#i don‘t like it

[bluebellowl]

Where hair?

It going. It gone

[satans--waifu]

Sometimes all it takes is a leap of faith

[starlingstalk]

Ahhhhh Nyaaaaa

[dagrapesody]

Some of my kirby gijinka/humans pls be nice

[harpygon]

I feel like dbd made title cards really work for them. Often times they are just annoying/jarring and hurt the flow, but I think they really aided the story here.

They felt almost like the headers/headlines for a case-file (especially with the „case closed“ each episode), that structured everything nicely.

[fastianini]

Valentino Rossi & Marc Márquez

[ happy (belated) 9 year anniversary to sepang 2015 aka the one weekend everything went wrong, everything changed and that still haunts motogp to this day <3 ]

history of man by maisie peters

[ghost-bxrd]

Hi! Yes! Thank you! To the anon who keeps trying to convince me that Bat ships are disgusting for the x‘th time:

Consider yourself honored. I‘m writing JayTim just for you 😘✨

[sanshofox]

Always grateful for some good romcom movies and series but we rarely get those nowadays. Yes, studios now try again, light entertainment in general, but it’s rarely good.

But I feel like they managed it for once with „Nobody wants this“? Binge watched it today and it def is a modern type of romcom but it has the entertainment vibes from the more iconic ones we had „back then“.

And tbh? I am grateful for the 20-30 min per episode. Because of that the series has a good pacing I feel like. It doesn’t stretch it into unnecessary lenghts. Though I miss the 20 episodes-20 minutes format I am okay with 10 episodes for season 1.

[mystic-myrtille]

Luka x Multimouse please? 🥺

Patrol at night can get chilly

[bluebellowl]

I‘ve been looking for a real life reference for them for a while and when watching Valerian I thought Sergent Cooper played by Gavin Drea (thank you Prime for always showing who‘s currently on screen)

[eekonis]

Tommy felt a strange flash of regret as Phil‘s feathers disappeared under the sage-green fabric, but he pushed it away. He‘d spent too long eying them, succumbing to the waves of emotions that came with the sight of those wings. Fear and apprehension, yes, but also suriosity. Envy. And worst of all, hope.

— few mercies for fools by @mathanlin

[copias-juicebox]

his 👐🏻 on my 🍑 when?? 👀

[sturnina]

Showtime

Matt Sturniolo x actress!reader

— tags;; resolved angst, relationship angst, jealousy, arguments, happy ending

— wc;; 2.8k

— author's note;; based on this ask, i changed the setting to a theatre performance since that's easier for me to relate to, i hope that's okay <3 + the ending sucks, sorry for that

The energy backstage is unmistakable. The air is buzzing with excitement, garments are rustling, and you can hear the faint whispers of people rehearsing their roles one last time before it is time to step on stage.

You’re standing at the end of the room, arms crossed over your dress, and trying to ignore the nervous pit in your stomach. This is not the first time you’ll be standing on a stage in front of hundreds of people, far from it. It will also not be the last time, hopefully far from it as well. It’s also not your first time having a huge role, so that’s not what you’re worried about either.

What makes this premiere such a big thing for you is that your boyfriend of a few months will be watching. You got Matt and his brothers first-row tickets, and the way you know him he forced them to leave early so he could guarantee that he’s on time. It’s the first time he’ll be seeing you on stage, and you refused to tell him anything about the play or your part — except that you might just have got the main role (and are very proud of that fact).

You must’ve looked absolutely frozen because your friend walks up to you and lays a hand on your shoulder.

“It’s gonna be alright,” she promises, an encouraging smile on her lips. “You rocked the rehearsals.”

Grinning, you quickly shake your stiffness off. “Yeah, it’s gonna be great,” you agree.

“Your boy Matt, he’s coming, right?”

“Yeah,” you say, even just the thought of him lighting your face up in a smile.

“And he’s okay with… you know, that scene with Oliver?” she asks, nodding over to the guy who plays your love interest, aka Odysseus, the Greek hero lost on the sea for a decade. He‘s standing in front of a wall, staring at it intently, challenging the plaster as if it were Poseidon keeping him from returning home. He’s locked in already.

Smacking your lips, you nod. “He’ll know it’s not real,” you say, nodding, almost as if to convince yourself. “It should be fine.”

“Girl… you didn’t tell him?” your friend asks, clearly doubting what you said.

“He knows nothing about the Odyssey, so I didn’t tell him,” you justify yourself. “Especially not a major spoiler like that.”

“I don’t think that was a good idea,” she sighs, “but you do you.”

Someone claps twice, and everyone immediately turns around. “Alright, it’s time,” the boy responsible for time-keeping says, his voice awkwardly loud in the sudden silence.

All you can hear is the audience, even through the thick doors to the dressing rooms. It’s barely there, even the whirring of the lamps above is louder, but it immediately multiplies your nervosity as you remember how many people will see you tonight. The tickets were sold out only two weeks after the performance was announced. Sold out. You can still barely fathom it, even after so many years of theatre.

“Break a leg,” you whisper to your friend who squeezes your shoulder one last time before hopping off the table and joining the group leaving the dressing room.

You follow her silently, well aware that the audience is slowly calming down, the lights are tuned lower and an almost electric atmosphere fills the room. It finds its way into your lungs, too, but you keep breathing steadily, nonetheless. You got this.

It‘s already there, the well-known feeling of slipping into a role. The person who walks on stage isn‘t you, it is Penelope, waiting for her husband to return home and tending to his land and wealth.

The murmurs behind the curtain eventually stop completely. Anticipation floods the room and replaces the pit in your stomach. The light changes. The actors and actresses are behind the stage. Except for you. And slowly, the curtain opens, revealing you, alone, in the middle of the stage. In the spotlight. Showtime, baby.

Time passes quickly when you‘re on stage. With your thoughts constantly ready for the next costume change, the next scene, the next text, you can hardly focus on the now, and yet that’s the only place where your consciousness lies. You show grief, desperation, hope, and most importantly determination every second you‘re on stage. And every time you look at the audience, you can see Matt‘s eyes looking at you with utter fascination and wonder, making your heart warm with confidence.

And then the last scene arrives. Odysseus, clothed as a poor beggar, reveals himself. Oliver tenderly takes your face in his hands. You look up at him, lips parted in awe and shock, just as you rehearsed.

“Odysseus,“ you stage-whisper, running a hand along his temple. “Is it truly you? Or have the gods deceived my eyes and feasted on my hope?“

“Penelope,“ he whispers back, the name falling so sweetly from his lips. “It’s me.” And then he leans down, pressing his lips against yours. You can‘t see Matt‘s stiffness or the bitter tug that lies around the corners of his mouth after that single movement. 

The audience sighs collectively, so much pent-up tension releasing. It‘s almost palpable as you melt into Oliver‘s- no, Odysseus‘ arms and rest your head against his chest while the curtains slowly close.

The room explodes with people cheering and clapping while the other actors and actresses quickly hurry onto the stage. With a euphoric grin on your lips, you lay your arms around the shoulders of Oliver and whoever happens to be on the other side of you, waiting for the curtains to open again. And then you bow and bow again, and run off the stage, and run back, and bow, and look for Matt in the audience, and almost trip over your own feet, and bow again, and everyone‘s laughing and cheering…

Backstage, the room is buzzing with energy as everyone hurries to change out of their Greek dresses and clean up their makeup. No one‘s actually talking, the air is filled with rustling and clinking and occasional questions like, “Can you help me open my dress?” or, “Where‘s my blush?” And then the director enters and congratulates everyone, and everyone is smiling but no one is listening.

You’re the first to leave, unable to wait any longer before seeing the triplets. But especially Matt, you can‘t wait to see his reaction.

The cold air bites your lungs, but you can‘t bring yourself to care about that as you run across the pavement, heading to the front doors of the building. With rosy cheeks and out of breath, you stop before the entrance.

But there‘s no trace of the triplets in the crowd. Assuming that they only needed to use the toilet or something, you lean against the wall, making sure to keep the doors that swing open regularly in your peripheral while you let your gaze wander over the crowd. Every time someone walks out, your head snaps back in their direction, but it‘s never a familiar face.

It takes you at least ten minutes before you realise to check your phone. The second you pull it out, a sense of dread washes over you. Nick sent you a message, a quick, “Matt wasn‘t feeling well, we needed to leave soon. Absolutely loved your performance tho, you crushed it!!” You respond with a nervous, “Okay, and thanks!”

Matt isn‘t feeling well. Now you‘re feeling ill too, the pit in your stomach coming back even worse than before the performance.

The others are going to party all evening, celebrating the premiere. You wanted to invite Matt, but now you‘re torn between going home to him or staying with a bad feeling for the rest of the night. The choice isn’t difficult, and you order an Uber.

The second you walk up to the porch of the house, Nick has already whipped it open, running to hug you first.

“Oh. My. God. That was a-maz-ing!” he exclaims, almost lifting you from the ground with his embrace. You giggle, another rush of blood flooding your cheeks as you relish in his compliments.

“Like girl, I know nothing about Greek mythology but I just know that that was exactly what Penelope felt all that time!” he continues, guiding you to the house. “So vulnerable and yet so strong. Unbelievable.”

Not knowing what to say except for thousands of thank you‘s, you just grin and sheepishly look away until you enter the house, looking for Matt. But he isn‘t here, not even as you enter the living room. Chris is lounging on the couch, lazily scrolling on his phone. He looks up as you enter, and all you can see is his slightly tense expression.

“Matt‘s in his room,” he says, just a bit too quick for your taste. And then he adds, “Great performance, by the way. I really liked… everything about it.”

You chuckle slightly at his cluelessness. Muttering a quick, “Thanks,” you proceed down the hallway to Matt‘s room.

He doesn‘t react when you knock the first time, so you do it again, even fiercer.

“Matt,” you say before you open the door and enter the room. He‘s lying in the dark on his bed, staring at his phone screen. He doesn‘t even look up.

Not that you expected him to shower you with compliments—well, you kind of did, but was that so wrong of you?—but at least something would‘ve been nice. Instead, he just keeps ignoring you. You cross your arms in front of your chest, the hurt obvious in your eyes. But he can‘t see it because his back is turned to you.

“Matt,” you say again. The air in the room is thick, but not because it smells bad. It just feels bad.

The adrenaline after the show has disappeared by now, leaving you completely drained. If you could just have this one thing—have one performance to be happy about. But no. Your boyfriend won‘t even congratulate you.

Tears dwell up in your eyes and you don‘t even try to suppress them. Everything was so much half an hour ago, and now it‘s nothing, worth absolutely nothing. The euphoria before and after the performance has dissolved, and you miss it already.

You know this feeling and hate it so, so much. Every time you get time to think after a play, everything feels like shit. You feel weak. Empty. And Matt is ignoring you. People have often wondered why you still have so much energy after acting for two hours. This is the reason: if you let go of the energy, it will absolutely wreck you.

A strained sob finally escapes your lips. Matt tenses up immediately, and he turns around to face you in the darkness of his room.

“Baby?” he whispers. “Are you crying?”

A thousand and one answers lie on your tongue, but you have the energy for none of them. Instead, another weak sob claws its way out of your chest.

Matt bites his lower lip, obviously hesitant about what to do.

“Why did you… why are you ignoring me?” you ask, feeling pathetic for the tears and sobs and choked-out words. But you don’t care to pull yourself together.

“C‘mere,” he mutters, patting the bed beside him. He‘s avoiding the question, but you don’t care. The exhaustion in your movements is obvious as you flop down next to him.

The silence is thick, despite your occasional laboured breaths and sniffles while Matt awkwardly keeps his arm around your shoulder. Eventually, when you have calmed down enough for his measures, he clears his throat.

“You didn‘t tell me.” Your heart drops.

“Tell you what?” you ask and immediately regret it.

“About… him.”

“Oliver,” you say, and he nods. “I didn‘t think there was anything to tell.”

He pulls his arm back, and you know that if there were light in the room right now, you‘d see his hurt expression.

“What do you mean, there wasn’t anything to tell? You made out with him in front of hundreds of people!” he exclaims.

“I didn‘t mean it obviously,” you try to reason. “It‘s my job, remember?”

“I know, but that doesn’t make it better.” The bitterness in his tone, the way you already know he won‘t give in, makes you grind your teeth.

“You apparently don‘t know, if you‘re behaving like this now,” you snap, scooting away from him slightly.

You just spent the entire day with last-minute rehearsals and the final play. You‘ve been up since six in the morning, working hard for it all to be perfect, for it all to work out, and all he can think about is a moment that lasted less than three seconds? Your exhaustion is gone again, blasted away by another wave of adrenaline which your body apparently can‘t get enough of.

“I can‘t help it,” he mutters, “I don‘t want to see you like that.”

“Like what?” you demand. “Doing what I love? Making it my job? Properly fulfilling my dreams?”

“That‘s not what I meant-”

“But it‘s obviously the only thing you can remember.”

“Can you stop?” he groans, running a hand over his face. “I‘m just saying, you could‘ve warned me at least. I wasn‘t expecting… that.”

You sigh, laying back on the bed. “I‘m sorry, okay? I just wanted to keep the entire thing a secret because you didn‘t know the Odyssey. I didn’t think it‘d be that big of a deal.”

He stays silent for a second, staring at his hands. “But it is,” he finally mutters. “Next time you kiss a guy, I want you to tell me.”

“Alright, fine,” you mutter, looking up at him. But the hurt and disappointment don‘t recede. “Next time I have a play, I‘ll just tell you everything about it so you can‘t complain.”

“Don‘t say that,” he says sternly. “The play was great, I just…”

“You just can’t remember any of it because you got fixated on one single moment.”

“Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Putting words in my mouth.”

“But I‘m not, am I? I‘m just reading between the lines,” you scoff.

“You‘re making me sound like an asshole who can‘t appreciate…” Your eyes snap up to meet his, and his voice slowly trails off.

“Yeah? Tell me more about this asshole I‘m making you be that‘s definitely not you.” Your voice is sarcastic and relentless.

“Fuck, I didn‘t mean it like that.”

You look at him. One eyebrow arched, arms crossed, and not going to let go of it soon.

“I‘m just jealous,“ he mutters, avoiding your gaze. “No one should get to see you like that, much less be the one to kiss you.“

Your gaze softens, but you keep looking at him. “I know. But it meant nothing. It was just for a job, and you should know that. You need to trust me.“

“I do,“ he says without hesitation. “I just don’t trust him.”

His voice is bitter again, and his eyes are focused on his hands, the fingers on his right hand twisting his ring around. You lay a hand over his, stopping the anxious movement.

“He’s an idiot,” you say firmly, “I’d never voluntarily spend time with him. But he’s a good actor, and we work well together. I promise you that all there’s ever going to be between us is respect for the others’ acting.”

The conviction in your tone seems to calm him, but he’s still not looking at you.

“God,” he eventually whispers, “I’m such a dick. I ruined your evening, didn’t I?”

“No, you…” you quickly reply, but then you hesitate. “Well…”

“You should be out celebrating with your friends because you did great at your performance, but you’re here, making sure I don’t feel bad about it, that’s not fair…”

“I’m not gonna argue against that,” you mutter, “but I get it. I should’ve told you.”

“You wanna go out?” he offers, but you shake your head.

“Next time. ‘m too tired now.” Sighing, you lean against him. He immediately stretches his arm out and lays it around your shoulders, pulling you closer again and leaning back until you’re lying in bed next to him.

“I know that I didn’t make it clear enough, but I loved it. You’re such an incredible-”

“Matt,” you interrupt him. “Not now.” Not after he refused to think about anything but the scene with the kiss.

“Okay,” Matt whispers, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I’ll come watch again tomorrow, and then I’ll say all the beautiful things you deserve.”

You can’t help but let out a small giggle. “It’s sold out,” you say, shaking your head. “But…”

“But?”

“I could get you in from the back, so you’ll meet Oliver as well,” you say. He visibly cringes at the thought, but then he seems to think about it.

“Maybe that’s a good idea,” he says hesitantly, pulling you flush against his chest.

A small smile is painted on your lips for the rest of the evening.

masterlist

[maxedes]

look, do i like checo perez? no. but the amount of racist shit i‘ve had to see today alone is just insane.

being treated with decency and respect and not be subjected to discriminatory behavior is not a privilege to be earned by being good at your job or likable person, it is a human right.

i do love being a hater but if you resort to racism & xenophobia you are not only - but first and formost - a horrible person, but also uncreative. if you must hate be better & find some actual things to say.

if i see any racist hate i will assume that you‘re just a racist piece of trash hating for that reason and using any kind of incidents as a pretext to justify your disgusting views & you will be yelled at, reported & blocked.

[izzystizzys]

Die Alone: The Coruscant Guard Christmas Special

All‘s calm and quiet on Coruscant, for once - the Senate‘s either gone home to celebrate the universally beloved Xeshmas with their closest, or is attending the annual festive bash at the Spakatomi Splaza buildings, sponsored by Chandrila. At 79’s, a horde of merry Commanders get together to bask in the Xeshmas spirit (red, green and white shots) and celebrate another year survived. But wait, Bacara groans into someone’s boots only thirty minute into their jolly bash, where the kriff is Fox? Ignored the invite again?

A strange feeling comes over Cody. He spent the entire day brooding, telling everyone who would listen that he has the strangest sensation of having forgotten something important and being told it can’t be that important if he’s forgotten it (Wooley) or to quit being such a partypooper (Rex). Now, it dawns on him.

He never sent that comm to Fox.

To be entirely fair, Fox probably couldn’t have attended either way - stuck as he is as the singular vod on babysitting shift at the empty Senate building. Still, it would’ve been nice to at least hear from some of the others, considering he saw them all loiter towards the clubbing district on security cams anyways. Now, here he sits and gathers dust - as a glorified secretary while his brothers are off partying or on security detail at Spakatomi Splaza.

Fox heaves a deep sigh and traces expletives in the thin film of dust on the reception desk. One positive of this whole thing - for once, he’s safe from being accosted and having slurs thrown at him by uppity senate staff, or, Force forbid, being called on a special mission by the Chancellor. He’s safely in his Nubian mansion by now, thank the Galaxy.

Thire and Ballsy are heading the party security, which, most ridiculous kriffing thing he’s had to assign troopers to in a long time. He would’ve doomed himself to it, but the Chancellor specially requested he man the desks and empty Senate. Fox is, after all, the best of the best.

Kriffing Xeshmas parties. Mothma, who’s usually capable of critical thought, specially requested they be in softshell for this assignment - to make their guests feel more comfortable and off the clock, she told Fox with a completely straight face.

Imagine that. Off the clock. Hah.

Fox is so busy watching the imaginary off-time he’s only heard of in dreams that he doesn’t even register the sudden plunge into darkness, until he starts to blink and his brain slowly comes back online.

Well, kriff.

With a heavy, internalized eyeroll, he flicks at his vambrace. Nothing. Taps for the light-controls. Nothing. Pokes at the screens of various pads.

Nothing.

…double-kriff.

With a much more external sigh, Fox heaves himself to his feet and attempts to manually flick on his helmet lights, only to grunt out a string of curses when he realizes they shorted out along with everything else. He gropes at his belt and -

Yup, magpack on the blaster too. Great.

Fox trudges through the empty, darkened corridors with all the enthusiasm of the world’s saddest glorified customer service worker, mentally cursing all the great forces at work to create this extraordinarly shit day for him.

Mothma for throwing stupid kriffing Xeshmas parties and requesting an unreasonable amount of softshell (!) Guard for it.

Palpatine for ordering him to babysit the Galaxy’s center of operations alone.

Cody and all the rest of them for not even kriffing pretending to invite him to anything anymore.

This stupid kriffing generator for deciding to kick it at the worst possible moment, and whoever was stupid enough to make the whole Senate power grid and comm access dependent on one single kriffing -

Fox freezes, all at once.

Voices. Plural. Outside.

Slowly, Fox creeps towards the slide doors leading outside. He pries them open gently, careful not to allow for a single creak or slip that could give him away. It’s more likely to be nothing than anything, but -

“ - enter from the trash chute, while Bossk takes the staff entrance on the other side and cover more ground that way. Bane, you will screw off the vent covers through the third floor exit and -“

“I know what I’m doing”, a deep, gravelly voice interrupts that sends shivers down Fox’ spine. He’d hoped he’d never have to encounter it outside a criminal court recording again - triple kriff. “I don’t need your lectures, Sing.”

“Touchy today, are we?”, Aurra Sing says, snidely, and it begins to dawn on Fox exactly how kriffed he really is. “Relax, Bane. We know what we’re doing. The Chancellor’s treasury doesn’t stand a chance in Sith-hell.”

A low, vibrating hiss answers her, trembling with laughter. Fox has to force himself to hold his breath to keep in the expletives that want to slip free, hands cold and clammy in his gloves.

“Alright, everyone on position. We wait an hour for the commotion to really get started over at Spakatomi, and then -“

Deciding he’s heard enough, Fox carefully shifts the sliding doors back closed and inches back through the hallways with his heart hammering in his chest. Kriff, kriff and double-kriff this stupid kriffing holiday - first thing he’s doing when he gets out of this alive is outlaw the very idea of Xeshmas for all acting GAR personnel, and then he’s going to shove a Nabooian fir-tree up the ass of Jango Fett’s kriffing ghost, because somehow, this too is his fault. Fox just knows it.

First, though, he’ll have to keep three of the Galaxy’s most infamous and deadly bounty hunters from stealing Republic secrets and treasures on his own.

(Somewhere, among the debris-littered ring of planetary satellites, a string of increasingly desperate comms waits to go through:

CC-4477: FOX

CC-4477: FOX HELP

CC-4477: FOOOOOOOX

CC-4477: THERE ARE SEPPIE TERRORISTS IN THE LOBBY THEY ARE BEATING UP ORGANA

CC-4477: I AMN HIDNG I TOLET

CC-4477: Sorry for that, Commander. The situation is back under control - I have acquired a bomb. I‘m sure you‘re right outside with the others setting up a perimeter - I‘ll keep the hostages safe, ori‘vod! :) -Thire)

[dagrapesody]

Haiii just wanted to say thank you for 100 followers

I shall give you ugly Marxolor doodles

(My persona btw)