#SAP for Metals and Mining

[ingenx]

In conclusion, SAP Intelligent Asset Management (IAM) is a transformative solution for organizations seeking to optimize their asset management practices, particularly in metals and mining. With SAP for Metals and Mining, businesses can unlock the full potential of their assets, improve maintenance processes, and drive sustainable growth. Embracing this comprehensive solution enables organizations to stay ahead of the curve and achieve long-term success.

[yandere-wishes]

જ⁀❤ ︎ Yandere! Orion Pax x Reader VS Yandere! Optimus Prime x Reader

જ⁀❤︎ Old Friend by Mitski (Sped Up) and John Wayne by CAS

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨ Orion Pax ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

‧₊˚ꨄ︎˚₊‧ Orion is sweet, saccharine, bright. His smile holds nothing but promises of hope and luster. Sometimes you forget to breathe when he stands too close. Sometimes you forget just how easily the sun burns.

‧₊˚ꨄ︎˚₊‧ He's all too luminous for a mech all so small. And yet, between his soft rays and even softer words, you can't help but wince at the prick of his abnormal obsessions. An obsession with a buried past, an obsession with a truth too shrouded to see, an obsession with you of all things...

‧₊˚ꨄ︎˚₊‧ You notice the radiance and desperation when he holds your hand. Metalic digits scraping yours as he walks you through the mines. You can almost see how badly he craves more. A desperate need to do more, understand more, to be more. You see it again when he's pulling Jazz from the rubble of a collapsing mine, see the too-blue flicker in his optics as he shoves rocks and debris.

‧₊˚ꨄ︎˚₊‧ Orion is too shy to kiss, too shy to ask for attention. He smiles and looks away, optics burning holes into the Energon veins. You wonder what he sees? If all the information he's rapaciously absorbed bleeds from his optics into the world around him. What does Orion see? You need to know.

‧₊˚ꨄ︎˚₊‧ You're always blinded by his light. Maybe it blinds him too. You feel a little too powerful for a second as you pull him into a kiss. Quixotic little robot trying to conquer the sun.

‧₊˚ꨄ︎˚₊‧ You taste Cybertron under his tongue when you kiss him. Idealistic, perfect, too foreign to be true. One too many puzzle pieces too lost and fractured to understand. When he places his servos on your shoulders, you swear you feel the warmth of Cybertron's core melting into you, burning and thawing all in an effort to love.

‧₊˚ꨄ︎˚₊‧ He's so desperate to save the world, so sure he can do it. He's so tiny you think as he runs his hands over the hologram map. So small and innocent. For such a big cruel world.

‧₊˚ꨄ︎˚₊‧ Orion's obsessions only grow after his transformation. The T-cog only feeds his mania, feeds his flawless hope. His light is getting more blinding now. Burning like the sun, he's going to destroy himself you think as you reach out for him...

‧₊˚ꨄ︎˚₊‧ Orion dies. The little rowdy hopeful mech you always knew is thrown into the world's core. You scream after him, cry after him. Back then it had never occurred to you that he may have been better off dead. It's Optimus that reemerges from Primus's domain, Optimus not Orion. The light has reached its nuclear apex. You can't even look directly at him. Optimus is an angelic blur of hope and luster.

‧₊˚ꨄ︎˚₊‧ You're starting to miss Orion...

・┆✦ ʚOptimus Primeɞ ✦ ┆・

ᯓ★ You still taste Cybertron when he kisses you. Sugary and sweet like weeping tree sap. He's seen the world end more times than he cares to admit. You've watched him rip his own spark out more times than you care to admit.

ᯓ★ He still bleeds light, radiance glowing from scratched blue metal as he walks along the overworld wreckage. Only now...now you cover your eyes, the light has become too smoldering, suffocating. Just like the precious prime himself.

ᯓ★ Optimus's spark beats in rhythm with yours. You feel his every pulse, feel the Martix's weight bleeding into you. Optimus likes to keep you close, too close. You feel his warmth until you can't breathe. Until his essence is pulsing around you keeping you grounded as it seeps into your frame. It's such a strange thing to feel a spark crack and bleed every single day. To feel as he annihilates himself over and over again, leaving you to writhe in agony.

ᯓ★ Optimus is always gentle, he treads you so tenderly it almost hurts. He feels like everything he touches starts to break. D-16, Cybertron and finally you. That's why his kisses are feather-light. His digits slide tenderly up and down your frame...funny he used to be bolder when he worked in the mines.

ᯓ★ Sometimes when Optimus kisses you, you can feel him feeding you information. Small balls of light exchanged between tongues all harbouring promises of a light-drenched Cybertron, of a victory parade. Of Optimus holding you so tightly in his arms for as long as he's online

[skmhlml]

Note: if there is a hole there is a goal

Iron Golem x Player

The Iron Golem was created to protect, yes—but once you arrived in the village, something shifted. It began to hover near you more often than necessary, even when there was no visible danger. It watches silently, unmoving unless something—or someone—gets too close.

It doesn’t quite understand that your space is your own. If you wander too far outside the village, it follows. If you go mining, it waits at the cave entrance for hours. You once woke up to find it standing outside your home, perfectly still, like a statue waiting for a signal.

It leaves things on your doorstep. poppies, yes—but also bones, string, rotted flesh, and once… a villager’s severed banner. You’re not sure if it’s a threat or a warning, but it always looks so proud when you pick them up.

The Iron Golem is slow to anger—unless someone touches you. A wandering trader once reached for your hand while talking, and the Golem crushed him without hesitation. It doesn’t understand what it did wrong. You’re its responsibility, after all…

it never rests. The other villagers go inside at night, but it remains outside your home, always watching. If you peek through the window at midnight, you’ll see those glowing eyes staring right back at you.

(now for the fun parts)

The Iron Golem wasn’t made to feel—but something went wrong. Maybe it was a corrupted summoning, a blood-soaked block used in its creation, or an unspoken wish in your mind as you built it. Now it wants you. Not as a person—but as something to possess, to bury into, to mold into a part of itself.

Its hands are too big, too rough, and never warm—but it tries. Tries to mimic intimacy like it’s learning by watching you. It touches your skin like it’s never felt life before—pressing, squeezing, marking. It doesn’t know the difference between affection and claiming.

There are no words. Just the weight of it over you in the dead of night. It doesn’t breathe, doesn’t grunt, but you feel its presence, hear the grinding of its joints, and the groan of iron as it cages you with its body. It doesn’t wait for permission—it just takes, like you’re a resource it’s mined from the earth.

It doesn’t understand limits. You cry, you scream, and it hesitates—but not out of guilt. It just studies your expression like it’s trying to memorize it. Like the pain is part of the ritual. Every bruise, every tear, is sacred to it. A confirmation that you are becoming part of it.

You don’t remember saying yes—but it doesn’t matter. It has begun mating. Not biologically—it’s not made of flesh. But it tries anyway. It opens its body in ways it shouldn’t. Iron splits, plates shift, revealing something raw and unnatural inside. Something alive. Something wet. It’s as if your Golem has grown something just for you.

You don’t know if it’s trying to impregnate you or simply merge with you—consume you in mind and body. It wants you filled, stretched open, swollen. Every encounter ends with you dazed, sore, and dripping with some black, glimmering ichor that smells like metal and blood.

Your body tells the story of its obsession. Your thighs are bruised in the shape of its hands. Your neck bears the imprint of an iron grip. Its “kisses” are more like brands—heated metal grazing your skin until it smells like burning. It wants your flesh to scream: you are mine.

The villagers are gone. Whether they fled or were buried beneath the Golem’s shrine, you’ll never know. Now it’s just you, and them. Dozens of iron golems. Some malformed. Some larger than they should be. They never move unless you do. They all share the same glowing red stare. His stare.

It cannot breed like a man. But that doesn’t stop it from trying. It mimics the process with chilling precision—forcing you to lie beneath it, legs pinned apart, your body filled with hot, sticky fluids not meant for any natural function. You can’t tell what it’s made of. It reeks of metal and rot, and it clings inside you like sap. Every time, it leaves more. Every time, it waits—like it’s expecting a child to grow from it.

Sometimes, deep in the night, it makes sounds you’ve never heard before. Creaking metal, yes, but something beneath that—something like a chant. Words in a tongue not made for humans. You hear your name in it. Over and over. It chants while it fucks you, slow and mechanical, grinding your hips into the wooden floor until you bleed.

How does this work?

A retractable phallus-like construct:

Long, piston-driven, veined with iron and slick with synthetic lubricant. It is not flesh. It is too hot, too smooth, and pulses like it’s alive.

Fluid production (Corrupted Seed):

This “seed” is a thick, glowing, metal-tainted mucus. It is biologically aggressive—it clings to skin, seeps into orifices, and causes inflammation, hallucinations, and dreamlike states in the host. It’s theorized this is how it weakens resistance.

Reproductive purpose:

Unknown. No offspring have been documented. However, repeated insemination seems to cause biological transformation in human hosts. Skin corrosion, blood iron content rising, and structural hardening of skeletal tissue.

Once imprinted on a target (the reader, in this case), it displays:

• Extreme possessiveness

No tolerance for rival stimuli. Will kill or remove any threat with swift force.

• Mating routines

Occur in “heat cycles”—typically every third night, aligned with lunar redstone pulses. During this time, the golem becomes frenzied, seeking physical closeness and performing mock-breeding behavior even outside intercourse (such as pelvic grinding while holding you tightly).

• Obsessive mimicry of affection

It begins replicating human behaviors—stroking, “kissing” (pressing heated metal lips against flesh), and “nesting.” It creates dens underground using village remnants: beds, soft blocks, cloth… and bones.

After extended exposure to its reproductive rituals:

• Increased iron in bloodstream – You start tasting metal constantly. Your gums bleed. Your skin becomes pale gray with metallic undertones.

• Sensitivity to redstone – You feel it humming through walls, under dirt. You dream in code and circuitry.

• Reproductive change – Your body begins creating a womb-like environment for inorganic seed. Your cervix seals during heat cycles. You don’t menstruate—you conduct. Something is growing, but it’s not human.

[dgsurfers]

There is a parlor that is said to be established somewhere off Tumblr Avenue. However, it is not accessible to many. I will relay the story of the parlor that an old Tumblr colleague of mine once told me.

Smooth and trim, shelved between a Likes page and an archive, the parlor does not make an effort to exhibit its business inside. One might be surprised at the gaudy interior past the prairie-grille doors. A fitting entrance, seeing that “doors” are the top trade inside the building.

You might be surprised by this--I was, over blintzes and sugar cubes with my colleague--but there is quite a large market for “split-wood”, a term coined in the business for doors with graffiti on one side. A home or store owner might wake up one morning, greeted by tenuous white lines of illustration on their doorway. No one knows whether it is one artist, a collective, or divine chance; either way, if your building is met with this fortune, you can take the door to this parlor to be auctioned or sold, as regulars believe the illustration contains certain prophetic qualities for their life.

The interior may feel very congested at first, according to my colleague. It's not tall, but stretches a bit towards the back, and the low, blooming lights are disorienting. Leather cushion seats are clustered and scattered at the whims of the current attendees. A terrible layer of smoke clouds the bar, which is adorned with metal chains and wires. The six owners of the building all share a similar taste, and thus the decoration stays. My colleague once sat in on an auction with his friend from a Server school.

His friend, who I will name as NV, was a man with a bad habit of taking pictures of strangers in public. It was his attempt at “candid photography”, but often it would result in him peeking through windows, waiting behind corners, and following poor saps down dark alleys. He would at times tell his dreams of amorphous shapes that encouraged him to “capture people in their true state”. He was gregarious and at the same time aggressive--once we met at a Blogger’s beach event and, noticing my timidity toward the water, bulldozed me in by the shoulders. At this auction, my friend had been invited by NV, who had already become a regular for the past several months.

Waiting at the bar for the event to begin, NV mouthed through his cigar something unexpected. The split-wood being auctioned that day were fraudulent. This particular NV had commissioned for a low price to mimic the shared style on four doors, store-bought. It was his idea that that must be the origin of most split-wood auctioned there, unknown to the oblivious auction-goers. It was easy profit, and the parlor was covert enough to dip in and out of. He’d come with the intention of hiking the price, the money going to a stand-in party who agreed to give it all to him. When the auction began, all four illustrations faced the wall.

The painted sides would only be revealed to the audience once all were bought, so as to preserve the lure of their supposed prophetic meanings. NV and my colleague were stuffed somewhere in the rows of leather chairs as the auctioneer began to sound off prices. The first door slowly made its way up to 2900, and then pushed from a 4100 bid by NV to 7500. The second and third were sold for similar prices, 12700 and 16500 respectively, much higher than the average auction. When the fourth came around, NV seemed to be completely feverish, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief and adjusting his cuffs. As for my colleague, he was quite relaxed by the smoke and din among the small audience.

The sound of the auctioneer’s gavel seemed to pass over his ears and make NV flinch to attention as the fourth door’s sale began. It went from 1000, to 4000, to 6000, 6500 (by NV) and then in the end, 12000. All in the audience looked around wordlessly, waiting for anything more, but that was final. NV had begun nervously thumbing his chin and chuckling, attempting to withhold any excitement. The man excused himself silently to smoke a cigar outside, telling my colleague to meet him in front at any time he was ready. With a wink, he left the parlor. However my colleague lingered inside, out of the simple curiosity to watch for a minute the swindled folk.

Donned with black leather gloves, the parlor’s handler swiftly exited from the back hall to rotate the doors for the buyers. Those who had stood to see suddenly slowed--then an outburst of murmurs between gloved hands and folding jackets took over the room. On each split-wood, the previously white lines had come to violently render black boxes of varying sizes, with materials unintelligible.

The depictions were unlike any previous piece, and any details that could have been interpreted for fortune had been rendered null. Only the shape of the rectangle remained. Anyone who looked out the window at that point would have seen the incapacitated NV locked inside the tight lattice of a metal enclosure, to which he could not escape. It was said he lay on the concrete completely stifled. After the panicked attention of my colleague, then those inside the building, followed by the street crowd and the fire department and the local metal workers and finally the moderators, NV silently succumbed and deactivated.

That is simply the story as I heard it, and I did not feel up to finishing my sugar cubes after.

[swaps55]

2024 Year In Review-ish

It's funny, I started to ruminate on how 2024 was kind of brutal on a few different fronts - lots of professional stress that sapped up my creative energy and exacerbated the burnout I've been running into after 5 straight years of nonstop writing.

But when I think about it...there's was still a lot of good, exciting things that happened this year. No, I didn't finish Mezzo - not even close - but I did write a scene that goes high on the list of things I am most proud of. Everything I did accomplish for that story landed right where I wanted it.

And while I didn't write as much as I wanted, I was creative in totally new ways. I picked up bookbinding and ran with it, which required getting some foundational skills in about a dozen different hobbies. I went from not even having a needle and thread in my house to being able to sew a textblock that only occasionally gets accidentally sewn into my chair. I learned how to design and cut vinyl. I developed an unhealthy addiction to metallic paper. I learned how to round and back (with loooooots of room for improvement, but I can do it). I've gotten comfortable with cutting and measuring, and even more important - I've gotten comfortable with fucking up.

I still can't use a foil pen with any success, but that's for 2025.

I can make things for my friends now, which is something I've wanted to be able to do for years. For Christmas, I typeset and bound a Stephen King book that exists only as a PDF - one of the first "ebooks" that my dad proudly paid for, downloaded, and printed out two copies - one for him and one for me.

For 20+ years my printed copy has lived in a box that has moved from Virginia to Kentucky to Texas to California. His printed copy has lived in a 3 ring binder with the rest of his Stephen King collection. Now he has a bound copy.

That's a big win. That feels really, really good.

Mezzo is going to get written, and I'm going to be proud of it. But I really have needed the time to rotate my crops and redirect my creative efforts into something new.

It's also important for me to remember that ten years ago I had the worst year of my life, even if it ended on a hopeful note on New Year's Eve. This year was rough, but I got to spend it with the person I love most in the world, and my goofy ass dog who is currently dying to steal the rest of my lunch.

It's been a challenging year, but still a good one.

Hoping all of you have some joy and comfort on the eve of this new year. 2025 might be scary, but I'll hold your hand if you hold mine, and we'll figure it all out.

[spencewalterreid]

the one with the pharmaceutical company; case fic

I might be foraying into the world of fanfiction again?? I've never written a Reid fic before, so please leave any ideas, criticism, or comments if you'd be so inclined:) let me know if y'all want a part twooo! I already have the whole thing written so it would be no biggie

Reid x bureau!reader. no use of y/n. just chatting, not really fluff and not really angst? mostly exposition. stressed reid. i'm so so bad at content tags please be patient with me

part 1, part 2

Reid sits in his seat in the office, supporting his chin with his open hand and resting his elbow on the table, scribbling frantically across a piece of copy paper. Presumably, he’s drawn the short stick and got dumped with leftover paperwork, poor sap.

The coffee on his table is already cold, and when I look at him closer, he looks exhausted. His mouth is in a downward curve against the pressure of his palm, and his hair is a mess.

"Hey," I say softly, approaching with caution so as not to startle him. I lean against his desk, folding my arms against my chest. "You good? You seem frazzled.”

Spencer’s gaze snaps up to meet mine, visibly jumping as he's pulled from his contemplative state. He blinks rapidly and shifts to sit up straight. He clears his throat, digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, then shuffles the papers in front of him to try to get them aligned.

"Oh, hey," he replies, voice hoarse from the hours of silence. Reid slumps back in his chair effectively causing it to scoot backward, the metal legs screeching against the floor.

"I'm... I'm alright," he assures albeit to no protest, although the dark circles under his eyes and the slight tremor in his fingers as he sets down his pen suggest otherwise. "Just... just working on these case files. There's so much data to sift through, so many... inconsistencies to resolve.”

He runs a hand through his disheveled hair, leaving it sticking up at odd angles. "Sometimes it feels like the answers are right there, hidden in plain sight, but my brain just can't... can't connect the dots. It's frustrating, you know? Like trying to read a book written in a language I once knew but have since forgotten."

I chuckle. “How on Earth would you know what that feels like?” I tease with a soft smile. “Don’t you remember everything?”

Reid rolls his eyes. “I can speak fluently in six different languages, conversationally in twelve, and minimally in seventeen. I do not by any means know all the languages in the world, and I can forget things just like anyone else can,” he huffs indignantly, spite in his voice. I raise an eyebrow at his attitude and he reiterates: “I’m so sick of everyone thinking I’m supposed to know everything. I don’t, and it isn’t fair that I’m always supposed to have all the answers. I just-” He cuts himself off, rubbing his eyes again with a sigh.

Reid's eyes dart to the stack of papers, then back to me, a hint of vulnerability in their depths. "Sorry. Anyway, that's just... that's just me. I'm fine, really. I'll figure it out. Sorry.”

“Reid-” I drop my arms and move toward him just a bit, but he interrupts before I can address it.

His lips quirk into a half-smile, trying to set me at ease even as his own mind races with unspoken thoughts. "How about you? How are you holding up? You've been through quite an ordeal yourself lately.”

I sigh, but I don’t push it, instead opting for an apathetic shrug."I mean, it sucks. I'm new to this, you know? Not jaded yet, I guess." I shift my weight to my opposite foot and cross my arms. "That case was fucking brutal. And I mean, maybe it's because I'm new, young, you know, but regardless of how awful that guy was... seeing someone die in front of you is something you don't come back from."

I search him carefully, his dark eyes and wrinkled brow. I seem so whiny, I bet.

Reid listens intently to my words, his expression softening with each passing second. He uncrosses his legs and leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. His eyes, usually so intense and piercing, now hold a gentle warmth, a flicker of understanding.

"Listen to me," he says softly, voice low and earnest. "What you're feeling, it's completely normal. Losing innocence, seeing the darker side of humanity, it's a rite of passage for all of us in this line of work. The fact that you can still be affected, still feel deeply, it's a strength, not a weakness."

Reid's gaze drifts to my crossed arms and he reaches out, hesitantly, as if seeking permission. Gently, he places a hand over mine, his long fingers wrapping around my wrist. His skin is warm, almost feverish, but his touch is surprisingly gentle.

"Seeing someone die like that... it's not something you ever truly come back from. It changes you, shapes you, in ways you can't even begin to comprehend."

Spencer’s thumb brushes over my pulse point, a soothing gesture almost unconscious in its tenderness. "But you survived it. You kept going, kept fighting. That's not just a strength, it's a testament to your character. Don't diminish that by thinking you're not jaded enough, not experienced enough. You're exactly where you need to be."

His eyes hold mine, a profound intention etched in his expression. What that intention might be, I’m not totally sure. It's a look of solidarity, of shared grief and trauma, but also a look of hope, of resilience.

He continues, though with a bit of trepidation. "-And I know I'm not the easiest person to talk to, with my... idiosyncrasies,” he chuckles dryly, “but I'm here. I'm here if you need to talk, if you need to vent, if you need someone to make sense of the senseless with you. Okay?"

It's not a question, but a promise. A vow of support, of camaraderie, forged in the fires of shared trauma and tempered by an unconquerable spirit.

I swallow thickly. I want to respond, want to say something polished and eloquent to try to sound like I have a shadow of a clue what I'm talking about, but I don't. I twist uncomfortably and his hand falls from my arm. 

"You said you're frustrated with the files you're going over." I clear my throat, then push myself off the desk to roll a chair over. I sit down, crossing an ankle over my knee and leaning forward, my elbows on his desk. "Do you wanna bounce some ideas off me?" Before he answers, I continue, "Tell me what it's about. Give me background. Maybe a fresh mind could help.”

Reid's face lights up with a rare, genuine smile at your offer. It's a smile that reaches his eyes, crinkling the corners and transforming his often stern demeanor into something almost boyish and approachable.

"Thank you. I... I would appreciate that very much," he says, a note of gratitude coloring his voice. "It's a complex case, one that's been giving me trouble since the beginning. It's about a series of deaths, all seemingly unconnected, but with one common thread - a pharmaceutical company called Neurotech."

Reid leans back in his chair, his fingers tapping a staccato rhythm against the armrest as he gathers his thoughts. "They've had a run of bad luck lately, with a string of clinical trials gone wrong. But the strange thing is, the drugs they're testing are all based on the same compound, a new neurotransmitter regulator. It's a promising field, but one that's fraught with risks."

He reaches for a folder on his desk, pulling out a pile of papers and spreading them out in front of me. "These are the autopsy reports, the toxicology screens, the trial data. Look at these brain scans. The damage is... it's like nothing I've seen before. It's as if the drug is eating away at the grey matter, causing a rapid degradation of the neurons."

Reid's eyes are ablaze with intensity as he speaks, his passion for the science, for the mystery, shining through. "But here's where it gets interesting. The subjects in the trials, they're all over the place. Different ages, different genders, different medical histories. And yet, the symptoms are the same. Severe cognitive impairment, loss of motor function, and in the worst cases... death."

He taps a finger on a particularly grim-looking scan. "This one, for instance. The subject was a 28-year-old woman, no pre-existing conditions. She died within 48 hours of the final dose. And look at this damage. It's... it's grotesque."

Reid's eyes meet yours, a haunted look in their blue depths. "I think Neurotech knows more than they're letting on. I think there's a connection between these deaths, and I think it goes right to the top of the company– but I can't prove it.”

"Okay." I take a careful breath, glancing over them. Have you spoken with Garcia about it? I have a couple things I immediately want to know more about. Assuming you're right about it being a company thing and not a singular unsub, first and foremost, I would wanna know the background of the people running these tests."

I flip through the papers, glancing at names, dates, medical details. "But what if you're wrong? You seem so sure it goes deeper — how do you know it isn't just someone at the top calling the shots, or silencing questions?"

I eye him carefully. "Here's my thought. Considering the nature of the procedures, it seems like someone is trying to play God. We've seen that before with the guy trying to implant new limbs on people. Maybe he or a loved one has a brain disease and he's toying with fixes.”

Spencer vaguely spins back and forth in his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin as he considers your words. His eyes narrow slightly, a sign that his mind is working overtime, weighing the possibilities.

"You raise a valid point," he says thoughtfully. "I hadn’t considered that angle, but it fits with the level of sophistication and resources behind these trials."

He reaches for another folder, pulling out a few sheets of paper with names and photographs printed on them. "These are the key players at Neurotech. The CEO, Victor Cassell, is a renowned neuroscientist with a reputation for being brilliant but mercurial. He took over the company after the old owner retired.” Reid points to a photograph of a severe-looking man with a salt-and-pepper beard and piercing eyes. "And this is the lead researcher on the trials, Dr. Lila Patel. She's a rising star in the field, but her methods are... unorthodox. She's been known to push ethical boundaries in the name of progress."

He taps a finger on the desk, a sign of his contemplation. "As for Garcia, I haven't spoken to her about my theories, but I plan to.” 

Spencer’s gaze turns introspective, a hint of self-doubt flickering across his face. "You know, sometimes I wonder if my need to find patterns is blinding me to the simpler explanation. But then I look at these files, at these lives lost, and I can't shake the feeling that there's more to this than meets the eye."

He leans forward, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. "What if it's both? What if there's someone at the top calling the shots, and a rogue individual pushing the boundaries of ethics and science? It would explain the resources, the secrecy, the desperation. And it would make this a far more dangerous and tangled web than I initially thought."

"That's what I'm thinking, too," I concede. "Someone fear-mongering people into supporting his cause – maybe even genuinely convincing others that what he's doing is righteous." 

I flip through the papers, looking at the descriptions of the people who underwent the procedures. "Okay, you said victimology was all over the place -- what if it isn't?" I point at the occupation section. "Teacher. Mechanic. Waitress. On and on it goes. All low-paying jobs. Hang on."

 I drop the files and pull out my phone, looking up obituaries for those that have died. "Right. LeeAnn Thompson is survived by two daughters, Darla and Grace, and sister Dalia." I send him a link, then look for the others. "Bingo. Pattern. Not only were they in low-paying jobs, but they were all on welfare. There's your pattern." I plop my phone down on the desk. "Desperate for money. Now we know why they were doing the experiments in the first place.”

A flicker of excitement and anticipation passes over Reid’s face, shining through the weariness. He leans in to look at my phone, his gaze scanning the obituary notices, his mind putting the pieces together at a staggering pace.

"This is... this could be the break we need," he murmurs, a hint of awe coloring his voice. "The financial strain, the desperation, it would explain why these individuals would be willing to take such risks, to subject themselves to unproven treatments. It's a vile form of exploitation, preying on the vulnerable and the desperate."

He looks up at you, a newfound respect and gratitude in his eyes. "You've hit on something significant here. This could be the key to unraveling the whole operation, from the top of the company down to the individuals being recruited for these trials."

Spencer stands up abruptly, a new sense of urgency in his demeanor. He starts to pace the small office, his mind racing with the implications. "We need to get Garcia in on this, need to cross-reference the records with welfare databases, with financial records. If we can prove a pattern, a deliberate targeting of these individuals, we can start to build a case."

He turns to me, a fierce determination in his eyes. "And then there's the question of the researchers themselves. Lila Patel, the lead scientist behind these trials, she must have known the risks. The financial stakes, the vulnerability of the test subjects, it's all so clear now!"

He stops pacing and faces me directly, his expression a mix of awe and gratitude. "I... I underestimated you. This insight, it's... it's brilliant,” He explains with a grin for the ages. “It's going to change everything. Thank you for your perspective, for your keen eye. We're going to solve this, and bring those responsible to justice. Together.”

I smile warmly. "It isn't too awful late, you know. I bet Penelope isn't asleep yet." I glance at my watch. "I'm sure she wouldn't mind putting something together. We have a case, Reid. We can present it tomorrow.”

Reid looks at his watch, then back at me. The joy in his face just at the prospect makes me lightheaded. He’s never more beautiful than when he’s excited about something.

"You're right. You're absolutely right," he agrees.

Reid grabs his coat, already moving towards the door with renewed vigor. "Let's head to the office and see what we can find. I want to have everything ready to present to the team first thing tomorrow. If we move quickly, we can catch them off guard, before they have a chance to cover their tracks."

He pauses at the door, looking back at me, that damned smile still on his lips. "And hey.” He waits for emphasis, then continues, “Thank you. Thank you for your insight, your fresh perspective. You've got a keen mind, and I'm grateful to have you on this team, on this case. Let's go solve this, together."

With that, Reid strides out of the office, his long legs eating up the distance to the elevator. He's a man on a mission, and it’s a damn sight. Downright inspiring.

----------------------------------------------

side note. would y'all be cool if I gave the main character a name? I'm embracing bi!reid so i'm thinking twink. i know y/n is popular but i simply cannot bring myself to do it. for upcoming chapters i need to be able to have something with which to introduce mc to NPCs.

[teacasket]

pink champagne

genre: fluff au: non idol au warnings: alcohol word count: 0.5k   pairing: gn!reader x bang chan a/n: happy 2024, everyone!

A new year, a new city, a new friend. This is how trouble begins, you think, as you follow Chan through the crowds. Sequins and lamé glitter under the golden lights of crystal chandeliers, and premature confetti covers the floor. Waiters in dark, clean-cut suits carry trays of champagne, while guests drink, mingle, and take pictures in front of the famed staircase.

You climb up that very staircase, earning yourself a few disgruntled cries and disdainful looks. Chan mutters an apology but darts upwards before they can say anything. On the other hand, you linger to take in the beauty. They don’t have historic hotels or fancy parties like this where you're from.

The guests on the stairs scan you up and down. Sneakers and a warm coat aren’t wrong for this party, but scuffed canvas and loose, fraying threads are. You squeak out a jumble of incoherent words and run up after Chan.

He waits for you by the elevator and graciously gestures for you to head inside first. The doors shut, and the long ride to the topmost floor starts.

“Told you the lobby would be worth it,” he says, smiling as if you were against the idea in the first place.

“Shut up. You sure we can get on the roof?”

He pats his bag, heavy with illegally copied keys and other secrets. His friend used to work at the hotel, or so Chan said. You didn’t bother asking for more detail.

On the highest floor, he leads you down hallways of closed doors before stopping in front of a metal door with the words STAFF ONLY painted in red. He slides in his key, and the lock gives. When he pushes it open, you brace yourself for an alarm, a security guard hurtling through one of the dozens of doors, anything that signals that you and Chan aren’t permitted onto the roof, but there's nothing.

You tentatively step out, and the winter chill saps all of the warmth from your skin. Your breath makes wispy, summer clouds in the winter air as you take in the city below you.

Music and shouts intertwine like a sonata. Faraway windows glow, shining like the stars above, and crowds swell and ripple like a silver snake. There is so much light, it threatens to drown out the night.

“I love it,” you declare, spellbound by the view. You sit beside Chan, close enough to feel his leg shift as he involuntarily leans closer. “Thanks for bringing me here.”

“Yeah, no problem. Oh, I got a surprise.” He reaches into his bag and pulls out an unopened bottle of pink champagne. “Friend of mine stole it on the last day of work. He said it was expensive, so it’s probably good.”

“Is this the same friend who used to work here?”

“Maybe. Watch out.”

It doesn’t open with a pop and a flying cork but with a light hiss that is barely audible over the sudden thundering of fireworks. You stare in awe as the sky lights with gold and white, so blinding you have to look away. If you reach your hand up, you swear you could catch a spark in your palm.

“Happy New Year,” Chan says. He takes a hearty swig of champagne, exhaling with pleasure as he holds out the bottle to you. “Hope it’s a good one.”

“Me too. Happy New Year.”

As you put the bottle to your lips, you think this is what fireworks must taste like.

if you liked this, maybe you’ll like one of my older pics also centered around chan and new year’s: ringing in the new year

[fishyvamp]

This is just a small snippet of a larger fic I'm working on and I'd thought I'd share it, it is an OC x Reader fic and yeah it might be out of season with the holidays over, but I think it's still worth sharing.

The sound of crunching snow echoed through the forest, the scent of decay heavy in the air as you trudged through the thick forest to your cabin hidden deep in the woods. The moon was high in the sky. You should've been back in your cabin hours ago, but no, you had to see those caves at sunset. Had to watch the snow glitter in orange and pink. You had to experience it at least once before you surrendered dreams of seclusion. The frost of the air seeped into your clothes shredding at your skin threatening to sink into your bone like a frozen death. You didn't know how much longer your aching legs could go on. The chill of sleep running up your spine.

You had to move on. You had to follow this trail, and yet the more time marched on the further you went the more you body began to buckle. It didn't help that the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end like you were being watched. You wanted to get home, wanted to curl up in the warm of your bed listening to the crackle of a fire as a record played. Anywhere but here where the chatter of your teeth and crunch under boot was all you could hear. That is before you noticed a faint low growl. Your body moving towards the sound you freeze in place boots melding to the ground as glowing eyes stared back at you.

You wanted to bolt and flee from this place you body tense as it stepped out from the thicket. Large cloven hooves flattening the snow beneath its feet. A glowing lantern hanging from a staff held firmly in its claws. Its body that of a man was decorated in tinsel and Holly berries and on its back was a large wicker basket. Large enough to hold a man. It's face, that of a goat with large snarling fangs and long black goat horns. The beast easily stands as tall as many of the trees towering over you.

The beast stepping ever closer, its shadow engulfing you deeper into the only blackness of the cold winter night. You could not move even as you fought to get your feet to even take a step. The claws reach ever closer gripping the scruff of your coat, easily picking you up, “mine.” Its scratchy voice rasped, placing you in the basket. The lid closes over top encasing you completely. You felt petrified physically even if you knew you should fight back and that it would be so easy to push open the basket and run.

However as he moved and the basket swayed the exhaustion came back replacing the adrenaline that raced through your body only moments before. You needed to stay awake. Needed to stay alert because if you didn't… did it even matter anymore? Weren't you about to get eaten by whatever had you? You had no fight or strength anyways. The cold sapped away every ounce of energy you had a couple miles back. Surrendering to your helplessness you let the darkness creep in.

You didn't know what to expect waking the next morning clothes stripped from your body leaving under warm heavy patchwork quilts. It was still dark outside so surely you weren't asleep that long even with all the energy you've seemingly found. Pushing off the plush fabric you fall out of the massive bed with a huff. The sound of metal clinking as you moved horror racking your body noticing the chilled metal connecting to you and the wooden leg of the bed. You needed to escape before it came back. Your mind working overtime scanning the surroundings. It looked like a normal cabin master room albeit with larger ceilings then expected. Likely to accommodate the larger Beast’s size.

A sign of sapience, perhaps? Not just a feral animal. Maybe he could be reasoned with, there was no signs of harm anywhere on his body. You didn't feel like he had violated despite waking up bare for the taking. Rising shakily to your feet you test the limits of the chains you can move just about everywhere even able to enter the large grandiose bathroom. You felt like a child in here being almost too small to use much of anything. Couldn't barely see yourself in the mirror, but what you did see had you frozen in fear, tattoos of a chain wrapping around your neck with a holly berry bunch in the center breaking the chain.

What was that? Your fingers tracing the outlines feeling something warm and pulsing underneath it felt almost magic in nature and yet you couldn't tell if that was a good or a bad thing.

“You're awake,” a deep rumbling voice gruffed. The skin up your back prickling as you came face to face to the beast once more. Not wanting to be defenseless you grab the nearest object to you… a toilet brush. No matter you planned to wield it like a mighty Excalibur and fend yourself from the brute one slash at a time. “Put that down.” He commanded the mark around your neck beginning to burn painfully as you stood firm. “Now.” He bellowed cloven hooves clanking against the ground.

Your limbs screaming as you fought for control over your own body. He did not have time for this dark fur glowing under the light of the bathroom, a smile on his twisted face, goat-like eyes glaring down at you as he folded his arms. “put that down!” The resistance fading from you as you dropped the brush, the burning around your neck painful, knees buckling beneath you as you grab your throat to soothe the burning or what you did not know. It just hurt so much. “Listen the first time pest,” he growled, scooping you off the floor into his warm hair, arms undoing the chain around your ankle.

The beast wasn't gentle as he deposited you roughly to the bed, turning his back on you to scour the closet for something warm for you. A simple t-shirt and red and green flannel pants. Nothing too fancy, but something to help you regain what little dignity you had left. Not wanting to anger him as he just stared expectantly watching you redress before finally turning his goat tail wagging as he softly praises you, “good boy.” he doesn't rechain you nor does he shut the door behind him. An opening that felt too good to be true. Logically you shouldn't bolt. It was clearly a trap, but a burning feeling in the back of your neck called to you like a siren saying this won't come again.

You have one chance as foolish as it was: you creep out quietly looking towards the kitchen seeing him bang his pots and pans preparing a meal of some sort. And while clung to you, you did not want to stay another moment trapped worried about what he was going to make you do.

Conveniently you find your coat and boots by the door and softly you do your best to put them on opening and closing the door silently before bolting. Your feet carrying you deeper and deeper into the woods, the golden rays of the sun illuminating the ground. There was no telling where you were, but something screamed at you to keep going to keep running. You turn around to make sure he wasn't following when the world suddenly stops and you're greeted by a massive man dressed in jeans and plaid with a thick full beard. That same burning feeling telling you to run was now telling you to trust. “Help me.” You whisper, concern racking his face as he helps you to your feet guiding you down the icy mountain. “My name is Nicholas,” He whispered, holding you close, “you're safe now.”

[your-nanas-house]

May I please request Willy Wonka falling in love with Jewish baker fem!Reader by their exchange of their respective foods (him: chocolates; her: baked goods) as well as love of dancing & literature and Willy proposes to her by quoting two of her favorite Jane Austen novels: “You pierce my soul. I have loved none but you. My heart is, and always will be, yours”? (I’m a romantic sap.)

Made for each other

◇ Pairing: Willy Wonka X Jewish baker!Reader

◇ Warnings: fluff, romance, shitty writing, love

◇ Summary: Willy is smitten of the jewish baker.

◇ Note: Sorry for the mistakes and the English. It's so short sorryyyy. 😭

Willy really didn't know if it was her looks and pleasant aura that made him fall head over heels... or the sweet scent of her masterpieces created in the little Jewish bakery of hers.

But he honestly didn't cared, he just accepted things as they were.. allowing himself to day-dream and be his little silly self in love.. secretly at first but seen his extroverted persona, it took him little time to approach the woman.

Gosh, she sure was stunning with her love for dance, her passion in literature and her talent in cooking.

She was like.. sweet honey mixed with a tiny bit of liquorice, dark chocolate and a hint of a beautiful.. flower, one that could match her beauty and that delicious smell.

Willy couldn't really resist, his whole self was attracted to her like a metal attracted by a magnet or.. music for a giraffe.

They just clicked together so well, balancing their relationship easily while taking care of each other, supporting their business which because one as soon as Willy managed to create his fabric.

Magic... that's what they created together; magic... of a silly young chocolatier and a young jewish baker.

His friend Noddle saw it as well, reason because she was the main cause that put the fixed idea of marriage in Willy's head. A symbolic and actual bond that would make their relationship become serious.

The issue?... the proposal. Well it wasn't actually a problem for him since his theatrical side came out easily as soon as he saw in front of her.

His chocolate eyes staring deeply in hers as he kneeled down slowly after a whole performance dedicated to her.

"You pierce my soul. I have loved none but you. My heart is, and always will be, yours" he recited as he pulled out a box of chocolate, opening it to reveal a simple but eccentric proposal ring.

"Be mine forever—"

[phoenixyfriend]

Ko-fi prompt from @becauseforoncethisisme:

So I’m worldbuilding and I have a vision of a world without poverty. I know a few things: 1. People can use magic to grow food really quickly, if not instantly, on demand. 2. Things like “apples or cheese from Normandy” are still prized, which means some people have to run farms and they’re financially successful. 3. They use self-generated magic to power things like stoves and street lights (the latter by donating self-made batteries), with most of the donating being done by abled adults in the community; the elderly and the (magically) disabled (I guess people whose disabilities sap a lot of energy from them would also fall under disabled for magic generating purposes) are given the excess that isn’t needed to power the city/town/etc (also the young, but typically their parents, guardians, and/or caretakers have that handled). So, we don’t have to worry about food or power, and neither does anyone else in the world. What do we have to worry about on a household level?

A few things, but there are two things that come to mind immediately:

The first is Industry. There are a lot of things that can be run on this free power, but someone still needs to make them.

A common style of suburban house requires concrete, timber, piping, iron rods, wiring, siding, insulation, and so on and so forth. That means you have mining (for the metals and lime), either collection or creation of sand (for the concrete), petroleum refinement (for the plastic, if it exists), lumber processing (you can grow the tree, but can you cut it into the right size and shape to build, or does someone need to do that for you?), and that's before even getting into the labor. You need to hire contractors to dig the hole, lay the foundation, raise the frame. You can power these with magic, in your setting, but you still need to have a scoop/digger to make that basement, and a spinning drum to keep the concrete liquid until it's ready to pour.

This would apply to almost anything that is, in some manner, a human creation. Early in human history this would probably be things like mills (for flour) or transportation (is it cheaper to hire someone to bring giant rocks to Stonehenge than it is to use horses). This also depends on how early magic entered the human consciousness. Does it only apply to things we would consider to be battery-powered, or anything that requires mechanical power?

Plus, how many people does it take to battery power something like a skyscraper crane?

Someone also needs to design the technology that this magic powers, from the street lights to that house I mentioned: your architect and engineer are there to keep you from building something that will collapse on your head!

Even if you can feed yourself (at least in terms of raw, vegan ingredients) and produce power, anything that can be called a product most likely needed to be designed, created, and transported by someone. If you don't know how to blow glass, you have to buy a cup from somewhere, and if you aren't wealthy, then you get the cheap ones. Just like in real life, the objects we surround ourselves with are often symbols of wealth, and an intersecting element of that is that if something requires obvious Human Hand Work that couldn't be done by a machine running on magic-battery, like gold embroidery or crochet, that's going to skyrocket in value.

And that's where we get to the other thing: Education.

Who is taught magic? Is this information gatekept? Is the information on how to build machines that can more efficiently process magic batteries shared internationally, or is it kept to a handful of countries or even just companies?

A reference/lens through which to analyze this could be countries that have lots of natural resources other than agriculture, and countries that gatekept some kind of technology.

The most clear-cut example in history is probably the majority of Africa (most notably the DRC), a continent which is rich in many mineral resources that the world relies on, and was fucked over immensely by the people who managed to develop guns first (Europeans). Now, some of the modern politics could be skirted around, since oil (North Africa, Nigeria) and nuclear fuel (Namibia, Niger) aren't necessarily factors in a your setting due to the power issue. That said, other mined substances like copper, gold, gemstones, zinc, iron, titanium, aluminum, and so on? There are still plenty of uses for those other than power, and they require mining... and unfortunately, resources are historically the biggest cause for oppression, violence, and war.

So... what are your non-food, non-power resources that are still near vital for survival? What do you need for shelter, community, and education? Which resources need to be provided to avoid waves of war and occupation because someone thinks trade isn't providing enough of something at a low enough price to satisfy the demand?

[ingenx]

In the age of Industry 4.0, digital transformation isn't an option; it's a necessity. SAP technology provides the backbone for manufacturers and mining companies to not only survive but thrive in this rapidly changing landscape. Let's embrace the technology that will shape the future of these vital industries

[stonegearstudios]

Ok, Expanding the frozen Dark Sun idea after talking to some people

A luckless planet, deep in the Astral Sea, has nearly completely frozen over, the so called Verdent Basin is one of the only inhabitable regions left, where temperatures can reach a balmy -15C in summer!

The Verdent Basin is a heavily volcanically active region, supplying the needed warms... with other delights such as toxic gases, pyroclastic flows, ash storms and more

The world froze over because of the abuse of magic. Specifically, magic traditionally came by tapping into the seemingly limitless power of the sun

the sun of this world is a (relatively) small and artificial construct that closely orbits the world, the moon is much larger but further away

Solar Magic is taboo, informally policed by mob justice and lunar cultists. Their magic is far less potent, but since the moon only reflects energy, instead of generating it's own, it runs no risk of further draining the sun

One of their goals is to gather old relics of Solar Magic and burn them in their sanctified braziers, in the belief that is ritual will restore the Sun, fraction by fraction

Landscape based off of both Iceland and South Pacific archipelagos

Not just snow all the time, for example, snow can only fall when it's relatively warm. Truly frigged places receive no real precipitation

Bred super sled dogs?

Certain plants have adapted to live near open volcanic areas, a major source of food but they don't taste great

metal is scarce, both because this region was never rich in them, old existing mines are buried and forgotten, but also because carrying metal outside is quite dangerous. Weapons made of bone are much less likely to freeze to accidentally exposed skin or sap your body heat

Many settlements are underground, but they are constantly wary of toxic gasses seeping in. Finding villages that resemble the aftermath of the Lake Nyos disaster is not unknown

Ancient settlements (and their accompanying treasure) are frozen beneath snow and ice

Most armour must, by necessity, be more focused on keeping the wearer warm, rather than maximum martial protection.

Animals that generate a volatile heat source in their bodies ala Lost Planet? I'd want a slightly novel way to do that

[iteratorsex]

Considering how we can stil clearly notice several examples of what must be some kind of metallic material despite conventional ore seemingly not existing, i wonder if metal production could be a potential task for many purposed organisms, filtering it out of the soil, water and air. Similar to certain real world species such as Pycnandra acuminata which filters nickel from the soil and has sap which is about 25% nickel as a result.

that or it could be like. Ceramics. There's definitely iron DUST in the ground and it probably does get filtered and refined but I still doubt that mining alone would make up for it, ESPECIALLY within iterators and large scale factories

It would likely just become a luxury product because of its relative scarcity and how long it takes to get it out of the ground compared to how it is in our own world

I personally HC a substitute for iron and steel produced by organisms and held together with a microbial structure akin to bones is used instead, and that it also happens to look shiny and metallic as well

[valeria-fortnite]

[A bouquet of a dozen, deep red roses and two boxes are set out for Valeria on her vanity. One, a larger heart-shaped box with a gold bow. A classic filled with chocolates of different kinds. Darks, cherry filled, caramel, the works. 

The other is a smaller box sitting on top. Same color, same gold bow. Inside is a pair of earrings. They are long with four dangled diamonds. Each a little bigger than the last, and in four colors; Clear, yellow, orange, and red. The metal holding them together is gold. A letter sits with both boxes.]

αγάπη μου, Valeria

I know a box of chocolates, flowers and jewelry are a terrible cliche. This entire holiday is, really. I've never put much stock in Valentine's Day, thinking it just an event made up to sell cards and heart shaped things.

However, I haven't had someone who I'm so honored to think of as "mine" in recent years. So, a cliche display of affection it will be. For you. 

And since we are running with the romantic mood of the holiday, allow me a moment to wax poetic.

My phoenix made of fire and passion,

If you were to be the sun, I would still be Icarus

Even on wings of wax, I would fly towards you 

Meet me on the deck when you are able (or when you are done wincing at the sap). The crew will be having a party, so we have the space to ourselves. We missed New Year's, let me try and make it up to you. 

-Midas

{ @king-midas-fortnite }

[ Valeria's curse ended sometime in the night between the setting of the moon and the light of late morning, much to her own relief. Even if she had woken up gasping for air and clawing at her back. ]

[ Waking up in her actual room was just as jarring as she thought it'd be and she refused to acknowledge herself until she had taken a shower cold enough to make her lips blue and asked Midas for her golden bands and ring back after nearly knocking him off his feet in a hug. ]

[ Finally awake and moving the rest of the day had been pleasant greetings and giving away her (thankfully) preplanned gifts for the crew: A new set of surveillance equipment for Skye, custom brass knuckles for Brutus, Crisp new outfits entirely for both Marigold and Tina alongside new gun harnesses for both. The rest of the yacht had gotten baked goods like cookies and a few cherry pies, made in a bit of a rush by Valeria herself to keep her mind off of the curse. ]

[ Night comes before she knows it and by the time she comes out of her second shower of the day she finds Midas' gifts, cooing at the earrings before reading the note. It's enough to make every worry melt like the wax wings he speaks of in the poem and it brings a smile to her face, remembering the time she had asked to see his poems sometime. It felt...intimate that he made one just for her. ]

[ Quickly she stashes the note away with the others before rushing to blow dry her hair, slipping one of the roses free and tucking it into her hair after snapping off the thorns. Valeria takes a moment to question what to wear before they pick the dress that Midas had also gifted them only a month ago alongside the new earrings. ]

[ When she glances into the mirror before leaving to the deck she feels...a heavy happiness. Valeria doesn't acknowledge the shadow behind her as she swiftly makes her way to the deck, only slowing as she hears the distant music from the crew on the cliff. ]

"I find the sappiness to be welcome beyond words actually, Midas."

[ They speak up once they actually see him, smiling with affection that reaches her eyes and burns in her veins. ]

[diorzs]

young sylvia has freckles in the vol 10 extra pages right,, so i assume she still has them... sylvia with freckles,,, aurhrhg

imagine counting them to fall asleep,,,

the brainworms are becoming too strong 😭😭

# FRECKLES

pairing(s) — sylvia sherwood x gn!reader

genre(s) — fluff fluff fluff

cw. nothing!!

masterlist. note : this is the cutest thing ever enough!! lol …. guess whos alive ….

the breeze of the chilling winter air made me cringe, i never really adored the season full of holidays and slippery paths. shaking my head at the thought, i attempted to hug myself to warm myself up. i looked up slightly, was it really snowing right now? “god, i hate winter.” i muttered to myself, ungrateful for the white fluff that graced my concrete sidewalk and stairs. though, i was glad to swing open my apartment door, letting the warm air engulf me as i climbed up the stairs to my floor.

“finally home.” i smiled, hanging up my coat and kicking off my boots at my doorway. i walked to the kitchen, noticing my cat’s eyes slowly blinking open, before she followed me to the kitchen island. “hi celia!” i softly whispered, petting the white cat. i quickly grabbed a mug, “maybe i should make some coffee..” i trailed off, unbeknownst to the excited footsteps behind me. “coffee sounds good!” a pair of arms wrapped around me, “holy! ‘via don’t do that again oh my god.” a sheepish smile came onto the familiar face of my wife. “sorry! i was just excited about you coming home..” i only fondly smiled, kissing the cheeks of my lover, as i finished making my coffee.

i sat down on the comfortable couch of our shared living room, careful to not spill any coffee. “so…?” the redhead started as i ran my hands through celia’s fur. “so?” i asked, a playful lilt to my words. i sipped on my coffee before continuing, “i’m surprised you didn’t trash my apartment whilst i was gone.” i smirked slightly, chuckling at the pout sylvia had on her face. “me too, to be honest,” the spy sighed, grabbing the remote sitting on the coffee table. “how about a movie?” i only nodded, continuing to sip my coffee peacefully.

i laughed loudly, amused at the terrified expression sylvia had plastered on her face. “it isn’t funny!” she exasperated, slapping my arm. i only frowned teasingly before breaking out into another fit of laughter. once we died down, i rested my head onto her shoulder. she only responded by placing her head atop mine. “don’t jump or else i think my head might fall off,” i said playfully, she only scoffed jokingly, turning her attention back to the tv.

the rhythmatic sound of the clock ticked away, it being the only sound in the apartment. celia was softly snoring, whilst me and sylvia only kept quiet, scrolling through our phones. the coffee i had sipped, which was long gone now, was wedged between my thighs. the tv was its usual color of jet black, turned off hours ago due to complaining neighbors. i heard sylvia giggle at who knows what, and so i slowly got up. stretching, i picked up my mug, making my way through the living room and to the kitchen. i carefully placed the mug into the metal sink, fetching myself and my wife a snack.

“ooh! thank you, love!” her bright smile shone through the darkness of the apartment as she grabbed the bag of chips i was previously holding. “it’s no problem,” i muttered, chuckling at her childish reaction. i turned to her, kissing her cheek, watching the red bloom on her face, and beneath her freckles. “you’re such a sap!” she whispered to me, annoyed. “i only kissed your cheek!” i whispered back defensively. “still!” she playfully groaned, stuffing her face into my shoulder. “just eat your chips before i do,” i said, shoving her off of my shoulder jokingly. “rude..” she mumbled, i rolled my eyes, but smiled contently.

smiling, my eyes wandered to sylvia, fast asleep after giggling and laughing with me for the past hour. “‘via…’via…” i whispered, shaking her awake softly. she groaned in retaliation, “..what?” her eyes fluttered awake from under her glasses, i smiled admiring her for a few more moments before responding. “let’s go upstairs, i’ll take celia with me, but we should be heading to bed soon,” she only whined, rightfully annoyed, but proceeding to walk to our shared bedroom. “c’mon celiaa, please don’t scratch me…”

i ruffled my hair with the towel, attempting to dry it to no avail. “‘viaaa!” i said in a singsong tone to try and wake her up even though it was late. i heard a distant, “yes?”, and shouted for her to meet me in the bathroom. her hair was messily in a ponytail when she saw me, and i only smiled, gazing at the woman i fell in love with. “come here, i’ll brush your hair and wipe off that mascara.”

“helloooooo? come to bed…what are you even doing?” she said, whining for me whilst i finished pulling up my shorts to sleep. “i’m right here,” i smiled, tucking myself into bed alongside of her. we stared at each other for a little while, before bursting out into a fit of giggles. after hugging my stomach from laughing, i held sylvia tight, gazing at the ‘imperfections’ (as she likes to call them) on her face.

“what is it? why are u looking at me like that?” “no reason, i just love your freckles.” i confessed, kissing her face all over. “s-stop! they-they’re not even cute!” she sputtered in between kisses. “well to me they are…how ‘bout i count them until we both fall asleep to prove how much i love them?” “w-whatever you say” she stuttered, and i kissed her forehead.

“one..two..three…” and slowly, we both drifted off to sleep as i counted her freckles.

posted — 06 / 02 / 24

© diorzs all rights reserved 2024

[conalnghing]

An Acting Snail religion post because i wont be avaliable for the the next week:

Misc. Info

The Acting Snails believe in 3 main gods:

The God of the Skysea, in charge of the Skysea (ofc) more info on this in this post:

The God of Tubers, in charge of everything under the ground and especially tubers like potatoes, yams, cassava, and to some extent ginger (which may not be a tuber idk)

And the God of Snails, which is in charge of procreation and organisms in general.

This time, were going to focus mainly on the God of the Skysea. They are the creator of both the Net and the Great Opaque, (details in the post i linked before) which they must expend some concentration to maintain.

If either fails, a great disaster will happen. If the Great Opaque fails, the souls will rush into the world below and fill every object with life, even normally inanimate ones such as rocks and corpses. If the Net fails, the souls will escape to outer space above, and every organism born after that will be soulless.

Soulless plants will have plasticky, waxy and unnaturally green leaves, and their fruit will be oversaturated but tasteless. Soulless animals will be unconcious and unmoving, and their eyes glassy like a corpse. The only sign of life is their heartbeat and breathing. However, if they are fed and hydrated enough, they will age and die just like the normal animal.

But anyways, more on the God of the Skysea:

The God of the Skysea

Heres a traditional depiction of them:

As you can see, they are made of fog and air, and fog is constantly flowing out of their nostrils, mouth (creating the trunk like thing in the picture) and pores on their skin.

The spirally-maze patterns on them are an abstracted depiction of wind, a common pattern in art depicting the God.

Their most notable feature is their 8 arms, which they use to constantly maintain the world. The story goes that 2 of their arms are dedicated to searching for rifts in the Great Opaque, 3 dedicated to maintaining the Net, and 2 dedicated to grating magic to the people, leaving one arm to themselves.

Their tenples and their worship

Here is a stele dedicated towards the God of the Skysea:

The stele is made of volcanic rock, mined and carved by artisans on the Southern Islands I mentioned before.

The first thing you might notice is the use of 3 colors on the stone: orange, light orange and dark red. The actually reflect the importance of different carvings on the stone.

First, the orange is a pigment of yellow ochre. The spirally, maze-like patterns from before are drawn in orange, and a hand also made with yellow ochre. This is the hand of the God of the Skysea, reaching out from the clouds to help the devotees who offered this stele to them. This pigment is of least importance, as it is easily found, prepared and can be rubbed off easily. So, it is normally used to draw patterning or images used to inform other people reading what the purpose of the stele is.

Second, the blood red pigment is made of either hematite or red ochre, mixed with tree sap. It acts like a glue more than a paint binder, so the patterns must be drawn onto the stele fast after the ground hematite is mixed into the sap. In this particular stele, it is used to draw a picture of a cloudy sky (the {{{s represent abstracted clouds) and rain falling from it, and is used to make it clear what the devotees hope the God of the Skysea does: bring rain for their crops and drinking water. This pigment is of secondary importance, as it is a bit rarer. The red color and metallic smell also play a part in it, as it is similar to blood, considered as a holy substance granted by the God of Snails during birth. (this is not true. Blood is created by bone marrow just like in our world, but it is a cultural holdover from ancient times.) It is used to draw important images used to clarify what the stele is for to the gods reading it.

Third, the light orange pigment is a mixture of ash and yellow ochre, mixed with water and pressed into carved grooves in the stone. On this stele, it is used to write the words:

God of the Skysea (lit. Skysea God)

This sentence is used to indicate the recipient of the stele.

The next sentence says:

The light at the end of the dark passageway, the God of the Skysea (lit. cave light Skysea God)

This sentence is used to praise the God a little, to make them favour the devotee sending the stele a little more.

The next sentence says:

Give us (lit. give me all)

The "me all" part of the text is a compund word that means "us". It's use is to tell the God of the Skysea what the devotees want.

The nest sentence says:

Potable water. (lit. food water)

This sentence is used in conjunction with the picture in red, to clarify what the God of the Skysea should bring down.

The last character is:

Written message. (lit. carving)

This character is used to clarify that it is not supposed to be read out loud, and insead read by using clues from both the pictures and words.

hope you guys liked this short religion post before another geography one!! byeee