#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.

[swanlikely]

Current Brainrot: Drunk Reader! w/ Boyfriend Caleb!

Author's Note: I wanted to write something sweet again—him being a little overbearing but it’s cute. This is Caleb and his girl being gross and cringe, and in love, as usual. Please check out the artist! She's such a sweetie, and she's talented! (Artist & Original Post)

not proof-read! (sorry if there are any errors - let me know and I'll fix it!)

CW: AFAB!reader, pet names, possessive behavior, alcohol use (reader), slight dub-con (if you squint), suggestive ending.

Caleb is the kind of boyfriend who says, “Go have fun, baby,” and means it; but still stands posted, watching, in the corner of every bar you drag him to. He lets you dance, drink, flirt with your friends, yell-laugh at karaoke, and scream-sob over fries in the back booth like it's a sacred ritual. All while he nurses a single drink and watches you with the kind of soft-eyed amusement that says: That’s my girl. Loud, messy, gorgeous. Mine.

Anyone who looks too long gets a stare. Not a scowl; not enough to draw attention. Just a faint warning in his eyes. He doesn't interrupt, only hovers. But everyone knows you didn’t come here alone.

You catch his gaze across the bar more than once. He doesn’t budge. Just lifts his brows like, You sure? — and when you pout, he caves. Of course he does.

He doesn’t even like dancing. He just likes you.

And he follows you like it’s instinct. Loyal in that unshakable way; like a dog who’s chosen their person and never once thought of looking back. He keeps the dog tag you gave him years ago in pristine condition, always polished and shining on the chain around his neck. You joked about it once, calling it his collar.

He’d smile, fingers brushing over it absentmindedly. Like it was a privilege he never planned to take off.

Sometimes, when you’re feeling extra bratty, you'd call him your golden retriever boyfriend.

Big. Loyal. Always underfoot. Quick to roll over and give you anything you want.

He usually snorts, eyes gleaming. “I’m a Colonel, Pips, not a pet.”

“Uh-huh,” you hum, poking at his chest. “You follow me around all night, you take my boots off, you carry my bag, and you’d probably bark if I asked.”

Caleb raises an eyebrow. He considered it, for a moment at least.

You pause, then snicker. “Actually, you’re more like a German shepherd.”

He just shrugs, smirking. “I bite if I have to.”

“Yeah, yeah. My big tough lapdog.” You slur as those glossy lips lifted into a grin.

That earns you a growl: low, playful, and way too pleased.

By the time he gets you home, you’re giggling at nothing and absolutely useless. Your boots are halfway off, your eyeliner is migrating to your temples, and you're swaying on your feet like the floor’s made of jelly.

But Caleb? Caleb lives for this part.

He’s all quiet efficiency now. Scoops you into the bathroom with one arm around your waist and sits you on the counter. He holds your chin with his cool metal hand as he swipes away your makeup with a cotton pad, eyes fixed on your face like you’re some precious artifact.

“You had fun tonight,” he murmurs, thumb brushing under your eye. “You look like a raccoon.”

“You love raccoons,” you grin, and he huffs a laugh.

He helps you out of your clothes next — not even in a weird way (not yet, anyway), just slow and patient, peeling off layers like you're delicate. Your socks are the last to go, and he rolls them down with that same robotic hand, his touch cold but sweet as he kisses the inside of your ankle.

He adores this. Taking care of you. Spoiling you. Making sure you never have to lift a finger if you don’t want to. You’d barely have to ask; Caleb would already be there, already doing it, like it’s wired into him.

“You’re such a sap,” you mumble, eyes fluttering shut.

“Maybe,” he says, lips brushing higher up your leg. “But you’re mine.”

His voice dips on that word. Not playful. Final.

And when he presses one more kiss — higher, warmer, slower; your breath hitches just a little.

Not so drunk now, are you?

He chuckles at the look on your face. “C’mon, Pips,” he says, voice low as he leans in. “Let me tuck you in. And if you’re real good…”

His mouth brushes your ear.

“…maybe I won’t stop there.”

You barely get a breath in before his lips trail along your jaw, down your neck, unhurried like he’s tracing a map he’s already memorized. His metal hand drifts up your thigh, cool and relaxed, while his other curls behind your knee, tugging you just a little closer to the edge of the counter.

“You were drivin’ me crazy tonight,” he murmurs, and your skin begins to vibrate. He was electrifying. “Spinnin’ around like that, laughin’ like I didn’t want to drag you out of there and keep you all to myself.”

“You don’t even realize what you do to me,” you catch the warmth of him, the faint scent of his cologne mixed with sweat and something uniquely Caleb—clean, a little musky, and completely intoxicating. “All night, I wanted to touch you—wanted to pull you close, but I held back.”

“I was good,” he hums, voice low. “I waited. But damn, it was hard not to just… reach for you.”

There’s no teasing in it. Just that low, confessional tone he gets when he’s close to breaking. When he’s been good for too long.

“I watched you have your fun,” he says, lips brushing your sternum, “now let me have mine.”

Your head lolls back against the mirror as his tongue flicks against your skin, warm where his hand is cold, and your whole body goes pliant under his touch. He kisses down your stomach, sinking to his knees without a single word of warning, spreading your legs with a reverence that makes your pulse stutter.

“Shh,” Caleb soothes, but a shiver and a flash of heat travels through your middle.

“I’ve got you now,” he breathes, eyes half-lidded as he presses a kiss between your thighs, like a thank you. Like a promise.

“You don't have to do anything else tonight, Pips,” he whispers. “Let me take care of you.”

And he does.

[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.”

[hylianhoneycomb]

Mine to Look After

Chapter 32/32

masterlist

Chapter XXXII: The Quiet Between Them

⸻

The first thing she felt was warmth.

Heavy. Penetrating.

It seeped through the thin blanket draped over her, through the bandages layered thick across her ribs and shoulder.

It ached where it met raw flesh, but it was better than the cold she remembered.

She smelled poultice before anything else—bitter herbs crushed into paste, clinging to the air in sharp, medicinal gusts. Under it was blood.

Stale. Metallic.

Her blood.

The hush of the infirmary closed in around her.

Stone walls.

A low hearth fire popping with sap.

Shadows shifting gently with the flicker of flame.

Beyond the door she could hear distant boots on flagstones, the muted shuffle of the garrison changing watches.

Her head lolled sideways, breath catching on pain that bit hard and sudden at her shoulder.

She forced her eyes open.

Link was there.

He sat on a narrow wooden chair dragged up to the edge of her cot. He was hunched forward, elbows braced hard on his knees, head bowed so low his hair fell forward in pale, uneven strands.

There were smears of blood on his tunic sleeve. Dried rusty-brown where it had soaked in.

Her blood.

She swallowed once. Her throat felt like scraped glass.

“Link.”

It wasn’t even a whisper, just a crack in the quiet.

He flinched like the word had struck him.

His head snapped up.

Eyes found hers, wide and unguarded, and she watched relief crash over him in a wave that left him blinking hard, mouth working soundlessly.

He didn’t speak immediately.

He just stared. Taking her in like he’d forgotten how to breathe.

Brows drawn together tight. Eyes too wet. Too open.

He took in every detail—the way her hair fell now at her collarbone, jagged and uneven where the braid had been sliced away.

The stark bandages biting into her shoulder, stained through in dark blotches.

The fading bruises at her throat in the shape of fingers.

His chest moved with a single, careful breath that sounded too deliberate.

Slowly, he pushed the chair even closer until his knees brushed the cot frame.

His hands lifted. Hesitated in the air for half a heartbeat.

Then they closed around hers.

His fingers wrapped gently, like he was afraid she’d break all over again if he squeezed too hard. His thumbs trembled once before stroking over her knuckles.

He brought her hand up to his mouth.

Pressed a kiss to it.

Then another.

And another.

She just watched him.

Watched the tight line of his jaw. The way his hands shook.

She didn’t pull away.

Didn’t speak.

He held her hand against his mouth for a moment longer before lowering it slowly, resting their joined hands in her lap.

When he spoke, it scraped out low and rough, his voice cracking despite how hard he tried to steady it.

“Don’t you ever do anything like that again.”

Her brows drew together faintly. She blinked against the burn in her eyes.

“I won’t,” she breathed.

Her voice was raw. Wrecked from screaming. From the cold. From the fight.

But she meant it.

His eyes flickered shut for a moment.

When they opened, he pulled her hand up again, pressing his lips to her fingers one more time, slower, his breath catching at the end.

Then he shifted, careful as he leaned forward over the edge of the cot.

His free hand came up to brush back a strand of her jagged hair.

His fingers were warm against her temple, his thumb ghosting along the edge of her cheekbone.

He looked at her.

Really looked.

Eyes dragging over her face like he was trying to memorize every bruise. Every cut.

He bent his head.

And pressed a long, lingering kiss to her forehead.

He didn’t pull back right away.

She felt the shape of his mouth against her skin, the way his breath trembled.

Her eyes fluttered shut.

When he finally eased back, he didn’t go far.

He sat again but leaned in close, one of his hands still cradling hers in her lap. His thumb stroked over her knuckles, slow and grounding.

His eyes softened as they traced her newly short hair, uneven and choppy around her collarbones.

A ghost of a smile twitched at his lips.

“I like your hair,” he said quietly.

She blinked, her mouth twitching despite everything.

“Thanks,” she rasped.

Her voice was barely there.

But it was enough.

His smile grew by fractions.

Small. Worn.

But real.

He didn’t let go of her hand.

Didn’t move back.

He just sat there with her.

His thumb stroking slow circles against her knuckles.

And for the first time in weeks—maybe months, maybe forever—she didn’t feel like she was falling apart.

—

The morning light was thin and watery through the high, narrow windows.

Pale. Uncommitted.

It slanted in dusty bars across the infirmary’s empty cots, catching on the haze of stale poultice and lamp oil.

Narena sat on the edge of her own cot, fully dressed, boots braced on the cold stone floor.

The tunic felt stiff over the bandages that bit into her ribs and shoulder. The fabric pulled when she shifted, dragging at the crusted edge of the wound where the broken staff had gone in.

She exhaled, slow and quiet, and forced herself to stand.

Her ankle protested immediately, sending a bright jolt up her calf. She didn’t so much as flinch.

Link wasn’t there.

He’d sat there for hours after she’d fallen asleep, one hand still tangled in hers like if he let go she’d vanish. She remembered waking once in the night to see his silhouette bent low, lips at her knuckles, whispering something she couldn’t hear.

But before dawn he’d gone.

Commanders had responsibilities. Meetings. Patrol rosters to confirm. Reports to give.

She could picture it: him standing at the head of that table, every line in his face drawn and tired, refusing to admit it.

She limped toward the door.

The infirmary was hushed at this hour. Just the crackle of the hearth and the muted gust of wind through the narrow windows.

She stepped outside the doorway, the cold stone biting at her lungs.

Just down the hall sat a narrow desk, worn to pale streaks where years of elbows had polished it smooth.

Only one healer was on duty this early.

A young woman, hair twisted into a hasty braid, head bowed over a ledger. She glanced up when her shadow fell over the desk.

Her eyes went wide.

“Officer—”

Narena didn’t bother explaining.

“I’m checking myself out.”

Her voice was still ragged. Lower than usual. But steady.

The healer blinked twice. She opened her mouth. Closed it.

Technically, Narena wasn’t supposed to be on her feet. The bandages at her ribs were fresh. She’d lost too much blood to risk reopening anything.

But the way Narena looked at her made the words die in her throat.

She didn’t even have to scowl.

She just was frightening in a way that didn’t need explaining.

The healer’s mouth worked once more, trying for courage.

“You really shouldn’t—”

Narena just waited.

Silent. Unblinking.

The healer’s shoulders fell a fraction.

She sighed.

“Fine,” she muttered, dragging the ledger toward her. She dipped the pen, scratched something messy in the margin, and then shoved the book aside like it offended her.

“Out,” she said. She didn’t meet Narena’s eyes. “You’re discharged.”

Narena gave a single, shallow nod.

She didn’t thank her.

She turned and limped down the hall, boots striking slow, measured, uneven.

Her shoulder throbbed with every step.

The bandages felt too tight. Her breath hitched when she twisted the wrong way.

But she didn’t slow.

Didn’t look back.

As the infirmary drew further behind her, the castle was just waking. Torches still guttered low in their sconces, but the gray light of dawn gathered at the high windows like it might finally commit to being day.

She set her course for her room.

The corridor stretched before her, long and cold and familiar.

The length of it felt endless. Every turn repetitive.

She approached the barracks corridor.

Each step ground her teeth together, pain rattling along her ribs, biting at her shoulder where the bandage had begun to tug.

But the door was there.

Dark wood. Slightly warped near the bottom from the last rainy season.

Hers.

She stood in front of it for a breath, steadying herself on the frame.

Then she pushed it open.

Inside, the room was dim and cold. The hearth was out. The single narrow window let in only gray dawn, turning the stone walls colorless.

It smelled like stale dust and old linen.

It had never felt comforting before.

Bare. Practical. A soldier’s quarters stripped of anything unnecessary.

But she would have been lying if she said she hadn’t missed it.

She stood just inside the door for a long moment, taking in the shapes.

The narrow bed with its rumpled blanket. The small chest against the wall, scuffed where her boots had knocked it countless times. A cracked basin on the stand.

And beside it—

Her eyes snagged on the wall across the room.

Where she would have kept her staff.

It was there.

Or rather—the halves of it were.

Propped carefully, almost ceremoniously, against the stone.

Splintered ends stained dark. Wrapped in a single strip of linen to keep them from splaying apart.

She didn’t need to think hard to know who had done it.

Link.

Which meant he had seen it. Touched it.

Handled the pieces with that same impossible gentleness he used on everything that was hers.

Arranged it against the wall where she always put it, as if it was still hers to keep.

Like it wasn’t ruined.

The ache in her chest deepened.

It shouldn’t have surprised her.

She could imagine him finding it among her things the soldiers had brought back when they found her. Picking it up with those careful hands. Turning it over, assessing the damage in silence.

And instead of throwing it away—where it belonged—he had carried it here.

Placed it back where she’d always kept it, like he couldn’t bear to decide for her that it was ruined.

She limped forward slowly.

Her breath rattled in her chest, catching hard at her ribs. She pressed one palm against the bandages wound tight around her torso, feeling the give of bruised bone beneath.

But she didn’t stop.

She couldn’t.

When she reached the staff she paused.

Her eyes tracked the way the break ran jagged through the lacquer.

She let her fingers hover over it before settling, ginger and slow, on the splintered edge.

It felt wrong to touch it.

Like apologizing wouldn’t be enough.

He had already replaced it once.

Over two years ago now.

He’d fixed it back then. Link. With those same patient hands that treated every crack like something worth saving.

Made it new.

Because of that, she’d promised herself she’d take care of it.

That it would never end up like that again.

Her vision blurred at the edges. She blinked until it cleared.

She kept her grip loose. Careful.

She didn’t want to cut herself on it.

Didn’t want to pretend she hadn’t already bled enough for it.

Or with it.

Her chest tightened so hard it hurt.

She didn’t cry.

She wouldn’t give herself that.

But she didn’t let go.

She stood there for a long time in the gray light of her room, breathing slowly, unevenly.

Trying to figure out how to hold both things at once:

The part of her that had killed to survive.

And the part of her that had made promises she had failed to keep.

—

The Command chamber was too warm.

The fire had been stoked high against the lingering frost in the walls, but Link barely felt it.

He sat at the head of the battered oak table, arms braced on the scarred surface.

Papers littered the space in front of him—sketches of the outpost, casualty tallies, half-finished lists of supply reroutes.

A map had been spread out and weighed at the corners with old iron mugs.

The Yiga outpost’s coordinates were circled in black ink so many times it had dug through the parchment.

The voices in the room blurred together.

Tresa’s.

“…underground passages all through the north slope—no wonder we never saw the movement…”

Rivan’s.

“…Vos must have been feeding them our patrol schedules for months…”

Major Helden.

“…Yiga infiltration at command level. We’ll need to investigate every officer with access to routing orders—every single one.”

He heard them.

But it felt distant.

Link’s gaze stayed on the map.

His thumb rubbed at the ink like he could erase it, like if he tried hard enough the outpost wouldn’t exist at all.

Someone cleared their throat.

“Commander?”

He didn’t look up.

“…Link?”

He blinked. Lifted his head slowly.

They were all watching him. Waiting.

Zelda was there, standing at the far end of the table, arms folded tight, eyes sharp but cautious.

She didn’t usually stand in on these strategy councils at all. But this was different. This wasn’t just a border skirmish or a supply dispute—this was inside their walls.

She nodded once. Gave him space to answer.

He forced his voice out.

“Interrogate every senior officer Vos had contact with. No exceptions. Get personal logs. Letters. Anything that could be a cipher.”

Someone muttered an agreement. Another scratched notes onto a slate.

He exhaled slowly.

Silence threatened to swallow the room again.

“…And the outpost itself?” Rivan asked. Voice lower, respectful.

Link’s eyes flickered back to the map.

Black ink. Circles like wounds in the parchment.

He swallowed once. His voice felt like it had to scrape through gravel.

“Clear the bodies, if there’s anything left of them. If anything’s still standing, burn the rest of it. Collapse the tunnels. I don’t want it there anymore.”

The words landed like stones.

No one argued.

But the hush felt thick enough to choke on.

Link leaned back, shoulders pressed against the chair. His eyes drifted from the map to the cold hearth at the far wall.

He didn’t see it.

He saw them carrying her in.

Her hair hacked off ragged at her collarbone. Dark with blood—so much blood he hadn’t been sure how much was hers.

The way she’d slid off the scout’s horse into his arms limp as a corpse, head lolling, mouth parted like she couldn’t even remember how to breathe.

Her skin three shades too pale. Fingers tinged blue.

He remembered the healer snapping orders he didn’t hear. Remembered the words as they broke through finally: hypothermia. Overexerted. Dehydrated.

Remembered vomiting in the courtyard after they carried her inside.

Because she had felt weightless in his arms.

Because she hadn’t made a sound.

Because her eyes hadn’t opened.

Because he’d seen what was left of the staff they pulled off her, split and blood-soaked, and known exactly what it had cost her to bring it back that way.

Because if he hadn’t ordered the search parties that day, if he’d hesitated even another hour—

He swallowed again, hard.

Link realized the whole room was quiet. Watching him.

Waiting for him to finish the order.

He pressed a thumb hard to his temple.

When he spoke, it was low. Measured.

“Triple all border patrols. Rotate command watch. Every route change gets logged and countersigned.”

He exhaled slowly through his teeth.

“And make sure the men know—anyone who even jokes about what happened out there is off duty. Indefinitely.”

A chorus of affirmatives.

Chairs scraped. The map rustled.

But Link didn’t move.

Zelda’s gaze stayed on him.

He felt it.

But he didn’t look up.

He just sat there, hands braced on the table, head lowered.

Trying not to think about how quiet the castle had felt since she left.

How close it had been to staying that way.

—

The corridor felt too narrow.

Stone chilled with old night air pressed close around her shoulders, each breath fogging in the dark. Her boots scraped the floor, quiet, unsteady.

She wasn’t supposed to be out of bed.

She wasn’t supposed to be anywhere but resting, but the room had felt like a box.

Like a cell.

The walls too close, the hearth too cold.

And so she walked.

Not fast—she couldn’t even if she tried. Each step tugged at the stitches in her shoulder, pulling the bandage too tight against bruised ribs. But she didn’t stop.

She didn’t want to stay still.

Her breath shuddered once. She bit it back and pressed on.

She reached the old service door that led to the north greenhouse. The warped wood groaned under her hand, hinges squealing.

The smell hit her immediately.

Earth. Damp and dark and alive.

Cool, moss-scented air that had spent the whole day soaking in light and was now breathing it back out.

She stepped inside slowly.

Moonlight pressed through the glass roof in ragged, silver bands. The rows of herbs and fruit vines were heavy with dew, gleaming like cold pearls. Leaves shifted with the soft breeze sneaking through cracked panes.

It was quiet.

The kind of quiet that felt intentional.

She limped forward, boots hushed by old moss and dirt.

Her eyes adjusted slowly. She drew in the wet-green smell of life.

She wasn’t sure why she’d come here.

Except she couldn’t stay there.

Not in her room, with her broken staff leaning like a ghost against the wall.

Not in the hall, with every soldier who looked at her too long or too quickly.

Not in the infirmary, with the poultice smell still burning in her lungs.

Here was better.

Quiet.

Alive.

She turned down the narrow path between planter boxes, dragging one hand along the rough wooden edge. Her palm bumped over old splinters and knots.

She didn’t see him right away.

He was already there, standing beside the low planter of purple daylilies.

Hands in his pockets. Shoulders set but easy, like he’d been there for a while.

When her soft footsteps approached, his eyes lifted immediately to hers, no surprise in them at all.

“…Narena,” he said softly.

She stopped in her tracks, turning to look at him properly.

The moonlight caught the line of his jaw, the furrow in his brow.

He looked tired.

Like he hadn’t slept since she left.

Her heart kicked once, painfully, then sank.

She opened her mouth then closed it.

She didn’t know what she would say.

She tried again.

“…I’m sorry.”

It barely made sound. Just the shape of breath and grief at the same time.

His brows knit tighter.

Confused.

He shook his head once, voice scraping low.

“For what?”

It wasn’t sharp.

It was bewildered.

Like he couldn’t imagine why she’d have anything to apologize for.

She swallowed.

She didn’t know what words could cover it. She wanted to say she was sorry—for pushing him away, for leaving, for almost not coming back.

But the words died before they even existed.

He didn’t rush her.

He just watched, waiting. Patient in a way that made it worse.

Her chest loosened with a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding.

Her vision blurred.

She wiped at her cheek with the heel of her palm but it was pointless.

Then, finally, so quietly she barely heard herself:

“My staff.”

A pause.

She swallowed again, voice cracking.

“I broke it again.”

The words hung there.

Small.

Meaningless to anyone else, but he heard them.

He heard everything else in them.

Link exhaled, rough. His shoulders fell.

He didn’t speak right away.

Didn’t argue.

Didn’t tell her it was fine.

He just looked at her.

Every shadow under her eyes. Every ragged cut on her knuckles. The hair hacked short at her collarbone.

The way she shook even while standing still.

He took one step. Then another.

Carefully, stopping just in front of her. Closing the distance.

He lifted his hands, slow enough she could have moved, but she didn’t. His palms framing her face, thumbs brushing along her cheeks, wiping away the wetness she wouldn’t admit was there.

His brows knit, eyes searching her face like he was trying to memorize every line, every mark she’d carried back with her.

Like he was trying to piece together everything she couldn’t make herself say.

She drew in a shaky breath. Her chest hitched.

Then she raised her own hands. Pressed them over his. Not pushing him away—just holding him there.

Asking him, without words, not to leave.

Their eyes stayed locked. Hers wet and unsteady. His raw with something that looked too big to name.

Neither of them spoke.

Her gaze flickered to his mouth and back up, something unspoken catching between them.

He saw it.

He studied her eyes, hesitating.

But then he leaned in slowly, careful— as if afraid to startle her.

Their foreheads brushed first, their noses grazing.

A pause.

A question in the space between them.

She answered by tilting up, closing the last inch. His thumbs brushed slow lines along her jaw, cradling her like something irreplaceable.

It was gentle at first. Careful.

Their lips brushed like a question neither was sure how to ask.

She felt his breath catch, warm and unsteady.

Her fingers curled around his wrists, anchoring him. Pulling him closer.

He answered like he’d been waiting for permission.

The kiss deepened, slow and rough around the edges. Their breath tangled, warm and ragged between them.

He pulled back just far enough to let them breathe, foreheads touching. His nose brushed hers.

Neither spoke.

He breathed out slow, his knuckles brushing across her cheek with aching gentleness. Then he tilted his head up, breath warm against her skin, and rested his lips against her temple.

She closed her eyes at the feel of it. Inhaling him like she wasn’t sure she’d ever get to again.

Like nothing else mattered now that she could.

Outside, the greenhouse slept in silvered calm. Leaves stilled. Shadows deepened.

But inside—

They forgot the hush around them.

Breathing tangled; their closeness blurred the quiet.

Soft. Unsteady. Together.

—

Pt.31

epilogue

[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

[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

[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—"

[plutoniansweetheart]

From my astrology textbook:

Sun & Moon Signs: An indespinsable illustrated guide to astrological characteristics (by Julia & Derek Parker).

This book of mine is special in particular because it was published in 1996. It’s so interesting to see how many things have changed since then. Please enjoy these tidbits I'm going to share!

Cancer symbolism -

"Certain herbs, spices, flowers, trees, gems, metals, & animals have long been associated with particular zodiac signs. Some associations are simply amusing, while others can be useful."

Flowers -

Plants that flower at night

White lilies

White roses

Acanthus

Trees -

Mostly trees that are rich in sap

Laurel

Herbs -

Saxifrage

Purslane

Spices -

Nutmeg

Coriander

[tvangelique]

Hooray

🪄📜🐍🪁 🐦‍⬛

hello. hi.

answering for my book dr !

🪄 . . .  the three good fairies : if you could be granted three things in your dr, gifts, powers, blessings, what would they be? what do you most want to take with you?

three things. you want the answer i’ll give a journalist or the answer i’ll probably bury under 3 layers of silk and call it a hemorrhage?

but seriously, a nice cup of citrus tea that i won’t have to share. it doesn’t have to be ceremonial nor infused with herbs, but laced with amber, jasmine and maybe.. some ginger, if i’m lucky. lukewarm, slightly bitter, steeped too long, like the kind a mother running from 3 hours of rest, with chamiso stuck on the brim of her palms might make at the crack of dawn when she’s angry, but still wants you off to bed. (served in a chipped porcelain cup with a lotus crack in the glaze).

i’d drink it sitting cross-legged in the hallway of a house with thin paper walls, listening to the wind chimes through cedar slats and someone humming a folk song that probably doesn’t exist, now that i think about it.

maybe, i’ll drink it alone or i’ll show less restraint for socialization, maybe, someone will peel a persimmon in the next room.

a soldier’s monsoon coat. huoshi-issued, a kind of rarity that comes after generations stopped weaving because of the ceasefire—thick hemp and banana fiber blend dyed with soot and turmeric, washed down until it settles into a worn, muted olive. the back probably still bears the ghost of an old unit sigil, stitched into the fine-print, momentarily blurred by remains of mildew and ash. lined with strips of dried banana leaf, stiff with dust, the collar’s padded with faded ikat cloth, and a hint of woodsmoke and crushed shēnglan root (unfamiliar to land root beneath children’s eyes during plague season) isn’t too far behind.

a cassette player. cheap. plastic. kajiya-made, from the old huoshi border markets instead of encased in a museum for the fallen. it’s probably plastic, with the casing stained deep with crushed tamarind seed, sun-bleached and sticky with mango sap, tales of boyish youth, and a prickly humid summer where collecting opium was encouraged instead of denied. i’ll have to clean it from fertilizer before i realize the on/off switch is a rusted blade shard from a shinrantō sword, jammed in sideways (and in a hurry. i must add). it only plays copper-core memory strips now, encoded with glances of revival of folk music. my favorite one would’ve been a lullaby for famine children, written for ye mao, a weeping rice deity who traded her tongue for a year of rain, sung in dialect they scrubbed from the city schools, in a language that primarily was laid to rest with the women who never came home from the work camps.

📜  . . . the spindle's prophecy : what’s written in the margins of your dr script? little details you never tell anyone but always include? symbols, colours, names, the way the light hits the window at 4pm?

the smell of red bean paste left too long on a burner. i imagine it’s slightly burned, slightly sweet, like childhood trying to survive the fallout.

a mark on my inner wrist shaped like a crescent rice grain. a birthmark? who knows? my people were agriculturists.

a coin with two heads. i like to be right.

red. in my hair. on my outfit. it’s just something of identification.

🐍 . . .  the green flames : what’s dangerous in your dr but too beautiful to resist? what do you touch even though you know you shouldn’t?

i’ll do you one better. it’s nothing materialistic, thankfully, but power. the way it sounds when it speaks your language, like you’re not a person anymore, but a part of something bigger. older. it starts when they kneel, not even because they mean it, but because they’re afraid not to. it isn’t mine to claim, but it tastes metallic, like smoke and memory. it makes even silence feel holy.

🪁 . . . merryweather’s wish : what’s one wish that rewrites something dark in your dr? a last-minute change to a prophecy, a loophole, a secret softening?

how far can you go until it unravels time? until it undoes what it shouldn’t? I’ll just hope that the gods wouldn’t sign in blood this time and tuck the scroll into war children.

🐦‍⬛ . . .  maleficent’s raven : do you have a pet? a familiar? a pair of eyes in the dark?

cats. crows. anything that wishes to stay before it, too, gets lost in the animalistic acts of feeding.

[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?