ONE-MORE-WIN


And the last one for the color palette challenge is for  @solangeloismydaylight​!
Clarisse with helmet hair <3
thank you for the request, this was really fun and I love drawing her!

Now I got you in my space, I won’t let go of you… [x]

happy whatever it is you celebrate and happy new year for all of u

They’re watching baby animals videos

( @greyhairsowhat happy birthday dear !!!!  (ノ ´ 3 ` )ノ  ❤️️💕)

anonymous asked:

aaahh you're making me want to watch black sails. what's it about?

forget what you saw. run. run while you still can.

So I got to meet Tyler again tonight after the show. He was such a sweetheart for coming out and taking pictures with everyone! When I went up to him I told him that I printed out all of the FPE papers and passed them out to everyone and he said that he really appreciated it and loved seeing them held up during Goner. So I asked him if he could hold the last sign up in the picture and he said that we should hold it together. The show tonight was INCREDIBLE and I’m so happy right now, I can’t even describe how much I love this band. Happy birthday Tyler |-/ @twentyonepilots @fpeproject

4

I do not know how you go from that horrendous a deficit that late in the game to WINNING but my boys pulled it off. God I love this team, even if they give me anxiety and aneurysms.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Always keep fighting.

Now go shave your face, Julian.

19. “Yeah, you’re right. You don’t need me.”

It’s been two months of hysterical practice since Andrew called. One more of winning, winning, hollowness, confusion so deep that Neil can feel it in his scars, at the empty back of his neck. He can’t remember the last time he won a game and didn’t ricochet off the ceiling and gather the whole room to his chest like a victory blanket. And yet.

Winning feels shit empty, like old names and a trashed duffel bag, like “please” and “sorry” and “I love you”, and all the hallmark bullshit that was never addressed to people like the foxes.

The thing is, he was trying so hard to keep his fingers clenched in his future, in Ichirou’s collar, that he let go of Andrew’s hand.

Or Andrew let go of his. Or— fuck, if there was anything to let go of, Neil can’t find it now, it’s like the whole wide world is his phone and Andrew lost his number. It’s never felt like that before. He’s never relied on anything like that. It hurts — just the wrong way, an itch that is actually a hand trying to burrow its way in.

He considers showing up at his apartment, and then he considers what it would feel like if Andrew closed another door on him. He lets another two weeks slip by.

He stops letting fights go.

He punches Jack in his fucking face until blood is more distinguishable than features. He looks like squashed produce left out on the court to rot by the time Neil’s done with him.

He breaks a reporter’s camera. They’re asking him jokingly about the lunatic former team member, one of them says “glad to be rid of him, eh?”, laughing. Laughing, their face cut up into red and white pieces, or that’s all Neil can see, just red and red and crooked teeth laughing. He shoves the camera away and it falls, shattering into grotesque confetti.

He remembers Andrew crouched on a motel floor, the second skin of his control in tatters. He knows, viscerally, how anger tastes on both sides of it. He can feel his father clawing up his throat.

Andrew shows up on the Friday the day after Neil’s tantrum of a press conference airs.

He doesn’t knock, and the door is unlocked. No key required.

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