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#it’s been a year
chiricat · 1 year
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🎶✨
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thesuperiorfeeling · 2 months
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Sometimes I go through my art heist baby edits folder on the clock app just to feel something.
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lilcatastrophe · 4 months
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obtained: hyperfixation x1
[one without all the jazz] ⬇️
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wetnoodle · 1 year
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another Witcher drawing by me
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orphyd · 6 months
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WE’RE FUCKING BACK BOYS-
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thebunnylord · 5 months
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Traintober day 31: lights out
Diesel: how many steamies does it take to change a lightbulb?
Diesel: none, they’re so old that they still use gas lamps.
Thomas: how many diesels does it take to change a lightbulb?
Thomas: one to actually notice that the lightbulb is out, one to come up with an elaborate plan to steal all of us steamies lightbulbs, and then one to put it in.
Duck: how many great western engines does it take to change a lightbulb?
Duck: one, because they did it the Great Western Way ™
Gordon: how many express engines does it take to change a lightbulb?
Gordon: none because they were so fast that they changed it before the bulb actually went out.
Edward: how many China clay pit twins does it take to change a lightbulb?
Edward: neither one of them because they were too busy arguing over who should change it!
Bill: alright! We’ll change it in a minute!
Edward: you said that last year.
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neversetyoufree · 10 months
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New vnc in about 14 hours I am vibrating out of my skin
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applejuiz · 18 days
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uh oh having an unfortunate number of orb thoughts on the orbiversary:
just… the last time we saw Keyleth she was there, again, close, close to where it happened, close to him. on the same plane, for the first time in thirty years, for the first time since the wedding, for the first time since… except that’s not true is it. but does she know that? does she know that he’s always been close, that he’s done it before, does she know that everyone else knew that he would always always protect her, and that it could be used to damn the world and damn the very gods that keep them apart?
but that doesn’t matter anymore, right? not when he’s in an orb.
in pain, she knows he’s in pain. she knows she has to leave him there, in pain, until they can fix everything else, knows that once again for the sake of the world, she has to prioritize other things, has to leave him in pain and take up her mantle, her role, her responsibility.
he would understand, right? he’s always understood, he’d always been so proud of her, blossoming into a leader, supported her making the hard calls. it’s for the sake of the world. he would do the same, right?
(but no. no, he probably wouldn’t. not if it meant her in pain. that’s why this happened in the first place. he had to save her.)
but she will get him out, as soon as she possibly can, she will finally get to do what her very soul aches to and go to him and set things right and put him back, back where he’s supposed to be. (though not fully supposed to be, of course. he’s supposed to be with her, he’s supposed to be… well, that’s an old hurt, scarred over, something to ache about later)
but there will be a moment won’t there? when she sets him free.
(how? what does she have to do? why was this even done beyond to torment her, to taunt her, to wave him in front of her and snatch him away again, to prove to her that it could always be worse? how is she going to get him out of there? how did she not see this coming? how was she so helpless? how did she let this happen to him?)
she’ll get him out, de-orb him, and there will be a moment, right? maybe? when she gets to see him. really see him. not just a straining glance up from the ground as he bends reality to save her. no. there will be a moment of looking him in the eyes, the same place, the same time, being together, close to him, for just a moment, before the world remembers the way it is, before it separates them once again.
you save me I save you, she’ll convey somehow. always a two way street. you protecting your plane. me protecting mine. meet me in the middle, when the edges bleed, please, even if it hurts again, even if it almost kills us. you know i’m in love with you, right?
(he’s in so much pain. will it still echo in him in that moment, their moment, any time for reunion lost to the aftershocks. will he still be half a ghost, that strange slower shade of him from the wedding. not that it matters, it’s still him, it’s still him, it’s still him, she knows. any of him, any second will be enough.)
i’m sorry, is maybe what she’ll say instead. i’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner. sorry it hurt so much. sorry they used me against you. sorry it’s never enough.
there’s nothing to forgive, he’d say. she said once. they love a callback, they love to echo, don’t they? (what do they have left but echoes?)
or maybe she’ll say nothing. maybe she’ll just stare, rebrand him in her eyes, onto her soul (it’s been so long, sometimes she has to stare at Vex to remember the shape of his nose) maybe she’ll just look at him and let him ruin her again for anyone or anything else, get her fill for another few decades of waiting (hoping) for something like this to happen again no matter how much it hurts both of them. (it was always going to hurt this much.)
she compartmentalizes, holds that future moment in its own little corner of her mind, but holds it close, thrumming under her skin, a north star, an engine churning. it’ll all be worth it, if she can just get there.
(and maybe, maybe if she’s good enough, if she fixes enough, if she’s strong enough, maybe a miracle is waiting for her there)
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highbidontcry · 7 months
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.
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thestalwartheart · 7 months
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FRIENDS. FRIENDSSSSSS!!!!
I HAVE FINISHED THE NEXT CHAPTER OF THOSE WHO WANDER!!!!
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beautiful-littlefool · 2 months
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I wish that I knew why you stopped responding. I wish that I could know what I did so that you felt the need to throw out years of friendship. You were my absolute best friend and I still call you that when talking to people who don’t know you. I’ll bring up stories from our past and how I still laugh about them and I always say “this one time with my best friend”. It’s been over a year since we had an actual conversation. And in that conversation you said you loved me.
So why did you let go?
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kohifuwafuwa · 3 months
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Around 300 drawings between. A years worth of progress,not sure how much I improved but I definitely did. Thank you all for your support! 😃
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keiraboberia · 1 year
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I still do not know which one is lark and which one is sparrow. Classic twin moment
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anadesired · 7 months
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I am officially ready for fall 🤎🔗
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bluemoonbabes · 3 months
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Time Gone By
Debris fic. Bryan introspection New Year’s Edition.
It’s New Year’s Eve. The Kazemis’ house swarms with agents and techs and scientists and everything in between, trickling in from Orbital, piling themselves into the living room, meandering along the snack buffet, roving between people and pets. Bryan is the corner, is always in the corner because that’s where he’s safe, back against the wall, no one behind him, everyone in front of him, everyone where he can see. No one to catch him off guard. He’s got some buff, untouched drink in a candy red cup, some beer he grabbed just to hold something, to give his hands something to do, something to center himself on. Beer from that shitty gas station just down the street in a candy red cup just like last year. At least it’s something.
Tonight, though, is mildly pleasant. That’s the best way to put it, standing against the wall and watching the party, beer untouched, always untouched in a crowd like this (inebriation terrifies him, the lack of autonomy, the lessened reaction time, the lessened awareness). Maddox, Tom, Muntz, Alvin, and Lester all throng together in the dinning room, dispersed in various seats that are always being taken and then left and then taken, murmuring between each other things that Bryan’s too far away to hear. There’s one window in the dinning room, and two ways out into the adjoining rooms.
Kazemi and Claire and April have taken to the buffet of snacks spread out among the kitchen (one window above the kitchen sink), chatting as the pick and sniff and judge and taste. Bryan learns a lot being the fly on the wall, every conversation drifting his way, drawn to every little movement. Like how Rachel’s husband wants to get another cat, how Claire’s thinking about going back to college though for what yet she isn’t sure, and how April had the absolute funniest run in with this random stranger in a coffee shop a couple days ago that was such a coincidence.
The front door is clear. Bryan can sprint to it in an instant, that or one of the windows on either side of it. A roar of laughter snatches his eyes to the living room, where Finola and Hamid and Reed and Brandt dip and weave and shimmy and shake as they dance to the music, a collection of drinks in hand. Finola has wine, Bryan thinks, spotting the bulbous glass half-full with the sort of quartz-like color of white wine. They’re in front of the tv, which Bryan is near, against the living room wall, as it bubbles out song after song, songs that are light and groovy, dancing music with a base that rumbles in his chest. But it’s okay tonight. He can tune it out. He has the energy to spare.
He really is mindless tonight, isn’t he? All base instinct, absorbed in the vibrancy before him as Niels and Grace and Gibson come in from the backyard (one door out, two more windows), making some loud comment about how they were freezing their tits off and then promptly going for the alcohol. It’s as much as his brain can process right now, the music and the murmuring, the movement and momentum, but it’s not too much, lingering right at the perfect capacity, consuming his conscious yet not shredding it.
Kazemi hands out champagne flutes, and Bryan just watches her, watches as she weaves between people, making comments as she disperses the drinks. He takes his with a quiet thank you, voice cut, drowned out as the party consumes him, too invaded with what goes on to be much of a conversation. It bubbles, the champagne, a pale gold liquor that mutters to him in a cold, clear glass. His knees are starting to hurt with how long he’s been standing, and tomorrow morning he knows he’s going to wake up a being of nothing but bruise, but that’s tomorrow. Tonight, Finola is walking up to him, a soft smile on her face, her wine glass traded out for the champagne flute.
“How are you doing?” She asks.
Bryan returns that smile, soft and gentle and endeared, because she’s the only one who ever asks. The only one who tries to understand instead of taking the first assumption their brain sputters out. The only one who he isn’t terrified to exist with.
“I’m okay,” He says, “Just hanging out.”
Because that’s the only way he can really put it, isn’t it? Not actively engaging but passively enjoying, watching the people around him, as Kazemi’s catch jumps up onto the kitchen island, and listening, listening as someone shouts out ‘fifteen seconds’.
Finola nods and then the countdown starts, someone shouting out a ‘ten’ and then ‘nine’ as more people join in, ‘eight’ as the entire party catches on, ‘seven’ as it echoes through the living room, ‘six’ as it rattles the house, and then Finola joins in too
“Five!”
And suddenly, Bryan is still.
New Year’s Eve. In five seconds, this year will end, gone to the grave, tucked away for eternity, nothing but a memory as they’re thrust into the next year, only one year, so fleeting. Weren’t they just here celebrating the previous New Year? Or what that two years ago? Or three? Are years really this short?
“Four!”
Time starts to blur after a while. After his brain is rattled by IEDs, after gunshots and shouting chase him down, after the sun beats down on his back for hours and burns his skin, after dust and blood stain his skin, no wash enough, not even now, still slick and warm beneath his fingers. Time starts to loose meaning after the nights spent as days in a land he can only remember, as a car backfires and suddenly there are bullets shooting at him, as he starts to loose touch with himself, floating through life partially out of his own body because if he’s too conscious of it then there’s too much pain, too much freedom for his brain, too much input from the world, too much, too much, too much.
And now he’s going to loose another year.
“Three!”
But at least he got the year.
Asalah didn’t.
Carlotta Orlov didn’t.
Kieran Vandeburg didn’t.
Those farmers from Nebraska didn’t.
Kurt and Clara Cox didn’t.
Luke and Liam Packard didn’t.
George Jones didn’t.
And suddenly the room feels so much more empty than it should, because now Bryan’s aware of just how many aren’t here. Even Asalah, who’s haunted him for years now, painted in his nightmares, clinging to his wrist, hidden in his pocket. Even she still stings, the world around him just a little colder and little more empty than it should be. She should be here, not him, standing in the light as they cry out for the New Year. But then again, this isn’t the first New Year she’s missed. Nor will it be the last. Bryan can only hope that she’s helping the others get through it too, the agony of missing New Year’s as they reside in a place where time doesn’t exist. Or maybe they’re fast asleep, unaware of time at all.
How peaceful that would be. To be so unaware of time. Of the seasons changing. Of how it reminds him of every thing he’s lost, every thing he’s failed, every thing he could never live up to. At least then the pain would stop.
“Two!”
Finola bumps his shoulder.
The world may be a little colder, but it isn’t cold. Maybe a little emptier, but not empty. Not when she stands beside him, the light of the sun itself, beaming at him with freckled cheeks and beautiful eyes. He’s not so alone, as much as his brain tries to trick him into thinking he is, not so isolated, not with Finola here, like glue to keep his feet tacked to the ground and head on his shoulders and brain in the present.
Bryan turns to the party as a whole, the people packed into the living room, shouting together, glasses raised, his coworkers alight as they creep steadily closer to the New Year. And staring at the party, staring at the future, there is a sort of lift off his chest. A sort of acceptance, dare he say a spark of hope. Yeah. Hope. Because he’s not alone. For the first time in a long time, he’s not alone, and staring into the not yet told abyss of the future, he’s not scared. He’s almost excited.
He made it another year. He survived another year, even when all odds were stacked against him. He survived another year through the hell of the Debris. Survived another year even when his PTSD never thought he could, even after the days spent in bed sick and hurting because of how raw it’s worn his body, even after the hospital trips and Orbital scans and blood given to the Debris. He survived another year. So it’s not so sour as it had been the year before. The year before, his survival meant nothing, just that he was continuing, a cog in the machine, just going through the motions until he couldn’t. But it means something this year, in this moment, after months spent across country to contain the Debris, after months spent fighting to bounce back from injuries and missions gone wrong, after months spent with Finola, the closest friend he’s had in years, the only person who means something to him.
For once his survival matters.
“One!”
Bryan looks at Finola, so beautiful, and maybe he didn’t just survive. Maybe he did a little more than that, because she’s gazing at him, bright-eyed, beaming, beautiful. Maybe she’s the hope he feels now, heart fluttering in his chest, the future an abyss for them to carve into shape together.
So he joins in this time
“Happy New Year!”
Bryan leans in close and snakes his arm around her waist, holding her gaze, asking,
“May I?”
Finola’s beaming smile turns into a toothy grin, and then her arm is around his neck, and then her lips are on his, pressing into him, slipping into place, warm and soft and everything he had hoped she would be. She parts, but her arms are still around his neck, over his shoulders, gazing into his eyes, and hers are so brown, so beautifully brown like gemstones.
“Happy New Year, Bryan,” She says.
And then he hears it, sung among the crowd, floating above their heads. Auld Lang Syne. And as it floats, ringing out through the room, Bryan sees someone leave, some one in dark blue and gray worn pale by wind and wear. Asalah. She doesn’t turn to look at him. Just leaves quietly, slipping out and away, no more to say, no more to do, just leaving into the bliss of a tranquil night, where she joins with several others. A little boy. A few people dirtied up and sweaty from a long day’s work. A couple strolling down the street. Two brothers bumping each other’s shoulders. An older man who hobbles his way on.
Bryan just watches them, quiet, passive, accepting as he bids them one last goodbye, one final tear, one final farewell.
Auld lang syne.
And then he lets them be, lets them on their way, lets them rest. The road splits here, where Bryan must go a different way, where it continues on for him, where must keep going even if it’s not so fair, and he returns to Finola.
He grins, “Happy New Year, Finola.”
And for once, for once Bryan means it, because for once, for once the New Year means something for him. A mark of achievement. A mark that he’s survived. That he’s alive, still human and still moving. For once the New Year matters. For once he matters.
He kisses Finola again.
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