you don’t talk too much. you aren’t too loud. you aren’t too needy. you aren’t too sensitive. you aren’t too this, or that. you aren’t too much anything. you will never be too much: you are you, and you are allowed to take up space. you are allowed to exist however you choose.

I love you so much and I’m so sorry we got together really is the most painful character arc.

I now have a Ko-fi page! If you like my work and want to support it- OR would like to talk to me about custom commissions, please click the link! I plan on having some bonus original work, time lapses and some other work on here as well, but we are just in the beginning stages as of now.

Please don’t feel pressured to give. If you can, lovely, but I’ll be making art and such either way 🥰

I hope black girls with depression have a good day today.

I hope black girls with Anxiety have a great day today

I hope my black girls with schizophrenia and bipolar disorder have a great day

i hope my black girls w personality disorders and PTSD have a good day today

I hope black girls with ADHD and/or autism have a good day

I hope black girls suffering from chronic pain have a good day

I hope black girls with self image issues , and low self esteem have a great day .

I hope black girls with terminal illnesses are having an amazing day

I hope black girls have an incredible day

I hope Black Girls w dark skin have a phenomenal day✨️

i hope black girls w anger issues have a spectacular day <3

oh forgot to post this. have a lil scully drawing <3

He's telling her about the squishy rock conspiracy

“Oh, Archivist.”

It’s finished! Nikola Orsinov kidnapping Jon sent me spiraling so I had to paint it. The horrors he endures😵‍💫🥺 poor Jon. I don’t think the creators meant to have the wax figures melting but that’s how it is in my head

Detail below:

Langly, from the X-Files. Watercolour on paper.

🦀 Kudos Crab 🦀

If you are scrolling and see Kudos Crab, your fics will be blessed!

You will get good comments and kudos!

You will beat your writers block!

GO AND WRITE!

crab kudos rave

first image is of a tiny crab holding up a pin with the word KUDOS next to the AO3 logo. second image described in alt text

You know, as much as I hate it here sometimes, I’m glad that if I ask for a fic rec, at least it will be completely diverse and not just the same 6 people who write everything in this fandom, it seems.

However, over here it seems people are more concerned about the reboot than the other site so being on both sites is very draining.

free my girl the fandom is mischaracterizing her based off of a prominent facet of her character and is making her one dimensional and refusing to acknowledge the other facets of her character so they can categorize her into a box

OctoberFicFest Day 4: Compliment (inktober prompt)

(yeah, we’re still in the cabin.  I’m really into this cabin.  Follow up for day 2)

Scully took the biscuits out of the oven and slid them onto the cooling rack.  Mulder picked one up immediately, breaking off bits that steamed as he popped them into his mouth.

“You’re too old for me to warn you to be careful,” she said.

“I hope that’s never true,” he told her.  “They’re too good not to dive right in.”

“No seven-year waiting period?” she teased.

“I would have dove into you any day, Scully,” he said, wrapping his arms around her again.  His stubble rasped against her neck as he kissed her ear.

“That is much appreciated,” she said, moving her body against his, “although not entirely grammatical.”

“These are much appreciated,” he said, reaching for another biscuit as she divided the eggs and bacon between two plates.  He got the jam and more butter from the fridge.  She still hesitated sometimes, reaching for things like butter and bacon, but between the frost in the air and hiking the boundary and chopping wood, she needed the calories these days.  They both ate hungrily.

“You’re a good cook, Scully,” he said as he sopped up the last of his egg yolk with the remnant of a biscuit.

“Thank you,” she said.

“How did I not know that years ago?” he asked.

“Maybe you’re not the hotshot investigator you think you are,” she teased.

He pretended to consider it.  “I don’t think that’s it.”

“We never cooked in DC,” she said.  “There wasn’t time.”  She had cooked for herself from time to time, when she needed the solace of her mother’s meatloaf, her great-aunt’s colcannon, Missy’s favorite peanut butter cookies, but all the recipes she loved were scaled for a family, and she had always tired of the leftovers before she finished them.  She had given up: it was too depressing to force herself to eat the things she loved.

“I’m glad I know now,” he said.  

She looked at him across the table: his warm eyes, his lips glossy with butter, his hair still disheveled from sleep.  Here they were, eating her mother’s biscuits, and Maggie Scully had learned them from her mother, and she from hers.  How many biscuit recipes had risen in the oven of this cabin?  How many biscuit recipes had crossed these mountains?  How many had drifted on the wind past the trees that became the boards that her feet glided across?  Why did she feel connected to everything here, in the middle of nowhere?  

“I’ll do the dishes,” Mulder said, gathering them up.  Maybe he felt it too, the tug and release of history.  She loved him just the way he was and was grateful for the shift in him, the way he cared for her and the space they shared.  

“Thanks,” she said.

“Only fair,” he said.  “One of these days I’ll teach you to make latkes, Scully.”

More traditions.  More stories, more families.  More points of light in the dark, flickering but brave.  She wrapped her hands around her coffee mug (local pottery, clay from time immemorial shaped by hands that had learned from artisans who had worked the same way for generations uncounted) and drank deeply while Mulder ran hot water in the sink and the lavender lemon scent of their dish soap mingled with the scent of breakfast and the woodsmoke of the embers.  Grace notes, she thought, in a life somehow filled with grace.