands. PS: I'd love to hear which crocs people would have loved to see themselves. Any on this list or stuff I didn't even mention? Let me know I'm curious.

We got a shit ton of island crocs from the Cretaceous actually, which you can broadly divide into two categories. The crocodiles of the European archipelago as seen in the top row. Featuring the small, possibly shellfish eating Acynodon (art by Adramelech89), the incredibly widespread Allodaposuchus which did have some possibly semi-terrestrial forms (art by Alejandro Blanco, Aina and Agnès Amblás) and Aprosuchus, a tiny terrestrial critter from Hateg (art by @knuppitalism-with-ue). They already give a nice diversity between tiny durophages with blunt snouts, large, more traditional crocs and lanky land species.

The other island category concerns Madagascar, which had a lot of attention in season 2. Discounting Simosuchus, we got Araripesuchus tsangatsangana (art by Scott Hartman) and Mahajangasuchus (art by Mark Hallet). Both are really cool. The former is yet another smaller terrestrial species that may not actually be part of Araripesuchus, while the later is a massive, 4 meter relative of the famous Kaprosuchus that took to the water independently from all other crocs and has been nicknamed "Hippo croc" for its weird skull. Really I'd have loved to seen an episode entirely dedicated to this place.

Next up we had the badlands episode, which oh boy has a lot of contenders from the clade Notosuchia. Brace yourself.

Here again I could split these in two categories. The first is just general badland taxa. There's Ogresuchus for example, from Spain's Tremp Formation (art by Aina and Agnès Amblás). A relatively small sebecid found in a sauropod nesting site. And we all know what PhP does with baby sauropods. Or the long-necked Gobiosuchus (art by @yoofilos) from Mongolia, which may look like its related to the other ones in this category but actually is a far more ancient type of croc.

The far bigger group concerns South America's Notosuchians. ALL OF THESE are from the Bauru Group, with some even from the same single formation. You got Stratiotosuchus (again by Joschua Knüppe), a large terrestrial baurusuchid that filled the nische of mid sized carnivore in an environment shared by sauropods and abelisaurs. There's Pissarrachampsa (by Felipe Alves Elias), another baurusuchid I decided to feature because we have evidence of a nesting site that shows they only had few eggs. A great opportunity to show their tender side. Uberabasuchus (justin_an74), part of the bizzarly proportioned peirosaurids. Adamantinasuchus (by Deverson da Silva), a small, lanky Notosuchian and of course the heavily armored omnivore Armadillosuchus (by the ever talented Júlia d'Oliveira). Hell you could do a full episode just on the foodweb of the Bauru Group (Godoy et al. 2014).

Then there's swamps, which I'll just use to dump all the crocs that don't fit into the other categories.

As you'd expect, freshwater would be ideal for crocs with a more traditional semi-aquatic lifestyle, here represented by three forms. Jiangxisuchus (image by Li et al. 2014) is a paralligatorid, which are tiny crocodilians from the Cretaceous and Paleogene of east Asia. We honestly don't know what they are, some say alligator relatives, others say they are closer to crocs. But its small and cute. Then there's Roxochampsa (artist of the model I couldn't find), which looks suspiciously crocodilian but is actually a relative of Uberabasuchus from the badlands, hell it appeared in the same formation. Still, I reasoned that I'd throw it into this category because I already proposed so much for badlands (none of which came true but hey). And then there's Denazinosuchus (art by Andrey Atuchin). Again it looks deceptively like a modern croc, but is actually the last remnant of the goniopholids, crocodyliforms that were prominent animals in the Jurassic and early Cretaceous. It could have brought both taxonomic diversity nad highlighted croc resilience till the end.

When it came to picking out crocs for Oceans, it got tricky. Obviously season 2 tried to differentiate itself by being set more in the open ocean, not the coast, and true pelagic crocodiles weren't around by the end of the Cretaceous. So I had to settle for coastal animals. There's Sabinosuchus (Schiller II et al. 2016), a cousin to Sarcosuchus and, like Denazinosuchus, one of the last of its lineage. Also its from Mexico which is rarely talked about for its fossils. Rhabdognathus (Ghedoghedo) is a distant cousin, a slender snouted dyrosaur. Unlike pholidosaurs, dyrosaurs actually did really well after the KPG impact and spread around a lot, living way into the Eocene. And finally Chenanisuchus (art by artbyjrc), which like Rhabdognathus was found both before and after the impact that killed the dinosaurs.

And the final two I shall talk about, both of which I thought/hoped would appear in the North America episode. Again, there's certainly overlap, both would have just as much fit into swamps, while many others would have also suited North America. Regardless, here's Brachychampsa (Tom Parker) and Borealosuchus (Chris Masna), both iconic animals from the Hell Creek Formation. One closely allied with alligators and caimans, the other more basal with a head-shape more similar to todays crocodiles.

Now obviously there'd have been a lot more. Part of the challenge to myself was to try and be as diverse as possible, rather than just listing 10 different baurusuchids I went with only two, tried to include as much of the world as possible, etc.... There's also the fact that some really awesome taxa, Titanochampsa, Brachiosuchus and Eurycephalosuchus, all incredibly unique or interesting, were published too late to have been considered for the show. And now, in hinsight, we obviously know that with the exception of Simosuchus none of them made it in. Which is a shame, but maybe next time.

[penvisions]

dev writes {{masterlist}}

hello hello! this is all still so new to me, to be positng fic on tumblr. i’ve had an ao3 account for years so i figured why not migrate things over here as well! share it with more people c: these are the pieces i’ve been working on the last few months, i’m really excited to share them with y’all

they are self indulfgent to an extent, but that’s a part of life, no? i hope they bring something to you if you decide to check them out!

any and all likes, reblogs, comments, asks, shoutouts are so so greatly appreciated ♡ please feel free to reach out if you feel so inclined ♡ i’d be happy to chat with y’all

The Last of US (TLOU) - Joel Miller x Reader

Summary: You may have been young when the world fell, but you adapted with all the challenges that come with trying to survive. You spent your time doing runs out in the badlands beyond the QZ walls to ensure people had little pleasures to keep them going. You were dropping off some medical supplies that FEDRA was willing to pay big for when you got tangled up in a mission that involves a teenager with a mouth almost as smart as yours and gruff older man whose graying curls were his only redeeming quality. But the longer you traveled with them and the more that happened out in the open land of what once was, the more you find yourself connecting with them and wanting to protect them both at any cost.

ao3 link || masterlist 

Summary: The longer, more dangerous patrol routes around Jackson are designated to you and one Joel Miller. You both have an understanding with each other, talking wasn’t the biggest concern for either of you, but being confident in each other was. He wasn’t a bad friend in your scavenged life, but then again you were beginning to think you didn’t want to be just his friend…and that’s got you more than a little sexually frustrated.

ao3 link || direct link 

Summary: You were the supervising bartender that happened to be the only person brave enough to offer help in the kitchen when they find themselves short staffed with some no call, no shows. But Joel Miller doesn’t want some floozy who doesn’t know the first thing about food in his kitchen. He makes it clear, but the tension between you two only heightens when you show him up and he realized that you do know what you’re doing. It’s driving him up the wall to see you in his kitchen, in his space day in and day out. But he needs the help and you’re so willing to give it to him. 

sneakie peek || sneakie peek 2

Triple Frontier - Frankie Morales x Baker! Reader (ex EMT! reader)

Summary: Running from the past to a new city gave you the perfect opportunity to open your own bakery. You're a regular at Brass Knuckles, and the owner is the right type of friendly you need in your life. Along with him, comes his group of friends, one Frankie Morales. You develop a crush on him nearly instantly. Can you manage to get your head above water long enough to tell him he's the most gorgeous man you've ever met?

ao3 link || masterlist 

The Mandalorian - Din Djarin x Force Sensitive! Reader

Summary: You’ve been on the run for as long as you can remember, from a lot of different people and a lot of different things. Everyone seems to see you as either a prize to show off or a captive to exploit. You had been successful in keeping a low profile and evading brief captures. That is until your mother contracted the Guild and the Mandalorian came to possess your tracking fob. Will he be the reason your freedom is no longer something attainable or will he be the one to help you achieve it in ways you never anticipated? 

ao3 link || masterlist

rough summary || sneakie peek || sneakie peek no. 2 || sneakie peek no. 3

Narcos - Javier Peña x DEA Agent! Reader 

summary: You’ve been in Columbia for a few years, having family ties that allowed for the trasnfer from CA to be easier to leave your old life behind. You’ve kept your head down and your plate full until you get paired with Steve and his partner to help tag an elusive informant. That’s when things get complicated both at work and in your personal life. But you’ll be the first to admit that the notorious pair don’t have any power over you, until you’re actually faced with seeing them day to day. 

sneakie peek

[rosainta]

Day 3 of Rosain Quivan’s Daily Logs

Started December 9th, 2023 at 8:28PM, Home

Finished December 9th, 2023 at 11:33PM, Home

Log #3

Author’s Notes: Thank you for your support on the last log! I'm happy you enjoyed it, as unrefined as it was, but hopefully you'll enjoy this next one too. I want to keep these A/N's short as to have more time to write, and also to practice being more concise since that has been one of the challenges I've had with writing for a while now, so I'll just head straight on with it. This next one is an attempt at writing a chapter of an atmospheric story revolving around Medic and Heavy, of their blossoming friendship and maybe something more... up to you to decide! ;-) (The next log will be a Part Two to this, as the idea I have in mind is quite long, but feel free to leave your predictions down below!)

Title: King of Hearts (Part One) Fandom: Team Fortress 2 New Mexico, Badlands, Teufort City, The Cap Point 6:30PM, sometime during the Gravel War

"Ah, and here we are!"

The ambulance backs up into an empty lot, sealing its usual spot in the sea of other vehicles. Though the unusual choice of transport was initially an oddity, its frequent visits to this particular establishment had become so normal that no one bothered to question its presence anymore. The engine sputters to a stop, and its two unorthodox passengers hop out; the stalwart Heavy and the eccentric Medic, the iconic, unconventional yet unstoppable duo of the Badlands.

"Is good to be back, " the burly Russian exclaims, giving his comrade a hearty pat on the back as he slams the door of the ambulance. The latter grins, returning the gesture and slamming his own equally as loud.

"Yes, and it is good to have you back, mein friend! I don't doubt that the others will think ze same."

Heavy leads the way, the duo making their way towards the side of the building. Its dim neon lights glimmer in the darkening sky, creating a mixed atmosphere of class and risky fun. With the nighttime wind chills slowly falling upon them, the two quicken their pace and turn the corner. In front of them in big, shining yellow letters is a sign that reads: "The Cap Point - Teufort City's Best Bar & Tabletop Game Experience"

Heavy stops in place for a moment, looking up at the glowing signage above them. "Do you think little lady will be there?", he asks quietly.

"Pauling? Oh, I highly doubt it. Poor woman, always so busy with her work all ze time", the doctor replies, shaking his head.

"Is shame. Would have liked to challenge woman at poker; she always knows when I am bluffing", the big man chuckles to himself.

"Hah! Maybe it's because you can barely keep a straight face when you lie; your eyebrows always seem to lift up like springs, a bit like zis;"

Medic's eyes furrow, then arch into an exaggerated expression of surprise, mouth slightly agape for emphasis. Heavy scoffs, a smirk playing at his lips as he playfully crosses his arms.

"Now is doktor's turn to bluff; Heavy does not do that when lying. Heavy has excellent poker face, see?"

Heavy's face deadpans, his amused face suddenly turning cold. Medic's face, however, only grins with mischief, like that of a Cheshire cat.

"Is zat so? Well then, can you tell me where the whereabouts of my strudel from last night might be?", he asks teasingly.

Heavy's deadpan expression falters and, well, don't you know, so do his eyebrows, lifting themselves high enough they could touch the stars. Abashed, Heavy looks away to the doorways of the building, speedily turning to walk away from the sly practitioner.

"Heavy knows nothing of that, apologies", he says finally, quickly walking through the doorway. Medic laughs, satisfied with himself, and trails behind him.

As soon as they enter the establishment, they are greeted with the familiar, loud, cozy atmosphere of the bar. Various customers fill the many tables placed around the room, the bartop buzzing with animated chatter and cheery banter. Tom Jones's infamous "Sexbomb" booms on the radios, and a game of billiards is being played with such vigour at the back that you could hear the yells of the players resonate throughout the entire building. As usual, it emanates from its typical suspects.

"You've gotta be freakin' kiddin' me! What the hell is wrong with you?", a high, brash voice cries out.

"Scout, it isn't my fault that your embarassing lack of competence at breaking has made it difficult for either of us to score a point", a lower voice replies with a nasty sneer.

"Oh yeah? Well, how do you explain that the drunkest person on Earth and a wannabe American hero have scored more than you have the entire night?"

"Maybe because they had some sense to not stay on a team with a man in his twenties who can barely read!"

"Crikey, would the both of you just stop bloody bickerin'? Some of us here are actually tryin' to enjoy the game," a third gruff individual reacts.

"Shut up, this doesn't concern you!", the first two voices yell back.

Heavy laughs softly. "Looks like little men are having fun."

"Ja, why don't we go join in on ze experience?"

The two make stride across the bar, the shorter of the two men happily waving to the bartender on their way there. When they get there, the argument dies down and is instead replaced with curious excitement.

"Ey, long time no see, fat man!", Scout, the supposed incompetent breaker, exclaims.

"Ah, Heavy, it is a pleasure to see you again", Spy, the snarky Frenchman, says. "How was your trip to Siberia?"

"Was good, thank you. Is always good to see family."

Heavy takes a seat at the table next to Sniper, the attempted argument breaker, and signals for a waitress. Medic strikes up a conversation with Soldier and Demoman in the corner, excitedly babbling on about human heads, to which both of them join in without hesitation.

"One vodka", he orders, "and one sparkling water for doktor, please. Don't worry, I pay."

The lady smiles and nods, walking away to retrieve their drinks. Sniper smirks, surprised.

"Just got back and you're already feeling charitable, mate? Didn't your trip cost you enough?", Sniper laughs.

"Heavy does not mind. Doktor was there to meet Heavy at airport and buy him favourite food, so Heavy pay doktor back", he replies, matter-of-factly.

Sniper shifts in his seat, his smirk converting to a genuine smile of admiration. "Wow, it must be pretty nice havin' a good chum like the doc, huh?"

"Yes, is nice. Medic and I always nice together", Heavy says, returning the smile and turn to his friend.

From the corner of his view, he sees the Medic return his gaze and nod, a slight smile on his face and a grateful expression, before he returns to his own discussion.

The Australian takes a gulp of his martini and leans backwards in his chair, allowing himself to ease up in the comfort of the seat. He notices Heavy still looking at his friend in the corner, his expression content like that of one in a warm blanket. He scratches at the slight stubble on his chin, still observing him with intrigue.

"Say, why don't you tell me more about your friendship with our happy healer here? Seems like you two get along better than the rest of us mercs," Sniper says, adjusting his hat to better glimpse at the gentle giant before him.

Heavy looks back at the Australian and chortles, sliding his hand over the back of his head. "Ah, is very long story. Dok and I go way back, even before we became mercenary. You sure you want to hear all of it?"

"Sure, let's have a go at it. Probably be a lot more entertainin' than watching these two buggers argue the entire night", he sighs, loosely gesturing at the father-son duo as the tension begins to spark the flame of another petty anger-fest.

Heavy nods, understanding. He puts his bulky arms on the table and fully faces the marksman, inadvertedly causing the table and the fragile martini glass on it to shake a little, but neither seem to notice.

"Well", he begins, "it all starts when I first begin to live in Siberian Mountains with family, after escaping shoot-out in Gulag..."

To be continued in RQDL 4...

Credits: Team Fortress 2 by Valve Image source: Team Fortress 2 Written by Rosain Quivan Cross posted on Amino ( Rosain Quivan )

[titanic-toa]

Toa

So, there were six of them in total it seemed. Having spoken with the Turaga Nokama, Gali was directed towards the center of the island where she encountered a strange temple like shrine building, where five similarly sized being awaited her. She was told there were probably be six of them in total but she hadn't expected to be the only woman of the group, though it didn't seem like that made an impact on their treatment of her.

It looked like she was the last one to arrive, the red one and the white one seemed to be arguing with each other about... something, possibly deciding who might be the leader of the group? Approaching the group they paused for a moment to acknowledge her presence and then immediately resumed their bickering. The other three were Brown, Black, and Green, seemingly talking among themselves and trying to ignore the fight going on. The Toa colored a midnight black would turn to her and flash a beaming smile as she approached, clapping strong on her shoulder almost making her stumble. "Sister! I was wondering when you would arrive! My Turaga told me there would be six of us, so nice of you to join us. Ignore those two, they've been at this for half an hour now." He gestured towards the Red one. "Tahu there, our hot headed brother, has determined that HE ought the be in charge." He then gestured towards the snow white Toa. "Whereas Kopaka, our ice cold sibling here, is suggesting we each just our own way."

Gali immediately brought her hands to her head and rubbed her temple, this was going to be long and tiring introduction. The black Toa released her shoulder but kept smiling as he spoke. "I'm Onua! Toa of Earth and guardian of the archives of Onu-Koro! And this is..." With that he'd stand aside and sweep an arm out to the other two Toa, the Green one stepping forth enthusiastically to introduce himself. "Well said! Happy to see you're not as prone to anger-shouting like the firespitter there!" He also gestured to Tahu. "I'm Lewa, Toa-Hero of Le-Koro and guardian of the Tree-Bright!" He stepped forward and gave Gali an firm hug. While embraced, Gali shot a look towards Onua who returned the same look, neither one seemed to understand what Lewa was saying.

As soon as Lewa released her, he stepped aside and let the brown Toa approach, he seemed just happy and confident as Onua. "Ah our sister of water, pleasure to meet you! I'm Pohatu, the Toa of Stone and sprinter across the plains of the badlands, if you ever need news spread Po-koro has your back." Wow his hand shake was strong, made sense for someone who worked with stone. "Though I don't think I'll be visiting your Koro too much, stones and water don't exactly mix you know."

Gali giggled softly at the joke, nodding in understanding. "Well it's a pleasure to meet you all as well, including..." She looked towards Tahu and Kopaka, whose argument seemed to have peaked at a point where they were about ready to just storm off. "Our two predisposed brothers." With a heavy sigh, she stepped past the trio that welcomed her and walked up between her fire and ice brothers. "Alright, I don't know what started this argument but it ends now. I've seen enough to know that each of us cares for our Koro and our people and we ALL want to help." She emphasized this staring at Kopaka. "However, we should do this as a TEAM, working TOGETHER." She raised her voice, eyes locked with Tahu and then back to Kopaka. "In fighting when we first gets us nowhere closer to doing anything to better ourselves or our people. Agreed?"

There was a silence between the six, but Onua, Lewa, and Pohatu were looking on with a combination of amazement and smug satisfaction at their sister's negotiation ability. Eventually Tahu and Kopaka would grumble and nod in agreement with Gali's words before walking over to join the others. With another sigh Gali was relieved that her gamble worked. This was going to be quite the tight she'd have to walk, and our job as mediator was only just beginning.

[reallyghostlypost]

Headcanon about the mines

I'm writing a fic about how Marlon decided to recruit Thad for the Guild but realized that I ended up infodumping too much about the mines, so I'm posting this separately.

Marlon started walking towards the mine, still deep in thought. He hated this but he'll have to ask Camilla for help again, even if he knew she could barely spare her own fighters. But maybe he could handle the monsters here on his own a little longer… maybe they'll figure something out for the spreading corruption in the Badlands… maybe something will go in their favour for once… He finally reached the entrance of the mines, trying to clear his thoughts and focus. But then he suddenly stopped. There was a small light at the back of the room shining through the pitch darkness.

He entered the cave slowly and carefully, scanning the room as much as his glow ring allowed him, ears straining to catch any unusual sound. After a few tense steps the small light was revealed to be the elevator panel. Marlon frowned, why was the elevator working? The thing hasn't been functional in decades… It hasn't been repaired since the 'the accident', when it became obvious that despite it's abundance of riches the Corneal Mine was too dangerous to exploit, even with all the precautions. So in the end the mine was abandoned and left to rot. The elevator doors got blocked off over time, complicating the situation. A few of the lower doors got caved in after the explosion, and over time, as it became harder and harder to descend into the depths due to the increasing number of monsters, one by one the rest of the doors were somehow lost.

How this happened is still controversial. It almost looked like the monsters themselves were blocking the doors on purpose, trying to stop anyone from reaching them. At first they assumed it was the shadow people, recognized as the only intelligent monster species. But as the doors started to get blocked higher up in the mines, the adventuring community got more agitated. Shadow people couldn't go this far up. It was too cold there for them and the ice was refracting light to the point where it was too strong for creatures made of darkness to stand. Even if they would venture a little higher to block one or two more doors it was eventually obvious that they couldn't be responsible for every destroyed door.

The idea that other monsters could be smart enough to do this was mocked. No other monsters showed this type of intelligence before, even on the battlefield when their life was in danger, even when adventurers would go to kill entire nests or clans and monsters fought to defend their young. The idea that the monsters were becoming more intelligent was too scary for many to consider, so the theory was rejected every time it was brought up. Even now, many mages and adventurers were still trying to find an explanation for this.

Rogue dark mages were blamed by a few people, especially since the Corneal Mountains, with plenty of caves and ravines, were often used by dark wizards and witches as hiding places. But aside from the dark magic inherent to the mines, and Magnus's wards, there was no other magic on the doors or anywhere else inside the mines. There were also no signs of rituals. The odd force Magnus reported, the one that would mess his wards up, was also blamed. But with no signs of someone tampering with the mines or the wards it was eventually dismissed as some unusual property of the cave's weird magic. It could simply be a coincidence, and it only looked like something was targeting the doors one by one, but everyone in this business learned a long time ago to never trust coincidences.

Still, even if the elevator was really useful for the guild no one tried to repair it. No one wanted to risk throwing their back in such a dangerous area to try and dig the doors out of under the rubble. And after years of not being used it was assumed the elevator broke due to a lack of maintenance. But the elevator now looked fully functional. Who would try this?

[timaeusterrored]

I'm gonna leave this here for when you have the strength and mood to answer it:

Can we have some more of Vax's adolescence, or perhaps something about how he changed around Mama Welles and Vik? You mentioned addiction and my brain hasn't shut up ever since 👀

Stay frosty 💜

☄��🐉

Me screaming because I love love love talking about Vax, no matter how many OCs I make for this damn game Vax will always be number one💗❤️✨

So I’ve thought about how I’m gonna answer this, and decided to give a general time line of how I’ve seen and thought about Vax’s childhood.

So, born 2049, Vax was born to Melissa Kane with his twin sister Vex. They were born identical, but Vax came out as trans around the age of 13, and changed his name to Vax Florence Kane. They spent years in and out of homes and squats until around the age of 13 as well, when Vax started stealing and pickpocketing for money (have a hilarious moment were he steals from Kovachek, Kerry’s manager), until the infamous age of 15.

15 is when he got into his physical fight with Low, and got the scar over his eye. Viktor Vektor found the twins huddled together after, holding each other close. Obviously Vax wasn’t the most trusting at first, not trusting this man to help. But after some convincing and Vex saying it would be okay, they went with him so Vax didn’t lose his eye. (Also Vex is pregnant with Victoria at this time, and has her a little after the twins turn sixteen). After Vex as her baby, she disappears. And Vax finds her years later working for Arasaka. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Sixteen is when Vax starts taking a notice in merc work. Vik a little iffy at first, but then takes Vax out to the badlands to shoot his first gun. Vik teaches him to shoot, box, fix cars, and is even the reason V is into Samurai and Kerry Eurodyne during his teen years. He really steps up into the Dad role without even realizing it.

(Tw: Vax’s life goes to shit here)

17 is when shit really goes down and stays down until V meets the Welles. It’s the first time he gets introduced to drugs without Vik being there to stop him. It gets him into some serious trouble with some dealers that end up kidnapping him. It’s then the first time Vax meets Rogue, who Vik went too for help. Due to massive College Au Spoilers I cannot share, Rogue agrees to help the panicked father in helping him find his son. She finds Vax wandering a the streets with a body face that’s not his own and smelling of fire. When she touches him he freaks out until he realizes she’s there to help him. And she finds a scared boy high out of his mind and a burnt hand.

She takes him back to Vik and the two embrace and Vik cleans him up and his hand. The drugs seem to get worse after that, like V is trying to forget whatever happened in that warehouse. Around the age of 20 is when he goes to Atlanta to try and turn his life around. It doesn’t work, and he comes back a year later. And the night he comes back, who does he meet? Jackie Welles.

Mama Welles knows what’s going down the second she sees V, and also knows this is Vik’s kid. She calls him and tells him she has him, and she’s gonna try to get him clean. Vik feels he’s failed his boy but Mama Welles shuts that down and tells him to just be patient.

V was ashamed as to what he had done to himself and found it hard to face Vik, which is why he disappeared like he did. Even sleeping on Mama Welles’s couch felt like he was intruding. But they helped, Jackie became Vax’s partner in the merc world, the two slowly making a name for themselves. Becoming brothers and making a family out of the four of them.

It’d be a same if anything bad happened to them👀

[mrssimply]

6th: Heat

I decided to do a fic advent calendar this year, and idea that was given to me by Bones a.k.a Riots from the Totentanz Discord Server.

You can find the prompt list here.

Every fic will be posted on my AO3 Account here.

This prompt was given to me by @m-lter again :D. Her prompt was: "Johnny/V/Kerry and sexual comedy? Just ridiculous or stupid situations happening to them before, during or after having sex. Anything that might be embarrassing and funny to look back on."

If I were to describe this fic in one sentence I would say: it gets hot before it gets hot.

Mind the cut, because we dive pretty fast into the smut ;p

When Kerry gets home after a long meeting with the label, his only wish is for a drink, and the sweet Blow Spector provides him that makes him float blissfully for hours.

He groans when he sees the Porsche parked in front of the Villa: he loves his inputs, but they’re also high maintenance, and today he has no patience. Together, they get into a lot of crazy shenanigans, be it jobs of just having a drive in the badlands, and if at least one of them doesn’t come home bruised they consider it a bad day.

Sometimes, Kerry really feels the age difference between them. More than half the time, it makes him feel young and alive, because he’s never been happier than now even if there are still some bad days. The rest of the time he feels like the unfortunate owner of a puppy and a feral cat yapping, hissing and zooming after one another. 

He enters the house wondering how he will find them. Maybe with bloody teeth, grinning at each other as they clean themselves, happy to have bested gang members or corpo armies. Or maybe making a mess on the couches while eating pizza, Johnny trying to steal V’s and V hoarding his with mean eyes. Kerry doesn’t know if it’s a leftover from his time on the streets, but V really turns into a wild animal when someone tries to take his food. 

Another option is to find them mid-fuck, because they’re young and constantly horny, especially Johnny. Hell, Kerry has a great libido for a man his age, but now he likes to savor one great orgasm more than a series of average ones, so it’s good there are two of them because they clearly need all their stamina to get him what he wants. And in between, they can play with each other while he recovers from mind blowing climaxes.

It all works well in the end.

The house is mostly silent, which is surprising. Maybe they are napping, because they didn’t sleep last night, going from the club where they partied directly on a job in the wee hours of morning, riding on a wave of stims and coffee while Kerry made his way back home to luxuriate in his giant bed. They had to buy a new one, cause Kerry likes to sprawl while he sleeps, and the other two are no better.

Getting rid of his boots, he detours by the kitchen for a drink of water — because his body is a temple — and then decides to take a shower. After that, since the mansion is still silent, he hikes up the stairs to the bedroom and indeed, they’re sprawled naked on the sheets. The setting sun bathes them in orange and pink hues that reflect on their cyberware. Johnny’s new arm is sleeker and shinier, and under the bright warm light, it looks like molten bronze.

Curled around each other, they look peaceful, so Kerry gently lowers himself on the bed, careful not to wake them up. No such luck. Dark irises snap open and blink twice, a third time, before focusing on him. V’s face does that really cute thing where it lights up into a beaming smile. It makes Kerry feel so loved when he does that. 

“Hey,” V mouths and Kerry can’t resist bending towards him to land a soft kiss on his stretched lips. V hums, licks the spot that has just been kissed and tilts his head for more.

Lazily, Kerry gives him what he wants between teasing bites. Soon, he has the young merc whining and keening in frustration, straining for more contact. Behind him, Johnny shifts, groans, curls up tighter against his back before relaxing. Kerry glances at him before shuffling closer to let V have him more fully. The merc doesn’t hesitate, he takes: He pulls Kerry in by his nape and hungrily licks into his mouth with a satisfied noise.

Half a minute later, they’re grinding against each other, Kerry’s thigh pressed between V’s legs as the young man continues to devour him. They both feel Johnny stir awake. Slowly, like a cat, he stretches, tension making him shiver before he relaxes with a long grunt. Then, his attention perks up when he discovers what they’re doing. 

The other two pause, V glancing at him over his shoulder.

“Look who came back!”

Johnny hums, still not totally awake and Kerry chuckles, brushes a lock of hair behind his ear, only for his hand to be caught gently, and his wrist kissed. 

Impatiently, V brings Kerry’s attention back to him, moving to slot them tighter so he can rut against Kerry’s thigh harder. Harder is also what his cock is becoming by the minute, making Kerry huffs in mock exasperation.

“Oh c’mon, you can’t complain, you started it,” V whines.

“I’m not complaining, and I didn’t start it, I just kissed you,” Kerry replies between two soft caresses of lips against his.

“Yeah, exactly,” V concludes before rolling on top of Kerry to properly thrust against him. They both moan and Kerry spreads his legs to welcome V into the cradle of his loins. Kerry is not even halfway hard, but he can probably get behind the program sooner rather than later. The merc pushes on his forearms and pants softly against his mouth as he rocks against him.

Next to them, Johnny is yawning as he watches them, eyes blinking lazily like he’s still hesitating between sleep and what they’re offering. He pushes on his chrome arm to look at them better and licks his dry lips. 

Kerry mischievously winks at him and grinds up against V, making him shiver and whine under Johnny’s attentive eyes. The merc snaps his hips down and catches Kerry’s hair in one hand like a warning.

“Stop that or I’ll fuck you hard and fast.”

“Such a threat,” Kerry comments sarcastically.

“What, you don’t want it slow and tender like the old romantic rocker you are?”

“I’m not old!”

V just grins at him and cuts any complaint with another kiss. That one is languid, deep and teasing alternatively and he doesn’t stop until Kerry is shivering and straining to get more. With a chuckle that rumbles through his chest, V leans back.

“So, how do you want it? Want us to take turns filling you up? Make you come only when you can’t take it anymore?” he whispers just loud enough for Johnny to hear it. Predictably, the man groans in approval and moves to kneel up.

Kerry smiles and brushes his thumbs against V’s temples.

“Yeah, do that. Use me until I forget how much I fucking hate meetings with my label.”

Johnny snorts behind V, his chrome hand drifting from between the merc’s shoulders downward, stopping just on his tailbone. V arches his back in invitation.

“Not that easy, you hate them pretty hard,” the resurrected rocker says.

“Then try your best.”

Johnny shrugs with a cocky smile, and the look is as infuriating as it is hot on his face. Meanwhile, V has gone from kissing Kerry’s jaw to his pectorals, biting and sucking his nipples one after the other until they’re stiff. He takes his time, teasing, making detours only to come back for another taste. It works really great on Kerry, who is arching and pushing up against him with a whine.

“I want you to fuck him while he fucks me,” the superstar declares when Johnny has coated his hand with lube. V shivers and keens before nodding enthusiastically. “ I want you to make him come inside me, and continue fucking him until you’re right on the edge.”

“And come inside you,” Johnny guesses. He knows Kerry pretty well by now: he is a glutton for attention. He needs to have all hands, all mouths, all cocks and every drop of cum on him.

“‘xactly.”

“You’re becoming predictable,” Johnny comments casually, like his cock didn’t twitch hard at the suggestion. His skin is flushed, and his movements are jerkier due to the impatience, so Kerry just grins at him.

When Johnny starts teasing V’s rim with a finger, the merc moans and starts sucking on Kerry’s tit harder, biting it until it nearly hurts before relenting and licking it with the tip of his tongue. They’re both moving in sync, rocking leisurely against one another.

Kerry feels the tension rise inside of V, and inside of Johnny by ricochet. They’re still very much attuned, sometimes it feels like they’re still sharing a mind. Biting his lip, Johnny slaps V’s cheek with his free hand, the chrome one, making the merc jerk forward with a gutted moan. He curves his back, presents his ass to Johnny for another one, which he receives on the same cheek. Kerry doesn’t let him get distracted from his worship of his nipples, bringing his mouth back on the other.  They both moan when V bites it as another slaps echoes in the room.

“Fuck, enough,” Johnny growls after yet another slap, taking his fingers back to coat his dick. He throws the lube to Kerry with a meaningful look before grabbing V’s hips, pulling him on all four. 

“Oh yeah,” the merc approves, now at the perfect level to suck Kerry’s cock. It derails the superstar from his own preparation, but V has such a talented mouth it would be a shame not to use it. The young man moans around the hard shaft as Johnny penetrates him with a few little thrusts, followed by a long final one. He curses as he bottoms out and stills, pretending to give V a moment to adjust where they all know Johnny just loves the sensation of being buried deep into them, the first penetration being always particularly intense for him.

He starts moving, angling his hips just right until V can’t concentrate on what he’s doing and just pants wetly above Kerry’s cock, sometimes giving it a little lick. Chuckling, the musician retakes the lube, this time to prepare himself. The tube feels strange in his hand, and when he opens it, a strong smell of wintergreen and eucalyptus fills the air. He looks down at it and freezes.

“Fuck, stop!” he tells his inputs. Johnny groans and his hands momentarily tighten over V’s hips, expressing his reluctance at the idea of stopping, but V, always the obedient one, stills.

He frowns when he sees Kerry’s expression.

“That’s not lube, Johnny!” The musician informs them with wide eyes.

The man frowns, but now that he’s not moving inside V, he can tell something is not totally right.

“You used the massage oil for V’s shoulder sprain!” Kerry continues, pushing them off him.

It’s a medical massage cream, full of relaxing and heating products, and as such, it has a warming effect vastly superior to what’s recommended for the sensitive parts they used it on.

V’s eyes widens as he finally registers the sensation of heat spreading inside of him, but not the good sensual kind, more like a rash. Johnny looks frozen on the spot, looking at his hand like he can see the powerful herbal essences spreading on him. He can certainly feel them as his cock starts to burn.

“Go wash it off!” Kerry orders and watches them scramble up. They are ridiculous, still hard, running down the stairs to get to the bathroom with twin grimaces on their faces. As they disappear, Kerry feels laughter buble inside of him.

When it starts, he’s helpless to stop as he replays their stricken expressions in his mind. He wishes he could have taken a picture. After a moment, when he has his laughter more or less under control, he gets up to follow them.

In the shower, they’re throwing accusations at each other.

“Why did you left it there, right next to the fucking lube?!” Johnny growls as he angles his cock under the spray.

“Coudn’t you just use your eyes, fuck it burns!” V whines, fingers deep in his ass and trying to get the oil out. 

“Shit, it feels worse and worse!”

“Yeah well, it gets stronger the more you rub it in,” V explains, “and you rubbed it inside of me alright with your fucking cock, god I really hate your cock.”

For once, Johnny doesn’t have a retort, he just winces.

Kerry really tries to contain his hilarity, but it’s hopeless when Johnny starts shifting from one foot to the other. He just can’t, when V is now bent all the way, trying to expose his hole to the shower spray.

They both glare at him, but he doesn’t care and lets out another guffaw.

“I’m sorry,” he tries to say between two hiccups.

“Fuck you, Kerry,” they say in unisson and the rocker decides to leave the room to try and be nice. 

He’s not out for long, though.

“Kerry! Kerry I think Johnny is having an allergic reaction!”

Kerry accompanies the doc to the door and exchanges pleasantries with her for a moment before shutting the door as she gets into her cab. He rests his head against the frame for a moment before snickering. 

Now that the crisis is managed, he can enjoy the comic of the situation in peace.

Johnny’s cock truly achieved epic proportions: it doubled in size, colored in an angry red that looked really painful, and apparently was. A few good jokes wafted through Kerry’s mind as he watched the doctor’s hands on it while she did her examination. For once, having a pretty woman’s hands on his cock did nothing to Johnny. He refused to look at it the whole time, like he was vexed that the thing had failed him like this.

Kerry remembers when, as he called the doc, Johnny cried out about how it was gonna explode, and lets out another burst of laughter. He replays in his mind the way V panicked, still dealing with his own burning asshole, and went to the fridge to take ice cubes before pouring them over Johnny’s lap.

The man jumped in reaction, throwing ice cubes everywhere and promptly punching V in the face, nearly knocking him out. It was, he explained later, a knee jerk reaction and not a conscious action but V still glared at him, an ice pack over his black eye.

Kerry bites his hand to stifle his giggles and takes another minute to compose himself before hiking back upstairs to the lounge where Johnny and V elected residence for the time being. Apparently, they couldn’t quite get back to the bed, yet.

They’re both sprawled on bean bags, legs open wide out like manspreading is back in fashion. V is sort of crouching, knees against his chest in a way that reminds Kerry of those dramatic summers back in the 20’s when people tried to tan their assholes. Johnny has both hands behind his head to prevent himself from touching his cock. It’s back to its normal size but it’s still quite red. The doc said it would be fine in no time, no complications, and that the redness is just due to the inflammation, but the cream she diligently put on him ought to deal with that within a few hours. 

They’re both scowling and looking at the view of Night City like it has personally offended them. Taking pity on them, Kerry comes closer and lands a kiss on V’s forehead before going to Johnny.

“Do you wanna watch something? I could bring the laptop,” he offers.

They don’t reply, and their melancholic states seem to deepen, which only makes him laugh again with fondness. They both glare at him.

“Aw, c’mon, it was funny.”

“I nearly lost my cock,” Johnny says, forcing Kerry to really bite on his cheek because he sounds absolutely serious.

“I’m traumatized for life,” V adds with a haunted expression. 

With a sigh, Kerry sits on the couch behind them, trying to be supportive and utterly failing. A minute later, he’s texting Rogue and Nancy about it, and they find it just as hilarious as he does.

[streetkid-named-desire]

Okay so I'm thinking of giving up on the fifth corpo war sequel because it's too big for me to figure out and it will just be like hand waved away as something that is settled while they're gone.

So for the sequel that I'm gonna write for Nanowrimo then

- wedding

- instead of militech assassins as originally planned it's going to be some out of town raffen mercs hired by extremists in the Merari and Gershon families that learned she was alive. When they had heard the Cohen family was slaughtered they both disbanded the clan to try to start their own. They were each split into two factions: those still loyal to the Cohen clan and those only loyal to themselves.

- Arnie and Greta reveal that Miriam Cohen, her cousin, is still alive. After the massacre she escaped to NC, found Arnie and Greta, and had been finding work as a volunteer medic in the poorer areas of Heywood. With at least one more Cohen left alive, Arnie, Greta and Miriam beg and plead and tell Bea it's her birthright as the last living direct descendent of the founding line of the Cohen family to reunite the clan.

- They give her a map of the remaining clans in the Miqra tribe and tell her that she has to gather their support for a meeting with the Sanhedrin in the Seabord Cooperative where the tribe of Zebulon has resided for decades and helped draft some of the key laws the keep the corps out of the Seaboard. They're all descendants of lawyers and rabbis and have been the judges of various disputes among the tribes and clans, make final decisions on nomadic Jewish halakha when a consensus can't be reached and preside over other official matters.

- During a visit with the Gershons, she learns she has an older half brother named Ezra. He at first was on the side of independence but the more they spoke the more he began to see her side of things. He started trying to convince others until things came to a head with the leader of the family when that patriarch tried to kill him. He survived but the other died in the process and Ezra became the new head of the family. Since he was half Cohen, he had even stronger sway to get more supporters of Bea from the Merari and Gershons both.

- After that's decided they go back to NC and settle in the Badlands.

- then in book 3, couple years later the relic will start killing VG again and Dr. Yamamoto gives them the contact info for a scientist at a secret independent research facility that could clone Johnny's body and transfer the engram to it.

[osarina]

ᡣ𐭩 YOUNG GOD

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: after an agonizing two weeks, dazai finally returns to you and a much needed conversation takes place. {wordcount: 11.6k; fem!reader, sfw, romance}

AUTHOR'S NOTES: WOW I CAN'T BELIEVE WE'RE AT INSTALLMENT 5 ALREADY!!! this is so bittersweet i'm literally about to cry, i hope you guys have enjoyed badlands and i hope y'all join me for unreal unearth next week!! i got to add one of my favorite quotes in this chapter hehe you guys get extra points if you spot it. reblogs definitely appreciated!! i’ll reblog with the taglist as soon as it decides to show on the dash & in the tags!

WARNINGS: explicit mentions of past suicide attempts + past self harm & scars

SEE: BADLANDS SERIES MASTERLIST READ: UNREAL UNEARTH SIDE B

Dazai is exhausted. His ears ring and his bones ache, his feet are unsteady beneath him and his body pleads for him to rest. Around him, the other members of the Agency are ecstatic, he thinks he’s gotten more hugs in the past hour than he’s gotten in his entire life. A part of him feels warm—he feels like he belongs, and his place in the Agency has always been one that he’s questioned. On bad nights, he used to think that the last place he truly belonged was on one of those three bar stools all those years ago, that being a member of the Agency—more than just in name, actually being a member—was nothing but an unattainable dream, because how could he possibly belong amongst people who are so unfailingly good that it makes his tainted heart stick out like a sore thumb? 

But now, Atsushi cries in relief at the sight of him and Yosano wraps him in a hug so tight that his already brittle bones threaten to snap; Kunikida’s throat spasms as he squeezes Dazai’s shoulder and Kenji and Kyouka throw themselves into his arms. Naomi and Haruno cling to his hands, while Tanizaki tears up in front of him with balled fists as he tells him that he’s missed him. Ranpo shoots him a wild grin and a salute and Fukuzawa pats the top of his head telling Dazai that he’s proud of him, and Dazai thinks he might cry because he feels like he’s finally found a home. 

An incomplete home, but a home nonetheless. 

Because even as he recounts his side of the story, watching hazily as Kunikida writes it all down, his mind is barely connected to his own body. His body feels prickly and his mind is muddled with fatigue, his brain throbs so painfully that he thinks he might actually be dying. He’s overwhelmed and anxious—the strain that the constant games of misdirection and manipulations with Dostoevsky has placed on him is finally becoming too much for him to handle. He’s on the verge of collapse and he needs to be somewhere he feels safe before that happens, and there’s only one place—one person—that fits that criteria.

You. 

He doesn’t even register what’s happening as Kunikida, Yosano and Atsushi help Dazai out of the office and into the back of Kunikida’s car. Atsushi sits with him in the back seat as Kunikida and Yosano take the front—they’re driving him somewhere, but Dazai isn’t even entirely sure where, and his tongue feels too heavy in his mouth for him to even ask. Atsushi is talking to him, he might even be telling Dazai where they’re going but the words sound like a distant hum and as he tries to read the boy’s lips, it all just seems blurry and unfocused. 

He doesn’t even know if you’re okay. 

Queen captured.

The words ring in his head over and over again as they have since the moment Dostoevsky uttered them aloud, but he doesn’t know what Dostoevsky’s capture of you entailed. He doesn’t know if you were killed. You could have been killed. If Dostoevsky had a lover, a weakness that Dazai could target, then they would have been the first person that Dazai aimed to take out to throw the Russian off of his game, and he would show no mercy. You could be dead, for all he knows; no one in the Agency had mentioned whether or not they knew if you were okay, or if they had, Dazai hadn’t heard it. 

You could be dead. 

Dazai’s vision spins again, his stomach lurches as Kunikida takes a turn too wide—he can’t keep himself grounded no matter how hard he tries. He wants to tell Kunikida that he needs to see you, he needs to get to your apartment complex and make sure you’re there, and if you’re not, he needs to talk to your neighbors and make sure you’re at least okay. Until he does that, he can’t rest, no matter how much his body begs him to give in. 

He loves you. He’s sure of it now. He knew it before he left you two weeks ago. He thinks he might have known it all the way back then on the night you rescued him at the shore, when you woke up in the middle of the night and sat with him on the couch after making him hot chocolate. He thinks he fell in love with the bright smile that lifted to your lips when he took a sip of the drink you made him and you realized he enjoyed it—no one has ever looked so happy to see him happy with something before, no one has ever cared enough about him for that.

He is so completely and irrevocably in love with you that Dazai doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to live in a world without you. The thought alone makes his skin crawl and his chest cave in. Before he met you, he had long accepted that he was destined to be alone, that he wasn’t a human but instead a thing caught between monster and man—he had accepted that he was incapable of loving, and even more so, that he was incapable of being loved. 

You had changed his perspective on everything, you had changed it so absolutely that Dazai doesn’t think there’s any going back to how he once viewed the world, how he once viewed himself. He’s started looking forward to sunrises, if it means he could watch them with you. He’s found himself looking around Yokohama and seeing places to take you rather than scouting out places for possible attempts. God, he’s even saving his money—Dazai Osamu has never saved money in his life because he hoped that each day would hopefully be his last. He’s blow it on alcohol and food and stupid trinkets that he didn’t need, but now, he’s caught himself putting aside some of his paychecks so he can save up for a nicer apartment that the two of you can live in together.

Dazai thinks that he can’t breathe, his throat feels swollen and he brings one of his hands up to tug at the collar of the white sweatshirt he’s wearing, tugging at it as if it’s the reason that he can’t breathe properly.

Dazai can’t go back to a world without you. He can’t.

Next to him, Atsushi is reaching out to him, as if trying to get him to calm down and Dazai doesn’t even want to know what the expression on his face might be right now. Everything is crumbling and tunneling around him—Atsushi, Kunikida, and Yosano are all dissolving, the car doors are fading away, the buildings and the streets and all of the scenery is just disappearing. 

Shit, he thinks, trying to figure out how the hell to ground himself. Shit, shit-

The car comes to such an abrupt stop that Dazai would have gone flying into the seat in front of him were it not for Atsushi throwing an arm across his chest to stop it from happening, the brakes screeching loudly and the car skidding. Yosano is pointing wildly, shouting something and Kunikida is shouting something back, something along the lines of her nearly causing him to get into an accident, but Dazai can only follow to where Yosano is pointing too, gaze dragging across the woman’s arm in the direction of the beach to the left of the car.

He wonders if he’s hallucinating. 

His fingers are shaking violently as he reaches out to push open the car door, squirming out of Atsushi’s protective hold. He flings himself out of the car desperately, nearly crashing hard onto the concrete—the fresh air is almost dizzying as he inhales it, pushing himself to his feet as quickly as possible. His broken leg screams in protest, but Dazai ignores it, vision blurring for the sparest moment before it focuses in on the figure standing on the beach in a familiar long, tan coat. 

His lips part to call your name but no words leave them—he’s not sure if it’s because he’s still half out of it or if it’s because he’s scared that if he calls your name and you don’t respond, it’ll confirm it’s just a hallucination. 

But he doesn’t have to say your name, whether it’s just by chance or if you heard the brakes of the car screeching, you turn in his direction. 

You’re wearing his coat; it’s too long on you—the tan edges are dragging against the sand and whipping around you as the wind picks up. But you’re wearing his coat and you’re beautiful; your expression shifts into one of recognition and then shock as soon as you see Dazai in the near distance, the sun is starting to set over the horizon and the soft orange glow casts an unearthly glow over you, and Dazai thinks everything about this is entirely unreal. He thinks that you might be some sort of angel, or some other type of divine being, and he thinks that he doesn’t even deserve to look at you, much less consider you his.

As he makes his way toward you, he can’t even put together all of his thoughts in a coherent manner. You’re alive is the first thought that rings through his head, the relief is almost debilitating. All of the days he spent with his heart in his throat, unsure of whether or not his decision had gotten you killed, have finally come to an end. The next thought that runs through his head is god, because he’s imagined this moment dozens of times since he first had to leave you. He’s imagined running to you, scooping you into his arms and swinging you around, holding you close and refusing to let go because Dazai doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to let go of you again.

Except that’s entirely how it doesn’t go.

Dazai barely makes it to you before his legs are giving out on him, as much as he tries to ignore the pain, it evidently becomes too much for his body to handle. He’s collapsing into you the moment he makes it to you. His head is still throbbing, his leg is screaming, his body is aching, but your hands are instinctively grabbing him to break his fall, his knees crashing against the sand, and Dazai just can’t bring himself to care about the agony. He doesn’t care that his body is coming apart at its seams, he doesn’t even notice as you lower yourself down into the sand with him.

“Osamu.” His name leaves your lips in a breathy whisper, one that’s riddled with disbelief and longing—something else too, but Dazai can’t decipher it in his muddled state. “You’re here.”

He tries to say your name, but he’s pretty sure it comes out garbled and unintelligible. Distantly, he can feel his fingers twisting into the fabric of his jacket, trying to clutch onto you as best as he can in spite of the numbness that still threatens to consume him. Then, your grip on him shifts from the instinctual grab into your arms wrapping around his waist, one hand splayed across his back and the other sliding up to cradle his head to your chest as you hold him close, and Dazai thinks all is right in the world again. He doesn’t want to move, he doesn’t want to think, he doesn’t want to do anything but just let himself melt into you.

The feeling of your touch for the first time in weeks is enough to chase away the creeping numbness and anxiety, and everything still hurts but all of it dulls in comparison to being in your arms again. Dazai’s breath is shaky, he teeters over the edge of collapse now that he’s finally with you, his weary brain betraying him as it uses the comfort of your arms as an excuse to finally surrender. His vision swims—he’s not sure if it’s from relieved tears or exhaustion, maybe both—his nose is flooded with the scent of you, the scent of home.

“You’re here,” you whisper again as if you can’t believe it; Dazai can’t even blame you because a part of him still fears that if he lets go of you, you’ll disappear, a cruel trick on him played by his treacherous mind. You pull away from him and Dazai’s fingers instinctively cling to you harder, trying to get you to stay in place, but his body is far too weak for it to be effective. 

You lean back and bring your hands up to cup Dazai’s cheeks and it takes all of his willpower to not just let himself fall limp. Your expression twists a bit, he’s not sure what you see—nothing good, definitely. Yosano splinted his leg and cleaned up the wounds on his face, but his ability canceling hers prevents him from getting the wounds healed quickly, so his face is bruised and swollen, cuts litter his skin from when the elevator had crashed to the bottom floor. 

He thinks he must look disgusting, he doesn’t even know how you can bear to look at him. But he supposes that’s not a new thought to cross his mind, he’s never understood how you can look at him the way you do.

“What happened to you?” you breathe out, and Dazai’s lashes flutter as your thumb ghosts over his cheekbone, eyes searching his for an answer to your question. Dazai doesn’t know how to respond, so he doesn’t, leaning into your touch. “God, Osamu, you look like you’re about to drop dead.”

“Are you calling me ugly?” 

Even in his objectively terrible state, Dazai is able to croak out the five words, although he’s sure the playful lilt is lost in his fatigue. You stare at him for a moment, as if you didn’t hear him properly, but then your expression shifts into one of disbelief and your hand flies to your mouth to smother the laugh that he’s missed so desperately the past two weeks.

“Can you walk?” you ask after a moment, hand lingering on his cheek before dropping down to his forearm, squeezing gently. 

Dazai winces at your words, shaking his head—he barely even made it to you, he’s not going to make it all the way to your apartment complex.

You let out a puff of air caught between a laugh and a sigh. “Guess we’re doing this again,” you say, a teasing cadence dancing in your tone. Dazai’s brows furrow a bit in confusion, but then you’re grabbing his arm and trying to heave him to his feet. “At least you won’t be pretending to be unconscious this time.” 

Dazai struggles to help you as you do your best to get him onto your back; a nostalgic feeling sweeps through him as he remembers the first time the two of you met, waking up after a failed suicide attempt to find you cursing and complaining as you try to haul him back to your apartment. He wonders if you knew what you know now back then, if you would have still stopped to help him—but that leads him to a line of questioning that he doesn’t want to approach yet. 

Do you know where he’s been? 

Do you know his past? 

Do you know everything he’s done?

He pushes the thoughts away. 

As if the gods above remember the event and want the two of you to reenact it as close to the original as possible, he feels a few drops of rain splatter against his face.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” He hears you complain as you finally get him settled on your back. “Keep your gangly legs to yourself this time, I don’t need them knocking into me this time.”

“... I was purposely trying to trip you, you know?” Dazai admits, voice hoarse and weak and the smile curling to the edges of his lips is lazy but it’s real for the first time in what feels like forever. “I thought it would be funny.”

You gasp loudly. “I knew it! You’re such an asshole.”

Dazai laughs, letting his head fall into the crook of your neck—he wants to bask in the light feeling that’s replacing the emptiness in his chest, but a part of him can’t help but feel like this is only the eye of the storm. 

Back in the car, Kunikida looks a bit worried as you struggle to get Dazai onto your back. 

“Should we go help her?” he asks quietly, glancing over at Yosano.

But Yosano doesn’t respond to him. She has an uncharacteristically soft expression on her face as she watches you laugh loudly at something Dazai says. He finally looks somewhat coherent again now that he’s with you, still in pain but that detached, disconnected look in his eyes that had been terrifying Atsushi is gone. 

“No.” Atsushi is the one to respond to Kunikida, smiling lightly as he finally drags his gaze away as he watches a genuine smile twitch to the corners of Dazai’s lips as you nearly trip and fall under his weight. “Let’s head back to the office.”

Dazai has been sleeping for hours.

You let out a soft puff of air as you idly comb your fingers through his hair, eyes tracing his face. His right eye is completely swollen, his lip is split, you can see bruises littering his neck that disappear beneath the bandages he wears, his leg is broken and splinted. Despite all of that, he still somehow looks at ease as he rests in your lap.

You’re not as at ease.

Well, a part of you is, against all of your common sense. Having Dazai back in your arms is far more comforting than it should be, with the conversation that needs to be had looming over you. The sight of him sleeping peacefully in your lap, the feel of his heart thrumming beneath your hand, the sound of his steady breathing, it’s all enough to alleviate your body and mind of the stress and anxiety that has been crippling you for the past two weeks.

He’s alive. He’s okay. He came back to you. 

You find consolation in the thoughts—in the few days you were detained by the Hunting Dogs, all you could do was think about Dazai. Your mind raced with worst case scenarios and crippling fears. In spite of all of the allegations placed against him, you still love him—you’d known it well before he left and the relief you felt seeing him again before was enough to confirm it.

You think it’s dangerous, and maybe a bit stupid; a part of you knows that you should run for the hills, the crimes that Jouno Saigiku listed out are nothing to scoff at, and even putting aside morality, his former position as an executive of the Port Mafia should be more than enough to have you fleeing, if only because that puts you in danger too. No one gets to the position that he supposedly obtained without gaining masses of enemies and no one leaves it alive without doubling said enemies. 

But you’re not running for the hills—not because of his crimes, and not because of the risk of being with him—and that scares you a bit. You’re having trouble reconciling the Dazai you know with the one you’ve been told exists. Even when you recall all of the times you woke up to find him staring out your window with an unsettlingly detached expression, eyes too still and too black to be normal, as if they absorbed all sound and light around him; when you recall all of the man’s strange idiosyncrasies that just don’t line up with the front he puts up; when you recall that night in Kyoto where he refused to divulge what his previous job was, you just can’t. 

The logic fits, your brain can see it and piece it together, your heart just won’t accept it.

Your knuckles graze the side of his face, a conflicted expression crossing over your own. 

You don’t know what to do.

A part of you doesn’t want him to wake up, because you know that when he does, you’ll be forced to have the talk that you’ve been dreadfully anticipating since you learned about his crimes and imprisonment. You don’t know what you expect from the conversation, you don’t know how to approach it, you don’t know what you want to know nor why you want to know it, you don’t even know if you should continue with your relationship with him and you don’t even know why that’s still a question in your mind because obviously you shouldn’t continue a relationship with him. 

Your brain feels like it might implode.

You take a step back.

As you always do when you’re faced with conflict and feel yourself getting overwhelmed, you try to take a more logical approach. First, you make yourself a chart: pros and cons, always a favorite of yours, centering around Dazai and your relationship with him. Then, you make a list: everything else you need to know to properly weigh into each of the pros and cons.

Pros: 

Dazai makes you happy. (An important pro, you think, maybe it’ll outweigh all of the rest.)

Cons: 

138 counts of conspiracy to murder.

You pause. 

Distantly, you wonder what your life has come to—making a pro/con chart with one of the cons being 138 counts of conspiracy to murder. You press your hand against your mouth, staring ahead as you reconsider every action you’ve taken to lead to this moment. Promptly, you decide to scrap the pro/con chart and move right on to the list of things you need to know. 

What do you need to know?

First off, you need confirmation over whether or not the allegations are true—if they’re not, then you’re spiraling for nothing and you can move on happily in your relationship with Dazai.

If they are?

You swallow thickly. You need context—you’re not sure what type of context would justify those crimes, you don’t think there’s any justification for them, honestly, but there must be a reason as to why you cannot reconcile the Dazai that you know with the one you’ve been told exists. You like to believe that you’re good at reading people—although you’re definitely questioning it now—so there must be some context that you’re missing as to how the “alleged Dazai” became the “known Dazai.” 

And maybe—just maybe—if you can understand that, then maybe you can still move on in your relationship with him. Because even if his crimes aren’t justifiable, people can change and it would be beyond you to scorn someone trying to do their best to become a better person. It’s not like you’re some squeaky clean, paragon of virtue anyway: your university and grad school is mostly being paid off by your brother’s blood money from the underground rings, and yeah, it doesn’t really compare to being a former executive to the most dangerous gang in Yokohama but it definitely narrows your room to judge. 

You glance back down at Dazai.

Your eyes meet wide, tired brown ones that immediately shut as soon as he catches you looking at him, as if pretending to still be asleep.

“Dazai Osamu, we are not playing this game again.”

Dazai reopens his eyes with a sheepish smile but he doesn’t say anything for a moment. Slowly, his expression shifts, the corners of his lips furling downward as a mixture of realization and resignation pools in his eyes. 

“You know.”

The two words are so unassuming yet so damning, your heart lurches and your stomach churns. Dazai isn’t looking at you anymore, he’s staring up at the ceiling, waiting for you to speak.

Is that confirmation? Just like that?

“I don’t know anything until you tell me,” you decide to say, your voice a bit tighter than you intended for it to be.

Dazai’s eyes draw back to you, studying you carefully. He looks conflicted—over what, you’re not sure. You think if he tries to blow this off rather than explaining it to you, you might lose your mind. You’re giving him a chance to explain on his own terms and if he doesn’t take it-

You reach out instinctively as Dazai starts to push himself off of your lap into a sitting position, fingers brushing his back worriedly. 

“You shouldn’t be moving around,” you tell him quietly.

He only shakes his head, finally speaking, his voice so quiet that it’s barely audible. “Let me take you somewhere.”

S. ODA

The four letters engraved into the headstone before you have been weathered by time, you can see lichen creeping across the slate and stone flaking at the edges—enough for you to put together that whoever has been put to rest here has probably been gone for a few years. Questions itch at the tip of your tongue but you bite them, waiting for Dazai to say something instead so that he can lead the conversation.

He has yet to say a word. From the moment that he slid into the passenger seat of your car, the only words that he’s spoken have been directions to the cemetery. The conflicted expression that had been etched onto his face has finally disappeared, smoothing out into an eerily blank one that you can hardly stand to look at because you know only dark thoughts must be racing through his head. 

You wrap your arms around your waist as another chilly wind whips around the two of you, grateful that you’d thrown a jacket on before leaving your apartment. Dazai is only dressed in his trench coat, too thin for the cold but he refused to wear anything else. You’re not sure why, but you have caught him burying his nose into the collar and inhaling, memorizing your scent as if it’s about to disappear. 

“I officially joined the Port Mafia when I was fifteen,” Dazai finally says. You raise your eyebrows a bit, wondering just how much autonomy a fifteen year old has to willingly choose to join the Mafia, but you don’t voice your thoughts, waiting for him to continue. “I met Nakahara Chuuya, a current executive of the Mafia, that same year and we earned the moniker Double Black for being the most lethal pair in Yokohama’s underground. At sixteen, I was put in charge of the boss’s personal covert ops unit and I was promoted to executive for all of my accomplishments, youngest underboss in the Mafia’s history. I’d eliminated countless rival organizations, opened numerous new distribution channels for all of their illegal trades, and had a hand in planning nearly all of the major operations both within and outside of Yokohama.”

His voice is void of any emotion, a cold monotone as he speaks the words like a bland recitation of a prewritten speech; his eyes are too empty and far too still as he stares ahead at the grave in front of the two of you. It’s unnerving; somehow, you think you like it even less than the actual matter of what he’s saying.

“Until I was eighteen, I continued to be the driving force behind the Mafia’s rapid growth and ironclad control over Yokohama; while I was an executive, no foreign organization dared to try to usurp control over any of our territory. They’d give up their territory if they knew I was the one heading the expansion operations, because they were scared of me and because they knew it was a lost cause trying to defend against me. Whatever you heard about me, it’s all true and probably way worse than you could ever imagine.”

The silence between the two of you following his words is damning—the wind is too loud and the distant sounds of cars honking and brakes screeching is jarring. You can hear your heart thudding in your ears, you can feel your gut twisting, your fingers tremble from where they’re stuffed in your pockets. Dazai is a statue next to you, his eyes haven’t budged, his limbs are stiff. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think him a corpse

Your lips part to speak but no words leave then. You take a moment before trying again. “How did you end up with the Mafia?” you ask, your voice is much weaker than you intended for it to be. 

Because that’s what you need to focus on—the context, that’s what you’d decided before he woke up and that’s what you’ll stick to, not what he’s done, but first how he ended up there and then why he left. You can’t imagine a fifteen year old willingly choosing to join the Mafia, so you think there must be more to the story. 

For the first time since the two of you arrived at the grave, Dazai moves—it’s subtle, a twitch of his fingers and a tug at the corner of his lips but it’s gone in an instant, you almost miss it. 

“I tried to kill myself when I was fourteen.” Bile rises to your throat almost as soon as his words process, you finally turn to look up at him but his expression hasn’t shifted at all. “The doctor tending to me ended up becoming the new leader of the Port Mafia. I was kept around as an insurance policy, and partly by my own volition, but I joined willingly at fifteen after turning him down several times.”

“Why?”

“I… thought something would happen. For so long, I just… couldn’t feel anything, and I didn’t see the point in living because of it. I thought that maybe the more extreme emotions—violence, death, desire—all of the things that are found in abundance in the Mafia… I thought that if I could be around people who display all of these things so plainly, that I would be able to see and understand what makes humankind human. I thought that maybe it would help me feel more human, and find some sort of reason to keep living.”

You exhale, eyes sliding shut for a second. You feel nauseous—hands lighty trembling as you desperately try to digest the large pill he gave you as quickly as you can because you still have more questions but god, what type of fourteen, fifteen year old feels so empty inside that he turns to the Mafia to try to feel something?

“You were a kid, Osamu. You’re not some incarnate of evil for ending up where you did, you were failed by all of the adults in your life,” you finally say quietly; you’re the one staring ahead now, and you can feel his eyes on you but you don’t dare to turn to look at him because you know that it’ll make you crack and you need to continue. Clearly something else happened when he was eighteen that led to him leaving the Mafia but what? Your gaze trails back to the grave in front of you, a sinking feeling in your chest. You take a deep, steady breath before asking your next question: “What changed at eighteen?”

“I didn’t leave the Port Mafia because I had some great epiphany as to the immorality of my actions,” Dazai snaps. His voice is tight and borderline antagonistic, emotion finally seeping into the monotone, as if he’s trying to convince you that he is what you claim he’s not. “I-”

He cuts himself off abruptly, his voice cracks, you lift your gaze to his face and your throat spasms when you notice the black pits have been replaced with the warm brown you’re used to, a vast array of emotions swimming within them, too many for you to pinpoint a single one.

“He was my friend,” Dazai finally says softly. “My only one, maybe. When he died, he told me that if both sides are the same to me—evil and justice—that I should become a good person, I should save people. So, do you understand? Nothing about me has changed since back then, and the only reason I’m on the side of the ‘good’ is because someone else asked it of me, not for any altruistic reason. I’m still the same now as I was then.”

“... I don’t think that’s quite true,” you tell him after a few seconds of silence, and you can feel him look at you and you can practically hear the bitter ‘what do you know?’ that he’s about to let out, so you force yourself to continue before he can. “I think that if someone had told me all of this a few weeks ago, I would’ve laughed in their face. I never once-”

Dazai scoffs. “So, you don’t understand,” he says, voice reverting back to that empty tone you hate, but his body is tense and he’s looking anywhere but you. “I’m good at putting up fronts, wearing masks depending on who I’m around; it’s how I learned to blend in with people. The man you know doesn’t exist. I’m a fraud, my blood runs black; when I’m pushed into a corner, I invariably fall back into old habits. I’ll never leave the dark and I don’t belong-”

“I think you’re wrong,” you interrupt him, recalling Yosano’s words from two weeks ago—he’ll never believe it himself. “I don’t think you’ll ever see yourself from an objective standpoint. I don’t think you want to believe that you’ve changed for the better, but I think you have. I’m not stupid, Osamu, and I’ve never been one to fall for people’s acts, no matter how good they might be. I’ve known something was up with you since that first night when I woke up and found you staring out the window, and still, I have never once doubted that you were a good man.”

“I killed people to get out of Meursault, I was willing to torture people to get information when the Guild showed up in Yokohama and then again when the Decay of the Angel arrived, I’ll manipulate anyone and everyone around me to see my plans through, I…”

Dazai is still listing off all of the reasons why he’s still a bad person, and maybe you should be listening but you can hear the way his voice is becoming increasingly more tinged with desperation, as if he’s intent on convincing you to change your viewpoint on him. You wonder if he thinks you’ll run, and then, you wonder if he’s trying to make you run—each sentence he speaks becomes more descriptive than the last. 

He’ll find himself sorely disappointed, because you’ve already decided that you won’t run. You’re still not convinced that this is the smartest decision on your part; Dazai is dangerous and being with him is dangerous, not because of him himself, but because of the threats that still linger from his past, but you suppose love always drives people to do stupid things in its name anyway. Even now, as he lists off all of these terrible things, you can’t imagine your life without him—you think a life without him will be dull and gray, and you’ll always look back to the time you spent with him as the happiest you ever were, regretting the decision you made here. 

You’re not the type of person to live a life full of regrets. 

And whether he sees it or not, you think he has changed. You’re not the only one—Yosano, Atsushi, all of the members of the Agency see him in a similar light as you, but he’s so blinded by his past that he refuses to see himself in the present. Even the things he says now, all of it was done in the name of protecting the people he cares about, and that’s not something you’re going to condemn him for. 

“I think he’d be proud of you.” You cut off his tangent with seven quiet words and Dazai goes utterly still and utterly silent next to you. “I didn’t know him, of course, but I think he’d be proud of the man you’ve become, Osamu. Change doesn’t happen overnight, you were surrounded by the dark for so long, and from such a young age, that it might take decades to remove its influence over you, but you’re trying and you’re saving people. I wish you could see yourself the same way I see you. I think he would be proud.”

You wonder if you pushed too far, sparing a glance his way. His brows are furrowed so intensely that you can’t hope to try to imagine what might be going through his mind, brown eyes flooding with emotion as he looks down at his friend’s grave.

“I’m not someone that was born to be with people,” he finally croaks out. “Romantically or platonically. I’m not right in the head. Manipulative, constantly trying to kill myself, prone to jealousy, pettiness and casual cruelty. There are so many people trying to kill me that I stashed guns in your apartment when you weren’t home just in case they came after me while I’m there—I don’t care if they get me, but they might go after me when I’m with you, or even go after you to get to me. Sometimes, I regret leaving the Mafia because I feel like it’s the only place I actually belonged because it’s the only place where I was actually good at what I do.”

You don’t speak, instead letting him list off everything that he thinks is wrong with him, laying out bare all of the things that he tried so hard to hide from you over the past few months. He can’t look at you, eyes trained ahead and you can see the way his fists are clenched in the pockets of his trench coats. He lowers his face into his collar again, burying his nose in the fabric before continuing. 

“During really bad slumps, I can barely get out of bed even though I can’t sleep; sometimes I won’t eat for days unless someone notices and forces me to and if they do, I usually get nasty with them; and I’ll do just about anything to die. Atsushi-kun has had to fish me from more rivers than I can count, Kunikida-kun has had to drag me to the hospital after trying to overdose on pills or drink various types of poisons, Yosano-sensei has spent days watching over me because she didn’t trust me not to try again once one of them saved me.”

His voice has mostly returned to that cold monotone, but there’s a hint of emotion clinging to the edges that he just can’t wipe away, something caught between desperation and pleading. Your throat feels tight and swollen and you think that your heart might be shattering a bit with how he’s so set on pushing you away and convincing you that he’s simply too horrid to be loved. 

“I can’t cook. I don’t clean. I hardly shower. I’m more often drunk than I am sober. I can barely go a week without trying to kill myself at least once. I suck at saving money because I figure I’m going to die soon anyway, so I don’t see the point in it. I have an awful lifestyle and more unhealthy habits than I can count. I've tried to change it but I always fail. I don’t know how to comfort people and when I’m confronted with conflict by people I care about, I’ll avoid them until I can act like nothing's wrong. I’ll be more of a bother than anything else, really.”

“I still want you,” you finally say quietly, watching as a distressed expression sweeps over his face.

“You really don’t,” he protests weakly. You wonder if he’s trying to convince himself of it, or you—maybe both.

“I do. I’ll take care of you.”

“It’s rotten work,” he breathes out, a last ditch attempt to persuade you away. 

“Not to me,” you tell him firmly. “Not if it’s you.”

“I don’t deserve this.” Dazai shakes his head, voice so quiet that you can barely hear him. “I don’t understand—everything I told you and you’re still… I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve you.”

“I disagree, but regardless, that’s hardly relevant,” you say absently, finally reaching out to loop your arm in his, resting your head against his bicep. “Do you want this? Do you want me?” 

“Yes.” His voice is so hoarse and so low, as if he can barely bring himself to say the words out loud.

“Then it’s yours. I’m yours.”

Dazai’s jaw is clenched so tight that you’re worried he’s going to damage his teeth, he brings his hand to his eyes as if to cover the upper half of his face. You squeeze his arm a bit, comforting, eyes sliding shut.

“Everything I touch withers and turns to ashes,” Dazai rasps. “Anything I never want to lose is always lost. I’m scared that by being with you, I’m also killing you.”

“I’ll take that risk, if it means I can be with you,” you tell him, watching as he shakes his head, still refusing to look at you.

“You’re so damn stubborn,” he exhales quietly.

“You love me for it,” you tease lightly.

“I do,” he admits, and your eyes shoot open a bit at his words. You glance up at him, but he’s looking ahead, expression downcast. “And I’m sorry about that.”

“Are you apologizing for loving me?” you ask, a bit incredulously.

“Yeah. I am.”

“Osamu…”

Your voice is soft, you’re not sure what you want to say but you falter when Dazai suddenly looks down at you. His eyes are so exhausted, he looks like he hasn’t had any rest in years—his shoulders sag and his arms hang limply at his sides. You think that maybe you shouldn’t have agreed to all of this when he’s still recovering, but you also think that the fatigue is not just physical.

 “I’m so tired,” Dazai suddenly whispers, resting his forehead on the top of your head. His voice cracks a bit over the word, you slip your arms around his waist, letting him lean into you.

“Then let’s go home, yeah?”

“... Yeah, let’s go home.”

When you get back to your apartment, it’s still dark but you know dawn will break soon; as Dazai stumbles over to your bed, you make your way to the window. You close the curtains so that Dazai will be able to sleep easily even after the sun rises, and then move over to your nightstand to turn on the dim lamp so you can at least see a little bit. 

Dazai drops his coat onto your desk chair before he takes a seat on the edge of your bed, feet planted on the floor as he stares ahead at the wall. He looks lost, conflicted; you don’t know what to say to draw him out of it, so you decide not to say anything. Instead, you make your way over to him and take a seat next to him—your thigh brushes his, arms ghosting each other’s, and Dazai immediately leans over to rest his head on your shoulder, eyes sliding shut.

You lift your hand to cradle the back of his head, fingers idly carding through his dark locks. You feel him let out a shaky breath, the air hot against your skin, and you turn your head to the side, pressing your lips to the top of his hair, lingering for a moment before resting your head against his.

“Lay down and get some sleep,” you tell him softly. “I’ll stay with you.”

Dazai exhales, but he doesn’t budge from where he’s leaning heavily against you. “... I need to take off my bandages,” he finally says quietly. “They’re drenched in sweat and blood, haven’t had a chance to change them since I left… I don’t want to get in bed with them on.”

You pause and then ask, “Do you want me to go grab the new roll I bought? I can step out.”

“I don’t have the energy to put them back on,” he finally murmurs, and then a bit more hesitantly, he adds: “Can you help me take them off?” 

You think your heart is in your throat. In the months you’ve been with Dazai, the only glimpse you’ve gotten of his body beneath the bandages was that day he showed up at your doorstep bleeding out and you had no choice but to cut through some of them to patch up the wound, and even then, you only saw the sparest bits of his body, only what was necessary to stop the bleeding. He’s been so careful to keep it hidden from you and now…

“Yeah,” you breathe out. “Of course, I can.”

You shift a bit so that you can kneel behind him on the bed, fingers curling around the hem of his white long sleeved shirt. You tap his arm gently, a silent ask for him to raise his arms, and when he does, you slide the thick cloth off of his body, leaving him in his pants and the bandages that cover every inch of visible skin besides his face and hands.

He was right, they do look disgusting—most of them are yellowed and frayed at the edges, as if they’d been drenched with water and dried several times over. There’s blood staining the bandages on his side and a black tarry substance clinging to the bandages wrapped around his waist. You lean forward and press your lips against his shoulder, over the somewhat clean bandages that are covering the skin there, and you can hear Dazai let out a sharp, shaky breath in front of you.

“Ready?” you whisper, fingers grazing the clip fastened to the bandages on his neck, holding them in place. 

He only nods, so you press another soft kiss to him, this time to the crook of this neck, and unfasten the clips to unwind the bandages from around his neck. To your credit, your fingers don’t falter when a rugged, discolored scar is revealed, looped around his neck; it’s mostly faded, but it’s still rough beneath the pads of your fingers. Your eyes linger though, there’s no question as to what caused the scar and your mind instinctively draws back to all of the offhand comments and jokes that Dazai has ever made about ceiling beams and nooses and your throat feels a bit tight.

You dip your head down to press your lips against the nape of his neck, right over where the rough skin crosses. You can hear his breath hitch, you can feel the way he shivers, but you don’t say anything as you continue to unwind the bandages around his chest and torso. You’ve seen most of the scars that litter his back from when you’d had to patch up his bullet wound, but it’s different seeing them without the fear of him bleeding out fogging your brain. 

They look much harsher against his pale skin now—the worst is still that deep, jagged one that runs from his shoulder to the corner of his hip, but you can’t help but notice that there are more that you hadn’t noticed that day. Most of them are various types of cuts and slashes, some deeper than others, and healed bullet wounds, your gaze is particularly drawn to the most recent one on his upper back. It’s fresh compared to all of the others, still red and easily agitated—your fingers brush over it for a moment before you lean in to press another kiss to his shoulder blade, right over where the worst of the scars begins. 

You shift from behind him to sit at his side, dropping the bandages that had been covering his chest, torso and neck haphazardly onto your bedroom floor before reaching out for his right arm.

Dazai withdraws immediately.

His expression is guarded, you think that his eyes seem a bit glassy but you can’t tell with the dim lighting. You don’t say anything, and you don’t reach out again; after a few moments of him studying you, his shoulders slump and Dazai moves his arm so that it’s back in your lap. Your eyes trace his face one last time, making sure he’s okay, before you lift your fingers to start unwrapping the bandages, starting at his bicep. 

The skin of his bicep is mostly clear—there’s one light scar cutting through its side, as if a bullet had grazed him. When you move down to his forearm, Dazai is stiff and you can see the discomfort on his face, but he doesn’t pull away, so you continue. 

And you falter, because as you loosen the bandages to remove them, you catch sight of the deep scars lining his wrist and forearm. The skin is uneven and discolored, there’s hardly an inch of visible skin on his lower arm that’s not covered by the vertical scars. He’s staring at you, dark eyes heavy and inspecting your every reaction—he’s looking for something, and you don’t know what, but you just decide to do the same thing you’ve done every other time you finished taking off a set of bandages and lean down to press your lips against his pulse point, moving over to do the same to his other wrist after unwrapping the bandages there too.

Your gaze flickers down to his legs, where you can see the bandages on his ankles peeking out from the white pants he’s wearing, a bit too short for his long legs. You pat his thigh gently and say, “C’mon, let’s get you out of these ugly things.”

Dazai shifts up just enough for you to help him slide the loose plants off so you can toss them off to the side, leaving him in his briefs and the bandages wrapped around his thighs and calves. You move to kneel in front of him, instantly getting to unwinding them, starting at his ankle. 

“Do you remember what you told me back then?” Dazai asks quietly, looking down at his lap instead of you. “The day we met?” 

“I told you a lot of things that day,” you say lightly as you glance up at him, careful as you unwrap the bandages around his calves. You kiss his knee. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“You said you’d change the trajectory of my life,” he murmurs, twisting his fingers absently. 

Vaguely, you remember the words, smiling a bit in amusement. 

“About the hot chocolate?” you question, laying a kiss to his other knee before shifting up to unwrap the bandages on his thighs; you make sure not to let the pain show on your face when you notice that his inner thighs are as littered with scars as his wrists and forearms, all of them dangerously close to his femoral artery. 

“Yeah.” He lets out a puff of air akin to a laugh, but when you glance up at him, you see there’s very little amusement on his face. In fact, he looks more wistful than anything else. “You really did, you know? Not with the hot chocolate, obviously, but just… you. You did.”

You sit back on your heels as you look up at Dazai, taking his hand into yours before lifting it to your lips, kissing his knuckles softly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he agrees quietly. When he continues, his voice is hoarse, bordering on a plea, “Don’t ever go somewhere I can’t follow.”

“Somewhere without you?” you ask, a teasing lilt to your voice as you kiss the palm of his hand before letting go so you can move to unwrap the bandages from his other leg. “Sounds dreadful, I would never.”

He lets out a noise as if he doesn’t entirely believe you, as if it’s some inevitable fate that the two of you will face. So when you finish unwinding the bandages and push them off to the side with the rest of them, you lean up on your knees to cup his cheek, pulling him down a bit to you so you can press your lips to the corner of his. 

“You’re stuck with me.”

“I think it’s the other way around,” he croaks out, and the wry laugh he lets out falls flat. 

You squeeze his hand again before you rise to your feet, and when you do, Dazai’s throat spasms as you stand in front of him, looking down at him. He’s stripped bare in front of you now—physically, emotionally, and he looks at you with an expression that lets you know that you have the power to utterly ruin him. He’s trusted you with his heart, handed it over to you on a platter after having guarded it so desperately and carefully for so long, and you can see the vulnerability in his dark eyes as he watches you restlessly, waiting to see what you’ll do with it. 

You lean forward again, pressing your lips against his forehead softly and then to his own, a chaste, innocent kiss that lasts no longer than half a second. 

“I love you,” you tell him quietly. 

Humans cannot live without a heart, so if he’s to give you his, it’s only fair that you give him your own—though realistically, yours has already been his for a long time. Your heart beats in his chest now, and his in yours, and you wonder if he understands the gravity of what that means but you think he does, if the way his expression crumbles has anything to say about it. His hands fly to your waist, dragging you down onto his lap. His fingers bite a bit too deeply into your skin for it to be comfortable, but you only wrap your arms around his shoulders and let him bury his face into the crook of your neck. 

“I think I might’ve been born just so I could meet you,” Dazai admits, words thick and throaty, muffled against your neck.

You smile lightly, toying with the hair at the nape of his neck, turning your head to the side to kiss his temple. “I feel the same,” you whisper, because there’s no way anything but destiny led you to Dazai Osamu on that beach—one way or another, you were fated to be with him. 

Dazai pulls his face from where he’s had it tucked in your neck to press his lips to yours; he kisses you desperately, hands rising to cup your cheeks. In one swift motion, he has you pinned down on the bed, hips and chest flush to yours, hand slipping behind your head to tilt your head so he can deepen the kiss, and you’re reeling at his sudden switch up, struggling to keep up with him. His tongue traces the inside of your lip, deceptively gentle compared to the way he has body pressed against yours.

Your hands fly to his waist, sliding over his bare skin, over all of the rough ridges of his scars and his body shudders against yours violently, unused to the feeling of someone touching him without his bandages as a barrier. He pulls back, tugging at your bottom lip softly before moving just far enough away for your lips to be brushing, sharing the same sliver of air. You can feel his breath fanning across your lips, it smells of the peppermints you have littered across your desk and distantly, you can’t help but wonder when he managed to steal one, but the thought is only fleeting. It’s dizzying, hot, so intimate that you think your heart is about to fly out of your chest.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this,” Dazai breathes out, dark eyes searching yours as he speaks.

“Me neither,” you agree, and then you smile, leaning up to steal another kiss from him, and then another, and then another. “Good thing we have the rest of our lives to try.”

Less than a week later, you stand in the chaos of the Armed Detective Agency as they argue over a new case—and by they, you mean Yosano and Kunikida with Dazai occasionally making antagonistic comments to try to make Kunikida blow a fuse. You don’t really know what you’re doing here, you suppose the Agency doesn’t really care and you have nothing better to do anyway —you lost your internship at the Ministry of Defense, obviously, with all of the chaos that went down and classes have yet to start up again, and Dazai begged and pleaded for you to come with him to work because he ‘can’t stand having to look at Kunikida-kun’s ugly mug all day,’ but you figure it’s only because he wants to sneak off to you whenever Kunikida is distracted.

Like now.

Dazai has flopped onto where you’re lounging on the couch as he watches Kunikida and Yosano go at it, head resting on your chest, giggling to himself as Kunikida’s face goes red and Yosano looks increasingly more entertained. You’re idly playing with his hair as you scroll through your phone, distantly listening to the argument that you’re pretty sure Dazai instigated just so he could slink away from his desk.

It’s only a matter of time before Kunikida notices Dazai’s scheme and drags him off of you, but it’s nearly the end of the day anyway and you and Dazai are going to the theme park in the Kanagawa prefecture once he can leave work, so you’re excited. You think you’re going to ask Atsushi, Kyouka and Kenji to come along with the two of you, even if Dazai pouts and scowls over it, because they’ve spent most of the day talking to you when Kunikida was forcing Dazai to actually do his work. 

“Ranpo will be here soon,” Yosano goads Kunikida. “We’ll see what he says.”

Kunikida’s eye twitches and he parts his lips to speak but before he can, the door to the Agency flies open and a familiar dark-haired man comes bounding in, snacking on a bag of sweets. Tanizaki follows behind him, looking exhausted if not a bit relieved to be back. 

“Tanizaki got us lost three times,” Ranpo complains, making his way through the reception area toward the interior. Tanizaki looks disgruntled, as if he doesn’t entirely agree with Ranpo’s statement but is beyond arguing about it. Ranpo pauses next to the couches where you and Dazai are lounging. “It’s you.”

Your eyebrows raise a bit when you notice the thinly veiled irritation in Ranpo’s voice. Dazai looks up, eyes a bit narrowed, and both Yosano and Kunikida pause from where they were about to bring their argument to Ranpo, sharing a look with one another. 

“Ranpo-san, don’t be ru-” Dazai starts to complain, although you can tell there’s a hint of tightness to his voice. 

“First, everyone in the Agency ignores me when I tell them not to take this case; then, I go out of the way to warn you about the Hunting Dogs and instead of listening to me, you throw yourself into the heart of Yokohama and make yourself easy pickings for them,” Ranpo rants. “I don’t even know why I try.”

Realization strikes fast, your face feels a bit hot. Dazai sits up from where he’s laying on you, looking between you and Ranpo, a bit confused. 

“... You were R,” you realize sheepishly, wondering how you hadn’t put it together sooner. 

Ranpo all but sneers. “Aren’t you supposed to be an honors student at Waseda? I swear, sometimes I think I’m the only person in my life with brain cells.” he says snidely, pointedly raising his chin and looking away from you as he adds: “I suppose your arrest wasn’t entirely a bad thing, though—made the police force more willing to open their eyes with their wives and family members going off the deep end about the Hunting Dogs. But still, after all the effort I went through to get that warning to you…”

He finishes with a loud scoff, but you’re more focused on the aghast expression on Dazai’s face as he looks at you, and you brace yourself for the conversation that’s about to come, wondering how the hell you’re going to get out of it.

“You got arrested?” Dazai blanches, eyes wide and face a bit pale.

You wince, laughing a bit sheepishly. “Yeah… ha, look at us, in jail at the same time! Couple goals, huh?” 

Dazai doesn’t look half as amused—a mix of disbelief, guilt and a hint of anger all visible on his face. You don’t know where the guilt is coming from, but you figure he must blame himself for it somehow, which you think is a bit ridiculous because it was your choice to let yourself get arrested when you had the chance to flee. You think that your trip to the amusement park is going to be tainted now, because you know that as soon as Dazai gets the chance, he’s going to bully you into an interrogation over what happened, so to salvage the night and spare yourself the headache, you finally make your move.

“Atsushi-kun, Kyouka-chan, Kenji-kun, Osamu and I are going to the amusement park later, you should join us!” 

The look Dazai gives you is nothing short of betrayal, but luckily, Atsushi, Kenji and Kyouka, who’ve all lit up at your words, excited, can see it from where they’re sitting. You smile sweetly up at Dazai, leaning up to steal a kiss; he is disgruntled, narrowing his eyes at you.

“Oh? The one in Kanagawa?” Yosano suddenly asks, interested. “We’ll come too.”

Dazai buries his face in your chest, letting out a muffled groan. Yosano tosses you a wink, seemingly having forgotten about her argument with Kunikida as she throws her arm around the man and gives him a sharp look.

“Won’t we, Kunikida?” she asks with a terrifying smile. Kunikida looks as if he’s going to protest but before he can, Yosano’s arm around him tightens. “Won’t we?”

“Fine,” Kunikida bites out, looking none too pleased. “I need to hurry and finish this report then, so let go.”

Ranpo points at you. “You’ll fund my cotton candy for the night as an apology for the unnecessary headache,” he declares and you let out a huff of laughter in agreement.

“Can Naomi and I come too?” Tanizaki asks, a bit hesitant as he glances at you and notices the way Dazai has slumped into your chest, defeated. “We’ve only been once when we were kids. It’d be fun to go back.”

“‘Course,” you agree easily. “Dazai and I are gonna head out now though, I have to run to the store before we go.”

Kunikida only waves you off—he probably doesn’t even register what you asked, too focused on getting his report done—so you push Dazai off of you and rise to your feet, stretching because your back has become a bit sore from lounging around all day. Dazai nearly topples onto his ass, shooting you an accusing look before standing up straight.

You hold your hand out to him, he takes it, looking a bit mollified. 

“See you in a bit,” you tell the Agency, and you get various different goodbyes as you leave the office.

As soon as the door shuts behind the two of you, Dazai is scowling at you. “You’re devious,” he claims. “Inviting them all to avoid a much needed conversation. Diabolical.”

“Learned from the best,” you coo, leaning into him and nudging his arm with your shoulder. He rolls his eyes, you grin. “Please, you and I both know you would spend the whole night trying to talk about it if we go alone and it would piss me off. We can talk about it when we get home.”

“And now.” The smile that Dazai gives you is all teeth, you grimace. “How did you get arrested?”

You just shrug. “They asked me for information, I refused to give it. I figured if they were going to come after me one way or another, it’s better that it happens in public—people don’t really take kindly to watching someone get arrested for associating with an organization that they’ve all associated with at some point or another because they’ll get scared that they’re next.”

Dazai looks at you, distinctly impressed. “You are devious.” He sounds proud, your cheeks heat up a bit, but then his expression drops again. “But still reckless. You could’ve been killed.”

“But I wasn’t.” You wave him off and then absently bid goodbye to the cafe owner and his wife as the two of you leave the cafe and make your way down the street to where you’d parked this morning. 

“But you could’ve been,” Dazai stresses the words, he’s a lot more tense than you expected, his jaw is tight. He catches the way you’re looking at him and shakes his head, letting out a puff of air. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” you ask, brows furrowed.

“It’s my fault,” he tells you, and you immediately scoff, rolling your eyes. “It is, you don’t understand—I was with Dostoevsky in Meursault, I had to make a decision-”

“Shut up,” you tell him, irate. His mouth shuts instantly. “Stop acting like I have no autonomy. I knew what I was walking into, I chose to do it anyway. That’s the end of it, stop blaming yourself for every little thing that goes wrong, Osamu. You’re only human, you can’t control everything.”

You can tell that Dazai doesn’t believe you, but that’s an argument for another day. Luckily, Dazai doesn’t look too keen on pressing the subject anyway. Instead, conflict sweeps over his face as he studies you.

Finally, he asks quietly, “You never doubted the Agency?”

You let out a sharp laugh. “Are you kidding? There’s no way anyone’s going to convince me that the people in that office building are terrorists. That’s absurd, I figured there was something supernatural going on, just didn’t know what.”

Dazai looks at you, disbelief painted on his face. You’re not sure why until he lets out his own laugh, shaking his head. “The Decay of the Angel had a reality altering book,” he explains, eyeing you as the two of you continue down the sidewalk. “And you managed to somehow subvert the reality they created with it.”

You can’t tell if it’s a question or not, and for some reason, you feel distinctly seen as he looks down at you with an indecipherable expression. So you just shrug. “They shouldn’t have written such a ludicrous reality, then,” is all you say, a bit awkwardly.

Dazai only laughs again, slinging an arm around your shoulder. You lean your head into him, smiling softly. You bask in his presence, letting the warmth of the setting sun wash across your face as you share a few moments of silence. 

As the two of you reach the parking garage you’d parked in, Dazai suddenly stops, looking down at you. “Do you believe in fate?” he asks quietly, uncertainty in his eyes as he watches you for a response.

“Yeah,” you tell him. You’ve always believed in fate, and you believe in it a bit more after meeting Dazai, because somehow you know that you were always destined to meet him, that your fates have been intertwined since the moment the two of you were born. You simply cannot imagine a life without him, not in this world or any other. “String theory, multiverse, I think the world’s a lot bigger than just ours. Why?” 

You glance up at him curiously. “You do?” he asks a bit distantly, leaning down to ghost his lips against your forehead. Then a bit more hesitant, he continues, “If you think there’s more worlds like ours… do you think we’re together in all of them?” 

You snort, which is obviously not the reaction Dazai expects from the way he jolts, but before he can take offense to your reaction, you speak.

“Definitely,” you say so confidently that he almost looks taken aback. “I’ll find you in every universe, you can count on it.”

You think he looks beautiful right now as the sun finally sets over the horizon, the pale orange tints of the coming dusk making his skin glow, his eyes soft and fond, full of longing as he looks down at you. You’re struck with a distinct urge to kiss him, but he looks so divine in this moment that you can hardly bring yourself to move, spellbound as you admire him.

“Yeah,” he finally breathes out, “I will.”

i don’t even really have words guys 🥹 i’m literally about to weep i can’t believe it’s over

[reddogf13]

Outlast 2: Deliverance CH 8

Also on A03

Status: Incomplete

Rated: M - Dead Dove Do Not Eat This takes place in the Outlast 2 universe after all.

Previous chap: CH: 7 Badlands

Next chap: CH: 9 Uhtceare

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~Ch: 8 Kings men~

After hours of hard searching he was satisfied that everyone was taken care of. Leaving the quarantine he was greeted by Marta waiting alongside a small group. Those looking for family in the hopes they survived long enough alongside volunteers to care for the ill. Joyed to see a team willing since he wasn't going to force people to do it. Forcing would only fester contempt to those taken care of. A fleck of gold on the forest edge let Blake know that Val was still there waiting for him as the rest were. Moving the ill along he eventually saw her leave.

Marta spoke up about her on their way to the new quarantine. “He's been standing out there since you went in. I worry he aims to have your head if given the chance. Should we pick them off before they become trouble?”

“I'm not going to hunt people down because of fear for what they may do.” Can't say much for that when I'm too afraid to go after them. “I don't even know what Val wants. If she wanted to take over Temple Gate I would think she'd have tried earlier. You're more of a block to that then I am.”

“I trust that even he would fear the Angel of Death. Yet, to be the one to strike down such an angel would earn a mighty title. Should we really wait 'till the day they strike? Everyday they settle themselves deeper into those mountains. Festering up there like ticks feasting on our blood. It'll be harder to pry them out when we finally do act.”

Calming himself from getting too sick by the conversation he took some deep breaths. “How about we train the guard to be better prepared for that day? What have you started them on so far?”

“Basics they've learned, tracking trails for the capture. Aggravatingly slow to handle the threat by the time they do catch up. they keep goin' in circles on how to restrain them. Different from the usual process of making them unconscious entirely first.”

“What tools do they have?”

“Rope, but not much. Weapons by way of various blades. Flashlights.”

“Any zip ties?”

“Haven't seen those in years.”

“Could make catchers loops. They're easy to make off what we got. A piece of hollowed pole and some dull wire.”

“Mm, another matter is where to place them after. Should we use one of the old spaces?”

“No, those shouldn't be used. We need one large single space that we can add onto. Put in some more plumbing to make better cells.”

“We used to have a basement for storage before it collapsed years ago. Fix the structure and you'll have a convertible space.” Gesturing her staff toward a short square building out in the distance.

“That could work, can you show me?” Following Marta to the double doors of the building. Opening them to a large set of stone stairs downward to the start of a large area. Blocked as Marta said with a caved in roof and many rotten beams threatening to collapse if they haven't already. Seems like the best we got. Separate the place with cells and a front area to act as a buffer in case things go wrong. “Is there another entrance or is this the only one?”

“Only one.”

“Good, we won't have to block another. One way in for the jail is best. I'll ask Liam to work on it. Capture loops I'll make myself after everything else is handled.”

“And Val? If he's caught within the walls of Temple Gate, planning your execution. Then what?”

“If she's caught, send her to jail. I'll either interrogate her or decide right then and there what's to be done.” Correcting something he noticed everyone did in Temple Gate at the mention of Val's gender.

“She? But Val's not-”

“No, but yes.” Trying to keep this as easy an explanation to someone not used to being open. “Maybe not in body, but that's who she is in soul. I won't fight what her soul says is true. Long as it doesn't hurt anyone, then there's no reason to deny what she knows is her true self.” He wasn't sure if he liked using souls as a part of it, but it was a simple start to open the door.

Marta did a sort of eye roll, but didn't argue. “As the angel says. If we capture her we'll bring her to jail and send you news of such then. What about any other Voltaire?”

“Hold them until I get there for interrogation. Unless it's a large group, then bring them to jail.”

All those Blake could save were safely migrated to the new quarantine. Mathew having done well with the tasks given to him. Passing out a bottle to everyone with only a couple of handfuls left over. Using a whole heap of other medical supplies him and Blake cleaned everyone before carefully re-wrapping them. Covered in fresh clean gauze surrounded by the sterile smell of cleaner or alcohol. Each given a simple mat bed, not as fancy as a hospital bed, but would have to do. Blake overlooked their grand handy work while Mathew spent time talking with his mother. The medicine wouldn't fix the damage done to her, but it would buy some time. There were groups of similar on the edge of death, but Blake saw they had enough life to help them out of the pit as much as he could. Their likelihood of fully rejoining Temple Gate wouldn't be possible. They'd be released from quarantine, but they would need full time care and couldn't work. Another thing atop his plate of planning. When everyone was settled he called their attention for the dreaded assembly of awkward sex ED. Explaining what they had, how it was passed and all the basics they should have gotten in an average middle school. Doing his best to answer the strange questions at the end. Hating that he'd have to repeat this for the rest of Temple Gate. He scrubbed himself down all over in a strict cleaning regime. Strong soap smelling heavily of citrus fruits. Then with alcohol before leaving quarantine. Instructing everyone else to scrub with soaps often as possible. Any leaving of quarantine could only be done by the medics, who had to do a thorough scrub down like him.

Pulling his chain mail off he looked over the damage done. Sections disconnected from the many arrows embedded into it. Having gotten the bolts free and the rest from the shooter he took the whole crossbow kit to John. Hiking up the mountain trail naturally developed from foot traffic.

Handing it off to be used for long range hunting. John highly praised Blake for it. “This will be perfect for deer if we come across any.”

“Glad you like it. Know how to use it?”

“Oh yeah, used to be a few in circulation. You can guess what happened to them. Laird and Nick were the last to have one. They even knew how to make 'em.”

“Guess that's why he never ran out of bolts, heh. I plan to have that meeting I meant to give earlier. Gather people at the grand hall on your way there.”

“Of course… Sir, I want to thank you for what you've done. For my family, my wife especially. Didn't think I'd ever see her after she was sent away. Or if I did, I'd be leaving my son behind.”

He smiled. “It's fine. Be happy and don't worry about it.” Waving goodbye back down the mountain trail.

Blake headed to Liam next about converting the basement after the houses were all fixed. Given permission to gather whatever wood he needed. As for the jail cells, metal bars were to be recycled from the cages Knoth used. Walls created from layering concrete and brick. Walls doubled up with doors if any escape attempts were made. A whole working set for plumbing to be installed. The whole power supply was independent from civilization. Their pipes connected to a massive underground well that naturally refilled come warm spring.

I really need to get on giving out those lord titles. Dragging his feet to the grand hall for the second sex ED class. It felt incredibly long and agonizing telling a bunch of adults this. Fleeing at the first chance he got when the older members filled in for answering the questions. At least not everyone was clueless about the sex life. Inside his room he carved out a few round disks from a white branch he had on the side. Sorting through who was dubbed a lord over what. Aiming this to be more official in some way he carved out a set of badges for each main category. Farming had the silhouette of a recessed bulls head with a carved stalk of wheat over it. Hunting had a bucks head with a berry branch similar to the farmers layered carving. town needs had a hammer surrounded by a carved ring of rope at its edge. health was the classic cross surrounded by a ring of carved olive branches. And guard he based off the classic sheriff star from old western movies he used to watch. Decorated with carved on fake stitch embroidery to simulate threaded leather. Taking time to loop a little wire over to thread each badge onto a chain. Inspecting the two inch disks for anything else to be added.

In hand he gathered up the people to be dubbed. Easy to gather everyone again after they stuck around since the last meeting. Ducking away from more sex questions being asked. Motioning everyone to sit back down while a select few stood on stage. At the podium he awkwardly started his announcement. After so many he still wasn't used to doing them. “Okay, I'm happy to see how far we've gotten. Places rebuilt, farms up and working again and people happy. Since things are growing so large to manage I decided to name a few lords under me. They will manage each sector I put them over and I trust them to make decisions without running to me every time. They will update me when there are large decisions needed. They will help with any issues they have and pass them up to me if serious enough. They'll be wearing one of these, so you know who each one is. They won't get any special treatment. They'll eat and live the same as everyone else.” Lifting up the dangling badges. “First is Marta, in charge of the guard to protect the town from inside and outer threats. James, in charge of farming to managing food stock and storage. John, in charge of hunting and foraging the surrounding land. Liam, for town needs. He will be building what we need or fixing what we have. Along with delivering major supplies from one end of town to the other. And finally Mathew, for health. He will run the hospital, care for the sick, distribute any future meds and keep track of any illness spreading.” Mathew wanted to be a lord and Blake felt he fit it best. He knew the young man wouldn't leave his mothers side needing permanent care. May as well make him in charge of the job to be nearby round the clock. Seeing him beam over the badge warmed Blake's heart that he made the right decision. Dismissing everyone except for the lords to give a meet up schedule. Every few days they'd meet to discuss things that were noteworthy, but could come to him anytime if they wanted.

For the next few weeks nothing much noteworthy happened. Houses were rebuilt from the rot to create nice fresh rows. The basement structure had its framing redone to make a safe inner space. Cells would be constructed later. Mathew was taking his position seriously by constantly giving updates from quarantine. Notifying Blake when they needed more medical supplies or cleaner to keep things sterilized. Updates that the ill were gaining weight after being put on a proper diet. Their sores were leaving alongside the rashes covering them. Major scarring was left over and most likely wouldn't leave for years. Taking up to covering themselves to hide the noticeable marks.

Marta's guard had been improving since being given the capture loops. Hunting down practice volunteers took less time each round. After seeing Blake's chainmail had survived multiple crossbow bolts they asked for a set themselves. To save time making six sets he taught them how to make it themselves on the side. Improved upon by braces of spare wood they collected from Liam and tanned hides John had set. Their new layered suits could protect from anything sharp for the most part. A cross bolt or two if that ever happened. Farms were flourishing through multiple crops Blake aimed to have harvested before the approaching winter. A huge chunk of the harvest would be picked for long time preservation. A selection of meat smoked and dried into batches of jerky. Stored away in jars in a fixed up barn. Numbers were recorded for Blake to copy down into a notebook. A breakdown of medical supplies used, food eaten, and how much money was flowing out of Temple Gate to get its footing. Worrying over the major amounts of cash they were bleeding. All necessary, but the money would run out eventually. And then what? The question haunted him in his dreams. Always delivered by Lynn, who was mutilated differently each time. Asking what he was still doing in Temple Gate. No matter the answer he yelled she refused to accept them. Stabbing him with insults of wanting her death. Keeping all the killers alive after all that they did. Gifting mercy on those who deserved an equally tortuous death that would come back to bite him.

These recurring dreams had soured what mood he had. Hiding it all behind false smiles to keep everyone else up. Neglecting his sleep to stay up late doing anything else but that. He still had a few weeks until the ill would get a health check. Those cleared would be integrated soon as possible. Splitting the head count across various areas, but that could change on the day. Blake rubbed his tired face checking over the copied food numbers. He wanted to be sure everything was copied over correctly or else he could end up panicking from messed up totals. Almost accidentally marking the page from urgent banging on his door.

One of the guard shouting through the door. “Sir, we caught a Voltaire!”

Blake jumped from his chair to the door. “Show me.” Racing out behind the other. Chest tightening at the thought of who it could be. “Is it Val?” She was to be taken to the jail when caught, but that wasn't set up yet. What will I do if it is?

His guard's answer calmed him. “No, a random.” They ran up to the guards surrounding the one snagged. Looking around he wondered what they were doing here. Nothing but a bunch of rotten buildings overtaken by nature.

Marta oversaw everything until Blake arrived. “Snagged him, skulking like a fox. No weapons on him, or anything else.” She approached Blake away from the captured. Whispering the next bit. “You can’t see Val, but he's watching from the hills nearby.”

“She and thank you.”

Marta sighed. “She.” Watching him pass to part the ring of guards.

He looked over the one caught, they were thin and small. Covered in various scar marks, eyes glaring right at Blake as he was kept pinned down. Loops tight around his neck and some at his legs. Blake set his hands on his hips. “What were you doing?” Starting his interrogation. Seeing already that this wasn't going anywhere.

One guard spoke up. “Let's use him for information. He's quiet now, but we can get answers out of him by morning. When we're done we can-”

“No, we're not doing that.” Blake wasn't willing to torture answers out of him and by the others stare he wasn't giving any answers willingly. He thought of skipping them and directly asking Val. That would be a gamble in itself. If this grunt had no worth she wouldn't answer, yet he must have some. She was hiding to see what would happen. A test of Blake's spine when handling threats? A wait and see, to see what would happen and nothing more?

“We should make an example of him.”

The hard glare of the looped one immediately dropped. Their tense shoulders slumped to what was being proposed.

“What has he done?”

“Nothing, yet.”

“Could say trespassing.” Another answered.

“I'd hardly call that something. Let him go.” He waved off.

“What?! We can't let him go. We caught him skulking around to do something.”

“To do what? There's nothing on him and he's hardly anywhere he could cause trouble.” Gesturing around to the old area left untouched still. Made up mainly of dirt with a few rotten abandoned shacks in between. Far from any space being used or lived by. “Why not go directly somewhere else?”

“He could have been sent in to spy.”

“All the Voltaire used to live here. They already know where everything is. What new information could he gain?”

“Find out where you sleep. Next one will be a sent in killer.”

“I'm sure they could figure that out from a distance. I go into the grand hall and never leave like everyone else. If sending in an assassin was so easy I'm sure Knoth would have been dead ages ago.”

“We should string him up as a warning to the others.” The first guard spoke. “We let this one go and they'll push us further next time.”

Agreed by the second guard. “Set on a pyre would be seeable for miles. Even from the mountains they could-”

“No! We're not doing any of that!” Blake roared to shut the conversation down. “He's done nothing but step into an abandoned area. If someone else comes and does something then that'd be worthy of a punishment.” When they passed looks to each other Blake knew they disagreed. Marta passed him a look in asking if she should settle the dispute for him. It would have been easy, but not good for the long run. “Alright, choose what you want to do with him. I'll use that as the base for what each of your punishments will be. I know a few of you here did a lot more than trespassing. Some of you remember well what Knoth decided when he imprisoned you. How did it feel all the way until I freed you? What were your crimes that he decided were so heinous? That ceremony to free you of your sins only stays so long as you change. Do you want to decorate the town with new bodies? You still think trespassing is worth killing over?” They glanced at each other, shifting themselves to downward looks. Avoiding Blake's judging stare aimed at each of them. “Let him go.” This time the order wasn't argued. Loops slipped off before the released was shooed away. Stepped after by Marta up to the border to make sure they were chased out. Blake caught a glimpse of Val reuniting with the other before they ran off.

He had the guard spread out again while he went to sleep for the night. His actions strange consequences becoming known within a matter of days. Val had been spotted repeatedly watching Temple Gate far off in the distance. Reports from Marta kept him aware of each time and place she was spotted. Never seen at night or with any other Voltaire at any time. Marta's paranoia about it still too high; she enforced her guard shifting their routes constantly. In case Val was attempting to study that for a time to attack. Creating a bland map off guesswork Blake pinned the spots she appeared. Not finding out much from it.

While in the dining hall he spotted her from a window. Standing in one of her common spots on the horizon. They were the best spots to get a view of Temple Gate without getting too close to its edge. While avoiding being too far and high on the mountain to see people as specks. He questioned what she wanted. She should know where everything is, at least by now if not before. Does she want something? Turned toward the idea of maybe she wanted to speak with him. No, what would I say to her and what would she ask of me? Speak some crass words or drone on about joining her side? Stomach dropping as if he ate a boulder at the idea of meeting her face to face. Either stabbed by her knife or grabbed by her hands. Feeling him up again while pinned beneath her. Blocking out the idea she'd want to join him instead. No, she wouldn't want that. Shoving away any concept of how to integrate them. He'd prefer focusing on integrating the healed as that day grew closer. Only nine more days. Nervous about how well things would go. He explained everything, but people were still fearful of those recovering. Would he need to separate the groups to prevent fights? Would separating the two help or make things worse? What if everyone refused to work unless the healed were sent away. He had a duty to be their protector, to ensure they were treated fairly in Temple Gate after so long.

He rubbed away a migraine forming at the front of his skull. Hand dropping when he was approached by a group of men. One stepping forward to make a request Blake hadn't experienced before. “Sir, can you official a marriage?”

“Uh ...” I'm not a priest, but it's not like Knoth was. Guess anything goes. “Sure? When's the wedding? What do I do?”

“Don't have much weddings around here. Knoth made 'em official between the families attending in a church. Says a few words from his gospel. Nothin' else than that.”

At least it sounds easy. “I can do that. Won’t be from his book and I'll have to do it in the grand hall instead.”

“Close enough. We'll fetch the bride and groom.”

“I'll be here.” What do priests say at the altar? He pondered as the group left him. Do you take each other in sickness, health and blah blah. I now pronounce you, is that it? God, I remember it being so much longer than that. I was all over the place at my wedding though. Making sure Lynn wasn't stressed. Heh, she was doing the same. Maybe more, I was the nervous wreck through all that. Feel bad for the photographer. How many times did I ask to see the photos? Making adjustments to have Lynn look perfect. That's what happens when you're your wife's camera man. She had to lure me away from that poor guy using a tray of appetizers. Coming out of his thoughts by the group returning. Introductions passed back and forth between the families and Blake.

His pleasantry cut when he met the bride. “Claire.” Introducing herself. A girl looking far too young.

With a groom far too old. “Don.”

Blake stood frozen at what was going on. “Uh, … How old are you?”

“Sixteen.” She kept her head low, eyes scouring the floor for nothing in particular. Avoiding all the older men surrounding her. Shooting her warning looks now and again.

Refusing to support this he stated without hesitation “I'm not marrying you.”

“Why not?” Don asked. “Is it 'cause you didn't oversee the sale? We can go over the trade right now.”

“She's too young.”

“she's sixteen, old 'nough to marry.

Her own father stepped up in agreement. “She's not lookin' at anyone else, thought his offer was fair. So he should get her. Before she gets too old to have kids. 'less you actually want her, but you gotta offer more than Don.”

Blake had to grit his teeth together. “I don't support child marriages.” Holding his temper coming to a roaring boil. “Not in my book.”

“What's the problem? She has to settle down soon and I want 'er.”

“What aren't you getting?! First of all, you can't buy anyone to be your wife! Second, You can't marry until both sides are at least eighteen.”

Marta's appearance briefly paused the argument. The men waited for her to do anything. Glancing from her to Blake when nothing happened.

“Tsk, fine. We'll make our wedding set in bed. Doubt you could officialize it anyways.” Regretting his words under Marta's stare.

Blake yanked the girl away. “Like hell I'm letting that happen.” Feeling bad about needing to do it roughly, but they were ready to yank her back. Letting go after Marta stepped forward to intimidate them back.

“You gonna let her die alone? She needs a husband.”

“No she doesn't.” Growling out his frustration. “You're lucky the jails not finished yet or I'd throw you in there!”

“Jail for what?!”

The fact that Marta also seemed a little confused worried him. Reasons clicking into place. I'm not in the outside. He sighed before giving a break down. “No one has to marry anyone they don't want. If they want to be alone their whole life, that's fine. Men and women can freely make that choice on their own. You can't claim someone for any reason.”

“How else are we expected to start families? If we let them choose then nobody will get married. Worse, we'll have whores running amok with every man they seduce. Destroying households until there won't be any left.”

“Doubtful.” Blake wasn't going to let this conversation go on. “I'm telling you right now. No-ones allowed to claim anybody. You want to get married so bad? Find a girl that'd actually like you.” An impossible task for him. That I'm sure of. “What you did won't be allowed anymore while I'm in charge. I won't be letting you walk off after this either. You can help James on the field for the next few months. Rise early and leave late, removing all the rocks and weeds.”

“Why should I?! I did nothing wrong! This is how it's always been done! You can't take away-”

“Bite that tongue of yours.” Marta quieted him immediately. “You heard him. Get going before he chooses somethin' worse.”

The man glared between her and him, taking her advice to skitter off alongside the others. Blake turned to the girl, who flinched at his movement. He spoke softly to her. “You don't have to marry him. Or anyone else your father says you should. He can't sell you, I won't allow that.” She thanked him quietly, saying nothing more. He grit his teeth in anger over what happened. Switching to Marta to focus some of it. “Why didn't you say anything?”

Her brows furrowed, tapping the cane on her shoulder then giving a half shrug. “That's the way?” Her statement hinting at her confusion.

“... Well, it shouldn't. It's not allowed anymore… Knoth allowed a lot of things that I don't condone. Fathers marrying daughters was one I remember reading.”

“That was only allowed if their wife's passed first. Polygamy wasn't allowed even in marriage.”

“That's not the point… Do you support it?”

Marta's face crinkled, mumbling in whispers. “That's … how it's been. Knoth wanted the congregation to grow. A holy army ready for war when the end came. Even more so after the ranches fall with so many taken away from us. Outside law was dropped for his holy law to take full effect once Temple Gate was settled.” Sounding tired as she droned on a teaching hammered into her. “It's just always been the way, even for me back on the ranch. I owed Knoth for what he gave me.”

“Nobody can own you.”

“My body and my soul always belong to Knoth. Knoth's eye, Knoth's hound, his best beloved to name a few of my titles. Everything but the wedding ring to finalize it between me and him. He didn't want us to be, nor any other women of the flock for him. Due to his higher callin', but he finalized a few suitors he chose for me. None of 'em lasted after some great struggles.”

“… I want to make it clear you can't belong to someone because they did something for you. You don't belong to me, never will. Knoth's gone, you're free, you can say what you want.”

She froze, statue-like, breath held while watching him over the long moment. Blake thought he'd have to repeat the question. Is she looking for an answer from me first? Agree with me no matter what she really thought. Hmm, that's how it's been. Tempted to nudge her in the right direction, but it was better said straight by her.

Minutes stretched on, then she answered. “No, I'd rather see it gone.”

He lightly smiled and nodded. Turning to the girl standing quietly by. Can't let her go home. Asking Marta for suggestions. “Are there any abandoned houses nearby? Ones that aren't falling apart?”

“Few in the forest not far.”

“Good.” Addressing them both. “I'm not letting you stay near those creeps or with your dad, who showed support for that. You're moving into a new place. If you want anything from your old home, Marta will escort you there to grab what you want and escort you to your new home. They try to stop you, Marta gets to break their legs. They can't harass you either, tell me or Marta if they try.”

Her voice was quiet. “You don't have to do that. I'm expected to marry by my age.”

“I am and you shouldn't. Marry who you want when you're old enough… Ah, eighteen years old, minimum.” I'll have to do a major announcement for law changes. Back to speaking solely to Marta. “What other stuff did Knoth support? There's a lot I want to see gone. Anything you didn't like that stands out immediately?”

Her eyes widened in a short flash. gaze darting around in a rush to search for something deep in memory. Appearing to have a lot to say, but crushed under the weight of it all in a short instance.

“A lot of stuff then? We can sit down and list them.”

“If you have the time for it all.”

“I do. Help her get settled first then let's go talk at the hall.”

By afternoon, Blake ended up finding out just how much there was to toss or change. His few pieces of paper to take notes turned into its own little book with categories he marked. Many disgusting laws he outright crossed off with others, being not so bad. Needed minor twerking. Marta was a lexicon of everything Knoth ever put into place down to the very day. His laws started out reasonable such as those trained to drive could only move the heavy tractors. Turning more deluded and sickening in the more recent years. Many more were obviously “rules for thee, but not for me.” Like Knoth having many “visitors” in the bedroom without restrictions to women or men. Yet, a common villager had to find a wife to have as many children as possible. No other relationships were allowed.

He went through them all, showing the old vs the renewed to best see his changes. Marta seemed satisfied with a lot of them while others she liked a little less so. Being apprehensive about the concept of parole instead of strictly jail time. “It's always been like that on the outside.”

“Sounds like baby sitting to me. Waste our time watchin' them before they've truly paid for what They've done. Keep 'em in jail 'till they've really learned.”

“As opposed to babysitting them in a cell?”

“Least they're in one place.”

“If they're out, you won't have to feed them all the time.”

“Mm.” She hummed out a light agreement. “When you putting this up?”

“Immediately.”

“All of it? That's a lot to chew in a day.”

“Yes. I don't want people thinking any of this is okay for a day more.” Copying things to a fresh page. “I'll make a few copies to pass out. Can't make one for everybody, 'least not right now.”

“We better make sure you ain't in grabbing distance when you talk. Lot of folks won't take the changes sitting down.”

He nodded between copying. “If things do go south...” He started. Hands turned cold for no reason he stopped writing.

“I'll be with the guard.”

“But should you?”

“You don't want me to be?”

“I don't want anyone dying. Especially not to you. If it gets bad enough-”

“I can do a lot more than kill.” Interrupting him. “I did it because those were my orders. Without those shackles holdin' me back. people will realize they got more to fear now then before.”

“I don't want people to be scared either.” Tapping the book with his pen.

“Fear keeps them in line, but that was Knoth's way. You've managed to find your own to work with. I pray you'll find a way with this too.”

“Thanks. Guess I'll pray too.” Continuing to copy he joked. “Maybe God will save my ass for the twelfth time.”

“Wouldn't hurt.”

“I might be doing this for a while. Can you tell the lords there will be another assembly today. Have them spread the word.”

“What time?”

“Let's say after dinner. I should have at least a few copy's done by then.”

She dipped her head, leaving him to his copying alone. It took him a few hours to make twelve copies of the law book before dinner. One he'd keep personally, one for Marta to keep, one for the guard to study together. As for the rest, some would be left in the hall for people to reference and others kept in case the others disappeared for any reason. Coming up was the harder part, another assembly that had Marta stand beside her guards. The other lords John, Mathew, Liam and James sat toward the front. Blake stood at the podium flicking his hand and stretching it open and closed into a fist. Copying a thick book for hours had strained it. Its sore movement provided a small distraction from his rattled nerves. Repeatedly flexing the strain away in waiting for everyone to sit before starting.

“Today I had to get involved with an issue,” He started. “One about marriage and how it's conducted around here along with the general treatment of women. A toxic black spot left over from Knoth that I need to fix right away. Along with many other laws and views he supported and left behind after his death. Many of those I will not tolerate. I should have fixed this sooner, but I'm doing it now.” He went on through the long assembly. Bringing up the new rule book and many of the big changes it stated. He expected the backlash developing further with each new law, but not the equal defense against the naysayers.

It shot off after some aggressive shouting between a few men. Some on both sides of the room stood up to face one another. “We're supposed to let women run around without husbands. Letting them be a bunch of whores?”

“What do you think they're going to do without a husband? They're women, not succubi! Let them out of the homes and work with us. We could use more hands in the fields. No point forcing a woman to cook at home when you can't bring food to it.”

“I'm not working next to some dumb bitch who can't tell a weed from a growing crop.”

James stood up and scoffed. “Boy, you couldn't tell a carrot from a tree root. Let the women decide if they wanna. If they decide not to then nothings changed now has it?”

“Why change anything at all? This is how things have always been.”

John stood up next.“And how's that been working for us? How high is our body count? Take a look around, how many women we got left? We're lucky Knoth didn't force us to kill the last of them.”

James added on. “We'd have no future at all if they all went. What Knoth created had Temple Gate dying a slow death. We got a chance to change things that I thought would never come. Weather hell comes or not, I'm not missin' this.”

Liam stood on the other side. “Sure, let's change things to help Temple Gate grow. Should make the chains tighter and keep 'em on a curfew. Escorts out of the house by their fathers or husbands only.”

Blake shot that down immediately. “Never.”

Another snapped back. “And what if the girls refuse every hand offered to them? We shrug our shoulders -oh well- and watch our town die out after forty years?”

“I rather see that then this town turn toward sex slavery!” James shouted. “You don't want it for that family angle you keep flashing.”

“Of course we want family's.” Liam stated. “It's the only way this town can keep going.”

“Keep going how exactly, through marrying kids, through birthing more babies?” Room going hush at the word. One side far calmer than the other shifting on their feet. “Look at all of you. You're terrified at the mention of them. Eventually, one's gonna arrive and you'll have to take Knoth's false words or accept them for Temple Gates' future. You dumbass's forget what kids were?”

“We ain't forget.” One spoke. “We got a plan together around that.”

Another joined. “If we lock up the girls, get 'em all pregnant, we would know which one bares the Antichrist. Then we-”

“NO!” Blake roared everyone quiet. “NEVER EVER! If I hear one more suggestion like that from someone I will kill them personally myself!”

“You won't do anything. making up all these useless rules, wastin' our time. I ain't following a one. Anyone who ain't married needs to pick a wife. When the Antichrist is found, it'll be killed, then we'll raise the rest. Get the girls married quick, start them young to keep our-”

“SHUT UP!” Kids being targeted next had him snap. Vision filled by a blur of red he attacked the man. Punching into him, clawing and thrashing across the floor. Bashing into many others between their fighting. Whole hall exploding into a riot had Marta lose him in the outbreak. Forced to start grabbing and separating everyone as her guards did the same. One pulled out a knife on James, who got a few slashes to his arms. Forced back he fell over a table, flinching in expectation of a stab to the gut. Instead he heard a shriek of pain. He opened his eyes to see Marta had snapped the attackers leg backwards at the knee. Shoving them against the wall. “Sit and don't move.” Turning to face the crowd again in yanking people away. Any attackers that challenged her wrath were dealt with aggressively. Broken limbs, jaws, physically thrown over her head into the furniture. James and John took to moving the unconscious and broken out of the way.

Even as she was clearing a chunk of the crowd, she still had no sight of Blake. Who was still beating down the man on the floor. Rage dying to exhaustion, hand numb by the strain, his death threat earlier wasn't coming as easy as he wanted it to. When he slowed the other took his chance of a bottle falling off the bar top counter. Smashing it over Blake's head who flinched from the sharp glass. A liquid fell from his head that he expected to be beer. Its red color let him know what it really was. A large pain burned across his head that he couldn't figure out before being punched off the one under him. He slammed into a roll that didn't go far. A knee slammed into his side knocking him over further. Covering his head that spun after receiving some heavy punches. Arms grabbed to be forced away for the punches to connect with his skull. Teeth clacking together he was sure he tasted blood off his bit lip. Struggling to get up with the one above straddled over his back.

Between every other person fighting he wasn't sure what he heard over him. Some strange breath then a gurgle. A warm liquid water falling onto the back of his neck. The weight of the other slumped off him onto the floor next to him. Blake sat up at the sight of the other gripping their stabbed throat. In a moment they stopped twitching to bleed out the last few drops. Blake felt across the back of his neck and saw the blood that wasn't his own. Wiping it away using his own sleeve he was disgusted by how much there was on him. Head whipping around to see who could have done it; nobody stood out to him. Standing up from the floor his appearance stunned everyone still. Being the only one soaked in blood he stood out like a glowing beacon. Dead body bled out laid by his feet as proof it wasn't his own blood spilt.

Without anyone else covered in red he couldn't pinpoint the possible killer. Everyone equally a suspect unless they gave themselves up. Zoning back from his fixation of a killer in the room he noticed everyone staring at him. Locked on in fearful awe that he did exactly as he said he would. Swallowing the taste of copper he spoke to the stilled room. “Anyone else got something to say?” Scanning the room carefully for hints of the killer rather than another debater. “No? Then get the fuck out!” Pointing toward the door.

Main parts of the crowd shuffled out straight home. Marta turned to the guard members standing nearby. “Take all those idiots to the hospital.” Pointing to the line up of those she personally injured. She stood by Blake alongside John, James, and Liam. When it was only them she looked from the corpse to Blake. “You didn't kill him.” the others squinted between Blake and her.

“How are you sure?” John asked.

“He couldn't kill anyone to save his life.”

“No, I didn't. I didn't see who did it either. Did one of you-” Each shook their heads.

“James and John were by me. Liam stayed on the stage after I threatened to break his legs.”

He glanced around, asking next. “Where's Mathew?”

“He ran out soon after the fight started.”

“Shit.” He knelt down to look closer at the body.

“Does it matter?” Liam asked. “You wanted him dead.”

“Yes, but If I'd killed him then I'd only have to worry about my own sanity. Now I have to worry about what kind of killers out there.” Ignoring all the old murders. On closer inspection of the man's neck, he saw a yellowed white piece sticking out. Plucking it out he gave the sharp hard sliver a careful wipe down. “This a porcupine quill?” Standing to show everyone the item in his palm.

Marta picked it up for a careful glance. “It's bone.”

“Bone?” Glancing at the body. “Can't have come from him.”

“No. This is a bit old based on the whitening.” Passing it back to Blake.

Snapping open a pocket he carefully placed it away. “We should find Mathew. Maybe he saw something.”

John leading the way. “I bet he ran home. I always tell him to go there if there's trouble.”

A short walk had them approaching John's house. A small white house with a short covered porch. Its outer paneling hadn't aged gracefully with rot and peeling paint making its appearance. John stepped inside, followed by everyone else to find Mathew stressed out at the dining table. “You okay?”

“I guess.”

“You should drink something.” Fetching a glass of water.

“I don't need- !” Shot up from his chair when he saw Blake still coated in blood. “What happened?!”

“Was in a fight, but someone killed the guy. You see anything?”

“N-no. I ran out soon everyone stared fightin'. Came r-right home.”

“You sure?”

Mathew nodded, taking the glass of water from his dad.

“Okay, if you remember anything. Come tell me or Marta.” Looking to the tall woman, her eyes locked into glaring down the boy. “Come on Marta.” Lightly waving her to leave. Even when she turned away her eyes stayed locked on Mathew. Broken past the doorway out of each other's sights. Blake rubbed his face then gagged at the blood smearing further. “I'm going to get cleaned. James, can you handle the body? Marta, you should patrol. In case anything else happens.” Giving out orders through his worsening exhaustion. Tired brain struggling to grasp the answers his lords gave while walking off.

Next morning he felt fresher after last night's deep scrub. Sleep however had slipped away from his grasp. Nightmares of being stalked just before being killed were the recent ones. Better than seeing that fleshy creep at the school. Trying to stay optimistic in his zoned out brain. Zoning back he took in that he was looking out the front window of the grand hall. What was I doing before?… Oh yeah. Seeing that fleck of gold on the horizon. Val, in her usual spot in the mornings.

“Sir, you doing alright?” John approached Blake, who didn't look too well.

“Yeah, brains just been buzzing with all the stuff I have to do. worrying about what's going on in here��� what's out there.” Tipping his head up.

John followed his gaze, giving a hum of understanding when spotting Val. “You dealt with them before, right? What do you plan to do with them?”

He sighed. “I don't know.”

“Going to kill them?”

Dull and tired, he was open to suggestions. “Should I?” Swallowing in regret of his question. “ I… I didn't mean that.”

“Hm, most people would. Why don't you?”

“... I don't know. Willing to look away from a lot of things already? I've read a lot of notes left by people. Some from … I wasn't there, but I read what happened. The children cull, the suicides, the guilt everyone admitted too but had no one to turn too. Knoth swept it under the rug as sins or else marked them traitors for death. How much of it was them or how much of it was Knoth's crushing choke hold? Would this town have gone so crazy if someone else stepped up?”

“Like you are?”

“Maybe… I guess. I'm not a leader, I couldn't even save one person.”

“You helped all those in quarantine.”

“That's different.” Looking down at the ring on his finger.

“Ah… I can't speak for everyone, but a lot of us didn't want this to happen. We tried to make things better, help each other, while some- I can't say what they wanted. Nightmares gripped us in every waking moment. Knoth always told us it was our sins finding us and maybe it was? Could say it was us feeling guilt for all that we've done. I like to think of it as showing we still have a conscience left in us, despite everything. Some of us who committed the cruelest things wished we really hadn't… Marta was one of those and I'm sure there are others. For all those who show regret, will you forgive them?”

“Hard to say. Some of the things Knoth supported I can't ignore. I'll have to deal with those too if they start showing up again.” He sighed. “If they really do regret what they've done and change for the better. Then I have nothing to go after them for.”

“I'm willing to help and I'm sure many others are too.”

“Thanks John.”

[anthonysstupiddailyblog]

Anthony’s Stupid Daily Blog (419): Wed 10th May 2023

Up early for a visit to the doctors this morning about an issue that has needed to be resolved for some time. In recent years I’ve found myself constantly worrying, overthinking, instantly picturing the worst possible outcome of every decision I make and unable to find the enthusiasm to even do things that I like. I also try to avoid other people like the plague and having to even exchange friendly banter with them makes my skin crawl. I think it’s pretty obvious to anyone reading this that my anxiety has really gotten out of control in recent years. The therapist I saw a while back tried her best to help treat my anxiety but it was to no avail (and to be fair she was trying the help me treat it while I was working in a call centre so she was fighting an uphill battle). When the therapy (specifically CBT) failed to ameliorate any of the issues associated with social anxiety disorder I realized that if I was ever going to get better it would have to be through medication. I thought that I was going to have to have a lengthy dialogue with the doctor because anxiety has become a bit of a buzzword these days and I wouldn’t be surprised if doctors are a bit suspicious that people have self diagnosed themselves with anxiety. I told the doctor about all the constant overthinking, the dark thoughts, the constant apprehension I have when it comes to venturing out of my comfort zone and having to interact with others and the lack of motivation to do even the things that I enjoy. I also mentioned that when I got diagnosed with BFS a few years ago the neurologist told me that it is typically triggered by anxiety. The doctor gave me a questionnaire to fill out in order to determine what level of anxiety I was at. The questionnaire had a possible high score of 30 and I scored 27. Five years ago I would have been shocked by this revelation but recently things have gotten so bad that my immediate reaction was that it sounded completely accurate. The doctor gave me a card for Mind the mental health charity and she’s given me some meds and told me to increase the dosage over the coming weeks. I’m glad that I’ve finally decided to stop burying these issues and hoping they resolve themselves. Hopefully I won’t be such a nervous wreck anymore and maybe it will also help treat the twitches in my calves too. I finally finished “reading” Cimarron Rose, the latest book in my quest to read all the winners of the Edgar Award for Beat Novel. Once again it’s an entry that is probably much more entertaining than k gave it credit for but I’m the kind of reader who needs to be gripped right from the start or else I’ll just be phoning it in for the remainder. The plot is about a cop defending a young black man who he suspects has been falsely accused of rape  (I know there will be some far-left people who don’t recognize the term “falsely accused of rape” but people do actually lie. It happens). There’s also a subplot about being haunted by the ghost of a Navajo he accidentally shot dead but the novel as a whole wasn’t enough to captivate me. Maybe if there was a third subplot about a demonic dog who shoots flaming turds out of its arse and is going around Edinburgh killing people. I don’t know how the author could have worked that into a story set in the American badlands but if he’s a good author he would have found a way. The two items on my bucket list I’m determined to cross off before this year are to get my weight down to twelve stone and to finish reading all the Edgar books. I’m going to plow through the remaining 24 books in the series so that I can finally move on to my next challenge. Luckily the next book in the series Mr White’s Confession by Robert Clark arrived today so I’m going to jump right into it tomorrow.

[aldcldo]

v's  words  had  an  undeniable  truth  to  them  which  she  felt  so  strongly  that  her  face  —  her  entire  body  —  had  suddenly  softened,  became  free  from  tension,  because  of  them. anger,  irritation  and  frustration  became  supplanted  by  bewilderment,  surprise  and  awe  because  she  could  not  fathom  that  she  might  have  finally  been  given  the  reason  for  this  internal  conflict  of  hers  that  has  been  raging  on  for  a  while  now.  saul,  with  the  reins  in  his  hands,  was  steering  the  clan  towards  a  grim  future  where  they  give  up  their  freedom  in  exchange  for  corporate  protection,  and  she decided  to  leave  to  become  an  independent  mercenary  and  night  city  resident  as  to  avoid  being�� subject  to  such  a  fate,  like  aborting  a  sinking  ship,  so  to  speak,  and  since  she'd  no  longer  be  part  of  the  clan,  that  meant  she'd  no  longer  worry  about  them  or  worry  about  what  would  happen to  them... or  so  she  thought.

turned  out,  the  more  time  she  spent  in  night  city,  the  more  she  became  homesick and lonely.  to  go  from  having  a  fiercely loving,  loyal  family  by her side  to  having  absolutely  nobody  was  jarring,  and  she  missed  the  familiarity  of  being  in  the  family,  being  among  people  she  knew  intimately  who  knew  her  intimately  too,  people  she  loved  who  loved  her  back.  the  thought  of  those  she  held  dear  becoming  slaves  to  corporations  made  her  stomach  churn.  sure,  the  badlands  were  nothing  short of dangerous  with  raffen  shiv  lurking  in  the  shadows,  an arid  and  sweltering  climate,  and  the  stench  from  landfills  permeating  the  atmosphere,  but  at  least  they  did  not  have  to  answer  to  suits.  that  was  the  main  thing  they  prided  themselves  on,  that  was  the  main  attraction  of  being  a  nomad,  of  living  in  this  inhospitable  desert.  so,  for  saul  to  have  them  give  that  up... who  would  the  aldecaldos  be  then? they would cease to exist.

hence  why  she  vehemently  expressed  her  opposition  to  saul's  intentions  for  the  clan  every  chance  she  got.  granted,  it  didn't  make  sense  for  someone  who  wanted  to  leave  the  clan  to  care  so  much  about  the  clan's  future.  perhaps,  the  truth  was... she  never  truly  wanted  to  leave.  she  felt  forced  to.  after  all,  saul  had  his  mind  made  up,  he  was  going  through  with  the  process,  it  seemingly  didn't  matter  how  many  times  she  screamed  to  the  top  of  her  lungs,  how  many  times  she  expressed  her  misgivings  and  concerns,  he  was  going  to  do  what  he  thought  was  right.  and  that  was  still  the  case  even  now  after  having  returned  home.  again.  for  the  billionth  time.  the  shouting  match  that  just  occurred,  she  didn't  win  it.  she  might  have  had  good  points  and  articulated  them  well  in  the  midst  of  all  the  shouting,  but  she  could  only  be  victorious  if  saul  decided  she  was  since  he  was  the  leader  and  therefore had  the  final  say.

for  the  first  time  in  a  long  time,  panam  released  a  big,  deep  breath  and  came  with  it  was  an  expletive  that  she  has  used  countless  times  within  the  past  hour,  ❝  fuck...  ❞  but  this  time  was  a  bit  different  because  it  wasn't  an  expression  of  anger  or  anything  like  that,  but  more  like  defeat  — even  sadness.  she  was  fighting  a  losing  battle  and  she  hated  it,  she  was  scared,  but  she  refused  to  quit,  she  couldn't.  if  the  clan  ultimately  does  get  swallowed  up  by  biotechnica,  at  least  she'd  be  able to live with herself to some extent  knowing  she  tried  her  damnedest  to  prevent  it  from  happening  before  it  did.  but  since  that  has  not  happened  yet,  there  was  still  a  chance,  however  slim.  if  screaming,  shouting,  and  yelling  at  saul  and  calling  him  every  insult  under  the  sun  were  all  futile  attempts  to  get  him  to  change  course,  that  just  meant  she  had  to  get  more  creative  and  hands-on.

not  at  this  very  moment,  though.  her  emotions  were  intense,  overwhelming,  so  she  was  not  in  the  state  to  come  up  with  any  plan.  quite  frankly,  all  she  felt  like  doing  was  crying  and  she  was  indeed  on  the  brink  of  tears  ( which  explains  her  averting  her  gaze  from  v's  to  instead  look  at  the  ground ),  but  to  her,  this  wasn't  the  time  nor  the  place  to  let  them  flow,  not  out  in  the  open,  not  in  front  of  v,  so  she  was  using  the  rest  of  her  strength  in  her  possession  to  hold  them  back.  v  always  knew  what  to  say,  it  seemed  like,  and  sometimes  it  endeared  her,  other  times  it  pissed  her  off.  in  this  instance,  it  pissed  her  off.  every  time,  though, she  needed  it  regardless  of  how  it'd  make  her  feel.

then,  she  noticed  that  her  thorton  was  in  her  peripheral  vision  and  so  became reminded  of  its  presence  right  next  to  them,  and  she  proceeded  to  look  at  it  completely,  relief  washing  over  her.  that  was  her  escape.  whenever  she  hated a  situation,  whenever  things  were  getting  too  much,  she  had  the  means  to  delta.  even  if  she  didn't  have  a  destination  in  mind,  driving  around  aimlessly  with  the  radio  on  still  brought  peace,  and  needless  to  say,  peace  sounded  rather  appealing  right  now.

her  eyes  returned  to  v.  while  they  were  still  conveying  her  weariness,  her  sorrow,  at  least  they  weren't  shining  with  the  threat  of  tears.  ❝  look,  v,  i... i  gotta  go.  ❞  she  managed  to  muster  up  a  smile.  it  was  an  apologetic  one,  really,  for  choosing  to  run  away  from  her  problems once again,  for  not  knowing  how  to  properly  address  them,  for  being  too  prideful  and  stubborn  to  let  herself  be  vulnerable.  ❝  i  really  appreciate  you  stopping  by...  ❞

V's gone and found himself in the unique position of being the odd nomad out — counterintuitive, in a sense, but also ... not. He knows their ilk – his and Panam's – will always put their family first, and V's not in it. In fact, even while with the Bakkers, he wouldn't have been in it. So, here he is: no Aldecaldo, and yet keenly aware of the strange politics that are at play here. He remembers the bickering from his time out in the plains, and all that led to the Bakkers' eventual downfall.

He'd hate to see the same happening to the Aldecaldos. With Biotecnica breathing down their necks, though, and Saul apparently proving vulnerable to whatever turd wrapped in crêpe paper they're offering, V fears the worst.

Does he speak up about it, though? No; not beyond the off-hand warning he'd given the guy during a more private conversation. Inserting himself into a shouting match he had exactly no stake in, just felt like a bad idea all around. His position here feels fickle at best already — and if he's to see this through, he'd better know the value of keeping his mouth shut at the right time.

Maybe that should've stopped him from seeking out Panam, too, but it doesn't. There's only so much restraint he can muster, especially when he's so keen to put some distance between himself and the awkward tension hovering around the campfire at the centre of camp.

He finds her by her Thorton. Fitting, that — a chance to escape should sticking around even along the perimeter of camp prove too taxing. The knee-jerk reflex to flee after conflict this personal is all too familiar to him.

❛  'Cause it's home,  ❜ he interjects, managing to overhear her mumble just as he sidles up to her side. He leans his side against the front of the car, elbow braced on its hood, a step away from her. ❛  Despite or even because of all the headaches it brings you. — Am I wrong?  ❜