*barges in*
HAPPY
FEKIN
PRIDE BITCHEEEEEESSSSSSS
seen from Thailand
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom

seen from United States
seen from Thailand
seen from India
seen from Maldives
seen from China

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Russia
seen from United States
seen from Yemen
seen from Uzbekistan

seen from Vietnam
seen from United States
*barges in*
HAPPY
FEKIN
PRIDE BITCHEEEEEESSSSSSS
stupid spectre get crucified
i had no idea how to draw its legs so i just didn't❤️
Hmm, old man squid doodles
Omggg you’re writing Garcy!!! I loved the two smutty ones but I also would love to see the “I love your voice” one. If you’d like :))
It's late, the dinner has been eaten (turkey only mildly crispy around the edges), the dishes have been washed, Iris and Amy have departed with many hugs and promises to get together for coffee soon, and Lucy and Flynn are sitting on the couch, looking at the tree lights and not talking very much. His arm rests lightly over her shoulders, she pushes at him with her fuzzy-socked feet every so often, and the sense of rest and repletion, of simply being here and having nothing else to do, nowhere else to go, no world to suddenly worry about ending (you know, aside from the usual clusterfucks) -- Lucy isn't entirely sure that she's processing it. She still thinks the phone will ring, the jump alarm will sound, anything to make this end. It's something she should probably talk to a therapist about, if she could find one who wouldn't immediately think she should be put under a 5150. But that's a problem for later. Not right now.
Some instrumental Christmas music is playing over Flynn's phone, which he has left hooked up to a mini-speaker, and he hums along with it absently, low and gravelly in his throat. Sometimes he sings a word or two, half to himself, until Lucy snuggles closer. "I love your voice."
Flynn blinks. "Thank you?"
"You're welcome." Lucy leans against him, playing idly with his fingers where his hand rests lightly on her side. "You said that Lorena sang," she says quietly, after a long moment. "Did you? With her?"
Flynn's face flickers, and he glances away. Even in the uncomplicated, unbelievable, miraculous joy of having Iris with him tonight, whole and alive and real, that doesn't mean that either of them have forgotten about the other missing piece. "Not really," he says, after a long pause. "She -- in church, she always did, whenever she could drag me with her. I was usually too busy, off somewhere else I couldn't talk about, doing something I couldn't talk about. It used to drive me crazy when she did it at home, like I told you back in 1936, and I wish -- "
He stops, lets out a slow breath, but smiles, the memory sweet despite the sting. They sit there for several moments. Then he remarks, "I love your voice too, you know."
"What?" Lucy is startled. She can sing, of course, but she hasn't really done it. Not for Flynn, at least. "You want me to start caroling, is that what you mean?"
"If you want." Flynn shrugs. "But I was thinking about the journal, actually. That voice. I read it so many times, and it was the only reason I made it through those first holidays without my girls. I could just hear you saying the words, even though all the only time I had heard you talk was in São Paulo and I thought you were crazy. It sounded crazy, everything I was reading. But when I listened for you behind the words, it was enough to keep me going. To keep me thinking that there really was a chance. So." He pauses, then shrugs, with utmost diffidence. "Thank you. Always."
Lucy gapes at him. At last she says, half a whisper, "You're welcome. Always."
Flynn leans down to kiss her, and she leans up into him, pressing in close and holding on tight. It likewise is nothing short of a miracle that they are here tonight, together and alive and real, but she doesn't want to question it. Just sit here in the peace and stillness, o holy night, and just for now, as both of them are learning how to do again from the very beginning, remember how to believe.
[fic prompt list]
Fun-facts about Ask Nora #16 :
Nora has more scars, either from the Diamonds, or just missions
Sis you keep complaining about your hair but it can't be THAT bad
i did it myself and the bleach didn't even got on half on my hair although my aunt says it looks like i did highlights
Hhhhnnnf why is the camp camp fandom so strange I'll just enjoy this show on my own then