#Secret Santa for Guys

[noisycowboyglitter]

Why Grandma is the Next Best Thing to Santa This Holiday Season

"Grandma: The Next Best Thing to Santa" is a heartwarming and humorous concept that celebrates the special role grandmothers play during the holiday season. This fun Christmas theme recognizes that while Santa may bring the presents, grandma often brings the magic, love, and warmth that make the holidays truly special.

Buy now:19.95$

The idea playfully suggests that grandma, with her endless supply of cookies, cozy hugs, and unconditional love, is a year-round Santa figure in many families. Like Santa, grandma seems to have a magical ability to know just what her grandchildren need, whether it's a comforting word, a special treat, or a cherished family tradition.

This theme often appears on festive merchandise such as t-shirts, mugs, or decorative signs, featuring whimsical artwork of grandmothers in Santa-inspired outfits or baking Christmas cookies. It's a popular gift idea for grandmothers, acknowledging their important role in creating holiday joy.

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The concept also taps into the nostalgia and sentimentality associated with both grandmothers and Christmas. It reminds us of the simple pleasures of the season – the smell of freshly baked goods, the warmth of family gatherings, and the joy of intergenerational bonds.

"Grandma: The Next Best Thing to Santa" celebrates the idea that the true spirit of Christmas isn't just about receiving gifts, but about the love, generosity, and family connections that grandmothers so often embody.

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Secret Santa gift exchanges for guys can be both fun and challenging. When selecting a gift, consider the recipient's interests and hobbies while staying within the budget. For tech enthusiasts, portable chargers, wireless earbuds, or smart home devices are popular choices. Sports fans might appreciate team merchandise, game tickets, or sports-themed gadgets.

For the outdoorsy type, consider a multi-tool, a portable camping light, or a rugged water bottle. Foodies might enjoy gourmet snacks, a hot sauce set, or a cocktail-making kit. Book lovers could receive a bestselling novel, a funny desk calendar, or a sleek bookmark.

Practical gifts like high-quality socks, a leather wallet, or a stylish phone case are often well-received. For the guy who enjoys pampering, consider a grooming kit or luxury skincare products.

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Humorous gifts like funny t-shirts, desk toys, or novelty books can be great ice-breakers. Don't forget about experiences – gift cards for local attractions or subscription boxes tailored to his interests can provide lasting enjoyment.

Remember, the key to a great Secret Santa gift is thoughtfulness and a touch of personality.

[omaano]

Winter fun with the 212th and adjacent headaches :3

Happy Holidays and New Years @wanderingjedihistorian I hope you'll like this❤️ (how does it feel to be the recipient of all my codywan-related drawings XD?) Jedi are horrible disasters when you put them on ice and I will not be convinced otherwise.

Thank you @starwarsfandomfests for organizing this exchange! ❤️

Close ups under the read more ->

Could I have detailed out any one of these on its own and be done with it? Most likely. Did I get overwelmed with all the cool reference pictures I had found once I decided what I will draw, and then couldn't pick? Absolutely. Will I still draw Cody and Obi-Wan the first time I'll have time for a personal project next year even though I don't want to see them ever again? You know me and can recognize patterns, of course that is what I will do XD

[amphibianaday]

day 1421

[woolysstuff]

@particle70 Heya! I was your secret santa this year! :D

Hope you like your gift, it was a fun prompt to draw!

And don't worry about Moon, he's fine.... probably..

[violent138]

Because no member of the Batfam can be relied upon to watch their health, Alfred develops a covert buddy system where the kids keep an eye on how long since their "assigned" sibling slept, dealt with an injury, or ate something that didn't come out of a blender or wrapper. It's pretty successful, and due to the methods the kids use to knock out or provoke each other nobody has caught onto it yet.

[enstars-secret-santa]

signups for the ensemble stars 2024 secret santa exchange have opened!

Hi, producers! Colder weather has started to arrive, and with it comes our art and writing exchange! The leaders of fine and Valkyrie, Tenshouin-san and Itsuki-san, are here in this jolly getup to notify you that you can sign up any time at the form linked in this post (or on our Carrd) from now until 11/15 at 11:59 PM EST.

An infographic with stats from our interest check will be posted tomorrow, as well as periodic reminders throughout the week.

Discord invite links will be start to be emailed on the 6th, and afterwards they will be sent as soon as a submission is received and processed (which may take up to a day). This is just to have a little more time for organization and setup!

Now that all that's aside, here's the signup form as promised:

[mctwinkdom]

He's so happy. This is his happy face everyone. He's so excited for it

[co27]

halloween secret santa for @grungekitty-77 !! i was told to draw sparx and i was sooo happy to deliver. some angst followed by his actual dorky costumes :D thank you so much to @sweetcircuits for organizing, this was a ton of fun!

[definitelynotshouting]

hello gang its been far too long since you received scarian kisses from me

luckily i am here to change that<3 massive shout out to @sculkshrieking for giving me this idea and @shaklyart for the absolutely GORGEOUS animatic that fully sparked this discussion in the first place, seriously please go give it some love guys its incredible. Anyway woe, TJ Shouting smooches be upon ye >:]

"... Don't kiss me," Grian breathes, so low and heady that it fills Scar's head with light, a clean and dizzy wash over everything still lingering between them. Here, in this microscopic space, there are no grains of sand; no loneliness; no secrets; no cruel and counting timer. Only them, and a warmth beginning to boil, rolling in with the same potent energy of a summer thunderstorm.

And it's so, so easy to let Scar's task do the work for him.

So Scar tips forward, closing the space between them once more— catches Grian's lower lip between his teeth, rolling it into his mouth with slow, deliberate motions. Grian's breath audibly hitches; both hands lift to frame Scar's face, tangle in his hair, and the firm tug of fingers gripping him at the roots has Scar gasping into the kiss. He retaliates by releasing Grian's bottom lip, only to shift the angle to catch his cupid's bow, nipping at the sensitive skin— until Grian sucks in another shaky breath, fingers tightening, mouth falling lax against his. Scar soothes away the sharp sting, folding wordless apologies against Grian's mouth in a language beyond words, beyond any buzzing syllable that will never, ever leave his throat again.

Grian pushes in further, a ragged noise punching from his throat; the answering riptide of fervent affection threatens to drown Scar in liquid gold, and he drags Grian as close as he can get him, lips sliding leisurely over his, arms wrapping tight around his waist. Like this, they could be one person. Like this, there is only the aching stretch of their own bleeding hearts, a horizon of broken stitches— and the desperate, clawing urge to sew them back together again. To make them whole.

When they part, it's by less than an inch; Grian breathes in deep, the same air Scar exhales, and his lips brush Scar's with each tentative sway into each other's orbit, scattering electric sparks in their wake.

Grian's voice is, miraculously, even quieter and headier than before. "Don't—" His voice catches, cracking the word in half. "Don't kiss me." He leans forward, brushing his own featherlight kiss against Scar's lips. Back. "Don't kiss me." Swaying forth again, another kiss; this one just as a soft, just as syrupy. When Grian pulls back once more, his eyes are lidded. Then, pretenses stripped as clean from his voice as sun-bleached bone, he begs— he breathes: "Scar, please— just kiss me."

And Scar— bathed in the gilded sunset of their kiss-bruised memories, with his heart a hummingbird thrum in his throat— throws his task to the wind, and obligingly falls back in.

[alwerakoo]

'Keep the car running'

TMNT 2012 Leonardo & Raphael & Donatello & Michelangelo Written for @tmnt-secret-santa-2024 PROMPT: Rainstorm

AO3

---

It's April who first finds the box.

The attic of the Farm House is a dusty place - full of sheet-covered furniture, old lamps, and cobwebs.

The winter air brushes past the small window - unfinished and bordered with yellow foam and insulation.

Leo has never been in an attic before. He wishes it wasn't so cold.

The chill settles in his bones like needles, digging into his muscles and making his knee buckle.

He knows April and Raph saw him limp up the ladder, but she didn't say anything.

He's not really sure why they brought him along.

Maybe to just get him out of bed.

The thought that he's now the type of person that needs to be tricked into getting out of bed makes him want to close in on himself until there's nothing left.

April looks back at him and smiles. It looks genuine. He's not sure what she's smiling about; he has done and accomplished exactly nothing besides staring out the window and turning an old toy car in his hands.

(He's still holding it. Mikey might like it.)

But she looks kind and pretty in the blue winter sun, so he forces a smile back.

It's not like Raph has been any help either.

He's currently sitting on the edge of an old drawer, and he almost has to bend in half to not hit his head on the slope of the roof.

He somehow makes it look almost casual, and if Leo were anyone else, maybe he wouldn't notice his sai, tucked away behind his wrist, carefully carving away at the wood.

“It must be somewhere in here,” April says, maybe more to herself than to Leo.

She reaches for another box, tucked deeper into the corner, pushing a stack of books over in the process.

That makes Raph look up, briefly.

They're looking for an old camera her family used to own, that probably doesn't work anymore but it's still worth a try.

The boredom really is rotting them from the inside out.

April cuts the tape holding the carton box together using a pocketknife - with the precision of a skilled fighter and the carelessness of a teenager.

She cuts her finger, but only a little.

Raph walks to stand behind her, maybe to make sure she doesn't take out a whole hand next - or maybe just to peek inside the box.

“Woah,” he says suddenly, which is an unexpected reaction. Then he laughs, which is more his style. “Is this yours?”

April scoffs, looking behind her shoulder to glare at him.

“What are you laughing at? You're a dick,” she says, without any real vigor, which means she's not really upset.

Probably. Leo doesn't pretend like he always understands his friend. Or girls, for that matter.

He walks up to them, and when his knee swells with pain, he doesn't let it show. If he did, they would start asking why he never uses the cane Donnie made for him, and he'd rather deal with hundreds of needles tearing his flesh apart, than to answer that particular question.

At first, he's not quite sure what he's looking at.

It's maps and books, handmade drawings, journals, something like suspenders, and strangest of all - a dusty pair of binoculars.

“It's my dad's,” April explains. “I think he used to be really into bird-watching when we still lived in the countryside.”

That makes a bit more sense. Leo was wondering why there were so many birds sketched onto the covers.

He goes to kneel down. It hurts, but if he doesn't sit right now, he might just fall over.

He's not really sure why he reaches into the box.

Maybe for something to do with his hands. Maybe he's just bored. Maybe it's already sitting right in front of him, and he'll die if he doesn't stop thinking about the pain.

He takes the first book in his hand.

It's small and heavy, and dusty; with a watercolor-ed bird looking right back at him from the cover.

He doesn't recognize it, which is not surprising because he doesn't know anything about birds.

The small text below the title lets him know it's a mockingbird, which might be a joke. He's not really sure.

“Wow,” Raph grins. “Didn't know your dad was an elite member of the Big Nerd Club.”

“Come up with something original for once, I'm begging you,” April says.

Leo knows he's been a little too silent for a little too long, but he can't bring himself to put the book down.

It's stupid and he shouldn't care, because he's sixteen, the city he left behind is being devoured from inside out, his father might be dead, and this is the last thing that should be on his mind.

And yet.

On days where he wakes early, right before dawn, like he's still being pulled along by old habits, like trying on clothes that don't quite fit him anymore – he likes to sit on the porch.

He likes the cold sharp air, how it fills in his lungs, how it shakes up his mind from the fog he so often finds himself in nowadays.

And when he sits there, he hears birds.

He always liked it, in an off-handed, natural way; the way he likes to hear wood splintering in the fireplace or the rain knocking on a window. Something he and many others have filed away as ''nice'' and simply never thought any more about it.

He looks at the mockingbird on the cover.

But maybe, he thinks. Maybe it would be nice to see them for once.

All of a sudden, Raph quiets.

And then there it is, that small moment where Leo can almost feel him think, his brain too fast to turn back now.

“You know,” Raph says, very quietly.

Leo puts the book down.

“No,” he answers without even hearing the question.

Raph raises his hands in a defensive gesture. Or at least Leo thinks it is; with his sai still held between his fingers it really could go either way.

“I didn't even say anything.”

“You did,” April says for Leo.

She sounds a little more upset now, and Raph looks slightly apologetic.

It makes something in Leo's stomach twist, because it used to be so hard to make Raph look visibly guilty about anything.

He's been walking on eggshells.

***

They find the camera in one of the boxes, virtually indistinguishable from the rest. It's old and smells of rust, but April says Donnie might get it to work.

He probably will.

Leo's muscles tighten when he walks back to the ladder.

That same evening, there's a box left on his bed.

***

He doesn't touch it for the first week.

Mostly out of some sense of pride. And because the thought of walking up a ladder again makes the skin in the back of his knees crawl.

But a week passes and then he's laying wide awake in the middle of the night – mind uneasily blank and the taste of blood in his mouth.

He was granted the privilege of having a whole room to himself – a small guest bedroom with a pullout sofa.

(April wanted to let him have her bed, which just felt wrong in a hundred different ways.)

He and his brothers haven't shared a room since they were little. He never realized this was something he was going to miss.

He sits in his bed, and it’s the first thing he sees.

Leo watches the box for a moment, like he's waiting for something that never happens. He's been doing that a lot lately.

He scoots to the edge of the bed to pull it closer, his fingers shaky and face numb, reaching one hand behind to turn on the lamp.

The mockingbird stares back.

He might get the joke now. It's not very funny.

The paper feels thin in his fingers.

His eyes glaze over the text, too hazy to catch anything. But they stay on the drawings.

Leo sits on his bed and watches those watercolor birds until it's morning again.

***

When he first wanders into the forest, he's not really sure what he's looking for.

Bird, preferably.

There's fresh snow on the ground, and his breath turns into white steam.

He's quiet and soft on his feet after years and years of practice, even when his bones grind against each other in a limp.

When he first sees them, he doesn't really know what to do with himself.

He stands there, his face cold and wet against his itchy scarf, and watches them from afar.

It's just birds: perfectly ordinary; stark against the white of the trees.

It's the first time in his life that he has ever considered mistaking a crow for a raven as anything remotely important, or even of any particular interest.

And yet – here he is.

He can't make up his mind; the vague images from the book too far away in his mind to be of any real use.

He fails. In a soft, gentle way.

He's still there, they're here, and next time: he'll know.

They don't sing so much as they scream, and it's all perfectly familiar and predictable.

He doesn't notice the time pass until his knee buckles.

***

He spots the bird after a few days.

It's not all that surprising; judging by the fact that he's the one stumbling upon what is presumably already a perfectly established routine.

The bird lands on a branch, like it's been doing it its whole life – which is probably true. It ruffles its feathers, all pale blues and grays; wings patterned like stained-glass.

He brought a chair this time. He tells himself that this is the sort of hobby that allows a kind of glamorized laziness, which is true enough.

He watches it sit, thrill quietly like an old wind-up toy waiting to be picked up.

It always made him think a little – how much animals seem to just idle. But they don't, not really.

They're doing exactly what they're supposed to.

He comes back the next day, and there are binoculars hung from his neck.

***

He forgets this is something he should be embarrassed about.

He's always been like this; maybe a little too enthusiastic and explosive about everything that made him the way he is. He wears his love on his sleeve, seemingly much to everyone’s annoyance.

They must've noticed, but it's only after a few weeks that someone asks.

“So, like.” Mikey interrupts himself, stuffing a thick sandwich that is mostly unevenly cut bread into his mouth. “Are you, like, an optician now?”

Leo frowns.

“What?”

He picks up more eggs on his fork. He's going to the forest right after breakfast, and he already learned the hard way how hunger makes the cold stick to his bones.

He didn't even realize how little he's been eating until now.

Donnie puts down his fork, running a hand over his forehead.

“Ornithologist,” he says, a little tired. “Is that what you mean?”

“Hey, give him some credit,” Raph huffs. “I'm surprised he even knows what that word means.”

Leo sits on their words for a moment, absentmindedly watching Casey trying to slip more of his eggs into Donnie's glass.

“I just like going outside,” he says, finally. Then, just to be a little mean: “You should try it sometime, Don.”

***

The next time he leaves, he leaves behind a handful of seeds, shamelessly stolen from April's coop. He's sure she wouldn't mind.

When he comes back, they're gone.

He can't know, but he likes to think the blue bird was at least a bit grateful.

***

“It's a bluejay,” he says during dinner. He knows this now, and it fills him with unreasonable pride. “The bird I keep seeing.”

Raph raises his head, and almost imperceptibly – looks at Donnie. They share a glance, the sort they seem to exchange a lot of lately.

They must know Leo can see it, and that makes something angry and bitter spark up inside his chest. But it doesn't catch tonight.

“Cool,” Raph says.

“Is it a boy or a girl?” Mikey asks, mouthful of Donnie's half-raw chicken.

Leo pokes at his empty plate.

“... I don't know. They're hard to tell apart.”

But that makes his brain tick.

***

It's a girl.

He spends hours poring over his books to figure it out, and it makes him wish he could call April's dad.

(That thought makes his stomach hurt until he lays down for the night.)

He tells Mikey over a game of monopoly, where half the pieces are long missing, and most of the rules are made up and change every time.

“That's so cool,” he says. “Can I name her? I'm great at naming things.”

Leo doesn't offer to let him see her, and Mikey doesn't ask.

***

The bluejay they named 'Clunk' likes to ruffle her feathers when she lands.

That's mostly how he tells her apart from the others.

There's a sort of foolish, egotistical part of him that likes to think he'd know Clunk even without it; that he'd be able to point her out in a crowd of others with his eyes closed. It's probably not true.

But he's able to point Clunk out when she sits on her branch and ruffles her feathers, and that's good enough for now.

He started to call her 'his'.

His Clunk.

She's not a pet. He's not sure she knows he's anything more than part of the everchanging background.

He thinks he likes it this way.

The thing is – he's not really sure why birds grab him in the way they do.

He thinks them pretty, sure. But there's also that itch he hasn't been able to scratch for so long; doing something new and doing it right.

Failing makes him want to come back over and over again, just to finally get it right.

There are no stakes. If he fails, there are no broken bones, no failed missions, no disappointed gazes. Her life doesn't weigh down on his shoulders with the force of an entire world.

He cares for her, of course. Maybe unreasonably so. But he could disappear, and her life would go on like always.

She'd ruffle her feathers, aim her gaze where his chair used to be, and maybe, for just a moment – linger.

And that's enough.

***

He measures time in pain.

Or more carefully – the lack thereof.

It's still rare, more of a sudden gasp than a deep breath, but his bones ache just a little less, his shell smooths just a little bit.

He started using Donnie's cane.

It's blue and fits into his grasp like a perfect mold, and he knows they're looking at him.

He knows the worry in their eyes looks deceptively close to pity; he knows they talk about him when he's not there.

But he lays it out for himself one night.

Or rather – Donnie does, rather incessantly, probably resisting the urge to hit him over the head with that cane.

It's this, or it's no cane, no walks, and no birds.

He hates that this is something they can hold over his head so easily now.

(Or at least, for the most part. It feels good to be known.)

April tells him he looks 'distinguished', which makes Raph laugh so hard he almost falls over.

Leo still takes that to heart. His chest is warm.

***

Months pass with winter, and the snow falls and melts.

There are more birds in the forest now. He notes them down, compares pictures in books and sketches, listens to so many new voices.

Clunk keeps coming back.

His heart feels full.

***

The rain starts out soft at first. He feels it coming in his knee.

He falls asleep to its rhythm, and it's still there in the morning, falling down the dusty windows they still hadn't come around to cleaning.

He only starts to worry in the evening.

The wind picks up, and April tells them it might be a storm.

It is.

Leo sits on the couch, rubbing his hands together.

He hasn't gone outside today, and his body itches.

“You good?” Casey asks when he starts to chew on his nail.

“... I'm worried about Clunk.”

Honesty is hard and it passes through his throat like he might choke on it.

His brothers quiet.

They're all sitting in the living room, and he can see their worry lines in the faint light of candles.

“... She's a bird,” Casey says.

April jabs him with her boney elbow for it, and he winces in pain, grabbing at his ribs.

“Yeah,” Mikey adds. “She's, like, built for this.”

Leo twitches.

His leg aches like a pile of old bones.

“She's gonna be okay. She's a tough lady, right?” Raph looks to Donnie, like he would know.

And Donnie nods, like he does.

Bluejays can mimic hawks. It's a defense mechanism. They open their beaks and make a sound that makes every small animal turn its head, fur stand straight on their collars, feathers ruffle.

But they're not hawks. They can bend their wings, break their bones, strain their voice all they want to, and still – they never will be.

Leo looks outside.

They forgot about the chairs on the front porch. The wind pushes them back against the railing, cold and loud.

The wood splinters.

Leo stands.

And then he runs.

***

The ground is wet and soft under his feet, and it's hard to imagine it was ever solid.

It's slippery and uneven, and he falls over himself over and over again.

His knee burns though his flesh.

He must've hit it somewhere. There's mud layering a patch of raw skin, pinkish and ugly.

He used to be the fastest out of his brothers.

Now, they catch up to him before he even gets past the tree line.

It's Mikey who grabs his arm first, pulling him to a harsh stop.

His hold hurts and Leo wants to scream. He wants to shred his throat raw, and he wants to dig into his own skin until he finds the part that betrays him again and again.

He thinks he might be angry.

Just maybe, because when Mikey turns him around to pull him into a hug, he falls limp.

“Dude,” Mikey breathes. Leo barely hears him over the wind. “What the fuck?”

“I'm”

He wants to say something, anything, but his face falls numb, stuck on his own thoughts.

Mikey shouts something over his shoulder. Suddenly, there's something wet and miserable that might've once been a blanket thrown over his shoulders.

“Fearless” Raph says, now in his line of sight. “She's not there, she's gonna be alright.”

“You don't know that,” Leo whispers.

He doesn't think Raph hears him over the wind. He's squinting at the harsh rain, leading Leo back to the house.

He supposes he'll have to trust Raph on his one.

Leo's cold.

He's cold, he's in pain, he's a useless son, he's a bad leader, he's a bluejay and he's so very afraid.

***

In the morning, the sky is clear.

He wakes up on the touch, feeling every muscle and joint in his body simmer like a burned-out cigarette.

Raph sits by the couch and doesn't say anything for a long while. Until he finally does:

“Do you want to see her?”

Raph takes him by the arm, which makes Leo feel like crying for a whole number of reasons.

But they don't get to leave before Mikey runs into them in the hallway, and subsequently – puts the entire house back on their feet.

April hands him tea in a pink thermos, before she even thinks to brush out her hair, and he takes it without a word, but a lot sitting on the edge of his tongue.

He never brought anyone else with him, and he realizes there's only one chair a little too late.

Raph doesn't seem to mind.

He crosses his legs on the ground, picking at his nails with his sai.

They sit and wait for hours.

This part of the forest doesn't seem all that changed, besides a few branches in places where they shouldn't be.

But it's unusually quiet, and Leo doesn't think to drink any of his tea before it grows cold.

Raph puts a hand on his good knee, opens his mouth, but doesn't say anything.

There are things Raph wants to say, want to ask – Leo knows. Maybe he'll let him, eventually.

But now, he feels like his lungs have run dry. He feels like he's been holding his breath for years.

“I'm sorry I didn't take you here before,” he says.

It means a lot of different things.

Raph turns to look at him, and with that – there's a soft whistle.

Clunk lands on her branch, her wings shiny and vibrantly blue from the rain.

She ruffles her feathers.

Her eyes fall to Leo's chair, dark and full of sun. She tilts her head, and it's almost like a nod.

Leo breathes.

***

Donnie does get the camera working, eventually.

Not that any of them had any doubts about it, not really.

He lays it on the dinner table, folding his arms over his chest.

“There,” he says.

April's face lights up, and he just shrugs, like it was nothing.

Mikey is the one to pick it up first, turning it over in his hands.

“What do we wanna do first?” He asks.

He holds up the camera backwards, like his own selfie is the most logical answer. But then he hesitates, and his face turns into something a little more thoughtful but not unkind.

He turns back to Leo and hands him the camera.

“You pick,” he says.

Leo smiles.

And he already knows the answer.

[planetnini]

satoru is a certified lover boy… in every single one of my fics no matter what genre… he will and always remain a lover boy even if he doesn’t know it

[leclercskiesahead]

Carlos drew Franco for secret Santa! Ooohhhh this should be interesting

[skitskatdacat63]

Thank you f1 for being canon compliant and putting Fernando in his habitual Santa suit

[justanartistiguess]

My BACKUP Secret Santa gift! Event organized by @spinthetags !

Here you go @kittiecat3 ! I was your backup Secret Santa! I’m sorry you couldn’t originally get your gift on time, but I hope this makes up for it!

Prompt I chose: “Character gets frostbite from being in snow OR fireplace Or just anything with my favorite little goobers in them.” <- with my little spin on it!

I hope you like it! :)

[w1lmuttart]

Wanted to try something new. Here are some illustrations in normal lighting

Here they are again, now with backlight

Really pleased with the result! :D

[spaceorphan18]

Summary:

Kurt Hummel, an aspiring actor, spends a lot of his time on the Broadway forums when he learns about a new Broadway show in development. His friend Elliott drags him to audition with him - where he ends up getting a small role. As the show goes on, Kurt finds that when he's not chatting up the mysterious Nightbird online, he's falling for one of his fellow actors - a Blaine Anderson.

For @cerriddwenluna

Hello there Cerriddwenluna! I hope you like it! I tried to hit all of your favorite genres (except I just couldn't make time travel work - so I set the musical in the past, does that count?)! The push in on the social media angle was fun and it gave me an excuse to work on writing short snippets and abbreviated scenes. It's been a crazy ride.

Happy Holidays everyone! :D