#just a lil summin i couldn’t get off my mind

[usedtobecooler]

it’s time for me to tell my truth — modern day!eddie would fucking love reddit

you’re lying in bed, scrolling on your own phones respectively, legs thrown haphazardly over each others as a gentle way of being affectionate even when you’re paying no attention to each other. a comfortable silence in the room, only the noise from your phone droning on. you’re on tiktok, watching the roll for sandwich guy who you’re obsessed with;

you pull a face, grimacing, “babe he’s just rolled a fuckin blueberry pop tart for this sandwich it’s gonna be so gross,” you’re cringing as he does the d20 sauce roll and it lands on matcha spread. you find yourself gagging just at the thought of it.

eddie hums, not really paying any kind of attention to exactly what you said but making a noise in acknowledgment — he’s too engrossed with whatever he’s reading, phone so close to his face you’re wondering how he’s not gone cross eyed.

there’s a silence for a moment longer, before eddie lets out the loudest, disgusted gasp into the room, his nose scrunching up like he’s smelled something bad.

“this guy has the fuckin’ audacity,” eddie starts, scoffing and pinching the bridge of his nose, having to set his phone down, “to ask if he’s the asshole, when he cheated on his pregnant wife and got another woman pregnant?! because he was fed up of her being on bed rest and not having sex with him?! of course you’re the asshole, you’re actually a cunt, dude. this site is fucking ridiculous, i’m done for the night.”

eddie throws his phone on the bedside table and engulfs the room in darkness, the only luminance coming from your phone now. you turn onto your side, smiling at him a little. his little tangents are always so endearing;

“yeah, fuck that guy. that shits no joke.” you agree, placing a hand on his arm and rubbing up and down. eddie engulfs you in a hug, all warm bodied and his wild hair is in your face, clouding your vision.

“just so you know, babe. if i ever knock you up, i fucking promise i wouldn’t do that shit to you.” eddie’s voice is hardly above a whisper, and it makes you all soft that he even thought he had to confirm that to you, as if you thought any less of him.

“baby, i’m pretty sure the worst thing you could ever post on that subreddit would be — ‘i ate the last of the cereal this morning, my girlfriend said it’s okay and she made a bagel instead but i still feel bad, am i the asshole?’”

you both laugh into the dark, eddie kissing the side of your head softly cause he’s the best. ))):

[shadsmeister]

So What? (Patrick Sullivan One-Shot)

Author’s Note: This is just a lil summin-summin for my girl @whothehellisjay, who wants me to write her something, but doesn’t know what. So have this ;)

Synopsis: Jamie and Patrick have been dating for a while, and he tries to calm some of her insecurities.

Warnings: None, fluff, light language

Song: Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You - Frankie Valli and The 4 Seasons

Taglist: @whothehellisjay, @greasernegan

Jamie found herself with a drink in her hand and a smile on her face as she watched Patrick chat among his friends. She wasn’t a big drinker, but she couldn’t deny that his favorite bar and its regulars were more like family now. 

She took a sip of the liquid in the glass just as Patrick looked over at her, cheeks cratering deeply as he gave her a broad smile. 

“Hey doll, ain’t that mine?”

That Brooklyn drawl never ceased to make Jamie giddy and she grinned right back over at him, hair swaying as her shoulders lifted in a shrug. 

“Who’s asking?” When he gestured for her to come over, she complied, sliding off the bar stool and offering him the glass as she nestled into his side. His arm came around her shoulders instantly and he leaned down to press his lips to her temple, pulling away to flip Larry and the boys off as they chided him.

“Since when do you like Jack, huh?” He pulled Jamie over to the side after resting his pool cue against the wall, taking advantage of the extra time given to him since it was Larry’s turn. “That’s mighty fine of you; you know what watchin’ ya drink does to me.”

Patrick kept his voice low as he looked down her, grin widening as he watched the blush creep up into her full cheeks. Her hands came up to push at him but he darted away in time, laughing softly as she scowled at him.

“You know I don’t drink a lot.” She replied, pulling her hands away to fix any hair that had fallen out of place. Despite knowing everyone present, she couldn’t help the anxiety knotting up her stomach. She was sure they’d seen Patrick with many woman, and they all had to be prettier than her, right?

Jamie took a moment to assess herself, unaware of her boyfriend doing the same. His eyes softened as he took in her full face, the bow curve of her lips, the long, dark hair that framed her features. The blush still colored her cheeks and he suppressed a small smile. After, his gaze traveled over her body, and his breath caught in his throat. Her outfit was simple, but fit her personality perfectly; she always wanted to look nice for him, but she never got it through her hard head that he thought she was perfect in sweatpants and a tank top. She was adorably chunky and full in the right places, curves accentuating every movement she made. Instead of angles, she was Jamie was made of gently sloping hills; Patrick loved how soft she was.

“Hey, take a fuckin’ picture and get over here, it’s your turn, lova-boy!” Larry’s voice filled Patrick’s ears as a quick swipe to the back of the head pulled him from his thoughts.  He chanced another glance at Jamie before setting his glass down in her outstretched hand, turning back to the pool table.

“Alright, alright! I’ll kick your ass next time you touch me, ya bald bastard!” The firefighter exclaimed, earning a chorus of laughter from the coworkers around them. 

Jamie heard them, but wasn’t listening; instead, she was hiding her grin behind the glass in her hand. The blush had gotten deeper when she realized how Patrick was staring at her. He never failed to make her feel beautiful, and always seemed to know when she needed it most. Finally, she relaxed back against the wall, using the privacy she was granted to stare right back at him.

She just couldn’t understand it. He was tall, strong, and handsome; those dimples could stop any woman on the street dead in her tracks. Past that, he was a hard worker and a big family man, and always made time for his loved ones. Patrick was also the nicest, most down to earth man she had ever met. He went out of his way for people, even strangers. There was no way she deserved him–

Patrick turned to look at her as soon as his turn was over, one hand resting on the wood of the pool table as he leaned against it. When he smiled at her, all doubt left Jamie’s mind and she returned the look, walking over and stopping in front of him.

She set the glass down by his hand before slipping her arms around him, her chin coming to rest against his chest. His free hand moved to splay against her back then and he rumbled contently, thumb brushing along her spine. His fingers had gazed along a fold of her skin and Jamie began to pull away, the smile on her face faltering.

In response, Patrick held her firmly in place, brows knitting together for a moment as he searched her face. After a second, he gave a soft sigh, sliding his hand to her side and giving it a gentle squeeze. He looked back at the table and, after seeing he still had time, leaned down, lips ghosting over hers.

“You’re not goin’ anywhere. How many times do I gotta tell ya? I’m a firefighter, a little extra weight jus’ gives me somethin’ to hold onto later.” He winked down at the shorter woman then, pecking her lips through her giggles.

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry, baby.” Her giggled erupted into laughter, muffled by his chest as she held her close. Finally he allowed her to pull away, handing her his drink after taking a gulp.

“Let me finish this game, sweets, then we’ll head out.” As she turned away, Patrick’s hand shot out to give her ass a firm smack, laughing as everyone around them whooped.

Jamie had shot him a look, but it didn’t last long. She was content to watch him play for now, sharing in his joy as he played. He would definitely be the death of her, but he’d be her husband first. 

She was sure of it.

[wincestisasincest]

Patrick? --- Part 2 (A Newsies Fan-fiction)

Hi! This is a two part fanfiction, so if you haven’t read the first part, read it here: https://twincestforthewincest.tumblr.com/post/161958254775/patrick-part-1-a-newsies-fan-fiction.

Now, on with the fanfiction!

Jacobi’s always had a sort of effect on people. The pressures and worries of the day drift into oblivion as soon as you enter the welcoming doors of the restaurant, especially if you happen to be a Manhattan newsie. They’d established yet another tradition at Jacobi’s, as it had become a hot-spot for all of the tired (and starving) boys to relieve their troubles.

The smell of food wafted over the energetic crowd of teenagers, who were busy discussing all that was to be discussed in the busy, busy, life of a newsie. Even though there was only about 7 or 8 newsies sitting around the table, their energy filled the entire room, making them seem like the audience for a concert, rather than a bunch of half-starved New Yorkers desperate for their food. 

Jack Kelly sat at the head of the table, attentively observing, and occasionally participating in, the various witty remarks being exchanged among the group.  

“I’m so hungry that I could eat an entire elephant!”

“I’m so hungry that I could eat two elephants!”

“I’m so hungry that I could eat an entire buffet, Vegas-style.”

“Nah, Race, they’d kick you outta Vegas for cheatin’.” 

The table erupted into laughter, and even Race couldn’t hide his amusement, a small smile creeping onto his face. Jack let out a sigh, looking over the counter expectantly. He could appreciate that you can’t rush perfection, especially when it came to food, but given Jacobi’s current customers, perfection didn’t really have to be a priority. 

The doors of the restaurant swung open. 

This was a common occurrence at Jacobi’s, after all, it was a functioning restaurant, and did have customers besides the newsies, though it would be impossible to tell them that. Normally, Jack would allow the doors to swing open, always keeping the new arrivals in the corner of his eye, incase it was something indicative of acknowledgement. And Stitch, notably without Wax by her side, walking into the diner as though she was a regular there, was indicative of acknowledgement. 

“’Ey, Stitch, ova here!” Jack’s hand, waving the leader of the Bronx over, was the only thing that could be seen above the crowd of pageboy caps. Eyes trained on Jack, Stitch made her way to the table, plopping into the seat adjacent to him. 

“Evening, Cowboy,” She shot him a cocky smile before turning her attention to the counter, “’Ey, one float, please.” 

“Whassa matta, you ain’t stayin for dinna?” Race had finally noticed her presence at the table, and thought best to draw everyone else to it with a sarcastic remark.

“’Fraid not, Race. ‘Ere on strict business.”

“’So strict ya walked all the way ta ‘hattan?” Jack reclaimed control of the conversation. 

“Wanted ta ask ya about summin, Cowboy.” The clink of plates coming in contact with the table was the tell-tale signal that the newsboys had reached salvation. Without hesitation, and abandoning the usual custom of waiting until everyone was served, the newsboys dug into their meal, and no calorie was spared. The two leaders, on the other hand, kept their eyes trained on each other with the arrival of their respective orders. 

“And what would dat be?” Jack eyed his food like a predator preparing to strike.

“Ya know dat question you asked ‘bout two nights ago. Poker night, I believe? About dat kid, Patrick?” Stitch took a long, deep, drink of her root beer float, and Jack took that as his queue to dive into his meal, albeit less carnivorously that the rest of the group. 

“Yeah, I tink so. Why?” 

“Well,” Stich took another sip, “I tink I might know someone dat matches your description. Thought you might be interested.” With that finishing sentence, Jack’s hand slowed to a halt, inches away from his sandwich. He gave Stich a curious look.

“Ya mean, ‘dere is a Patrick? Wassa kid like?” 

“10 years old, ‘bout 5 ft., came to us a ‘lil less than a year ago, keeps mentionin’ his ma…”

“His ma? Dats definitely da one. Can ya bring ‘im here, maybe, I tink tomorrow-“

“Woah, hold it Cowboy,” Stitch took another nonchalant sip, “What exactly do ya have in mind for da kid? He is still a Bronx newsie, ya know.”

“Well,” Jack flashed a victorious smile, “If we’re talkin’ about who I tink we’re talkin’ about, we might be able ta get dis kid back with his ma.”

“His ma? You sure ya know what you’re talkin’ about, Cowboy? I mean, ‘dere’s a lotta Patricks in New York. What makes ya say we got da right one?”

“I- I dunno. Just a feelin’. But if you can bring dis kid wit you tomorrow, we can find out for sure.”

“I s’pose dere’s nutin to loose,” Jack bit into his sandwich, knowing that he’d won, while Stitch took another contemplative sip, “So I’ll se ya at da ‘hattan lodge. Before sellin’, or afta?”

“Before, be dere in time for da nuns.” 

“Sure ting.” Stitch slammed a coin on the table, accompanying her empty glass, and picked herself up from the stool.

“And Cowboy,” Jack turned back to her, almost out of the door, “If dis just happens to be a wasta time, know dat me, and Patrick, will hold ya completely responsible.” The emphasis on the word ‘responsible’ ensured that there was no doubt of receiving one of Stitch’s mythical beatings. 

“Deal.” 

The door slammed behind Stitch, and Jack wasted no time into completely demolishing his sandwich. There was a brief moment of silence, where every newsboy at the table was so, completely, absorbed in their food that they forgot to create the ruckus that they had become known for. Race was the first to break this.

“So… I guess dere is a Patrick?” he turned to Jack. 

“Dere is?!” one of the younger voices shot up from the small group.

“Ya know what dat means, right Race?” Jack’s winning smile hadn’t faded, “Guess ya can’t win every bet, eh?”

Race couldn’t hear Jack’s last comment, as he was too busy rummaging through his pockets for spare change.

-Time skip brought to you by ‘Objecting on the grounds of Brooklyn’ being totally legit in a legal scenario-

The streets were filled with the typical morning rush of the Manhattan newsies. The finish line for their incredibly unfair and fruitless race was the nuns, at the end of the street, as per usual. And, as per usual, Jack continued to take his sweet time walking down the street. This time, however, he was flanked by Stitch, and the legendary boy that had haunted the mornings of every Manhattan newsie since the wayward mother appeared last year. 

Patrick was scruffy, with tangled brown hair barely covering his dull green eyes, though it perfectly complemented his torn clothing and shoes with half of a sole left in each of them. It was strange for most of the newsboys, as they had never pictured that this tradition-status person would have any corporeal form at all. Patrick had gone from being a collection of scattered thoughts into an actual human being, and it gave off an awkward aura, to say the least. 

“Well, Pat, waddya tink?” Jack attempted to make conversation with him, attempting to lighten the mood. Stitch had already informed him that Patrick had his doubts about the whole situation, and Jack couldn’t argue with that. ‘A feeling’ isn’t really a sound logical base, after all. 

“Name’s Puck. And I tink dat dis is a loada dog crap.” Patrick didn’t even turn to look at Jack, and he didn’t need to. Jack already picked up that he was in a bad mood.

“Well, Puck, what if it ain’t?” Jack had to show some restraint. He didn’t want to a deliver a mother her child with a black eye.

“If it ain’t, den you can have all a my papes for de rest a my life as a newsie.”

“Which’ll be around 0.” Stitch’s snide remark served the remind the two that they weren’t the only people in the street, and that they did have actual business to attend to.

“Exactly.” 

Patrick shoved his hands in his pockets, and the group went silent, as the neared the cart. There was the typical line up of newsies, reaching their hands out expectantly, some of them already enjoying the fresh bread and water. Jack could feel his stomach tighten. The moment was near. 

“Patrick?”

The trio shoved their way through the forest of starving boys, earning a couple of annoyed glances, and even one push back. Jack impatiently peered over the head of Romeo, and could see their regular, Patrick’s ma, just over the brim of his hat. 

“Darling?”

She hopelessly searched the crowd, having more luck parting the newsboys, as they were all reminded of the inkling of pity that they felt for this mother when they saw her typical messy hair and stained apron. Jack finally managed to push Romeo aside, himself almost falling over.

“Hey, ‘scuse you!” he picked himself back up, angrily facing jack, who took no notice, “What’s the big idea? I oughtta-“

“Ma?”  

There was not one person there that day that didn’t give at least a sideways glance, as Patrick stood about a foot away, the closest they had been in a year, from his mother. He stared directly at her, observing everything, from her messy hair, to her stained apron, to her kind eyes, that he thought that he didn’t remember.

Patrick’s ma looked at him for second, almost in disbelief, trying to take in the situation. She, too, was observing the young street scamp in front of her, his tangled hair, his ruined clothes, and his expression, which she had a distinct, and sometimes emotional, recollection of.

“Patrick?” 

The two stood there, frozen, and looking at each other. It was the longest time that the newsboys had ever been silent. 

Without any warning, Patrick’s ma rushed towards him, hugging her son, tears falling down her face. Patrick’s expression of shock hadn’t wavered, but slowly, it morphed into a small smile, as he hugged his mother back. 

“Oh my lord, I thought you were dead, I-“ Patrick’s ma continued fussing over her son, while some of the newsboys recovered from their suspended positions, and returned to receiving their breakfast. Tears were welling in Patrick’s eyes, but he kept holding them back, refusing to cry in front of the other newsboys, and his leader. 

“Well, I tink dis counts as not dog crap.” Stitch appeared by Jack’s side, arms crossed, snapping him back to reality. By now, most of the newsboys had continued with their morning routine, and you would’ve never guessed that there was a family reunion happening in the middle of the sweaty, smelly, and still tired crowd.

“Yeah, I tink so.” Jack still hadn’t taken his eyes off the mother and her son, who was now reminding Patrick of his family. A tear had carved a pathway through the dirt on Patrick’s face, though he was quick to wipe it away.

“Let’s go home.” The mother embraced her son even tighter before releasing him. And, side by side, they parted with the newsboys. As they made their way up the street, Patrick turned around to face Jack and Stich, mouthing ‘thank you’. 

“Kinda scary, ain’t it?” Stitch elbowed Jack, once again pulling him from the moment.

“What is?” The mother and Patrick became smaller and smaller. 

“We did a good ting.” Stitch, arms crossed once again, faced Jack directly.

“How’s dat scary?” Patrick and his mother had disappeared into the New York buzz. Jack turned, returning Stitch’s conversational stare.

“I dunno, just kinda weird to be reminded dat dere’s still good in da world, just neva happens ta us,” Stitch sighed, “And it’s a bit odd, I neva tought one a my boys would leave. Dey usually leave when dey go off ta college, or dey get so old dat we gotta kick ‘em out.”

“Whaddya mean, ya miss ‘em already?” 

“Nah, Patrick didn’t do much. I don’t know if anyone will notice, ta be honest. Jus weird, ya know?”

“I do now. But you’re right about da good ting. Dat’s what makes a newsie! ‘Least a ‘hattan one.” As any good newsie knows, you cannot meet a newsie from another borough without taking a jab at them.

“Yeah, you’re right,” the buildup was eminent in Stitch’s voice, “Bronx newsies are pretty different. We actually sell our papes. See ya round, Cowboy.”

Before Jack could even begin to process a rejoinder, Stitch had disappeared behind a building. Jack took one final look at the street, with no trace of Patrick or his mother, and finally took his place in front of the cart, receiving the stale, but still fresher than the rest of it, bread. As he bit into his breakfast, he contemplated the strange break in tradition, knowing that tomorrow, Patrick’s ma wouldn’t be coming. An unusual fault in the seemingly natural order that had been set for the newsies. 

Jack noticed the thinning crowd around him, as the newsies began to herd themselves to Wiesel’s. Jack crammed the last of the bread in his mouth and began to follow, nearly forgetting about Patrick, as he continued on with his daily routine.