#C Activate A Code

[pixelatedraindrops]

One of my art pieces got redrawn!

(its specifically my cover photo c:)

This piece is nostalgic, it was one of my first arts of these two c:

Please give support to the artist! They did a wonderful job!

Its such an honor to have my art be drawn in other's styles!

💜☔🌡️

[fcxtailed]

ya'll i have so many thoughts about chaos energy / chaos emeralds + their place in sonic rpc multiverses don't get me started. i could write a whole ass essay or dissertation on the subject alone.

[o-berriesandhotsauce]

having one of those nights where i wanna pick up every fanfic project i've left dormant..........

[rvlyrik]

currently coding

for fun this time

[tofupixel]

⭐ So you want to learn pixel art? ⭐

🔹 Part 1 of ??? - The Basics!

Edit: Now available in Google Doc format if you don't have a Tumblr account 🥰

Hello, my name is Tofu and I'm a professional pixel artist. I have been supporting myself with freelance pixel art since 2020, when I was let go from my job during the pandemic.

My progress, from 2017 to 2024. IMO the only thing that really matters is time and effort, not some kind of natural talent for art.

This guide will not be comprehensive, as nobody should be expected to read allat. Instead I will lean heavily on my own experience, and share what worked for me, so take everything with a grain of salt. This is a guide, not a tutorial. Cheers!

🔹 Do I need money?

NO!!! Pixel art is one of the most accessible mediums out there.

I still use a mouse because I prefer it to a tablet! You won't be at any disadvantage here if you can't afford the best hardware or software.

Because our canvases are typically very small, you don't need a good PC to run a good brush engine or anything like that.

✨Did you know? One of the most skilled and beloved pixel artists uses MS PAINT! Wow!!

🔹 What software should I use?

Here are some of the most popular programs I see my friends and peers using. Stars show how much I recommend the software for beginners! ⭐

💰 Paid options:

⭐⭐⭐ Aseprite (for PC) - $19.99

This is what I and many other pixel artists use. You may find when applying to jobs that they require some knowledge of Aseprite. Since it has become so popular, companies like that you can swap raw files between artists.

Aseprite is amazingly customizable, with custom skins, scripts and extensions on Itch.io, both free and paid.

If you have ever used any art software before, it has most of the same features and should feel fairly familiar to use. It features a robust animation suite and a tilemap feature, which have saved me thousands of hours of labour in my work. The software is also being updated all the time, and the developers listen to the users. I really recommend Aseprite!

⭐ Photoshop (for PC) - Monthly $$

A decent option for those who already are used to the PS interface. Requires some setup to get it ready for pixel-perfect art, but there are plenty of tutorials for doing so.

Animation is also much more tedious on PS which you may want to consider before investing time!

⭐⭐ ProMotion NG (for PC) - $19.00

An advanced and powerful software which has many features Aseprite does not, including Colour Cycling and animated tiles.

⭐⭐⭐ Pixquare (for iOS) - $7.99 - $19.99 (30% off with code 'tofu'!!)

Probably the best app available for iPad users, in active development, with new features added all the time.

Look! My buddy Jon recommends it highly, and uses it often.

One cool thing about Pixquare is that it takes Aseprite raw files! Many of my friends use it to work on the same project, both in their office and on the go.

⭐ Procreate (for iOS) - $12.99

If you have access to Procreate already, it's a decent option to get used to doing pixel art. It does however require some setup. Artist Pixebo is famously using Procreate, and they have tutorials of their own if you want to learn.

⭐⭐ ReSprite iOS and Android. (free trial, but:) $19.99 premium or $$ monthly

ReSprite is VERY similar in terms of UI to Aseprite, so I can recommend it. They just launched their Android release!

🆓 Free options:

⭐⭐⭐ Libresprite (for PC)

Libresprite is an alternative to Aseprite. It is very, very similar, to the point where documentation for Aseprite will be helpful to Libresprite users.

⭐⭐ Pixilart (for PC and mobile)

A free in-browser app, and also a mobile app! It is tied to the website Pixilart, where artists upload and share their work. A good option for those also looking to get involved in a community.

⭐⭐ Dotpict (for mobile)

Dotpict is similar to Pixilart, with a mobile app tied to a website, but it's a Japanese service. Did you know that in Japanese, pixel art is called 'Dot Art'? Dotpict can be a great way to connect with a different community of pixel artists! They also have prompts and challenges often.

🔹 So I got my software, now what?

◽Nice! Now it's time for the basics of pixel art.

❗ WAIT ❗ Before this section, I want to add a little disclaimer. All of these rules/guidelines can be broken at will, and some 'no-nos' can look amazing when done intentionally.

The pixel-art fundamentals can be exceedingly helpful to new artists, who may feel lost or overwhelmed by choice. But if you feel they restrict you too harshly, don't force yourself! At the end of the day it's your art, and you shouldn't try to contort yourself into what people think a pixel artist 'should be'. What matters is your own artistic expression. 💕👍

◽Phew! With that out of the way...

🔸"The Rules"

There are few hard 'rules' of pixel art, mostly about scaling and exporting. Some of these things will frequently trip up newbies if they aren't aware, and are easy to overlook.

🔹Scaling method

There are a couple ways of scaling your art. The default in most art programs, and the entire internet, is Bi-linear scaling, which usually works out fine for most purposes. But as pixel artists, we need a different method.

Both are scaled up x10. See the difference?

On the left is scaled using Bilinear, and on the right is using Nearest-Neighbor. We love seeing those pixels stay crisp and clean, so we use nearest-neighbor. 

(Most pixel-art programs have nearest-neighbor enabled by default! So this may not apply to you, but it's important to know.)

🔹Mixels

Mixels are when there are different (mixed) pixel sizes in the same image.

Here I have scaled up my art- the left is 200%, and the right is 150%. Yuck!

As we can see, the "pixel" sizes end up different. We generally try to scale our work by multiples of 100 - 200%, 300% etc. rather than 150%. At larger scales however, the minute differences in pixel sizes are hardly noticeable!

Mixels are also sometimes seen when an artist scales up their work, then continues drawing on it with a 1 pixel brush.

Many would say that this is not great looking! This type of pixels can be indicative of a beginner artist. But there are plenty of creative pixel artists out there who mixels intentionally, making something modern and cool.

🔹Saving Your Files

We usually save our still images as .PNGs as they don’t create any JPEG artifacts or loss of quality. It's a little hard to see here, but there are some artifacts, and it looks a little blurry. It also makes the art very hard to work with if we are importing a JPEG.

For animations .GIF is good, but be careful of the 256 colour limit. Try to avoid using too many blending mode layers or gradients when working with animations. If you aren’t careful, your animation could flash afterwards, as the .GIF tries to reduce colours wherever it can. It doesn’t look great!

Here's an old piece from 2021 where I experienced .GIF lossiness, because I used gradients and transparency, resulting in way too many colours.

🔹Pixel Art Fundamentals - Techniques and Jargon

❗❗Confused about Jaggies? Anti-Aliasing? Banding? Dithering? THIS THREAD is for you❗❗ << it's a link, click it!!

As far as I'm concerned, this is THE tutorial of all time for understanding pixel art. These are techniques created and named by the community of people who actually put the list together, some of the best pixel artists alive currently. Please read it!!

🔸How To Learn

Okay, so you have your software, and you're all ready to start. But maybe you need some more guidance? Try these tutorials and resources! It can be helpful to work along with a tutorial until you build your confidence up.

⭐⭐ Pixel Logic (A Digital Book) - $10 A very comprehensive visual guide book by a very skilled and established artist in the industry. I own a copy myself.

⭐⭐⭐ StudioMiniBoss - free A collection of visual tutorials, by the artist that worked on Celeste! When starting out, if I got stuck, I would go and scour his tutorials and see how he did it.

⭐ Lospec Tutorials - free A very large collection of various tutorials from all over the internet. There is a lot to sift through here if you have the time.

⭐⭐⭐ Cyangmou's Tutorials - free (tipping optional) Cyangmou is one of the most respected and accomplished modern pixel artists, and he has amassed a HUGE collection of free and incredibly well-educated visual tutorials. He also hosts an educational stream every week on Twitch called 'pixelart for beginners'.

⭐⭐⭐ Youtube Tutorials - free There are hundreds, if not thousands of tutorials on YouTube, but it can be tricky to find the good ones. My personal recommendations are MortMort, Brandon, and AdamCYounis- these guys really know what they're talking about!

🔸 How to choose a canvas size

When looking at pixel art turorials, we may see people suggest things like 16x16, 32x32 and 64x64. These are standard sizes for pixel art games with tiles. However, if you're just making a drawing, you don't necessarily need to use a standard canvas size like that.

What I like to think about when choosing a canvas size for my illustrations is 'what features do I think it is important to represent?' And make my canvas as small as possible, while still leaving room for my most important elements.

Imagine I have characters in a scene like this:

I made my canvas as small as possible (232 x 314), but just big enough to represent the features and have them be recognizable (it's Good Omens fanart 😤)!! If I had made it any bigger, I would be working on it for ever, due to how much more foliage I would have to render.

If you want to do an illustration and you're not sure, just start at somewhere around 100x100 - 200x200 and go from there.

It's perfectly okay to crop your canvas, or scale it up, or crunch your art down at any point if you think you need a different size. I do it all the time! It only takes a bit of cleanup to get you back to where you were.

🔸Where To Post

Outside of just regular socials, Twitter, Tumblr, Deviantart, Instagram etc, there are a few places that lean more towards pixel art that you might not have heard of.

⭐ Lospec Lospec is a low-res focused art website. Some pieces get given a 'monthly masterpiece' award. Not incredibly active, but I believe there are more features being added often.

⭐⭐ Pixilart Pixilart is a very popular pixel art community, with an app tied to it. The community tends to lean on the young side, so this is a low-pressure place to post with an relaxed vibe.

⭐⭐ Pixeljoint Pixeljoint is one of the big, old-school pixel art websites. You can only upload your art unscaled (1x) because there is a built-in zoom viewer. It has a bit of a reputation for being elitist (back in the 00s it was), but in my experience it's not like that any more. This is a fine place for a pixel artist to post if they are really interested in learning, and the history. The Hall of Fame has some of the most famous / impressive pixel art pieces that paved the way for the work we are doing today.

⭐⭐⭐ Cafe Dot Cafe Dot is my art server so I'm a little biased here. 🍵 It was created during the recent social media turbulence. We wanted a place to post art with no algorithms, and no NFT or AI chuds. We have a heavy no-self-promotion rule, and are more interested in community than skill or exclusivity. The other thing is that we have some kind of verification system- you must apply to be a Creator before you can post in the Art feed, or use voice. This helps combat the people who just want to self-promo and dip, or cause trouble, as well as weed out AI/NFT people. Until then, you are still welcome to post in any of the threads or channels. There is a lot to do in Cafe Dot. I host events weekly, so check the threads!

⭐⭐/r/pixelart The pixel art subreddit is pretty active! I've also heard some of my friends found work through posting here, so it's worth a try if you're looking. However, it is still Reddit- so if you're sensitive to rude people, or criticism you didn't ask for, you may want to avoid this one. Lol

🔸 Where To Find Work

You need money? I got you! As someone who mostly gets scouted on social media, I can share a few tips with you:

Put your email / portfolio in your bio Recruiters don't have all that much time to find artists, make it as easy as possible for someone to find your important information!

Clean up your profile If your profile feed is all full of memes, most people will just tab out rather than sift through. Doesn't apply as much to Tumblr if you have an art tag people can look at.

Post regularly, and repost Activity beats everything in the social media game. It's like rolling the dice, and the more you post the more chances you have. You have to have no shame, it's all business baby

Outside of just posting regularly and hoping people reach out to you, it can be hard to know where to look. Here are a few places you can sign up to and post around on.

/r/INAT INAT (I Need A Team) is a subreddit for finding a team to work with. You can post your portfolio here, or browse for people who need artists.

/r/GameDevClassifieds Same as above, but specifically for game-related projects.

Remote Game Jobs / Work With Indies Like Indeed but for game jobs. Browse them often, or get email notifications.

VGen VGen is a website specifically for commissions. You need a code from another verified artist before you can upgrade your account and sell, so ask around on social media or ask your friends. Once your account is upgraded, you can make a 'menu' of services people can purchase, and they send you an offer which you are able to accept, decline, or counter.

The evil websites of doom: Fiverr and Upwork I don't recommend them!! They take a big cut of your profit, and the sites are teeming with NFT and AI people hoping to make a quick buck. The site is also extremely oversaturated and competitive, resulting in a race to the bottom (the cheapest, the fastest, doing the most for the least). Imagine the kind of clients who go to these websites, looking for the cheapest option. But if you're really desperate...

🔸 Community

I do really recommend getting involved in a community. Finding like-minded friends can help you stay motivated to keep drawing. One day, those friends you met when you were just starting out may become your peers in the industry. Making friends is a game changer!

Discord servers Nowadays, the forums of old are mostly abandoned, and people split off into many different servers. Cafe Dot, Pixel Art Discord (PAD), and if you can stomach scrolling past all the AI slop, you can browse Discord servers here.

Twitch Streams Twitch has kind of a bad reputation for being home to some of the more edgy gamers online, but the pixel art community is extremely welcoming and inclusive. Some of the people I met on Twitch are my friends to this day, and we've even worked together on different projects! Browse pixel art streams here, or follow some I recommend: NickWoz, JDZombi, CupOhJoe, GrayLure, LumpyTouch, FrankiePixelShow, MortMort, Sodor, NateyCakes, NyuraKim, ShinySeabass, I could go on for ever really... There are a lot of good eggs on Pixel Art Twitch.

🔸 Other Helpful Websites

Palettes Lospec has a huge collection of user-made palettes, for any artist who has trouble choosing their colours, or just wants to try something fun. Rejected Palettes is full of palettes that didn't quite make it onto Lospec, ran by people who believe there are no bad colours.

The Spriters Resource TSR is an incredible website where users can upload spritesheets and tilesets from games. You can browse for your favourite childhood game, and see how they made it! This website has helped me so much in understanding how game assets come together in a scene.

VGMaps Similar to the above, except there are entire maps laid out how they would be played. This is incredible if you have to do level design, or for mocking up a scene for fun.

Game UI Database Not pixel-art specific, but UI is a very challenging part of graphics, so this site can be a game-changer for finding good references!

Retronator A digital newspaper for pixel-art lovers! New game releases, tutorials, and artworks!

Itch.io A website where people can upload, games, assets, tools... An amazing hub for game devs and game fans alike. A few of my favourite tools: Tiled, PICO-8, Pixel Composer, Juice FX, Magic Pencil for Aseprite

🔸 The End?

This is just part 1 for now, so please drop me a follow to see any more guides I release in the future. I plan on doing some writeups on how I choose colours, how to practise, and more!

I'm not an expert by any means, but everything I did to get to where I am is outlined in this guide. Pixel art is my passion, my job and my hobby! I want pixel art to be recognized everywhere as an art-form, a medium of its own outside of game-art or computer graphics!

This guide took me a long time, and took a lot of research and experience. Consider following me or supporting me if you are feeling generous.

And good luck to all the fledgling pixel artists, I hope you'll continue and have fun. I hope my guide helped you, and don't hesitate to send me an ask if you have any questions! 💕

My other tutorials (so far): How to draw Simple Grass for a game Hue Shifting

[afterglowsainz]

out of time | max verstappen

pairing: bsf!reader x max verstappen

summary: your best friend max and you have always been attracted to each other but you just keep dating other people instead of facing your feelings

fc: savannah lee smith

a/n: i’m still at the restaurant AGAIN (qatar 2024) (i’m also trying a new posting time so hopefully this won’t flop)

—

liked by maxverstappen1, bffusername and others

yourusername all the roads 👀🇮🇹

view all comments

username who is thattt

username ms girl you’re glowinggg

username obsessed with the outfits 🤩

username fourth pic ??? omg

username not even gonna bother asking who that is cause I know they’re just gonna break up in like a week

username RUDE

username but true

username love that she’s obsessed with hard launching the most random guys she hooks up with because (same) but when is she gonna hard launch max ????

username I think hell will have to froze first

liked by yourusername, gfusername and others

maxverstappen1 🤍

view all comments

username boooo that’s not y/n 🍅🍅🍅

username it never is unfortunately 😭

username this is like the fourth gf of the year???

yourusername 🥰🥰🥰

username girl please come get your man

username the most pinterest coded picture and is just with some random chick he’s gonna eventually break up with 😭

username I think the only ones that don’t know max and y/n are into each other are max and y/n

username oblivious babies🥹

liked by maxverstappen1, danielricciardo and others

yourusername end of the season (cheering for the energy drink team or whatever) 🫶🏽

view all comments

maxverstappen1 as you should! 💙

username ugh get a room

username MY QUEEN 🩷

redbullracing always happy to have you💙

yourusername ILY ADMIN💗💗💗

username y/n being there and max’s gf not is … something

lilymhe gorgeous🫶🏽 (liked by yourusername)

username this is my favorite type of y/n photos

danielricciardo where to now?

yourusername you know the answer to that

liked by yourusername, bffusername and others

maxverstappen1 end of season 🥳

tagged martingarrix, danielricciardo and yourusername

view all comments

username WHO TOLD HIM it was appropriate to post the last picture????

username they are suchhhh a couple 😩😩

username max and y/n not being together challenge

username bfr they’re losing in the first five minutes

username atp i’m surprised neither martin or daniel have intervened

username ohhh he looks so cute 🥹

martingarrix 👊🏽😅

username thank god i’m not his girlfriend because i would not be so calm about that last picture

username same

liked by yourusername, f1wags and others

maxverstappen ☀️🌴

view all comments

username wtffff another one?

username SO SOON

username oh! and it’s still not y/n

username not interested then

username to know they’re eventually gonna break up once y/n gets a new boyfriend 😭

username those two NEED therapy

username I could write essays about that relationship

username wish you all the best! ❤️ (they’ll split in a week)

username bestie you’re a psychic!

liked by maxverstappen1, landonorris and others

yourusername new york, new york 🧸

view all comments

username okay first of all slay

username that dress omg 😍

username I am no better than a man

username now who the hell is that

username can’t believe I’m losing my woman to some random new yorker

username it’s killing me that they like each other posts about getting a new partner every. single. time.

username why is it that her and max can’t be single for one minute

username bc they would have to face their feelings for each other lol

username and you’re so sure about that how?

username you obviously weren’t there in 2016

maxverstappen1 🍻🎉 (liked by yourusername)

liked by maxverstappen1, alexandrasaintmleux and others

yourusername tourist activities (and training) with maxie 📸

view all comments

username pls tell me you got a tattoo

yourusername unfortunately i did not 😔 next time for sure!

username omg

username the face card is insaneee

username “maxie” 🥹

username I actually cry passed out return to live and died

username pls just get together I’m on my knees you two deserve a happy ending with each other plssss 😩

username I think I speak for everyone when I say, thank you for the last pic

yourusername yw 🫡

username GIRL i know you saw the other comments

liked by maxverstappen1, charles_leclerc and others

yourusername starting the season with a bangerrr 💥

tagged maxverstappen1

view all comments

username wow 😮‍💨

username her face is unreal omgggg

username max verstappen can you fight?

username i was never that close to max anyways

alexandrasaintmleux 😍

username truly the most beautiful woman

maxverstappen1 nice jacket, a bit big for you tho

yourusername I wonder why that is

username are they… flirting…

username openly… on the internet…

username quick! when was the last time they both posted they were dating someone?

username omg

liked by yourusername, martingarrix and others

maxverstappen1 i spend so much time looking for love in different places, i didn’t realize i had it right next to me ❤️ happy birthday my y/n <3

tagged yourusername

view all comments

username OMG WHAT wait hold on

username HAPPY BIRTHDAY Y/N WTF IS HAPPENING OMG HAPPY BIRTHDAY QUEEN

username I will never recover

username chat is this real or am I hallucinating

username the way everyone wanted this and still no one knows how to act 😭

username because we never thought it’ll actually happen 😭😭😭

username “my y/n” I’m actually gonna go kms

username MY PARENTS FINALLY🥰

username god heard our prayers

yourusername 🥹🥹🥹 thank you my love <3

username romance is alive and breathing

[pagesofkenna]

Every time I've ever seen those tumblr posts that are like 'what's an inside joke you have with your friendgroup' I've been utterly unable to remember any inside joke I've ever had, despite the fact that the other day my friend casual said the phrase 'hey, did you hear the news?' in front of me and I had to FIGHT not to reply 'that you can play Blues cles? Every night, and every day??'

Which was an inside joke with my brothers/cousins, not this friendgroup

[ms-demeanor]

I had a straight up delightful moment at work yesterday when a new member of the management team asked me how we were tracking warranties and I explained that we kind of aren't and he asked why we aren't and that meant he got a 30-minute rundown of how top-to-bottom fucked the procurement process is here.

First I explained the process for sending a quote (i am assigned a ticket in system A1, I create an opportunity in system A2, from the opportunity i can generate a quote in system B - if I start with the quote I can't associate it back to the opportunity or the ticket, if we need to change the quote after it was approved we need to generate a new quote from the opportunity to overwrite the old one - and send the quote from system B.)

Then I explained the process of getting approval (system B sends the quote and receives the approvals but does not communicate that to system A, so until it is manually updated system A sends a daily reminder about the quote to the client and after three days with no response will close the ticket even if the client approved the quote in system B. System B will send an email if a quote is approved but it comes from our generic support email so to make sure that I don't miss approvals I have filtering rules set up and a folder I check twice a day. Because there are 4 people who use this system I also check twice daily in system B to see if anyone else's quotes were approved).

Then I explained how I place the orders (easy! I'm a pro! We have a standardized PO pattern that tracks date, vendor and client, it's handy)

Then I explained how I document the orders (neither system A nor B has a way of storing information about orders in progress, only orders that are complete; as such I have created a PO Documentation spreadsheet that lists the PO number, vendor, line of business, client, items ordered, order total, order date, ETA, tracking numbers, serial numbers, delivery confirmation, ticket number for install, ticket title for install, shippong cost, and close confirmation, which all have to be entered individually and which require a minimum of three visits to the spreadsheet per order: entering initial info, entering tracking and SN info, then once more to get that info to close the opportunity)

Then I explained how we close an order (confirm hardware delivery or activate software, use system A2 to code hardware/software/non-taxable products appropriately, run wizard to add charges from A2 to ticket in A1; because the A2 charges were locked by approval in system B, use system A3 to add shipping or other fees or to remove any parts that were approved but not actually needed or ordered - THIS WEEK I got permission to do this bit on my initial A1 procurement ticket instead of generating an A1 post-procurement ticket for fees and shipping. Once all of that is done it's moved into system A4 and is no longer my problem).

If there is a warranty involved it *should* automatically have the expiration tracked in system C, but system C doesn't have any way to pull order info so there's no way it can track warranty *start* dates without somebody manually entering it or without using API data from the manufacturer, which some manufacturers don't provide (fuck you, Apple).

But me and my trainee are happy to add the start date to the configuration once a tech tells us that the device is enrolled in system C. If the techs will tell us that we can add that info no problem.

Until then, I have unfortunately been forced to start a spreadsheet.

The manager was appalled, it was great. I got to say the words "part of the reason things sometimes fall through the cracks is because we have so many cracks" and his response was "no shit." I'm talking to vendors about a procurement system now :) :) :) :)

[t-a-a-1]

CW: pregnancy and complications talks about below.

I can’t help but think Optimus wouldn’t fully understand the true horrors/pain that human pregnancy entails.

Don’t get me wrong, he’s not an idiot. He’d do his research. He’d prepare to the best of his ability. But there’s a massive difference between learning and experiencing. He knows this and thinks he’s mentally prepared for everything.

But complications during labor? (Which, if your a human pregnant with a cybertronian….). Idk how he’d handle it.

I’d imagine that Optimus would try to remain calm. Collected. But easily break apart. This poor Prime is one loss from a total break down.

Anything could go wrong. Emergency C-sections? Total nightmare for him. The idea of you needing to be cut open terrifies him more than he’s willing to admit.

Too weak to continue with labor? He’ll panic. Honestly I actually see him blaming HIMSELF for the ordeal you go through. I mean HE put that sparkling inside of you. Yet YOU have to suffer. He’d want to take away the pain. The sickness. The weakness.

He won’t even entertain the idea of losing you or your sparkling. I feel like the very idea of it happening would break something inside his processor.

Idk, I love your writing with pregnant reader and Optimus. I especially love the “code” aspect of Optimus acting out. That poor confused boy.

You are so smart for this dear Anon! 

I think you are totally right, Optimus would totally freak out especially since he still can’t fully capture the whole pregnancy concept nor how humans’ bodies are capable of creating life. He has a sort of fascination towards the idea and also fear since he can’t understand it. 

I think when it comes to this, Pregnant Reader! Would be the one to explain to him the process (Although Reader is also very scared, being the first human to give birth to a human-alien hybrid) but you reassured him that the best doctors and nurses would be there to tend to you if anything happens.

Then you start explaining to him the possibilities. 

Optimus: What if you are in pain? 

Reader: Well, they will pierce my skin with a needle and inject me with some liquid to try and relieve the pain. 

Optimus: faints 

And if you tell him about a possible C-section? He would start having a panic attack. And when the doctors tell Optimus (to just in case, Primus forbid)  to start preparing for the worst possible outcome? His processor can’t even fully understand that. What is worse than being cut open? Then you tell him that childbirth can be fatal in certain cases. 

His processor’s codes would absolutely go insane. 

“Sparkmate In Danger. Ensure Safety. In Case Of Loss, Activate Spark-Exchange Codes.” 

I would like to think that Cybertronians only have one ‘mate’ their whole lives. But in case of death, they are able to give their own spark to their Sparkmate, ensuring a second chance in life. 

But poor Optimus, you are not Cybertronian so he can’t give you his Spark and that mentally destroys him. The possibility that you can die (because HE made you pregnant) and that he can’t even give his life to you makes him feel like he has failed you as a partner. Like in his eyes, he can’t even do the bare minimum and feels unworthy. 

He will try to keep quiet about how he feels so as to not make you worry but then the day comes and he breaks down, he can’t do it. He can’t fathom you in pain or the mere thought of losing you. His servos tremble. 

But you can tell right away that something is off. And when you ask him ‘What’s wrong?’ he starts breaking down and tells you how he feels. And of course, you comfort him immediately, being the only one who Optimus can let his guard down. Not feeling the need to hide his feelings, worries, nor tears any longer. 

[sillylilsquid]

after daisy

pairing - felix x reader summary - after losing his service dog, Felix finds comfort in the ER tech who stayed. grief turns to healing, and healing turns to something more; with a new dog, shared nights, and the quiet love growing. warnings - animal death, description cpr/life saving measures, grief, depression 6k words

It was a slow lull between cases–the kind of pause that never lasts in veterinary medicine. Especially the ER.

You had finished tending to inpatients, and now you were restocking gauze and flushing lines when the front door slammed open with a bang that echoed through the fluorescent lit ER. “Help–please–someone help me!”

You turned on instinct. He was already running toward the counter, cradling a limp, bloody golden retriever in his arms. She was hardly moving. Her hind leg dangled at a sickening angle. Her coat was matted with road grit and blood. Her tags clinked weakly with each panicked step.

The man was crying–sobbing, actually–face blotchy and twisted in a raw kind of grief that made your stomach knot. “She–she got out–she ran, and then–a car–” His voice cracked and broke apart.

You didn’t ask for details. You rushed up to him, reaching for the dog. “We’ve got her,” you said, urgent but calm. “What’s your name? What’s her name?”

“Felix. This is Daisy.”

“Okay, I got her, let me take her.” You turned to him, eyes locking. “I need to take her now.”

He hesitated, shaking. His arms clutched tighter around the dog like he wasn’t sure he could let go. “I c-can’t–she’s my–she’s my–” His whole body folded inward, like the weight of her was all that was keeping him from collapsing too. “She’s my service dog.”

Your breath hitched. “I promise we’ll do everything we can,” you said softly now. But I need to take her back. Now.” You saw the moment he surrendered, the pain slicing through him as he handed her over. You rushed toward the back, yelling for help. “Hit by car, unconscious, bradycardic–”

The rest blurred into chaos. You laid Daisy on the exam table in the trauma bay, the team already swarming. You started checking vitals as you barked orders without hesitation. “Get me IV access–jugular if you have to. Start her on oxygen. Warm saline, full flow. Let’s move!”

Blood matted thick along her flank and mouth. Her breathing became agonal–barely there. You felt for a pulse at her femoral artery. Nothing. “She’s coding.”

You were already switching gears. Another tech slid in beside you and began chest compressions while you clipped in an IV catheter with a practiced flick. You flushed the line fast, securing it with tape as you called out for the doctor.

Dr. Park entered just as you began intubation. “Epi, 1ml IV push it now!” You wiped blood from her airway with gauze, sliding the endotracheal tube into her throat, then hooked it up to the ambu bag. “Tube’s in. 7.5, cuff’s inflated. Starting ventilation.”

The screen beeped. You switched out compression with a colleague, watching the monitor–still flat. Ultrasound was already on her chest. No motion. No flicker. Her heart was silent. “Come on, Daisy,” you whispered, almost without realizing. “Stay with me…”

Another round of epi was pushed. Another round of compressions. Sweat ran down your back beneath your scrubs. The whole room pulsed with urgency. Fear and desperation.

The monitors were a chaotic rhythm of being and alarms. Everyone was moving fast–hands passing syringes, lines being flushed, someone calling out vitals. You were pressing hard on Daisy’s chest, her ribs fragile under your hands, while another tech breathed for her through the endotracheal tube. Her gums still pale. 

Still flatline. “No cardiac activity,” someone whispered. Dr. Park hesitated, glanced up at the clock. “I’m calling it,” he said softly.

Your hands dropped. The fell still–all that noise and effort sucked away in a single breath. You stared down at Daisy. Her chest no longer rose. Her fur was still warm under your gloves, but fading. You took a step back, nausea twisting in your guy. You tried. You tried everything. And it hadn’t been enough.

You scrubbed your hands under burning hot water for the third time. They were shaking. Dr. Park had already written up the report. “I’ll go talk to her owner,” he said and you nodded, deciding to stay behind. But you watched as he stepped out into the cold fluorescent hallway.

You began to clean Daisy up. Removing the endotracheal tube and her IVs. You used a warm rag to clean most of the blood off of her–at least what would come off easily. You brushed out her fur the best you could.

After digging through the cupboard you found the warmest, fuzziest blanket and wrapped Daisy in it. Trying to make her look as presentable as possible for Felix.

Meanwhile, Felix hadn’t moved from reception. He was in the far corner of the waiting area, hunched in a chair meant for paperwork and quick check-ins, not grief. He was still soaked through–his sweatshirt darkened with drying blood, jeans stained with road dust. One of his hands gripped Daisy’s leash like it was a lifeline; the other was shaking violently, holding a crushed paper towel someone must’ve handed him earlier.

His leg bounced, his lips moved soundlessly, like he was whispering to her. Maybe praying. Dr. Park cleared his throat, beginning to speak quietly. “Felix?”

He stood too fast, stumbling forward. His face was a mess–red and drawn and desperate. “Is she–can I–” The words caught and tangled in his throat. 

“Let’s talk in private.” Dr. Park guided him toward an exam room, a larger one they used for sensitive cases. The blinds were drawn. The walls were quiet.

Felix sat stiffly in the lone chair beside the counter while Dr. Park remained standing, giving him space. The leash was still wrapped around Felix’s fist. The doctor didn’t sugarcoat–something he learned in his years in the field. “We tried everything we could. We intubated her, gave her fluids, medications, compressions. There was no cardiac activity on ultrasound. We ran multiple rounds of code, but…” A pause. “We couldn’t get her back. She’s passed away. I’m sorry.”

Felix didn’t react at first. He just sat there, staring at the floor. Then– “No.” Soft, almost inaudible. He shook his head, eyes burning as they welled up. “No, she’s strong. She always bounces back.” His voice broke hard, cracking open like something raw beneath it had finally surfaced. “I don’t understand–I–no–”

Dr. Park apologized again, giving Felix a gentle squeeze on the shoulder. “I’ll have them bring her to you, if you’d like.” And that’s when he broke. Felix’s cries became sobs, his sobs turned into screams.

His face was buried into his hands, screaming inaudible words as he cried. His shoulders shook, his blonde hair fell in his face. Dr. Park turned to leave, heading straight back into the treatment area.

Meanwhile, you’d just finished getting charges put in the computer under Daisy’s profile. When you saw Dr. Park he flashed you a sad smile. “Can you take Daisy to him, please? Exam room 3.” You nodded. As you began to wrap Daisy up in a way that would look more peaceful, rather than traumatic, you heard Felix’s screams. His sobs. Daisy’s name falling from his lips over and over again.

“Jeez,” one of the other techs muttered. “It’s sad, but that’s a little dramatic.” 

The words caused a fire to burn in your chest. You turned towards her and shook your head. “That was his service dog. Show some fucking compassion.” You muttered, grabbing Daisy in your arms and storming out of the trauma bay.

You headed towards the room Felix was in, the door was cracked and you saw his bent over frame. You knocked gently with your foot as you pushed the door open. “I have your girl for you,” you spoke softly. Felix’s head immediately snapped up. His eyes were bloodshot, face was blotchy, dried blood smeared across his face.

You gently laid Daisy on the ground making sure her blanket was wrapped neatly around her, leaving her head out. “I cleaned her up as much as I could,” you explained, brushing your fingers through the fur behind her ears. “Take all the time you need.”

Felix practically fell out of his chair, kneeling next to Daisy. His hands trembled as he reached out towards her. When his fingers touched her fur, he broke harder than before. His body hunched over, engulfing Daisy in a hug as he practically laid next to her on the floor. His face buried against the top of her head.

As he cried, repeating her name and how sorry he was, you quietly moved out of the room. Wanting to give him privacy, but you left the door cracked just slightly. Just in case he needed anything. And as you continued with the rest of your shift, you found yourself peeking out into the hallway towards his room.

The rest of your shift passed in quiet echoes–charting, cleaning, checking on overnight inpatients. You kept glancing at the clock. Thirty minutes went by. Then an hour. Two. By the time three hours had passed, the sun started to rise. You heard a few whispers, “Is he really still in there?” “At least he stopped crying.” And you had to bite your tongue.

You’d just clocked out for the day. You changed out of your scrubs, hoodie tugged over your head, badge stowed in your locker. But before you left, your feet pulled you back toward exam room 3. The door was still cracked. You knocked gently on the frame, barely louder than a breath. “Hey…” you said. “Can I sit with you?”

Felix didn’t look up right away. He was lying on the floor, curled around Daisy’s blanket wrapped form like a child would hold a stuffed animal. His face was blotchy, eyes swollen, lips dry from hours of silent crying. But he nodded.

So you stepped inside, quiet and small, and took the chair beside him. No words, just your presence. He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t have to.

After a few minutes, you scooted off the chair, sitting near them but not too close. And you reached out–slowly, carefully–fingers brushing through Daisy’s fur one last time. “She would’ve liked you. She liked everyone.”

You blinked hard, trying to swallow back tears. “I think I would’ve liked her too.” And the two of you just…sat. The kind of silence that doesn’t need filing. The kind that honors what was lost. The kind that stays.

The sky outside was blushing grey with morning when Felix finally stirred. He sat up slowly, arms reluctant to let go of Daisy’s small form, his forehead still pressed gently to hers. When he did lift his head, his eyes were glassy again–emptied out, yet somehow still overwhelmed. “I should go…” His voice sounded hoarse and wrecked. “Or I’ll stay here forever.” You wouldn’t have blamed him.

You smiled softly, the kind of smile that knows the pain he’s talking about. “It’s okay. Take your time.”

Felix sat for another beat, stroking Daisy’s fur beneath the blanket, before whispering, “Thank you, Daisy. For everything.”

You swallowed down the ache in your throat. He looked up at you, hollowed out but grounded, like grief had finally started to settle into his bones. “Do you know what you want to do for aftercare?” you asked gently. “We can send her for private cremation if you want her ashes returned, or–”

Felix cut in, quietly, eyes dropping to her collar in his hands that he had unclipped from her. “I can’t afford that.” He hesitated then added, “The front desk already asked. Said I could make payments on what I owe for today.”

That landed harder than you expected. He didn’t look embarrassed. Just defeated. You only nodded. “Okay,” you said softly. “I understand.”

Felix bent over Daisy one last time, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, his lips trembling against her fur. “Goodnight, baby.”

He didn’t cry then. Not out loud. But his whole body trembled as he tucked the blanket around her once more. You waited until he stepped out of the room before reaching for her. Even though you were off the clock, you carried her back to treatment yourself–wrapped gently, respectfully–no different than you would if her person had still been watching.

The back was quiet again. Everyone moved slower in the early morning hours, that liminal space before the rush of breakfast cases and rechecks. You paused by the freezer door, then turned, and walked toward the doctor’s office instead. Dr. Park looked up from his computer when you knocked.

“Hey,” you said, clutching Daisy to you tightly. “I’m paying his bill. All of it. Cremation too. Private. I’ll cover it.”

He blinked. “You sure? I know it’s sad, but we can’t help everyone–”

You nodded once. “She was his whole world. That should matter more than a fucking invoice.” 

He didn’t argue. Just typed up a few notes and handed you the paperwork to sign. You swiped your card without a second thought.

The sun was fully up by the time you stepped outside. The parking lot was mostly empty. The only cars were the tech’s and doctor’s–but one car hadn’t moved.

You recognized it immediately. Felix was still in the driver’s seat. Just…sitting there. Not on his phone. Not crying. Just staring through the windshield at the front doors of the hospital like something might walk back out.

You stopped by the curb. Watched him for a second, heart folding in your chest. Then, gently, you raised your hand in a quiet wave. He looked up. And when he saw you, something flickered in his expression–confused , exhausted, but grateful.

He raised his hand too. Not a wave. More of a reach.

That next evening at the clinic had settled into its usual rhythm–barking from the ICU, a limping kitten in Room 2, and a stack of unfinished SOAP notes growing at the treatment desk. You were finishing up a TPR when the front desk phone rang.

“Hey, uh…there’s a guy up front. Says his name’s Felix? Wants to talk to someone from ER.”

Your heart skipped a beat. You finished the vital signs with a rushed scribble and stepped into the lobby. He was standing by the counter, holding a small envelope. He looked better–less wrecked–but still like he hadn't quite landed back in his body yet. His hair was down, brushed messily out of his face as if he’d ran his fingers through it a thousand times.

When he spotted you, he straightened. “Hey,” he said quietly. “I…I just wanted to say thank you. For yesterday. For everything.”

He handed you the envelope. Inside was a thank you card–simple, soft grey with white script. Tucked inside was a photo: Felix and Daisy on a hiking trail, her tongue out, his smile wide and natural. There was a $50 gift card to a nearby cafe stapled inside with a note that read for the team–thank you for taking care of my girl.

You blinked fast. “You didn’t have to–”

“I did,” he cut in, voice rough. “I had to. You were…kind.” He turned to the front desk then, digging into his pocket for his wallet. “I also need to make a payment toward my bill,” he said. “They told me I could split it over a few weeks–”

The receptionist blinked at the screen. “Um. It’s actually…already paid in full.”

Felix’s brows furrowed. “That’s not right. I didn’t–”

“I know,” she replied, glancing behind him towards you.

You step forward silently. He turned when he felt you hovering. There was something guarded in his expression–grateful but confused, like he was trying to understand something he didn’t quite have the language for yet.

You didn’t explain. Didn’t confess. You just met his eyes and said, gently, “Daisy will be back in a few days.”

His mouth parted, then closed again. He swallowed. “Really?” His voice was tight, careful.

You nodded. “I’ll call when she’s ready to come home.”

He stared at you for a long moment, eyes wet again, but steadier this time. “Thank you,” he mumbled. “Really. For all of it.”

It’s been a few weeks. Daisy’s ashes are long gone. You wrapped them in tissue paper and tucked the box into a plain brown bag. You remember his fingers trembling when he took it from you–how he didn’t speak, didn’t look you in the eye. Just nodded once. Like if he opened his mouth, he might break apart in front of everyone.

You hadn’t seen him since. Not until today.

“That guy with the Australian accent was looking for you yesterday,” one of the night nurses says casually, popping gum between her teeth as you sign out. “Didn’t catch his name. Said he came by about his dog? He didn’t seem right.”

You pause, pen hovering midair. “Did he say anything else?”

She shrugs. “Just…asked if you were working. Didn’t come in. Stayed by the doors, looking kind of lost. Then left.”

You don’t ask why she didn’t come get you. You just nod and finish your charting.

The next day your shift drags. Nothing goes terribly wrong, but the hours feel heavier than usual–like you’re waiting for something. Every time the front door dings open, you glance toward it. And every time, it’s not him.

Until it is.

You’ve just clocked out. Your hoodie’s half zipped, stethoscope tucked in your bag. You round the corner to head out back and–there he is. Sitting on the curb outside the staff entrance. Hoodie up. Elbows on his knees. Daisy’s leash looped twice around his wrist, like it always was–except there’s no dog at the other end now. Just empty slack.

He looks up at the sound of the door. And when he sees you, he tries to smile. It doesn’t work. “Hey,” he mumbles. His voice is raw, like he hasn’t used it much lately. “Didn’t think I’d catch you.”

You sit next to him. Not too close. Not yet. He fidgets with the leash. You ask how he’s been doing. He doesn’t lie, not really.

“Not great,” he admits. “Some nights I still reach for her food bowl. Realize halfway through that I’m filling it for a ghost.”

He laughs a little, but it’s brittle. His eyes are rimmed red. There’s a dull tremor in his hand when he presses his fingers to his temple. “It’s quiet, you know? Real quiet. I thought I’d like that. But…it’s different without her. It’s not silence, it’s…”

“Absence,” you finish.

He nods. The silence between you this time is gentler.

“She used to wake me up when I had bad dreams,” he murmurs. “Now I just wake up and stay up. Because there’s no one to stop it.”

You glance at him. “Do you have anyone else?”

He shakes his head. “It was just her. Just Daisy.” A pause. “And you, that day.”

He doesn’t cry. But it’s a near thing. You want to ask a million things. You want to tell him it’s okay. But you don’t know if it is. So you say the only thing that feels real.

“You don’t have to go home yet.”

And you stand. You wait. And after a long, fragile pause–he rises too.

“I mean–sorry, that probably sounded weird. I just…” You let out a breath. “You can come to my place, if you want. Just for a bit. Stay as long as you need. I figured you might not wanna be alone.”

He looks at you for a long moment. “Yeah, okay.”

It’s quiet on the drive over. You fiddle with the heat, give him the aux cord even though you know he won’t take it. His hands stay in his lap, the leash still curled tight in his grip like muscle memory.

At your place, he toes off his shoes and stands awkwardly by the door. You flick the lights on and toss your keys into the bowl. “Make yourself comfortable,” you announce. “Couch, bed, floor–whatever works. I’m gonna change into something less covered in fur and anxiety.”

That earns a soft snort from him. A tiny upward curl at the edge of his mouth.

You return in sweatpants and an old t-shirt. He hasn’t moved far–just wandered into your room and perched on the edge of your bed, eyes on the ground like he’s not sure if he should even sit.

“I haven’t eaten since, like, yesterday,” he mutters.

You sit down next to him and pull your phone out. “Pizza?” you ask.

He nods. “Pineapple?” you test.

A breathy laugh escapes him. “Absolutely not.”

“Good,” you say, tapping your order in. “I was gonna judge you.”

It takes about 40 minutes for the food to arrive, and in that time, something shifts. He tugs off his hoodie and sits cross legged on your comforter. You toss him a pillow and he hugs it close. “Is this weird?” He asks.

“Yeah,” you reply honestly. “But not in a bad way.”

You eat pizza sitting on your bed with your knees brushing, boxes spread out between you. He talks with his mouth full, and you don’t call him out on it. You’re just glad he’s eating.

After dinner, it’s quiet again–but not heavy. You stretch out and lean against the headboard. He follows, sinking down beside you. And that’s when he finally lets go.

“She used to curl up under the blanket and stick her nose out like a little burrito,” he murmurs, staring at his hands.

You let him talk. About Daisy. About her first day with him. Her surgeries. Her anxiety. Her stupid favorite toy that squeaked like a dying bird. The way she’d sit outside the bathroom door if he forgot to leave it open.

“She didn’t like most people, but she probably liked you.” He says.

Your chest goes tight. He’s quiet for a beat. Then, softer, “She trusted you. That means something…I haven’t really talked about her. Not like this.”

You nod. “You can keep going. Say whatever you need. You don’t have to stop.”

He does. He talks until his voice goes hoarse. Until he can’t keep his eyes open. You don’t rush him. You just listen. At some point, his head tilts and lands on your shoulder. You go still. “Just a second,” he mumbles. “I’ll move.”

You shake your head. “You’re good.”

And he stays. Breathing slowly, warm beside you. And for the first time since you met him, there’s no difference. No wall. No leash between grief and comfort. Just two people on a bed, sharing quiet and space. The beginning of something fragile, and maybe healing.

It doesn't happen all at once. First, it’s just that one night. Then another. A few days later, he shows up outside the clinic near the end of your shift. No texts. Just leans on your car, hands in his jacket pockets, waiting like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“Figured I’d see if you wanted takeout,” he says.

You do.

And after that, it becomes a pattern.

Your place, his place. Takeout boxes in the trash, half finished movies in the queue. He starts leaving things behind: a hoodie on your chair, socks tucked in your laundry, a toothbrush next to yours without either of you mentioning it.

Some nights, you fall asleep talking. Other nights, you don't talk at all. But it’s never awkward. Not with him.

You start watching for his face after shifts. He waits for you outside the ER, hood up, sleeves pulled over his hands. He holds your lunch sometimes. Brings coffee. The other nurses start to notice.

“Is that your boyfriend?” one of them teases.

“No,” you say too quickly. “We’re just–friends.”

But even as you say it, it feels too simple.

One late evening, you’re curled up on the couch at his place. A documentary plays in the background, muted. He’s been quiet for a while, scrolling through something on his phone. You think he’s not really present until he says: “There’s a dog at the shelter.”

You turn toward him, brows raised. “Yeah?”

He nods, still looking at his screen. “They posted her picture this morning. She’s older. Little shy. Black lab mix. Looks like she’s had a rough time.”

You pause, watching the way he chews on the inside of his cheek. “You thinking about adopting her?”

A long silence. He locks his phone and tosses it beside him. Shrugs one shoulder. “I dunno. I don't know if I can do that again. Losing her. I don't know if it’s too soon, or if it’ll always be too soon.”

Your heart aches. You shift closer, gentle. “It’s not weird that you’re thinking about it.”

He looks at you. “I just thought…maybe we could go see her? You know. No pressure. Just meet her.”

You nod slowly. “Yeah. We can do that.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”

He exhales, like he’s been holding that breath since Daisy died. And when you lean your head against his shoulder, he doesn’t flinch or pull away. His fingers brush yours on the blanket between you. Neither of you say it out loud, but there’s something shared in that silence. Something healing. Something ready. 

The shelter smells like bleach and wet fur. It’s loud in the way all shelters are loud–echoing barks, whining, the sharp clang of metal bowls hitting concrete.

Felix tenses beside you as you check in at the front desk. He doesn’t say much, hands jammed in the pockets of his jeans, but his eyes never stop moving. Not fear exactly–just bracing. Expecting impact.

You glance at him. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Just…haven’t been here since…” He trails off and you just nod in understanding.

You reach out without thinking, touching his wrist. His gaze drops where your fingers brush his skin, then back up to your face. He doesn’t pull away.

The volunteer, a young guy in a ‘FOSTER HEROES’ t-shirt, comes to meet you with a clipboard. “You’re here to meet Emmy?”

Felix nods once.

“She’s a little shy,” the guy says as he leads you down the hallway. “Came from a neglect case. She’s sweet though. Warms up once she trusts you.”

You stop in front of a kennel near the end of the row. The dog inside is curled up at the back–small for a lab mix, black with graying fur around the muzzle, one ear that won’t quite stand up.

Emmy doesn’t rush the door. She doesn’t bark. She just lifts her head, slow and careful, her eyes big and cautious. “Hi, sweet girl,” you whisper.

You crouch down. Let her sniff you through the bars. She doesn’t flinch, but she doesn’t move closer either. Felix stays back at first, hands still in his hoodie, watching.

“Do you want to go in?” the volunteer offers.

Felix hesitates. “You can both go,” he says. “No pressure.”

Slowly, Felix follows you inside. Emmy keeps her distance, tense and watchful, but when you sit cross-legged on the floor and open your palm, she takes a few slow steps forward. Her nails click against the concrete.

You don’t rush her. Felix sits beside you, knees drawn up. Quiet. He doesn’t reach for her–just watches the way her body moves, cautious and ready to bolt.

But then Emmy sniffs your hand. Then Felix’s shoe. Then, slowly, she presses her nose against his knee. He freezes. You don’t say anything. 

She sniffs again, then settles her chin on his thigh like she’s already made a decision. Felix’s breath shudders. He brings one hand up, trembling just slightly, and lets it hover before gently touching her fur. 

“She’s so soft,” he says, barely audible.

You smile. “She likes you.”

“You think?”

“Look at her.”

Emmy shifts, half in his lap now, tail flicking just once. The volunteer grins from the door. “Take all the time you need.”

You stay like that for a while. Letting the silence settle. Letting Felix fall in love again–slower this time, more careful.

And when the volunteer finally returns and asks, “So, wanna put in an application?” Felix looks to you first.

Not because he needs permission–but because this time, he doesn't want to do it alone. You smile and nod. “Yeah,” he says, voice soft but certain. “Yeah, I think I do.”

The rain starts as a gentle tapping on the windows, but by the time the takeout boxes are empty and the lights are low, it’s a full on storm. Thunder rolls heavy through the sky, shaking the apartment like a warning.

Felix doesn’t say much. He hasn’t said much since the shelter. Just looked at Emmy like she might vanish if he blinked too long.

Now, the three of you are curled up in the dim warmth of his bedroom–Emmy at the foot of the bed, you and Felix lying side by side under his gray comforter. The TV is on low, playing some random show that neither of you is really watching.

He flinches a little when lightning flashes. His breathing’s gotten tight. You shift closer, careful. “You okay?”

Felix nods–or maybe just tips his head a little–but his hand is fisting the blanket by his chest, jaw clenched.

“Storms?” you ask quietly.

“Yeah.” He swallows. “Been better since Daisy. But…tonight’s loud.”

You don’t push. You just stay next to him, your hand resting lightly on his arm, grounding. You feel him trembling a little under your touch. A deep rumble of thunder rolls across the sky.

Felix’s body tenses again–barely perceptible, but you feel it. And then, like she’s been watching the whole time, Emmy rises from her spot at the foot of the bed.

She moves slowly, ears half cocked, and steps over the sheets to where Felix is lying frozen. One paw, then the next, up until she’s settling herself directly on top of his chest–not heavy, just enough to anchor him. Her chin rests just under his collarbone.

Felix holds his breath. And then–you hear it–a quiet, cracked whisper, “Daisy did this.”

Your heart lurches. He doesn't cry. Doesn’t move. Just lies there, eyes fixed on the ceiling, his hand coming up like muscle memory to curl around Emmy’s side.

“First storm after I adopted her. I couldn’t breathe. And she–she just climbed on me. Like she knew.” His voice breaks around the edges. “She always knew.”

You press closer, curling your arm over his and resting your head against his shoulder. “Maybe Emmy knows too.”

He exhales, long and shaky, like something loosens inside him. “She’s not Daisy,” he says softly. “I know that.”

“She doesn’t have to be,” you whisper. “She’s Emmy. And you have each other now.”

There’s silence. Then Felix nods. Emmy shifts slightly, letting out a small sigh, her eyes fluttering shut. Thunder cracks again. This time, Felix doesn’t flinch.

Mornings settle into a rhythm.

Felix wakes before the alarm, most days. You brew the coffee while he rubs the sleep from his eyes. Emmy circles your ankles, tail wagging like she’s clocked in for duty.

She follows Felix from room to room–never needy, just near. Always watching. She nudges his leg when he’s pacing too much. Sits against his knees when he gets that faraway look, the one you’ve learned means he’s spiraling. She even curls up beside the bathroom door when he showers. Just like Daisy used to.

The first time you notice it, you glance down at her quiet shape, then up at Felix through the half steamed glass. “She waits,” you murmur. “Like she knows you need someone on the other side.”

Felix blinks at you, water running down his face. “Daisy did that,” he says, his voice sounding surprised.

You smile. “Maybe Daisy’s telling her how to help you.”

He doesn’t answer right away. But that night you find him sitting on the couch while Emmy lay across his lap, and he’s just…still. Not scrolling, not fidgeting. Just breathing. You let yourself believe he’s healing.

It’s a Thursday when it happens.

Rain again, but softer this time. You’re both in sweats, Emmy’s squirrel toy already soaking wet from too many rounds of fetch in the hallway. Felix is on the floor, back against the couch, and Emmy trots over to drop the soggy toy in his lap. “Okay, okay, one more time, Daisy.”

It slips out like breath. He freezes. You’re on the couch, just close enough to see the shift in his eyes–the way the air pulls tight around him. “Felix.”

His jaw clenches. He looks down at Emmy like he just betrayed her. But Emmy doesn’t react. She just nudges his hand, then places the squirrel gently in his lap again.

Felix blinds rapidly, sniffling once. He picks up the toy, not even wiping his eyes. “You wanna play, huh?”

Emmy wags her tail and sits, ears up. He throws the squirrel. She sprints. You slide down next to him, touching his arm lightly.

“She knows who you meant.”

He laughs through a shaky breath. “I miss her.”

“I know.”

You don’t say more. You just sit there, letting Emmy trot back and forth between you, panting and proud. And when Felix rests his head on your shoulder, you lean into him–quiet, steady. Letting the weight of grief settle alongside something softer. Something new.

The squirrel toy lies abandoned now, forgotten in the corner. Felix’s legs are stretched out in front of him, your thigh pressed against his where you’ve both stayed slouched on the floor. Emmy has flopped belly-up between you, snoring faintly, her head resting across his ankle lke she belongs there.

Neither of you has said much in a while. The only sounds are the hum of the fridge and the soft patter of rain. You glance sideways at him, taking in the soft slump of his shoulders, the wet curls stuck to his temple. He’s tired. Not just end-of-the-day tired. The kind that lives in the bones.

“You okay?” you ask gently.

His eyes stay fixed on Emmy for a second too long. Then he swallows “I keep thinking about how bad I was doing,” he says, voice so quiet you almost miss it. “Back when Daisy died.”

You stay quiet. Let him lead. 

“I wasn’t eating. Barely sleeping. I’d come home and the place felt like a grave like if I breathed too loud I’d break it.”

He rubs a hand over his face. “Then I met you.”

You blink. “Felix…”

“I’m serious,” he says, looking at you now. Really looking. “You didn’t just hand me her ashes and disappear. You stayed. You kept showing up. You let me talk about her. You let me not talk about her.”

You feel your throat tighten.

“And now Emmy–she’s not Daisy. I know that. But she…fits. Like she just knew where she was supposed to be. With me. With us.”

He glances down at Emmy, who kicks her leg in her sleep like she’s chasing something.

“Some nights, when I wake up and I feel like I’m drowning again–I’ll turn over and you’re just…there. And she’s there.”

He looks back at you, blinking slowly.

“I don’t think I could do this without you.”

Your heart aches. You don’t speak, just slide your fingers between his, squeezing gently. “You don’t have to,” you whisper.

He leans into you, forehead resting against yours, lashes damp. “Promise?”

“I’m not going anywhere, Felix.”

Emmy stirs, shifting so her paw flops over both your legs like a sleep seal of approval. And for the first time in a long time, you see something new in Felix’s eyes. Not just grief. But hope.

Felix stays pressed against you for a long moment, his breath slow and steady. The storm outside has softened to a light drizzle, but inside the room, something warmer is starting to flicker between you.

You shift closer, letting your hand rest on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your palm. His eyes find yours, searching, hesitant–like he’s asking permission without words.

You smile softly. “You know,” you murmur, “you don’t have to be scared here.”

His lips twitch in a small, tired smile. “I’m not scared,” he says quietly. “Maybe…just tired.”

You nod, understanding. And then, carefully, as if testing the waters, your fingers brush a stray curl from his forehead. Felix closes his eyes at the touch, leaning into it like it’s the safest place in the world.

You hesitate, then tuck your hand behind his neck, pulling him gently closer. His eyes flutter open, and you see that vulnerable mix of hope and uncertainty again.

“Can I…?” you ask softly.

He nods, and your lips find his. The kiss is slow, soft–like the quiet promise of something new, something healing.

Felix’s hand cups your cheek, thumb tracing gentle circles. Emmy stirs again at your feet but doesn’t move, like she knows this moment is yours.

When you pull back, your foreheads rest together. “I didn’t think I’d ever feel this again,” he confesses, voice barely above a whisper.

You smile, rubbing your nose against his. “Me neither.”

“Thank you,” Felix says, voice thick with emotion.

You squeeze his hand. “No, thank you. For letting me in.”

Outside, the last of the thunder rumbles softly–but inside, it’s calm. Warm. Full of new beginnings.

a/n - sorry for the heartbreak, but ugh this idea has been in my head for a while. I work in vet med and see so many grieve. xoxo hope u enjoyed

[rainbowbutterfrosting]

It's odd that Dream commented "Tommy essentially belittles what I do, saying that what he does with his podcast and book are somehow more valuable or important than the videos that I make"

Because:

1.) The context was not there. The quote was about Dream/Those like him creating a hostile space. What Tommy said was

"You called me a promoter of all my other projects [because it's my job]. "I actually give a shit- I put effort into [the podcast, book, and stand-up comedy]. I've ditched the internet for a year [to focus on comedy] because of people like you who have ruined this space."

Yet dream portrayed it like Tommy was saying Dream's content didn't have value, thus placing the latter in a victim position.

2.) During this clip, Dream shows this. A screenshot of a bunch of his videos from 2 years ago.

The reason why? It looks bad to show his current content since he has absolutely not been uploading (and also not performing as well lately). Showing a few things:

a.) Dream is criticizing promotion despite not even uploading often

b.) Tommy has been actively working on things that require much more coordination and skill sets than Minecraft videos

c.) Tommy has been actively working on things that NEED promotion. Who is gonna trust a random website that says there's a tommyinnit tour? Or a book written by him?? Promotion is inherently good for social media careers

d.) Dream promotes his merch midway through the video. Like what. Pick a lane.

And finally, maybe obviously,

3.) Dream is truly attempting to rotate this around. He just likes spending time with his friends :((( he's a coder so he likes to code :((((

Yeah no, this isn't about your content in general. Otherwise Tommy would be going onto every youtuber's page and giving the same treatment. This is regarding a slow-burn over several years and a final explosion over recent passive aggressive treatment

I'm sure that somewhere, a definition of manipulation and logical fallacies has Dream's picture there

[least-transmcytshowdown]

Rue:

Submitted for: Skyblock Kingdoms

Headcanons: Identity not specified, pronouns not specified

Propaganda: “Her whole character arc is a metaphor for being trans! She realized she wasn't who she was told she was and then chose her own name and made friends who saw her as HER! They're so special and wonderful and transgender!!”

“[The submitter] LITERALLY INCLUDED HER IN A PAPER [they] WROTE BECAUSE SHE IS SO TRANS.”

“Rue is not just textually trans, with she/they pronouns, she is ALSO a trans allegory! That's TWO trans aspects!”

“Rue is LITERALLY a trans allegory! They have a whole arc about realizing people are viewing them as the wrong person, creating a new identity, being hurt by that confusion, being lied to and told they need to act a certain way for people to like them.... THEYRE A CLONE OF A GUY WHO USES ALL PRONOUNS. THEY USE SHE/THEY PRONOUNS! THEY WERE TRAGICALLY KILLED BY THEIR ORIGINAL'S WIFE (possessed) AND DESERVE A WIN!!”

BigBSt4tz2:

Submitted for: Evo SMP, Third Life, Last Life, Double Life, Limited Life, Secret Life, Wild Life

Headcanons: Trans man, he/they

Propaganda:

“The vibe. They're so trans man coded. Like he would use a binder in the life series and, like, for example, Pearl would help him with it in Limited life, or Ren would help them cut their hair in Double life if he felt like being less gender ✨ He's just so trans man 😩 VOTE BIGB.”

“HE CAN BE ANY GENDER YOU'D WANT DUE TO CREATIVITY. I'VE SEEN MANY MAKE BIGB TRANSFEM OR NONBINARY!!!! YOU CAN EVEN MAKE HIM XENOGENDER OR USE NEOPRONOUNS FOR FUN.“

“C!Bigb being trans is so important. His character is very ambiguous (to [the submitter]. At least.) due to the hidden secretive nature of himself, he hides the lies, he masks his weirdness sometimes [which] can be a metaphor for a trans person not wanting to come out (also autism)((proof is [they’re] trans and autistic and [they] do this stuff)). You can color pick a makeshift trans flag from his mc skin also.”

“Every (Life) series, he changes up a lot of himself for whatever he's doing. This seems like he can't decide what exactly he is and is trying to rebrand himself as a different type of person every time, which tends to be something [the submitter has] noticed in a few trans people. The lack of clarity of who they are is definitely very genderfluid coded. It could also go for his character throughout the life series being a system, with each new series being someone else. [Their] main evidence for this is Terry (from Last Life). It can also go for being transmasc on some level because of how easy it was for him to be that character!”

“BigB's username literally has t4t in it. He's not cis [the submitter’s] sorry.”

Ethoslab:

Submitted for: Hermitcraft, Third Life, Last Life, Double Life, Limited Life, Secret Life, Wild Life

Headcanons: Agender, they/them; Transfem, she/her; Nonbinary, he/they/she; Nonbinary, they/he/it; Identity not specified, ladder/ladderself

Propaganda: “[The submitter] just think[s] she deserves boobies. [They] think they would be good for her. And also it's because [they] understand the way the universe flows and the nature of all things.”

“[Quote from Etho:]‘I’m ice man also, also the ice Queen […] yep, yep both in one.’ Etho has compared himself to a pretty girl before. ‘That’s me on the inside, beautiful, but on the outside it’s just this.’ (He’s talking about Falsesymmetry’s hermit head, a female head). Bigender, genderfluid, or genderqueer Etho trust trust trust.”

“T4T cletho. They’re both nonbinary and divorced (in an active relationship) and take turns on who's the ex wife and who's the ex husband.”

“When [the submitter] first joined hermitblr, [they were] genuinely confused about Etho’s gender for a bit because of the sheer amount of people on here that she/her him. [They] love it. Live your dreams.”

“Etho (ftm) but can be feminine. [The submitter] think[s] his vest is equal to the famous oversized trans hoodie (but with style).”

[matcha3mochi]

GLASS BETWEEN US | II Pairing: Merman Rafayel x Scientist Reader

author note: tyy for all the love and support on the previous one! ive decided to write a second part to this! maybe a third part? who know :)))) anywho pls enjoy!!!

wc: 4,057

chapter 1 | chapter 2

───⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

Dr. Havers was already waiting when your shift ended.

He stood just beyond the junction outside Lab C, posture rigid, arms folded tightly across his chest. The dim security lights overhead buzzed faintly, casting bluish reflections across the glass walls of the corridor. You recognized the look on his face before he spoke—not disciplinary, not furious—but exact. Measured. Like the outcome was already decided and the only remaining task was to deliver the verdict.

“Walk with me,” he said.

You nodded, once. Your hand tightened slightly around the edge of your tablet, knuckles pale under the harsh fluorescents. Then you fell in beside him.

The two of you moved through the east hall without speaking. The air was too cold, dry from over-filtration. Every footstep echoed with sterile finality against the polished epoxy flooring. On your left, the wall-length display of Lab C showed only system diagnostics now—no live feed. The camera feed had been blacked out. You knew what that meant, and your stomach turned with quiet dread.

Havers led you through a security door you hadn’t passed since your orientation weeks ago. It closed behind you with a sound that echoed louder than it should’ve.

The briefing room was stripped bare—no windows, no active terminals, no live data displays. Just one heavy-duty table bolted to the floor and two brushed metal chairs. The walls were lined with sound-dampening panels disguised as blank white boards. Even the air inside felt different—stiller, heavier, like the pressure in a room seconds before a thunderstorm hits.

He gestured to the seat.

You didn’t take it.

He didn’t, either.

Instead, he pulled a slim black tablet from the inside pocket of his lab coat and tapped the screen. You heard a soft tone as the screen lit up. He turned it toward you.

It was paused on a still image: your hand against the tank wall, Rafayel’s claws mirrored against yours on the opposite side. His eyes locked to your face with unnatural focus. The background lighting bathed everything in a soft, immersive blue, as if you had both been submerged together in water.

Your breath caught—shallow, involuntary. You recognized the moment instantly. Not just the scene, but the feeling of it. The density of the air. The quiet vibration against the glass. The sense that the entire lab had narrowed into a single point of contact.

Havers didn’t speak. Not yet. He pressed play.

You watched yourself step forward on-screen, watched Rafayel respond—slowly, precisely, his body language unmistakably attuned to yours. The alignment wasn’t coincidental. It was intentional. He was echoing your movement with a kind of quiet precision that felt more human than instinctive. More conscious than reactive.

Then he spoke—his lips moved on the recording, though the volume was muted. You didn’t need audio to know what he said.

Free me.

The moment hung there, pixelated but real, hovering between you and Havers in silence.

When he finally stopped the video, he didn’t look up.

“This is not a reprimand,” he said.

But your muscles had already gone stiff. Your pulse was climbing, quick and uneven beneath your skin.

“Then what is it?” Your voice came out low, steady, but with a thread of static in it.

He swiped across the tablet again, this time bringing up a full behavioral overlay—sensor data logged over the last two weeks. Heart rate. Neural markers. Tail velocity. Cortisol-like stress proxies. All plotted in tight, color-coded patterns.

All tied to your schedule.

“He rises the moment you enter,” Havers said. “Activity levels stabilize within forty-five seconds. Sedation thresholds drop. Neuroresponse modulation increases. Mirror behaviors are precise, even anticipatory. Eye contact is sustained longer with you than any other observer by a factor of four.”

He paused.

Then, more quietly: “He doesn’t respond to anyone else now. Not even to direct provocation.”

You stared at the data, eyes scanning the peaks and troughs, remembering how those moments felt—not just as data points, but as experiences. As connections.

“I didn’t intend for any of this,” you said quietly.

“I believe you,” Havers replied. “But intention isn’t the problem.”

He finally looked up from the screen.

“The problem is attachment. One-directional. Immediate. And escalating.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but couldn’t find the argument. Your body tensed instead—jaw clenched, shoulders rigid, fingers digging slightly into the base of your tablet.

“He’s not mimicking anymore,” Havers said, as if reading your mind. “He’s focusing. Every behavioral marker suggests a fixation, not a response pattern. When you’re gone, he doesn’t shift to baseline—he withdraws. When we attempted to replace your observation window with controlled stimuli, he ignored it. The tank systems detected a full physiological shutdown cycle.”

You swallowed hard. Your breath fogged slightly in the cold air.

“What are you doing to him now?”

“We’ve begun sedation rotation. Carefully dosed. Enough to keep him compliant while we recalibrate protocol.”

Your voice cracked without warning. “You’re drugging him to make him forget me.”

He didn’t deny it.

Instead, he said, “We’re preserving containment integrity.”

And then, with quiet finality:

“You’re being reassigned.”

The world tilted slightly in your vision.

“What?”

“You’ll report to Neural Indexing, Sublevel 2B. Starting tomorrow. Your clearance to Lab C has already been revoked.”

He picked up the tablet and powered it off.

You stared at him. You could feel your chest hollowing, breath going thin.

“This will break him,” you said.

He hesitated—just for a breath. Then he said, “If it does, it proves he was never stable to begin with.”

And that was it.

You were dismissed.

No further discussion.

The first night in your new quarters, you didn’t sleep.

The room was a concrete cube, one meter shorter on each side than your old assignment bunk. The cot creaked when you breathed. The walls sweated faint condensation. No simulated day-night cycle. Just harsh fluorescents that flicked off at 2200 and left you in complete grayscale. No one spoke when they handed you the keycard. The silence had the flavor of punishment, even if they never called it that.

You turned over the same sentence in your head:

“You’re being reassigned.”

And the second one, delivered even colder:

“Your clearance to Lab C has been revoked.”

Your tongue kept finding the shape of it in your mouth. Revoked. Like a limb amputated with a signature. The moment the door sealed behind you that night, the silence was more than absence—it was separation. You could still feel the residue of the tank glass against your fingertips, as if your body hadn’t yet caught up to what was gone.

They said the reassignment was for “containment stability.” That the connection between you and Rafayel had grown too strong. Too unpredictable. Too disruptive to the scientific objectives of the project.

But you knew what it really was.

Control.

They couldn’t control him anymore. Because he had started responding not to data, but to you. And that terrified them.

You had expected the transition to be clinical. Procedural. A clean severing.

It wasn’t.

The new lab in Sublevel 2B bore none of the atmosphere that defined Lab C. There was no subtle dimming of lights to mimic marine depth. No soft thrum of oxygen injectors syncing with the artificial current. No hum in your bones that came from proximity to something ancient, breathing, and alive.

This place—Neural Indexing—was quiet in the worst way.

The kind of silence that didn’t make room for thought but pressed against it. You sat in front of rows of stimulation modules and feed monitors, reviewing endless neural scans: meaningless loops of synthetic cognition, shallow patterns designed to imitate thought, emotion, response.

There was no presence in the data here.

No gaze tracking yours across a pane of reinforced glass.

No ripple of bioluminescence in response to your voice.

You were surrounded by function but starved of connection.

The others in your department didn’t speak much. They had the tired, hollow eyes of people who lived too long with screens instead of subjects. You were the new variable now, a name without a narrative—transferred in the middle of a cycle, given no debrief, carrying a silence everyone had been instructed not to ask about.

At first, you tried to adapt. You told yourself this was necessary. Sensible. Safer—for everyone involved.

But the rationalizations peeled away by day four.

That’s when the dreams returned.

They started faint, like echoes.

Just fragments: salt on your tongue, the pressure of water folding around your body, the low vibration of something massive swimming just out of reach.

Then the fragments sharpened.

In the dreams, you stood before the tank again. But this time, the glass wasn’t there. Rafayel floated just a breath away, watching you with stillness so complete it felt like gravity. His eyes were brighter than you remembered—wide, expectant, but solemn. No words passed between you.

He didn’t need them.

But some nights, the dream changed.

You weren’t in the tank room. You were on a beach, barefoot, the water dark and glimmering as it crawled across the sand. The sky above was violet and streaked with long golden clouds, as if lit by a sun that had never belonged to this world. The shore stretched endlessly in both directions, flanked by black cliffs heavy with overgrown moss and deep blue vines. Strange constellations flickered in the sky overhead, unfamiliar and ancient, like stars from a memory long buried.

The surf was gentle, but its song was heavy—carrying something old, something mournful.

You stepped into the water.

And the moment it touched your skin, the dream transformed.

You were no longer on the shore, you were beneath it.

Submerged in a vast, tranquil ocean bathed in blue light. Columns of sunlight filtered down from above like cathedral beams, illuminating silt and floating motes of golden plankton. The water was cool but welcoming, dense with reverberant silence. All around you were ruins: ancient stone arches overgrown with bioluminescent coral, broken statues of sea kings swallowed by algae and time.

And then—he was there.

Rafayel.

He emerged from the shadow of a collapsed temple gate, his form luminous against the gloom. His hair flowed behind him in an ethereal halo, purple-mauve, drifting like silk ribbons. His body moved with impossible grace, every motion effortless as he cut through the water. His tail gleamed with streaks of cobalt and opal, curling around him protectively.

When he saw you, he stilled. As if time had paused. And then he came to you. Not with urgency. Not with hesitation.

With knowing.

You drifted forward to meet him, arms parting the water like a slow tide. Your clothes floated weightless around you, strands of hair suspended in the soft current. You reached out. So did he.

When your hands met, everything else disappeared.

The moment your palms pressed to his, you both inhaled. The water shimmered. Light flared from his chest and from your fingertips. You drew closer, your bodies aligning instinctively. His tail curled gently around your legs, not to trap but to anchor. His claws traced your waist, reverent, uncertain if you were real.

He pulled you closer, as if sensing your doubt. His hand cradled the back of your head, his lips brushing your brow, not a kiss—a promise.

He would not let you go.

You rose slowly the next morning, the weight of the dream still heavy on your shoulders like wet silk.

There was something about that beach—those ruins—that felt impossibly distant and unshakably close. You told yourself it was just the brain pulling symbols from subconscious grief. But that was a lie.

It felt real.

Not just real. Remembered.

You couldn’t explain the familiarity of his hands on your face. The exact shape of his breath, the warmth of his chest against yours, the way your fingers had threaded together like you had done it countless times before.

There were moments in the day—quiet, disarmed moments—where you would touch your own wrist or collarbone and expect to find him there. As if some trace of him should remain in your skin. As if he had once been stitched into the very rhythm of your body.

The more time passed, the more the dream solidified, not as fantasy—but as truth.

The day passed in pieces.

You reviewed three sequences of neural pattern recognition, sat through one impersonal systems check, and responded to zero messages. Your hands performed the motions, but your mind lagged behind, half-anchored to that sunken city beneath your thoughts.

And then you heard it.

Two lab techs stood just around the corner of the central corridor, their voices hushed but not hushed enough.

“Still not responding.”

“Nothing since the last handler shift. He’s not eating. Not even moving.”

“He’s never been like this. Even when agitated, there was still... something.”

“Now? It’s like he’s just... stopped.”

You didn’t breathe.

Your hand hovered over the touchscreen you were pretending to use. The hall hummed with fluorescent lighting, the air too dry, the walls too close.

You stepped back, slowly, unnoticed.

You didn’t know how.

But you knew it was something you were not meant to forget. And it led you to a decision you never voiced aloud.

You stopped trying to make sense of the protocols. You stopped rationalizing the transfer. You stopped pretending he was better off without you.

Because the ache that filled your chest when you woke—the ache of almost losing him again—was worse than anything the facility could do to you.

The decision to access the archived feed wasn’t a conscious one. It wasn’t premeditated. It was something your body decided before your mind could catch up.

It happened on the ninth night.

You hadn’t planned on stopping at the terminal. You had intended to walk the long way around, avoid the side corridor near the equipment maintenance bay, bypass temptation entirely. But your feet slowed as you passed it. Your gaze flicked sideways. The hallway was empty, as always. The low hum of the wall consoles and the faint click of pressure valves were the only sounds.

And the screen was there. Dark, waiting.

You approached without realizing it, your hand already reaching. The screen lit up at your touch, a soft glow blooming in the dim corridor. The system prompted for access. You entered the override code. The one no one knew you still remembered.

A few seconds passed. Then:

ARCHIVED VISUAL LOG — LAB C TIMESTAMP: Day 9 – 01:46 HRS

The footage loaded.

And the ache in your chest returned full force.

There he was.

Rafayel.

At first, he was barely visible, curled in a shadow at the base of the tank. The lighting in the room was reduced to emergency-grade, flickering low blue and violet hues. Most of the central overheads were offline. The water itself was so still it looked like tinted glass.

He lay against the curved wall of the tank, his long body wrapped inward. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, tail looped twice around his torso. The sight was almost fetal in its stillness—too still. Not relaxed, not conserving. Withdrawing.

His head rested on one arm, turned slightly in the direction of the observation deck. His hair drifted gently in the motionless current, no longer radiant or alive with light. His gills fluttered faintly—shallow, slow. One flick every few seconds. Barely enough to sustain him.

Your breath caught.

He wasn’t sleeping.

He wasn’t hibernating.

He was fading.

The vibrant shimmer that once pulsed across his body like underwater lightning had dulled to the color of bruises—indigo near his spine, violet near his chest, and something close to black along his lower limbs. The glow that had always signaled awareness—of you, of presence, of thought—was fragmented. It gathered dimly near his heart and left the rest of him in darkness.

There was no motion in his shoulders. No twitch of his claws. Not even a tail flick.

Stillness had taken him.

Then the camera angle shifted slightly.

And you saw his eyes.

They were open. Only half-lidded, but open. Just enough to confirm what you already suspected: he wasn’t unconscious. He wasn’t sedated.

He was aware.

And he was waiting.

Even now—silent, unmoving, forgotten by the staff rotating around him—he was still facing the same section of glass.

The place you had always stood.

Your throat closed. Your fingers curled tightly against the edge of the console as you leaned closer. The impulse to reach for the screen was overwhelming, but there was nothing there. No heat. No pressure. No connection. Just pixelated light and silence.

The feed time-stamped forward.

A technician entered. She moved through the chamber with a clipboard and an ambient monitor, barely glancing at the tank. Routine. Impersonal. She stopped, approached the glass, and tapped once.

Rafayel didn’t move.

She activated a low-frequency stimulus from her control panel. The pulse made the water shift.

Still nothing.

She made a note. Paused. Looked up again, perhaps longer than protocol required. But even if she noticed the difference—how still he was, how wrong his glow had become—she said nothing. Just turned and left.

The lights dimmed further after she exited.

You were left staring at the footage. Alone again.

And so was he.

Something cracked inside you: you couldn’t cry. Not here. Not now. Your body understood what your mind had refused to fully face.

This wasn’t just a physiological decline. It was a psychological death spiral. They thought they had sedated him. Pacified him. Reduced risk.

But they hadn’t seen what you were seeing.

They hadn’t understood that his stillness wasn’t peace.

It was mourning.

And you knew exactly what it meant. Because you felt it too.

You pressed a hand to the screen, even though it couldn’t feel you. You sat there, shoulders rigid, stomach hollow, barely able to hold yourself upright.

He was suffering because they had taken you away. It was killing him.

You shut off the feed.

And for the first time in nine days, you stood up not as a staff member. Not as a researcher.

But as someone who was going back.

No matter the cost.

The tunnels were colder than you remembered.

Condensation clung to the curved ceilings, gathering in long droplets that slipped soundlessly to the metal grates beneath your feet. Pipes hissed softly with steam every ten meters, venting pressure from unseen machines. The walls were a patchwork of corrosion and riveted seams. Red emergency lights pulsed slowly along the floor, painting everything in alternating waves of rust and shadow.

The silence down here wasn’t the passive hush of the main halls. It was active. Watchful. Like something waiting to be disturbed. Every footfall sounded like an echo inside a steel drum. Every breath you took came back twice as loud in your ears.

The auxiliary entrance to Lab C was sealed, just as it had been for days. But the access panel hadn’t been wiped. Your code still worked.

The light on the console flickered, then shifted green.

The door groaned open, metal scraping metal, and cold, salted air rolled out to meet you.

You stepped into a room suspended in time.

The room was colder than you remembered.

Not by temperature, but by absence. The chill that came from a place left unattended too long. The tank’s filtration hum had slowed, its resonance no longer constant but stuttering every few seconds, like a faltering breath. A faint chemical tang hung in the air, sharper than before. The lighting had dimmed further—no longer the soft, ambient blue that mimicked ocean depths. Now the tank was lit from below, casting warped, ghostly shadows against the walls, like the inside of a body lit by its own flickering pulse.

And there he was.

Rafayel.

Floating in silence.

He was curled loosely, his arms hanging in front of him, palms relaxed and half open, the gesture somehow vulnerable. His tail hung like a long, unmoving ribbon in the water. His glow was barely there—a faint wash of violet through his chest, flickering intermittently like the last ember of a fire trying not to die.

The sight of him hit you like submersion.

It was too much, too fast, too familiar.

You stepped forward without thinking, boots echoing on the composite flooring. The air thickened with every stride, like pushing through static. Your heart drummed against your ribs, quick and uneven. You were afraid he wouldn't move. Afraid he wouldn't see you.

You reached the tank. Stopped.

“Rafayel,” you whispered, the word cracking in your throat like a fault line splitting open.

He didn’t respond.

But something shifted.

A flicker of movement along his spine. A ripple of light blooming faintly across his gills.

You held your breath.

Then—his eyes opened.

Slow. Bleary. At first unfocused, then… locked.

Right on you.

Recognition didn’t explode—it unfolded. Layer by layer, like thawing ice. His pupils narrowed. His chest lifted with a sharp inhale. The violet in his body surged brighter, edged with silver, crawling like veins across his arms and into the tips of his claws.

And then he moved.

Not swam. Not lunged.

He rose.

Weightless, effortless, he emerged in a slow, unfurling motion. The water parted around him in gentle folds. He drifted toward you, the sleek muscle of his torso shifting under the soft luminescence. He was broader than you remembered. Stronger. His body moved with the control of something ancient, practiced. But there was fragility under the surface—an ache in the way he carried himself, like a wounded predator willing itself toward the light.

When he reached the glass, he stopped just short, hands spreading flat against the transparent barrier. His palms trembled faintly. His claws clicked softly as they touched down.

You mirrored him.

Hand trembling, you placed your palm where his rested. A perfect match. Skin to glass. Heat to cold.

He blinked once, slowly, gills fluttering. Then his breath hitched, and a soft tremor ran through his shoulders. His face was unreadable—but in his eyes there was no question.

It was you.

He tilted his head slightly, hair drifting like a halo. You caught every micro-expression: the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers twitched against the barrier. Not fear. Not confusion.

Emotion.

His voice, when it came, was a raw murmur.

“You came back.”

You nodded, a tear finally breaking loose and running down your cheek. You didn’t wipe it away.

“I couldn’t stay away.”

He leaned forward slowly, until his forehead pressed lightly against the glass. His eyes closed, and your breath caught.

You leaned in too, matching him, your own forehead meeting the cool barrier.

There was no sound but your twin breathing.

Then he opened his eyes again.

And they glowed.

Not violently, but with purpose. A steady, growing light. The silver along his ribcage rippled outward, trailing down his arms. The soft blue of his irises deepened to something oceanic, endless. His tail shifted behind him, wrapping once around itself like an anchor stabilizing him.

You stepped back.

His gaze tracked your movement, but he didn’t speak.

You turned toward the console. Slowly. Deliberately.

His hands didn’t leave the glass.

The screen lit under your fingertips. The system had locked you out days ago, but you bypassed the prompt using the old maintenance override. The keys clicked too loudly. Your heart beat louder still.

MANUAL OVERRIDE: CONTAINMENT LOCK Confirm: YES / NO

You hovered over the button.

Thoughts pressed in all at once—about consequences, about duty, about what would come after. But none of it mattered more than this moment.

Not after what you’d seen.

Not after what he had become in your absence.

You didn’t hesitate.

You pressed YES.

A low mechanical chime rang out. Steam hissed at the tank’s base. The floor panels lit red and the water level began to fall.

And you turned—slowly—to meet his eyes as the locks disengaged.

He didn’t rush forward. Didn’t break the barrier. He stayed exactly where he was, eyes locked on yours, waiting.

He simply watched you.

The moment stretched, suspended in steam and soft red light.

Then the tank opened.

taglist:

@orange-stars @flameo-hotman12 @paper--angel @vynn30 @lalaluch @wilddreamer98 @multisstuff

[jessiso]

"Culinary Experiment"

A Criminal Minds one-shot | Spencer Reid x reader

When Spencer Reid tries to cook dinner for you using a spreadsheet, flow chart, and a whole lot of science, the evening turns into a hilariously chaotic and heart-meltingly sweet experiment.

cw: just fluff

w/c 1,120

You weren’t sure what was more unbelievable—that Spencer Reid had insisted on cooking dinner for you, or that he’d done so with a spreadsheet.

Yes.

A spreadsheet.

You watched from your spot on the barstool at your kitchen island, elbow propped up, chin resting in your palm, as Spencer stood in your kitchen, completely focused. His brow furrowed like he was deconstructing a complex crime scene, not boiling water.

“Are you sure you don’t want help?” you offered gently, your lips twitching with a smile as he flipped through a very detailed, very color-coded printout.

“I statistically perform better in unfamiliar activities when I can approach them independently,” he said, without looking up. “Also, I took into account your favorite flavors, preferred spice levels, known allergies, and a few commonly paired palate enhancers based on culinary studies from the Journal of Food Science.”

You blinked. “Did you just say ‘palate enhancers’ like it was a crime scene clue?”

Spencer finally looked over at you, a crooked grin forming on his face. “I mean, taste is subjective, but it is largely guided by science. Flavor is a multisensory experience, affected by smell, texture, and even expectation. This pasta should be a success.”

You looked past him to the stovetop, where a suspicious amount of steam was rising from a pot he hadn’t checked in at least five minutes.

“Spence… do you even like cooking?”

He hesitated. “I like learning. And I like you. Therefore, cooking for you is… an intersection of meaningful variables.”

You melted just a little. Because of course Spencer couldn’t just say something simple. He had to say it like it was a thesis. But it still made your heart squeeze.

“Well, you’re cute when you’re concentrating,” you said.

He smiled again—this time shyly—and reached for a whisk.

Unfortunately, that’s when things started to go downhill.

“I believe this is the part where you fold in the cheese,” he said aloud to himself, eyes scanning the page like it might solve all of life’s mysteries. “But it doesn’t say how to fold it… there’s no actual folding.”

“It’s just a saying, Spence. Like, stir gently.”

He squinted. “That’s extremely vague.”

You got up to help, mostly because he was trying to pour a mountain of shredded cheese into the boiling pasta water, which was most certainly not correct.

“Wait, no—cheese doesn’t go in the boiling water. That’ll turn into a clump. Look, here.” You gently took the spoon and showed him the right pot. “It goes in the sauce. With the cream.”

“Oh,” he murmured, his cheeks going a little pink. “I guess I conflated two steps. I was trying to streamline the process using a flow chart.”

You giggled. “You made a flow chart for pasta?”

“Well, it is carbonara-adjacent, and I wanted to make sure the egg didn’t scramble. It’s all about heat application. Did you know that the Maillard reaction—"

“Spencer,” you interrupted softly, “I love you, but if you start talking about amino acids right now, I might laugh so hard I snort wine through my nose.”

He looked sheepish, and adorable, and you kissed his cheek.

Somehow, despite the chaos, you managed to help him get everything sorted.

The sauce thickened—though it was a little lumpy—and the pasta boiled just enough. He’d made salad (drenched in dressing, but lovingly assembled), garlic bread (a little burnt), and even tried to chill the wine (but forgot and put it in the freezer for an hour, so it was practically a wine slushie).

When everything was ready, he lit a candle in the middle of your tiny table like it was a Michelin-starred restaurant, and pulled out your chair.

“This is…” you paused, looking at the slightly clumsy but genuinely sweet meal in front of you, “perfect.”

He sat across from you, tucking one hand under his thigh like he always did when he was nervous. “You don’t have to pretend it tastes good. I know the sauce is uneven. And the garlic bread might be carcinogenic.”

“Spence,” you said seriously, setting down your fork. “You cooked for me. You made a literal spreadsheet of my favorite foods. You practically did math to make me dinner. That’s… the most ‘you’ thing ever, and it’s also the sweetest.”

He gave you a soft, earnest smile. “I just wanted to do something for you. You’ve been so supportive lately, and work’s been difficult, and—statistically speaking, couples who engage in acts of service for each other report higher relationship satisfaction and oxytocin levels. I wanted to raise your oxytocin.”

You burst out laughing, nearly choking on a bite of pasta. “You’re trying to hack my brain chemistry with pasta?”

He blinked. “Yes.”

You reached across the table and took his hand in yours. “You don’t have to hack anything. Just sitting here with you, sharing a half-burnt dinner and wine slushies, is better than anything five-star.”

His ears turned red.

You both ate slowly, sharing glances and laughter. The food really wasn’t bad—lumpy in parts, sure, but the flavor was there. And Spencer kept up a running commentary of “fun facts” about pasta origins and sauce viscosity and the psychology of comfort food.

“Did you know that food memories are some of the most emotionally potent memories we form?” he said between bites. “There’s a direct neural pathway between the olfactory bulb and the amygdala. So the smell of garlic, for example, can immediately evoke childhood memories or emotional states.”

“So what you’re saying is… twenty years from now, if I smell burned garlic bread, I’ll think of you?”

He tilted his head, thoughtful. “It is likely.”

You leaned forward, resting your chin in your hand again. “I really do love you, you know.”

His expression shifted, soft and full. “I love you too.”

Then, like he couldn’t help himself, he added, “And I’ve loved you since 57 days after we met. I know the exact day because you brought me coffee and remembered I don’t take sugar, and you smiled at me like I was the most interesting person in the room.”

Your heart completely melted.

“You remember the exact day?” you whispered.

He nodded. “I remember everything about you.”

You stood and moved to him, crawling into his lap without hesitation, curling your arms around his neck. He was warm and familiar, and you could feel his heartbeat picking up.

“You are such a nerd,” you whispered against his ear.

“Guilty,” he murmured, his hands sliding gently to your waist. “But I’m your nerd.”

You stayed like that for a long moment, the dishes forgotten, the candles flickering.

Eventually, he whispered, “So… does this count as a successful experiment?”

You smiled against his cheek. “Best. Date. Ever.”

[soullessdianthus]

𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐛𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐭 | 𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 (𝐱 𝐊ö𝐧𝐢𝐠)

Summary: During the mission somewhere in Austria, König takes an interest in TF 141 medic. Little did he know, she's Lieutenants Riley's girlfriend.

𝐏𝐀��𝐓 𝟐

A/N: Possessive/Protective boyfriend Ghost? Yes, double and give to the next person. Also inserted Hank/Connor "lieutenant" reference, I just find it funny. Y/C ━ Your Codename (have fun, pick something babes) Poorly translated German ━ correct me if needed!

Warnings: nothing, reader is eastern european coded (we deserve more recognition as reader inserts ꃋᴖꃋ )

Word count: 1.8k

The tree line of the thick forest melted into the base of the rocky mountains. Your gaze traveled across its pointy shapes and up higher - there hadn’t been a single cloud on the sky that day, causing a slight heatwave.

You let your body slightly wag as the car passed over surface bumps on the earthen road. The dry lump grew in your throat as the dust hovered all over the convoy and all you could think of was a sip of cold, mineral water. 

Soon, you reached the small town in Austria, secluded from the ring roads. The cars were parked near the surrounding forest at the entrance of the village. Lieutenant Riley's sight crossed with yours as he helped you get out of the truck. 

He could be such a gentleman sometimes. 

A handful of soldiers gathered near the vehicles - some of them wearing a KorTac patch on their shoulders, the other ones (from your unit) a Task Force 141 badge. But besides those sigils, none of them were wearing full battle gear. 

There was no active fighting against the enemy at the moment. It was just a careful chase after the terrorists - following their footsteps, interviewing associates, gathering proof. Because at the end of the day, the military (or army related organization) cannot shed blood over a defamation.

But KorTac and TF 141? Quite an unusual partnership between the two groups, right?

━ Ghost, Y/C you’re goin’ with me ━ Captain Price announced, adjusting his hat as he closed the car’s doors behind him. ━ Gaz, you’ll stay here, is that clear? 

Captain heard a firm ‘yes, sir’ from your teammate Kyle who was to stay at the parking spot. Meanwhile the KorTac colonel gave an order to his soldiers in German. “Such a tough language” you thought to yourself. Only two of his people went along the wood road with the rest of you.

The Colonel. 

Exceptionally tall, Austrian man who served many years for his country. The one you found yourself in on the latest mission. 

Each time you wanted to look at him while Colonel König was speaking, you had to chin up. And even though, a black hood with a red paint on it covered his whole face besides his cold, blue eyes. He was lowkey intimidating with his massive size, but just like your captain, the Austrian’s rough looks didn’t reflect his character. At least to you and your comrades he was quite nice. 

Unfortunately, you couldn’t say the same about his teammates. 

You didn’t have to walk for long as the isolated, one floor house emerged behind a hill. By the quick peek at that building and the noises coming from the inside you knew, it felt like a warm home. 

As you approached the building, you heard a child’s cry. 

Price knocked at the front door and soon after a man with dark bags under his eyes opened them slightly. He was peeking through the crack.

━ Jakob Hausner? ━ The Captain asked with a playful smile under his mustache, his thumbs interlocked with the gear straps over his chest. 

━ Ja, wie kann ich helfen? [ger.: Yes, how can I help?]

━ Can you ask him if he speaks english? ━ John looked over his shoulder towards König, asking for a favor. 

━ Yes, I speak english ━ master of the house answered with a thick accent, before colonel could translate. ━ What do you want? 

He wasn’t trusting at all, well, how could he? You were all strangers at his doorsteps, two of your partners wearing scary looking masks. But it all had a purpose - they were supposed to look… intimidating, yes? 

A loud wailing made their ears hurt, it was that damn baby again. Jakob sighed loudly, his shoulder collapsing as he opened the doors a little bit more.

━ We just want to talk about the company you were working for. ━ Price continued talking. 

━ About them again? ━ Mr. Hausner frowned his eyebrows and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Poor man was exhausted apparently. ━ Okay, okay, ja, come in. 

The man let you all inside, however König told his soldiers to have a look outside the plot - to make sure it’s safe here and you’re not being watched. Poor Jakob wasn’t even fully aware (because of his state) that he let in a group of military people inside of his home.

As soon as you crossed the hallway into the dining room with a big, wooden table, you noticed a struggling toddler in a children’s chair. The girl was crying, her face red from the tantrum. 

━ I’m sorry, it’s just my daughter, she… she doesn’t want to eat her–. Lina, bitte. [ger.: Lina, please.]

Being a parent. Must be tough, huh?

Not when you were forced to babysit your siblings or cousins since you were a teenager. 

━ She’s not hungry. ━ You noticed the way the little girl pushed her plate away and how she tried to climb out of the seat. Christ, that man really had to be exhausted. ━ Can I?

You took a few slow and calm steps towards the sitting child - a warm smile painted over your face. Even your boyfriend Ghost was slightly… surprised? Seeing you drop the apathetic shell, then becoming more warm and gentle towards the little girl.

━ She’s our medic ━ your Captain explained to the worried father ━ let her take the kid and we’ll have a talk. In peace. 

Mr. Hausner let you take care of his unsettled daughter, so they could have a conversation about his former employers. You took the girl out of her chair and placed her over your left hip, pushing it outward. 

━ Come, Lina ━ you addressed the girl by her name, even though she probably couldn’t understand what you were saying ━ let’s leave the stinky men alone, ja?

You left the dining room and entered the seemingly endless garden behind the house. Since you took that girl in your hands she already began to calm down, perhaps a woman's touch was all she needed? 

“Where was your mother? Was she at work working a long shift? Did something happen to her? Did the bad men–” your thoughts seemed to take a rather pessimistic route, so you had to quickly change it. 

You didn’t know much German. Well, you didn’t know any at all. 

Fuck.

But at that moment you were thanking the heavens that your father watched movies about Hans Kloss or war on a regular basis. You were happy that your father was taught some phrases and somewhere in your subconsciousness he passed them to you.

You sat on the wooden bench somewhere in the garden not far from the building. Then, you placed the child on your lap and began talking to her - mostly in your mother tongue. Then you added some words in German that you knew, like: 

━ Schau, schmetterling! [ger.: Look, a butterfly!] 

Soon you grew more comfortable around the girl named Lina, even though there was a language barrier. Without your knowledge, your legs began to bounce her, pretending she was riding a horse. 

If anyone would point that out later, you would certainly deny it. You, getting soft for a child? No, no, no. 

You were so occupied with entertaining her that you didn’t even notice a looming, black figure in the corner of your eye. Watching the scene from somewhere nearby.

König was standing just next to the doors, leaving against the white plaster on the outside walls. He listened to your attempts to speak German, finding it… adorable? 

Never did he meet a woman in his profession so empathetic and gentle. Especially the one who managed to catch his attention. Let’s be honest, most of them were cold blood murderers and he was a colonel - he couldn’t let himself have such a luxury of having a family. 

Until now.

His imagination began to play a nasty and stupid trick on him - just because he saw you speaking German with a kid. What if it was you to take care of his children? Were your hands usually this delicate? Would you care for him as much?

The tall soldier was intrigued by you and his dreamy stare exposed him for it.

━ Don’t even think about it. ━ Ghost voice snapped him back to the reality. The British soldier emerged from the building the same way the colonel did after the conversation came to an end with Mr. Hausner.

Simon Riley wasn’t a fool. He noticed all the little peaks at his girlfriend other soldiers usually would take, she was in fact a pretty thing. So it didn’t take much to notice that the tall guy from KorTac took a liking of you. Too much liking in Ghost’s opinion. 

━ Verzeihung [ger.: Excuse me] ━ König apologized, flustered slightly by obviousness of the situation. He instantly understood the reference. ━ didn’t know she was… taken. 

━ Yeah ━ British lieutenant scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. His dark irises didn’t even dare to stare at him. His eyes were on you ━ she’s very much taken. 

There was a dead silence between the two of them - for a short moment, before Ghost gave you a heads up. 

━ Y/C, we’re moving. 

The rough and firm tone of Ghost’s voice made you snap back into reality. You were in the middle of something, right? Yet, you almost jumped on that little bench painted in floral patterns. 

━ Coming, lieutenant. ━ You declared quickly, before putting the little girl over your hip again and heading inside of her home. 

Ghost was a few steps ahead and so you had to pass the massive figure of König to go inside again. You pressed the child’s head into your cleavage as she was a little scared of colonel’s hood. 

Well, you would be too, if you saw his cold stare in the middle of the night from under that veil, right?

━ Don’t worry, he just looks scary. He won’t bite. Isn’t that right, sir? ━ You sent him a polite smile as you tried to comfort the petrified girl. Your hand caressing her golden locks.

But he was speechless at the moment. He couldn’t form a simple sentence. A fucking grown ass man. “So fucking pathetic”, he thought to himself. Your lips twisting into a wide smile for him. It wouldn’t be easy for him to erase that sight from his memory. König would have trouble falling asleep that night, thinking of you.

A/N: ♪ Two big guys and they grab on my thighs ♪

[blackstarlineage]

Limited Financial Literacy and Wealth Management in the Black Community: A Garveyite Perspective

Introduction: Economic Power as the Foundation of Black Liberation

Marcus Garvey understood that political freedom is meaningless without economic independence. He believed that for Black people to be truly free, they had to control their own economies, industries, and institutions. Garvey once stated:

“A race that is solely dependent upon another for its economic existence sooner or later dies.”

Yet, in modern times, the Black community continues to struggle with limited financial literacy, poor wealth management, and economic dependency.

Generational wealth is rarely passed down due to a lack of long-term financial planning.

Black spending power is high, yet most of this wealth flows out of Black communities into white-owned corporations.

Many Black families live paycheck to paycheck, unable to invest in land, businesses, or other wealth-building assets.

From a Garveyite perspective, this lack of financial education and economic control is one of the greatest obstacles to Black liberation. Until Black people master financial literacy and wealth management, they will remain vulnerable to exploitation and economic servitude.

1. The Historical Roots of Black Economic Disempowerment

A. The Legacy of Slavery and Economic Exclusion

During slavery, Black people were denied the right to own property, earn wages, or accumulate wealth.

After emancipation, racist policies such as Black Codes, Jim Crow laws, and sharecropping ensured that Black people remained economically oppressed.

Redlining, discriminatory banking practices, and racist housing policies prevented Black families from building generational wealth.

B. The Destruction of Black Economic Movements

Throughout history, whenever Black people built strong economic foundations, white supremacy actively sabotaged them:

Tulsa’s Black Wall Street (1921) was burned down in one of the worst race massacres in U.S. history.

Rosewood, Florida (1923) was another thriving Black community destroyed by racist mobs.

Marcus Garvey’s Black Star Line was sabotaged by the U.S. government agencies and internal betrayals, preventing Black economic self-sufficiency.

These attacks created a culture of economic fear and dependency, where many Black people stopped believing in their ability to control their own wealth.

C. The Shift Toward Consumerism Over Ownership

Instead of prioritizing land, business ownership, and self-sufficiency, many Black communities have been conditioned to focus on spending rather than investing.

Integration into white economies led to the collapse of many Black-owned businesses, as Black consumers began spending their wealth outside of their own communities.

Today, Black buying power in the U.S. exceeds $1.7 trillion, yet very little of that money stays in Black communities.

This cycle of high spending and low investment keeps Black people economically powerless.

2. The Consequences of Limited Financial Literacy in the Black Community

A. Generational Poverty & Wealth Gaps

The average Black family's wealth is significantly lower than that of white families due to a lack of inherited assets.

Many Black families do not pass down property, businesses, or financial knowledge, forcing each generation to start over.

Without financial literacy, many Black people fall into debt traps, poor credit, and unstable financial situations.

B. Economic Dependency & Vulnerability

Black people remain financially dependent on white-owned banks, businesses, and corporations.

Without economic independence, Black workers are at the mercy of racist hiring practices, wage discrimination, and economic downturns.

The lack of Black-owned financial institutions means Black wealth is constantly controlled by non-Black interests.

C. Lack of Black Business Ownership & Community Development

Only a small percentage of Black businesses receive venture capital, bank loans, or community investment.

Many Black entrepreneurs struggle to scale their businesses due to limited financial education and funding access.

Black neighborhoods often lack grocery stores, banks, and essential businesses, making them reliant on white-owned corporations.

Without strong Black financial networks, Black communities remain economically stagnant.

3. The Garveyite Solution: Financial Literacy as a Tool for Black Liberation

A. Teaching Financial Literacy from an Early Age

Black families must prioritize financial education in the home, teaching children about:

Saving and investing

Credit and debt management

Entrepreneurship and wealth-building

Schools in Black communities should incorporate mandatory financial literacy programs focused on:

Budgeting and money management

Stock market and investment strategies

Real estate and homeownership

Education is the first step toward economic empowerment.

B. Creating Black-Owned Financial Institutions

More Black-owned banks and credit unions must be established to provide financial services that cater to Black economic needs.

Black people should redirect their money into Black-owned banks and investment funds to build community wealth.

Cooperative economics should be prioritized, where Black investors pool resources to fund businesses, real estate, and development projects.

Garvey believed that Black people must control their own financial institutions to ensure true independence.

C. Prioritizing Ownership Over Consumerism

Black people must shift from being consumers to being investors and producers.

Instead of spending billions on luxury brands, Black communities must invest in land, businesses, and industries.

Black celebrities, athletes, and high-income earners should prioritize investing in Black-owned enterprises instead of white-owned corporations.

Wealth accumulation should be about long-term growth, not short-term spending.

D. Rebuilding Black Business Districts & Economic Hubs

Black communities must establish modern "Black Wall Streets" that focus on:

Black-owned banks and financial institutions.

Black manufacturing and production centres.

Pan-African trade networks.

Government policies should be challenged to allocate reparations, land grants, and business funding to Black entrepreneurs.

Economic self-reliance must be a core principle of Black liberation.

4. Action Plan: Steps to Financial Empowerment in the Black Community

A. Individual & Family-Level Actions

Open accounts with Black-owned banks and investment firms.

Teach children about saving, investing, and business ownership from an early age.

Prioritize homeownership and land acquisition over renting and temporary wealth.

B. Community-Level Actions

Establish financial literacy workshops in Black schools, churches, and community centres.

Support Black entrepreneurs and Black-owned businesses by intentionally spending within the community.

Form investment groups and cooperative businesses to pool resources and fund economic initiatives.

C. Global Black Economic Collaboration

African nations and the Black diaspora must create international trade agreements that empower Black businesses.

Encourage Pan-African banking and investment partnerships between Africa, the Caribbean, and Black America.

Develop Black-led multinational corporations that can compete with global industries.

Garvey envisioned a self-sustaining Black economy that connected Africa and the diaspora—this vision must be revived.

Conclusion: Black Liberation Requires Economic Independence

Garvey warned that:

"A people without the knowledge of their past history, origin, and culture is like a tree without roots." But financial illiteracy is like a tree without soil—without economic power, Black liberation is impossible.

If Black people continue to:

Spend instead of invest,

Finance non-Black businesses instead of building their own,

Ignore financial literacy instead of mastering wealth management,

They will remain economically enslaved.

However, if Black people:

Prioritize financial education and generational wealth,

Invest in Black-owned banks, businesses, and industries,

Build economic self-sufficiency through Pan-African cooperation,

Then true Black liberation can be achieved.

Garvey’s call remains: “Up, you mighty race, accomplish what you will!”