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yukkiji · 7 days ago

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almost professional

what began as just a job slowly blurred into something more—quiet glances, late nights, and words left unsaid. as his manager, you told yourself it was professional. but somewhere between the victories and the arguments, you fell for him—and deep down, it was clear you were never alone in that.

blue lock masterlist. leave a little stardust on my ko-fi

starring. isagi yoichi x fem!reader

genre: fluff, romance, aged up!isagi, manager!reader

wc: 6.4k

author's note: this has been long overdue and finally got the chance to post so i hope you can guys enjoy it!!

you still remember the first day like a punch to the gut. the sun was cruelly bright, your shirt collar too tight, and your nerves louder than the echoes of cleats hitting concrete floors. fresh out of high school, you thought maybe—just maybe—being a personal assistant to one of the blue lock managers would be more clipboard than chaos.

you were wrong.

blue lock was chaos incarnate. testosterone-laced competition and ego filled every inch of the high-tech facility. the atmosphere was thick with ambition—sharp and hungry. you’d barely been handed your id lanyard when you saw him.

isagi yoichi.

number 11 on his uniform. blue lock’s rising star. not the loudest, not the flashiest—but there was something magnetic about him. his focus. his hunger. the quiet way he stared at the goal like it owed him something.

he wasn’t the type who made noise with his mouth—he made it with every calculated movement on the field. his presence wasn’t loud, but it echoed. he wasn’t chasing greatness. he was planning to devour it.

you were just an assistant. a glorified water-bottle carrier and clipboard keeper, assigned to help one of the assistant managers with schedules, logs, media coordination, and the occasional locker room clean-up. you thought you’d blend in, unnoticed. invisible.

but he saw you.

you dropped a stack of evaluation reports on your second day—nervous fingers slipping on the slick folder edges as a few dozen pages scattered across the corridor like fat snowflakes. players walked past, too absorbed in their rivalries to care. he was the only one who stopped mid-drill to help you.

no words, just a quiet presence kneeling beside you, passing sheets one by one. his gaze didn’t linger, his tone wasn’t soft, but you felt something settle in your chest like a small, persistent fire.

that was the beginning.

the transition from high school graduate to someone responsible for tracking the life of one of japan’s future stars was brutal. you hadn’t learned how to run on four hours of sleep yet. every day was a barrage of unread emails, misplaced gear, and dodging the media. and isagi—bless him or curse him—never made it easy.

he forgot schedules. argued with reporters. trained obsessively until his body screamed for rest. he’d sneak in extra drills behind the training staff’s backs, ignoring ice baths and nutritional plans like they were optional side quests. and when he lost a match?

he’d go silent. not out of shame, but out of hunger. he disappeared into himself, chewing through his own failures in silence, replaying them like reels behind those sharp, analytic eyes.

you learned how to tell when a loss was eating him alive. you’d hand him water in those moments and your fingers would brush, and he’d look at you like he was trying to find something to hold onto that wasn’t made of shattered expectations. neither of you ever said much.

but he never made you feel like you didn’t belong.

that was the thing.

even when he ignored the schedule you worked all night on. even when he took off running after a grueling session while you were still packing up cones. even when he made your heart race for reasons that had nothing to do with caffeine or chaos—he never once treated you like you were less.

he’d catch your eye across the field and nod, just once. not as an athlete to a staff member. but as isagi to you.

a silent acknowledgment.

a kind of understanding you couldn’t quite name yet.

you weren’t close. not really. but you orbited each other like planets too afraid to break the rules of gravity.

you told yourself it was fine. you were young. you were just starting. you had a job to do. professionalism first. you’d only known him for a few months, anyway.

but time stretched in strange ways inside blue lock. days felt like weeks. every win was a triumph. every loss a tragedy. you weren’t just growing up—you were burning alive in a forge.

and so was he.

you watched him sharpen. from the boy who knelt beside you on the floor, to the weapon who dissected the field with terrifying precision. you watched the rough edges smooth, then hone themselves into something more lethal.

and you wondered, sometimes, if he even remembered that second day—those papers, those soft moments.

because you did. every time.

every time he smiled at you like he forgot he wasn’t supposed to.

every time his gaze lingered a second too long when you laughed with another staff member.

every time he walked past you in the hallway and you swore you could feel him brush against your shoulder just to remind you he was there.

you weren’t a star. you weren’t a player. you were just someone orbiting the sun, hoping not to get burned.

and even though you told yourself not to—god, you did it anyway.

you started to fall.

you tried to resist it—buried it beneath early mornings, laminated schedules, and meticulously curated recovery routines. but how could you not fall for him?

for isagi yoichi, who burned with purpose and carried the weight of ambition on his shoulders like it was stitched into his very skin.

and then, everything changed.

it was a little over a year since you’d first stepped foot into blue lock—older, sharper, and more confident in your role. you’d stopped flinching at angry reporters and learned how to talk back to ego-driven agents with a polite, lethal smile. you’d grown, and so had he.

he was eighteen now. so were you. and after a string of phenomenal international matches, after climbing higher and higher through the blue lock rankings, isagi was officially signed to bastard münchen.

germany.

you found out through a press release.

you read it three times in your cramped dorm before the words sank in:

“yoichi isagi signs with bastard münchen.”

you were happy. you were proud. and you were… a little bit heartbroken.

you thought that was the end of it. thought the distance would finally bury those feelings that had grown too heavy to carry. you started preparing yourself to let go.

until the call came.

it was late.

you were organizing training reports in the blue lock archive room when your phone buzzed with a foreign number. you stared at it, hesitated, and picked up.

“hello?”

there was a beat of silence, followed by a voice that made your heart flip in your chest.

“it’s me,” isagi said. his voice was steadier than you remembered, deeper—like germany had already started shaping him.

you sat up straighter. “isagi? i—congrats on bastard münchen. that’s incredible.”

“thanks.” a pause. “listen… i didn’t call just to talk about the team.”

you blinked. “okay?”

“i had to submit the name of my personal manager today.”

you swallowed. “right. they usually assign someone local to the club, right?”

“i didn’t want someone local,” he said firmly. “i wanted someone i trust.”

your breath caught.

“you don’t have to answer now,” he continued. “but i told them your name. you're already on the shortlist. all that’s left is your approval.”

“i… me? why me?”

“i’ve worked with a lot of staff since blue lock started,” he said. “but only one person ever looked me in the eye like i wasn’t just a player. like i was a person. only one person stayed late making sure i didn’t destroy my body training too much. only one person handed me water and knew exactly when i needed to say nothing.”

you felt heat crawl up your neck.

“i need someone like that,” isagi said, quieter now. “someone who gets me. not just my stats or my brand. me.”

the room was too still. too small for everything you were feeling.

“i don’t know if i’m experienced enough,” you whispered.

“you will be,” he said. “we’ll grow into it. together.”

his words settled in your chest like a promise.

you looked around the room—the familiar concrete walls, the smell of synthetic turf still clinging to your hoodie. it had been your whole world. but suddenly, it felt small.

your world was already shifting, orbiting something—someone—much larger.

you exhaled. “okay.”

“yeah?”

“yeah,” you said, smiling. “i’ll come with you.”

and for the first time in a long time, you could hear the smile in his voice, too.

“good,” he said. “because i don’t think i could do this without you.”

now you suddenly found yourself on a plane, seated next to him as clouds blanketed the window and the dull hum of the engine filled the silence between you.

it was surreal.

the flight to germany was long, and yet—somehow—it still didn’t feel long enough for you to fully process what had happened. you, barely out of high school, freshly promoted from an assistant to an official manager in training, were leaving your country for the first time. leaving familiarity behind. and for him.

yoichi isagi.

he had headphones slung around his neck and a german phrasebook half-open in his lap, though his eyes were closed, head tilted back against the seat. the soft light from the overhead fixture cast gentle shadows across his cheekbones—sharper than when you’d first met him. his frame had filled out too. the boy who used to eat protein bars at ungodly hours and fall asleep during video reviews had grown into someone entirely magnetic—focused, still humble, but no longer naïve.

your gaze lingered on him too long.

and as if he could feel it, his eyes cracked open.

“staring at me again?” he murmured, voice husky from sleep.

you rolled your eyes, flustered. “i was just making sure you’re alive. you haven’t moved in thirty minutes.”

he smirked, that signature lopsided grin that had charmed half the football world but still managed to hit you the hardest. “i’m conserving energy. coach noa’s training is going to murder me.”

you fiddled with your seatbelt to hide the way your heart flipped. “you knew what you signed up for.”

“so did you,” he said, eyes narrowing just slightly. “you sure you’re okay with this?”

you blinked. “with what?”

“leaving everything. coming here. managing me.”

you looked at him then—not the press conference version of him or the highlight reel, but the boy who had always run headfirst into the impossible, dragging you with him in the quietest, most consistent ways.

“i wouldn’t be here if i wasn’t sure.”

he didn’t respond right away. instead, he turned fully toward you, elbow resting on the armrest as he studied your face in that calm, intense way he always did—like reading between your silences.

“then i’m really glad,” he said softly. “because it’s always better when you’re there.”

you looked away before your face betrayed you.

“try to nap,” you muttered, pulling the thin airplane blanket over your lap. “it’s a long flight.”

he didn’t argue, but before he leaned back, his hand brushed yours.

accidentally, maybe. or maybe not.

and even though your heart thudded violently at the contact, you didn’t pull away.

you spent two years in germany—and in that time, you watched yoichi isagi evolve from a promising blue lock player into a name that echoed in bundesliga stadiums.

your days were filled with chaos and routine. waking up before the sun for training briefings. managing interviews in two languages. making sure his recovery meals didn’t clash with his ever-shifting macros. but in between the noise, there were quiet, defining moments.

late-night ramen in his apartment after exhausting matches. silences filled with trust, not tension. the way he’d knock on your door just to vent about a missed shot, knowing you’d listen without judgment. how he’d look for you after every goal, even if it was just a glance across the pitch.

there were arguments too. over his sleep schedule. over his stubborn insistence on solo drills. over that one time he played through an injury and didn’t tell you.

“you’re not invincible, yoichi,” you snapped, hands trembling as you held the ice pack against his swollen ankle.

“but i have to be,” he said, voice low, eyes meeting yours. “if i want to be the best.”

you didn’t reply. you just held the ice there longer, your hand warmer than it should’ve been.

and then, there were the moments when everything stilled.

like the time you got caught in a sudden berlin downpour after a match, both of you soaked and laughing under a bus stop with steaming paper cups of hot chocolate. he looked at you then like you were more comforting than the win he’d just scored.

or the quiet december night he bought a tiny, crooked christmas tree for your shared apartment lobby, just because “you looked homesick.”

your feelings for him grew slowly, like ivy—wrapping around your days, unnoticed until they were impossible to untangle.

and somewhere in those two years, he changed too. not just as a player. but in the way he always waited for you to catch up when the cameras pulled him forward. the way he always made sure you had a seat near the bench, even if you pretended not to care. the way he looked at you during team dinners—just a second too long.

you were falling.

and you couldn’t tell when it stopped being professional and started becoming personal.

but maybe… it had always been both.

now, two years later, you were back where it all began—but everything had changed.

you sat next to him on a plane bound for tokyo, the soft rumble of the engines beneath your feet, the skyline of berlin shrinking behind you like a memory. his duffel bag was stuffed under the seat, your shared itinerary tucked neatly into your folder. the cabin lights were dimmed for the long flight, and yet, the glow around him seemed brighter than ever.

isagi yoichi—japan’s golden boy. the face of soccer. magazine covers, sponsorship deals, fan chants that now echoed globally. his name wasn’t just on jerseys now. it was on billboards, in commercials, written into headlines.

you glanced sideways at him. his head was leaned back, headphones in, eyes half-lidded as if he could sleep. but you knew him better than that. he was thinking. planning. turning every play in his head like he always did.

the moment still felt surreal. the boy you met in that steel-and-glass crucible called blue lock, who once picked up your fallen papers, was now returning home as japan’s prodigy.

he opened one eye and caught you staring. a small smirk tugged at his lips. “you keep looking at me like i’m not real.”

you rolled your eyes, but your chest tightened. “just… hard to believe sometimes.”

he took one earbud out, shifting in his seat to face you more. “believe it. we’re going home.”

a pause.

“together.”

that one word carried more weight than you were prepared for.

you looked down at your hands, laced loosely in your lap. your badge now read personal manager, but it never felt like enough to define what you were to him—or what he was becoming to you.

“tokyo’s going to be insane,” you murmured.

he nodded. “the cameras, the press… the expectations. yeah. it’s going to be hell.”

you risked a glance at him again. “you ready for that?”

isagi turned fully now, resting his arm casually on the armrest between you. his voice was quiet, but his tone held that same intensity you remembered from blue lock—focused, unwavering.

“as long as you’re with me?” he held your gaze. “yeah. i’m ready for anything.”

outside the window, the stars shimmered against the dark stretch of sky. below you, tokyo waited—brighter, louder, and ready to welcome back its star.

and beside you, the boy you once admired from a clipboard’s length away was no longer just a rising athlete.

he was something else entirely.

and so were you.

you had become a constant in isagi yoichi’s life, a shadow moving with him from practice to press conferences, from early morning jogs to late-night post-match breakdowns. two years as his manager—and more—had taught you everything there was to know about him.

you knew the rhythm of his day. the exact way he liked his energy drinks stacked in the fridge. how he tied his laces a little tighter before every match. how he spaced out when he was thinking too hard, eyes locked on some invisible replay only he could see. you knew that the sharp edge in his voice didn’t always mean anger—it often meant fear. or frustration. or the unbearable weight of being expected to win every single time.

because with greatness came gravity and sometimes it pulled him under.

especially after a draw. or worse, a loss.

there was one night—after a particularly brutal draw that stuck in your memory. he hadn’t spoken much on the way back. the silence in the hotel room was deafening until he finally snapped.

“just—stop. i don’t need a manager right now, okay?” his voice had cut like a whip, sharper than usual. “i don’t need you hovering over me like i’m about to fall apart.”

you didn’t flinch. you’d learned not to.

instead, you leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, expression cool despite the ache in your chest.

“too bad,” you’d replied, your tone dry. “because you’ve got one. and i’m the only one on the planet who knows how to deal with your melodramatic, football-obsessed ass.”

there was a beat of silence.

then he’d laughed—a low, tired sound, like the fight had drained out of him. and when he looked at you, something softened in his eyes. you’d stepped forward, not saying anything, just standing there until the storm passed.

it always passed.

that was your rhythm.

he’d stumble, you’d steady him. he’d push, you’d pull back just enough to stay close. never too far. never gone.

you knew by heart how to deal with him.

when to speak, when to wait. when to leave him alone in the quiet of a hotel room, and when to press a steaming cup of coffee into his hands without saying a word.

you knew the exact moment when his silence meant he needed space, and when it meant he needed someone to stay.

you learned to read him like a game plan—fluid, complex, always shifting. but unlike a strategy on the field, he wasn’t something to be solved. he was someone to be understood.

and you did.

god, you did.

you were the first person he called when a match didn’t go his way. the first he texted when he landed a new sponsorship. the one he looked for in a crowd even when thousands were chanting his name.

you weren’t just his manager. you were his constant.

his calm in the storm. his quiet in the noise.

more years passed, filled with the same push and pull that defined your relationship from the start. moments that lingered too long. glances that said too much. every touch that could still be excused as accidental… but wasn’t.

your feelings grew like something wild and stubborn, untamed by logic or titles.

and his actions? they never made things easier.

some days, he treated you like a best friend—late-night ramen runs, inside jokes, the quiet comfort of shared silence. other days, he’d look at you like you were the only thing grounding him to earth, and you’d forget how to breathe.

so you stayed. through wins, losses, contracts, and chaos. your heart never quite sure what category you belonged to.

manager.

friend.

confidante.

something else?

now, he was part of japan’s national team. a global star. a name that made headlines and filled stadiums.

and you? still there, right beside him. still managing his calendar, his training schedule, and—if you were honest—his moods.

one late evening after practice, as he tossed his towel over his shoulder and walked beside you down the empty corridor of the training center, you nudged him lightly with your elbow and said with a grin,

“you know, with all this success… maybe you don’t need me anymore.”

he stopped walking. turned to you.

his brows furrowed, not in anger—never in anger—but in that intense way he looked at the goal. like he was zeroing in.

and he said, without even a beat of hesitation:

“that’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever said.”

you blinked.

he kept going. voice low. steady. certain.

“i’ve needed you since blue lock. i needed you in germany. i need you now. not just because you keep me organized or sane or whatever… i need you.”

and there it was. maybe not a confession.

but a crack in the wall he always kept up. something raw and real slipped through.

you were silent for a beat, maybe two.

the hallway felt too quiet all of a sudden. like the world was holding its breath just to see what you’d do next.

and in the dim lights of the corridor, you thought—no, felt—something flicker across isagi’s face. not frustration. not his usual competitive fire. but something softer and something close to pain.

it passed quickly, like it hadn’t even been there at all.

but the thought stuck in your chest like a needle— was that hurt? was that the expression of someone who’d already imagined a version of his life where you were no longer beside him?

or maybe, once again, your heart was playing tricks on you. reading too far into the way his gaze lingered. projecting your own ache into the lines of his face.

still, your voice came out quieter than you expected when you finally said, “okay, yoichi.”

he looked at you then—really looked—and something in his shoulders eased. like he’d been waiting for you to say his name that way. like hearing it in your voice meant you weren’t going anywhere.

you tried to play it off with a smirk, stepping ahead of him down the hall.

“too bad you’re stuck with me,” you tossed over your shoulder. “you might be the star, but i’m the one who keeps you from spontaneously combusting in a press conference.”

that pulled a small laugh out of him. quiet. real. the kind that made you feel like everything between you was still unwritten.

still shifting. still waiting.

and maybe, just maybe…

he’d finally stopped pretending that this—whatever it was between you two—was just professional.

then you found yourself in his apartment again one night.

the familiar quiet wrapped around you both like a worn-in blanket. you were tucked into your usual corner of his couch, fingers curled around a half-full mug that had long gone warm. the low hum of the city filtered in through the half-cracked window, mixing with the soft sound of the tv playing some late-night program neither of you were really watching.

isagi was sitting on the floor, leaning back against the couch near your legs, phone in hand, thumb lazily scrolling. he looked… normal. human. in a way that the rest of the world rarely got to see. hoodie slightly oversized, hair damp from a recent shower, one sock half-slipping off his foot.

just yoichi.

not the prodigy. not the national team's frontman. not japan’s football miracle.

just the boy you had known since blue lock.

and maybe it was the comfort of being here, in this strange pocket of peace the two of you always carved out no matter what country you were in, or maybe it was that ache that had been growing quietly in your chest—something you'd never quite been able to shake—but the words slipped out before you could second-guess them.

“but i’m serious, yoichi…” your voice was soft, nearly lost beneath the static of the tv. “if i quit for real… would you even let me?”

his thumb paused on the screen. but he didn’t look up.

so you kept going, trying to keep your tone light, even as your chest tightened.

“you’re with the national team now. people are lining up to work with you. you’ve got agents, brands, the whole damn country watching you like you’re the second coming. you don’t need me anymore, do you?”

the silence stretched longer than you expected.

and then he moved—slowly, deliberately. he set his phone face down on the coffee table with a soft click, and leaned his head back so he could see you. his gaze wasn’t angry. it wasn’t even confused.

it was pained.

“don’t say that.”

just three words. but they hit like a punch to the gut.

you blinked, unsure what exactly you’d triggered. but he turned then, shifting to face you completely, still seated on the floor, his knees drawn up, arms resting on them.

“do you remember germany?” he asked, voice low. “that argument we had after i lost that match? when i was being a complete asshole, and you threatened to quit if i didn’t get my shit together?”

you gave a small nod. you remembered everything about that day. the way his voice cracked in frustration. the way you’d yelled for the first time. the way your hand had trembled when you almost handed in your resignation. almost.

he looked away for a second, then back at you.

“that was the first time i realized… winning didn’t mean anything if i couldn’t share it with you.”

you sucked in a breath, but he was still going, eyes locked on yours like he needed you to hear every word.

“it wasn’t just about you being my manager anymore. it was never just that. you kept me grounded when i was lost. you called me out when no one else would. you were… you are my constant.”

he exhaled shakily, then pushed himself up from the floor.

you thought he was going to walk away. instead, he stepped in front of you. and when you didn’t move, frozen in place by the rawness in his voice, he reached down—hands bracing on either side of the couch, caging you in without touching.

your heart thudded so loudly you were sure he could hear it.

his face was close now, close enough to see the tiny scar on his cheek from a match months ago. close enough to see the way his eyes softened—like everything he felt was finally being laid bare.

“every version of my future…” he said quietly, almost like it wasn’t meant to be heard. “you’re in it. you’ve always been in it. and i think—” he swallowed hard, “—i think i’ve been in love with you since back then. since before i even knew what to call it.”

you didn’t speak. couldn’t.

and maybe that silence scared him. maybe it emboldened him.

but then, he moved.

his hand reached up, brushing along your jaw with a gentleness that didn’t match the fire in his chest. his thumb hovered near your cheek, then slowly tucked a strand of hair behind your ear like it was something he’d always wanted to do.

“so if you quit…” he murmured, breath warm against your lips now, “…then i lose more than a manager. i lose you.”

and then he kissed you.

it wasn’t rushed or frantic. it was sure, quiet, and devastatingly full of everything he’d never said. everything he’d kept behind the wall for years. his other hand came up to rest against your back, pulling you toward him like he couldn’t stand the thought of you being even an inch too far.

you kissed him back.

because, truthfully, you’d been his long before you even realized it. and maybe he had been yours too—every late night, every argument, every quiet win and crushing loss.

the world outside could wait.

for now, there was just you and yoichi. no titles. no roles. no blurred lines.

just the truth, finally spoken between kisses that felt like promises.

he didn’t pull away.

not at first.

not when your breath hitched. not when your fingers curled into the fabric of your hoodie like you needed something to hold on to—maybe to ground yourself, or maybe to stop yourself from falling even deeper.

he kissed you like a secret. careful, but certain. like it was something he’d rehearsed in his head a hundred times but was only now letting himself feel for real. his hands were braced on either side of you, knuckles white against the couch as if letting go meant it wasn’t real.

and when he finally did lean back, it was barely a few inches. just enough to see your face, to let his forehead rest against yours.

“i’m sorry it took me this long,” he whispered. “i kept telling myself it was enough just having you around. that i didn’t need more. but i do.”

your chest tightened. not in a painful way—but in the way it does when something you’ve been waiting for finally, finally arrives.

“i wasn’t imagining it then,” you murmured, your voice hoarse.

he shook his head gently. “no. you never were.”

a beat passed.

you reached up, fingers brushing the edge of his jaw, tracing the stubble that hadn’t been there back in blue lock, or even in the early germany days. he had grown—on the field, off it, into himself. and somewhere in all of that, your hearts had quietly kept time.

“i don’t think i could quit even if i wanted to,” you admitted with a soft laugh, blinking away the sudden heat behind your eyes. “you’ve ruined me, isagi yoichi.”

he smiled. not the smile he gave cameras or coaches or fans—but the one that only ever seemed to appear when you were the only one looking.

“good,” he said, nudging his nose against yours, voice hushed and thick with something unspoken. “because i don’t think i’d want to be anything great if you weren’t the one watching.”

your breath caught, your hands still resting against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of it. his words hung in the air between you—bare, vulnerable, a truth finally freed.

for a moment, neither of you moved. the quiet of his apartment, the soft hum of the city through the windows, the golden warmth of the lamp casting gentle shadows—it all felt suspended in time.

then, carefully, yoichi guided you back, his palm warm at your lower back, coaxing you to lie against the couch cushions. his touch wasn’t rushed—it was reverent, like he was afraid if he moved too fast, the moment would shatter. he leaned over you, his body never pressing down, just surrounding, bracing one arm beside your head, the other gently cradling your jaw as he looked at you.

you searched his face.

there was no more hiding in it.

none of the usual restraint or boyish awkwardness. just yoichi, stripped of everything but the feeling he’d kept buried for far too long.

“i’ve thought about this more times than i can count,” he whispered, as if admitting it out loud still felt unreal. “told myself it wasn’t the right time. that i couldn’t… risk it. not when you were always there, always steady. i didn’t want to mess that up.”

your heart clenched, fingers reaching up to brush against the hem of his hoodie, curling there like an anchor.

“you never would’ve messed it up,” you said softly, voice nearly breaking. “not with me.”

his expression shifted—like something inside him had finally exhaled after holding its breath for years. and then he kissed you again.

but this time, it was different.

it wasn’t rushed or desperate. it wasn’t like the fleeting spark from earlier. it was slow. intentional. a quiet unfolding of everything he hadn’t known how to say before.

his lips moved against yours like he was memorizing the way you felt—savoring, grounding himself in you. you felt the careful slide of his hand as it moved to cup your cheek, thumb brushing gently beneath your eye. your hands found their way to his shoulders, holding onto him not because he was going anywhere, but because it finally felt safe to do so.

when he pulled back, it was only enough to rest his forehead against yours again. his breath was warm against your lips, the faintest tremble in his voice.

“after our fight, my mind kept replaying these scenarios… all these versions of life where you weren’t there. and i hated it,” he confessed, voice barely above a whisper. “i didn’t know it then, but i was already unraveling at the thought of losing you.”

you stayed quiet, because your voice wouldn’t come—not with the way your throat tightened, not with the way his words were threading straight through your chest.

“i kept picturing the space beside me being empty. after matches. after bad days. on mornings when everything just felt… too heavy.” he closed his eyes for a second, like he was bracing himself. “and no matter how i tried to imagine it, none of it ever made sense. none of it ever felt right.”

your fingers slid from his shoulder to the curve of his neck, grounding him. “why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“i was scared,” he admitted. “of screwing it up. of saying too much. of… not saying enough.” his eyes opened slowly, meeting yours again with raw, steady honesty. “but mostly, i was scared that if i let you see how much you meant to me, i’d never be able to hide it again. and you’d walk away.”

your heart ached—not because he’d kept it in, but because you knew that fear. you’d lived in it, too. the quiet agony of wanting something so deeply and never knowing if it was safe to reach for.

“i wouldn’t have walked,” you said gently, brushing your thumb across his jaw. “i was already falling.”

he blinked, stunned silence filling the space between you.

“you didn’t have to protect me from your feelings, yoichi. i wanted them. i wanted you.”

he exhaled shakily, like your words had loosened something knotted up inside him for years. “you’re the only thing that’s ever made sense in all of this. even when i was lost, even when i didn’t believe in myself—you always did.”

you smiled, a soft, bittersweet thing. “that’s because i saw you. the real you. not just the player. not just the dream.”

for a moment, something flickered in his expression—fragile and unguarded. a rare occurrence, like a crack in the armor of japan’s most relentless striker. the same isagi yoichi who the world saw as driven, sharp, composed under pressure… was now sitting in front of you with his heart trembling in his hands.

it was different, seeing him like this. not after a match, not in the glow of victory or the burn of ambition—but in the quiet, where there was nothing to prove. just him. just you. just this.

he gave a breathy laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “yeah? even when i was being a complete asshole?”

“especially then,” you said, almost teasing—but your tone was laced with warmth. “that’s when you needed someone to see you the most.”

he looked at you like he couldn’t believe it. like he was seeing you clearly now for the very first time. “you always knew how to get through to me,” he murmured. “even when i didn’t deserve it.”

“you never had to deserve me,” you whispered back. “you just had to let me in.”

a quiet passed between you. gentle. tender. the kind that wrapped around your hearts like a soft blanket—worn in the corners, familiar, and real.

yoichi didn’t move at first. just stayed there, eyes scanning your face like he was trying to commit it to memory—every blink, every breath, every unspoken word lingering between you both. his thumb traced slowly along your cheekbone, grounding himself in the fact that you were still here. that you hadn’t walked away.

then, without warning, he leaned in again—not rushed, but with purpose, like his heart couldn’t hold back another second. his lips hovered just above yours, barely brushing, his voice nothing more than a whisper that trembled against your skin.

“i love you,” he said, the words breaking through him like floodwaters finally let loose. “and i’m sorry it was so late.”

the weight of it settled in the air. real. heavy. beautiful.

you blinked slowly, something in your chest pulling tight and warm all at once. because you knew—had known—but hearing it from him, finally, was something else entirely. like everything you’d poured into him had finally found its way back.

your hand slid to the back of his neck, fingers gently threading through his hair. “it wasn’t too late,” you murmured. “you said it. you’re here. that’s enough.”

his eyes closed briefly, like those words gave him permission to breathe. and then he kissed you again—this time gentler, but no less full. a kiss that said thank you, that said i need you, that said i’m not letting go.

his weight shifted slightly, his body still hovering above yours, arms braced to keep you close without crushing you—like he was afraid you'd disappear if he held on too tightly.

the world outside faded—no games, no pressure, no unspoken expectations. just the soft brush of his breath against your cheek, the quiet thrum of two hearts learning each other again.

he stared at you for a long moment, like he still couldn’t believe this was real. then he exhaled a shaky breath, lowering himself just enough to rest his forehead against yours.

“i’m not letting this go,” he whispered, voice barely holding together. “not now, not ever.”

your hand found his, fingers lacing through his with a familiar ease. you didn’t need to say anything—your touch said it all. that you weren’t going anywhere. that this—whatever it would become—was worth holding onto.

he leaned in one last time, pressing a kiss to your temple, slow and steady, like a promise.

then he shifted beside you, pulling you gently into his arms, your head tucked beneath his chin. his heartbeat was a steady rhythm against your ear, his hold secure, warm.

you let yourself close your eyes. for the first time in a long time, there was no rush. no uncertainty. just the quiet truth of his love, wrapped around you like a shield.

you were here.

he was here.

and this time, you would move forward together.

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annomalysstuff · 2 months ago

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I think they were the one who programmed the translator

Idk, their thought process on the ship log looks very analytical to me, so I think it fits them. Whereas Hal is more the linguistic type

This isn’t just me projecting on the hatchling or anything

(Im studying computer engineering)

#outer wilds #outer wilds hatchling #outer wilds headcanon #can’t wait for the semester to be over #my art

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nilsavatar · 4 months ago

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DAY 23 BITING - Part 4

Parings: Neteyam x Fem!human

PART 1, PART 2, PART 3

Genre/Warnings: fluff, ANGST, introspective, delicate themes (hibrid pregnacy, political and ideals conflict). All characters are AGED-UP. This the sequel of the @layla2-49 request used to fullfil the promp day 23 of lunakinktober 2023

Summary: Following the unexpected pairing that occurred at the Tree of Souls, after connecting as only two Na'vi normally could, Celeste and Neteyam entertain a clandestine relationship. Several times they have discussed coming out, but the girl is too prey to her insecurities as a human to do so. It is Eywa who will decide for both of them with a disconcerting revelation: they have conceived a hybrid child.

Word Count: 4,5k

Masterlist - Request a fic

In the bioluminescent glow of Pandora’s night, Jake Sully stood at the forest's edge, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon. The vibrant nature around him buzzed with life, yet an unsettling turmoil brew within him. As olo’eyktan of the Omatikaya and Toruk Makto, he had faced countless challenges, but none as perplexing as the transformation unfolding before him.

Celeste, a human who had become an integral part of their clan, was undergoing a metamorphosis that defied all understanding. Eywa had blessed her union with his son, yet the consequences were unprecedented. To say that the news of Celeste’s pregnancy sent shockwaves through both the scientists and the People would be an understatement. A tawtute woman carrying the offspring of a Na’vi? It was far beyond imagination. The avatar bodies—engineered through terrestrial brilliance, blending both genomes in just the right sequence to function under Pandora’s conditions—were compatible with the natives. Little Socorro was only human, though—kind of. Her body was changing, adapting in ways that blurred the lines between Earthborn and Pandoran.

The man’s mind raced with questions in the nighttime peace, hugging his half-sleeping wife in one of their occasional getaways from responsibilities and worries. Though this one was hard to forget even for an evening. “This isn’t like what happened to us,” he said, suddenly, breaking the silence of sweet slumber, thinking about Spider’s sister seated in the shade of their kelku, her hands resting on her growing belly. “I was logged in my avatar when we mated. I was Na’vi, physically. But her? There’s no scientific explanation.”

After the commute at the Tree of Souls, the clan split in two. Some supported the child as a sign of mutual prosperity, a miracle meant to exist in the balance of the world. Others, however, labeled it an ill omen, a violation of the natural order, feared what they couldn’t understand.

“It is not natural.” “Eywa may have allowed the union, but this... this is wrong.”

Jake had heard it all before. The same fright, the same resistance to change that had nearly torn the Omatikaya apart when colonizers first came back to Pandora. But this time, he got that fright. Because deep down, beneath his duty as olo’eyktan and his instinct to protect his family, he felt it too. As wild as the perennial torment that the two sides of his very identity instilled in him.

“There is no scientific explanation for Eywa,” Neytiri stated, her voice serious, resolute just as it always was when faith and Na’vi culture were at stake. It was a conviction he has never fully embraced. The need to rely on science, on logic, on the knowable, was an earthly instinct he could never entirely cast aside. That lifeline—the belief that there was a reason behind everything, something demonstrable, classifiable, repeatable—was still a part of him. Neytiri might have agreed that there was a universal design, but her understanding of it was vastly different from his. Less analytical, less tangible than the laws of physics and biology, but to her, no less real. Perhaps, in some ways, even more so.

“It’s as much a mystery as Kiri conception.” “Not of the same scale, though.” “We must trust the Great Mother nonetheless.” Jake exhaled, rubbing the back of his head. “Trusting her is one thing. Convincing the People...”

He was right. There was division among them. Leadership weighed heavily on his tired shoulders, and the safety of his loved ones, of Celeste and the baby, depended on the decisions he would make in the coming months. As the night creatures sang their melodies, Jake took a troubled breath, seeking clarity. The path ahead was shrouded in uncertainty, and for the first time in years, he felt the sting of doubt piercing his resolve. This wasn’t just about Celeste; it was about what she was becoming and what it would have meant for all of them. He knew Pandora. He had lived, fought, loved, and lost for this world. And he knew that when the Great Mother acted, it was always on purpose, even when it felt like uncharted territory.

It started subtly; Celeste first noticed it in quiet moments—when the dizziness from exertion subsided faster than it should have, when her heartbeat, once erratic in Pandora's dense atmosphere, slowed into a steady rhythm, perfectly in tune with the nature around her. Insects that normally avoided humans drifted closer during her strollings in the forest, as if sensing that she was no longer a regular alien walking in their world. Plants reacted to her touch, sending a pleasant tingling along her fingertips. Gradually, her senses were heightening beyond the limits of her species. She could hear animals weaving through the luscious vegetation, their calls reaching her feeble ears in way they never should have.

But then, the changes became undeniable She didn’t need the mask anymore.

The moment had come without fanfare. Celeste sat at the edge of a clearing, absentmindedly sketching in her notebook as the sun warmed her skin. Tuk sat beside her, both watching Neteyam train a small group of young aspirant warriors—the few still permitted to learn under their prince’s guidance. A shadow passed over Celeste’s face, the weight of guilt settling deep in her stomach, more and more pungent. Tuk, noticing, gently patted her forearm.

“Hey, don't think about it.” Cel forced a smile, though it did nothing to brighten her tired expression. “They would have signed farce papers to train with him first. Now, half the clan despises him, and the other avoids him out of fear.” “He is still the heir to the throne.” “How much longer?” she asked, her voice tight with distress. “Tsentey's faction is gathering more support every day. If they grow into a majority, it could mean exile for you. It could...” She trailed off, her fingers instinctively tightening over the slight swell of her belly. A tear caught the sunlight before she quickly lifted her head, blinking it away. “Sorry, Tuk-Tuk. I didn't mean to upset you.” “I'm old enough to listen to you if you need me.”

Celeste glanced at her, a genuine, grateful smile breaking through the tension. Tuk—still so small, yet already so mature. The rhythms of the clan left little room for childhood. By fourteen or fifteen, many had already completed Iknimaya and faced the Uniltaron—the Dream Hunt—to find their spirit animal and take their place as adults among the Omatikaya. Tuk’s own rite of passage was approaching fast, and for sure, growing up amid the ongoing conflict with the Sky People had only accelerated that process. Yet, she was still, indeed, a child. And Celeste wished she could protect that innocence just a little longer.

“Don’t worry for me,” she said with a sly grin. “Rather tell me about Enyetan.” The young woman arched a brow, giving her a suggestive look that made the teenager blush furiously. “Don't you start too!” Laughter bubbled from the sister-in-law's lips, warm and unrestrained. The sound carried across the clearing, reaching the ever-attentive ears of her mate, who couldn’t help but smile at the rare moment of lightness in the chaos of their lives.

What no one noticed, however, was how the energy in that laughter was off—wavering, unsteady. That day, the mask felt suffocating, the air too heavy and humid against her face. Suddenly, her breathing grew shallow, her throat constricting more at every second, intense heat searing through her airways. Panic should have set in; the desperate scramble for the emergency rebreather strapped to her belt. But it didn’t. The familiar choking weight of asphyxiation never came. panic. Instead, she felt light. Open. She gulped, and the air flowed freely into her lungs.

Pure. Fresh. Alive.

Her hands trembled as she hesitantly removed the exo-pack, bracing for inevitable. She expected her vision to blur, her throat to seize, the raw, toxic atmosphere of Pandora to set her lungs ablaze. Nothing happened. She inhaled deeply. No torturous pain, no giddiness. Just... oxygen filling her chest with an ease she had never known. Cool and sweet, like taking a true breath for the first time. The world around her looked brighter, colors deeper, sounds richer, the pulse of Eywa’s life clearer in her mind.

When she turned, Tuk was staring. “Cel...” she called with big, round, unblinking eyes. “Your mask.”

Neteyam, mid-correction a boy’s stance with a bow, snapped his head in their direction, froze in place; a rare crack in his usual aplomb. Lo’ak, across the clearing, nearly dropped his spear as he strode over with a grim intensity, eyes flashing with disbelief. “Are you insane?” he blurted. “Put that back on before you drop dead!” It was only then, as every pair of eyes locked onto her, that the human girl realized what she had done. Her breath was even, her chest rose and fell without resistance. She just shook her head, equally disoriented, “I... don’t need it.”

Neteyam was at her side in an instant, his large, calloused hands cupping her beautiful face, his lemon-gold eyes scanning hers with an unreadable mix of trepidation and alarm. “How?” The question wasn’t directed at her so much as at himself, as he looked at her with those giant orbs that characterized him in moments of extreme concentration. Pupils blown wide to the point they almost covered the entire iris. An adaptation response to threat, to enhance vision, to assess danger, to track an escape. His entire frame was on high alert, wired for protection. To keep his mate safe from something that was beyond unfamiliar, though.

This was odd.

For months, he had wrestled with sleepless nights and unshakable guilt. Gilt for giving in to his urges, for silencing reason when he should have resisted. No matter how much he loved Celeste, no matter how natural it had felt to surrender to his feelings, he should have held back. Instead, he had let desire eclipse caution, and now, she was paying the price. Inside, a sick weight settled in his gut, he felt lousy. He had failed at the one thing he had been trained for: protect. Maybe Tsentey was right. Maybe he wasn’t fit to lead. the leader of his people. How could he secure the clan if he couldn't even take care of his woman?

She reached for him, her fingers wrapping around his shaking hand, her respire hitched. “It’s the child.” Because what else could it be? What other options could explain what was going on with her?

Silence fell, thick and heavy. She could see the thoughts written plainly across their faces—the shock, the unease, the dread they didn’t dare voice. The training had come to a standstill. Stiff postures, atonic stares. Lo'ak and Tuk, who had been watching open-mouthed, exchanged a glance, their usual roguery absent for once.

A student’s voice, when it came, was quiet but edged with something serrated. “This has never happened before.” “Shit,” Lo’ak exhaled, running a palm down his face. Neteyam's ears darted back at his brother’s reaction, tail lashing once before forcing himself to regain composure. Then, gently, he pressed his forehead to Celeste’s, his long fingers sliding down to cover hers over their unborn child. He tried—desperately—to ignore the whispers around them, the same echoing in the back of his mind, threatening to surface. “Isn’t this amazing, tìyawn (love)? I can finally admire you all day without this horrible mask hiding your beauty.”

Celeste giggled at his ridiculous, love-drunk words, and for a fleeting minute, her preoccupations faded. Neteyam had always possessed this quiet strength—the ability to lift the weight off others’ shoulders, to remind them of the light even in the darkest moments. But it was also his greatest flaw. He carried too much. He took on burdens that weren’t his, stretched himself thin until he was on the verge of breaking.

Still, as he pressed their entwined hands against the gentle swell of her belly, warmth spread through her—not quite human, not quite Na’vi, but something in between.

There was content for a while, the nice, peaceful fondness of being in her lover's embrace. But it didn’t last. An acute sting twisted through her abdomen. She doubled over with a cry, her breath coming in ragged bursts. “What is it?” Neteyam asked urgently, his hand instinctively landing on her baby bump, aggravation evident in both his expression and voice. She couldn’t respond; the dull ache so severe it prevented her from speaking. The sensation wasn’t just pain—it was movement. Not the ordinary flutters of a fetus developing in the womb, this was deeper, stranger, as though something resonated within her. Not far away, the plants pulsed in time with her heartbeat, their faint radiance glinting like distant stars. Celeste clutched her stomach, feeling something under her skin shift.

Kiri, who had been meditating high in the green canopy, sat upright. “It’s happening,” she whispered, her yellow eyes as large as a lemur’s.

By sunset, Celeste was in the ambulatory unit, surrounded by meds. The air soupy with tension; the sterile, white walls felt oppressive, nothing like the vast, living jungle or the cosy, homely ambience of Hometree. She sat on the examination table, palms firm over her tummy, mind reeling while they ran test after test, talking in hushed tones laced with both awe and fret.

The weight of the exo-pack she had worn her entire life was gone, yet the air in the lab had never felt stifler. Norm and Max worked in quiet urgency, moving between holo-screens displaying her vitals, their brows furrowed. The data didn’t make sense, her heart rate had slowed, more like Na’vi's than a human's. Her oxygen saturation was perfect—too perfect—the high carbon dioxide levels in the Pandoran atmosphere should have been affecting her, but they weren't. The ultrasound showed something incredible. She had developed wichow—the specialized organs, similar to kidneys, that allow natives to extract oxygen for their bloodstream from Pandora’s otherwise toxic air. A natural filter. A biological unfeasibility for her, still there it was.

Then there was the genetic scan. And that was when everything changed.

“This is phenomenal,” one doctor exclaimed, rubbing her temples as she stared at the results. Adjusting her glasses, she leaned closer to Max. “Her DNA is evolving. Look at his—her respiratory system has adapted to filtrate Pandora’s atmosphere, but it’s not solely adaptation. It’s... transformation.” She turned to the patient, her eyes filled with both scientific fascination and deep concern. “Your body isn’t just compensating for the pregnancy, Cel. It’s rewriting itself.” “What does that mean?” Neteyam’s reassuring grip on her shoulder stiffened while she shuddered. Max didn’t sugarcoat it. “The fetus isn’t a simple hybrid,” he explained, voice calm but dour. “It's triggering changes in you. Something in its DNA is interacting with yours in a way we’ve never seen.” She swallowed hard, “I’m... mutating.” Jake's words came out through clenched teeth, his jaw tight enough to snap. “That’s why she can breathe out there.”

Neytiri stood rigid near the door, her narrowed eyes fixed on the glowing monitors. She didn't fully grasp the science behind the data plashing across the screens, nor the theories the experts were debating. But of one thing, she was totally sure: they had entered unknown territory. There were no answers here, no precedents. And the deeper they went in, the more question marks and anxieties sprung up. The creature Celeste was carrying was extraordinary in every sense of the term; not yet born, and already it was reshaping the world around it. This child—this impossible child—was changing everything from its very core.

But Celeste could see the unspoken fear in her eyes.

Kiri, who had insisted on coming, stood by her bestie’s side, her yellow orbs bouncing between the readings and her own intuition. “My nephew is part of both worlds. And now, so is Cel,” she stated softly. Spider shook his head, still baffled, struggling to wrap his mind around the unsettling reality. “That’s not how genetics works.” The future tsahìk observed her friend with a grave look. “Nawna Sa’nok’s touch lingers on you,” she declared, pressing a cool palm on her forehead.

Spider’s expression darkened, memories surfacing of all the times he had found Kiri lying in the middle of the wilderness, lost in a trance, nature beating around her. The way plants reacted to her touch, how she had tamed her ikran with freakish ease, how she swam through the currents, breathing underwater without any training as if she had always belonged to them. “You have felt this way before, haven’t you?” he asked, voice aloof with realization. Kiri nodded. “Not like this,” she admitted. “But yes. I have felt a... pull. A connection.” Her glance glimmered to her friend’s stomach. “It’s like Eywa’s energy is flowing through her.” Neteyam’s jaw clenched, his hold on Celeste’s stronger. “Is she in danger?” His sister’s lips pressed together into a thin line. “Was I?” she retorted, her words heavy with meaning.

“She’s not you.” Spider rubbed things in, rough, blunt, unable to conceal his growing agitation for his twin'. “Yet she has been chosen exactly as I was. As my mother was.” “Your mother was an inanimate body in a fucking tank! She wasn't risking anything.” His remark was harsh and cruel, the tone leathery with frustration, but Kiri didn’t flinch. She knew he didn’t mean to hurt her. If anything, he had always been one of the few who had stood by her, defended her when others doubted. But just like everyone else in that room, Spider was terrified. As much as it hurt on a par with an anvil, she could find it in her heart to justify him. Celeste reached for him, squeezing his hand with one of hers while the other rested on her hip. The warmth inside her, the link she felt deep in her bones, was changing her at a fundamental level.

“Will I survive this?” she finally asked, voice barely above a whisper. The medical team couldn’t answer that question; the entire ordeal was new to everybody. Neteyam tensed beside her. Jake and Neytiri exchanged glances, the weight of precariousness dense between them, the pressure in the unit mounting at any second.

Truth settled over them like a murky, noxious fog. Neytiri’s ears flattened, her tail rolled dolefully around her leg as if seeking comfort in making herself small. One hand clamped against her chest, the other tentatively sought her husband's touch, resting on his contracted arm. His fist was clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone white, his other hand raking through his dreadlocks as he inhaled noisily through his flat nose. They had never shown such vulnerability before, or at least not at this magnitude. As parental figures, as leaders of the Omatikaya, they had always carried their burdens with quiet strength—as their firstborn son had learned to do. But now, stripped of that armor, their fear was palpable.

This only made Neteyam even more nervous. His whole frame was taut, trembling on the verge of exploding. His eyes, wide, glassy, shimmered with unshed tears, perfectly round and reflective like polished stones. He was there, present among them, but his spirit was somewhere far away. Cel—the love of his life— could have died, and no one could have stopped it. And for what? A child they never needed? A future they never chose? Why was Eywa doing this? Why them?

Their love was already complicated—strained by their incompatible species, haunted by past pain and resentment, burdened by the expectations of his status. He had thought he could cast it all aside, that he could embrace the reward the Great Mother had granted him. But that gift came with conditions—conditions so heavy that, had he known them in advance, he might have turned away. Yet none of it mattered. He would sacrifice his own happiness if it meant keeping Celeste safe.

In the fragile months after they had first come together, he had offered nothing but solace and praise. He had consoled when she was in distress, lifted her up when she doubted herself, encouraged her to trust her decisions—even the reckless ones as this one. But now, standing at the precipice of something unknown and terrifying, he could no longer do the same. He wished, more than anything, that he possessed the human gift for lying. At times like these, it would have proven useful—even if only to convince himself that everything would be fine, that at the end of this impossible journey, they would be happy. The three of them. Three, not two. Not just him and the baby. Not just him alone. Imagining a life without her was unbearable, and he refused to linger on the thought.

For a brief moment, once the initial panic had subsided, he had even allowed himself to believe that what was happening was beautiful. A miracle. Celeste could now breathe Pandora’s air—something that would surely help her through the long months ahead. But now, with this new revelation, he could no longer meet her gaze with comfort. Those warm, sweet, frightened, yet fiercely brave eyes searched his for reassurance. He had none to give.

Na’vi do not lie. And he would not offer false hope for something that, deep in his heart, frightened him so terribly.

As agitation grew, Norm reluctantly stepped forward and stroked his foot with the caring and kind manner of an uncle. “Look, we need more tests before we jump to conclusions. Right now, the priority is monitoring Cel’s condition. If your genome keeps reconstructing at this rate, we have no idea where it will end.”

The days blurred together in a haze of tests, scans, and restless nights where Celeste lay awake, feeling her body shift in ways she couldn’t see but knew were happening. The lab’s artificial lights felt oppressive, suffocating. The sterile environment clashed with the instincts waking inside her. She craved the jungle, the open air of Pandora—she needed to feel the earth beneath her feet, to hear the hum of life all around her. But every time she voiced this, Jake or Neytiri would exchange wary glances, and Neteyam would grip her hand a little tighter, unwilling to risk anything.

The fear in his eyes was worse than anything else. But the changes weren’t waiting for permission.

She no longer needed the exo-pack to breathe, that much was obvious. But it wasn’t just that: her lungs had changed. Max’s latest scans confirmed it. “They’ve elongated,” he said, adjusting his glasses as he stared at the results. “Your oxygen absorption rate has increased. You’re breathing like a Na’vi now.” Celeste touched her ribs absently while taking a deep breath from the inhaler—one designed for avatars and natives alike. She had already felt it. The deep, instinctual way her chest expanded when she inhaled, the effortless intake of Pandora’s air as if she had been born for it.

And her skin, once the soft beige of an Earthborn, had begun to repigment in tone—a faint iridescence beneath the surface was spreading, veins shimmering faintly in dim lighting. It wasn’t full bioluminescence like the Na’vi, but it was close.

Then there were her senses. At night, she could see in the dark. Not just in the way humans adjusted to low light, this was different. Colors took on a richer depth, details sharpened beyond what should have been possible. Smelling the lightest traces of the rainforest that clung to Neteyam’s skin, the sticky whiff of the cerulean paint his brother painted his body with, the pungent tang of disinfectant in the lab, once a mild annoyance, now felt nauseous. Scents she had never detected in the past. And her hearing—she could pick up sounds that no one else in the lab could. Conversations whispered in corners, the rustling of fabric from another room. She didn’t tell anyone, but she could hear the low, rhythmic hum of the planet itself when she closed her eyes. It was overwhelming.

And the baby—the baby was growing fast. Too fast. At just four months, she already looked closer to six. The doctors were baffled, worried. The hybrid nature of the child seemed to be accelerating everything as if her body wasn’t just adapting—it was rushing to keep up with whatever the baby needed.

Neteyam never left her side. She felt his hands on her belly every night, felt the quiet reverence in his touch as he whispered to the child in Na’vi, his forehead pressed to hers in silent devotion. But she also felt his dread. The terror that she would slip away from him. That she would become something unrecognizable or disappear entirely.

Celeste stared at her reflection in the sterile glass of the lab’s observation window, barely recognizing herself. Her fingers trembled as she traced the outline of her cheekbones. Were they more angular than before? It wasn’t just weight loss. The structure of her visage was subtly shifting—her features elongating ever so slightly, her eyes taking on a faint amber hue that had not been there before.

And her hair. It had thickened, the strands darkening from their usual color to something richer, a shade closer to the inky black of the People. When she moved, the fine strands caught the light in strange, reflecting tones of deep violet and green—pale but unmistakable.

The changes weren’t just superficial. Her senses were growing keener by the day. She could hear Jake and Neytiri talk outside the room, even through the sturdy walls. She could smell the faintest traces of the jungle that clung to Neteyam’s skin, scents she had never been able to pick up before. The stench of disinfectant of the compound, once lightly noticeable, now felt almost insufferable.

Then there was the most undeniable proof of her metamorphosis, the most disturbing change—her queue.

the way her body responded to Pandora’s energy. She could feel the pulse of the world in a way that made her dizzy. When she stepped outside, the very air around her seemed to hum against her skin. The plants, the ground, the very life of the moon—it was as if she were beginning to tap into something bigger, something she had never been meant to connect with as a human.

And the most undeniable proof of that was her queue. It had appeared three nights ago. Celeste had woken in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, her entire body burning as if feverish. Neteyam sprang into action immediately, pressing a damp cloth to her forehead, whispering soothing nothings as she gasped through the strange, intense sensation of her own body warping itself. When the pain finally ebbed, she had felt it, something pulling at the base of her skull. A tendril-like appendage forming, hidden beneath her thickening hair. It wasn’t fully developed—not yet—but the sensation was undeniable. A strange tingling at the back of her neck, as though her body was forcing her into something closer to the Na’vi.

The moment Neteyam realized, his eyes had gone wide, caught between stupor and scare, his hand trembling as he brushed over the barely formed kuru. He exhaled shakily, his gaze raw, almost reverent. “You’re not human anymore.”

Taglist: @minnory @faith2155 @stardream14 @akari-rosefield

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iloveladybuglucy · 2 months ago

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*slaps a messy sketch and some next gens onto your desk and explodes*

got the urge to design some invincible next gens, enjoy ig :P

heres a familiar face! ive tweaked a couple things w her design and fleshed out her relationship w her family some :]

Vega Grayson Age: 9 (Next Gen Timeline) Parents: Mark Grayson (Indomitable) & Rex Grayson (née Sloan) (Rex Splode) Species: Human (3/4) -Viltrumite (1/4) Hybrid Nickname(s): Vee, Starfire (only by Rex)

Personality:

Bold & Fearless: Vega is never afraid to speak her mind, often surprising adults with her confidence and sharp wit.

Inquisitive: Always asking questions, she wants to understand everything from science to superheroes to why her dad makes weird faces when he’s stressed.

Empathetic: While she has a wild streak, Vega is emotionally perceptive and quick to comfort someone in pain—often before they even realize they need it.

Master of Sass: She inherited Rex’s quick comebacks and Mark’s sarcasm, often combining both into clever humor.

Family Dynamics:

Mark Grayson (Dad): Vega admires Mark’s strength and compassion but isn’t afraid to call him out if he’s being overprotective or mopey. She thinks his superhero name is kinda lame, but secretly loves watching old footage of him.

Rex Grayson (Papa): She’s fiercely attached to Rex, who she shares a mischievous streak with. He’s the parent she confides in when she’s feeling overwhelmed, and she often brags that she has “the coolest Papa in the world.”

Debbie Grayson (Grandma): Vega is extremely close to Debbie, who treats her like a partner in crime. Debbie often jokes that Vega is “too sharp for her own good,” while sneaking her candy.

Nolan Grayson (The Weird Guy Who Never Smiles That Dad Hates): Being that Mark had long since cut contact with Nolan, Vega hasn't officially been introduced to him. However, as luck would have it she bumps into him in the markets of Talescria and is instantly curious when he's chased off by her parents...who is this weirdo and why does everyone from Earth hate him?

Strengths & Interests:

Superhero Obsessed: Vega reads Mark's old Seance Dog comics and has suckered her grandma into buying her tons of toys and sweatshirts.

Fast Learner: Though not as physically powerful as some Viltrumites, she learns at lightning speed—especially when motivated by competition.

Weaknesses:

Impulse Control: Like both her dads, she sometimes leaps before she looks.

Stubborn: Once she believes something, it takes a lot to convince her otherwise, even when she’s clearly wrong.

Distractability: Vega struggles with staying on-task and has to be reminded to pay attention during school and training.

Roanan the Alien

Age: 11 (Next Gen Timeline) Species: Unopan Hybrid Parents: Allen the Alien & General Telia Homeworld: Talescria (primary), with frequent visits to Earth and Coalition outposts

Personality:

Strategic Mind: Ronan has inherited Telia’s tactical precision and Allen’s analytical mindset. Even in games, he’s the kid planning five steps ahead.

Awkwardly Sincere: Raised by two blunt, duty-driven parents, Ronan speaks his mind in a way that can be a little too honest—but never unkind. He’s working on "tone of voice" with mixed success.

Bookish Adventurer: He devours Coalition mission logs, alien history, and old Earth comic books. He wants to be a hero—but first, he wants to understand everything about what that means.

Loyal to a Fault: He’d walk into a plasma storm for his friends, especially Paulie who he’s fiercely protective of, even when he insists he doesn’t need it.

Family Dynamics:

Allen the Alien (Dad): Allen is Roanan’s emotional anchor. He encourages kindness and individuality, often reminding Roanan that “being a hero is more than just being strong.” They have a shared love of Earth culture and comics.

General Telia (Mom): Telia is a firm but loving figure. She believes in raising Ronan to think critically and lead with honor. Though sometimes intense, she always makes time to talk to him like an equal.

Strengths & Interests:

Tactical Thinking: He’s scary good at strategy games and simulations, often outwitting older kids.

Multilingual: Speaks multiple alien dialects fluently, thanks to Coalition tutoring and his parents’ background.

Curious About Earth: Though he was born on Talescria, Ronan is fascinated by Earth culture, especially music, snacks, and weird idioms he doesn’t fully understand.

Inventive: Loves making things out of spare parts—usually weird, creative devices like “empathy translators” or “friendship shields.”

Weaknesses:

Emotionally Naive: Struggles to process feelings like jealousy, fear, and guilt, and sometimes freezes when emotions run high.

People-Pleaser: Tries hard to make everyone proud—especially his mom—and puts pressure on himself to be “perfect.”

Socially Stiff: He’s not the most graceful in casual settings. He’ll recite Coalition protocols at a birthday party without realizing it’s weird.

Overthinks Everything: Decisions—even small ones—take forever because he’s running every scenario in his head.

Trivia:

His name is a play off of his father's voice actor's (Seth Rogan) last name.

He has two eyes, preferring to keep his smaller one on his forehead closed.

Paulie Elias Somner

Age: 10 (Next-Gen Timeline) Species: Human Parents: Samantha Eve Wilkins (Atom Eve) & Caelum Somner (Reverie) [OC]

Bio:

Paulie is the introspective, sharp-witted son of two of the most emotionally complex and quietly powerful people in the world. Born into a legacy of heroes, Paulie stands out for one simple but soul-shaping reason: he’s entirely human. No powers, no enhancements, no special abilities. Just Paulie.

But that doesn’t mean he’s ordinary.

Personality:

Paulie is observant and introspective, with a dry sense of humor and a biting wit he uses both as armor and sword. He’s naturally perceptive, often noticing tension before anyone says a word.

Despite his intelligence and emotional maturity, Paulie is deeply conflicted. He harbors quiet resentment over his powerlessness, something he’s internalized as a failing. He loves his parents, but it’s hard not to feel like he missed out on something vital, growing up in the literal and emotional orbit of superpowered beings. He sometimes asks himself if his parents see him as a disappointment, even though they’ve never implied or thought it.

He’s loyal to a fault, protective of those he loves, and much more idealistic than he lets on. A part of him does want to help people like his parents do, but he’s unsure what that looks like for someone without powers. He feels pulled between proving himself and learning to accept himself.

Strengths:

Emotionally intuitive, especially with others in distress

Gifted writer and storyteller—he journals religiously and secretly writes fiction

Unshakable loyalty and resilience—he keeps going, even when he feels lost

Deep empathy, though he hides it behind sarcasm

Weaknesses:

Self-doubt and feelings of inadequacy

Prone to bottling emotions until they erupt

Often pushes people away when he’s hurting

Overcompensates by trying to be the “smartest” in the room

Relationships:

Eve (Mom): Paulie idolizes Eve more than he lets on. They’re similar in their tendency to put others first, but he’s also frustrated by how much of herself she gave up to be a hero. Sometimes he wonders if she regrets not having a "normal" life—and whether he was worth it. Their relationship is tender but full of unspoken questions.

Caelum (Dad): With Caelum, Paulie shares a quiet, layered connection. They understand each other emotionally, often communicating more with looks and silences than words. Caelum is one of the few people Paulie doesn’t feel the need to “perform” for—but he also knows his dad is holding back a lot, which makes Paulie feel like he has to carry the emotional weight sometimes.

Character Arc:

Paulie’s biggest struggle is identity. In a world of powers, legacy, and extraordinary people, he feels like a footnote. He’s not sure where he belongs or what he's meant to do, especially when people constantly expect him to follow in his parents’ footsteps. His journey is one of self-definition—figuring out who he is, not in spite of his lack of powers, but because of it.

Trivia:

He was named after two very important people in Eve's life: her bioligcal mother, Polly, and Dr. Elias Brandyworth.

Inherited his pink irises and love for the color from his grandma Polly.

Loves when his mom tells him stories about her real family; it makes Paulie wish he got to meet them.

~~~

anyways do any of yall have any invincible next gens youd like to share bc i love that shit sm

#invincible #invincible show #invincible fanart #invincible original character #invincible oc #invincible: indomitable #invincible next gen #alternate invincible #markrex #mark x rex #atom eve x oc #allen x telia #mark grayson x rex sloan #rex sloan #rex splode

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starshadyy · 11 months ago

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what your favorite splatoon character says about YOU!

obligatory “this is a joke” disclaimer, please don’t take offense i’m only being silly👉👈

☆ ★ ☆

callie: you are a diehard squid sisters fan. you have an intrinsic sense for design and are probably super creative. you hate it when people misinterpret her. others wouldn’t assume it, but you actually need therapy more than most others on this list…😔

marie: you’re really intimidating but probably super nice. you’re actually good at the game and are well-versed in the meta. you may not be the best at communication, but you have a strong intuition and are good at reading people

pearl: an absolute feral crackhead who needs to be kept on a leash. definitely queer. nasty majesty is your national anthem. you breathe life and energy into every situation you enter, and others appreciate you for it. you are pearlina’s strongest soldier! 🩷🩵

marina: you are a massive nerd /affectionate. you either wanna be her friend or you have a fat crush on her. you listen to splatoon ost all the time. your room is packed with stuff from the media you like, including mountains of plushies

shiver: you join her team during splatfests even when you don’t necessarily agree with the platform. you’re likely very sarcastic and always speak your mind. oh yeah, and you’re a weeb

frye: you loved her from the start and defended her honor back when everyone was clowning on her design. you’re very talented but humble about your accomplishments. you would bite someone if allowed

big man: you act laid back but are probably filled with anxiety. i get the vibe that you would own an unconventional pet of some kind [turtle, frog, ferret, etc.]. you’re for sure the mom friend. you know nothing about splatoon lore

captain 3: you are the BACKBONE of this fandom and i have nothing but respect for you. you’re probably ranked pretty high in competitive and are likely a completionist

agent 4: you grew up on splatoon 2 and were sure that they would show up in side order only to be… uh, half right? i’m so sorry sweet prince /gn. don’t you worry, your day [splatoon 4] is fast approaching…

eight: you’re very analytical and derive great joy from the story aspects of splatoon. you either write or read fanfiction and maybe cosplay too. you LIVE for the found family trope, and also probably ship them with captain 3. you have amazing taste :]

neo agent 3: you think lil buddy is the most adorable creature to walk the planet. you wish their initial outfit was actually accessible in the game. you’ve probably only played splatoon 3

cap’n cuttlefish: you’re an og who’s been around since splatoon 1 but still know next to nothing about the lore. you don’t main a weapon, and instead prefer to bounce around. you are… an inscrutable crackhead who i want to study

dj octavio: you’re willing to die on the hill that he is not a villain and only did what he did to support his people [you’re right btw]. you’re actually really chill and fun and i have a lot of respect for you. also, i’m liable to believe that you ship him with cuttlefish, don’t you? DON’T YOU?!?

commander tartar: you’re… ME??? villainous characters are always your favorites. you think octo expansion is a masterpiece [and you’re entirely right]. you’re a splatoon scholar and scour every obscure twitter post and artbook note to satiate your hunger for that sweet sweet lore. there’s something deeply wrong in your head.

mr. grizz: you play a lot of salmon run but are actually kinda bad at it [shhh i won’t tell]. you suffered through after alterna just for his backstory log and the bear ears. i’m going to go out on a limb here and say… you have daddy issues

smollusk: you LOVE the idea that marina and pearl are its adoptive moms. you’ve beaten side order with every palette. you overuse the “🥺” emoji. you miiight be a little annoying, but your heart is in the right place… probably

acht: either the chillest person you’ll ever meet or the most insane. probably both. you’re 100% queer and probably neurodivergent too. i bet you listen to will wood and / or tally hall. i wanna be your friend

harmony: you know every chirpy chips song by heart. you’re probably really sweet and i know you make banger fanart. you have an affinity for cute things and i bet your favorite pokémon type is fairy. DEFINITELY neurodivergent.

cq cumber: ???you both confuse and frighten me!!! what can i even say? you’re a cryptid! but honestly, you’re kinda iconic. i salute you, you freak of nature🫡

iso padre: I LOVE YOU. you’re accepting of all people and are just an absolute saint in general. daddy issues, but you’re coping way better than the grizz fans. also, i’m betting that you’re neurodivergent

sheldon: i didn’t think you existed, but turns out that you do? you actually listen to his rambles. splatoon 2 is your favorite game in the series. you’re able to see the value in things that others tear down and y'know what? i respect that [not saying i approve of your character choice though]

judd: wait, why him? ohh wait, i know! you probably just don’t care about splatoon’s story at all and / or love cats. there, that’s totally it, right?

lil judd: you either DON’T know his lore and just like the cute little kitten, or you DO know his lore and you’re unhinged. i’m scared of you

spyke: you’d bark for him without hesitation and DON’T pretend you wouldn’t. you clown. you absolute freak. i know what you are. /j

murch: if i had to bet, you’re probably the shy type who prefers to let others do the talking for them. you might secretly be a little freaky though, and i think you should embrace that side of yourself. you’re safe here. be free.

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disco-archetypes · 4 months ago

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KIM KITSURAGI - The lieutenant observes you raising and lowering the toilet-water-logged mass under your nose, trying to get a good whiff. A good *analytical* whiff.

KIM KITSURAGI - After a while he can't take it anymore. "Excuse me, I just have to ask again -- *how* did it get in the trash?"

YOU - "Yeah, I still don't want to discuss it."

KIM KITSURAGI - "Okay, no problem." He turns away to start organizing his own notes -- leaving you with yours.

EMPATHY - He's not mad -- that smelly mess of paper in your hand is making him worry about the well being of his own paperwork, that's all.

#disco elysium #psyche #empathy #kim kitsuragi #harry du bois

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drazillion · 7 months ago

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Drawfee Tarot Analysis with Draz

Nathan Past - The Sun / Present - Strength

The Sun is a card of unbridled positivity and optimism. When you see it upright in a reading, it is always a good sign. But it's also a card that's often unrealistic and naive. Other cards come with warnings, but the Sun does not.

Strength reminds us that physical force is one manifestation of power. Emotional strength is equally as important. The maiden has tamed the lion with her kindness and compassion, not by besting it in a fight. Still, it is important to remember that on this card, both maiden and lion share the mantle of Strength. It is both of them, not one or the other.

Both largely positive cards, the Sun and Strength embolden each other.

In regards to Nathan in particular, I have to point out the similarities of Nathan's 2024 avatar and the duality of the maiden and the lion. Nathan is perhaps best known for his kindness and warmth, qualities exemplified by the sun, but ignoring the wide spectrum of his feelings is like ignoring the lion. Personally, I admire him for his ability to keep his optimism and his bitterness and rage in balance.

Therefore, in a sense, Nathan's cards represent his increasing willingness to share his more negative frustrations, while never losing sight of the light of the sun.

Jacob Past - The Fool / Present - The Chariot

The Fool is unique in that it is the 0th Major Arcana. The Fool is unbound by numbers, by order. The Fool is potential incarnate, inviting us to leap towards the future and seize the day. The Fool does not care about plans, preferring to deal with each new situation as they arise.

In comparison, the Chariot is a focused force with a goal in mind and with the confidence to see it through. The two sphinxes that drive the chariot represent opposing desires, but upright the charioteer is able to get the sphinxes to move forward together through sheer willpower alone.

Together, they are a confident duo encouraging forward momentum. The Chariot reins in the Fool's more reckless aspects while the Fool reminds the Chariot to still have fun along the journey and that keeping plans flexible is important.

These two cards clearly represent Jacob's journey since Drawfee became independent. While his role as episode and stream host (in particular trying to get everyone through the intro) is the most obvious, this also includes his role as content strategist. His analytical side is where his Chariot aspects shine brightest. In addition, the Fool and the Chariot combine when he makes music. When Jacob's well crafted plans fall apart, it is the Fool that comes to his rescue.

Karina Past - The Empress / Present - The Magician

Representing Mother Nature, the Empress is all about beauty and creativity. The Empress asks us to embrace qualities traditionally seen as feminine, regardless of gender. You are not weak or lesser for taking care of yourself or expressing yourself. The Empress encourages us to get in touch with our emotions, as well as the natural world.

The Magician is numbered 1 in the Major Arcana, and represents the transformation of the raw potential of the Fool into something actionable. The Magician has all the tools needed to fulfill their desires, but those tools might not necessarily look usable in their current state. The Magician must recognize this and realize the true nature of these tools.

The Empress and the Magician are both creative cards and support each other in this endeavor, provided that the querent (person the card reading is about) takes initiative.

Though both cards symbolize Karina's journey these past four years, it is no surprise that the Magician is one of them, with the creation of Sonny Mama and other mixed media creations in the past year. Nothing exemplifies the Magician more than literally using things like a log and a brick as part of a sculpture. The Empress's presence is subtler though the numerous plants that live in Karina's apartment give it away.

Julia Past - The Tower / Present - The Emperor

Due to its name, Death is often seen as the "worst" Major Arcana card. It's not. That distinction goes to the Tower (though the "worst" tarot card overall goes to the Ten of Swords). The Tower is sudden upheaval, is destruction, is disaster. Yet even so, the Tower is not an unredeemable card. Far from it. Sometimes a situation is so bad the only way to end it is to obliterate it. Sometimes the old must be destroyed to give way for the new. The Tower does not give us the tools to rebuild, that is something we have to do on our own, but it does show us that it is possible to build something better from the rubble.

The Emperor represents an authoritative figure who enforces structure in an otherwise chaotic world. Equally, the Emperor is a strategist who keeps in mind the needs of others when making decisions. The Emperor is also a protector, shouldering burdens so that others don't have to.

It can be easy to think of these two cards as complete opposites. In reality, this means they are both sides of the same coin. If the Tower is destruction of the old paradigm, then the Emperor is the establishment of the new.

The Collegehumor Layoffs exemplify the idea of the Tower. An established workplace that came crashing down. And Julia, the Emperor, rose up to the challenge of dealing with all the paperwork that would eventually lead to Drawfee's independence. Four years later, Drawfee still benefits from the work Julia did, not to mention the fact that she continues to deal with everything finance related in regards to the company. Not to mention all of the other tasks Julia takes on. While all five members of Drawfee are essential, it would be safe to say Drawfee would be unable to exist in its current form without Julia.

#drawfee #draz talks #tarot #long post

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thebirthofvenusfly · 1 year ago

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i like thinking about the odile loop au primarily because I like odile. but also,

i like the thought of the eldest character going through so much, trying so hard to keep her calm over the loops because the others are looking up to her, depending on her sometimes cold but analytical and precise demeanor to understand what doesn't make sense and keep their heads on. i like thinking about her initially fascinated by the opportunity to study the loops, to ask more questions about Vaugarde because she has more time, to listen to her family's banter again and again, but then she beats the king with them and everything resets anyways.

she's confused. she hates being confused. she's trying to understand WHY, trying to study, trying to hyperanalyze every variable she's fucking up here, trying to make sense of it, trying not to detach entirely because she's seen siffrin's body crushed under boulders or mirabelle have mental breakdowns to tears and wailing or protect bonnie from the sadnesses that she hates to admit did get the better of her once or twice.

she's trying to survive but she's trying to understand it all so she can reverse engineer whatever the hell is happening, whatever force has left her here to fend for herself over and over. she's screwing up her loops because she's becoming desensitized, unable to have her witty remarks and humorous banter and ruffle bonnie's hair when they say something innocently funny, or even fake a smile anymore at their snack breaks. she's lashing out at the others when they question her because she's gone too quiet because she's thinking so hard about what she's doing wrong, what must she be doing wrong to continue being stuck here, like this.

she won't admit that she was lonely. she won't admit she didn't want to leave the party and return to Ka Bue after everything. the first few days of looping, she's still got half a mind to be concerned and trying to get to the bottom of this time fuckery, but part of her is... relieved? to hear all these stories and see her loved ones smile, and still learn something new about them, just because she has a little more time? but then she learns everything she can, then she's stuck, then she's terrified and won't admit she's terrified, and then she's convinced none of them could really understand what the hell is happening to her when SHE doesn't even understand despite how hard she's trying despite the logs and journals she's burning through to track every choice she's made and every thing that's happened as a result she's trying so hard, man

#odile loop au #in tales of time #odile #isat #in stars and time #isat spoilers #in stars and time spoilers

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bcacstuff · 11 months ago

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A Thank You

To start with a thank you to all the people in the comments on my previous post, and all the Anons, all the kind words, showing your support and appreciation for my blog. I received some very sweet and lovely messages which I will cherish and look again at when things get so negative that I start to question myself why am I doing this.

Snapped

Yes something snapped, after a long time ignoring all the harassment, negativity, toxicity, name calling and recently even threats in my inbox. Telling me, oh we all know how toxic this fandom is, isn't realistic. Logging on here and first being confronted with it personally as it is in my inbox, takes the fun and pleasure out of things. It's like getting home, but you first have to clean out your doorway because the neighbours dumped all their trash on it. At some point you will address your neighbours with this bad behaviour, wont you? (and probably not in the nicest way)

I ignored them all the time, trashed them right away stopped even reading them, as the content had not any substance. I wondered often, why do people do this? Does it make you feel better? Do you feel a hero hiding behind an Anon? Do you go tell your friends what you just sent to a person you clearly don't know the first thing about. Do you think it is justified because you don't like what I post or what doesn't fit your narrative?

It is never justified, no matter what, to do these kind of things to another human being. Never!

There are people that call me obsessed. When I see multiple harassment messages all similar, simply recognizable coming from the same person(s) on a daily basis in my inbox, lurking around on my blog just to get off on every post I publish, the second after I post it. Running to the Anon button to mock every word and purposely give a false interpretation of the things I write, or write on a daily basis on your blog about it, that is not obsession? But when I do what everyone does here, look at some IG accounts is obsession?

You know, posts on IG accounts stay there forever (most of the time), no matter when you look. Stories are published for 24 hours, and even forever when an account also puts them in their highlights. You surely know about that don't you? There is no need for me to watch every minute of the day an IG account, I don't refresh it every minute to see if there is something new. It's your biased imagination that makes you unable to see it in a normal way. I do not sit 24/7 in a cellar with 5 screens around me watching people. I also do not sit in my car for hours and hours in front of someone's house to wait till someone comes out of the house or arrives. That is stalking, watching someone's IG account isn't.

And perhaps I look at a few things more related to an IG account, like the analytics, as an interest because of my marketing background, using a simple tool available for everyone, doesn't make me obsessed or a stalker either. There is no need to watch it every minute of the day either, I can refresh it whenever I like, the numbers from a whole month (and more) are still there.

Saying I keep track of every move he does is a false interpretation. I don't know what he ate for breakfast this morning, or what color socks he wears today. I don't know all the time where he hangs out, what he is doing or whom he is with. I don't know, I know as much as you all! I simply use my logic, can see like you all can at what times he posts, and as he has his habits and patterns (which you learn easily over a bit of time) it is no rocket science to see when these times shift and he likely traveled to a place in another timezone. That doesn't justify calling someone obsessed or a stalker neither.

And then, on top of it all, I learned some things about his activity last weekend, which was perhaps the last drop. Yes I added that part, because it was part of why something snapped in me at that moment. Perhaps my reaction would have been different if it didn't came on top of all this negativity and toxicity I already deal with for a long time and only got more. Oh yes, I could've simply stayed quiet about it and perhaps I would have if not for above reasons. People that like to say I did mention it because I was just seeking attention, are just ignorant. Gosh the (negative) attention in my inbox is overwhelming, I don't need it and actually wish it wasn't so OTT. But since I mentioned it, I will address it in a separate post, but don't get too excited. I will share how I learned about it but wont elaborate on my personal thoughts which I choose to keep to myself. I also will not share any name or any other details.

If you don't like my blog, don't like to read about some things I post, don't like me as a person; Remember instead of running to the Anon button to lecture me and give me unwanted (and very unneeded) advise about how I should run my blog or live my life after you called me out, you also have the option to scroll on or move to another blog. You don't need to read my blog, I don't force you to come to my blog, you are here on your own free will and can leave whenever you want.

Anon

As a result of all this bad behaviour, I have switched off the Anon option. It's a bit with a heavy heart, as I prefer to keep my blog open and accessible to everyone who wants to be here and send messages to me. You still can send a message, but only with an account which will be visible to me. You can of course ask me to hide it when I choose to post your message, I will absolutely do so. For me it is just a way to finally prevent the cowards to send hateful messages to me.

I feel sorry for the ones that do not have an account on here and always gave me useful tips, and sent constructive messages. I hope you'll understand and consider to create an account. I don't mind if there is nothing on it, I don't see empty blogs necessarily as a sockaccount like some do.

I have to say, since switching the Anon option off, I received 0 messages. (that tells you a lot about how brave the Anons are) I enjoy the calm, the positive feeling instead of the negative feeling that I first need to clean out all this crap when I log on. So I will keep it this way at least for a while, and perhaps even forever.

Let's just try to keep the good and positive atmosphere here again, have some fun, some good discussions in a respectful way and exchange our thoughts on things.

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dailyanarchistposts · 8 months ago

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In mid-August, a three year-old lawsuit charging that environmentalist groups were religious extremists comparable to some of the more violent, intolerant, ultra-orthodox Islamic sects collapsed when the attorney failed to meet a re-filing deadline with the U.S. Supreme Court.

The suit had been brought against the Forest Guardians, the Superior Wilderness Action Network, and the U.S. Forest Service by the 125 companies that make up the Associated Contract Loggers (A.C.L.) of northern Minnesota. The loggers were asking for $600,000 in damages and permission to plunder timber from the Superior National Forest.

Lawyers for the A.C.L. argued that deep ecology was actually a religion, and so by extension, environmental groups that espoused its philosophies were cults, and by outlawing timber cutting on so-called “federal land,” the Forest Service was favoring a particular set of religious doctrines and was therefore violating the guarantee of neutrality in matters of religion purportedly vouchsafed in the U.S. Constitution.

According to theological scholars at the logging company syndicate like former executive director, Larry Jones, Deep Ecology is an “earth-centered religion,” a “belief system” that holds that “trees and Man [sic] are equal.” Anti-logging activists who extol the virtues of forested spaces over industry profit and environmental degradation are spiritual zealots, and the government functionaries who are swayed by their proselytizing may turn out to be fanatical closet druids themselves.

Stephen Young, the A.C.L. lawyer and a former Republican Party senatorial candidate, explained his legal action on such esteemed venues as Rush Limbaugh’s radio show by saying that clear-cutting in national forests had been restricted by the Forest Service for no reason other than reverebce for some fringe New Age religion.

A U.S. District Court judge in Minnesota dismissed the case as “frivolous” in February 2000, but the A.C.L. petitioned the Supreme Court last year after reports that Wahabi Islamic extremists were responsible for the blitzkrieg attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon.

“The doctrine of Deep Ecology is the very worldview that gave rise to eco-terrorism. We feel that after the events of September 11, it’s an obligation of the Supreme Court to keep religious fanaticism in check,” Young said. “Just as devout faith in the literal words of various Hadith of Mohammad gave the Taliban license to impose through state power harsh conditions on the women of Afghanistan, so Deep Ecology gives license to its adherents to take extreme actions against those who would live by different beliefs.”

Perhaps the less said about this sleazy episode the better, which is just as well, since it is so hard to get a firm analytic grasp on it because it is sad and sick on so many different levels. For instance, likening the plight of women in Afghanistan to that of lumber barons in northern Minnesota is staggering in its shamelessness, as it has been my experience that women living near industrial logging camps are subjected to at least the same sort of abuse, derision, and masculinist domination as women who had been living in Taliban-controlled Kandahar.

And we all know that if the U.S. government was serious about keeping homicidal religious terrorism in check, then John Ashcroft and the Army of God anti-abortionists would be in the Guantanamo Bay gulag. It was all obviously just a miserable attempt to slander and jam up anti-logging activists with legal action, and it failed.

But I can’t help thinking about the broader philosophical implications of who supported it. I have no idea as to whether or not there are Deep Ecologists involved in Forest Guardians or the Superior Wilderness Action Network (and I suspect that none are to be found among the Forest Service feds), but in demonizing Deep Ecology as an alien fanatical religious practice in this lawsuit, we can see once again how tighly Christianity is bound to capitalist exploitation and ecological destruction.

Deep ecology is not a single doctrine, but rather an ethical sensibility informed by a variety of perspectives on the relationship of hummankind to the whole of nature’s systems. We can oversimplifydeep ecology by saying that its fundamentals include a belief in the intrinsic value of all forms of life as well as the holistic diversity of those life forms. The economic, technological, and ideological beliefs that prop up Western civilization antagonistically threaten the existence and diversity of natural life systems.

Individuals who adhere to the ideas of Deep Ecology are obligated to work towards radically changing those deadly attitudes and social structures. Deep ecology challenges the long-held anthropocentrist notion which entitles humans to take advantage of and destroy wilderness at will and for private profit, a view obviously held sacred by the A.C.L. timber industrialists.

Anthropocentrism derives from core Judeo-Christian values that have been part of the settler-capitalist catechism on this continent since the early seventeenth-century. Consider, for example, the preaching of Puritan minister, John Cotton. In his popular pamphlet of the 1630’s, “God’s Promise to His Plantation,” Cotton claimed that God desired colonists to “take possesion” of land in New England, saying that whosoever “bestoweth culture and husbandry upon it” has an inviolable divine right to it.

The Native Americans, dying in large numbers from exposure to European diseases was proff that God wanted to wipe the slate clean for the Puritans and thereby better facilitate His decree in the Book of Genesis that humans aggresively “subdue” the earth. Christians were the center of the universe, exclusively licensed by Almighty God to dominate the land, eradicate wild nature, and replace it with the purity of civilization. “All the world out of the Church is as wilderness, or at best, a wild field where all manner of unclean and wild beasts live and feed,” Cotton proclaimed in 1642.

There were many others during the period who were at least as enthusiastic about Christ, colonization, and commercial cultivation as Cotton was, and these ideas, linked to distinctly Judeo-Christian models of linear (rather than seasonally cyclical) time, became ingrained in the settler psyche, especially during the era of westward expansion some two centuries later. Justified by the Calvinist capitalism of Adam Smith’s The Wealth of Nations — complete with its fallacious notions about the ennobling “civilizing” powers of wealth, marlets, and economic growth — the implications of Puritan repugnance for the wilderness and wildness on the North American continent becomes depressingly clear.

As inheritors of Puritan fanaticism that have erected the violent, intolerant faith of capitalism, it is individuals and organizations like the A.C.L. who hold a worldview that advances a five hundred year-old campaign of terrorism against entire bioregions and “empowers its adherents to take extreme action against those who would live by different beliefs.”

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republicsecurity · 1 month ago

Text

Collar knowledge

The collar is a force‑multiplier: it replaces two officers, a medic, a cam‑operator, and an evidence clerk—all in one 300‑gram halo. Use it correctly, and you control the incident with precision and minimal harm.

Why “around the neck”?

Because the cervical band is uniquely efficient:

Central Pathway Access – Major nerves and musculature converge here; minimal electrical dose achieves maximal neuromuscular override.

Stable Anchor Point – Unlike wrists or ankles, neck geometry is consistent across clothing styles and body types, streamlining one‑size deployment.

Sensor Sweet Spot – Carotid pulse, respiratory movement, and laryngeal vibration are all directly measurable for real‑time health and behavior analytics.

Proper Use Protocol

Default to Compliance‑Safe unless aggression or command orders otherwise.

Escalate only on metrics (force spike, flight attempt) or explicit directive; the system logs everything, so unjustified red‑lining will haunt your career.

Monitor vitals—if the collar flags hypoxia or arrhythmia, you must step down to dampening mode and request med‑drone support.

Document & Dock—after custody transfer, get it on the inductive cradle and push the incident packet to CIS.

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theseventhdimension · 3 days ago

Text

The Weight of Small Things

Pairing: Derek Morgan x Gn! Reader

Word count: 3.2k+

DNI: All are welcome!

Author's note: Hurt no comfort enjoy this guys xoxo :P Okay, NOW officially the longest fic i've ever written. This took me like 2 moths because i stopped half way through.

..Every single Morgan fic I've posted, AND the 3 I have in my drafts, AND the drabbles I'm working on, AND the thirsts I'm working on, AND the sentences starters I'm working on, all have some kind of angst in them.. it's like same face syndrome but for writers instead of artists.

As always all feedback is appreciated!! Hope you enjoy :))

Most mornings, you were the first one in the office.

Not because you were ambitious. Not because you were trying to impress anyone. But because the silence was easier to sit with than the weight of walking into a bullpen already humming with lives more competent than yours.

You’d log in, boot the computer, make a beeline for the printer... only to find the same jammed tray again. Page one stuck in the rollers. Toner light blinking like it was mocking you. It didn’t matter how many times you’d cleared the warning—every single day, it felt like something else wouldn’t work.

You were supposed to be good at this. Quick. Analytical. Calm under pressure. That’s why Hotch picked you straight out of college, why your professors wrote glowing letters, why Quantico accepted you so damn fast.

But lately? All you could see were the cracks.

Yesterday, you tried to contribute to a profile session.

Suggested a theory. A pattern.

Hotch didn’t dismiss it, but he didn’t nod either. Rossi raised an eyebrow. Reid corrected a detail. Morgan didn’t say anything at all, just leaned back in his chair and tapped his pen against his thigh.

You tried not to look at anyone after that.

You stopped speaking up during briefings.

The vending machine had eaten your money again.

Your favourite snack hung just barely by the foil — taunting you, caught behind the glass like it was dangling on purpose.

You banged the side with your palm. Twice. Harder than you should have. Someone down the hall turned their head. You forced a smile and walked away without it.

You didn’t really want to eat anymore anyway.

Lunch breaks blurred into white noise. You’d sit in the kitchenette or outside near the parking lot, phone in hand but not really looking at it.

No scrolling.

No texting.

Just staring.

You thought about the girl. The hostage.

The way her skin had already gone cold. How her fingers curled in like she’d tried to hold on to something that wasn’t there. The flecks of blood on her lip. The last location ping that came in too late. Your ping. Your lead.

She was dead, and all you could think was: I was too slow. Again.

Everyone said “you did your best.” But that sentence had started to feel like a polite eulogy. Like something people said when the job didn’t get done.

You couldn’t sleep anymore. At night, you’d sit on your couch in the dark with the TV off, watching the muted windows of other people’s apartments. People who weren’t calculating time of death. Who weren’t running through everything they should have done faster.

You’d re-read your field reports three times before submitting them. Always afraid of missing something. Of writing something wrong. Of one more mistake tipping the scale.

And the worst part? Spencer Reid. Fresh out of college too. A prodigy, sure. But sometimes it felt like a personal dagger every time you saw him slice through cases like they were puzzles made just for him.

“You’re a fresh-out-of-college graduate too,” you found yourself thinking bitterly more than once. “Why can’t you be like him?”

Because no matter how many nights you stayed late, how many times you tried to prove yourself, it felt like the bar was always just out of reach—sometimes held higher for you than for anyone else.

When your one-year anniversary came, no one remembered.

..Which was fair.

You didn’t either — not until Garcia asked how long you’d been “our shiny baby agent!” and you checked your watch and realized the date.

You nodded, smiled, said “Yeah, a year today.”

She beamed. JJ said “Wow, congrats!” Reid quoted some statistic about average retention. Morgan clapped your back.

But when you sat back at your desk, all you could hear was the way your heartbeat didn’t pick up. The way nothing felt different. The way your hands still shook when you tried to type up your findings.

You stared at the blinking cursor.

It blinked back at you.

So that night — long after the bullpen had emptied and the lights had dimmed and your badge felt heavier than the gun on your hip — you pulled out the letter.

You’d written it weeks ago. Changed it. Tore it up. Wrote it again.

This one you didn’t rip.

You just folded it.

Walked up the stairs.

Slipped it onto Hotch’s desk, right between the edge of his keyboard and that photo of Jack he always kept beside his monitor.

You didn’t linger.

You didn’t cry.

You just turned, walked back into the dark hallway, and told yourself this was you doing something right for once.

Leaving before you could fuck up again.

It wasn’t even 8 a.m. yet.

Morgan pushed open Hotch’s office door with the easy confidence of someone who’d done it a hundred times before — because he had. He just needed a stapler. His own desk one had jammed again, and Hotch always had that solid, no-nonsense industrial one tucked into his organizer tray.

He didn’t notice the envelope at first.

The office looked the same as always. Neat. Predictable. A photo of Jack smiling beside the monitor. A legal pad with notes from yesterday’s briefing. Nothing out of place, nothing screaming for attention.

Except...

There.

Centered perfectly on the blotter, right where Hotch’s hand would land when he sat down.

A plain white envelope. No decoration. No elaborate seal.

Just a name.

Aaron Hotchner written in neat, steady handwriting — your handwriting.

Morgan didn’t mean to touch it. Honestly.

He stood there, stapler in one hand, envelope in the other, as if one had accidentally replaced the other. His brow furrowed. Something in his gut pulled tight.

Personal? Maybe.

Private? Definitely.

But something felt off. Something about the way your name hadn’t come up that morning. How your desk was still cold. How you hadn’t answered the group text Reid had sent about new security badge protocols. How quiet everything felt.

He flipped the envelope open before he could stop himself.

Just one sheet inside.

Hotch, Thank you for taking a chance on me. I’m sorry I couldn’t live up to it. I tried. I swear I did. I thought this job would make me stronger. But it’s been a year, and I still can’t walk into a room without thinking about the ones I couldn’t save. I know I’m leaving things unfinished. I know it’s not the “professional” way to do this. But I don’t think I’d survive another case like this. Not emotionally. Maybe not even physically. Please tell Garcia I’m grateful for the playlists. Tell Reid I wish I could think like he does. Tell Morgan… never mind, it won't matter anyway when I'm gone. I’m sorry. I just can’t stay here any longer.

Morgan stood there for a long time.

The words didn’t change.

His eyes caught on that final line — ��Tell Morgan…” — and he felt something slip in his chest. Something quiet. Something sick.

You’d looked him in the eye just hours ago with a smile on your face. You lied to him — but only because you thought it would be kinder.

And that was the worst part, wasn’t it?

You really believed your absence would hurt less than your failure.

He folded the letter once, then again, his jaw set hard enough to ache. Hotch hadn’t seen it yet — Morgan knew that. If he had, he'd be making calls already. Pulling favors. Sending someone to your apartment.

There was still time.

Morgan tucked the letter into his jacket pocket.

And then he turned on his heel, stormed out of the office, the forgotten stapler still sitting on Hotch’s desk.

He wasn’t going to let this end with a note.

Not if he could help it.

The locker room was quiet — dim overhead light humming faintly, rows of steel-gray doors reflecting shadows like ghosts. You didn’t expect anyone to be here, not at this hour. You just wanted to grab your spare go-bag before slipping out for good.

No goodbyes. No drawn-out awkwardness. No one trying to tell you this wasn’t what it looked like.

You turned the corner and froze.

Derek was already there.

Leaning against the row of lockers like a man built from stone and steam — arms crossed, one boot braced against the metal behind him, jaw set like it had been clenched for hours.

His eyes met yours, and they were not soft.

“You quit without saying a word?”

You didn’t answer at first. You just let the locker room door swing shut behind you, sealing the tension in like heat in a pressure cooker.

“I left a letter,” you muttered. “Didn’t realize I needed a performance.”

“That’s what you think this is?” Morgan’s voice cracked like a whip across the tile. “A performance?”

You set your jaw. “I didn’t think anyone would care.”

“Bullshit.”

The word echoed too loud. He stepped forward. Not threatening — just close. Big enough to block the light. Warm enough to drag the heat right out of your chest.

“I’ve been watching you, man. We all have. You think you’re invisible? You’ve got the instincts, the head, the heart — you’ve got everything we need.”

“Then why does it never feel like enough?” you snapped.

The words spilled out, unplanned, all cracked and sharp like broken glass beneath your tongue. “I found the hostage, but it was too late. I flagged the profile, but the victim still died. Every fucking time it’s just a second too late, or one piece short. And all I get are looks—sympathy, maybe. Pity. But never respect.”

You looked away. Shame swelled hot behind your eyes.

Morgan didn’t move for a moment. Then, slowly, he exhaled.

“First year I was here... I let a father walk back into his house. We thought it was clear. Unsub was still inside. Man bled out trying to protect his daughter. I heard it on the radio before I could get there.”

You looked at him — really looked — and saw it. A scar, old and buried, behind the steady force he always carried. The past lingering in his posture.

“You think you’re the first person who wanted to walk out after a loss?” he said, voice quieter now, low and rough. “You’re not. But you’re here. Still breathing. That means you’re still learning.”

You opened your mouth — maybe to argue, maybe to thank him — but nothing came.

Morgan stepped closer. Close enough now that you could feel his warmth, the real kind. The kind that pulls you back from the edge.

His hand rose, slow and steady, and settled on your shoulder.

“Don’t make the mistake of leaving before you figure out how good you are,” he said. “Because trust me... you are.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. Just stood there, chest heavy, throat tight, everything you’d been carrying starting to come loose all at once. His hand stayed, solid and grounding. Not a weight — a tether.

You met his eyes. His gaze didn’t waver. Something passed between you — unspoken, but real. An understanding. A question.

Your silence lasted just a second too long.

Morgan’s hand lingered on your shoulder like a question, but you gave him the answer he needed to hear — the lie that felt kinder than the truth.

You nodded once. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll stay.”

Your voice was steady enough. Convincing enough. Morgan searched your face — those sharp profiler eyes scanning every twitch in your expression. But you held it together, just enough. Just long enough.

“Good,” he said, with a small nod of his own. “That’s good.”

He didn’t smile. Not quite. But the relief in his posture said enough — a subtle loosening in the line of his shoulders. Like something unspoken had been pulled back from the ledge.

He patted your arm before turning. Left you alone in the locker room.

Morgan’s hand stayed on your shoulder longer than it should’ve — like he was asking you to stay without saying it out loud, and god, you almost did. You could feel the heat of him even when he stepped back, the kind of warmth that made your chest tighten in ways you couldn’t explain.

The way he looked at you—like you were the only thing worth fighting for—made your breath catch, but your lips stayed sealed. Morgan didn’t have to say a word to let you know he wanted you here—wanted you—and you wanted to believe it, even if fear held your tongue hostage.

You traced the ghost of his touch on your skin, wishing it wasn’t just a fleeting promise but something you could hold onto. There was a softness in his eyes you’d never let yourself crave, a quiet invitation that made you want to break your own rules.

His presence lingered in the space behind you like a question begging for an answer you weren’t ready to give, yet.

And when the door swung shut behind him, you sank back against the metal lockers and let yourself breathe - once, shallow and burning.

You knew what you had to do.

The bullpen buzzed like it always did — phones ringing, keys clacking, background noise stitched together like the pulse of the building itself. But Morgan noticed it the second he arrived.

Your desk was too clean.

Not just tidied — emptied. Drawers cleared. Mug gone. No badge clipped to the lanyard on the monitor. No half-scribbled profile notes scattered across the tabletop.

He walked over slowly, brows pinched, a deep knot already forming in his gut.

Then he saw it.

Folded in half, resting perfectly square in the center of his desk blotter.

His name on the outside in your handwriting.

His throat tightened as he opened it. The paper was thin. The message shorter than he expected.

I’m sorry. I really am. But I can’t stay here any longer.

He stared at the words for a long time. They didn’t change.

There was no scene. No call. No confrontation. Just a ghost trail of someone who’d made up their mind long before he ever stepped into that locker room.

Morgan set the letter down, hands heavy on the wood.

No one else noticed — not yet. But they would. And when they asked, he’d have to lie, just like you did.

Tell them you were tired. That you needed a break. That the Bureau wasn’t a good fit.

He wouldn’t tell them about the moment in the locker room — about the way your voice cracked just before you said you’d stay. About the weight in your eyes you tried so damn hard to hide. He wouldn’t tell them how he’d let himself believe it. That maybe he’d gotten through.

But what he did do, quietly, without ceremony, was fold your note once more and slide it into the inner pocket of his jacket.

Not for evidence.

Just so he could carry the truth with him, even if no one else ever saw it.

It took Derek two days to decide. Two weeks to act.

Not because he didn’t care — but because he did. Too much. Enough to doubt whether showing up would make anything better, or just pour salt into a wound already halfway scabbed over.

But after your resignation hit HR officially, and Hotch read your name into the record like it was a fallen comrade, Morgan couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t shake the image of your face in that locker room — of how still you’d stood, like movement would shatter you. Couldn’t forget how your voice sounded when you said “Yeah. Okay. I’ll stay.” Like someone reciting the lines to a role they never wanted.

So when he knocked on your door, it wasn’t because the Bureau sent him. It was because he couldn’t not.

A cool breeze kicked up behind him. Late evening. Orange bleeding into indigo across the sky. Your apartment wasn’t far from Quantico — too close, probably, for someone trying to leave it all behind.

He knocked again, a little louder this time. Waited.

Then he heard it — soft footsteps inside. A pause.

You opened the door partway.

Didn’t chain it. Didn’t smile, either.

“…Morgan.”

“Hey,” he said. Voice quiet. Hands in his jacket pockets.

You leaned against the doorframe. Still in sweats. Hair messy. A line of exhaustion carved under your eyes like you hadn’t really slept since the day you left.

“You stalking me now?” you said. It wasn’t cruel, just flat.

He shook his head once. “Just checking in.”

“You don’t need to.”

“I know.”

You hesitated. Looked like you were about to close the door. Morgan stepped forward just enough to keep you frozen there.

“I read your file again. After you left,” he said. “Went back through all the cases you worked.”

You looked away.

“You’re not here to talk about stats.”

“No. I’m here because I made the mistake of believing you when you lied to my face. And I’m not making that mistake again.”

Something flinched behind your expression. A crack in the stillness.

“I get it,” he went on. “Every mistake feels like proof you’re not enough. You carry them like weight plates — notches in a record only you keep score of. But that scoreboard doesn’t exist outside your head, man. You do good work. You did good work.”

“I didn’t do it well enough,” you said, the words dragging like rusted nails. “I don’t want to wake up every day knowing I’m a step too late. I don’t want to keep surviving just to watch everyone else lose.”

Morgan stepped closer again. Close enough now for you to smell the faint woodsmoke of his cologne. His jaw tensed.

“Then don’t come back for the job. Come back for the people.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Come back for the ones who don’t die. Come back for the families that do go home. Come back for yourself, if you’ve got it in you. But if not… come back for us. For the team.”

He paused, gaze heavy but steady.

“Come back. For me.”

Your breath hitched. A small, ragged thing.

“I can’t,” you whispered. “I can’t go back in there pretending like I’m fine.”

“Then don’t pretend,” he said. “Come back broken. Come back scared. Come back pissed off and messy. We’ll take you however you are.”

His voice dropped, softer now.

“You don’t have to fix yourself before you come home.”

Silence. Deep and heavy. The wind tugged at the doorframe. Your hand trembled slightly against the edge of it.

“I thought leaving would stop me from drowning,” you murmured. “But it just made it quieter.”

Morgan’s face softened. He reached out, slowly — gave you time to move, to stop him — and rested a hand over yours on the door.

His thumb brushed your knuckle. Gentle. Anchoring.

“You’re not alone,” he said. “Even when you think you are."

He said you weren’t alone — but the second he was gone, you remembered how easy it was to lie to yourself. You didn’t have the heart to tell him you’d already packed the part of yourself that used to believe him.

#criminal minds #criminal minds imagine #x male reader #x gn reader #x reader #derek morgan x gn reader #derek morgan x male reader #derek morgan x reader #derek morgan #Seventh Writes

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