#four musicals and two plays

[that-one-fluffy-anon]

a common interaction

me: i'm gonna get on my pc and participate in social activities today! french narrator: *six months later* me: me: huh me: welp

[drawsmaddy]

[ID: A digital illustration of The Great Fairy Fountain at Zora Fountain from The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time. The fountain's stone work is mostly pink with two braizers containing green fire on either side of the pool at the centre of the fountain. Water pours down the sides of the room in front of the pillars at the walls, and water covers the floor on either side of a raised central walkway to a platform engraved with the symbol of the triforce. Child Link stands on the walkway, facing away from the viewer. End description.]

Been playing Ocarina of Time for the first time!

[hecateisalesbian]

Screaming crying kicking throwing up sobbing sobbing sobbing sobbing

[bigmack2go]

Newsies as Things my friend and me have said bc im shocked i haven’t done this yet

Sarah: THIS!

Sarah: *points at tailor doll*

Sarah: this is the reason i‘m into women!

(Sarah *in a whispered sob*: my hand fits her waist so perfectly….)

Race after getting one single question wrong: if you’re alowed to be dumb, so am i

Albert *shocked*: why is there no crossover of „sing“ and „zootopia??“

Albert: i mean—… NOT EVEN A FANFICTION!

Jack: there are very few names that are acceptable for sausage dogs

Jack *clears throat*….

Jack: NUMBER ONE—

Race:*wakes up david from his much needed afternoon nap*

Race: do u ever mix up the feeling of attraction with the one of jealousy???

Les: so if harry potter is an otter—

Les: and ron weasly is a weasle….

Les: whats hermione??

Albert: anyone else ever wonder how it would go if henry danger went to hogwarts?

Davey (in the middle of a conversation about hotdogs or smt): is there a place where you can give emoji suggestions??

Hotshot: what are you doing?

Autistic!Spot *squatting*: i need to make sure these pants don’t give me over sensory issues

Race: i dont get hyperfixations

Albert: you— you litteraly memorised Hamilton

Race: IT WAS TO KEEP MY BRAIN IN FORM

Katherine: why is it, whenever i find someone hot, they get a haircut???

Albert: SHUT UP YOU LITTLE— YOU LITTLE… i can’t think of an insult but imagine something thats really bad just so you know i am in fact very mad

(Race: woah who would have thought i’d live to see the day albert dasilva isn’t able to think of an insult)

Albert: ok but like… the characterbuilding of pawpatrol is like,,, really fucking good

Albert: like that shit deserves an oscar

Spot: did it hurt when you fell—

Race (litterally from down on the floor): when i fell from heaven?

Spot: no when you-

Race: when i fell for you?

Spot: RACE YOU JUST F E L L OF THE STAIRS

Jack: ah where did i put my crutchie?

Jack: GAYS HAS ABYONE SEEN MY CRUTCHIE?

Jack: damnit why do i keep losing i— ahhh there it is!

Elmer: ask for forgiveness, not permission

Hotsot: *sighs exasperated while watching elmer proceed to pull out a baloon sword with a genuinely evil look on his face*

Jack: you ever notice how you can deescalate literally any situation by [doing smt] as long as the situation is right?

Davey: *blinks* what?

Smalls: soooo i think i may or may not have just accidentally invented backwards stealing

Jack: ugh! Nephew, grandson! Wheres the difference, really??

Jack: i just stepped on my painting

Jack: haha! Look at those cute lil paint pawprints on the floor

Jack:

Jack: wait why do my feet make pawshaped pawprints???

Davey: thats it. Im done. I quit.

Elmer: quit what?

Davey:

Davey: life.

Spot: im trying to work on my anger issues

Albert: you literally just punched somebody

Spot: and it made me less angry

Mrs Kirby: buttons what are you doing here? This isn’t your classroom

Buttons (shamelessly): avoiding my teacher hopefully for another….

Buttons (squinting at the clock):

Buttons (happy as ever): 36 minutes!

Graves: my bf is being homophobic

Hotshot: youre single???

Graves: exactly!!

Davey: i may be antisocial but im still a socialist

Albert: spot, if i dropped dead here and now and race wasn’t there to witness that you didn’t murder me, what would you do with my body?

Spot: bold of u to assume I didn’t murder u

Spot: or need race as a witness

Spot: or—

Albert: OKAY I GET IT

Albert *putting on creme-deodorant*:

Jack: is this hair wax you’re putting under your arms???

Albert:…

Albert: yes.

Albert: it blocks the sweat glands.

Jack: *proceeds to go on about a ten minute speech about how tiktok spreads false information and life hacks*

Race: ow ow ow ow

Spot: what?

Race: i put on the wrong glasses

Spot: race w h a t

Albert: im a left handed green eyed ginger and thats not even the worst part—

Race: there are four types of people.

Race: watch.

Race: *shoves crutchie so he falls*

Jack: *gasps and runs to fight race*

Davey: *gasps and runs to help crutchie*

elmer: *gasps and laughs at crutchie*

Albert: *gasps and laughs at race*

Race: see

Race: *the most satisfied hes beenin his life*

No one:

Absolutely no one:

On this entire planet no one:

smalls *giving b i r t h*: ow ouch ow ah- yeah that does in fact hurt, owowow

[bambiraptorx]

I've been thinking about how the turtles are canonically good at singing but bad at playing instruments and why that might be, and honestly it's probably just because human instruments are designed for people who have twice as many fingers

[s0fter-sin]

the thing that gets me about the, "oh it's quick bc it's war, it's more realistic," defence for soap's death is 09 ghost's and roach's deaths were abrupt as well but they were still treated with dignity

ghost screams for roach and tries to kill shepherd before he’s killed. we the player get to sit and watch with a dying roach

roach tries one last time to get the dsm even though it’s hopeless. we see the way they throw ghost's body, the rising dread as they spread the fuel. the hatred for shepherd drags out when he flicks the cigar and lights it and the screen slowly darkens, music swelling as he gets away with it and roach finally dies as well

we hear price scream through the comms and the devastating realisation hits that if he'd called just a little earlier, they might have lived

that is how you do an abrupt but dignified death that respects the audience

mw3 is how you throw together a rushed and disjointed climax and hope people swallow it

[h-f-k]

i was literally talking with a friend how i miss tour music videos SO much and this hit me right in the nostalgia

[hollow-toy]

starting to learn the guitarrrrr!!!

[mokeonn]

I need to bombard yall with my new bg3 characters bc I recently got back into the game and started a new tactician and honor mode save

[dragqueenpentheus]

discuss: juno steel

my thoughts are. i love him. show stopping gender

and mommy issues on that lady

[fantasykiri5]

Spotify wrapped is always so funny when you don’t fucking use Spotify

[theinfinitedivides]

watching a movie about a sport you know nothing about can be the definition of vibing without comprehension and i experienced that today

[brown-little-robin]

another random clone question just occurred to me: do/would any of your clones learn to play an instrument?

YES!!!

Two learns how to play the piano! He loves the complex patterns of music, and he also appreciates music for how it expresses feelings with zero context. He uses it as an outlet for his own feelings. Also, piano is something Two can become proficient at, increasing his self-confidence! But on the other hand, mastery isn't really an option, because there's always another way to play a song, sweeter or louder or more playfully, and so it's not like a problem to be solved and be done with; you can't win at piano, so it doesn't give Two anxiety, which is important in a hobby.

As for the rest... hmm. Three might pick up guitar at some point. Four would get anxiety about learning music, so I don't think an instrument is in the cards for him. Five will learn to sing! Six... very possibly! I feel he'd go for violin or something similarly emo (affectionate). Seven... hmm. Seven strikes me more as a music enjoyer than a player. And Seven has more than enough activities for now <3 Eight doesn't have a musical bone in his body, bless his heart. If Max got him lessons he'd try to learn, but he wouldn't really be committed to it.

Nine, uh. Nine likes music a lot. But that involves spoilers. ;)

[adiraofthetals]

The real vibes are having Canva open on one tab to make mini-comics, Eureka on another tab, and a third tab for my Eureka timeline and fact doc.

Also extra tidbit! Eureka as a show only has 3 canon dates. Over five seasons. We have canon years but not canon dates (Time travel is in the show). The canon dates we have is October 3rd, 2006 + October 3rd, 2010, April 15th, 1947 + April 15th, 2010, and another one that I can't remember right now. The rest are implied or holiday episodes. So that is why I am making a timeline! Mainly for my fic and for me to figure out what is going on.

[teal-raccoon]

marching band ended and my depression came back (it was already there. it got worse) what is this hell and why am I in a music cult

I just want to play rock and die 😔

[suguann]

✎. he’s nice. well, that’s what everyone’s been telling you.

tags. fem!reader, mild dubcon, possessive and obsessive behavior, simon is an excon, non-linear narrative for future chapters [18+ only]

part one | part two

He’s always been a little obsessed with pretty things, even as a child.

It only makes sense that the habit would follow him into adulthood.

He sees you once while he’s walking by the bus stop. A timid thing wrapped up in an oversized sweater and parka coat, not looking up from the little book in your lap until the bus stops before you and takes you away.

The next time he sees you, he makes sure to come a few minutes earlier, lighting a cigarette and keeping his distance while he watches you read the same book from the day before. Simon knows it’s you, the girl from the letters, even if it’s a big city. It has to be—his pretty, lonely, silly girl.

He thinks about walking up to you just to make sure, but he doesn’t really need to. The address on the envelope brought him here, and you’re the only one he’s seen wearing a university sweater in this neighborhood.

But when he hesitates too long, a boy starts talking to you, and he watches you smile at somebody else.

Simon runs his thumb over his bottom lip and takes a deep breath to fill his chest with the soothing feeling of menthol and the burning taste of nicotine, trying to relax his white-knuckle grip on his steering wheel. 

You’ll learn, he thinks, when the bus drives off, and the boy doesn’t follow you on. He’s a patient man—it’s possibly one of his finer qualities.

He lets his car idle as he climbs out before crushing his cigarette bud underneath his shoe, straightening his black tie, and crossing the street. The boy sees him and freezes, but Simon can only laugh, wiping blood off his cheek several seconds later.

You’ll learn.

He’s nice.

Well, that’s what everyone’s been telling you. But nice, you've learned, can mean any number of things: a nice laugh, a nice house, a nice job, et cetera.

But how he holds himself—tall, broad, and dangerous—hardly screams nice.

It’s funny because you don’t remember seeing him around the office before—the company, including IT, occupies only four floors in the building. 

Someone tells you he’s a friend of a friend. This initially sounds odd until Rose, the office gossip, says he’s someone rich who helps fund the company's social events. Hence, the crisp suit and the wide berth of space you’d give someone who wields their smile like a weapon. 

You quickly look away twice when you find that smile aimed at you, heat traveling up to your hairline at an alarming rate.

It doesn’t matter anyway. He’s not your type. 

“Enjoying the party?” 

You nearly jump out of your skin at the deep voice so close to your ear. Careful not to spill your drink, you turn your head to find him smiling down at you with a sharp curl of his mouth.

Then he’s in front of you, eyes dark and crinkling in the corners.

“Uh, yeah. It’s not bad, though,” you squeak nervously when you realize you haven’t answered him. “It’s different from what I’m used to.”

He raises an amused brow. “Oh? And what might that be?”

He’s intimidating up close, and you take a small sip of your drink to ease your nerves. “Well, no kegs or trashy music playing, and boys with egos bigger than the room.”

The man lets out a low chuckle as he considers your honest reply, and you swear you see something ripple across his features, but when you blink, it’s gone. “I suppose that differs from top-shelf liquor and live bands, huh? Which is better?”

You shrug. “Well, it depends on who you ask.” 

“I’m asking you.”

“Honest answer?” 

He nods. 

“Neither. I don’t really care for parties.”

“Then it’s quite unfortunate that you found yourself at one tonight.” He seems privately amused, in on a joke you have no part of. Then he says, “You want to get out of here?”

“I probably shouldn’t follow a stranger home,” you tell him bashfully.

“That’s very responsible of you. Then how about I get you a drink? There’s a hotel across the street, and the bar’s not shit.”

You bite your lip, and his big, warm hand is on the small of your back before you say anything. It must’ve been written all over your face like he knew you would say yes.

He’s ever the gentleman, unlike most boys your age. Though, perhaps that’s the difference. He isn’t a boy—nothing about him can hardly be described as such. This fact becomes a bit overwhelming and more evident once he has you on your back, thighs nearly up to your ears, and held in place by a firm, intricately tattooed forearm.

His smile—almost too sharp to be nice—makes your chest do this silly thing when he says, “Let’s play a game.” 

You whisper into the night air. “What kind of game?”

“It’s simple. You tell me yes or no.”

Your brows furrow, unsure of the rules of the game. “But—”

The slap against your cunt isn’t harsh, but it’s the suddenness of it, how no one has ever thought to touch you like that, is what makes you squeak and tremble underneath him—the rings on his fingers sharpening the sting—trying to scurry up the bed, but hindered by his iron grip.

“Yes or no?”

“Y-yes.”

“There’s a girl,” and then his fingertips drop down to where you're slippery-wet and sensitive, moving in hard, tight circles until you're clenching down on a curse between your teeth. "Messy little cunt."

It's too much, you think when he plugs two fingers (feeling like three of your own) into your pussy. The muscles in his shoulders roll as he shoves his fingers in and out, batting your hands away when you try to get him to slow down. Too much, too—

“It’s not. I want you to cum like this,” he says, teasing, nudging your clit with his thumb and swirling it in tight spit-slick circles; you have no choice but to chase that bright light feeling until you cum, sticky and sweaty. 

Just like he promised you would, your orgasm is a shivery thing, molten heat, incandescent, settling in your veins until it pours out of you like liquid wax against the scratchy hotel sheets, but he doesn’t stop. Instead, his fingers curl up and press into where you’re soft and tender.

He smiles. “This is fun, isn’t it, love?”

“I can’t,” you whimper, not exactly answering him. “No more, please.”

His eyes, already pupil-fat, go dark at hearing you beg, nostrils flaring. Please, the key for the small amount of mercy he grants you as he replaces his fingers with his mouth, pressing a chaste kiss to your clit and lightly sucking it into his mouth. His lips are just there, and then they’re gone.

“Say it again.”

Your response is a wet little hiccup at the back of your throat. “W-what?”

“Beg me.”

“Please.”

“Again,” he says one more time.

“Please, please, please…”

It’s all you can think to say, strung between that dreamy space and reality, that you don’t even notice him flipping you onto your tummy with ease, not until the light in the room is blotted out as he leans over you. He wraps a hand into the scruff of your neck and presses your face into the bed, the other tucked under your hips to keep them at the right angle—held down with nowhere to go.

He leaves biting open-mouthed kisses across your shoulders and the back of your neck—Simon—he manages to tell you his name from one little bruise to the next. Somewhere between the buzz in your ears, you hear him telling you that he wants you to moan it for him, nice and loud.

The haze clears a little, however, at the metal clink of a belt and the sound of a zipper coming undone before you feel his cock prodding you open—raw, without a condom.

“There you go. Lay there, and just—just give me what I fucking want,” Simon rasps as if you could actually move with his hands pinning you in place. 

There are many things you should feel: scared of his words, trapped by the rings digging into tender flesh, by his thighs forcefully pushing yours apart. The red flags look more like flashing lights at this point.

Instead, you feel wanted—your walls tighten around his cock, fluttering, pulling him deeper inside, letting him turn you inside out. A small smile buried into the pillow.