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Gotta Feeling Bout' A Headline

@newsies-movie-fangirl-blog

I LOVE NEWSIES! Dear Evan Hansen | Dance | Musical Theatre | Broadway Trash | I can't draw but I guess requests are open for head cannons and fics | Ask Box:OPEN | message me if you'd like to! :) Icon credit: @whizzerbrowne

Things no one told me I’d see at Newsies on tour

  • i dont know
  • i didn’t get to see it
  • even though it came to my city
  • multiple
  • times
  • and my school sponsored a trip to see it
  • ???

(based on this post that i originally saw on instagram)

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boykeats

On November 4, 1918, Wilfred Owen (b. March 18, 1893) was killed in action. Owen wrote some of the best poetry on World War I, with imagery that unflinchingly details the terrors of trenches and gas warfare. Imbued with confidence from mentor Siegfried Sassoon, much of his poetry also refuses to shy away from his feelings as a gay man. A mere five of his poems were published during his lifetime. When Owen died one week before the Armistice, he was only 25 years old.

does this make me a horrible person? 

(sorry jordan)

my only question is, WHY DID THEY USE THIS SHOT IN THE FINAL MOVIE ?? (poor jordan)

I was wondering that too, until I realized that since it was for the curtain call they probably only did one take

^^that particular curtain call shot pans out over the audience at the live take, hence it was only shot once. there’s a few seconds where the camera angle changes to a shot from upstage where you can tell that the takesof jordan don’t line up.

Winn: Good morning!
J'onn: Good morning, everyone.
Alex: ... good morning.
Maggie: Good morning!
James: *mumbling under his breath* no such thing...
Mon-el: Good morning, DEO!
Lena: Good morning, Kara.
Kara: you all sound like robots! "good morning, good morning", spice it up!
Cat: Hello, attractive yet nonthreatening, racially diverse cast of a CW show.
Quiet room.
Everyone else:
Me:
My stomach: F̣̮̙͈̖͉̥͎̂ͩ̎̉͝͞ͅĘ̪̱̪̭̘́ͭ̉̽̈̅͂E̶̱̱̣͖͉͖̮̦̲̾̈́͗̿D̬͓̫̪̝͍͓̻̒̍̔̍͛̐̀ ̩̩͇̣̝̩̜͌ͩ̐̆̉ͪ̉̇M̈ͫͅẺ̾̒͏̧̡͓̦̫̘ͅ
Davey: *at the door of the lodging house, at the bell, approximately three weeks after the strike* Good morning, Race. Drink water today. Here, Specs, my mom made you a sandwich. Crutchie, I know it's going to rain already, make sure you and the younger boys get back here before it does. Finch! No! It's too early for flying! Les get back here. Romeo, no flirting with people unless it's to sell papers until you're done selling papers. Buttons, tie your shoe, you're going to get hurt. Jack! Eat something today! No more skipping lunch because you get distracted!
The Rest of the Newsies in Unison: Yes, Mom. Thanks, Mom. Love you, Mom.

Ghost Hunter AU fic that I have not named...

Part of this AU!

When Spot suggested they do something to celebrate the anniversary of their YouTube channel, Race knew what he really meant. They didn’t do date night often and when they did it meant take out and a box set of whatever show they were marathoning and making out on the sofa, so caught up in each other that they’d have to rewatch all the episodes they’d had on in the background because neither of them had taken in a word of it. Formal date nights that involved leaving the house didn’t really happen.

Part of the reason was that they were both pretty private people. Spot wasn’t often keen to hold Race’s hand outside of the comfort of their home, let alone kiss him and say I love you and do all the other things people were supposed to do on dates. He didn’t like admitting to it though, so often he relied on the other reason date nights usually happened on their sofa.

Coming Home

Davey stood awkwardly at the arrivals terminal, clutching a bunch of flowers and rocking back and forward on his toes. He hadn’t seen Jack in person for two months and he was more than ready to have him home. The bed was too big and too cold and he needed someone to share it with – and there was no one who could fill the gap in his life but his husband. Long distance had been hard but they’d survived and the reality of being able to sleep beside Jack and wake him up with kisses and relax into his embrace was so overwhelming that Davey had to force himself not to think about it in case he started crying. Instead he focused on scanning the face of every passenger who crossed through into the airport, just waiting for the man he loved more than anything else in the world to appear.

“Waiting for your girl, sweetie?”

Davey’s little bubble of privacy had been popped and he turned to find an older woman smiling at him and gesturing to the flowers.

“My husband,” Davey grinned, without a care in the world. “He’s been working in London for a year and he’s finally coming home.”