#˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳ newsies // edits ❥

[kellyscowboy]

me bc i couldn't stop thinking abt how uptown girl was literally katherine

[kellyscowboy]

oops, my finger slipped

[kellyscowboy]

꒰✧ᯇ✦꒱ BROOKLYN RED

ᯇsummary ! ✦ in manhattan they'd call it a sin, but race's wearing brooklyn red for him ᯇpair ! ✦ spot conlon x racetrack higgins (livesies) || inspired by Tennessee Orange by Megan Moroney & these (one) (two) posts by @crystallized-twilight ᯇvienna’s thoughts ! ✦ uhhh i definitely think this could be better but i just wanted to get it out of my drafts tbh LMAO. i swear the next piece or writing will be better :') 1249 WORDS © 2023 , 𝐤𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐲𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐰𝐛𝐨𝐲

"Racer!" Spot groaned. "I give up. Ya ain't never gonna learn the damn song."

Racetrack smiled and took a drag from his cigarette. "Well, I like the teacher betta than the lesson anyway."

"No amount of flattery can make up for how badly ya butchered our song," Spot laughed. He continued to speak, but his words were lost in the night.

The lights on the Brooklyn Bridge gave Spot a certain glow. One that made his skin look like that of an angel. Racetrack couldn't help but stare as he watched the boy laugh. He wanted to listen to Spot, he really did, but how could he listen to him when he was so beautiful? He tries his best to focus, but who could if Spot was sitting in front of them looking like a gift from God?

Race wanted to tell him every one of his thoughts. How Spot's laugh was probably what Heaven's trumpets sound like, how gorgeous his eyes were-

"I mean, honestly, how do ya mess up the wor-"

"Red's definitely your color." And he winced because that was definitely not what he had meant to say. It didn't even begin to cover half of what he was thinking.

Spot smiled and cocked an eyebrow. "Red's Brooklyn's color, Racer."

He groaned, "I just meant- It looks good on you. Like, really good. Ya look heavenly right now. You sure you're real?"

"Pretty sure. Speaking of red," Spot shoved his hand into his selling bag and pulled out a crumpled shirt. "I know you'll always be Manhattan, but... I thought, maybe, you could play Brooklyn sometimes too?"

Race moved to grab the shirt and exchanged it for the one he had been wearing. He scoffed, mostly at himself. "God, the boys would kill me if they saw me wearing this."

"Ya still ain't told anyone 'bout us?"

"Have you?" Race snapped, slightly defensive.

A beat.

"No." Spot admitted as he adjusted his hat. He crossed his arms, defeated and grumpy. Race slumped down with him, he intertwined their fingers and let his forehead bump into Spot's neck.

"I didn't mean to snap at'cha." He sighed. "I just- I don't know how to tell ''em that the Spot Conlon—the one who left us for dead during the strike (hey!)—is my sweetheart. Hell, how am I supposed ta tell 'em you got me wearing Brooklyn red?"

Spot rolled his eyes. "I did not leave you for dead." A shrug. "You're all still alive, aint'cha?"

Race smiled fondly and rested his forehead against the others. "Yeah, I guess we is."

"I'm glad you are," Spot whispered. Then he straightened himself and pushed Race an arms-length away, and held him there. "Because if you weren't I woulda never seen how good you look playing Brooklyn."

He laughed and shoved Spot's cap—which was really his own; he had been sporting Spot's actual cap ever since the time they went to the racetracks—over his eyes. "Don't forget it's just playing. I'm only Brooklyn in your dreams."

"Damn right."

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Race flipped the shirt in his hands over and over again. He stared into the deep red that felt so much like home that it almost made him sick to his stomach. God, if anyone saw his damned red shirt. It was just a stupid shirt, but holding it in his hands felt like treason.

"Hey, Racer. Haven't seen ya in a while; where ya been?" And his heart dropped into his stomach as he rushed to crumble up the shirt and shove it under a blanket. Jack threw his hat onto a random bed before addressing him again. "Woah! Ya good, Racer? Ya look like you'se a ghost or somethin'."

"I'm alright. Hey, uh," it's now or never, "I've gotta tell ya somethin'. But- Listen, you can't tell the other guys, they'll probably kill 'im."

Jack's eyebrows furrowed, concern flooded his expressions. He leaned against a bed frame with his fists clenched. "Did someone hurt ya, Race? Did'ya mess with some dame and her fella got at ya?"

He couldn't help but laugh. "I'm fine, Kelly. Seriously. You've taught me better than that. Kind of."

The strike leader all but sighed with relief, then sat down on the bed across from Race. "So, what'dya need to tell me? What, ya done sellin' papes or something?"

"No, no. I'm still sellin' papes. I don't got enough money ta quit." He paused. "I might've... met someone."

Jack smiled, crossed his arms and leaned back in amusement. "And?"

"And... he's really good to me. He's got these eyes and they're... they're so blue that it's almost scary. Ya know the kind? He holds doors open for me, stop laughing. And he ain't made me cry yet. Which is saying somethin' for him." Race was looking down at his hands, a stupid smile beating the embarrassment to his face. "He ain't from 'round here, but he still- He still feels like home, ya'know?"

"I know the feelin'. Who's the fella?"

Race looked up, only to meet Jack's eyes just for a second. "Ya can't tell the other fella's, Jackie. I mean, they'd probably call it a damn sin-"

"Racer, come on. They ain't like that-"

"No. Not 'cuz of that, not 'cuz he's a guy. 'Cuz he's..." Race sighed and dragged a hand over his face. "He's got me wearing Brooklyn red, Jack."

And to that, Jack let out a long sigh.

"I know! Brooklyn ain'tcha best friend. Hell, they ain't no-one's best friend." Race started to grin a little again. "He, uh, he took me out to the bridge last Saturday."

"Oh, so that's where ya run off to. To betray us." Jack teased. He even reached forward and gave Racetrack a playful punch to the shoulder.

Race's smile was back in full force. "Anyway. It wasn't nothing like 'Hattan, but nothin' ever will be. But man, I'd like to personally thank whoever made the lights on that damn bridge. Ain't neva seen someone look like that. He looked like a damn angel."

"Well, I can't say I'm not disappointed-"

"I'm sorry Jack. It's just... man, I like him a lot. I'm even learning that stupid Brooklyn chant."

Jack laughed. "Race. I'm not actually disappointed, I'm just messin' with ya. But everyone looks better in 'Hattan colors. Can't deny that." He stated, pulling at his own shirt.

"Obviously. But that smile he carries with him makes ya forget all that. I mean, the grin he had when he made me try on a Brooklyn shirt; made me think I should only ever wear red for the rest of my life!"

Jack grinned and shook his head. "Well, well. Neva seen you so smitten over someone. So, what? Ya Brooklyn now?"

Racetrack laughed. "Never. Not even Spot's smile could make me crazy enough to leave 'Hattan."

"Ya fella's the Spot Conlon? Man, you ain't dating a fella from Brooklyn. You're basically dating Brooklyn itself!"

"I know."

"Listen, Race. Manhattan's gonna loves ya. Even the traitor part of ya." Jack leaned forward to grab Race's shoulder. "If you're happy, we're happy."

Race let out a sigh of relief.

Like a tidal wave, the rest of the newsboys poured into the lodging house. Jack gave the other boy a wink━a promise of secrecy━before he reached under the blanket, pulled out the Brooklyn shirt, and jumped up to wave it in front of the crowd. "You guys won't believe who Racer's swoonin' over!"

"Jack!"

~

[kellyscowboy]

stuttering when you're too close to them for soft gestures? for ralbert (or anyone this gives you ideas for)

tysm for submitting a prompt!! <3

Racetrack has horrible habits. To start, his relationship with cigars is better than his relationship with sleep. He also has an awful gambling addiction. He would probably gamble his soul away to the devil for shits and giggles.

But, by far, the worst habit he has is his need to grab onto everyone he knows.

Albert hates this habit. It's not an issue with physical touch, Albert's just fine with that. He's just like all the other newsboys; he'll throw an arm around someone or jump onto someone's back.

The issue is with Racetrack. Don't get him wrong, he loves the boy to death. In fact, the problem is that he loves him. And not in the way that he loves the others or even in the way that Racer loves him. Albert is fully, irrevocably, head-over-heels in love with his bestfriend.

So when they're striking, Racetrack gets excited, and throws his arm around him; he is a mess. And it's not like this started with the strike. No, it's been happening for far too long. But the strike has forced them all closer together, if that's possible, and now Racetrack is hanging off of Albert nearly every day.

Racer's fondness of physical touch had never been an issue. Not until it started to make Albert feel like he was going to throw up. All of a sudden, Race's casual hugs and pokes meant way more than they should've. Well, they mean exactly the same thing they did before but now Albert is overthinking them. He's hoping—praying, even—that they mean more.

"Albie!" Racetrack practically sings. "Ain'tcha glad we got into this whole strikin' business?" The boy is sporting a bruise, a busted lip and a nasty cut across his eyebrow. Albert can't help but laugh.

"The whole front page thing's gotcha losin' ya mind, Racer."

They were part of the small group that was left in Jacobi's diner. The man had let them all stay past dinner rush, too happy for them to kick them up. Racetrack grabbed Albert's chin and shook it before giving him a disapproving pat on the cheek. "Well, I think the strike's made ya too negative."

Albert's face turns red and he clears his throat. He stumbles over his words as he agrees. All he can think about as he talks is how Race had grabbed his chin. "Yeah, it might've."

Racetrack rolls his eyes, albeit fondly. He picks his chair up and loudly drags it right next to Albert's chair. "You need ta be more excited. We've made it to the big leagues, Albie!"

Racer's arm is around his shoulder, their faces pressed together. Albert turns a little, just to see the boy's face, and his smiling, quivering lips are inches away from his cheek. "Y-yeah. You're my king of New York, ain'tcha?"

And he freezes, realizing he had said my king of New York. As if he owned the boy. But Racetrack didn't say anything, he just turned to meet Albert's eyes and gave him a wild smile. "I wouldn't want it any other way."

[kellyscowboy]

alright last one @diorgirl444 sorry for all the tags pookie 🥲 || me when davey i when dave does and

[kellyscowboy]

THERE'S MORE ⁉️ @diorgirl444 || i actually love this one tbh

[kellyscowboy]

anotha one ‼️ @diorgirl444 || tumblr let me post multiple vids in one post & let me reblog w/ vids pls

[kellyscowboy]

my next few posts will be for @diorgirl444 bc she doesn't have tiktok & wants to see my newsies edits🤭 || also these are all a little old so play nice </3

[kellyscowboy]

does anyone know of any links to download the 2017 newsies proshot?? asking for a friend