#they did their best with the localization. they did their best

[covetyou]

solstice

ao3 ⋆ main masterlist

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader  rating: Explicit (18+ only!)  warnings: smut (PiV), competency kink, grumpy/sunshine, he falls first, yearning, angst, almost enemies to lovers, Tommy being a little shit, no use of y/n, Jackson!Joel word count: 4k  summary: Three little words. Joel heard those same three words damn near every day for the last seven months. Most days, they were the only words you said to him. Sometimes, if he was lucky, you'd say them more than once. Other days, you didn't say anything to him at all. He liked those days least of all.

A/N: happy holidays @trulybetty! thank you for being so lovely about this being a little late. I was only going to go for one or two of your prompts for the @pedrostories secret santa, but then my brain went why not all of them, and now here we are. 

divider by @saradika-graphics

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Three little words.

"I got it."

Joel heard those same three words damn near every day for the last seven months. Most days, they were the only words you said to him. Sometimes, if he was lucky, you'd say them more than once. Other days, you didn't say anything to him at all. He liked those days the least.

You said other things too, of course. He heard you speak to other people. Not always nicely, but he heard you. You said more to him on occasion too. Out my way or put it down were some particular favorites, but none said more so than those three, tiny, little words.

I got it.

Because you did. He had never met a woman who had got it more than you. Strong, capable, and everything he ever tried to be. He watched every day how you'd got it. Climbing up ladders with tiles stacked on your shoulder, hauling wheelbarrows full of gravel, chopping wood in bitter wind and cold. You had it, and he watched, wanting it too.

The only problem was, he wasn't too sure what it was.

To begin with, it was the respect you commanded that he yearned for. He had that, once. Not here. Fuck, never here. The people here would barely look at him for the first few weeks. But you? They listened to you. If you said move they listened, even if it was with a roll of their eyes. If you told someone to fuck off to medical, they went without a grumble. They trusted you. Even if you weren't particularly generous with your smiles.

You were the exact opposite of what Joel was finding he had to be.

In Boston, people feared him, and that kept him, and Tess, safe. It was for the best. The people here feared him too, at first. Maybe even still now, if he was to be honest with himself, but he'd worked hard to change that. He met the mumbled good mornings with as much of a smile as he could muster. He went for drinks with his brother, made small talk with the locals even when he didn't want to. He tried to get into Maria's good graces, but never quite succeeded.

And he worked. With you mostly. Jackson didn't have much use for hired muscle or someone who could smuggle shit discreetly - not outside of the daily patrol shifts they wouldn't let him on yet, anyway - but they did have use for contractors. Plumbers, electricians, carpenters, anyone who was good at doing shit with their hands. Those were things that had value behind these walls and, luckily for him, that meant he had value too. For the first time in a long time, he meant something to people.

Just not to you.

As much as he smiled, and made small talk, and helped out fixing shit in this place that was now his home, he could never get through to you. He'd try to help you out, only to be knocked aside - sometimes literally. You barely looked at him. Spoke only when necessary. Once, you'd even told him to fuck off.

He did.

At first he took it all personally. He moped, and kept his sour mood hidden from his brother and Ellie. Then, he saw how you were with, well, just about everyone else, and that lessened the sting.

But, as time wore on, Joel saw other things too. Where at first you'd seemed rude and abrasive, he now saw the kindness and compassion you treated everyone with. If you told someone to go the fuck home, it wasn't because you wanted them gone it was because you wanted them rested. If you let people struggle, strike their thumbs with a badly aimed hit of a hammer, it was to help them learn. You never did let anyone make the same mistake twice. And, because of you, no one did.

It was with the waning of spring that his desire to be you changed into something different and entirely more confusing.

As the gardens and trees exploded in the frenzy of summer, you shed your layers. Literally, not figuratively. You still stayed firmly closed up as your jacket disappeared and made way for a shirt hung loosely about your shoulders. Then, even that found its way around your waist and Joel had to come face to face with the bare, strong expanse of your back while you worked in nothing but a tank top, the patch of sweat at the small of your back blooming while he watched.

It was for the best that he didn't think about what you looked like walking towards him during those relentlessly hot months, with nothing but a thin tank top pulled across your chest. It wasn't something he should think about in public, anyway. It was something he kept for late at night, when those three little words echoed around his head and you showed him just how much you really, truly got it.

By October, Tommy had caught on. Your jacket was fastened back around you, and you were as hostile as ever. You breezed past him one morning, hooking a ladder over one shoulder, toolbag gripped in your other hand.

"I got it."

By now, Joel knew you did.

By now, he wanted to come with you anyway.

So he did, grabbing his own set of salvaged tools and heading up to the latest reno with you, only to have you square up to him the second you saw him.

"I said, I got it."

Five words. It was a good day.

So good, that he couldn't keep his eyes off you in the Tipsy Bison that night. You weren't in here often - from what he could tell, you didn't do much outside of work - but the people who shared your company seemed to enjoy it. You sat soft and quiet in the corner, listening in to their conversation more often than you contributed. But, when you did, they laughed, and Joel caught himself smiling, and Tommy caught him too.

"Never thought you'd be more of a ray of fuckin' sunshine than anyone else, but there's a first for everythin', I guess," he'd said, tilting his glass to the table in the corner where you sat. 

Joel took a swig of the last fresh cider of the season and shrugged.

"You got an eye for her."  

He sputtered, choking on the tart, sweet liquid. "No I ain't."

"Well you got somethin'," said Tommy, clinking his glass against Joel's own. "If it ain't an eye it's your-" 

A harsh kick, and a grunt loud enough to turn every head in the bar later, and Tommy dropped it entirely.

For about a week.

Tommy ribbed him at dinner, drinks, lunch and just about every time in between. Called Joel 'Sunshine' even as he scowled. Asked about his girl as if you were anything other than a person who hated him. Slung his arm around Joel's shoulder and told him all about the birds and the bees, as if he'd ever forgotten.

He couldn't forget. Not with you running around barking at him and keeping him in a seemingly permanent state of arousal. If it wasn't your voice and that angry way you talked at him, it was just about anything else. He couldn't escape it.

It was how you did everything he could do, and more. What he had in strength, you had in technique. Your hands - fuck, did he watch your hands - were rarely unblemished with dirt or scrapes, but they were adept at everything you put them to. He couldn't look away, even if he knew each minute he looked was a minute quicker he'd be when he touched himself to the thought of you later that night.

The taunts stopped with the first snowfall.

"If you're really that interested, should talk to her," Tommy said instead. "Bark's worse than her bite."

"You're still sayin' she bites, though."

"Sure she would if you asked nice enough, brother."

Joel didn't ask.

He didn't ask the morning he woke up early to see the town blanketed in thick snow either. He simply went out, picked up a snow shovel and began working until the sun came up. He didn't expect to find you at his door that evening, or for you to grab him and throw him outside, pushing him up against the side of his own house.

"What do you think you're playing at, Miller?" you growled up at him, pushing him firmly against the siding.

Joel stared, dumb-founded, your hands curled in the front of his shirt - touching him - and blinked down at you.

"I don't give a shit who you are or what you've done out there. I am not scared of you and I am not having you take my job."

You ignored him more after that. Days went by with barely a word to him - not even a scowl thrown his way if he made too much noise or offered to help someone out on a job.

As for him, he couldn't stop thinking about it. Every day for weeks that night played through his head, memory of the feel of your hands on his chest and your face so close he could feel your breath, until Christmas was on the horizon and a pit of fear began stirring in his stomach. You were a balm to it, somehow. Something to focus on when the fear got too much and kept him inside, away from the crowds of happy people.

Every single I got it was more of a comfort than the last. It could have been the familiarity of it, or the way those words came softer and softer as the season wore on. Sometimes he'd head by the workshop to ask if you needed a hand, just to hear that soft rejection one more time.

Until late one cold afternoon, it didn't come. You were alone, blowing warm air onto gloved hands, and when he asked you simply nodded, and he followed.

You worked together in silence until the sun set, when you turned to him as you parted ways.

"S'hard this time of year, but joy and grief can exist at the same time, y'know."

He didn't go to the Bison that night. Or the next. He let the grief crack open his chest instead, and let it pour out over his bedroom floor for two whole days.

On the third, he let the joy back in. Ellie reeled off new jokes from a book she found in the Jackson library. He held his nephew and rocked the teething babe to sleep. He went back to the Bison - you weren't there - and celebrated the impending holiday.

Seven months, three days, and about as many hourssince he stepped foot back in Jackson. Damn near every day he's heard those three little words, and he'll be damned if he goes another without them.

With the day as short as it could ever be, the sun tracking low in the sky, he finds you.

"I got it," you say softly, when he asks you that very same question he always does.

"I know."

He doesn't know how your lips end up on his - because it is you who kisses him. He doesn't know how his fingers find themselves under your shirt either, the coldness of them making you gasp into his mouth until you're pulling apart, both wide eyed.

He does know you taste like fruit, even in the dead of winter. He always suspected it - knew your sweet tooth by the berries you couldn't resist and the sweet treats gifted to you. He knows your fingers are as cold as his when you hand him a shovel.

He does know, even though you got it, you let him help anyway.

You clear streets and roofs of snow together until the sun goes down. He follows at your heel in the dark, cold biting through your layers as you both stomp the snow off your boots, shovels thrown down, workshop locked up. You barely even look at each other until you're staring through the fog of your own heavy breaths on Joel's front porch. He doesn't know how to welcome you in - he never was too good with words - so he simply unlocks the door and pushes it open.

You step inside.

Layers are shed before the door even closes. Heavy coats dumped on the couch, boots toed off and left this way and that. The hat on your head stuffed in a pocket - he can't remember which.

You move upstairs - worked on this house, you say - and pull him into his own bedroom before his lips even touch yours again. But when they do, they do. Joel's frantic with it, feeling the softness of you so close to the hardness of him. His hands hold your waist, rooting you to him, but then you're moving them up and under your shirt to the flair of your ribcage. The curve of your breasts fit perfectly against the cradle of his thumb and forefinger, and he thinks of everything his hands have done, this is what they were made for.

It must be. When you whine at the feel of this thumb stroking across your pebbled nipple, he thinks for the first time in a long time that maybe his hands aren't so monstrous if they can pull such pretty noises from you.

In fact, the things they've done don't seem to matter at all when he gets to touch you, to pull sounds from you so sweet he'll be tasting you on his tongue all over again just from the memory of them. For all the harm these hands have done, they could never hurt you. You would never let them. You'd tear him apart first.

And he'd let you.

You swallow his groan when you palm his length over his jeans. He stiffens beneath your touch, warm and firm, and grinds into your hand. It's been so long since he's felt the touch of anyone other than himself. He could come just grinding himself against the firm press of your hand against him, if he thought about it too hard.

So he doesn't. He focuses instead on the soft plink plink plink as you run a nail up his ice cold zipper, the way you bite his lip, tangle your fingers in his hair.

He tries to take off his own belt, cold fingers fumbling against even colder metal, but you mumble I got it into his mouth, and his knees quiver.

You do. You always do.

His belt is pulled off and you're tugging him by the loops of his pants and pushing him against his own bed, the sheets still rumpled from the morning. You slip off your own and toss it to the side too, tangling it with his on his bedroom floor. Then, you're so very close to him again, his thigh between your legs as you nip and suckle on his bottom lip. He holds you close - one hand finding its way under your shirt again, cupping your breast fully this time, and the other pulling you firmly against his strong thigh.

You warm his thigh with the burning heat between your legs, grinding yourself against him, the seam of your jeans pulling tight against you. Moans you were pulling from him a moment ago are silenced by your own, your nails digging crescents into his arm as you burrow your face into his neck in an attempt to stifle them.

You're better than he ever dreamed. Softer. Warmer. Stronger. The sounds you make so much prettier than he ever thought. Those three little words so much sweeter within these walls than any other.

Even when you strip off layer after layer, it's better than he dreamed. Summer was barely a taste of you, he realises, when your shirt, your tank, your soft bra, all tumble to the floor and you climb onto the bed behind him.

You kick your jeans off, and he pulls his down too. He can't get his shirt off quick enough, the scars on his body forgotten as he strips bare for you as you watch, lust barely turning to curiousity as you take in the sight of his body.

"Come here," you tell him, and he obeys. You're softer with him when he lies beside you then. Grasping hands turn to gentle strokes, his own hands on your bare flesh mimicking your gentle movements across his skin.

When your hand trails down to his cock, squeezing once again when you feel him throb in your palm, he has to pinch his eyes closed and pretend he's anywhere but here.

"Been a long time," he says through gritted teeth. "Long, long time."

Me too, he thinks he hears you whisper before your lips latch to his again and his soft, worn boxers are slipped down his legs, kicked to the side, forgotten.

You don't look at him, and for that he's grateful. He's less grateful when you start to play with your own nipples and toy with the edge of your panties. He presses a kiss to your shoulder instead, hiding his face against you and breathing you in.

When he opens his eyes again, your panties are off, thighs spread, one hooked lazily over his own, the other stretched out on his sheets.

"Don't have to," you mumble, when he looks down at you, stunned look obvious on his face.

"I want to."

He touches you and you let him. His hands run all over your body, rough, calloused palms dragging across your soft belly, your hips, your thighs. He's dreamed of this, and still it's better than his wildest fantasies.

When your hand wraps around his bare cock, pumping his length once, twice, he thinks that's better than any fantasy too. You practically drag him by the cock, tugging gently to pull him towards you until he's kneeling between your thighs. You lazily stroke him, swiping precum across his tip and making him jerk in your grip. His own hands play with your thighs, massaging and squeezing them, drawing his fingers closer and closer to your apex.

Seven months, three days, and twenty-something hours since he stepped back into Jackson, he slips into you for the first time.

And, fuck, is it divine.

You're slick, and wet, his cock gliding across your skin before he pushes into you, and you both gasp.

He's slow. He trembles. His fingers make dents in your thighs as he grips them. You shuffle your hips, make yourself comfortable, and he holds steady while you adjust to the intrusion. Then, you pull him in, grabbing him by the neck to steal a kiss while he makes space for himself deep inside you, rocking each tentative inch into you until he's rooted inside.

You adjust - let the tenseness in your core release - and he barely holds on. And, just when he thinks he's got a hold of himself and begins fucking you in slow, languid movements, your hand moves and you say those three little words.

"I got it."

For the first ever time, he stops you. His hand pins yours to your hip, his movements stilling as you frown up at him, a threat on the tip of your tongue. So, he begs.

"Let me. Please."

And you do. He slowly swipes a spit slicked thumb against your clit, and watches as you melt into his sheets. By the look of you, the pure relief on your face, he thinks this could be the first time you've ever truly let go, and his ego soars.

It soars again when your legs tremble, rocking his thick cock in you as his thumb works slowly over your clit. You moan his name, and he groans too. He can't keep it back. It's the first time he's ever heard you say it, and he doesn't think it could sound better. Your eyes find his when you say his name again, testing him, only to pull another groan deep from his chest.

A small nod is all you give him as a sign you want more. His thumb moves quicker, popped into his mouth to taste you just for a moment before it swipes around your cunt where you grip him, and back up to your clit.

You come on him, face turned into his sheets, brow furrowed, mouth open as you moan and shake, trembling and pulsating on his cock as you come.

For you, he keeps going. Let's you ride out the waves, fluttering against him, as he barely holds back from the brink himself.

If this is all he gets - if you push him off and walk away now - it would be a good day, he thinks. But you don't. He doesn't even get chance to ask if you want him gone when you're pulling him down, kissing him, rocking your hips against him and murmuring against his throat for him to fuck you.

So, he does.

It feels sloppy, and awkward, his hips not quite knowing how to move any more as he snaps them against yours.

"Don't stop," you whisper to him with a scrape of your teeth against his shoulder. "Don't stop."

He's never been able to disobey you, he realizes. He's never had reason let alone want to. Even now, he does as he's told, keeps fucking forward into you, mattress squeaking and bed rocking as he finally, finally, finds his rhythm.

It's easy then. You spur him on, grip him tight, wrap your legs around his waist. He grunts, growls, can barely stop himself from panting, looking down at you and how you stare back at him and he thinks fuck, this is what it's like to be trusted by you.

With a sudden gasp, he pulls out, slipping from your wet heat to rut against your sopping cunt until he's spurting ropes of come against your mound and belly.

He apologizes, tries to admonish himself for being so quick. You tell him to shut up, hitting his shoulder. He does.

You both sigh in the afterglow. Even in the before, he never had times like this, he doesn't think. It was always frantic, too quick, too drunk, too fumbling. In the after, he could never quite relax enough to enjoy it fully. In the now, it's just about the best he's ever had.

You're still covered in him. Your fingers play idly in it on your belly, and he glows. He'd trace patterns with it over your skin, if only you'd let him. But then, you're up and gone, and he fears you're gone for good until you waltz back in and throw yourself next to him, mess cleaned from your skin as you stretch and yawn beside him.

"I aint tryin' to take your job, y'know," Joel tells you some time later, when the afterglow wanes and sleep pulls at him.

"Right."

He looks to you, the roll of your eyes and tug of a disbelieving smile on your lips visible in the glow of the bedside lamp.

"I promise. I'm just tryin' to... be some place."

You're still. And silent. He thinks he's fucked up for all of one second, until you're smiling sadly up at the ceiling.

"I get that," you say softly. "This is a nice place to be, all things considered."

And, though he thinks he knows what you mean, Yes, he thinks, this is a nice place to be.

This is a good day.

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[yanderedrabbles]

Yandere Christmas Special

Christmas festivities featuring your local kidnappers Yandere! Soldier and Yandere! Sugar Daddy.

Yandere! Soldier who spends all Christmas morning at mass. And when he comes home, snow thick on his uniform, he smells like incense.

"Come see. I've brought you something."

There's a bottle of strong vodka and a frosted fruitcake waiting for you on the counter. You watch him unwrap the cake, your mind wandering to your family, to Christmas mornings when you were still an angsty teen. Did they think you were dead by now? Were they still looking for you?

He cuts a thick slice and holds it to your lips. It's sweet and dense and leaves your mouth sticky.

Yandere! Soldier who tilts your chin towards him and casually runs his thumb across your bottom lip to catch any stray crumbs.

"Let's drink, yeah?"

The vodka is icy cold and bitter. But the taste makes you think of friends and university and late nights when you were too tipsy to stand but oh so warm inside. You throw back more shots than normal, trying to chase the memories.

It's only when he gently pulls the bottle away that you realise you're far past tipsy. You're straight hammered.

You stumble when you stand and he's quick to catch you, one strong arm around your waist.

"You've got no head for drink, моя любовь."

"What does that mean?"

"It means it's time for bed."

You swat at him, irritated. "No. The Russian you used. What does it mean?"

He gently steers you toward the bedroom. "It means my love."

You twist around to face him. "Do you really love me?"

He raises a brow. "Alcohol loosens your tongue, doesn't it?"

He's quiet for a moment, studying you. The flush of your cheeks, the curve of your neck... You're everything he's ever wanted.

"Yes. I really love you. Я клянусь, что да."

I swear I do.

You stand on your toes and kiss him. Cradle his face in your palms and feel the heat of him bleed into you. You're so awfully cold, so awfully lonely. You'll regret it in the morning, but for now you press into him and chase the taste of vodka on his lips.

He pulls away and presses sweet, ticklish kisses against your inner wrist. He can feel your pulse racing.

"я полагаю, это мой рождественский подарок."

I suppose this is my Christmas present.

He grabs your thighs and picks you up. You wrap your arms around his neck, terrified of falling. Your breath ghosts across his neck and your nails dig stinging crescents into his muscles.

He doesn't say it out loud, but it's the best gift he's ever gotten.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy has a tree stacked high with gifts. On Christmas morning, he wakes you up with a kiss and a mug of your favourite hot chocolate, complete with whipped cream and cinnamon sticks.

At first, you assume most of the boxes are just for decoration. There's over a dozen boxes waiting for you - they can't all be gifts, right?

But you should know him better by now. You unwrap present after present, gasping at each one.

A set of custom perfumes from a high fashion brand. Ten different pieces of Tiffany jewellery. A genuine fur coat. Your first pair of Louboutin heels.

Keys to a new car.

You sit in the middle of a treasure trove, struggling to wrap your head around it. He rests his chin on your shoulder and pushes his glasses up his nose.

"Do you like it?"

"Yes! Yes, it's incredible." You turn to face him. "But babe, this must have cost a fortune. I can't accept all of this."

He tilts his head. "Of course you can. I got it all for you."

You're about to argue when he cuts you off. "You said you got me something too?"

You nod and hand him two packages. Your dollar store wrapping paper is glaring cheap next to his.

He unwraps his gifts slowly. The first one is a journal you picked up in a thrift store, weeks before your argument left you trapped with him. Back when you still had your freedom.

You got your artist friend to emboss his name in gold leaf on the front cover. He flips it open to the first page.

To my tech genius boyfriend. This is what we normies call paper. You use it to record all the times your girlfriend is just absolutely incredible, got it? -y/n

He smirks and rubs the page between his fingers.

"I've only heard distant legends of this 'paper'... How fascinating."

You groan. "It seemed funny at the time okay?"

His next gift is a pottery vase, with elegant fluted handles. It's a deep cream with flecks of reddish iron bleeding through. He stares at it, his expression blank.

Your heart drops.

The truth is, you spent months looking for that specific vase. And when you finally found someone willing to sell, the price they named made your jaw drop. You haggled like hell for it. Practically begged the seller on your hands and knees to let you pay it off over a few months. Until this morning, it was a gift you were proud to give him.

But his gifts to you took all morning to unwrap, while all you can offer is a shitty notebook and some amateur pottery. You hate not being able to return his generosity in equal measure. You hate feeling like you're always giving him the short end of the stick. Even now, when you have every reason to hate him, it hurts that you can't spoil him like he does you.

He finally looks up at you, dazed. "This is an original Murazaki. How did you know I wanted one?"

"You mentioned it a few months ago. When we were having dinner together in my apartment."

He puts the vase down carefully.

"You remembered?"

It's your turn to be confused. "Of course? You were really upset about it. You said he was your favourite artist but that you could never find any of his stuff for sale."

He stares at you like he's trying to pick you apart. You look down, embarrassed.

"Look, I'm sorry I didn't get you more gifts. I feel like an ass. Like the world's worst girl-"

He grabs you before you can finish and pulls you flush against him. He buries his face in your hair. He takes a deep breath, like he needs to control himself.

"You remembered."

He kisses your temple and then presses his forehead against yours. His voice is low and loving and just a little shaky.

"Oh y/n, you're the best gift I could ask for."

Bonus: a yandere who only has one thing on his Christmas wishlist - you.

You wake up under his Christmas tree, cold and confused and still groggy from the sleeping pills he slipped you.

Your hands are tied behind your back and there's a cherry red gag in your mouth. You squirm, trying to pull your hands free. The floor is icy against your naked skin. Wait, naked?

You look down, horror clawing it's slow way up your throat. Most of your clothes are gone. And you're almost completely wrapped in ribbon.

Your thighs are held together with an excruciatingly tight bow. Two green rosettes are pinned to the lace of your bra. You can't see it, but there's a cute red bow stuck on your head too.

The door opens and you hear heavy footsteps on the basement stairs. You squirm, increasingly desperate to get loose.

"Wouldcha look at that? Santa brought me exactly what I asked for."

Your kidnapper squats down next to you, his eyes roaming your body. Taking in all the curves and dips. Mapping it out like it's his to explore. He reaches out and tugs at the ribbon tied around your throat.

"My girl all wrapped up under the Christmas tree."

He grabs your chin and tilts your face up towards his. His eyes are dark - the pupils blown out wide with lust, with hunger.

"Merry Christmas baby. I promise it'll be one you never forget.

[madanimalscientist]

Sometimes animals have personalities or behaviour needs you can't work around, too - my parents got a puppy from a responsible breeder, and her health was fine, we were experienced with blue heelers, my mom is really experienced at training dogs....but as Belle got older, it was clear that she was not a good fit for a home with kids. She was just too inherently hyper and her baseline level of neurotic was a lot higher than average, and despite my mom trying so hard and working with her a lot, it just wasn't a good fit. We even worked with a behaviourist about it, and she agreed that Belle needed a home with a different environment, and worked with us to find her a new home. Sometimes stuff like that just doesn't work out, and you have to do your best.

Also sometimes there are people who are not as honest as they should be with an animal's personality, which is a whole other issue. When I was looking for a buddy for Annie, a smaller local rescue flat out lied to me re one of the cats I was interested in. I said I wanted a friendly young cat who would be able to match or at least put up with Annie's high energy levels, and the woman I spoke to said the cat she was fostering would be a great fit. I went to meet the cat and the cat was so skittish and anxious that even other pets moving around in the same household, or a car driving past outside, had her really upset - there's no way that cat would've been happy in my house, but the foster was like "no, no, she's like that all the time, it's normal" and maybe it's normal for that cat, but that was not a cat that would handle sharing space with another cat, and the woman was doing a disservice by acting like it would all smooth out. I did not adopt that cat, or a cat from that rescue, and I was honestly pretty horrified that she was trying to push that cat on me so hard. (The cat also had some health issues that the foster brushed off as "but they're minor" when as someone vet-adjacent, I knew that they were not minor at all and would be $$$ to deal with). I hope that cat found a good, quiet home, but I felt so sorry for her. I went through the RSPCA and got Rogue and it worked out a lot better.

It's important to match the animal to the environment to maximise their wellbeing, and sometimes it works out that what you thought would work didn't, and in that case, the ethical thing is to find an environment that works for the animal. You need to prioritise the welfare of the animal, full stop.

hi! can i ask what's ur opinion on giving pets away? not necessarily because u can't afford to care for em anymore but maybe incompatibility of personalities or maybe lifestyles. is it wrong to give ur pet for adoption if u know someone who's better suited for keeping a pet, like emotionally?

This is going to be controversial, but I support making that choice.

There’s a lot of rhetoric lately around how it’s evil and unethical to rehome your pet if you don’t “need to.” And what that does is prioritize human ideology over the actual animal’s well-being.

Pets that aren’t a good match for your home or pets that aren’t really wanted anymore frequently have lower welfare! When caring for an animal becomes a burden or is forced, people end up resenting them, and that means the animal often doesn’t get all of its needs fulfilled. Even if you’re still feeding it and providing appropriate vet care, how likely are you to provide affection or enrichment to an animal you’re tired of being stuck with?

Lifestyle and personality really matter to making sure a pet is a good fit for a home. A dog that alert-barks at every leaf that moves is probably a bad fit for someone who has a chronic migraine syndrome, and they might not know that until the dog has been in the home for weeks and started to open up. A really feisty kitten that requires a ton of play might not do best in the home of someone older who wanted a quiet lap cat. And while you can you do your best to plan to find a compatible animal, you won’t always know ahead of time what issues might arise.

“Forever home” rhetoric is really, really popular and I think it’s very unfair to the animals it is supposed to support. It started with the backlash of seeing animals abandoned inappropriately, and has been heavily reinforced in the public mind because it’s so frequently used to drive fundraising and support for legislation. The whole “forever home” concept communicates to people that getting an animal is an immutable commitment and that if you can’t keep an animal, it is a personal moral failing. It frames human priorities (we think people who get rid of animals are Evil and Bad and should be shunned) as more important than actual welfare needs for individual animals (are they getting the care they need where they are).

Obviously, I don’t support people dumping animals or just getting fad pets they’ll discard immediately, but there’s so many alternate situations that can arise. Even if it’s just “they got a pet and didn’t know what caring for it would take and didn’t want to care for it so they brought it back, how awful” like… okay, I’d like the person to have done more research before they got a pet, but isn’t it better that the animal now has a second chance to go to better home? Knowing what a commitment requires theoretically can be very different than having to actually follow through regularly, and I’d rather see someone maturely acknowledge that having an animal isn’t a good fit than keep it anyway!!

If animals being happy and with all their biological, veterinary, and social needs fulfilled is actually the goal, we need to prioritize their welfare over human opinion. I’d much rather see an animal rehomed responsibly to somewhere it will thrive and be welcomed than see people keep animals they can’t/don’t want to care for out of guilt or shame. 

[kyri45]

I'm making this post since there's an italian idiom "a Natale, siamo tutti più buoni" (during Christmas, we are all more good) and while I prefer to keep this blog for only my art, today is a day where most of us can do something good, even if small.

If you, just like me and many lucky others, are able to spend this Christmas at home, with warm food and a place to call home, please take a moment to help, spread awareness, or even just think about those who can't.

These are some sources I wish just to spread, because I know it can be overwhelming to wanting to help in some ways, but don't know how or who, or even if the source asking is attendible.

el-shab-hussein and nabulsi's spreadsheet is, I think the most known one for vetted fundraisers.

gazafunds.com has one highlighted campaign you can donate to if you don't know which one you should or want donate to.

Operation Olive Branch’s spreadsheet also has other links with alternative ways to help, including donating directly to the municipality, to family shops, and other resources as well.

Here's some of the people (listed) that you can help today:

@suad-khaled (line 279) gofund

"Can you imagine being stripped of safety at the happiest moment of your life? I’m Suad, a young mother from Gaza, where I gave birth to my son Khaled amidst the chaos of w@r. I urgently need your support to secure shelter and medical care for Khaled. You can be part of our story, as every bit of help makes a real difference."

Suad Alkurdi (line 55) gofund

"My name is Souad Al-Kurdi, I am 32 years old, from northern Gaza. I have three children, Wissam, Karim, and Adam. My husband is diabetic and does not take insulin doses and treatment due to their lack of availability in Gaza. My children suffer from diseases due to pollution and malnutrition. We need money to travel to Egypt and build the future of our children there. Travel requires $9,000 per person, and this needs your support."

Jehad Abuhamda's relatives (line 137) gofund

Hello, my name is Jehad Abuhamda. I’m an American/ Palestinian who is seeking for your support in helping me get my close relatives out into safety. My relative lived a hard life after having is right hand amputated from the remnants of Israeli explosives in a previous war. Despite that, it did not hinder him from working in order to provide for his family. But now that he has lost his home, and with the worsening living conditions, He has decided that it is best to leave for the sake of his children.

Of course, be sure to check your local organizations to help those in need of shelter and food, especially if you live in a very cold area!

And remember that if you can't donate, you can always share AND boycott!

Also if I need to edit anything in this post, just let me know.

[sheepispink]

Milkin’ and Cookin’ ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི part 3 of Sweet as Sugar (bakery!au, simon x reader)

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ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི Summary: Ghost— or well, Simon— notices how much you seem to dread your upcoming trip to the local farm. You seem to hate the idea of driving alone, especially with that rickety car of yours.He never thought he’d say it himself, but, one day off work wouldnt hurt, right?

A/N: (British)english glossary: Boot means the trunk of a car for all you americans. This chapter is actually so British it’s funny

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You always dreaded these trips; it took far too long to get to that farm, and even though you loved to see the sheep there, it was a painfully long drive with all the harsh bumps and the like. Your car wasn't made for that, though you wouldn't dare complain much, knowing that your parents wouldn’t be able to afford those expensive cars made for the bumpiest land of Wales. Even so, it was your turn to pick up the fresh produce that made your bakery so popular in the first place.

“It’s just.. really far, and it always seems to rain whenever I go.” You complain to Simon as he nurses a cup of tea in the empty shop, not quite off duty for another two weeks, but he somehow finds time, to come by anyway. It’s empty since it’s near closing time but you didn't need to kick him out when all he was doing was keeping you company as you wiped up a coffee stain from the table.

“How far is it?” He asks, his gruff voice a sheer contrast to your lighter one, almost like smog covering the air.

“It's a two hour drive, but it’s worth it; they have some of the best eggs and quality milk around.” You hum, not thinking twice before you grab a tissue and hand it to him, letting him wipe the small crumbs from his typical order. Despite how he refused to take it off in front of his fellow soldiers, who knew him for way longer than you have, he always pushed his mask up to his nose around you, even if it looked a little silly sometimes and he almost caught you giggling. His lips were scarred, not that you looked at it that often, in a way that looked dehydrated, but you had a feeling it was for a different reason. You could see another scar peeking near his cheek, but it never really showed properly, and you promised yourself you’d try not to stare when he did reveal his face every now and then.

His body was a different story, though; you were shivering and he’d still roll his sleeves up, a few tattoos sneaking past his elbow but not quite yet. He confessed he planned to get a whole sleeve, but a mission came up suddenly, and healing tattoos never went well with that. “When’re you heading down anyway?” He says, dabbing at the crumbs on his lips before finally pulling down his mask once more. “Thursday. We’ll have to close the shop on Friday so we can restock.” He nods thoughtfully before eventually standing, and you grab the cup before he can even place it on the counter, heart freezing for a moment when your fingers brush. “I’ll take that. Back to duty?” He nods in return, slipping his leather gloves back on again and picking up his jacket from the chair. “Training, debriefs, the usual.” He leaves a tip at the table, something you’ve insisted he doesn't have to do, but he says it’s for his ‘overtime’ at your cafe. Besides, the last time you ran after him to give him the money back, he had already disappeared down the street, unable to be found again.

It’s Thursday morning, and you’ve dragged yourself out of bed at five am to allow enough time to get ready and start packing your car with crates, making sure you’ve counted it many times for the right amount for all the usual produce. As you told Simon before, you weren't exactly anticipating this ride, but it was what had to be done, even if you’re half awake. Well, at least the roads are empty. Closing the boot door, your hands clasp over your mouth, essentially muffling your own scream when you realise the masked figure that was ominously standing there was actually the Lieutenant himself as he steps into the porch light. “..Sorry, didn’t mean to scare ya” His voice is visibly awkward for once, eyes glancing elsewhere, and you laugh nervously, still recovering from a pounding heart. “It’s.. fine. Almost thought I'd get robbed, just um.. say hi next time?” You watch him nod quickly in return, his hands shoving into the pockets of his jeans. Oddly casual.

“So why’re you here anyway?” You question, grabbing a few of the groceries and spices the farmer had asked you to bring down for him. After all, he didn't come down to town very often. “You need a lift to your base or somethin’ ?” That makes him chuckle, a cooler bag of seafood in his arms, farmer’s favourite apparently.

“I came to help you.” That causes your eyes to widen in surprise, watching as he easily places it in the back seat before nicking the keys from your pocket. He leaves you standing in confusion whilst he climbs into the driver's seat,the rickety truck starting up with a heavy growl. “This rusty thing is a Land Rover? Hard to believe tha’ “ He mutters gruffly, ignoring the look of offense on your face as you climb up into the passenger seat. “I can drive you know, if you’re gonna keep complaining!” You exclaim, nose wrinkling up as you turn to frown at him. He stifles a chuckle, eyes rolling beneath the mask as he reaches over your body, clicking your seatbelt in for you.

“Don’t bite my arm off now; I'm going, I'm going.”

The drive goes by smoothly, even with only one of his hands on the steering wheel. Only now have you actually looked over him since he terrified you. He’s got a thick jumper on and a zip up hoodie on top of the jeans you noticed earlier. “Starin’ at my bad fashion sense?” He raises an eyebrow at you, and you snicker, relaxing in the seat as you shift your focus more directly over to him. You’re practically curled up on the seat, legs folded on the seat. “No, no, I'm no better either.” He glances over your own worn trousers, covered in straw and muck from your last visit. It was safe to say you both had the right idea, as any nice clothes would’ve likely been ruined by the time you left, if not as soon as you got there. Even so, he can't help but find the sight oddly domestic, a small grin forming beneath the mask at your hair pulled back and the fingerless gloves on your hands. Cute.

It’s ten o’ clock when you arrive due to a large pothole causing you to take another, rockier route. Directing him, he pulls into the small driveway and parks the truck as the farmer exits, a haybale over his shoulder. He looks no older than about fifty three, a wide grin on his face as you step out of the car. “Lass!” He exclaims, the Scottish man patting you so hard on the back you almost cough, and you make a dramatic sigh in return even if you’re unable to hide the grin creeping up.. “Good to see you too, Mr.Wheatley. I’ll put the things in the usual places?” He nods, leaning on a wooden pillar, the paint peeling off already. You head to the backseats, grabbing the crates for him when you suddenly hear a low whistle and what sounds like a large thwack. You turn on your heel, instantly feeling the embarrassment that will soon come as the farmer gives you a smirk, looking between you and Simon, who can only stand there awkwardly as he places down another bag. “Now who is this lad?” He asks, and you carry over the cooler bag, trying to seem unaffected but flushing nonetheless.

Simon can't help but find it adorable how you stand in front of him, almost like trying to shield him from the farmer’s mischief—it’s the same protectiveness you’d expect when someone’s partner is insulted. Except Simon is far larger than you in both height and muscle, and so he doubts anyone would be bold enough to insult him anyway. “He’s a friend of mine who came to help me out.”

”Just a friend?” The farmer raises his brow, tilting his body to peer round you at the masked man still setting up all the things the pair of you brought.

”Take the damn seafood!” You grumble, plopping the heavy cooler bag in his arms as he chuckles, entering the house to leave you alone.

“Mr Wheatley basically runs this farm on his own, ever since his brother passed last year. His wife lives here too, but she doesn't attend to much other than feeding the chickens—she’s actually a writer.” You explain, carrying around one of the crates as you lead Simon to the chicken coop. The air is much fresher here, even if it smells mostly like hay and animal poo, but the point still stands. Ghost nods along to your words, watching as you check the eggs before picking them up before following your same action. “Is that why you collect what you need yourself?” You nod in return, crouching down to pick up a chicken and carefully move it so you could grab another egg.

“That, and for quality checking.” Lifting up the egg to him, you show him the crack running up along the side, about to explain other things you check for when you yelp, falling forward on the dirt and causing the yolk to splash on the icy ground. “Ow!” The culprit stands behind you, clucking as it watches your movements and follows. He has to forcefully stifle his chuckles when you squeal again, desperately shooing the chicken who seems intent on pecking at your butt. “It’s trying to eat me!”

“I don't know; I think he likes you.” You’re met face to face with said chicken when the Lieutenant grabs it, keeping it just a short distance from your face as he teases you. “Simon!” You yelp again, and quickly you scramble back up and out of the chicken coop, the chicken still clucking away in his large hands.

For the next three hours, he follows you around like a lost puppy, which you find rather amusing yourself. He’s never been in a situation this unfamiliar before, and whilst he’d usually take initiative, he’s a bit afraid of accidentally getting you the wrong items. Instead he chose to hold the crates for you, using his strength to support you even when he couldn’t fathom how you milked a cow so easily. “So you have like a 1% chance of killin’ me when I drink yer tea?” He raises an eyebrow as you explain the dangers of unpasteurised milk, knowledge you picked up when you started working more shifts at the bakery. At his question you have to practically stave off the facepalm, shaking your head at his words as you now measure out the amount of milk your bakery will need until the next visit. “We only use fresh milk for our baked goods; this way the oven burns off any excess pathogens.” He probably should’ve guessed that, but it was worth the face you hadn't even known you pulled. “But, if you’re looking for a new way to kill your enemies on the field, I guess unpasteurised milk holds a good chance.”

“I am not throwing milk bombs at anyone.”

That makes you snicker, his grumpy self returning as you poke fun at his job again–only an hour ago you had giggled at the horse poo and asked if that was his duty. Even you know he can't hold it for long, especially when you poke him in the side with that cheeky grin. “I think you’re just scared your cap’ will hire me on the spot.”

You’re walking back to the car, the final crate full and ready to pack when it starts drizzling down, water pattering on the floor around. “Huh.. but I checked the weather forecast this morning..?” Only now had you glanced up at the darkening clouds, a soft frown sporting your face. “You really shouldn't be surprised with British weather.” He says gruffly, placing the final crate into your boot whilst watching the drops fall from the sky onto the concrete below. “Not the worst, but a storm might be brewing up.”

“Get over ‘ere you two, or do ye wanna get soak’d?”

Instinctively, you grab his hand and pull him into the warmth of the farmer’s house. Although the rain is falling so heavily now that it’d be likely impossible to drive home—for the next hour or so at least.

“Sorry..” You sigh, sitting on one side of the table, your hands warmed by the mug of tea you both prepared. He clutched his own, though his gloves protected him from the majority of the cold. Still, you can't help but feel like you inconvenienced him somehow, even if he had insisted on coming himself. “Are you sure this is okay, y'know, for your job?” He just gruffly nods, brown eyes moving to watch how aggressively the water patters against the glass. “I’ll drive us back in the evening. Don't fall asleep on me.” You grin cheekily, crossing your legs as you stand, placing your now empty teacup in the sink. “No promises.”

The banter is cut off when your stomach growls, your hands instinctively clutching it, a sheepish grin forming on your lips. “Didn't eat much for breakfast. Fancy a jacket potato for lunch?” He nods and stands to join you as you reach into the cupboard, pulling out two large potatoes. He takes them from your hands, washing them in the sink whilst you start grating some of the cheese.

“So how’d you know the farmer? I mean, you act close enough to be his niece.” Ghost comments, cutting a cross into the potato, and he can’t help but feel oddly warm at the way you easily fell into a routine.

“When I was about seventeen, I did some work experience here, ‘cause of university applications and stuff. His daughter grew very sick, and with the nearest medical services three hours away, I volunteered to nurse her back to health instead.” His eyes soften as he watches you, the way your eyebrows tug together as you concentrate. “Did you end up going to uni?” You shake your head this time, sliding over the plate of cheese before crouching in front of a cupboard in search of baked beans.

“I knew my parents couldn't afford it, so I didn't bother. The only reason we got the bakery was because the lady who previously owned it had left it in such a pitiful state it was rather cheap.” He pulls. out the steaming potatoes from the microwave, pressing into the potato to open it before fluffing it up with a fork. “Before that it was either working here on the farm or part time at the coffee shop down the road.” He hadn't realised someone as sweet as you could have that hand dealt to them; of course, it could be worse, but still it was different from the stories he usually heard. You grab a knife and spread butter across both of the potatoes, catching him off guard before you load up the baked beans and cheese. “Is that much butter really needed?”

Practically seconds later, he has his mask pulled up to his nose, scarred lips wolfing down the fluffy potato as he grunts. “I could eat this every day, flippin hell.” You laugh, taking a bite out of your own, the warm gooeyness of the cheese and baked beans warming your insides. Probably not the best dish, but definitely not a bad one. Though for him, who's used to eating dehydrated MREs with only the taste of cardboard—it’s practically luxury. “How bad is the military food?” You raise a brow, scooping another spoonful of the beans on his plate when he finishes his share. “Not bad,” The words are muffled by his full mouth, a sharp swallow quickly clearing his throat as he wipes his chin with a napkin. “On base, it’s fine; definitely not a lot of flavour, but it does the job. That’s why your bakery is such a trea’ love. Haven’t had food that tasted that good since Soap hosted a Christmas party.”

“Soap?”

”Member o’ my team.” He nods gruffly, stealing a baked bean off your plate and popping it in his mouth. His arms lean on the table, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the great muscle practically spilling over.He doesn't usually mention things about his work or his friends, so you decide not to pry for now.

Once you finish your plate, he takes the dishes to the sink and begins to wash them, whilst you grab a fresh towel to start drying them off. You tilt your head as you rub the plates with the towel, your mind wandering elsewhere. He’d been so nice to you recently, and all you’d done is give him a free tea a couple of times; you couldn't help but feel as if you should give him something in return. Couldn't you pack a lunch for him? It’d be in a nice container, a healthy sandwich loaded with meat and salad, a smaller version of his typical sausage roll on the side too. For dessert you could give him a muffin, or a little tart and then you couldn't possibly forget a flash of hot tea too. How would his coworkers react? You can almost imagine their faces when he opens it, randomly appearing with a pretty little box. A hand lands on your head, snapping you out of your stifled snickers, as it protects you from a cupboard opening just above you. “What’re you thinkin’ about now?” His voice is laced with suspicion, watching how you look far too amused despite the lack of jokes he’s made. That can only mean you’re up to something. “Nothin’, just thinking about what you’d like for lunch.” He raises a brow at that, but you quickly grab your keys from the table and pull your boots on. “C’mon, i want to get head back before it gets too cold.”

The ride back is quiet, almost silent if not for the soft hum of the radio. You decided to connect your phone to it, not really wanting club hits playing and rather something slower. It’s not awkward, though; more of a comfortable blanket over the pair of you as he drives through the narrow roads. Determined to talk for a bit, you showed him a few of your favourite songs and then some childhood favourites too. He nodded along, even gave you a few he often heard around. Tiredly, your head starts to droop closer and closer against the window, and you almost jump when Ghost lets his hand rest on your knee. “Sleep if you want. You’ve been up since early.”

“You’re always up early, though—how are you never tired?”

He can only shrug, knowing he probably shouldn’t delve into the aftereffects of his missions, even more so down the PTSD route. “Got used to it, I guess. Don't worry about me, okay?” Thankfully, you’re too sleepy to question down that route, asking him whatever tired question meets your mind until you’re quietly snoozing in the chair. It was probably his fault for cranking up the heating in the first place, making you all cosy like that, enough for you to completely fall asleep. He turns the music a little bit higher and finally relaxes his shoulders. He should really hang around you more; he hasn't felt this good in years.

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A/N: please comment ideas for the name of the penguin plush from ch2, he will make a return!!! I was thinking pingu but i wanna involve u guys too.

Taglist:

@bieberismysoulmate @hidden-treasures21

[heyftinally]

I specifically want to elaborate on this part:

Decontextualizing and rephrasing an interview: I am not going to pretend that I am an expert in academic best practices, but I do believe one thing, if a person is speaking on their own identity and lived experience, it is always much better to directly quote than it is to rephrase. As I read this source, I initially didn't know that it was AI, and I was already upset. An interview that is widely available on the internet with no pay wall, was poorly sourced and made more vague than it was in the initial text. By creating one degree of seperation between the original words of A WRITER (whose literal job was largely based in choosing the right words to describe experiences they had) harm is already done. It makes vague what was once clear, and removes Keri Hulme's voice from her own narrative.

As someone who has spent a LOT of time and effort on the nitty-gritty of quoting others in professional documents, I feel like I have a pretty good foundation on which to speak about this.

As a general rule, you want to directly quote the speaker as much as possible.

First and foremost, this is because you don't want to put words in their mouth or misrepresent what they said, as that's dishonest on your part as the interviewer/writer/etc, and harms your credibility. Remember the "Coolsville sucks" meme? Yeah, don't be that person. Quotes should be full and verbatim as much as possible, because anything else presents the possibility that you aren't accurately or fully representing what the speaker said.

The second reason is because when you re-word someone else's quote, you inherently inject your own biases into the new version you create. What that means is, consciously or unconsciously, you are influencing the way readers perceive what was said. This is bad because at best, you're speaking over the person who's quote you re-worded. At worst, you're manipulating your readers to think as you do, regardless of what the original quote said.

When presenting a quote from someone else, your job is to communicate as clearly as possible the speaker's original statement and intention. If giving the direct quote is not possible, careful paraphrasing is vital.

If I say "Sara James then went on to express her dissatisfaction with the pay she received", what would you assume the original quote is?

It could be "Yeah, I found out I was only getting paid ⅓ as much as my costar, even though I have 40% more screen time and I did almost all of my own stunts, so needless to say I'm not happy and I've been talking to my team."

But it could ALSO be "I was surprised when I found out what we were all getting paid. Not to sound like a total nepo baby or anything, but normally the projects I do pay more, y'know? But then I found out that the reason pay was lower for everyone - not just me - was because production was donating a whole bunch of money to the local children's hospital since we filmed in the lot next door. Which I thought was really cool of them! Like, obviously the hospital doesn't get much say in the filming, so I thought it was really cool of production to give back as, like, a thank you. Plus we got to go visit the kids, which was just amazing!"

TECHNICALLY in both of these, you could argue that displeasure about pay IS mentioned - but the specifics of the situation are entirely lost in the oversimplified paraphrasing, and THAT is why changing direct quotes can be dangerous.

So, yeah. I just wanted to elaborate on that particular point because it's one I covered *heavily* while in college. How you quote someone is important.

":')))))))) you realise that gen AI is available to everyone though right??? Queer creators can use it just as much as anyone else??? I just don't understand this post... It really feels like a cheap way to get on the 'AI Bad's bandwagon, and coming from such a thoughtful and insightful creator that's incredibly disappointing... It's okay to not comment on subjects you're not an expert in y'know...?"

Y'all know the drill, I am replying to this publicly but that is not an invitation to send any negative messages to the person I am replying to.

Anyways, let me start by saying that the original context of the post you're replying to is discussing an event where a queer org used generative AI to steal an interview with Keri Hulme. So let's start there. To be clear I don't even know if the original interviewer was queer so let's put the identities of stealer and stolen from to the side. I want to explain the harm done in this example specifically and I hope this is illustrative of what harm generative AI can (and does) do.

The original place I saw generative AI was a queer org that explicitly says they are using generative AI "for good", and as a way to bring more queer history to light. So let's take them at their word, and assume they are not out to cause harm. This is the best example of generative AI that I can imagine, so I hope that makes it clear that I am not coming at this issue from bad faith in any way.

Here is the harm they are causing:

Decontextualizing and rephrasing an interview: I am not going to pretend that I am an expert in academic best practices, but I do believe one thing, if a person is speaking on their own identity and lived experience, it is always much better to directly quote than it is to rephrase. As I read this source, I initially didn't know that it was AI, and I was already upset. An interview that is widely available on the internet with no pay wall, was poorly sourced and made more vague than it was in the initial text. By creating one degree of seperation between the original words of A WRITER (whose literal job was largely based in choosing the right words to describe experiences they had) harm is already done. It makes vague what was once clear, and removes Keri Hulme's voice from her own narrative.

The original interviewer is not paid, or given proper recognition: I get it, sometimes just copy pasting an interview doesn't feel transformative enough, but something that one would learn if they worked in the queer history field and weren't a literal robot rehashing what has already been said, is that not everything needs to be transformed. In those cases, we give credit to the person who said the original words (in this case Keri Hulme), and the interviewer who facillitated the conversation (in this case Shelley Bridgeman). This case (again a best case scenario), takes the attention and byline away from the original interviewer and gives it to an AI.

The original publisher of this story is deinsentivised from paying interviewers in the future: The original publisher of this interview has ads on their website. As a person who also has ads on their website, taking an article like this and rephrasing it for no good reason (the orginal word count was not prohibitive and the rephrasing did not make it more readable), takes money from the publisher. It's pennies, but it's also removing numbers could have been used to justify further interviews with asexual people and archiving of asexual stories. The org that stole from this publication does not interview people themselves so the money and numbers that could have gone to continue to preserve asexual stories goes to stealing them instead.

These are just the active harms that I saw in this specific case. As you said, I am not an expert in generative AI, and will not be speaking as if I am. But I will say that asking me not to speak out on active harm that is being caused in queer history spaces, is disrespectful to my many years in this field.

To illustrate this even clearer: if you were a patron, you would know I recently took down an old article. I have been rereading and editing our backlist of articles, and I found one that no longer fit my standards of sourcing. My standards had recently raised due to a video made by HBomberguy about someone in the queer history space who was stealing from other creators. I watched this video not as a work project, but because I watch most of HBomberguys videos, and this one made me think more critically about sourcing. An AI can't do that. All an AI has is what has been inputted, and it is right now impossible to input every available peice of information about ethics into an AI and get a coherent ethical basis on which it will function.

It is a distinctly human trait to absorb information and change in that way. AI can rephrase information that already exists, steal it, recontextualize it even, but it cannot create something altogether new.

Do I believe that there one day might be an ethical use for Generative AI? Maybe. Do I believe that coming into a queer history space, stealing the words of a Maori asexual author, rephrasing them, and giving the original interviewer and publication no form of compensation for their work, is accomplishing that? No.

On a more personal note: I am coming at this issue with a bias. As a queer history creator, I do not want AI in my space, because it is literally damaging to my financial prospects. It has been like pulling teeth to try and get patrons in the current state of the global economy. I don't blame anyone from that, but I feel very disrespected that I am being asked to compete with a machine now. Not only that, but I am being asked to shut up and be fine with it? No, absolutely not. I cannot and will not stay quiet as space that I have fought tooth and nail to create in mainstream discussions is taken and given to AI.

AI was not supporting me when I was sent gore to try and scare me off of discussing queer history. A person did that. AI was not there to tell me I had written too many sad stories, and I needed some happy endings to remind myself of the good in the world. A person did that. AI was not there when I was being harrassed for supporting and including asexual stories on my website. A person did that.

And after all that, I am being asked to lie down and take it when my ability to pay the people who supported me in those ways, is being threatened. Nope. Not going to happen.

An AI doesn't have to make rent. An AI doesn't understand what it feels like to have to stop holding their wife's hand in public. An AI didn't get calls from people needing comfort in reaction to the election. Pay me for my work, and get this AI nonsense out of my face.

[gpcwsl]

Warnings: Not read through properly, kissing, cheesy.

Leah Williamson x Walsh!Reader: Crossed Lines.

MasterList

Keira Walsh and Leah Williamson had been inseparable since childhood. From kicking a ball around their local park to dominating on the pitch for club and country, they shared a bond that was unbreakable. Leah cherished Keira as a best friend, but there was one secret she kept locked away—her feelings for Keira younger sister, Y/n Walsh.

Y/n had always been in and out of their lives, busy with her own career and ambitions. Though she wasn’t in the football world like Keira and Leah, her visits home were always filled with warmth and laughter. Leah had fallen for Y/n years ago—the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled, her sharp wit, and her unwavering support for Keira and Leah’s football dreams. But Leah had never dared to admit it, not to Keira, and certainly not to Y/n.

One evening, after a hard training session, Keira invited Leah over for a casual family dinner. Leah hesitated but agreed. It had been a while since she’d seen Y/n, and the thought of her made Leah’s heart race in a way she couldn’t quite control.

The Walsh household was lively, as always. Y/n greeted Leah with a warm hug, her familiar scent making Leah’s head spin. Throughout the meal, Leah found herself stealing glances at Y/n, who seemed to catch her eye more than once. Keira, oblivious, was busy recounting training antics, while Y/n quietly observed Leah, a soft smile tugging at her lips.

Later that evening, as Y/n disappeared upstairs to grab some old photographs, Leah found herself alone with Y/n in the cozy living room. The air was charged with a quiet tension.

“You’ve been quiet tonight,” Y/n said, her voice soft as she sat next to Leah on the couch. “Not like you.”

Leah hesitated, her pulse quickening. “Just tired, I guess.”

Y/n tilted her head, studying Leah intently. “You sure that’s all?”

Leah opened her mouth to reply but stopped when she saw the way Y/n was looking at her—curious, almost knowing. The vulnerability Leah had kept hidden threatened to spill over.

“I…” Leah started, then shook her head. “It’s nothing.”

Y/n placed a hand on Leah’s, the touch warm and grounding. “Leah, you’re one of the strongest people I know, but you don’t have to keep everything bottled up. Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

Leah looked into Y/n’s eyes, searching for any sign that this could go wrong. But all she saw was kindness and a flicker of something she couldn’t quite name.

“It’s you,” Leah whispered, barely audible. “It’s always been you.”

Y/n’s breath hitched, her eyes widening slightly before softening. “Leah…”

Before she could say more, the sound of Keira’s footsteps echoed down the hall. Leah pulled her hand away, her heart pounding as Keira entered the room with a stack of photos.

“What did I miss?” Keira asked cheerfully, oblivious to the charged moment she had interrupted.

“Nothing,” Leah and Y/n said in unison, though their shared glance told a different story.

As the night wore on, Leah couldn’t help but wonder if the spark she saw in Y/n eyes was real. Maybe, just maybe, her secret wasn’t so one-sided after all.

A week had passed since that fateful dinner, but Leah couldn’t stop replaying the moment in her head—Y/n’s hand on hers, the way her name sounded on Y/n’s lips, and that fleeting look in her eyes. It was enough to make her hope, but the doubt was just as loud.

One evening, Keira invited Leah over again, this time for a movie night. Leah hesitated, worried about facing Y/n again, but Keira’s persistence was hard to resist.

When Leah arrived, the house was quieter than usual. Keira greeted her with a grin, but before Leah could ask where everyone else was, Keira waved her off.

“Mum’s out with friends, and Y/n’s upstairs. She might join us later,” Keira said, already plopping onto the couch with a bowl of popcorn.

Leah nodded, sitting beside her, but she couldn’t focus on the movie. She was hyperaware of Y/n’s presence just a floor above them. About an hour in, Keira’s phone buzzed, and she groaned.

“It’s Lucy. She’s got some crisis about her boots again,” Keira muttered, standing up. “I’ll be back in a bit. Don’t go anywhere!”

Leah chuckled as Keira disappeared, but the quiet that followed was suffocating. Before she could sink further into her thoughts, she heard footsteps behind her.

Turning, she found Y/n standing in the doorway, her hair loose and a soft cardigan draped over her shoulders.

“Hey,” Y/n said, her voice gentle. “Mind if I join?”

Leah’s heart skipped a beat. “Of course not.”

Y/n sat down beside her, closer than Leah expected, and for a moment, they sat in silence, the movie playing in the background. But Leah wasn’t paying attention. All she could think about was how close Y/n was, the warmth radiating from her body.

“Leah,” Y/n said softly, breaking the silence. “About the other night…”

Leah froze, her stomach flipping. She turned to Y/n, who was already looking at her, her eyes unreadable but intense.

“You caught me off guard,” Y/n continued, her voice steady but laced with something deeper. “But I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.”

Leah’s breath hitched. “I—Y/n, I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t,” Y/n interrupted, her hand finding Leah’s again. “Don’t apologize.”

Leah’s eyes searched Y/n’s face, and what she saw made her chest ache—hope, curiosity, and a vulnerability that mirrored her own.

“Say it again,” Y/n whispered, her voice barely audible.

Leah swallowed hard. “It’s you, Y/n. It’s always been you.”

Y/n’s lips parted, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop. Then, as if pulled by an invisible force, Y/n leaned in, her breath warm against Leah’s skin. Leah closed the distance, their lips meeting in a kiss that was soft and tentative at first, but quickly deepened as the weight of years of unspoken feelings spilled over.

When they finally pulled apart, their foreheads rested against each other, both breathing heavily.

“Y/n,” Leah whispered, her voice trembling.

Y/n smiled, her eyes shining with something Leah had only dreamed of. “I think I’ve been waiting for this just as long as you have.”

Before Leah could respond, Keira’s voice echoed from the hallway. “I’m back! What did I miss?”

They quickly pulled apart, sharing a conspiratorial smile before turning back to the movie. But the spark between them was undeniable, and Leah knew that this was only the beginning.

[sosa2imagines]

Hii, Dad Bucky ask🫶🏼

What would he do with a few months old twins or triplets? And maybe it was mother's day so he wanted to make something really special for reader as it was her first🫶🏼

Hi, thank you so much for this lovely ask. Bucky would absolutely make sure to make Mother's day very special.

Warning- Pure fluff.

The first rays of dawn were peeking through the curtains when Bucky woke up. He turned his head to look at you, still sound asleep, a peaceful expression on your face. For a moment, he stayed still, memorizing the sight.

Today was special. It was your first Mother’s Day, and Bucky was determined to make it perfect.

Bucky slowly sat up, being careful not to wake you up, and smiled to himself, thinking about today and how it would all go. He softly stroked your hair before slowly climbing out of bed, making sure the comforter was wrapped tightly around you and wouldn't wake you up. He quietly walked out of the bedroom, closing the door to make sure that his movements wouldn't wake you up.

The real challenge, however, lay in the next room.

Samuel Steven Barnes and Natalia Anthony Barnes, your beautiful twins, were already awake and babbling in their cribs. Bucky smiled, running a hand through his hair as he prepared for battle. “Alright munchkins...” he whispered. “Let’s do this for Mommy.”

Dressing the twins was no small feat. By the time Samuel squirmed out of his onesie for the third time and Natalia decided to try her best impression of a gymnast, Bucky was sweating. But he persevered, and finally, both babies were dressed in matching outfits that read ‘World’s Best Mom.’

“Mission accomplished!” he muttered, placing them gently in their bouncy seats. “Now for phase two.”

Breakfast wasn’t exactly his forte, Bucky was grateful for the help from Steve, who had dropped off your favorite dishes from a local breakfast diner. Steve also had given Bucky an apron with the slogan, ‘World’s Best Dad, give Me a Kiss, Mom!’ on it. Bucky laughed as he tied the apron, appreciating Steve's humor, and thinking about how you would appreciate the gesture too.

When everything was ready, he returned to your shared bedroom with the twins in his arms. “Doll…” he called softly. “Wake up.”

You stirred, blinking your eyes open to find Bucky standing there, a baby in each arm and a sheepish smile on his face. Your gaze shifted to the twins’ outfits, and tears welled up as you read the words. “Oh, Bucky…”

“They insisted on dressing up for you,” he said with a grin, carefully handing Samuel to you while Natalia remained cradled in his metal arm.

You kissed each twin on the forehead, your heart swelling with love. “You did all this?”

“Of course!” he replied, leaning down to press a kiss to your lips. “But we’re just getting started.”

He led you to the kitchen, where breakfast was waiting. Pancakes, scrambled eggs, and fresh fruit. You raised an eyebrow, and Bucky gave you a sheepish smile.

“Fine, I didn’t make it. But I did make the coffee!” He gestured to the steaming mug sitting on the table, pride evident in his tone.

It was no secret that learning how to use the coffee machine had been a two-month ordeal. You took a sip, smiling up at him. “It’s perfect.”

After breakfast, he handed you a piece of paper. It had the twins’ tiny handprints in bright colors, alongside a handwritten note:

Doll, I know this journey hasn’t always been easy, but you’ve faced every challenge with care, kindness, strength, and so much love. Watching you with our kids has shown me what it truly means to have a family. Thank you for everything you do, for them, for me, for us. I love you more than words can say. —Yours always, Bucky

Tears spilled down your cheeks as you hugged him tightly. “You’re incredible.”

You couldn’t stop admiring the tiny, colorful handprints on the card. You traced the edges of the prints with your fingers, a soft laugh escaping your lips as you glanced at Bucky.

“Okay,” you said, looking at him with a curious smile. “How on earth did you get the twins to do this? I know they don’t sit still for more than two seconds.”

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. “It… uh… wasn’t exactly easy, doll.” He leaned back in his chair, the memory of the ordeal making him chuckle.

“First, I had to find non-toxic paint that they wouldn’t try to eat. That took me, like, a solid hour. I kept hearing Sam’s voice in my head lecturing me about safety.” he added with a smirk. “Then I thought, ‘How hard could it be?’”

You raised an eyebrow, suppressing a laugh. “Famous last words.”

“Exactly.” He shook his head. “I spread out an old sheet in the living room and put them in their high chairs. I figured it would contain the chaos.”

“And?”

“And I was wrong.” he admitted, rolling his eyes at himself. “Sammy decided paint was better on his face than the paper. I turned around for one second, and he had a red handprint right in the middle of his forehead. Talia, on the other hand…” He paused, groaning. “She somehow managed to grab the paint cup and fling it across the room. The wall might still have a little blue on it.”

You burst out laughing, clutching your stomach. “Oh my god, Bucky!”

“Yeah, laugh it up,” he said with a mock glare, though his lips twitched in amusement. “By the time I wrestled the paint cup away from her, Sammy was clapping his hands together and splattering paint everywhere. I looked like I’d just come back from an art war zone.”

“Please tell me you took pictures?” you teased, wiping away tears of laughter.

“Absolutely not!” he deadpanned. “I was too busy trying to keep them from eating the paint or smearing it in each other’s hair. But eventually, I got them to cooperate. I held Sammy’s hand over the paper and pressed it down while humming to him and he loves that, you know.”

You nodded, your heart swelling at the thought of Bucky patiently singing to your son.

“And Talia…” He shook his head fondly. “That little troublemaker fought me the whole time. She kept trying to grab the paper instead of pressing her hand down. I think she was offended I wasn’t letting her ‘help.’”

You laughed again, picturing your strong-willed daughter glaring at Bucky with her tiny fists covered in paint.

“But after a lot of trial and error…” he continued, “and a lot of cleaning up, I finally got it done. I think I scrubbed paint off my arm for a full hour last night.”

You reached out and placed a hand on his cheek, your smile softening. “You went through all that just to make me feel special?”

“Of course,” he said, his voice tender. “You’re the best mom in the world, doll. You deserve it.”

Tears filled your eyes again as you leaned in to kiss him, your heart full of love for the man who’d gone to such lengths to celebrate you. “Thank you, Bucky. For everything.”

“Anything for you,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “And, uh, by the way…”

“What?” you asked looking at him.

“There’s one more thing,” he said, pulling out a small box. Inside was a delicate gold necklace, the locket engraved with his and the twins’ initials.

Your hand flew to your mouth as you admired the thoughtful gift. “Bucky…”

“Happy Mother’s Day, doll,” he murmured, wiping away your tears before kissing you gently.

You spent the rest of the day in a blissful haze, playing with the twins, laughing with Bucky, and feeling more loved than ever. It was a day you would never forget, a perfect celebration of the family you’d built together.

Taglist- @imyourbratzdoll @blackhawkfanatic @ordelixx @sapphirebarnes @ilovetaquitosmmmm

@differenttyphoonwerewolf @vicmc624 @thezombieprostitute @nekoannie-chan

@mrvl-addict @mercurial-chuckles

@emerald-writes @caplanbuckybarnes

@redbloodedgurl @cjand10 @chemtrails-club @slutforchrisjamalevans @gracescor3

@ghostlythinggoingaround @princezzjasmine @3xclusivemariii @ephemeral-oasis @zuri-767-666

@geeky-politics-46 @dexter99 @calwitch

@caplanreblogsfics @winterslove1917

@pono-pura-vida @renegadesgirl1991 @iwudbutnah @ghalouha @sebastians-love @saranghaey @greatmistakes @baw1066

@bucks-babe @lolzies123r @kandis-mom @purplecolordeer @avioletkurt

@unaxv @pattiemac1 @lovely-geek @hzdhrtss

[sw1tchbackli]

FLASHBACK FRIDAY 🇺🇸

WE ARE A GENERATION THAT WILL NEVER COME BACK.

A generation that walked to school and then walked back.

A generation that did their homework alone to get out asap to play in the street.

A generation that spent all their free time in the streets with their Friends.

A generation that played hide and seek when dark.

A generation that made mud cakes.

A generation that collected sports cards.

A generation that found, collected, washed & returned empty coke bottles to the local grocery store for 5 cents each, then bought a Mountain Dew and candy bar with the money.

A generation that made paper toys with their bare hands.

A generation who bought vinyl albums to play on record players.

A generation that collected photos and albums of clippings of their life experiences as a Kid.

A generation that played board games and cards on rainy days.

A generation whose TV went off at midnight after playing the National Anthem.

A generation that had parents who were there.

A generation that laughed under the covers in bed so parents didn't know we were still awake.

A generation that is passing and unfortunately it will never return no matter how hard we try.

I loved Growing up when I did. it was the best of times

[barnabusthebarmyballetschool]

As someone who was a 13 yr old Brit in 2005 I had a visceral reaction to seeing each and every one of these tracks.

My friend at school was obsessed with X Factor at the time and had a massive crush on this guy. I never got the appeal and I wonder if that's why our friendship died.

Look, we all did it. Played around with our Nokia 1110 ringtones and jokingly set this up. I don't know why we have to be all defensive about it. Whilst I miss the custom ringtone era, I'm glad this villain died off with his annoying "Baa aramba baa bom baa barooumba..."

I'm not saying we were, but as a tween listening to PCD you felt so grown up and dare I say 'sexy' as you showed off you bedroom choreography at the local SNAP disco. We weren't of course. We were children. But that didn't stop us performing mildly risqué moves in our New Look party outfits.

I voted for this one because even 20 years later, I can still bop along to this without feeling like I've gone back in time. It's timeless. And one of the best charity singles to come out of the noughties.

Nope. Can't stand that fucking chipmunk singing. Hate this with a firey passion and I'm annoyed to be reminded this exists.

I'm not proud to admit this, but before this song came out I had no idea who Madonna was. So all I knew about the supposed queen of pop was she was a ~50 something prancing around in a skimpy leotard. I've since learnt the error of my ways and come to appreciate her contribution to music, but this song will forever be 'meh'.

So I had to check Wikipedia on this because apparently this was Westlife's 1st single without my beloved Brian. I remember the tragic heartbreak only a tween girl can experience when their favourite in a boy band decides to leave, so although this song is remarkable I probably wasn't vibing it as much as I might have 2 years prior.

Another 'let me try and be sexy' song that was probably inappropriate for someone not even in puberty yet. I never did get why they each wore such a ridiculous outfit to presumably their office?! You can still flirt over the fax machine without needing to be in just your pants Mutya!

This was a viral music video before going viral was really a thing. I must have watched this silly billboard graffiti a hundred times. The song itself was alright, more akin to Ironic Alanis in vibes, but I know I watched this on repeat for the 'will they, won't they' story.

"I'm Luke, I'm 5 and my dad's Bruce Lee". I nearly picked this in the poll, but let's be honest I haven't got it on any Spotify playlist (unlike McFly). The cartoon music video was so cute and the song itself is really sweet. Haven't listened to it in ages but I might sing it to myself if I ever come across a yellow digger blocking traffic.

I had to look this one up tbh. I like the Gorillaz, I do, but their songs aren't exactly recognisable from name alone. Once I hit play though, it all came flooding back and I'm not mad the Americans have made this sweep the poll, despite it being quite niche for a British audience.

Will Smith was still doing music in 2005? Really?! Wow, did not remeber that at all! Having said that, I do know this song, I just assumed it was older. But nope, that music video is straight outta 2005 fo' shizzle!

i desperately want to do one of those “pick a song that’s turning 20 in 2025” polls but instead of all the songs being chosen to appeal directly to american tumblr users who had an emo phase i will take them, with bare minimum selectivity or curation, from the uk official year end charts so that everybody has to choose between shayne ward and the crazy frog song

[urfavlarry]

—You’re the kind of person they write rock songs about

-modern!au Viktor x fem!reader warning. not proof read, swearing, might be OOC

part one || part two

‼️A/N. if anyone wants to be added to the taglist for this fic, let me know!! ‼️

'Taste me, you will see

'More is all you need..'

You were an art major with dreams of becoming a performer—a passion that stuck to you during your high school years. It wasn’t always a dream of yours; as a child, you’d imagined yourself as a ballerina or a doctor saving hundreds of lives but everything changed when the gates of high school and teenage drama opened up to you.

In your sophomore year, you and a few friends stumbled upon a shared love for music and decided to form a small rock band. Powder, your best friend, took the lead as the singer. Her stepsister, Isha, played the drums, while Ekko, Powder’s boyfriend, handled the bass. You took on guitar duties and backup vocals. The band quickly became a big part of your lives, and you weren’t half bad.

By the time you all made it to college—except Isha, who was in her senior year of high school—you were performing at local bars and small venues. The gigs didn’t pay much, but they weren’t a loss either, and your parents were proud of your dedication.

You got more of a recognition when the principal assigned you and the band to play some of your own songs or whatever covers you deemed fit for the occasion and even got an award which earned you the title of the ‘schools rock stars’ by most of the people who attended that day and it quickly spread and stuck until graduation.

The journey, however, wasn’t always just rainbows and sunshine. Learning guitar and perfecting your singing skills took patience, and there were moments of frustration.

Your forgetfulness and stupidity often kicked you right in the ass—or well, fingers— having to buy a new guitar pick every few days leaving your fingers bloody and sore. On a particular night performing at the Last Drop your guitar was left bloodied after you thought it would be an absolutely genius idea to play Metallicas ‘Master of Puppets’ which luckily went great! The crowd went wild however it did earn you quite a scolding from Vander as he carefully put band aids on each of your fingers. However he could tell by the proud look on your face that you thought it was worth it, people coming up to cogratulate you on your performance, suggesting songs or giving you sweets they bought as a sort of reward and all Vander could really do was laugh at his daughter’s best friends foolishness.

While you immersed yourself in music, Viktor—a double major in physics and engineering—navigated a completely different world. His close circle of friends—Vi, Powder’s older sister; Jayce, Mel and Caitlyn, Vi’s girlfriend—shared little in common with your bandmates, yet you crossed paths by chance from time to time. Viktor knew of you mostly through Vi and Jayce’s stories or from the few times he happened to see your band perform.

One such instance was prom, where he watched you take the stage with confidence. Another was a night at The Last Drop, where Viktor had ended up by chance when Vi dragged the group into the establishment for a few drinks.

Today the bar was as lively as ever. The dimly lit bar was packed, and the familiar hum of chatter and clinking glasses filled the air before the first note was played. “Are you ready?” You half screamed into the mic as a roar of cheers and claps bounced through the walls. You strummed your fingers along the strings of your guitar, gifted to you not long ago by your friends since your old one was pretty wrecked however it still had it’s place and on display in your bedroom as a symbol of where you first started while Isha got into the beat of ‘Can’t stop’ by the Red Hot Chilli Peppers.

You saw a few faces light up but most didn’t quiet recognize the song but still looked like they were enjoying themselves as the chatter slowly died down, all eyes and ears on your performance.

Viktor sat in the corner with Vi, Jayce, and Caitlyn, his attention flitting between their conversation and the band on stage. He wasn’t one for loud, crowded places, but something about your music intrigued him. He knew of the rock genre because of Jayce being quite a fan of System of a Down and many other bands he would need a whole notebook to name however Vi had a big part of the introduction herself but he adjusted to the change of genre he wasn’t quiet familiar with before he met his dear friends.

There was a passion in your performance that resonated with him, though he couldn’t quite explain why.

After the set, you stepped off the stage, sweaty and exhilarated. Powder gave you a playful nudge, her eyes twinkling with pride. “Killed it as always,” she said with a grin.

“Thanks, Pow,” you replied, wiping your brow. Your gaze swept across the room, catching sight of a group you vaguely recognized—Vi’s crew. As if on queue Vi averted her gaze from the group and caught your attention, waving you over, and though you hesitated for a moment before you all made your way to their table. “Hey, Rockstar!” Vi greeted, giving you a playful smirk. “Nice set tonight. You finally learned how to tune that thing, huh?”

You rolled your eyes at her teasing. “Thanks, Vi. You still can’t keep a beat, though, can you?”

The group laughed, and you found yourself pulled into their orbit. Introductions were made, though most were unnecessary—you already knew who they were. When it came to Viktor, however, there was an awkward pause.

“Viktor,” he said, offering a polite nod. You smiled and gave your name in response and decide to strike up a conversation with the man. “Thanks for sticking around! You don’t seem like the type for these kinds of outings.” You say truthfully and chuckle nervously.

“It was... impressive,” he said after a moment, his voice quiet but sincere. “You’d be correct on that last part. I don’t often attend these kinds of events, but your performance was captivating.” His accent was foreign to you yet it was a cute quality, making your stomach flutter with butterflies. The compliment however caught you off guard. You weren’t used to that kind of earnest praise, especially from someone who seemed like they’d be more of the jazz or pop type. “Thanks,” you said, a bit bashfully. “Glad you enjoyed it.”

The conversation shifted back to the group, but Viktor’s words lingered in your mind. Something about his quiet demeanor fascinated you, and you couldn’t help but want to know more about this mystery of a man.

That night when you all went your seperate ways once you got to the college dorms, Powder noticed how lost in thought you were; basically just lying on the bed and looking at nothing. “Okay, what’s with your teen spirit Cobain?” She chuckles at her own joke and you look at her with a ‘really?’ face, letting out a giggle of your own. “So many other jokes out there and that’s what you come up with?” You push her shoulder playfully and sit up from your bed, facing her. “Okay, okay.. enough shaming my stand up comedy, what’s wrong Y/N?”

“That Viktor guy from your sister’s group.. with the accent and shit?” You start as a smirk sneaked onto her lips, kicking her feet in the air as she lied on her stomach. “Yeaah?” “Well I don’t know, something about me just.. makes me want to get to know him you know?” You sigh, throwing yourself onto Powders bed, lying on her stomach. “He’s such a nerd though! From what Vi told me over the phone a few times he’s like a workaholic but ten times worse girl. And he looks like he has a couple conditions.. probably should get that checked.” She mumbled to herself, making you giggle. “Come on Pow that’s just straight up mean.”

“But look who’s giggling.” She flicks the side of your head and joins in on your laughter.

You remember the cane he had, the golden details and carvings and the way his under eyes were darker then the rest of his pale, almost sickly skin. His jawline was sharp with a straight nose and an almost unnoticeable underbite. He was pretty cute.. He was probably a cool person to be around so you wondered if you’d have the chance to maybe hang out with him.

“Do you think your sister would be up to hanging out? You know, our group and hers? We have that show next weekend we can invite them there and spend the rest of the night doing whatever!” You suggest and quickly get a nod of approval from your blue haired friend which only made your excitement rise.

Next weekend it is.. Maybe he’d be up to a one on one hangout once you have the chance to ask, maybe even over the phone if you’re lucky enough to get his number or socials. Until next weekend all you could do was practice and imagine every sort of scenario of how it would all go.

taglist: let me know if you want to be added

© URFAVLARRY

DO NOT REPOST, TRANSLATE OR COPY ANY OF MY WRITING TO OTHER PLATFORMS

I DON’T CONSENT FOR MY WRITING TO BE USED TO TRAIN AI 🚫

[goddessinnerglow]

Become Your Best Version Before 2025 - Day 27

Hobbies & Passion Projects

Hi Goddesses! After exploring all those personal development tools yesterday, let's talk about something that adds real color to our lives, hobbies and passion projects. You know, those things that make us lose track of time and bring a spark to our eyes when we talk about them.

Have you noticed how some of the happiest people you know have interests outside of their daily responsibilities? There's something magical about having activities in your life that you do simply because they bring you joy.

One of the most beautiful things about hobbies is that they don't need to be productive or perfect. They're just for you, for your joy, for that feeling of losing track of time while doing something you love.

Some ways to reconnect with what lights you up:

Think about what you loved doing as a child

Notice what makes you lose track of time

Pay attention to what YouTube videos or social media content you naturally gravitate toward

Remember activities that make you feel energized rather than drained

Think back to when you were younger, what did you love doing just for fun? Maybe you spent hours drawing, built elaborate LEGO creations, or wrote stories in your notebook. Somewhere along the way, many of us let these joyful activities slip away, telling ourselves we're "too busy" or that they're not "productive enough."

Let's change that! Here's how to rediscover or start a hobby that lights you up:

Start Small and Simple

Try one new activity for 15 minutes this week

Use materials you already have at home

Join a free online community or workshop

Watch tutorial videos for inspiration

Finding Your Passion Project

What topics do you love learning about?

Which activities make you forget to check your phone?

What did you dream of doing "someday"?

What skills would you like to develop just for fun?

Making Time for Fun

Schedule short, regular "play dates" with yourself

Keep supplies easily accessible

Join local groups or online communities

Share your progress (only if you want to!)

Hobbies and passion projects aren't just fun, they're good for you! They can:

Reduce stress and anxiety

Boost creativity

Improve work-life balance

Create opportunities for new connections

Build confidence through skill development

Here's a secret: hobbies don't need to be Instagram-worthy or turn into a side hustle. They're valuable simply because they bring you joy and help you unwind.

Quick action step: Pick one hobby or passion project you'd like to explore. It could be something brand new or an old interest you'd like to revisit. Start with just 15 minutes this week.

What hobby or passion project are you curious about? Let's share ideas and inspire each other! Drop a comment below, I'd love to hear from you.

See you tomorrow for Day 28! Remember, making time for activities that bring you joy isn't selfish, it's essential for becoming your best self.

♡ ☆:.｡ Keep glowing, babes! ♡ ☆:.｡ With love, Goddess Inner Glow.

[isavulpix]

Christmas at The Harper's

Reader x Roy Harper, Lian Harper

I havent write a fanfic in so long that I'm super nervous about this. It was supposed to be a Jason Toddx reader, but then Roy happened. I hope yall enjoy it and Happy Christmas!

Warning: I havent read a dc comic, so Roy may be OOC. All my knowledge on him comes from other fanfics and google. My first language isn't english so there will be errors.

It was a weird and peaceful day in Gotham. The snow had fallen the night before, so you could hear the laughs and joyful screams of the older kids playing outside. It was a week before Christmas and Lian was in her Bluey PJs on the couch eating the remains of the gingerbread house she had made the day before with her father. The local Gotham channel was doing a Christmas movie marathon, right now The Grinch was. Her father had left early in the morning, so it was just you two in the apartment.

Lian groaned when a commercial break popped, but before she could change for Netflix, the commercial got her attention. It was about a family giving each other gifts and it confused her. Wasn’t that Santa’s job? She stood from the couch and quickly put on her bunny sleepers to run toward her father's room knowing you were there organizing the drawer you shared with Roy. You always got annoyed with her dad for not folding the clothes.

“Why did those people give gifts to each other? Does Santa not visit them?” Lian looks up at you, her eyes wondering about the commercial. You stopped what you were doing and panicked internally, how did you explain to Lian without accidentally ruining it? Damn, Roy for not being here because of late toy shopping. You turned to Lian and cursed when you saw the look on her face, for a 5-year-old she was very persistent.

“Well…um…Santa does visit them; it is just that they love each other so much that they decide to also give a gift to each other. Like we do in birthdays…” You hoped that the last-minute explanation was enough for her curiosity because you certainly didn’t have anything else. Lian looks at you and blinks three times before nodding, you let out a breath and relax.

“Did you get something for Daddy?” Lian balanced her weight from side to side.

“Well yeah?” You hope she doesn’t catch the uncertainty in your tone, was your explanation a good one? You hope Roy doesn’t get mad, but you're shaken from your thoughts when you see Lian eyes getting watery. Shit, you totally fuck up.

“Wait wait” You squat to her level; you were certain that you ruined something because of your explanation. “Why are you crying, sweetie?” You run the conversation in your head to see if you accidentally said something stupid or insinuated that Santa wasn’t real, really wishing it wasn’t the last one. You didn’t want to be responsible for dying the magic of Santa for her.

“I haven’t bought a gift for Daddy” You can barely understand what she says because of her crying and you mentally high-five yourself, Santa is still alive. Now you need to fix the new problem.

“Oh, that’s fine sweetie. We can give Daddy what I got him.” Your fingers clean her running tears, you pout a little as she keeps crying.

“No, you said they gifted each other because they love each other so I need to give Daddy something” Lian lips wobble as she rubs her eyes.

“You don’t have to per se....and I promise Daddy won't be mad about it, but if you still want to gift Daddy something what about those cards you make? He is always so happy when you give him one” Your reassurance helps, and Lian stops crying and plays with her fingers. You could eat her chubby cheeks with how adorable she is.

“Daddy really likes them?” Your heart almost bursts at how cute she looks.

“Your daddy loves them, especially when is a drawing of you two.” You smile at her and Lian smiles back. Damn, you're good at this. “We can even buy some of your Daddy's favorite chocolate to accompany your card.” Lian nods and runs to her room determined to make the best Christmas card ever made, and you punch the air. A crisis is avoided like a pro, you deserve some hot chocolate.

As the days passed the air got colder and the streets that didn’t have that much snow were now completely covered with the white fluffiness. You had spent the week of Christmas in Roy and Lian apartment. Both of them insist every night for you to stay the night. You turned in your sleep, your unconscious body seeking the nearest heat supply. It was Roy's body that was much hotter than yours, he was on the other side of the bed sleeping when your cold feet and hands woke him up.

He mumbles incoherent words as he tries to move away from the cold, his movement wakes you up making you pout. How dare he move away from you? So, when his back faces you, you interlock your legs with him and move a hand to his torso making him grumble.

“How are you so damn cold? The heater is on” He turns to face you knowing you weren’t going to let him be.

“The heater isn't enough; I need your body heat” Roy chuckles and kisses your forehead. He could feel you move your cold limbs in his clothes, but he doesn’t dare move. Roy moves you to be even closer to him and rubs your back. He closes his eyes and thinks about how grateful he is for having you in his life, he didn’t know what would have been of Lian and him if you weren’t in the picture. He always thought and said you were too good for him. He prayed that he could make you even happier than what you made him be and give you everything you deserved.

“You know, it's weird that Lian hasn’t come in to wake us up to go open gifts” You mumble against Roy's chest, loving how affectioned he was being this morning. Sadly, your words make Roy remember the last Christmas fiasco. Lian had silently opened most of her gifts and he missed taking pictures of it. Roy quickly untangles from you, skips to the living room, and sighs when the gifts are untouched under the tree.

You follow him at a slower pace and look at him confused, but even weirder is the toddler sitting on the couch waiting patiently while watching Frozen. Aren't kids supposed to be hyper at Christmas? “Good morning, Lian” I hug her, and kiss her forehead, and she smiles repeating my words with more excitement for her dad and you.

“Did you peek at what Santa got you?” Roy had an eyebrow raised; he couldn’t believe his kid waited for them to wake up, not when she knew that more than half of the presents were for her.

“I didn’t, Daddy!” Lian smiles at her father, which makes him more suspicious. Before he can ask more, she runs to the tree and returns with a small gift bag. “I got you a gift, Daddy!” You get your phone and start recording the moment between father and daughter.

Roy Harper's heart almost failed at that moment. Lian excitement wasn’t all about the presents Santa got her. Half of her excitement was to finally give him the gift she had made days ago. “You did?” He takes the gift, but first pepper kisses Lian face.

“Daddy! Stop” Lian giggles and tries to escape the kisses attack. “And I did!” Lian smiles even more. “(Y/N) said that besides Santa, you can also give gifts to the people you love. She also got you something but open mine first!”

Roy smiles and pulls Lian onto his lap and pats the space beside him. You take the sign and sit down making sure to capture both of them. Inside the bag, there was Roy's favorite candy like you promised to Lian, plus the card. The card was made with white paper, one side there was a drawing of three stick people that resembled you three. The stick people were around a big three and Santa was stuck in the chimney, this made Roy and you laugh. When he looked at the other side of the card, a tear almost escaped. With big chunky writing, it said “Appy Crismas to the dest daddy!” and a lot of hearts.

Roy pulled Lian again into a tight hug. “This is the best gift I have ever gotten, pipsqueak. Thank you so much.” He kisses the side of her forehead, and Lian, satisfied with her work being done runs to open her gifts. Roy takes the moment to pull you into his arms.

“Happy Christmas, Roy” You hug him as you two watch Lian open her gifts and act surprised.

“Happy Christmas, (Y/N) …and thanks.” He mumbles the last part as he hugs you tighter, only catching it because of the closeness.  

[atangledfate]

Truthfully she had tried so hard to manage Tangle's wild spirit but, so far everything had failed. Whisper wasn't much help in that area as Tangle was Tangle in her opinion. But they were still soldiers and they needed to be organized! how could she organized them if Tangle went off and pulled stunts like this? She let out a soft huff and crossed her arms. It was frustrating--- but she did like Tangle she was a good friend. Someone she could rely on and she didn't hate her at all. She just wished she'd listen better, and follow orders.

The Feline fidgeted a little as Reyna's eyes fell on him, and tugged on his tail in a nervous way. He kept eyeing the people they passed and seemed generally jittery compared to the others. But at the teasing tone he did seem to relax if only a little.

" Oh! Honestly it just feels like useless information! I never thought it would come in much use... but happy it can help! if i'm honest you should talk to Miss Belle she probably knows alot more about it then i do... i'm more of a communications guy..."

His eyes fell to his gloves and he tugged on them to make sure they were secure.

" Oh.. no i'll be fine... i wouldn't wanna accidently hurt someone with my claws... maybe i can find a better set of gloves here... if i'd known i was coming i guess i'd have planned for it "

Tangle was standing on her tail to get a better look at the road they were walking down. She was pretty much as tall as Reyna while using her tail! but she as mostly just curious! But her mind was instantly on one thing only!

" Sooo when do we get to try the delicious street food! or local cusine! everybody knows that's the best part of a foreign city! the awesome food! "

Lanolin sighed

" We just ate... if we find time maybe on the way back home... honestly Tangle, you really do think with your stomach first..."

Reyna could understand Lanolin's frustration, but she fears her style is incompatible with Tangle. She knows that discipline is necessary, but it seems like the lemur fears the sheep as much as she respects her. At least when it comes to her ire. Perhaps that's something she can help with later.

"Chaos Drives, hmm? I haven't had the chance to compare them, so I can't make one statement about comparing them one way or the other. Maybe I could learn some new improvements for our Eternal Engines!" She muses aloud, then hears Duo explain a bit of their history. "Ooo, someone's well read, aren't they?" She teases smiling. She then frowns when she notices the gloves.

"Also, Duo, are you sure you wanna wear those gloves here? I don't think those winter mittens in the middle of summer temperatures are gonna be good for you." She points out.

[tagsecretsanta]

From @janetm74

From @janetm74 to @the-original-sineater

Dodecuplet: 12 musical notes performed in the time of the same value.

Or: 12 Christmas Eves over the years.

With much help from @mariashades

Prompts: 1) SCIENCE!! 2) Holiday in the Tropics  3)Odd family food traditions.  

One:  Scotland

Lucille Charlotte Evans met Amelia Candice Barclay on a wet and windy day in late August on the steps of a large house in St Andrews.

It was an inauspicious meeting. Lucille – Lucy to her friends – had just climbed out of a taxi and was about to drag her suitcase up the stairs when a gust of wind blew it out of her hands and she suddenly found herself racing down the hill after it.

Amelia happened to be the one who stopped it, or rather, was sent flying by it, and the two women, both strangers to Scotland, found themselves seated together in St Andrews Community Hospital Minor Injuries Unit while waiting for Amelia’s ankle to be x-rayed.

It turned out to be only badly sprained and a very guilty Lucy offered to take Amelia back to her home only to find out they were neighbours, sharing the same student accommodation only on different floors.

They quickly became firm friends by the end of the day, fuelled on the rather unusual local delicacy of deep-fried pizza, chips and cheap red wine.

Lucy was studying Astrophysics and Computer Science. Amelia was studying Economics and Social Anthropology. None of their classes overlapped but they had sections of time that did, and they often sat together in the University library or camped out in one of the museums in an out-of-the-way corner.

That first Christmas they both should have spent with their respective families but heavy snow grounded airflight and so they holed up in Amelia’s room and ate the only food they could scrounge up on Christmas Eve – haggis, neeps and tatties with  a dessert called cranachan and good whisky.

It was the weirdest feast both women had ever eaten. And the beginnings of a tradition they both tried hard to keep while in Uni together – Christmas Eve was always holed up in one of their rooms with their Scottish feast.

Two: Kansas

Ruth bustled around the farmhouse, singing at the top of her voice. The radio was blasting the top 100 tunes from the 80s and she was bopping as she plated food and wrapped them ready for the party.

‘Grant, hun, do you want a drink?’

‘Thanks, Ruthie, that would be lovely.’

She took out a bottle of root beer and watched with a fond smile as he turned the ribs in the smoker. No one cooked meat like her husband did, and while his Kansas BBQ beef was legend locally, so good that even Miss Ella had said she’d buy any leftovers off him – there were never any leftovers with her husband and son – but what Grant was really famous for was his Sweet Southern Slow-Cooker Ham.

Giving him a quick squeeze from behind Ruth returned to the kitchen to finish prepping all the cold foods they would need. It might be winter and cold here in Kansas but their Christmas wouldn’t be complete without the mounds of potato salad, coleslaw, soul food macaroni and pickles to go with the ham and burnt ends.. They’d never really been a turkey kind of family, reserving that bird exclusively to Thanksgiving.

Once Ruth had wrapped all the sides and packed them away she set about cleaning the house from top to bottom. A spick and span house she could do, cooking not so much, not unless you liked burnt as a flavour and a texture.

The day passed on and as it did so did the excitement in the household. Jeff was coming home today from NASA and he was bringing his best friends Lee Taylor and the Caseys. They hadn’t seen Jeff since the spring and as the sun began to go down the sound of a truck in the driveway heralded their guests.

Christmas Eve had become the traditional day they ate their meal and had done ever since the day they had married, with Ruth’s commitments at the local clinic they had always put other families ahead of their own, letting the workers have Christmas Day instead. Jeff had grown up knowing no different and loved having their celebrations a day early.

Arms snaked around her waist as Ruth put the kettle on and a head rested on her shoulder.

‘Ma, I swear you get younger every year.’

‘Flattery will not get you out of the dishes, Jefferson.’

‘Mmm, I’ll happily wash the dishes if Pa’s made his Ham and Burnt Ends.’

‘Stop asking stupid questions and take the coffees through.’

Jeff laughed and took the tray his Mom indicated.

Three: Kent

Lucy and Amelia’s friendship lasted long past University. It lasted the distance of the Atlantic Ocean.

NASA had snapped up Lucy once they’d seen her dissertation but despite the distance they chatted regularly and met up at least once a year, and always on Christmas Eve.

This year was going to be different.

This year Amelia had married.

It Amelia’s turn to host Christmas Eve dinner, and Lucy had brought her fiancé. They hadn’t been going out long but from the chats the two women were having Amelia knew this was the one.

She was eager to see her best friend again and hopeful that Lucy would get on with her husband. She’d laughed a good solid 10 minutes when she’d found out that Hugh was actually Lord Hugh Creighton-Ward, 11th Earl of Kent and that plain old Amelia Candice Barclay was to become Lady Amelia Creighton-Ward.

Speaking of her husband, she put down the spoon she was using to mix the swede and carrot mash and went to find him. It came as no surprise that he was holed up in his office – that Stanley the butler insisted on calling his ‘study’ – even on Christmas Eve. Her husband’s work for the Home Office didn’t stop just because it was an international holiday.

Knocking, she waited for his call before entering, and Amelia broke out into a grin at Hugh’s rueful face.

‘You caught me, Me!’

‘I did, Hugh. Are you done? Our guests should be arriving shortly.’

‘And you want me front and centre. Understood.’

‘I want you to be your usual witty self, my love.’

Hugh laughed and put his file back away in his safe before following his wife out to the kitchen. He pulled up a seat at the table and watched his wife putting the final touches to the meal they would shortly be serving.

He couldn’t believe this beautiful, amazing woman had agreed to marry him. He was ten years older, in a stodgy job and a member of the elite British aristocracy. The day his chauffeur accidently crushed her bike while parking was the day his life had changed. She’d been like a spitfire, giving first Grandy and, when she found out he was ‘just the chauffeur’ Amelia had turned to him and given him such a mouthful.

No one had ever spoken to him like that and by the time the lecture had finished he was smitten. They were engaged by the end of the month. Amelia had been a breath of fresh air to the estate. For a start off she worked closely with the staff to bring them more in line with the 21st Century and after some sweeping changes life had settled into a new routine.

Amelia loved to cook and Hugh had suddenly found that he loved to be in the kitchen, a place he’d never really frequented even as a boy. He loved watching her at work. She danced and sang unreservedly and created magic. He’d never eaten such food, and some of their meals had a distinctly Scottish flair on certain days, and his introduction to the national dish of haggis had been…interesting.

Now he was being inducted into another of Amelia’s traditions, the Scottish Feast on Christmas Eve. Amelia’s best friend Lucille was coming over from America with her partner Jeff. He’d met Lucy a couple of times but he knew Jeff by reputation.

Jefferson Tracy, first man on Mars. Everyone knew him. And now Hugh was about to have the man stay at the house with him. It didn’t faze him, he’d hobnobbed with the cream of British aristocracy and foreign diplomats, he was sure he could handle a hot-shot American.

They were going to eat relatively quickly after they arrived, it was late already and just as Amelia placed the last prepared dish into the aga a knock sounded on the door. She grinned at Hugh, grabbed his hand and pulled him along behind her as they made their way to the door.

Opening it the two women may have squealed – not that either were going to admit that – and the two men shook hands before Jeff pressed a bottle of Pappy Van Winkles Family Reserve. Impressed at the gift, Hugh stood aside and allowed them entry.

‘Good evening. Hugh Creighton-Ward. Please call me Hugh.’

‘Jefferson Tracy. Please call me Jeff. Thanks for invitin’ us.’

‘My pleasure. I hope you know what you’re letting yourself in for.’

‘Lucy has been talking about nothing else for weeks.’

They settled into the kitchen rather than the dining room and Amelia passed around the hot toddies she’d prepared.

By the time dinner was over both men were firm friends and a new tradition had been created, with the invitation for the Creighton-Wards to come to Kansas next year.

Four: Dibrugarh

This Christmas Eve was going to be different.

Jeff, Lucy and their four children were off to Dibrugarh in India. Hugh, Amelia and their daughter Penelope had moved out early in the year ostentatiously to take on a job overseeing a tea plantation. The heat wasn’t really agreeing with Penny, but the ten-year-old was being a trooper.

The plane ride was long but enjoyable. They had flown from Kansas to Chicago and spent the day in the Windy City before sleeping overnight and taking the longest flight the boys had ever been on, 14 hours from Chicago to Delhi. With any other children it would probably have been difficult, but all boys had grown up flying, Scott starting at two months old. From Delhi to Dibrugarh, the last stretch being a little over three hours.

Hugh met them at the airport and drove them to a large villa on the outskirts of the town. It was obviously a new build but it was light and spacious and airy, just right for the temperature.

Drinks called Sherberts were given out and rather than collapsing in a tired heap Jeff and Lucy watched in amusement when the boys got a second wind, following Penny out and exploring while it was the adults who collapsed in a heap.

‘God, Hugh, I thought it would be hot in India!’

‘Not at this time of year.’

They laughed over drinks and chatted while the children ran in and out the rooms, even Penny coming out of her shell to join the boys in a game of tag.

Christmas Eve this year was not the Scottish Feast but an Indian one in the style of a Thali. Bhaat (steamed rice), Dal, Bhendir Sarosi (okra in mustard sauce), Lau Tenga (bottle gourd), Aloo Pitika (potatoes), Xaak Bhaji and the sides Kharoli – a papaya chutney and Assamese pickle, all washed down with a drink called Khar.

None of the Tracys were expecting a mild but highly spiced vegetarian meal, but they all enjoyed what was put before them, the boys in particular loving the open nature of the food and that they not only could help themselves from the central tray but that they could eat with their fingers. The meal was finished off with a selection of Indian sweets and glasses of Mango Lassi.

Scott declared that Indian sweets were almost as good as apple pie to the laughter of all. Lucy spent time with Amelia and the two woman who had helped cook the feast, taking notes and looking forward making some of these dishes once she’d returned home.

The evening ended with presents as usual and a happy puppy pile of Tracys and Creighton-Wards wrapped up tightly in blankets as fireworks lit up the sky.

Five: Fiji

Lucy rubbed her bump. She was getting big and pretty soon she’d have to stop flying. This was going to be their last holiday before baby number five was born.

Their Christmas vacation place this year held a double purpose. Not only were they holidaying in the tropics to give Lucy and John some much needed summer sun after both had been hospitalised with severe pneumonia, but they were here for a surprise Christmas present.

Jeff had been so secretive, the only indication of what he’d been up to was the location. Lucy looked out the window of their private jet as Jeff brought them into land. The ocean was so clear and sparkling!

Fiji was hot in comparison to Kansas, and for that first day Lucy just rested on the beach and baked. And boy did she feel better that evening! John too had some colour to his cheeks and Jeff relaxed a little, seeing that he’d made a good choice.

They had three days before the Creighton-Wards would join them. There was sadness at the thought. Penny had returned to England after a year in India, citing the weather as a reason, although Jeff and Lucy had their suspicions as to the real reason, but they would never ask and put their relationship under strain. It would be the first time Hugh and Amelia had seen their daughter for two years.

The boys understood to give the family room, and after an afternoon spent swimming and exploring the beach they returned to the villa to find the Creighton-Ward’s in their own puppy pile, evidence of tears long dried on all faces.

That evening they rested and just reorientated themselves around each other after missing last year.

Christmas Eve began with more swimming and sun lounging, with a thirteen-year-old Scott trying out some waterskiing for the first time. Lunch was going to be their Lovo Feast. Plates of Kokoda, Palisami, Fish Lolo and Vakalolo for dessert.

The food was some of the strangest they had ever eaten. Gordon’s face when he saw the raw fish made everyone laugh. But soon they had eaten their fill and rested and then Jeff was chivvying them all to the airport for his surprise.

The jet had been refuelled and was ready for them all but Jeff refused to say where they were going. He banned everyone from the cockpit…and that was when the Tracy family realised that the windows had been blacked out.

They had no way of knowing where Jeff was flying them…

It wasn’t too long a journey and they had soon landed. Jeff let them out and held Lucy close as she looked at where they were.

It was an island. Behind them a mountain rose up, in front and below them was a cove and a small patch of sandy beach. There was a gasp from every individual as they stepped off the plane onto the tiny runway. Her husband pulled her close and kissed her head.

‘Jeff?’

‘Do you like it?’

‘Like it…? What have you done?’

‘Done? Why, I’ve bought us an island to holiday on and eventually retire to.’

‘Oh.’

‘Oh? Is that all you can say?’

Lucy turned in his arms and kissed him soundly to the whistles and catcalls of their boys.

‘Was that enough words?’

‘Yes. Boys, Hugh, Amelia, Penny – welcome to Tracy Island.

Six: Kansas

This year Christmas was cancelled.

Scott tried his hardest but no one had the heart for it. With Alan still only a baby really at 21 months old there didn’t seem a point as he wouldn’t miss Christmas if they didn’t do it, and none of his other brothers had been able to muster up enough…drive, desire, want – Scott didn’t know what to call it – to do anything this year. And he couldn’t blame them.

They were never going to be whole again.

Seven: New York

It had been a battle Scott had lost despite fighting bitterly.

Jeff had sunk himself into Tracy Industries since their Mom and Grandpa’s death and the business had gone from strength to strength. And then earlier in the spring Jeff had hit a milestone, opening his headquarters in a new skyscraper in New York of all places as the first of many in an empire that was now beginning to go global.

This year had also seen changes at home, with both Scott and John leaving for their respective colleges and Gordon beginning to become a serious contender with his swimming. The Squid was going to go places – namely the Olympics – and he’d been pestering his Dad to let him attend a residential school that catered for Olympic hopefuls.

This Christmas Jeff had put his foot down. It was the first one since his boys had left and he was going to make the most of it.

Unfortunately, ‘make the most of it’ meant that instead of celebrating in a relaxed atmosphere at home they were all dressed up – suited and booted – and at Tracy Tower for the staff Christmas Party.

Scott had had words about dragging his brothers here, how it was unfair of Jeff to schedule the party on today of all days, but Jeff had held firm and dismissed him with a wave of his hand and the cutting remark that Scott didn’t know what he was talking about.

They had stopped talking for the last two days, but Scott was determined to give his brothers the best Christmas ever and had taken them all to Central Park that day and spoiled them rotten.

The staff party itself was actually fine, and Scott began to relax as it became clear that this was not one of his Dad’s networking meetings. A small band was playing Christmas pop tunes and people were dancing.

The food was…well, the food was delicious but there just wasn’t enough of it. Aware enough that if he ate as much as his stomach was telling him he needed to he’d probably get into trouble, Scott nibbled sadly as he wandered the room and looked out for his brothers.

John had brought a book and had curled up in a chair in the corner, resolutely ignoring all attempts at conversation. Virgil was currently under one of the tables, his sketch book out and another page being filled with whatever took the artist’s eye. Gordon was on his best behaviour, their dad making it absolutely clear that any discussion about him leaving home depended on his ability to show he was mature enough for it. And little Alan was with John, sitting under his chair and playing with the build-a-rocket kit that Scott had bought him earlier that day.

A hand on his shoulder had him freeze until a familiar voice sounded in his ear. Grinning, he turned and took in the sight of Penny, dressed in a…a…well, in a pink dress. Scott had no fashion sense; he had no idea what she was wearing.

But she looked stunning.

He took her hand and kissed it before offering her the floor, and at her slight nod Scott swept her up in a dance.

Maybe today wasn’t going to be a total loss after all…

Later that night the three eldest and Penny lay sprawled over the couch munching pizza and drinking pop as their fathers chatted over whisky in the kitchen. If Scott had his arm around Penny and if Penny was snuggling into his embrace well no one was going to mention it.

Eight: London

Penny hopped from foot to foot, much to Parker’s amusement. And he hoped that this Christmas would be a turning point for his ward.

They had buried Lady Amelia Creighton-Ward that spring and it had hit her daughter harder than expected. After spending so long apart, the news that her parents were moving back to England had filled Penny with hope for the opportunity to get to know them all over again, but they’d barely been back when her mother got sick.

The family that Penny was expecting had been instrumental in helping her through, and in particular the eldest, who would be arriving before everyone else since he was currently based in Germany.

She’d be lying if the thought of having Scott to herself hadn’t sparked something in her heart. Ever since that Christmas in Fiji they had been getting closer, and Scott had been calling her regularly since her mum…yeah, he knew how she felt, what she was going through. They would talk for what felt like hours even though each call was only around 30 minutes.

And there he was!

A head higher than everyone else, Scott strode confidently across the airport, looking for Penny. A shift in the crowd drew his attention, and Scott grinned as he saw Penny standing there, oblivious to the way the crowds parted for her – assisted in no small part from the grim expression on her guardian, Parker. He saw the moment she saw him, her smile lighting up the atmosphere.

Scott quickened up and, dropping his duffle at her feet, he caught her about the waist and swung her up and around, cherishing her laughter as she rested her hands on his shoulders.

They were staying in what Penny had called ‘the town house’. That term had not prepared Scott for the four-story house in the heart of Knightsbridge. Parker took Scott’s bag to his room and made his way to the kitchen where he prepared tea as slowly as he could. His Lady needed Scott right now.

He found them in the front drawing room, seated on the sofa. Scott was holding a sobbing Penny and he offered Parker a small smile as he tightened his hold. Parker sat the tray down and made a tactful withdrawal.

The next morning Parker drove them to the airport to pick up the rest of the Tracy family. He watched his ward and the boy through the mirror. She was looking brighter, and something loosened in his heart.

Parker watched as the boys gave his lady hugs and surrounded the pair before they swarmed through the airport to the car. They filled the space with a comfortable noise, both in the car and in the house, and they helped Penny relaxed even more.

Lil had made a light lunch so that the dinner could be the Christmas Eve feast Lord Hugh had asked her to prepare. After lunch Parker had taken Jeff to go and collect Hugh from his office and the rest settled down to watch some Christmas movies.

Scott and Penny were on one sofa, with Alan sitting on his brother’s lap and leaning back against him. John was sitting on the floor between Penny and his brother while Virgil and Gordon were curled up on the other sofa. All four brothers were asleep before the movie was even halfway through, their body clocks not yet adjusted to all the time they’d spent flying, and Scott and Penny let them snooze on so that they’d be fresh for the evening.

The smells from the kitchen soon roused the boys, and there was much amusement when Scott returned from there with red ears, red cheeks and a red hand. He slid back into his seat just as their fathers arrived home. There were more hugs and some chatting and then Parker returned to announce that dinner was ready.

Lillian had been given a very specific feast to create, a mixture of the family favourites. It was one of the most eclectic dinners she’d ever put together. It shouldn’t have worked, but for some reason it did. Lil reckoned it was because of who they all were, Parker wasn’t so sure, muttering under his breath about ‘boys’ and ‘cast iron stomachs thanks to Mrs Tracy senior’.

Haggis held court with baked ham with glazed vegetables. Plates of Fish Lolo sat next to Xaak Bhaji and sides of Kharoli and steamed Bhaat and to top it all off there were several desserts.

The families didn’t quieten down at all as food was consumed. And Parker was pleased to see his master and mistress begin to smile genuinely for the first time in a long time.

Nine: Germany

Jeff sat in the chair and sighed, rubbing the back of his neck before stretching as much as possible while still sitting in the ridiculously uncomfortable chair.

He must have made a sound he was unaware of as a low moan came from the bed and Jeff sat forward carefully, picking up Scott’s hand as carefully as he could, mindful of the canula and the still-healing digits.

But Scott didn’t wake fully and after he settled back to sleep Jeff sighed.

A nurse entered with a tray and set it down on the table before pulling out her pad and recording details from the machines still attached to his son.

He took a deep breath.

His son.

His son was here.

Scott was here, alive.

Scott was alive.

Jeff still couldn’t believe Scott was there, and he gently kissed his son’s hand and placed it back on the bed.

‘Mr Tracy?’

‘Uh…yes?’

‘I brought you a meal.’

‘A – a meal?’

‘It’s Christmas Eve, Mr Tracy. We don’t have much, it is a military hospital after all, but we have a little. I don’t know what you eat but I brought some ham, turkey and some vegetables. And I’m sorry but I could only get green Jello for dessert.’

‘Nurse…?’

‘Abby. Please, sir, call me Abby.’

‘Abby, I am very, very touched by this.’

‘You are more than welcome, Sir.’

He eyed the tray, not inclined in the least to try and eat anything and turned back to watching Scott. Jeff didn’t pay any more heed to the nurse, but as she left she paused in the doorway.

‘Colonel Tracy, I just want you to know that your son is in the very best of hands and we’re proud to be looking after him.’

‘Thank you, Abby. That – that means a lot.’

‘I know you don’t want to eat, but Scott needs you to be strong so please try and eat something.’

‘I – I will.’

The door closed quietly and Jeff looked at the tray again. Green Jello had been the dessert Virgil had loved the most, fighting his brothers for it, invariably being rescued by Scott snatching it out of Gordon’s hands. Scott’s was always the red one, much like Alan. Stifling a sob at the memory, Jeff picked up the Jello and ate it slowly as he watched his son’s chest rise and fall.

Ten: Argentina

It was a heavy feeling of déjà vu as Jeff sat at another bedside and held the hand of another son who he’d believed was dead, but turned out Tracys were determined people, for which Jeff thanked his Irish ancestors.

Another bed, another military hospital, another Christmas away from the rest of his boys as he tried to keep one alive.

He’d never believed that anyone could come back more injured than Scott. His eldest had been held and tortured in a supposed POW camp for three months and had his arm and leg bones broken. Many had healed incorrectly and Scott had needed multiple surgeries to reset breaks. But that had needed to wait until he was better – if the double pneumonia, sepsis and malaria didn’t kill him first.

But Gordon, in typical younger sibling energy, had outdone his eldest brother.

The hydrofoil crash had claimed the lives of all the crew, and for almost half an hour Gordon too, but the paramedics had been able to bring him back from the dead. And when Jeff had finally managed to get someone to talk to him he had found out that Gordon had broken almost every bone, including his spine.

Even as he sat stunned at the news Scott had corralled everyone he knew to try and look for a solution to get his brother walking again, refusing to believe that their Squid could lose that ability.

Brains had come up with the solution, working closely with the spinal surgeons and physios to replace the broken sections of vertebrae and nerves with a Cahelium scaffolding framework.

Gordon had had the first surgery yesterday. He was still under; the operation had taken all day and most of the night and the anaesthesia was yet to wear off. Jeff began massaging the hand he held, humming one of Lucy’s tunes as he did in an effort to both stir Gordon and comfort them both.

‘I haven’t heard you hum that tune for a long time.’

Jeff looked to the door where Scott stood, a bad in one hand and two coffees in the other. His cane was nowhere in sight and he frowned at his son. Scott half-shrugged, completely unapologetic and Jeff sighed in exasperation.

‘How is he?’

‘Same as he was before you left for coffee.’

‘Yeah…’

Scott trailed off. Being here in these circumstances…it was bringing back unwanted memories. He’d bolted a couple of times, but he was getting better at staying. Having a younger sibling who needed him was helping him cope better with the trauma he’d been through himself.

This time he’d left willingly, for coffee. And returned with more. He took something from the bag before handing it to his Dad. Jeff wasn’t surprised to see an apple Danish in Scott’s hand and one in the bag for himself.

They solemnly tapped their cups together.

‘Merry Christmas, Dad.’

‘Merry Christmas, Scott.’

‘Do…Do you think you can keep it down? How’s a Squid supposed to sleep?’

It was the first genuine smile either man had smiled for a long time.

Eleven: International Rescue

There was an air of festivities on Tracy Island the like they hadn’t had for a long time. Everyone was here, both family and friends.

International rescue had been operating for almost eight months, and in that time their reputation had gone from strength to strength. Lee Taylor, Tim and Val Casey and Jeff had been the founders, but the last four months Jeff and Lee had been training Scott, John and Virgil to take their roles in the organisation set up in honour of their Mom.

Christmas on the island was polar opposite to Kansas where they had grown up. December was quite warm – around 70°F compared to about 25°F in Kansas – and although they’d officially lived on the island for a few years now, this was the first Christmas all the Tracys, the Creighton-Wards, the Kyranos and Brains were together. Only the Caseys and Lee were missing, Tim and Val unable to get out of work at the GDF due to some top-secret test (that Scott and John absolutely did not know about, no sir, they did not know about the Zero-X at all) about to occur and Lee because he was back on Alphie, trying to persuade NASA not to destroy their beloved base.

Virgil had been acting oddly all week, and once John had come down he’d joined him, they immediately stopped whatever they were doing every time Jeff walked into the same room. He’d caught whispers about something lost, but to be honest Jeff was just revelling in having all five boys and Tanusha under the same roof for once.

Their Dad wasn’t the only one who had noticed John and Virgil’s odd behaviour. Both Scott and Gordon had, but Scott had his hands full with Alan, the eight-year-old had clung to his eldest brother like a limpet, not that Scott minded, but that meant leaving Gordon to find out what was going on…Gordon promised that he would behave but Scott knew better than to trust that kind of promise – there were many shades to “behaving” when it came to Gordon and Scott was well versed in his prankster brother’s ability to create loopholes. Both brothers would vehemently deny it, but when it came to finding loopholes in something John and Gordon were identical. Scott himself would deny that he and Gordon were the same when it came to pranks, but he’d be lying just as much as John would be…

Whatever they were trying to do also involved Virgil’s studio. The place was a strict ‘invite-only’ place, but Virgil had taken to locking the door – both when he was out of the studio and when he was inside – and had lived up to his “bear” reputation when Scott had tried to find out what they were up to. He had backed away quickly when Virgil literally growled at him.

As the week progressed the smells coming from the studio were mouthwatering, though, and as time passed more and more Scott found himself wandering past trying to work out what the two were up to.

All anyone could work out was that it was definitely *ham* that was being cooked, but why it needed such secrecy was anyone’s guess.

Christmas Eve dawned clear, bright and hot. Breakfast was a riotous affair with so many people, an eclectic mix of traditional American, English and Malay foods meaning everyone had something they enjoyed.

Dinner was due that evening, giving everyone all day for whatever activities they had planned. Games were played, films played in the background. Lunch was a spread of finger food for them to help themselves as they so wished.

Virgil and John disappeared back into the studio. Out of the kiln Virgil pulled the latest attempt at recreating Grandpa Grant’s Baked Ham. This was their fifth attempt but, as tasty as the ham was, it was missing something. Virgil sighed despondently as John’s hand landed on his shoulder and gave him s squeeze.

‘I really wanted this to be ready for tonight but – *sigh* – it won’t be.’

‘It would have been nice, I agree, but you’re really close!’

‘Not close enough, John.’

‘We can do this, Virgil! It’s just a matter of using science and all our taste and memories to work out what Grandpa’s secret ingredient was!’

‘The secret ingre….’

The klaxon drowned out whatever else was going to be said and both men legged to the lounge where the command centre had already been engaged.

‘There’s a problem with the Zero-X launch. Scott, suit up and meet me in One. John, can you return to Five and direct us from there?’

‘FAB Dad.’

‘FAB, Dad.’

‘Kyrano, you have the command centre. Thunderbirds are go!’

Later on, when Scott finally came home, dinner had been forgotten as had all thoughts of food. Once he returned to the lounge Alan all but launched himself at Scott, his other brothers following suit. The four collapsed in a huddle in the middle of the floor, with John’s holo looking on. Pretty soon they were joined by Penny and Kayo and then the older adults surrounded them.

For the second time in their lives Christmas was cancelled.

Twelve: Tracy Island – Together Again

‘What about this?’

‘No – I’ve looked in that box. What about that one?’

‘Hang on…yes! They’re in here!’

This year promised to be their best Christmas ever!

In early spring the five of them with Brains had done the impossible. They had flown to the Oort Cloud, rescued their Father and returned home. Jeff had spent the remainder of the year in a specialist rehab centre, but now he was due home.

Due home on Christmas Eve. What could be more perfect?

So Tracy Island became a hive of activity as everyone prepared for his return. Scott got busy making sure iR and TI could survive the day without them, Gordon and Alan took it upon themselves to decorate the lounge. Brains had muttered something about snow and Kayo was busy in the kitchen with her father and Parker cooking up a feast. Even Uncle Lee had been picked up from Mars earlier in the week by Alan and John.

Virgil and John took it upon themselves to spend the week perfecting Grandpa’s Baked Ham recipe in celebration of having their family all under one roof again. The villa soon filled with the delectable smell of ham.

Every day they tried a new combination in their quest. John had suggested using science to work out what they were missing.

So they started at the beginning by asking the question – AKA ‘interrogating’ Grandma.

Unfortunately Grandma knew nothing. Her husband had been protective of his recipe, not because he didn’t trust her, but because Grant knew what a terrible cook his wife was. It had been a joke that Sally could burn water for their entire married life, and she’d proved that to be the case so, so many times. It hadn’t occurred to anyone that there would come a time when he wouldn’t be around anymore…

So the two brothers formed a hypothesis and theorised that Grandpa would have used ingredients to hand, so they thought long and hard about the kinds of food flavourings they had seen around the old kitchen farmhouse.

Based on that hypothesis they gathered groups of flavourings to try as the predictions part of the scientific method.

Testing the hypothesis had been fun at first. They had mixed flavourings like some kind of kitchen wizards, testing combinations out.

Their family had appreciated most of the ham results. At first. After three days and seven hams even Gordon had begun to complain, but Scott remained oblivious to the amount of thick-cut ham sandwiches he was consuming as he worked.

Tests complete, they analysed the data and drew some conclusions. Nothing matched. They had come close a couple of times, but there was still one key ingredient they were missing, so they tried a different method.

They began searching for their Grandpa’s secret recipe.

They tore into the storage room in the basement, looking through old boxes of stuff that hadn’t been opened since they had moved here from Kansas. They had had to stop for the rest of the day when they stumbled on the one filled with pictures of their Mom and them growing up.

John picked up a heavy box to place it on top of another to make it easier to look into. He’d been down almost the entire week and so gravity wasn’t its usual problem, but the box was heavier than he had anticipated and in manoeuvring it he caught the bottom box. It was enough to make the bottom of the box he was carrying split open, spilling books all over the floor.

A particularly heavy tome flattened his toes and John yelped. Virgil abandoned his box to come and make sure his brother wasn’t too badly hurt, picking up an old tractor manual. It was for Grandpa’s old Deere, the tractor both he and a tiny Virgil had adored both – it was a giant green machine after all…

A feeling of nostalgia washed over him as he flicked through the well-thumbed pages, some still with Grandpa’s oily fingerprints on. As he browsed a yellowing slip of paper full of Grandpa’s neat, careful writing slipped out from between the pages.

With slightly shaking fingers John bent to pick the page up and read it aloud:

Sweet Southern Slow-Cooker Ham

“Ingredients:

1 bone-in fully-cooked ham, about 5.5lb

1 cup apple cider vinegar

½ cup of dark brown sugar

1/3 cup of Kentucky bourbon

¼ cup of honey

¼ cup Dijon-style mustard

4+ sprigs of thyme”

Virgil smacked his forehead. Bourbon? The missing ingredient was bourbon?? He picked John up and swung him around. Both men were laughing before carefully packing the box and putting it back away and returning to the studio.

Several hours later and Virgil was bringing Two into land.

They were all there to bring their Dad home and Jeff was revelling in just being here. He still used a cane to walk around, but he was so much more than the husk of a man they had rescued ten months ago. He’d put on weight, had almost got used to gravity again and was looking forward to sleeping in his own bed with his own children, his Ma and his friends all around him.

Christmas Eve. What a special day to return home. There were so many Christmas Eves that had been special for various reasons, but today was going to be the best ever. As they arrived in the lounge to the cheering of those who had stayed behind and to the smells of food ready to be eaten.

Jeff watched as his children and his friend’s children orientated themselves around him and each other. Huh…interesting. He’d known Scott and Penny had a bit of a thing for each other before…before that time, but now to see Penny sitting with Gordon he realised that ship had sailed. Instead, Scott had gravitated to Kayo, an unusual pairing to be sure, Jeff thought, seeing that they were potentially too similar in temperament, but if it worked then he’d be more than happy for both boys.

Ma, Kyrano and Parker were busy laying the table when John and Virgil brought in a covered dish. There were a few groans from Gordon and Alan which had Jeff raising his eyebrows at them and they quietened down.

The ham was uncovered with a flourish once everyone was seated and ready to help themselves. Scott, recognising the smell of Grandpa’s secret Baked Ham, insisted that Jeff have the first slice and that everyone wait until their Dad and friend had pronounced judgement.

The smell hit Jeff like a thunderbolt. He’d not smelt this particular aroma for…wow, was it really almost twenty years since they had lost Lucy and his Pa? Water welled but didn’t fall from his eyes as Jeff fought to keep his composure.

And then he tastes it.

Tears fell as memories of home, of being a child growing up on the farm, of that first Christmas he’d introduced Lucy to his parents, of the time a two-year-old Scott had managed to pull the tablecloth off the table and was busy hoovering up the food that had fallen, heedless of the adults’ cries of panic over the broken glass and China.

That first time Hugh, Amelia and Penny had come over for Christmas and then Kyrano and Kayo had joined them…and Brains too vied with thoughts of the dried astronaut food he’d sustained himself on when alone out there in the Oort Cloud.

All these memories rushed upon him and Jeff suddenly realised he’d dropped his fork and was just sitting there staring into space, his family looking on with worried faces.

Jeff cleared his throat and wiped his eyes.

‘Thank you. Thank you all. This is without doubt the best Christmas Eve I have had in a very, very long time.’

[necromosss]

Saying this in best way possible.

I envy on how you can convey everything wonderfully with only sketches yet it feels like a finished piece. I envy you not because I think my art is bad but more because of my perfectionist mind forced me to fleshed everything out before it deemed "post worthy" one day I want to improve and be more confident with my sketch just like you so I won't physically strain myself by making everything I made as polished as possible.

This might come as me also venting, (but!) this ask made me.... think.

Believe it or not, anon, what you envied of me is actually one of the biggest insecurities i have as an artist. I really think I should have put more effort to finish my works, but it just feel off whenever I did :")

Anyways!

It's totally alright to take time for your art! But if you do want to try to be confident with your sketch more, I'd suggest......to think that nobody cares.

This.... might be a bad advice and a bad way to see your own artworks, but these are what I kept telling myself:

Nobody would care if I had/hadn't finish or perfect this. Nobody will point it out anyway. No one ever did.

To me this looks clear enough. Readable enough. If my dumbass brain can understand it, so can everyone else.

Does this sketch sets the mood/feeling/intensity enough? If it doesnt then its time to rely on splashing some colors

If they like this messy excuse of an art then good for them and if not? Well at least my thoughts are already put OUT there and not kept locked inside. Like breathing a fresh air.

And thats that. I hope you can feel more comfortable with your sketches soon🫶 OH and thank you, anon🥹💖

Sad thoughts/vent part below cut. Not necessarily connected to answer anon!! (just me pouring my own feelings/thoughts out!)

I... really enjoy just putting out my thoughts emotions and ideas via my sketches but at the same time, it kept made me question myself if I—as an artist—was ever worth all this attention when I couldn't even deliver something "finished." Hells, even when I did a finished, rendered art, it never made an impression as close to equal sd my "stupid doodles" does.

I feel like i perform and deliver better using rough sketches because I love to emphasize the rawness of gestures and emotions that raw sketches provide. But nobody around me thinks so. Because it's like im not done yet.

I didn't know my place. Nobody around me (in my local indo artist communities) preferred my works because there's always someone out there with a more polished & pretty art. Mine is... just never seem to look finished. I always look like i... underperformed.

So what Im trying to say is. Maybe we have our own strengths and weaknesses. Whats important is that we find out own comfortable paces and methods. And that is still a long heck of an artist journey that i myself still need to discover.