#EDITING?

[icarus-k]

Something about jacks Borderlands 3 model has always creeped me out and felt really off, so out of boredom and curiosity I tried to “fix” it while keeping it practically the same (fix on the right)

[knifefather]

Hey, fellow writers. How do u edit and not wanna rip your hair out???

[bisexualalienss]

is it just me or does season 1 of rnm look very different like cinematography wise compared to s2/s3

[swan--writes]

BJ’s V-Day

In which BJ fucks with reader’s chocolate, and reader is Upset.

It’s still Valentine’s Day in some places, right? Shut up. It’s been a busy day.

Warnings: food, swan-typical language

It started at the coffee shop. (Of course it did.)

You ordered the same coffee that you always did, from the same barista you always saw, but something was different that day. The coffee was darker and colder, and more viscous than usual. It was almost sour, and the way it sloshed around in the paper cup made your stomach churn. When you frowned at the barista who had made it, he gave you a too-wide grin and an unnerving wink. (His teeth were so pointy, was that normal?) You scurried out of the shop and onto the street of your small Connecticut town. You had not been back since.

That was only the first of February.

Next came the florist’s. You had been to the florist every week since you moved to this small town. It was cozy enough that you didn’t feel pressured to place a massive order, and you preferred small business flowers to the grocery store selection. And you loved fresh flowers. (Everybody has their thing, this was yours.)

Now, you would swear that when you chose your bouquet, it was beautiful. The blooms were fresh, the leaves were perky, and the roses were vibrant.

By the time the florist had packaged it for you, it was a red and black mess right out of an early My Chemical Romance music video. Great for art. Kitchen counters? Not as much.

Of course, you were too nice to say anything. You simply had to contend with half-dead roses, wilting on their stems. They were all blackened edges, wrinkled petals, and falling leaves. The florist gave you an even wider grin than the barista had, and you walked out even faster than you had the coffee shop.

It was only day four.

After the roses – which had only lasted two days in your house before the blooms fell dead away (literally) – was the truffles. This was almost your breaking point.

All of the convenience store chocolate was discounted for Valentine’s Day, just five days away now. It was on your way home from work, and you couldn’t force yourself to just drive past it. So, in you went, and there you bought, and then you went home. You had gone through the self-checkout, but one of the cashiers kept giving you sidelong looks.

At the convenience store, you had tried to ignore them, but they were all you could think about when you bit into the first truffle. The chocolate shell was mostly fine, if a touch bitter. The filling was dust. (Literal, actual dust.)

So, like any rational person, you spent the next fifteen minutes gagging over the sink, then grabbed a knife. You sliced clean through every single truffle. Most of them crumbled from the pressure of your knife, and all of them were the same. Truffle after truffle – two full boxes – were all filled with dust.

Well, all but one.

In the center of the second box, there was one truffle that did not crumble. It was densely packed with a thick, old piece of paper. The paper felt leathery between your fingers when you picked it out of the chocolate shell, almost like parchment.

When you saw what was written on it, you all but stabbed your knife through it.

Bad coffee? Okay. Dead flowers? Fine. But nobody fucked with your chocolate and remained in your good graces.

The next five days only upped the ante.

Your trusty diner somehow dropped every single Valentine’s Day éclair on the floor as soon as you arrived. Your supervisor lost her box of valentines before she could hand them out at your office. Your set of Valentine’s decorated mason jars somehow fell from your entertainment center and shattered when you walked by. (A good four feet away from the table, because that made complete sense.) But the final straw came on day fourteen, first thing on Valentine’s Day. (Of course it did.)

When you opened the door to take the trash out, you felt it knock something over. It was mostly dark outside, and you didn’t fully see what it was until you brought it inside. Once you were under proper lighting, you saw that you were holding a black teddy bear about the size of your torso.

When you shook the bear to make sure there was nothing inside, however, the head immediately twisted off and flew away to who knows where? A foul-smelling green slime began oozing from the severed neck. You shrieked and dropped the bear. Slime and wet dirt spilled onto your kitchen floor.

“Oh my--no, y’know what? Fine,” you groused. “Fine! I give up.” You backed away from the decapitated bear and stomped through the kitchen to your living room.

Your house was old, and you could hear the creaking of the floorboards underneath the banging of your steps. You could hear the sizzle of whatever the slime was doing to your kitchen floor. And you could hear the wind that kicked up when you spoke the words from the parchment you had found in your discount truffle.

“Beetlejuice!”

Something in the house groaned – a low, ominous sound.

“Beetlejuice.”

A layer of fog covered your windows. (Several layers.) It crept in at your window corners with a draft, and a gray murk. It nipped at your ankles, and leapt at your wrists, and seemed to amplify the sizzling in your kitchen.

You swallowed. “Beetlejuice!”

Lightning flashed. You closed your eyes, but it didn’t do much good. The wind whipped around you. You tried to turn your face against it, but it was everywhere and coming from all sides. Without thinking, you covered your ears and stumbled back a step.

Then, all at once, it stopped.

When you opened your eyes, you saw your demon boyfriend leaning on the doorjamb with his back to you. Beetlejuice gave a low whistle when he saw the teddy bear he had left you eating a hole in your floorboards.

“Damn babes, you’re gonna have to get someone out here to fix that.”

Rather than humor him, you glared at his back. His suit jacket was barely holding together, and you could see a long, thin strip of his shirt through it. “The mason jars? Really? You know I loved those.”

Without moving his feet, Beetlejuice’s head turned fully around to face you, nose wrinkled in a grimace. “Those cheap old things? C��mon baby, you can find a hundred of them at literally any Purgatory yard sale.” His eyes lit up. “In fact–”

“Oh no, I’ve had enough of that place. And hey, what have you been doing in town this month anyway? You said you’d be tied up until March.”

“Oh I was, sweet cheeks.” Beetlejuice waggled his eyebrows at you. You walked up to him and slapped his arm. “Whoa, babes!” The force of it seemed to radiate through his entire body. (Corpse?) His knees wobbled, his hips jostled, and you could swear you heard rattling from somewhere near his ribcage. “Easy! I’ve been doing a lot of strenuous physical activity this month.”

“Oh yeah? Fucking with me almost every day has been strenuous?”

“Hey, you coulda just summoned me when I asked you to.”

“You didn’t ask, you ruined my bargain-bin chocolate.”

“Oh, forgive me.” You rolled your eyes at his tone.

Beetlejuice turned around on his feet, facing you with his shoulders. Then he groaned, reached up, and spun his head around. “Whoa!” he cried. His head rotated a few times on his neck before finally coming to a stop.

When he brought his hands down again, Beetlejuice was holding the oozing teddy bear’s head. He held it out to you.

“I’m sorry for fucking with you all month.”

You gave him a look, but melted when you saw the pink creeping through the roots of his otherwise green hair. “Fine,” you conceded. “But you owe me.” Against your best self-preserving judgment, you took the stuffed head from him. A few clumps of wet dirt fell from the bottom where it was still severed and onto the floor. You kissed its cheek anyway, and only winced a little from its coldness.

Beetlejuice took the head back, flung it back over his shoulder, wrapped his arms around you, and dipped you. You gave a very undignified squeak that you would never admit to later.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, babes,” he growled.

“Happ--mmf!”

.

.

please like and reblog if you are so moved

tags list: @missihart23 @ballerinafairyprincess @thewolfisapartofmysoul

if you would like to get on the tags list, please let me know!

[kris-seaotter]

does anyone know how to take video clips or gifs from disney+?

i need them for personal use not commercial

[lackadaisical-lesbian]

Does anyone else have to write everything in a single session? Like I have to finish the entire thing the same day I start it. I also usually do this with essays.

If I finish a WIP half way and leave it there. It. Will. Never. Be. Finished.

[rise-up-ting-ting-like-glitter]

Title: Claims of Intimacy Collaborator Name:Wiggle/Rise-Up-Ting-Ting-Like-Glitter Card Number: 3086 Square Filled: A5 More Than A Partner Ship/Main Pairing: WinterIron Rating: M Major Tags: A/B/O claiming stuff,  Summary: Bucky wants to be claimed Word Count: 490

Cut for the scandal

“C’mere.” Tony nudges Bucky with his knee, pulls lightly on his hair.

“Really?” Bucky shifts to hover over Tony.

“Not now,” Tony says, completely at war with himself. Bucky can’t possibly mean what it sounds like, that he wants Tony to claim him. “Just, c’mere.”

Bucky cranes his head to the side to bear his neck. Tony’s derailed for a minute by how unexpectedly tempting that is. Bucky’s alpha all over, the heat he’s bleeding out, keeping Tony toasty warm, even in the deliberately cool bedroom, means Tony can’t ever forget it. Tony wants to put his teeth in Bucky, wants to lay that claim, have Bucky wear his marks everywhere he goes, belonging writ on his skin.

This would be the strangest bonding position ever. Traditionally, Tony should be in Bucky’s lap. Of course, traditionally, he should also be in a choosing room full of other alphas who didn’t make the grade.

Fuck tradition.

Tony noses across Bucky’s neck. There’s a peculiar kind of stillness to him that Tony doesn’t understand. He’s seen him utterly still, seen him breathless, but this is a softer thing that Tony has no name for.

“Let’s try this for now.” Tony says, his voice is soft, his lips a light trace against the skin of Bucky’s neck. Bucky lets out a shuddery little moan. Tony presses ever so slightly more firmly into Bucky and then sets his teeth to him. He bites down hard and slow and firm. Tony can feel Bucky trying to sink into the feeling, feel his weight pull down towards the bed, but there’s no way Tony’s neck can take any steeper angle than it’s already in.

“Tony,” Bucky practically growls.

Tony is very careful to keep his teeth from breaking the skin. This can’t mean what he wants it to. The bruise is going to be spectacular, though. Bucky finally breaks, his body swaying slightly towards Tony’s and then away.

Tony let’s his teeth go, pulling back with a wet sound. Bucky crowds on to him, breathing hot over Tony’s mouth.

“Fuck Tony.” Bucky says, Tony was kind of expecting kissing but Bucky’s just staring at him. “I’m gonna leave after I say this so you can freak out about it in private.”

Tony’s stomach drops precipitously. That can’t be good. He knew—

“It means what you think it does, idiot. And you are going to bite me. I know you want to, but I can wait until you’re ready.” And then he’s getting up to move away. Tony grabs his hand before he can get far.

“Yeah, yeah, we can—plans.” Bucky looks like he’s unsure if he should stay, Tony tugs at him until he lets himself be pulled back onto the bed, Tony rolls half on top of him to keep him from getting away.

“Like I said, after the finger sucking thing.”

Bucky makes a choking noise, sounding like he despairs of Tony’s everything.

[mostweakhamlets]

i need to be productive but idk what to be productive towards

[hailing-stars]

I'm revising some old writing and oh my god I keep switching back and forth between oh wow my writing has gotten so bad I'll never write like this again and oh my god this is so cringey why did I write this 

[quirkykayleetam]

Monday, november, yesterday?

*waves*  I love you so much and I love playing these Ask Games with you!

Do you struggle with the ‘boring’ parts of writing?  I’m still having trouble deciding what the ‘boring’ parts of writing are!  I don’t worry about dialog tags.  I love writing both dialog and description.  It’s really easy for me to get blocked if I don’t know how to start a scene, but once I get into one, it usually flows pretty seamlessly.  The trick for me is to determine a feel or mood I want to go for and write from there.  Oh, and always to mix humor into even the darkest of moments.  That really keeps me going through the ‘boring’ stuff.

Do you have any rituals or requirements for getting in the mood for writing?  I have to be wearing clothes.  I prefer to be at a computer.  I haven’t seriously written free-hand in a very long time.  I don’t like writing when I’m really tired or feeling overwhelmed with life stuff.  Things go better if I close Tumblr and actually get stuff done lol.

Favourite way to write angst?  Oooh, good question!  I’m not sure if I’m really great at this?  I like to focus on emotional conflict.  What are the characters feeling that makes them hurt or insecure and how are they misreading each other?  I really really love internal conflict and the way that plays out on people’s faces, in their postures, and in the way their interact with others.  For me, angst is also freedom.  It’s well-behaved people finally snapping and saying they’re tired of pretending that everything is okay.  A lot of that comes from my experience with chronic illness.  I know that I have to stay optimistic, but damn, some days that’s just to much and you want to scream at the world.  That’s REAL.

[gg-astrology]

Hi!! I can't get over your blog and the way you describe the placements, it's so wonderful and detailed! it makes it all so much more interesting and easy to understand and different from most of the things i've seen around. i'm just curious on what you think about sagittarius sun/moon in 12th house while having a capricorn stellium in the first? (mercury, jupiter, neptune). if you happen to reply, thankyou! 🙌🙌

Hey there!! 💕💕💕💕 Aaaaaah thank u so much sdjnskjn 💕💕💕 that’s too much im soft 💕💕💕If you’re into healing/spiritual stuff but can’t talk about it much, or explore other realms of it without feeling like you’re judged (by others or just... maybe the environment/people around you aren’t ‘used’ to that side of you) then perhaps consider-- reaching out to people who are supportive and is willing to listen to you talk about them?? 💕💕

There’s a duality to it, like first we have that Capricorn in 1st (mercury/jupiter/neptune) that has a solid base. A solid image of who you are (to others) and what people see from you, what people expect. It correlates with how your friends/strangers/people know (intuitively learn) how to interact with you, and at some point it’s pretty freaking nice. 

But your Sun/Moon here is in 12th, there’s a side to you that may want to explore/is maybe more hesitant in  ‘cracking the base’ you have (1st)? In a way it’s like an image change and you may be a little wary of that--- what does that mean? what about the reception? what if you lose friends? etc. etc. 

Don’t be afraid to find more people, or open up to someone who may be more receptive to other interests you may have/different kind of interaction in order to grow more confident in yourself/your interests. It’s all about finding that footing in how you transform/grow and find different interests. You’re a sag, so let your sag run in the green plains (explore your interest) and at the same time, You have plenty of Capricorn so don’t be afraid to use your Sag in building connections (reaching out to others) so that a solid base/more confidence can be built there as well (transformation) 💕

It’s the idea that you are constantly growing and learning, but in order to ‘secure’ your interests and manifest something out of that you have to build confidence and see it manifest through your relationships (make it easier on you) too. 💕If you are afraid of ‘breaking’ a certain image or assumptions people may have of you (because you feel comfortable in them) then try breaching a subject, accepting parts of yourself. And learning to grow more self-validation through personal acceptance of your own transformation as well 💕

I hope this helps? 💕 It’s a minor thing but maybe it’s useful for something. 💕 Anyways I hope this is good! 💕Good luck!!💕 

[rokokokokolores]

me, an adult, finishing a project: Only one thing left. Proof-reading.

me, rereading my own writing: Nice. The work of a six year old.

[elvendara]

Fun With Alcohol

Third fic for @juminzenweek

Day 3: Karaoke/Drunk or Hangover

Zen blinked his eyes slowly, his hands pressing against his temples. He heard a loud groan and rubbed at his eyes, sitting up. There was too much light streaming through the slits in the heavy curtains. He rose to his feet shakily and made his way to the window and clasped both swatches of fabric and overlapped them. It helped, but only just.

Another agonized groan hovered in the air and he turned towards the large bathroom. After a few deep breathes and a large sigh, he trudged his way towards the too bright room. Jumin lay on the floor, forehead pressed to the cool tiles. There was a moment of disorientation. Jumin would never lay on the floor, especially on the floor of a bathroom, even one as clean as his. Jumin moaned once more and curled in on himself.

“Oh, babe!” Zen finally moved towards the dark-haired man. His headache was lessening now and he was beginning to remember the previous night. He’d been teasing Jumin for being too straight laced, accusing him of never even getting drunk. Jumin had taken that as a challenge and finished off two bottles of wine in less than ten minutes. Zen had tried to tell him it was enough, but Jumin had switched to Zen’s beer. He had turned his nose up at it at first, but by his second can, he claimed he could no longer even taste the disgusting concoction. Zen decided since he couldn’t get Jumin to stop, he might as well join him.

They had danced and sung at the top of their lungs, security had gently asked if they were ok, to which Jumin guffawed, trying to act sober, with his hair in disarray, his cheeks rosy, and his eyes glassy. The two men simply looked at each other and walked back out. As soon as the door was closed, Jumin had erupted into peals of laughter.

“Did you…did you sssee…ssseeee…their faces?” Zen joined him and they held onto each other, mostly to keep from falling to the floor.

Zen was used to such nights and was in fact already recovering. Jumin however, did not appear to be as lucky.

“Come here.” He pulled him onto his lap and ran his hand through his damp hair.

“I ssink somesing died in my moth.” Jumin complained, sticking his tongue out and scraping it with his perfectly manicured nails.

“Ah my love. It will work itself out.” Zen kissed the top of his head, rocking them back and forth. Jumin grasped at his arm and made throwing up sounds.

“Stop! Stop doing that!”

“Sorry.” Zen chuckled softly. He was rather enjoying taking care of the normally put together, in control, business man. “Come on, let’s get you into the shower, the water will make you feel better.” He kissed his temple and tried to pull him up.

“Nnngghhh!!!” Jumin was not helping at all, his body was dead weight.

Zen managed to pull the man up and yank his shirt over his head. The pants were a little harder. He leaned the man against the wall and pinned him there with his shoulder as he shimmied the pants off. He bent and helped the man lift his leg over the tub. Jumin lay on his back, one foot in, one foot out and wrapped his arms around his waist, burying his nose in Zen’s hair.

“Mmmm…smells so good…”

Zen laughed and pushed himself upwards, breaking Jumin’s hold on him. “In you go.” He stepped in with Jumin, and Jumin followed clumsily, almost tripping when his foot hit the lip of the tub.

“Whoops!” he giggled, the deep rumble vibrating his chest. Zen briefly thought about getting his phone and recording this. Jumin drunk and hungover.

“If I let go, can you stay on your feet?” he asked. Jumin nodded slowly as he slammed onto the wall and began to slide down. Zen sighed, but removed his own clothes before turning to start the shower. It didn’t take long for the water to warm a bit, he didn’t want it too hot. When he turned back towards Jumin, he was almost on his ass. He grabbed his arms and yanked him up, setting him under the spray of the water.

“Oh!” Jumin began to shiver but didn’t try to jump out. Zen circled his arms around Jumin’s waist, holding him upright. It was getting easier, now that Jumin was a little less hungover. The water had woken him up. “It’s…cold…” Jumin’s lip trembled. Zen reached around him and turned the hot water higher. Soon enough the temperature was pleasant enough to enjoy.

“Let me help you with that shiver.” Zen whispered against Jumin’s pale lips, then pressed against him. The lips were pliant and sweet. The taste of his tongue was bitter, but strangely pleasant. Zen ran his tongue against Jumin’s teeth, savoring the noises he was eliciting from the man.

“Maybe we should do that more often.” Jumin suggested when they broke for air.

“Really?”

“It…was pleasant to let loose. And with you, I feel safe enough to do so.” He ran the back of his fingers down Zen’s cheek, enjoying the feel of that alabaster skin.

That confession made Zen’s chest bloom with warmth. How he loved this man, this ridiculous, arrogant, often self-centered man. He grinned and bit his lower lip, trying to keep the onrush of emotions in check. He hadn’t been sure if whatever this was with Jumin would come to any kind of fruition. If it was just a momentary dalliance for the man. However, things were beginning to change. It was more than sexual attraction. They shared a passion for each other that was only growing. He kissed him again, putting everything into it. Showing the man exactly how he felt about him, about them, about their future.

[seungmin-jpeg]

Stray Kids on Tumblr / Jeongin

Chan // Woojin // Minho // Changbin // Hyunjin // Jisung // Felix // Seungmin // Jeongin 

To pure for tumblr 

To to to pure

Honestly he’d never have a tumblr

Hed be all over instagram tho

But for the sake of this 

I'll make it work lol

Has a very cute blog

Lots of puppies

Honestly just a lot of soft baby animals in general 

Like little sloths rolling around 

Cute foxes jumping around in fields 

He’d reblog show recs 

For you know 

All that free time he has

I feel like he’d be well aware of the kpop fans on tumblr 

So honestly he wasn't that surprised when he started to see stray kids stuff pop up everywhere

But he was surprised to see that he was getting lots of attention among fans

Sure he gets lots of attention from his members

But he didnt think he’d get a lot from fans???

Man he was wrong

He’d totally be that blog that reblogs a bunch of fanart

Like all kinds of fanart

All the fanart in the whole fanbase of stray kids

Always includes cute little tags 

Gushing over how beautiful the artwork is 

Always has to be super careful to not use personal pronouns 

Because that would be a disaster 

He’s smart enough to know being on social media

Especially tumblr 

Was not going to end that well

Anyways 

Has a lot of pastels in his theme 

Put a decent amount of effort into his mobile theme

Still has the default desktop theme tho

Is the actual definition of the Soft Tumblr Stan

He reblogged one of your fanarts once

And you were just doing the usual checking of the reblogs to see if anyone tagged anything

Because reading tags on your art is the best thing

And this blog bean-worm had the cutest tags

You were like what kind of url is bean-worm but aye whatever

You ended up checking out more of his blog

And there were cute little baby animals everywhere 

And pretty fanart

So you ended up following this bean-worm blog

And just cause you could 

And no stranger has ever left such nice tags on any of your pieces 

You messaged him 

And thanked him for all the nice things he said about your art

And how it made your day

Jeongins all fluttery now

Because first of all this is the first message from someone whos not one of those bots

And the message was so nice his heart might actually melt. 

So of course he response 

And thus starts the purest of friendships 

So pure it’s whiter than the whitest white on earth 

Does that make sense what

Anyways 

Ngl

It doesn’t take to long for you to realize its jeongin

Jeongin really just threw caution to the wind when he started messaging you

Sure jyp had warned them all about this

And he’d heard about the stories with day6

But yolo am i right 

So the two of you talk for a long time

Like a year

Conversation drops every now and then

Naturally cause jeongin is busy

You never really go out of your way to let him know you know its him

But he’s not dumb

So he has a little bit of an idea that you know

So then it becomes an odd “we both know” elephant in the room

But that doesn't effect the friendship

Um so yah time’s past since you first started talking 

And sttray kids has already announced they’re going on a world tour 

You flip shit because already holy cow

But of course you’re like rip wallet im going nothing's holding me back

You were out to get the best ticket 

And man did you get a good ticket 

P1 binches 

Youre going to meet stray kids irl

Hi touch, group photo the whole deal

You’re going to meet jeongin irl 

Omg you’re going to met him irl

At this point it was like meeting a mutual for the first time

So you shakily get on tumblr 

Still trying to recover from the fact you lost a few of your lives buying those tickets

And you shoot jeongin a message

Just something like 

“I got a p1 ticket to see stray kids”

And now jeongin is looking down at his phone in the practice room

Because oh god he’s going to meet you

Should he tell you who he is 

I mean you already knew 

He knew that 

But should he really say it straight out

He ends up replying with a simple “i’ll get to meet you then!” 

And just to confirm your ever growing suspicion you mention you never told him which city you’ll be at

And he’s just kinda “oh, ill be at all of them”

And you laugh and say “thought so” 

So jeongins identity has been confirmed 

Without him risking that much 

Because how would someone convince anyone that’s him from those screenshots 

That would be a stretch 

The day of the concert slowly arrives 

You watch the videos from other concerts flood your social media 

And try your hardest to avoid spoilers

When it gets even closer 

You send a picture of the outfit you’ll be wearing to jeongin

So he can spot you easier

Of course you wont need any help finding him 

Its all the emotions the day of the concert as you wait in line 

Firstly its a freakin stray kids concert 

Second you got the best ticket

Third you’re legit going to go through hi touch with all the members holy crap

And fourth you're finally going to be able to meet your lovely friend and mutual jeongin 

You had the time of your life during the concert 

Had a great spot with a great view 

Tons of friendly people around you

Just really having the time of your life 

The concert ended and then it was hitouch time 

Your heart couldn’t have been any louder as the set up for everything 

You hung out with the others fans 

Waiting while the boys got themselves together  

When they finally came back out 

You could tell jeongin was searching for you

Part of you wanted to stand up and make yourself known 

The other part of you wanted to hide behind the nearest person and never let him see you

So inteast you just stayed put

Not too noticeable 

But not hidden

Nothing 

And no  one

Can escape jeongin’s hawk eyes

He found you real quick

And couldn’t help but smile a tiny bit when he saw you

He’d finally found you

And damn you looked just as perfect as he had imagined you to be

Actually you looked even better

All he knew was that it was going to take a miracle for him to keep himself together when you finally got closer

[swan--writes]

A Very Mr. Finn Christmas

There was something about ‘Dewey Christmas’ that just sounded...wrong. Anyway, Merry Belated Christmas to those who celebrate! ❤💚

Warnings: none

Words: 1,936

The year had been a bastard. First was your dog dying, then Dewey getting sent home for last school year because of the pandemic, then the spike in visibility of police brutality and the protests. The summer had been brutally hot, you weren’t working, you and Dewey had had to quarantine separately for more than a month and neither of you had been able to see any of your friends. You spent so much time on the couch at your parents’ place upstate before your partner eventually joined you, once his own lease had run out. Despite both of your relief at Dewey getting out of the city, that had also been when he found out for certain that he wouldn’t be able to see his kids in person. California had caught fire, one of your grandparents died of lung cancer and had a funeral you couldn’t attend because of COVID, and another was all set to spend Christmas in the hospital.

Yes, the year had indeed been a bastard, but thankfully, it was almost a dead bastard.

Since your parents had broken down and gone to visit your aunt, you and Dewey had the large house to yourselves for two weeks. The two of you had been pleasantly surprised: despite both needing a healthy amount of alone time, you still weren’t sick of each other. Not only that, but your relationship had fully survived the year. If anything, you were closer now. You still loved his soft eyes, the give of his chubby stomach when he held you, the way his arms felt like your own personal radiators.

Perhaps you shouldn’t have been surprised. Dewey Finn was the kindest man you knew, and the best partner you could have asked for. As immature and rambunctious as he could be, he was also sweet and soft and – though he would never admit it – quite sensitive. Dewey hadn’t seemed to want to talk about it, but he was pretty clearly heartbroken that he couldn’t see his students face-to-face this year. He had held most of his frustration in, since he knew how much it bothered you that you couldn’t work at all with the pandemic happening. Still, you could hear him grumbling in the office your parents had set up for him.

Now, at Christmas, you were trying to find ways to make the season special for your partner. By the last week, you were holding yourself back from writing out a literal Festivities Schedule. You had made a plague year Christmas playlist, trying your best to channel him as you arranged it. It was far from perfect, but you thought he appreciated it.

Your dad’s studio was full of art supplies, so you and Dewey painted ornaments. Neither of you were particularly skilled, but he didn’t care, so you decided you didn’t care either. Fortunately, you had thought to wear clothes you could get paint on because, naturally, it had taken all of ten minutes for your painting session to turn into a full on paint battle to the death. You were fairly certain Dewey had started it, though he insisted on his innocence. Either way, you wound up with Shining Stars gold on your nose and Dark Winter Skies blue all over your sleeve. Dewey got a streak of Santa Red on his arm and splashes of Sparkling Snow glittery white across his shirt and pants. You were sure you still had some glitter in your hair from when he had tackled you and, in a gruff Muppet voice, insisted that you had turned him into the Glitter Monster. Dewey had tickled you until your tears of laughter had soaked into his shirt.

Eventually, you thought to tap out and, breathlessly, you kissed his hand in surrender. Dewey had kissed your nose in return, and come away with a smudge of gold paint across his lips. So he left to wash his face, and you left to make Christmas cookies, and he joined you in the kitchen. You spend the rest of the night playing Mary Lambert’s new holiday EP and singing at each other, harmonizing at all the best parts. He, of course, had no patience for ‘Ave Maria,’ and took the opportunity to wrap his arms around you – getting yet more glitter all over you – and gently sway with you.

The next day was when the snowstorm hit. Your parents’ plow guy cleared the driveway (twice), but you and Dewey were responsible for the walkway. You woke up early to shovel first thing in the morning, despite Dewey’s unconscious arm trying to prevent you from getting out of bed. Peeking through the curtains, you almost let him.

One hour after you went back inside, you could hardly tell that you had shoveled at all.

The snow was lighter on the walkway, however, when you went back outside with Dewey to shovel again. You got the sense that he was enjoying it far too much, and you wondered if he had ever had to shovel before. You imagined that growing up in NYC didn’t leave many opportunities, but you didn’t ask. In fact, you were especially quiet all day.

Finally, when you lost power, Dewey asked if you were alright. It wasn’t until he asked that you realized that the seasonal depression had snuck back into your brain. Dewey was predictably wonderful, and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to hold back tears. Your partner stood back while you lit up the stone fireplace in your mother’s library, then rolled you up in a blanket on the floor, scattering a few pillows around you.

Dewey heated apple cider over the fire. He picked out a small copy of A Christmas Carol, bound in soft red leather, with gold leaf decorating the cover. It had your mother’s name in it, and just below that, yours in shaky lettering. That did make you cry, but only for a moment. Dewey leaned back against your legs and read the first stave to you while you drank your cider. You took over for him after that, for the next stave. Since you were both musicians with decent vocal stamina, you managed to get through the entire book before you had to call it a night.

When you woke up the next day, it was Christmas Eve. The power was back on, the decorations were hung, the tree was decorated, the presents were wrapped, and the cookies were soft. All that was left was to prep dinner for Christmas Day and dance in the kitchen. As far as Dewey was concerned, there was no type of dancing better than kitchen dancing, and you had to agree. Your parents’ kitchen had plenty of open space, and you could twirl each other around or slide in your socks without running into counters or corners.

The plow guy came by to do one more pass over the driveway and throw down some salt. You donned your mask for the first time all week to bring a box of Christmas cookies out to his truck. It surprised you, how thrilled you were to speak to a new human.

When you returned to Dewey, it still felt as cozy as ever. He jumped around to what almost felt like sacrilegious renditions of Christmas songs, including – though not limited to – a truly perplexing version of ‘All I Want for Christmas is You’ by a supremely emo band from the early 2000s. Dewey had insisted it be added to your playlist, and who were you to argue?

He brought out his guitar while you made the sweet potatoes. You were particular about your grandmother’s sweet potato recipe. When he rolled up his sleeves to make pie dough, you hopped up onto the counter, sufficiently out of the way. Dewey wouldn’t give you his exact recipe, though considering his tendency to use bowls instead of measuring cups, you weren’t entirely certain that he knew his exact recipe.

By the time you were both finished with all of the dishes, it was pitch dark out. There was butter underneath his fingernails and French bread underneath yours, flour on both of your shirts, and tension in both of your backs. You fell asleep long before midnight.

The next morning, you heard Dewey’s voice before you saw his face.

“Hey,” he said. His lips brushed against your ear.

You groaned and snuggled deeper under your Christmas quilt.

“Hey,” your partner said, more insistently. He squeezed your waist, and you groaned again but opened your eyes.

“Yes?” you muttered.

Dewey nosed at the skin below your ear. “Merry Christmas.”

Your eyes sprung open now, and you sat up. “It’s Christmas.”

“Yeah.” You could hear the smile in his voice. He must have been awake for a while now.

“Merry Christmas.” You looked at him then. There was a cold gray light filtering into the room, and you could see snow falling gently through a gap in the curtains across from the bed. Dewey’s hair was mussed, and a few waves hung in his face. His stubble was coming in full force. His tee shirt was wrinkled. There was still some Christmas Tree green clinging to the edges of his fingernails.

“What are you lookin’ at?” he asked you playfully.

You suppressed an eye roll and settled for tapping his nose. “You, wise guy. You’re cozy.”

“I’m cozy?”

“M-hm.”

“Can a person look cozy?”

“Well obviously, ‘cause you do. You’re cute.” You tapped his nose again, twice, very lightly. Dewey scrunched up the bridge of his nose, but didn’t lose the soft joy in his expression. “Oh! I have something for you.” You reached blindly for your phone, feeling around on the bedside table while Dewey straightened up.

“Didn’t we set out all our presents?”

“Yeah…” you dragged out the word. “This was sorta last minute.” Your partner waited while you found your phone and opened up your photo gallery. When you found the video you wanted, you opened it and held up the phone between yourself and Dewey.

“��baby?” he said when he saw what was on the screen,

“Yeah?”

“What is this?”

“I may or may not have conspired with your students behind your back.”

In the video, Summer was yelling at his band, trying valiantly to get them all into some sort of order. It seemed to be working. The students seemed to be in their band room, but most of them wore masks. The only kids who were unmasked were Dewey’s singers, and they were spaced apart from one another.

“Is that legal?” Dewey asked. You elbowed him, and he laughed. It was a quiet laugh, though. Almost astonished.

“Hi, Mr. Finn!” Summer said in the video, now facing the camera. “We wanted to do something for you, after all your hard work during these times. So we–”

“She means your–”

“Freddy! Shut it!” Summer snapped. After a short breath, she turned to the camera once again. “We put a little something together for you.” With that, Summer practically touch-stepped offscreen.

When you glanced over at Dewey, he was watching you.

“What?” you laughed.

“I love you.” You heard cymbals playing through your phone’s speaker.

“Shh, it’s starting!” You snapped your attention back to the screen. Dewey shook his head, but followed your gaze.

“I love you too,” you muttered quickly, as the first chords of ‘Faith Noel’ began to spring from Lawrence’s keyboard.

Outside, the snow fell softly to the ground. Inside, beside Dewey, you were warm, and he was cozy, and he loved you. What more could you ask for on Christmas?

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Please reblog, if ye are so moved.

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[woildismyerster]

Caught

You weren’t sure how Crutchie got the penthouse to himself, but you were happy he had invited you up.

How Crutchie had gotten Jack’s penthouse for the evening, you didn’t know, but you were happy he had.  

It was an unspoken rule that newsies stayed out of the penthouse.  That rooftop was for Jack and Crutchie, no exceptions.  The newsies only went up if Jack wanted to have a private conversation, and nobody ever wanted that.  Private conversations usually meant trouble, either because you had made a mistake or because you were going through something too rough for Jack to ignore.  

You had never been to the penthouse before.  That was quite a feat for somebody that had been a newsie since being around Les’ age.  You had grown up with most of the newsies that you lived with, but you had a spotless record with almost all of them.  You did your best to stay off the radar, so you didn’t find yourself in much trouble.  Not Jack-worthy trouble, at least.  To go through something rough, you had to have something that could hurt you.  You didn’t have much.  That meant that you didn’t wind up in trouble there, either.  You spent your free time in the Lodge with the others, and you had every intention of keeping it that way.

But now, looking out at the sun setting over the city, you envied Jack’s little piece of peace.  Even the newsies with families didn’t have a place that was totally theirs; if they had that kind of luck, they wouldn’t have ended up selling papes in the first place.  To sit above New York, basking in the quiet and the soft light, was a luxury that Jack was blessed to have.  Crutchie had invited you up after supper, and it was the first night without chaos that you could remember.

“Alright,” Crutchie was saying.  “Strangest customer?”

“The man with the tap shoes,” you said.

He grinned.  “Tap shoes?”

Every morning at around 10 o’clock, a man in tap shoes would come and buy a pape.  Every syllable he spoke would be accompanied by a click of his shoes, and he would do the same for everything you said.  He claimed that the wrong number of syllables would bring on a disaster, but he had yet to tell you what would happen or how many syllables would set it off.  You told Crutchie, imitating the taps by clicking your tongue.

He laughed into the quiet evening.  “He’s crazy.  Toys in the attic.”

You shrugged, fighting a goofy grin.  His laugh filled your stomach and chest with wonderful and distracting swoops and flutters.  “Maybe, but maybe he’ll prove you wrong.  One of these days I’ll be possessed by a demon, summoned by my saying thirteen syllables without tapping my shoes.”

“You’s too good for demons, Y/N,” he replied.  “They’d see you and run straight away.”

“Right.  That’s absolutely how possession works.”  As far as you knew, neither of you had ever set foot in a church.  For all you knew, demons didn’t go after the good folks.  

“No,” he continued, “the demon would run straight for the nearest baddie.  The Delanceys, maybe, or Race.”

You snorted.  “Race has a heart of gold, deep down.”  Crutchie grinned, mockingly doubtful.  “Deep, deep down.”

“Fool’s gold, maybe,” Crutchie said slyly.  You gave a hoot of laughter, leaning against Crutchie for a second in appreciation.  He leaned back, a little cautious, but wholeheartedly willing to touch you back.

You and Crutchie didn’t get much alone time, and there was no voiced reason for you to get any at all.  The newsie crew was a family, so privacy was hard to come by.  Jack got his own space because he was the leader, and Crutchie got to go to the penthouse because he was Jack’s best friend.  Jack claimed that it was because Crutchie had trouble getting around in the crowded rooms, but everybody knew he just had a soft spot for the boy.

“Where’s Jack tonight?”  You didn’t want to get in trouble if he came up the ladder and saw you there, unwelcome and unexpected.

“Who knows?”

You blinked, surprised.  That was less of an answer than Crutchie would usually give.  When you first met him, he had been taken aback by the numerous “what ifs” that you would suggest to him.  At the time that had surprised you, but as you grew older, you thought that you could understand a hesitancy to imagine a different life.  Sometimes it hurt to think of things you might never get.  But as months and then years passed, he started to play along.  Maybe he didn’t know where Jack was, but it surprised you that he hadn’t given a guess or made up a story.

“Is he with Katherine?”

“No,” Crutchie said.  “He’s just out and about.”

You turned to look at him, giving him a confused smile.  “What does that even mean?  Jack doesn’t just disappear.”

“He’ll be back later,” Crutchie said evasively.  “I just thought it might be fun to be here, just the two of us.”

“Sure,” you said slowly.  It was fun, of course; you would think that washing dishes was fun if Crutchie was there with you.  You sometimes found excuses to go on walks together, or would get up a few minutes early so you could meet up outside a few minutes before the others got up.  But you had never been to the penthouse.  It was Jack’s place.  “Does Jack know that I’m here?”

“He won’t mind,” Crutchie said.  

You decided to let it drop.  Crutchie didn’t keep many things hidden, at least not from you, but you didn’t want him to be open with you because he felt like he had to be.  Besides, you weren’t going to complain.  It was a beautiful night with a wonderful boy, and you wouldn’t want one hidden detail to wreck it.

“This is wonderful,” you said happily.  

You couldn’t see Crutchie’s face; you sat side by side and looked out at the city.  You couldn’t see his face, but you could feel his smile.  “Yeah, the penthouse is alright.”

“No,” you said emphatically.  “No, it’s great.  We live in the greatest city in the world, and we get the greatest view in the world.”

He snorted.  “An alley in lower Manhattan is the greatest view?”

There were streets and buildings as far as you could see.  The streets that were normally just muddled streaks of grey and brown were cast in beams of orange and pink as the sun set.  You turned your head, just a little, just enough to see the way the light brought out the brilliant streaks of gold in Crutchie’s hair and the soft pink of his sunburned cheeks.  “It absolutely is.”

The two of you were looking up at the few stars that could fight through the smog and the lantern light.  It was dark, but New York still managed to block out anything outside of the city.  The rooftop was too hard to lay on, but you ignored the way your limbs protested.  You didn’t know any constellations, but looking at the sky still made you feel like you were a part of something big.  Too big, maybe, and that made it a lot easier to think clearly.

You gave a big yawn.  “If I could stop time, right here, I would.”

You heard him shift a little, but you stayed still.  Your eyes were almost closed.  “Really?  Tonight?”

“Sure,” you said sleepily.  “This is a perfect night.  If I could keep things just like this, I would.”

You could hear the smile in his voice, and it made you want to smile too.  “You wouldn’t change a thing?” he asked.  “No food, no satin pillows, just this?”

“Nope,” you said.  “Just this.”

Maybe you were lying to yourself if you thought that you didn’t care about things enough to be hurt by them.  You did care about the newsies, though you didn’t think that any of them would ever have any reason to hurt you.  They were annoying and loud and funny and loving, and you thought that the only hurts they could cause were skin-deep.  They would never do something if they knew it would cut, and they would do what they could do to fix it if they did do something too harsh.  They could hurt you, but they wouldn’t.

But Crutchie was different.  He made “what ifs” feel like “somedays.”  When New York felt too big, you could sit with him and pretend that it was a ghost town.  He could really, really hurt you, and you thought that maybe that was okay.

“Actually, maybe I would change one thing,” you said.  Maybe too much time had passed since he had asked, but maybe not.  Maybe there was still enough time for you to change one thing and make the night really, really perfect.

He gave a sleepy hum, but it went a little strangled when you reached over and grabbed his hand.  You intertwined your fingers with his, heart beating out a rhythm of uncertainty and hope and a lot of anxiety.

“There,” you said.  “Now it’s perfect.”

Crutchie didn’t say anything.  He didn’t pull away, which seemed like a good sign to you, but he didn’t say anything.  You were just hanging there, caught somewhere between being terribly hurt and completely whole for the first time in forever.

“I asked Jack to go away for the night,” Crutchie said in a hoarse voice.  He sounded confused and happy and just as caught as you were.  “I told him that I wanted to bring you up here, just the two of us, so he made himself scarce.”

There is was.  Maybe a part of you had expected that, since no part of you felt surprised.  There was only warmth and relief.  Crutchie had wanted to get you alone.  You squeezed his hand a little, and he squeezed back.  “Perfect,” you said again.  

“Yeah,” he said.  He was smiling again, and this time you turned to look at it.  It was broad and goofy and so perfect that your breath caught.  “Okay.  Let’s just freeze time, right here.”

You couldn’t, unfortunately, keep things there.  The next day, the sky was bright and the city bustled with noise.  It wasn’t just the two of you anymore, and there was no night sky to make thinking easy.  Even so, you kept holding Crutchie’s hand, and that made things feel pretty perfect.