#is this a bad piece? I hope it isn't a that bad of a piece ;-;

[bokutosbabe]

hii i was wondering if i could have kaiser 🍰 for 'More Than A Married Couple, But Not Lovers' event thank you!

Of course!! You didn't pick a trope, so i picked one for you, hope you don't mind!

a michael kaiser apple slice :)

જ⁀♡⊹｡° the lingering question kept me up

♡ a/n — for my more than a married couple event :)

♡ content — michael kaiser x gn! reader, gn! reader, rivals-to-lovers, arrogany and rude kaiser, hot headed! reader, reader calls kaiser a prince once, bickering, fighting, set in a high school setting

♡ synopsis — every girl wanted to get paired with michael kaiser, except you. and isn't it just your luck that that's exactly what ends up happening.

If there were a ranking of people you’d least want to be paired with in a fake marriage simulation, Michael Kaiser would sit comfortably at the top.

The smug, arrogant soccer star had been a thorn in your side since the day he transferred to the academy. He wasn’t just good—he was incredible—and he knew it, lording his talent over everyone with a devil-may-care attitude and a smirk that could ignite arguments in seconds.

So, naturally, when your name was called alongside his for the month-long program, your first reaction was disbelief.

“This must be a nightmare,” you muttered under your breath, glaring at the instructor, even if they didn't care how you felt

“Nightmares are just dreams, sweetheart,” Kaiser said, flashing you his trademark grin.

The first week was nothing short of a disaster.

Kaiser treated the simulation like a game he was determined to win, turning every task into an opportunity to assert dominance.

“You call this cooking?” he teased, poking at the pasta you’d made for dinner.

“Maybe I’d try harder if my husband didn’t lounge around like a spoiled prince,” you shot back, slamming your fork down.

“Ah, but I am a spoiled prince,” he said with a dramatic bow. “And you’re lucky to be married to royalty.”

You rolled your eyes so hard they hurt. It wasn’t just his constant teasing—it was the way he seemed to glide through life without effort, as if nothing could touch him.

But what infuriated you most was how easily he charmed everyone else. While you were busy struggling through the tasks, Kaiser had your classmates laughing, the instructors nodding in approval, and even the simulation’s pretend landlord eating out of his hand.

Things changed during the second week.

The task was to build a piece of furniture together—a deceptively simple project designed to test communication skills. Predictably, the two of you argued the entire time.

“Kaiser, you’re putting the screws in the wrong way.”

“No, I’m putting them in the efficient way. You’re just slow.”

“Efficient? You mean completely wrong?”

An hour later, the bookshelf you’d been building collapsed in a heap of wood and screws. You sank to the floor, burying your face in your hands. “This is hopeless.��

“Hey,” Kaiser said, his voice softer than usual. “It’s not that bad.”

You looked up, surprised to find him crouched beside you. His usual smirk was gone, replaced by something almost… sincere.

“You’re good at this stuff,” he admitted. “I’ll follow your lead this time.”

The words caught you off guard. For the first time, it felt like he was taking you seriously, not just treating this as another game to win.

Working together after that was easier. He still teased you, of course—this was Kaiser—but there was less bite to it, and you found yourself smiling despite your best efforts.

By the third week, something had shifted between you.

Kaiser, as it turned out, wasn’t just good at soccer. He was good at listening, too. When you vented about the program’s ridiculous expectations, he didn’t interrupt with a sarcastic comment or brush you off. Instead, he sat beside you, offering thoughtful advice and the occasional joke to lighten the mood.

“You’re not as insufferable as I thought,” you admitted one evening, after finishing the day’s tasks.

“High praise,” he said with a laugh. “I could say the same about you.”

It wasn’t long before the teasing turned into something softer, more playful. The line between rivalry and something else began to blur, and you found yourself looking forward to his smirks, his quips, even the way he always managed to steal the last slice of pizza.

The final week of the simulation brought the ultimate test: a mock anniversary dinner, complete with speeches about what you’d learned from your “partner.”

You’d planned to keep your speech simple—something polite but detached. But as you stood in front of the class, looking at Kaiser’s confident smirk, the words you’d prepared evaporated.

“I thought this simulation would be a nightmare,” you began, earning a few laughs. “And, at first, it was. But somewhere along the way, I realized… maybe it wasn’t all bad. Kaiser might be arrogant and impossible, but he’s also… surprising. He’s thoughtful when he wants to be, and he pushes me to be better, even when it drives me crazy. So, I guess… I’m glad it was him.”

You sat down, your face burning, and avoided looking at him.

When it was his turn to speak, he stood with his usual flair, hands in his pockets and a cocky grin on his face.

“I could say a lot of things about my lovely partner,” he began, shooting you a wink. “But the truth is, they're smarter, stronger, and more stubborn than anyone I’ve ever met. And if I had to do this again, I’d choose them every time.”

Your breath caught, and for once, his grin didn’t feel like an act.

The simulation ended with the two of you earning the highest score in the class, but it was the goodbye that stayed with you.

“You know,” Kaiser said as he helped you pack up the last of your things, “we make a good team.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” you teased, but your voice was softer than usual.

He stepped closer, his usual confidence tempered with something quieter. “Maybe we don’t have to stop being a team.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying… let’s find out what happens next,” he said, his smirk softening into a genuine smile.

For once, you didn’t have a comeback. Instead, you nodded, a smile tugging at your lips. “Okay.”

And as he walked you to the door, you couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, Michael Kaiser wasn’t so bad after all.

i love a good rivals to lovers

i hope you liked it!

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!

[alexanderwales]

I've been thinking about "if you don't like it, don't watch it".

First off ... yeah, probably better to just not engage with things rather than being a hater. Better not to piss in someone's Cheerios. Your Kink is Not My Kink But Your Kink is Okay, or whatever. I don't think the path to happiness lies in making haterdom your whole personality, and I think most of the time a single "wow, that sucked" is what's appropriate, or a longer "woooow" if you want to write some analysis/review.

However, we live in a society, and that society can only produce a limited number of quality pieces of media. You might immediately object to that, saying that we're living in an unending sea of content so vast that no one could swim through it all, and my reply is that this is only kind of true. There's a lot of content, yes, but there's a limit on how much budget is going to get spent on content in a given year, and there's certain to be some kind of power law distribution the higher the budgets involved. Those budgets are being used to procure talent from a limited pool.

So every piece of art that gets made which isn't to your preferences does, in some sense, mean that something you actually like doesn't get made. In practice, if that piece of art weren't made, maybe nothing would be made, or maybe some different piece of art you wouldn't like would be made. But there is, ultimately, a limited pool of labor and talent, when it comes to art.

I think that's something to chew on. Obviously a lot of the things that are made are made because someone, somewhere, really had a passion for it, often the artist, and other things are made without passion but because there was a wide market. I think if you're a utilitarian, you might want them to keep making lots of things that are "for" other people, because this is what's best for the greater good (the greater good).

But seeing all that time and effort poured into something that you do not care about? Or something that's poorly made and no one likes? Seeing Hollywood spend a hundred million dollars on a flop? Seeing a game get crippled by its monetization?

There is a part of me that says "well hold on, I do want to talk about why I hate this, why it's bad, what I hated about it, and in fact, I hope that in doing so I can even marginally shift the needle to help the vast ecosystem of creative works move more in a direction that I actually enjoy".

How to message in such a way that this is what you're doing is another conversation entirely. There are lots of very irritating ways to phrase this. But I do think the mindset makes sense, and in certain forms is defensible.

[xf-cases-solved]

ayyyy, @numinousmysteries, guess who it is! it's me, your secret santa for the @poangpals gift exchange, here to gift you words that are kinda angsty, kinda hurt/comfort-y, and kinda (or more than kinda) horny. i've written a lot of cancer arc lately and was like "hmm, maybe i should branch out..." BUT, when i saw your ideal episode was "memento mori but they bang at the end," i was like, "okay, well, obviously this was meant to be." so that is what i have brought you! a post-memento mori fic where they bang at the end! thank you for everything you bring to this community. you're a baller and i hope you enjoy your gift <3 -diz Title: Memento Vivere Word count: ~6500 (bc i can't shut the fuck up to save my life) Rating: Explicit Here's the link to ao3, or save yourself a click and read below!

***

Memento Vivere

She is in the middle of grimacing at her own reflection in the small compact mirror she found at the bottom of her overnight bag when Mulder shows up at her hospital room, keys jangling in his hand as he hovers in the doorway, neither outside nor inside, like he's uncertain about what kind of proximity he's allowed this morning. Like she's a skittish cat he's trying to win over. And what grates at her isn't his tenuous disposition—it's that it's completely warranted, and it's so jarring to be known so well.

She knows that he knows that she bared her heart to him last night, and is now grappling with mortification. She's never been good with emotions. In college, she could do a walk of shame with her head held high, but when a lover would voice their affection for her she would suddenly become incapable of looking them in the eye. Her heart is in a lockbox and sometimes she goes so long without opening it she almost forgets the combination, and when she does manage to pop it open she gets frantic, wanting to immediately slam it shut.

"You about ready to go?" Mulder asks casually. Too casually. He's assessing her like he would a suspect, adjusting his tone to meet her mood and make himself more approachable, and she wants to snap at him for profiling her, but she won't. She can't. Not without confirming his analysis of her, and she doesn't need to open the spine of her book any wider when he can already read her with such clarity.

In her writings—the filled pages already torn from the notebook and shredded into pieces in the wire trash bin next to her bed—she had thought she was divulging the secrets of her heart to him. It occurs to her only now, as he watches her from across the room with a purposefully mild expression, that while he may not know her every thought, he is the only other person who knows the combination to the lockbox in her chest. He could open it at any time, but he doesn't. He could reach inside her and hold her beating heart in his cupped hands, learning every detail and committing it to memory, but he would never take from her anything that wasn't freely given. His respect is almost more overwhelming than anything, because it's a reminder that if he weren't an honorable man he could ruin her. He has access to her nuke, and she can do nothing but trust that he won't hit the button.

"Yeah, just a second," she replies—casual. 

She slips the compact mirror back inside her bag and gets to her feet. She tries to summon the woman inside her who walks down the hallways of the Hoover Building—confident, assertive, and unaffected by stares or assumptions—but it's difficult without her body armor. Even though she only had one infusion of the chemo, her body still feels frail and hungover, like the day after a bad twenty-four hour flu, and she's wearing flats with her yoga pants and sweater, highlighting the height disparity between the two of them in a way her heels usually help to mitigate. There wasn't a hair dryer to use after her shower, so the natural curls she usually irons out are taking over, absurdly making her feel disorderly and sloppy. And she's not wearing makeup, and it's not the dark circles around her eyes or even the mole above her lip that she's self-conscious about—it's the freckles that spatter across her cheeks and nose. Well put together women don't have freckles, and she's sure he's going to interpret her vulnerabilities on her sun-kissed skin like the soggy tea leaves at the bottom of a china cup. 

The worst part of dying, she's starting to think, is the discovery that her walls that felt sturdy like concrete are actually made of straw, and there's nothing like an illness to come sweeping through to blow your house down.

On the way out of the hospital they pass the room Penny died in. She looks away from the door, and Mulder looks at her. In a blink-and-you-miss-it moment he reaches over and squeezes her hand. 

They don't say anything. 

Scully thinks his choice of silence says more than words ever could.

*

When she wakes up on her couch she isn't sure if it was the nightmare that roused her, or the relentless throbbing in her head.

The ride back home from Allentown had been uncomfortable in every sense of the word. Mulder had rambled theories at her—about Dr. Scanlon and MUFON and government agendas—until her lack of engagement made the conversation eventually dissolve, first into him nervously chattering about the most ridiculous X-Files cases he could think of and, when that didn't work either, into nothing, a pall falling over them as she shifted restlessly in her seat, unable to find a position that didn't feel ill-fitting like a shirt that she couldn't untwist. They didn't once speak the word cancer.

She hadn't meant to fall asleep after he dropped her off, but ten minutes into some daytime talk show and she was suddenly dead to the world, and judging by the low light that surrounds her, she has slept all the way from early afternoon well into dusk. The TV still flickers at her, now playing the evening news, and she's sure that there aren't going to be any headlines about manufactured brain tumors and shady oncologists who betray their Hippocratic oath by purposefully poisoning women who look to them for salvation. The types of horrors she witnesses rarely make the news. Not with all the facts attached, at least.

She pushes herself up with a groan. Her head really hurts, and although her first instinct is to attribute it to the mass in her sinus cavity, when she reaches up to swipe under her nose there are no remnants of dried blood, and the dryness of her tongue and hollowness of her belly makes her think that the rhythmic throbbing in her skull is probably because she can't remember the last time she had a glass of water or a single bite of food. 

She goes about the motions of getting together what she supposes is technically dinner, even though she forgot to proceed it with breakfast or lunch, and when she gets it all together—a hearty meal of half a banana, a slice of buttered toast, three ibuprofen, and a tall glass of ice water—she settles back down on the couch and assesses the other ache she'd awoken with.

The nightmare is formless in her memory, lacking a cohesive plotline now that she's in the waking world, but nevertheless, the emotions it stirred up inside her are visceral. There is a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach, bottomless as the abyss. It's a type of fear that grips her from the inside, putting her adrenal gland into a chokehold and activating her fight or flight, except she can't fight her own mind anymore than she can flee it. 

This is how she knows, even without the details, that her dream was about dying.

These types of dreams have been coming to her more frequently nowadays, starting the night Leonard Betts spoke five chilling words to her in the back of an ambulance. She's had friends who have been pregnant, and they would often tell her about the constant dreams they would have on the subject throughout the entire nine months. In a way, she figures, it's a similar concept; she and her friends all have had dreams about what their body is growing inside them—the notable difference of course being that they grew something into life, and she's growing something that takes it away. 

Tomorrow she is going to have to start making phone calls. Make appointments and discuss treatment options and try not to get discouraged when the options are limited. When she first told Mulder about the cancer, he had been so insistent, saying, "There must be some people who receive treatment for this," and at the time she hadn't been able to bring herself to tell him that she wasn't sure she was going to be one of them. The odds were, and are, so heavily stacked against her, and as a medical doctor she is very aware that sometimes quality of life outweighs the quantity of it. Her experience in Allentown hasn't really endeared her toward the idea either, if she's being honest, and not because of Scanlon, or even because of Penny, but because she had not felt sick at all, up until she tried to treat the illness, and then suddenly she'd been in hell. 

But while she may be uncomfortable with how much of herself she bared to him last night, she knows that she made promises that she can't take back. She is loyal to a fault, and she gave both him and herself her word that she would continue to live as long as she could, and so she will. 

She's just not convinced much of her life in the upcoming days and weeks and months and maybe even years will feel much like living. In fact, she's pretty worried—down to the very depths of her subconscious, if her dreams are any indication—that she's going to feel like she's dying.

They say doctors make the worst patients. Sometimes that's because of stubbornness. Sometimes it's because they know exactly what to expect.

She finishes her meager meal and drinks down the last of her water. She slips an ice cube into her mouth and bites down on it, shattering it into pieces. The enamel of her teeth has always been sensitive to temperature, but instead of being off-put by the pain that spikes through to her jawbone when the ice touches her nerves, she revels in it. Her head, while somewhat improved, is still aching, and she finds herself appreciating that as well. She finds she is grateful for the signs her body is giving her to tell her it's still here, and maybe that's the trick. Maybe to get through this she has to go into it with a respect for the pain. This only hurts because I am alive, she'll have to train herself to think. 

She can do that. She's certainly stubborn enough. 

She wishes it didn't all have to be about pain, though. She doesn't want to forget that a body can feel good things too.

Ice crunches between her teeth, shocking her like a root canal, while she thinks about the signs of life that are enjoyable. Warmth. Comfort. Pleasure.

Pleasure.

On the TV, the news anchors are tying up their reports that are lacking things they don't even realize are missing. In her mouth her internal temperature warms the ice water, and the ebbing of the pain is a brief moment of gratification that acts as a sampling of what endorphins can do. 

Tomorrow she is going to have to make plans to put herself in a varying, yet indefinite state of pain, and she will have to learn to appreciate it in order to remember how to be alive. 

Tonight, however, she could remind herself in a different way.

It is a terrible idea.

It's an idea she has had a million times before and has stamped down just as often.

Ten minutes later and she's out her front door and getting into the driver's side of her car. Muscle memory guides her down the streets toward Alexandria, while she spends the whole drive telling herself to turn back.

She doesn't.

*

"Hey," Mulder says in surprise, eye widening slightly at the sight of her standing at his door. He's got on a white tank top and dark grey sweatpants, looking nothing like the federal agent he usually does. Instead of seeing a professional, albeit a tad bit crazy, government official, she sees her friend in the way that is much easier to ignore when he's wearing a suit and an ugly patterned tie. Like this, he exudes masculine energy, and her eyes are immediately drawn to the slopes and curves of his muscular shoulders and biceps. There is hair peeking out on his chest where the neckline of his shirt dips low. He hasn't shaved for at least a day, an even stubble shadowing his cheeks and jaw. She drops her gaze to the floor before he can catch her roaming eyes, and she sees his feet are bare. For some reason that's the most intimate part of it all, and the reality of what she's come here to do hits her like a freight train and she flushes with what must be a particularly spectacular shade of red.

In contrast, she's feeling a lot like she did this morning, like a soldier out of uniform. She's wearing the same pair of yoga pants, and under her coat she has on a faded souvenir t-shirt her parents gave her after an anniversary trip to the Outer Banks well over five years ago. It occurs to her only now that she'd left in such a rush that she hadn't even bothered with a bra, and she becomes instantly aware of the oversized shirt brushing directly against her breasts.

At least she wore boots with a heel this time, but in reality it's not doing much to level the playing field. Mulder's six-foot frame still dwarfs her completely, and while she normally feels like a peer in his presence—like a respected intellectual whose gender is totally irrelevant—tonight she is feeling a lot like she did the first time she entered a university science lecture and found herself surrounded almost entirely by men. The difference is that back then she had felt, ridiculously, embarrassed by her femininity, hyper-aware of every questioning stare, asking the same question: What is she doing here?

But like with most things, Mulder—simply by virtue of being Mulder—challenges her way of thinking. While she has long since stopped viewing her womanhood as a flaw, she is always viscerally aware when the people around her view it as one, and over time that has bred resentment. Standing here before him, though, she holds no animosity toward the difference in their sexes. Like the way her science complements his reckless belief, so too, in this moment, does her feminine ying balance his masculine yang. 

She doesn't even worry about the freckles on her makeupless face. 

"Scully?" He sounds concerned, and she realizes she's been standing here in silence after appearing at his apartment unannounced, and the last time they saw each other it had ended with her muttering a curt goodbye as she all but bolted from his car to escape the suffocation of her own self-imposed belief that emotional vulnerability was akin to disgrace.

But what Mulder isn't privy to yet is that the shame from this morning about being so transparent has been wholly replaced by the need of a dying woman to be reminded of the good parts of being alive. Scully is ready to be bare, by every definition, and she can only hope that he'll let her. 

Refusing to give in to cowardice, she forces herself to look up from the floor to meet his eye. 

"Can I come in?" she asks.

"Yeah, of course." He angles himself to place a hand on the small of her back, ushering her inside, and even through her coat and shirt the contact burns like the ice touching her enamel. She kicks off her boots, sinking back down to her natural five foot two—three, if the height gauge at the doctor's office chooses to be generous—and lets him take her coat and hang it up, before leading them both over to the couch. He plops down, leaving a purposeful vacancy beside him, and looks up at her expectantly, but she doesn't sit. Cocking his head, he asks, "Are you all right? Why are you here? If you needed something you know you could have called me and I would have come to you. I know you only went through one day of treatment, but I'm sure it had to have taken a toll on your—"

"I'm fine," she insists, cutting him off. She doesn't say it harshly, but she doesn't leave room for him to argue against it either, even though she can tell he desperately wants to. Instead, he chooses to heed her command, and presses his lips closed, waiting for her to tell him why she's standing here when earlier today they drove over three hours and she had barely said a word the entire time.

It's possible she didn't think this far ahead. More than that—it's possible she hasn't thought this through at all. 

But she's committed now, and she's starting to feel feral, her needs centered around primitive instincts. It is in every species' nature to fight for survival at any cost, but she is burdened with a human's intellect that can allow her to deny herself continued survival if doing so also means prolonged suffering. If she is to keep her promise—if she is to fight for her life with treatments that make her feel sicker than the disease they're targeting—then she has to go into it with a memory that reminds her why it's worth it to stay alive.

She walks over to his desk and leans against it, mindlessly thumbing through documents strewn carelessly across the top. There are pieces from casefiles, and pages photocopied from obscure books on phenomena she'd never believe. There are scratch pieces of paper with notes scribbled on them, written in a shorthand that she's sure only makes sense to him. There are newspaper clippings and articles torn from tabloid magazines he would call source material, and she would call a scam. She doesn't read any of it, but she keeps her eyes trained on them as she considers her next steps.

Gaze pinned on a faded picture of some kind of creature that has clearly come off a printer that was running low on ink, she finally says, "I want to ask you for a favor, but I should warn you that it's a bit unorthodox."

"Unorthodox, huh? I dunno, Scully, I'm a pretty conventional guy, I'm not sure I can handle anything out of the ordinary."

A smile tugs at the corner of her lips. How does he do that? she wonders. How does he know how to calm her when he doesn't even know that she's feeling frantic in the first place? 

That you should know my heart, look into it, finding there the memory and experience that belong to you. That are you. 

Those were words she had written only days before, placed inside a journal that was meant to be a confessional, but again, she should have known better. What use is there in inviting someone into your heart when they're already there?

She stops fiddling with the contents of his desk and looks over at him. He's regarding her with an expression of concern that on a different day she would construe as pity and detest, but right now she has the capacity to accept that he's looking at her like that, not because she's weak, but because he cares. Because he's worried. Because he wants her to live.

"Last night, when you said you read some of what I wrote... how much did you read exactly?"

Mulder rubs the nape of his neck and shrugs.

"A bit," he says, which she takes to mean "all of it." She can picture him, after confirming she was safe, sneaking into her hospital room and sitting on her bed, skimming each page, and then going back through a second time to take it in more fully. It should feel like an invasion of privacy, but instead her impulse is to huff a small laugh. She tries so hard to hide from him, and yet he finds her every time.

"So you know about the treatment. What it feels like." He nods slowly, like he's trying to piece together what she's getting at and hasn't quite formed a cohesive picture yet. She sighs.

"Tomorrow I'm going to set up a meeting with Skinner and take him up on his offer in getting into contact with an oncologist. We can still pursue the case—that is, if any new evidence presents itself to give us any new leads—but in the meantime, I need to figure out what treatment options are available to me. Time is of the essence in these sorts of situations." 

Mulder nods again, still waiting for the clarifying piece of the puzzle.

"Mulder, without talking it over with a specialist, I can't know for certain what treatment route they're going to have me take, but with my medical background I can make an educated enough guess to safely say that, whatever it is, it's not going to be pleasant."

"Any help you need, Scully, you know I'm just a phone call away. And don't worry about work. If you have to take leave that's fine. What matters most is that you get yourself health—"

"I know. I know that, but that's not what I came here to talk to you about."

"... Okay." He gives a small shake of his head. "What then? What's the favor?"

Scully draws her lower lip between her teeth. 

"I need your help," she says slowly, "in reminding myself that my body can do more than feel pain. That it's more than just a vessel to get me from one place to another... I need you to help me remember why it's worth saving."

"I don't..." he starts, but his sentence trails off as she makes her approach over to him with a purposeful gait. She goes to stand between his legs and he opens them wider to give her space like the action is automatic. He tilts his head back to look dumbly up at her, and the change in dynamic—her above and him below—makes her feel some type of way low in her belly. 

She reaches out and cups his face, tracing the line of his cheekbone with her thumb, and she sees his Adam's apple bob as he swallows. She thinks the picture may be becoming clear to him now.

"Scully—"

"You can tell me to leave," she cuts him off. "You can say no and I won't hold it against you. We don't ever have to talk about it again. But if you're willing..."

Mulder gives a breathy, disbelieving laugh.

"Scully, trust me, it's not a matter of whether or not I'm willing, but look at what all you've been through in the past couple days. I don't think you're thinking rationally, and I don't want to take advantage—"

"Not thinking rationally? Me?" She smiles a little as she pulls her hand back, making a point to drag her fingers slowly across his skin on the way, and she doesn't think she imagines him leaning into her touch. "Mulder, I appreciate your concern, but why don't you let me decide what I do and don't want to do."

"Scully..."

"Do you trust me?"

He lets out a frustrated sigh.

"Of course I do."

She takes hold of both of his wrists, and when she tugs his arms out to settle his hands on her hips she's met with slight resistance, but she knows it's just for show. She's not weak, but he's got plenty of strength to get away from her if he really wanted to. Instead, the pads of his fingers press into her pelvic bone, even after she's dropped her hold on his wrists.

"Then trust me when I say this is what I need from you," she says. She smirks and adds, "I told you it was unorthodox." 

"You weren't kidding," he mutters, and fuck, his eyes are boring into hers so intensely she nearly shudders. 

Sweatpants are not exactly ideal when it comes to maintaining modesty in sensitive situations, and Scully's effect on him does not go unnoticed. Her eyes dart down to the significant bulge between his thighs, and then back up to his face where he gives a bashful half-grin accompanied with a one-shouldered shrug, as if to say "can you blame me?"

"I won't hold it against you," she tells him again, "but I do want this."

"Fuck," Mulder breathes. He shuts his eyes for a beat, like he's trying to compose himself, and then blinks them back open, embers of an impending fire starting to glow behind his dilating pupils. "This is a bad idea," he tells her, stating it more like a fact than as a deterrent. 

"Maybe," she agrees.

"We have to work together tomorrow. And the day after that. And after that one, too. You don't think this will... change things?"

"Not if we don't let it." 

"You really think it's that simple?"

She considers the question. Considers whether or not she can learn what it's like to have him explore her body tonight, and then pretend like she didn't come morning.

"We're two consenting adults," she says, evading the question. "Has the thought of doing this really never crossed your mind?"

"That... That feels like a leading question."

"Would it make you feel better if I said that it has definitely crossed mine?"

"Jesus, Scully," he breathes, shifting in his seat and clutching her hips so tight that she won't be surprised if later she finds finger-shaped bruises on her skin, reminiscent of dusted prints at a crime scene.

"It's just sex, Mulder," but even as she says it, she knows it's a lie.

He knows it too, judging by the muscle twitching in his clenched jaw as he holds her eyes with a steady look.

"Is it?" he asks evenly, and they both know the answer is no.

No. Of course not. Sex could never be "just" anything between them, but the reason why is a topic they've come to an unspoken agreement to never acknowledge aloud. But Scully isn't stupid. She knows that the way electricity behaves between them—constantly thrumming and sparking, in tense situations as well as banal—isn't normal. Four years ago she dropped her robe in front of him in a candle lit hotel room, and she hasn't stopped feeling his gaze on her lower back since; the tender way his eyes roved over her delusive mosquito bites is as permanent a tattoo as the blood red ouroboros that has only recently lost its scabs.

The term "something more" is a vague and fanciful concept she would sooner dismiss as nothing but a perpetuation of commercialized romance, if she herself wasn't subjected to it on a near daily basis. Since day number one there has been an elusive "something more" surrounding them, fighting for their attention, even as they so ardently deny its existence.

So no, it isn't just sex, but Scully also didn't come here to give voice to the elephant that follows them from room to room. To put it plainly, she came here so he could fuck the will to live back into her body, and she refuses to lose sight of her mission.

So in lieu of a response—because she can't animate any elephants, but neither can she lie to a man who treats truth like the core tenet to his religion—she instead throws caution to the wind, swoops in, and kisses him. 

Ice touches enamel. She wants it to burn.

Whatever reservations or protests he may have been fighting against must not be too hard to cast aside, because his response to her is instant, tilting his head to slot their lips together and kissing back so forcefully their teeth clack together. But even that doesn't, or maybe can't slow them down.

Mulder's hands move from her hips to her ass, and in a single swift movement he lifts her onto his lap. He swallows her surprised gasp as she straddles his thighs, his hard cock brushing her center, the layers of their clothing teasing her relentlessly when right now she needs skin-on-skin more than she needs air.

Mulder seems to be of the same mind, because one second she's sitting astride him fully clothed, and in the next he has somehow stripped her of her shirt, tossing it carelessly onto the floor. Returning the favor, she peels his off too, feeling like a kid at Christmas unwrapping the box she knows contains the best present under the tree.

Scully tries to recapture his lips, but he stills her with a gentle hand on her shoulder. He then leans back to get a good, long look at her.

"God, Scully," he whispers reverently, eyes trained on her chest. He reaches out to touch her, and when he does her breasts fit perfectly in his hands. Tentatively, and with such profound focus you'd think he was attempting to split an atom, he pinches her left nipple and rolls it experimentally between his index finger and thumb. It's such a simple touch, but it goes straight to her leaking cunt, and when she moans Mulder's attention darts back up to her face, the embers behind his eyes now a full-fledged forest fire, blazing a warpath through the trees. He makes it a point not to break her gaze when he leans in and takes the same nipple into his mouth.

"Mmm," she hums, letting her head loll back. He sucks the nub of her nipple taut, and involuntarily she bucks her hips in response. 

Mulder mumbles something incoherent against her breast, and when she asks for clarification, he pulls away with an obscene pop and then nuzzles his face in the crook of her neck, saying, "You're everything."

Everything. Like he ran through the full gamut of adjectives and found himself wanting. Like she is so many things at once that there isn't a single word that encompasses the breadth of her worth to him. 

You're everything.

It's the most overwhelming compliment she has ever received, because she wants, more than anything, to live up to it, and yet she's not even sure if she is going to be able to simply live, period. She's not sure when her greatest fear became failing him. It might have been the first time he ever challenged her. When she stood in front of his projector, veiled by the illuminated slides he'd already prepared for her arrival, as he quizzed her on chemistry, and causes of death, and the supposed limits of science in a vast and complex universe. She had wanted to prove herself to him then, and then just never stopped. 

The truth of his influence over her is too much to handle right now, so she decides to kiss him again—an act that is quickly becoming her new favorite strategy for deflection—and then buries her fingers in his hair. She oscillates her hips in slow circles, taunting them both with light but consistent pressure on his cock. She feels him twitch in anticipation for her, and her pulse throbs in her cunt in turn.

"I want you," she whispers against his lips, but he shakes his head.

"No," he murmurs. "No, not yet."

Before she can ask him for clarification, he's lifting her up with a firm grip on the backs of her thighs, and then proceeds to lay her down lengthwise on the couch.

There's a manic energy wafting off of him in waves, and yet, in total contrast, the way he slides her leggings and panties down and off her legs is so purposeful and leisurely that she has the absurd thought that nobody has ever undressed her with such respect before.

When he kisses her soundly on the mouth and then begins making a trek down her body with his lips and tongue and an occasional nip of his teeth, she feels—for the first time since she stepped foot inside his apartment with this ludacris idea—a pang of apprehension.

For the most part, she isn't a self-conscious person. Once she got past the awkwardness of adolescence, she's had a fairly healthy relationship with her self-image. But that said, Mulder's intended destination is obvious, and she's had enough sexual partners turn their nose up at the suggestion that for a moment she worries he's only doing it because he thinks she expects it of him.

But then he settles himself in between her thighs and peers up at her with a hunger better fit for a man so far into starvation he's about to succumb to it, and she realizes then that while he may be able to read all the words on her every page, it is not a one-sided transparency. If ever there were to be a scholar on the topic of Fox William Mulder, she would be the one.

The apprehension, already fleeting in the first place, dissipates entirely, and she lets her legs fall open in invitation.

There is no hesitancy in his acceptance. He uses two fingers to part her labia, and then starts off by dragging the flat of his tongue from her soaking entrance up to her swollen clit in one long stroke, and that alone has her crying out, unconcerned about how she sounds or how thin the walls might be. 

Never a man to miss important details, it's unsurprising the speed at which he masters the intricacies of her body. She knows he's paying attention to every miniscule shift in her body language by the way he adjusts the pressure and speed and direction of his mouth and tongue. When he slips one finger inside her, quickly following it up with a second, and pulses a come hither motion as he sucks on her aching clit she wants to sob. He eats cunt with the devotion of a holy man, and he makes her feel deserving of being worshipped.

This is why it's worth it to live. Because for every twinge and ache and pain her body is capable of, it is equally capable of so much good feeling that it could constitute a religious experience. That while there are always going to be moments of suffering, there are also going to be moments of pleasure, and to truly live you have to accept the full spectrum of what it means to possess a human body.

When the coiling heat in her cunt finally boils over, and she arches her back and cries out Mulder's name while a rapturous climax works through her, suspending time and space, she thinks to herself, over and over like a mantra—like a promise: This is what I'm fighting for. This is what I'm fighting for. This. Is what. I am fighting for.

When she comes back to herself enough to spring into action, she is barely conscious of her own movements, acting more on primal instinct as she yanks Mulder up and kisses him sloppily, licking into his mouth and tasting herself on his tongue as she manages to flip them so that he's lying on his back, panting up at her with blown pupils and parted lips. 

She gets his sweatpants and boxers pulled down past his knees, and he kicks them the rest of the way off. He curses when she takes hold of him and guides him to her entrance, unable to wait to be filled by him any longer. 

He's so big, and even with the slickness from her orgasm she has to take him in slowly, letting her cunt adjust to the stretch of him. 

"There's so much of you," she groans, rocking her hips, slipping him in further inch by inch. He's holding onto her hips again, gripping her like she's a life preserver as he clenches his jaw, clearly trying his utmost not to thrust into her before she's ready for it.

"You feel... Jesus, Scully, there aren't words to describe how you feel," he says, strained between gritted teeth, and she's so thankful for him. For his patience. For his attention. For the "something more" between them that she doesn't dare give a name to, even in the privacy of her own mind.

When she finally takes him to the hilt, it feels like an accomplishment. Skewered between her legs on his massive cock, she has the same sense of satisfaction she gets when she pins him into a corner during a debate. Already he has infiltrated almost every aspect of her life, and now he's inside her body as well, and she understands what he meant before, because it's everything. He's everything.

She tells him so, and that's more than he can handle. After the words spill from her lips, he thrusts up into her, making her shout, but on the next thrust she meets him in a counter-rhythm, driving him impossibly deeper inside her. The apartment is full of the sounds and smells of sex as she begins to ride him in earnest. She plays with her own tits, and he watches her, rapt with attention, and when his breathing starts to hollow, he puts a hand between her legs and lets her rub her clit against him.

"Yes," she moans, riding him harder, shocked that he has her teetering on the edge again so soon. "God, yes. Mulder, I—I'm going to—" 

She completes her sentence nonverbally, falling over the edge once more, and this time Mulder follows her. He's chanting nonsense syllables that are probably supposed to be her name, as she clenches around him and milks his cock dry, letting him fill her fully and completely. She wants to feel his spend leaking out of her later. She wants to feel bruised when she walks. She wants to remember every last second of tonight—even if they never speak of it again—because she is going to need the memories in order to face what's waiting for her come tomorrow.

When they've both returned to Earth, they stay joined together in silence for just a little longer, searching each other's faces, possibly for signs of regret, or maybe just for the sake of looking. He pushes a strand of her hair behind her ear and she lets her eyes flutter shut, leaning into the touch. Between her legs he's starting to soften. Her unorthodox favor has been fulfilled, and reality is hurtling back to them at speed.

"Thank you," she says, not opening her eyes. 

He doesn't respond for a few beats, and then he says, "It's worth it, Scully. Remember it's worth it." 

She nods. 

It's so easy, she thinks, to be aware of her own mortality. To remember that she will die.

She vows now that, in the face of every upcoming obstacle, she will remind herself, often, that she can also live.

[aikoiya]

Nah, it's chill.

Merry Christmas, BTW! I hope your years' been a good'n!

Anyway, this is gonna mostly be based on my hc of what happens to Dash after high school.

Dash After High School - If ya wanna take a look-see.

But the overall idea is that Dash's parents were abusive, but in polar opposite ways.

Whereas his mom, Freida, was negligent & a bit of a wino, his dad, Harvey, was a lot like how Dash is at school: loud, confrontational, & just an outright a-hole.

(Looking at the brief picture we see of the 2, I sort of see Freida as the one with money & Harvey as a bad decision she made. They have cash, but the guy was wearing a white sleeveless shirt &, I think, jeans. My guess is, he was a jock in school, but either his family was poor, he was disowned, or he burned all his family's money by making terrible business decisions. Either way, when I look at him, I see either a bum or a skinflint.)

Anyway, he didn't normally get physical with his abuse, but he definitely got verbal... & loud. But he would also push Dash to "be the best" & was never completely satisfied with anything Dash accomplished, who despite resenting him, also wanted to make his dad proud.

Thing is, dude is also stupid macho in the really bad way, as well as low-key misogynistic & homophobic.

Like, there's not agreeing with a person's lifestyle, but supporting their decision to live their lives & make their own decisions regarding said lives... & then there's the assholes who legitimately hate those who prefer their own sex to the opposite.

Harvey is the latter... Adores his baby daughter, though. (But then again, everyone loves Sarah. Including Dash. If that curly-haired little angel were put in danger, then even the strangely cowardly Dash would throw down with a ghost. Seriously, that little girl is the sunny spot in Dash, Harvey, & Freida's lives & woe be anyone who dare harm a hair on her adorable little head. She's like Shirley Temple meets Annie & I love her.)

The problem comes in that Dash is bi. (Technically, I hc him as bisexual, heteroromantic, but Harvey would exactly hear that last part before exploding.)

Basically, this, plus all the expectations & pressure put on him from not only his dad, but also the school, his mom's emotional manipulations & gaslighting, the fact that Dash really isn't doing all that great academically, the clock is ticking, & this little line from the literal first episode of Danny Phantom:

"These are the best years of my life. After High School its all downhill for me. How am I suppose to enjoy my glory days eating mud?!" Which, woof!

And, he was bound to only react in one of a few ways. It's just that the reaction he chose was to be a dick.

However, I think the reason that he targets Danny is partly the fact that despite how... peculiar the Fentons are in-general. Yet, despite that, Jack & Maddie are very obviously caring & love their kids to pieces. Sure, they're not perfect, but they love & support their kids & would do anything for them.

So... I think that at least part of it is that Dash is jealous of Danny. (Though, I don't think that's all there is to it.)

Also, Danny's just too much of a little snarkmouth, so I doubt that he only started cracking wise at Dash after he died & came back. Which, if so, then that most likely adds a bit to it.

But... & this part I'm not totally sure about, but it's possible... either Dash is p.o.-ed at Danny for trying to keep him away from his sister or...

He may have... a teeny-tiny bit of a crush... Possibly a hate-crush that shows itself in the form of "pigtail pulling." Metaphorically speaking, of course.

Now, this is honestly just based on what all we know of him in canon, so I very well could've misinterpreted things.

Sorry if any of this sounds bad, I like to get a bit experimental with my hcs.

I’d like to take a quick minute to talk about Danny and Groose interacting.

At the very first glance, Danny was instantly reminded of Dash. He’d be lying if he said it didn’t intimidate him, but when he stayed longer and saw how he actually acted, he realized quickly how friendly he really was. Groose was much friendlier and pretty clever. He’s watching his strength when interacting with others, and apologizes when he slips up.

If someone outshines him in some way, he doesn’t get upset and try to bully them, but instead he compliments them and often tries to learn from them.

From Groose’s perspective, Sky had warned him that the new member was a little freaked out since he’s never been to Skyloft, so he expected Danny to be pretty nervous. He didn’t fail to notice the fact that he was intimidated by him, though. It hurt a little, but Groose also understood that a height difference like this often startled people a little.

Then he started getting a little interested in stars. He told Danny about it, and it slowly turned into Groose learning a lot about the night sky from Danny. Next thing they knew, they’re friends!

[ashlelia]

hi @andyyolk! I'm your secret santa for the #souyosecretsanta2024 ! I hope you are having a wonderful holiday season and that this gift adds to it!

🎄 title: fill this night 🎄 author: ashlelia 🎄 rating: T 🎄 summary: Yu and Yosuke decorate a Christmas tree for Nanako. (~1900 words) 🎄 AO3 link

12.23.20XX

Yosuke's boots crunch through freshly fallen snow as he reaches the entrance of the Dojima residence. Finally. His hands are full of Junes brand shopping bags, so he carefully knocks at the door with the tip of his boot and bounces on his toes as he waits.

He should've worn gloves.

And maybe that scarf Kanji made.

Yeah, he thinks, both of those would be good right now.

It's too bad he didn’t think of it before he left; the fuzzy faux fur lining of his jacket isn't cutting anymore after being dampened by snowflakes.

Yosuke is hit with a welcome gust of warm air when the door rattles open a few moments later. Yu’s smile right behind it, easy and fond, is welcome too. He's grateful for both.

“Come in, it's cold,” Yu says, reaching to take the bags in Yosuke's hands.

Yosuke kicks as much snow off of his boots as he can before he steps inside and closes the door behind him. A shiver tickles the back of his neck as he responds, “Pfft, you're telling me! I'm gonna be thawing out for the next freaking hour.”

“It's not that bad.” Chuckling, Yu plops the bags down on the kitchen table. A string of tricolor tinsel garland, red, green, and silver, spills out of one of them. “You brought more decorations?”

Off comes Yosuke's boots. Then his coat. “Yeah, so we can make the tree really cool and fancy for Nanako-chan, you know?”

“Mmm.” Yu nods. He takes a better look at the contents of the bags. There's an assortment of round ornaments in every color of the Christmas season – some small and glittery, others shiny and big enough to cover his palm; more garlands; half a box of peppermint candy canes; a large, sparkling silver star; and a hastily-bundled length of multicolored stringed lights. The lights partially uncoil the instant Yu picks them up. “These look expensive.”

“They're not,” Yosuke says, moving to join Yu at the dining table. He sidles close, shoulder to shoulder, helping himself to Yu's body heat as he takes over the short work of unbagging. “Well, I mean, they probably are, but they're what's left after decorating the tree at work.”

Yosuke then looks up at Yu, somewhat bashfully. “I, um, didn't think you'd mind too much where I got them since they're nice.”

“You're right, I don't,” Yu confirms. He gives Yosuke a quick, chaste peck on the cheek and another one of those secret, tender smiles. “Thank you, Yosuke.”

The kiss is barely anything, yet Yosuke's face becomes warm and tingly in the wake of it. He's still getting used to this… thing between them and the affection that comes with it. Yosuke's stomach does some kind of pleasantly weird shimmy too, amplifying his bashfulness as he says, “You don't have to thank me, partner. Besides,” he adds before Yu can deflect, “she's basically my little sister now too, right?”

Yosuke's sentiment earns him a wider smile from Yu and pride blossoms in his chest. Yu’s expression is possibly the brightest one since everything with Nanako began weeks ago; Yosuke's simply happy to be the one who helped make it so – with the truth, no less.

(Because, truthfully, Yosuke adopted Nanako the moment ‘whoa, Junes? I love Junes!’ squeaked out of her mouth. He was charmed; what else can he say?)

Yu drops another quick kiss on Yosuke's cheek, closer to the corner of his mouth, and says, “Really, Yosuke. Thank you.”

Fighting his blush back would be impossible, so Yosuke doesn't try to. Instead, he grabs a heap of garland.

“So, what do you say we get started, huh?”

  *

The artificial Christmas tree Yu digs out of Dojima's storage closet is much larger than Yosuke expects it to be. The placement of it partially obscures the living room TV and, although stored in pieces, it’s taller than both he and Yu once they snap the parts together, fluff it out, and make it look something like a real tree again.

Yosuke stands back to assess it while Yu crouches, making minor adjustments to the bottom-most branches.

“Looks pretty good already. Bet all the ornaments’ll fit,” he says, eyeing the tree from bottom to top. “Might need a stool to put the star up, though.”

Yu stands abruptly, pushing his sweater sleeves up to his elbows. “Oh! I think Uncle has one. Let me get it.”

Yet before he can whoosh past, Yosuke grabs Yu's wrist. “Wait a minute, we have to put the other stuff up! The star goes up last, you know?”

“It does?” Yu pauses thoughtfully. “I… didn't know that.”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

As he glances over to the tree they've just put up, the quizzical expression on Yu's face fades. It becomes something soft, forlorn, and – for just a second – far away. “I've never really decorated a Christmas tree before. My parents don't like it.”

“Dude, what!?” Yosuke nearly shrieks in disbelief. He can't possibly have heard Yu correctly. He tugs on Yu’s wrist to make him turn back to him; Yu does but avoids meeting his gaze directly. “Your parents don't celebrate Christmas?”

“They kind of do,” Yu says quietly. “I get gifts. Clothes. Books. Things like that.”

Looking at everything but Yosuke, Yu punctuates his statement with a shrug. The downshift in his mood is palpable and Yosuke frowns, mentally giving himself a swift kick in the ass for his outburst.

They've talked about Yu's parents before, of course, but only in vague terms and short, clipped sentences. Yeses and nos; maybes and sometimes – hard-won answers, all pulled like teeth. It didn't take much for Yosuke to get the hint from their conversations that the topic is a touchy one, so even though he wants to know more about Yu's life, his pre-Inaba years, he resists the recurring urge to pry.

He just can't help his own surprise sometimes.

The Narukamis are weird, to say the least.

“Hey, well, at least I know what not to get you for Christmas next year,” Yosuke replies with a wink, pivoting into damage control mode. Time for a distraction. He steps away from Yu towards the sofa now cushioning their mass of ornaments, scoops up a few of them, and offers them to Yu. “Right or left side?”

Accepting Yosuke's offer, Yu makes a contemplative noise. He stares at the blue and silver baubles in his hands, at his distorted reflection in them. Ultimately, blandly, he says, “You pick.”

“C’mon, partner, I asked you first! Help a guy out here,” Yosuke mock-complains. He folds his arms over his chest, adding a dramatic sigh and pout.

It's super effective!

“Okay, okay,” Yu answers. The renewed smile tugging at his lips is small yet contagious, compelling Yosuke to mirror it back. “Left side.”

Yosuke's grin widens and he winks again. “Got it, right side it is.”

Yet, in mere moments, they fall into an easy, tranquil rhythm that has nothing to do with ‘sides,’ and everything to do with ‘vibes’; Yosuke winds up not hanging a single ornament himself. Instead, he lets Yu pick where each one goes, simply handing over new ones as he's asked for them.

For a few minutes, he simply watches his partner dedicate the same quiet focus to the Christmas tree’s decor as he does to everything else. From top to bottom, each bauble Yu hangs is mindfully and gently placed, and double-checked for security. None of them break, which is better than Yosuke's record – he shattered two before he even made it out of Junes.

Once the final ornament goes up, looped over a middling branch, Yu moves away and over to Yosuke's side. With a hand on his hip, he asks,

“What do you think?”

Yosuke looks up from checking his messages – and worrying about the fact that Chie’s settled on bringing cake for Nanako tomorrow – to give his opinion.

Yu's design is a tidy, simple one, with ornaments of like colours grouped in alternating rows of red, blue, green, and silver. Hardly any of the Christmas tree itself is visible beyond the clusters of ornaments; it's almost perfect as-is.

“Wow, partner, I'm impressed,” Yosuke says, folding his arms over his chest. He shoots Yu a playfully skeptical look. “You sure you've never decorated a tree before?”

“I'm sure… but I'm glad you like it,” Yu says, still wearing that small, pleased smile. Then, in a display of uncharacteristic shyness, he continues with, “tell me what comes next?”

Yu's eyes, voice, and statement all radiate a soft sincerity – and vulnerability – that makes Yosuke’s heart miss a beat. Who else in Inaba knows that Yu has never done something so simple as decorating a Christmas tree? Probably no one.

Mildly flustered, Yosuke turns in a full circle before actually stopping in the direction of the remaining decorations.

“Um, well.” Scanning what's left, he reaches for the heap of Christmas lights. “These, let's do these.”

With a nod of agreement, Yu takes them when given. The section that unraveled earlier turns out to be the only untangled portion of the bundle; the rest is knotted up like someone did it on purpose.

Angrily.

Yosuke grumbles the entire time – pretty sure these weren't like this earlier, what the heck? – it takes to detangle them, which is twice as long as it takes to neatly spiral the lights around the tree. And three times as long as it takes to add the sparkly garland.

But once that's done, and there's nothing left but candy canes (tossed aside) and the star to top the tree, Yu disappears to retrieve the necessary, aforementioned stool. As he places the stool and steps on it, steadying himself, he finds himself chuckling again at Yosuke's over-the-top cheer of, alright, partner, moment of truth!

Yu also finds that the stool doesn't give him quite enough height to reach the top of the tree. In hindsight, it's obvious that it was designed and purchased for Nanako – but since it wobbles some as he pushes up onto his tiptoes, maybe they should get a better one?

He thinks about that while he arranges the star on the tree, making sure the branch fits snugly inside the stem. He catches Yosuke hunting for an unused electrical outlet when he steps down but Yu already knows there isn't one, so as he sets the stool aside, he says, “you can unplug the TV for now, it's alright.”

“You sure?”

Yosuke pops upright to look at him; there's a faint look of concern on his face. The house will be quiet without the TV. For the second time today, Yu answers, “I'm sure.”

“Okay.”

Yosuke swaps the plugs and then backs away; once again, he and Yu stand in front of the Christmas tree to survey it in full. Plugged in, the Christmas lights twinkle and flicker as they come alive. Colour scatters over the ceiling and the floor and the room becomes cozier, and warmer, in their wake.

The Dojima house feels like a home again.

“Do you think she'll like it?” Yu asks softly, glancing up at the star topper.

“Like it?” Yosuke bumps their shoulders together, following Yu's gaze. “Dude, she's gonna love it, promise. It's great.”

“Thanks to you.”

Yosuke's only a millisecond away from downplaying the compliment when Yu's hand closes loosely around his own. The gesture makes him look over to Yu, whose smile and pink cheeks are easy to see, even from the side. Rethinking his response, Yosuke laces their fingers together and turns back to the glittering tree they decorated – together.

“You're welcome, partner.”

[nervocat]

Well that's not how I wanted my night to go. Like. At all

[imsailorpluto]

When Dowon said:

"I was hit by an arrow. Do you not wish to know if I am fine? Father, have you ever loved me even for a short moment? Have you ever thought of me or missed me, even just once? Have you ever felt affectionate toward me? I am asking if you have ever truly thought of me as your child."

[spikeisawesome456]

.

[gingerbreadmonsters]

I just discovered you via Ao3 and lemme tell you, finding someone who seems to feel the Sam way about Blake as I do? Immaculate. Writing? On point “Return to me?” My new favorite fic.

CBHD"WK%£^72JDNB"D&YEUODJ"*YDI"QSKXTHANK YOU

aaaaah return to me is one of those funny ones in my mind - i got a bit worried when the balance got a big push lately, but thankfully my characterisation of blake seems to be holding up pretty well!! and vshbdkjvbhwidasckj i'm so glad you like my writing - i know that my particular style can sometimes come off as overly flowery and winding (in this fic it's particularly egregious!) so i'm SO happy that you're enjoying it 😍😍😍

aside from being a rather strenuous exercise in the conditional tense, the idea was basically just 'blake is so fucking redpilled and nobody is talking about it we should talk about it'! to me, blake is a fascinating example of a reasonable, rational bad guy - in the sense that he's gone so far off the deep end in pursuit of keeping his listener close to him that he's circled back to behaving semi-rationally, just operating under a completely batshit set of rules that he's convinced himself (and been kind of convinced by closeknit, although that's since been slightly disproven) are real.

it was a LOT of fun to write, and i'll never pass up the chance to stick one of the redacted 'bad guys' under my little microscope - very glad you had fun!! <333

[castrovulcant]

Hi there, if you don’t mind me asking, why don’t you like moffat?

Hi, Anon,

Okay, so, this is going to be very long winded as I ramble on and go on tangents like all the time so I'm going to hide it under a read more (I hope it works, I'm on mobile.)

Okay, I've let it be known multiple times that I don't like Moffat, I don't even like his solo episodes during RTD's era and they're the most popular of RTD's era. There are so many things but they mostly boil down to his sexism, his ego, and his poorly written characters. He's very much a Tell, Don't Show, writer and he writes for himself

Now, I'm not saying he's completely terrible, he does have some good episodes. But it's not enough to for me to see past his flaws.

His female characters (excluding Bill because I've only watched two of her episodes) are all written to be very flat and one dimensional, they're often referred to as girls (The Girl in the Fireplace. The Girl Who Waited. The Impossible Girl.) And their entire life revolves around The Doctor like Reinette being a French Princess and very powerful woman, yet left pining for him, Amy dedicating her life to him returning, River being brainwashed to kill him (yet still somehow becoming his wife,) Clara literally being made to save different versions of him. The way he took Queen Elizabeth in the 50th and made her obsessed with marrying The Doctor.

His sexism. There's this one scene I remember during Eleven's run, he's with a monk and he's talking on the phone, the monk asks who's on the other line, and The Doctor says, "A woman." And the monk does the hand to head and chest cross sign, and it's like??????? Haha there's a woman on the phone, women are scary? There's a moment in The Doctor Dances, where Nine realises Nancy is the boy's mother and Moffat just completely looked down on her, judged her for having sex, judged her for being a single parent, acting like she was beyond a terrible person. He introduced a lesbian couple but then had a male character forcibly kiss one of them and made it a joke. The repeated comments on Clara's appearance. The First Doctor's characterisation and comment when there was literally no need to portray him that way. He originally turned down an actress for the role of companion because, "she's a bit wee and dumpy." Whilst commenting on Karen Gillain's legs.

His plots just fall apart, he builds them up to be something big and massive but the resolution is underwhelming. The Silence were built up to be this big thing, but then they're almost completely wiped out by the next episode (The Doctor asking the human race to kill an entire species for him??????? That's the solution you came to????) A repeated moment in that season, "Silence will fall when the question is asked." "The question that's been staring you right in the face the entire time." And the question was, "Doctor Who. Doctor WHO. Doctor. WHO." An entire season of hints for that?????? No. It's bad, Silence didn't fall, it wasn't a question, it resulted in nothing (the emphasis on The Doctor's original name always felt wrong to me, that's his birth name but he refuses to use it/go by it and hasn't done for a long time. Why are you putting so much into it?) Amy being pregnant but not pregnant due to being replaced by a Ganger and The Doctor said nothing. The moon is an egg being an anti-abortion allegory and The Doctor refusing to save the life of billions of people because he didn't want to.

The lack of character development, Amy gets kidnapped, becomes aware of it right as she goes into labour so she's just wakes up one day, finds out she's been kidnapped, finds out she's pregnant, is actively in labour, her child gets kidnapped, and she's just like, "WHERE IS MY BABY?" for one episode and that's it. There's no exploring her trauma, there's no coping with it, there's nothing.

There are so many penis jokes and innuendos, there's one scene where a woman walks in and The Doctor is holding a poker that's pointing downwards but then rises upwards. But I'm super ace and I project that onto my faves, so just ignore this point. I'm not uncomfortable with sex (I'm sex positive to those that have it, but neutral towards myself having it) but there's just so many.

The way he just wants to get his hands on every aspect of the show, Clara saving each version of The Doctor, River knowing all versions of The Doctor, Clara being the reason The First Doctor stole that specific TARDIS.

The Fiftieth Anniversary of saving Gallifrey, I was fascinated by the concept of the Fiftieth exploring the Time War, I wanted to see the moment that led to The Doctor wiping out his home. I understand that parts had to be changed because the BBC wouldn't let him have McGann. But saving Gallifrey ruined the emotional impact from moments like The End of the World, "You think it'll last forever, people and cars and concrete, but it won't. One day it's all gone. Even the sky. My planet's gone. It's dead. It burned like the Earth. It's just rocks and dust before its time. There was a war and we lost. I'm a Time Lord. I'm the last of the Time Lords. They're all gone. I'm the only survivor." The emotional impact of taking Rose, a stranger, to see the death of her world because he's suffering and just needs someone else to experience what he's feeling is lost somewhat because Gallifrey is fine and it's all in his head.

Everyone dies, but no they don't. The universe is ending, time itself is unraveling, the big bang is happening again. But no, it's not. I hated how overdramatic it all was, the stakes are so high all the time and yet, they're not. I know this isn't exclusive to Moffat (look at RTD's S3 and 4 finales) but it felt so much more prevalent with him.

This ramble has gone on long enough and I still feel like I could say more, but I'll stop now, and I can say more another time.

I know Moffat improves over time the middle of Eleven's run is nothing compared to the end of Twelve's run. I follow several Moffat enjoyers and I can see why it appeals to them, his characterisation improved, his plots weren't as underwhelming, he got more consistent.

I tried to rewatch it during 2020. He has some good episodes, but Moffat isn't for me. I can see why other people enjoy him, but I don't and I won't.

[kuromi-hoemie]

worst part of picking up a new physical craft is not knowing what the FUCK the names are of some of the pieces and where u can get them

[cowsaresushi-coral]

got his ass. (P-1, not P-2. Again, spoiler embargo (for the recent update) until Thursday/Friday) 👍

Got to P-rank 4-2 (sweats), 5-3 (sweats less), Gabe2 (<3). One per layer!

I had a harder time with FP, though that’s more of skill issue, and not knowing how he works in the first place. Pinos I already knew how to beat (still beat my ass plenty. The majority of those restarts are him. Haha P-ranking, you’re funny. ...Someday~) because of speedruns. More or less.

[dbphantom]

[checks which chapter was just adapted] but I want gear 5 to be animated nooooow

Wailing sobbing sliding across my desk like a pathetic little slime

[becca-alexa]

i understand the technological gap between generations but at what point does that gap just turn into incompetence

[maraczeks]

+

[lizzy-bonnet]

Working in the yarn shop on Sundays, I have a group of regulars who come in specifically then for my advice on their knitting projects and over the years I've gotten to know a lot about them - their ailments and their spouses and their children and their careers and their mothers are all things they find themselves telling me about over the course of trying to bring forth a knitted piece. Most of them are women, most of them are over 50, and most of them have been through a lot and are trying to reclaim something for themselves through the act of creation. A while back, one of these older women opened up to me about how when she first came to this country it was just her and her daughter and they were so happy until her husband joined them, when he promptly began making her miserable. Now, decades later, all her children live far away, she spends all her time taking the husband to dialysis, her sciatic is bad and she may need heart surgery (who will take care of her, I find myself wondering), and she comes to see me once a month or so to talk about a new project and tells me it is the only thing she does for herself.

Today she came in with a smile on her face and delightedly introduced me to her son, who will soon move closer to home with his family. Then she says, as if commenting on the weather, that on Friday her husband died, and tomorrow they will hold the funeral. For a second I had tonal whiplash from the conversation and then I realized, oh, you're unburdened now. Like the relief in her face and her body were palpable. The son shows a picture of a cardigan to me and asks if it can be knitted, and we pick out yarn and a pattern. She's so excited to make it for him. She beams when she looks at him; he is tall and handsome and polite, and wants to wear something she made for him. She is proud of this man she raised.

It just made me think of the many, many women who come from cultures where leaving a crappy spouse isn't an option so they shuttle along doing their best and trying to find some beauty and joy in whatever way they can. Kids may not visit often because their spouse isn't welcoming or there is bad blood, so they are lonely. I remind her, we have our social group. She hasn't come to it much before because she is always taking him to dialysis, but now she says she will come often and meet the other women. Many of them are like her, but in the craft they find companionship that has been absent for so much of their lives. I hope there will be renewal for this dear lady and that she can learn more about herself and what brings her joy.