#newsies as things my friends have said

[artemis-lynn]

Newsies as things my friends and I have said: Part 1

Race, trying to convince Davey to confess his feelings to Jack:

In the words of my great great something grandpa..."You do or you do not. There is no try."

Davey: Wha-

Race: Shut up, Yoda's my grandpa. That's why I'm special as frick, go with it.

[triple-u-vvv]

yeah, I guess I’ll hop on the bandwagon

Newsies characters as things me and my friends (and cast of our production) have said or done! I might end up adding a few drawings, too.

Jack: I don’t know who John Smith was, but from my research he’s either a YouTuber or a wrestler.

Snyder: this show would end a lot quicker if we gave Jack a gun.

Henry and Jack: (testing theories about Snyder being able catch Jack if he was on heelies)

Race: (finds old rat costume in an old prop bin) IMA FURRY!

Jack: Albert got possessed by Cthulhu last night.

Crutchie: really?

Davey: yeah, we got the entire thing on video. He walked out of the downstairs bathroom with shreds of toilet paper all over his face.

Jack: he kidnapped Race after that.

Race: HE KIDNAPPED ME.

Mush: I have an accordion that’s two times as big as me, and it’s marinating in the dining room.

Les: hola! Soy Les! Can you say ‘Les knows where you live’?

Finch, during rehearsals: whatever you do, DONT go into room 105. That’s where the boys are. Go into 107 instead, even though it gives off a creepy aura.

Albert: (becomes Michael Jackson during choreo)

Crutchie: (uses his crutch as a machine gun constantly, Jack and Albert play along and it ends up turning into a fake fight scene in rehearsals)

Katherine: THE ONE PIECE!!!! THE ONE PIECE IS REAL!!!!

Specs: look, Jojo! A type writer!

Jojo: (genuinely panicking about the aforementioned typewriter hitting him in the head)

Romeo: Is your type emo girls?

Crutchie: DAVEY. WEVE RAN AN ENTIRE MILE AROUND THIS MALL.

Jack: IM PRETTY SURE THAT ITS NOT HERE.

Davey: YOU CANT TELL ME WHAT TO DO. IM GOING TO FIND JAMES!

Sarah: what is that?

Katherine: it says ‘man scent’.

Sarah: (smells the candle) that doesn’t smell good. And if I out of all people say that something smells bad, take no chances.

Spot: ok, who’s here?

Hotshot: MANHATTANS HERE

Elmer: FLUSHINGS HERE

Finch: RICHMONDS HERE

Specs: WOODSIDES HERE

Tommy: SOS DA BRONX

Spot: I didn’t know how I didn’t expect that.

Oscar: I will not hesitate to punch you if you do that one more time

Albert: DISNEY PRINCESS MUSICAL IN HONOR OF JACK KELLY

Jack: da horse’s name was Friday!

Jack: (talking about horses) ok. What’s this thing called?

Crutchie: that’s a bit.

Jack: wow. How did you know that?

Crutchie: oh, I don’t know, maybe because you annoy me with this crap all of the time and point out every inaccuracy in every movie and every game?! JUST LET ME ENJOY ZELDA IN PEACE.

Les: can I use a swear word?

Race: sure, fine by me.

Les: (says a word that’s only on the verge of being a swear)

Race: you know what, you’re too innocent.

Romeo: we should buy those matching jackets. We can be like those football guys from high school musical!

Katherine: DONT BE A MAN!!!!

Davey: I cant smile.

Sarah: well, what are you waiting for? Give it your best shot.

Davey: (awkwardly grins)

Les: not gonna lie, you look like you’re being held at gunpoint.

Finch: today, I dislocated my right buttcheek

[dear-ao3]

Question for the mods....

HOW IN THE FUCK DID YOU MEET???

Like what???

How??

I am so god damn curious about you two. I wanna study yall under a microscope lol

Also ngl kinda envious of how close of friends you two seem to be. (Being an introverted shy af mofo sucks lmao)

I would actually probably read a whole ass book or watch a sitcom or something of the seemingly ever present weird-ass shit that seems to happen on a day-by-day basis.

/gen /lh /nf /pos

2018 newsies fandom. we weren't overly close but we bonded over race and albert a little and then katya dropped off the face of the earth for about a year.

during 2020 lockdown we both independently got into the witcher fandom and somehow ran into eachother again and had the fingers pointing OH MY GOD Y O U !!! moment in our dms. we bonded over hating jaskier. during this time we realized we were both dancers and katya was looking at dance colleges, i was already in college for dance and since it was lockdown and we couldn't go anywhere i told katya my experience auditioning at places to give him a good idea of places. and then i broke every internet safety rule known to man and said hey what if you had applied to my college but didnt know it?? and then one thing led to another and i dished out all the tea on my school. (only After that did we face reveal and give eachother our names lol) and then katya applied. mostly as a joke. until it wasnt a joke because that school gave katya a shit load of money and actually had stuff katya wanted to do. katya ended up coming to one of my zoom ballet classes and it took everything we had to not loose our shit on camera.

during this time we mostly kept eachother sane in lockdown writing witcher fanfic, and sending eachother awful thirst traps on instagram to pitbull music. one of our awful bits was using the dilf filter to make bad frat boy edits.

come august of 2021 we both moved into college. the same college. in the same building. it was wild. i pinched myself several times in shock. we went on a walk around campus with some worms on strings and were like what the hell how did we get here.

we continued to hang out and did weird insane things together. we took a class on the french revolution together where i had to put up with katya and fennec awkwardly flirting (read: making finger guns at eachother).

and then, since i was 2 years older, i was graduating and was going to stay in the area for a job and was like hey. what if we got an apartment together? and then we did. several adults agreed to this. idk why they let us. but now we live together in a real life apartment and we haven't even killed eachother yet. neither of our parents know that we met online. each of them have a different fake story as to how we know eachother and we really just hope they are never in the same room long enough to ask eachother about it. but its insane. 12/10 would recommend.

katya wanted me to include old tumblr screenshots of us talking, heres what i found from circa 2020:

we've always been like this lol

and heres some ancient greatest hits from instagram, i dont have context and trust me you dont want it:

every now and then the two of us look at eachother and go. how the fuck did we end up here??? (we have no idea)

[foap-mactavish]

newsies as things my friends have said!

Jack: I just got cockblocked by Shakespeare

Race: Your in the cult you stay in the cult

Crutchie: What’s your sexuality? Vibin’

Spot: No let me beat myself up

Albert: You said your AirPods were dead now you're listening to shrek without me

Romeo: I’m going to pick you up romantically and throw you at the mirror

Jack: I’m good he’s good I’m trying to think of other things I’ve shoved up my ass

Katherine: Why are they prancing around in their little tights I can see their calf muscles

Davey: Thank you for serenading Me

Pulitzer (mocking the newsies): I’m a poor orphan boy with no hand eye coordination please by a newspaper from me

Les: The boys just started kissing

Medda: Jeff what the fuck are you playing at Jeff

Oscar: I will carry you away… by your legs

[knockoff-conlon]

this newsies vs. cats drama is so fucking ridiculous, can i say?? people, my friends, who are children, getting hate from grown adults for being a little immature over a poll is so fucking stupid.

adult cats fans bullying minor newsies fans is the dumbest thing i have ever seen. you are making children feel bad for not having real world morality and maturity all the time. you're making them feel bad for just being children. you're making them feel bad because them acting like children makes you annoyed. what the fuck is the point.

if you don't like what they're saying. block them. do not spam them with hate and tell them how they're ruining fandom because that's so terrible of you to do. if they have personally offended you because they said "how is newsies losing to cats" BLOCK THEM AND LEAVE THEM THE FUCK ALONE THEY'RE KIDS WHAT THE FUCK IS WITH YOU??

they weren't even that rude. they didn't say "liking cats makes you an awful person" or "cats is so awful, it's the worst musical ever made" or any personal attack on cats fans. with some bad phrasing, they pretty much said "something i perceive as worse than newsies is winning and that makes me upset." BIG WHOOP

you perceive newsies as worse than cats, that's why you voted for cats. we don't all have the same thoughts or ideas or opinions and bullying someone until they cry or leave tumblr or just have their fandom experience ruined is stupid.

my friends are getting the crap bullied out of them because they made a little mistake. you are an adult. it's up to you to move on with your life instead of sending anon hate to FOURTEEN YEAR OLD CHILDREN

THEY. ARE. KIDS.

GET OVER IT

[racetrackhigginsscigar]

newsies quotes but it’s things me and my friends have said.

jack: you don’t get to be mean to him… only i get to be mean to him

race: how about die?

————————————————————————

crutchie: STOP ARGUING AND EAT THE DAMN SNACKS I MADE.

—————————————————————————————————————

race: i love you so much

spot: shut up there’s people around

—————————————————————————————————————

specs: when i was five, i accidentally pushed this old lady into a lamp post and then i cried for a week straight.

albert: you didn’t do it on purpose?

i would’ve done it on purpose…

—————————————————————————————————————

davey: i’m not gay but if i wa-

jack: WAIT YOU’RE NOT GAY??????

[spot-conlons-pimp-cane]

Newsies as things me and my friends have said:

Racetrack: “Do you listen to white noise when you sleep” nah I listen to the battle cries of the French

---

David: Don't let kids go to the washroom by themselves, they could get kidnapped...or germs!

---

Spot: I may be short, but mentally I am like 6'3

---

Jack: if you have any sort of addiction or mental health issues, call this number (insert phone number)

Racetrack: come on! who doesn't have a little gambling addiction

Albert: those sound like the words of someone who needs to call that number

---

Mike: can you stop manhandling my stuff?

Jojo: I ain't no man!

Mike: then stop Them-handling my stuff!

---

Racetrack: I heard they have senior discounts on Tuesdays, so maybe you should move your shopping days?

Jack: did you just call me old?!

Racetrack: No, I'm just saying that you will never be asked for your ID if you were to ask for a senior discount!

[acourtofkindness]

Thank you for sending in all the stories, here you can find the collection! Some of these are one-shots, some are longer stories, just click your way through them and also check out their other fics!

Five Minutes to Midnight

by @captain-of-the-gwynriel-ship What if the bond snapped for Feyre when it did for Rhys? How will their journey change when they are more open and honest about things with each other.

become a stranger (whose laugh i could recognize anywhere)

by @belaBellissima “I hate you,” she said, voice breaking halfway through. The word felt so little compared to what she truly felt, the mix of hopelessness and grief and loss and fury, betrayal and desire for revenge. But it didn’t matter that the words wouldn’t come, because the feelings did. And Feyre shoved them at him, glad to see Rhysand bodily recoil, stumbling over his own feet as he tried to get away. Good. Or: The author asking how angsty can I make a canon verse amnesia!au? pretty damn angsty.

Foolish Fire

@DreamlandReader (ao3) Since the birth of their son, Feyre and Rhysand have been living in a comfortable bubble of domestic bliss, but when a freshly mated Elain ropes them into a family camping trip for Lucien's birthday, they must try to embrace adventure once again. The Erebus forest is, however, not as safe as it seems, and when Feyre and Rhys become separated from the rest of the group, they soon find that the tales of dangerous monsters prowling the woods are more than mere stories. In fact, around every corner are devious creatures and tricky beasts, just waiting for them to make a mistake.

I Knew You Were Trouble

by @rosanna-writer Every hunter had a story about the Goatman, tales whispered around campfires of a strange creature with the body of a man and the hooves and horns of a goat, the reason animals were sometimes found shredded to pieces and for the warnings to be back from the woods before dark. Black fur, they said, dark as a moonless night, and strange, otherworldly violet eyes. Feyre Archeron believed it was all a crock of shit.

Red Earth & Pouring Rain

by @separatist-apologist When Feyre's father tries to set her up with one of his high society friends' sons, Feyre does the only thing that makes sense in the moment: she fakes a Scottish fiánce. Writing him letters detailing her escapades, Feyre never expects anyone to read them. But when a mysterious uncle leaves her and her sisters three scattered castles, Feyre's forgotten fiánce appears on her doorstep, determined to make an honest woman of her yet.

Paint Again

by @reverie-tales Set in a modern alternate universe, Feyre is struggling to paint because of her grief. That is, until she receives an unexpected email that reawakens her love of painting.

Love at First Sight's For Suckers

by @rosanna-writer Rhysand had a reputation. A big reputation. But fortunately for Feyre, a newsie selling papers on the streets of Velaris, tabloid gossip about the handsome, charismatic, hard-partying war-hero of a High Lord's heir means business is booming. That is, until the city's newspaper magnates get greedy, Feyre finds herself an unwitting labor leader at the center of a strike, and Rhys becomes an unexpected ally...

Good Luck Charm

by @sweetvillaindarlinggod Feyre finds out Tamlin is cheating on her, and decides the president of his fraternity, who they both hate, is the perfect way to get revenge. Unfortunately, she's not exactly prepared for what she's signed up for.

Hate Me Instead

by @popjunkie42 Rhysand and Feyre both struggle with her first visit to the Night Court in this alternative version to early events in ACOMAF. What if Rhysand had stuck around for more for lessons and both of them were making rather poor decisions? From Rhys's POV.

Starry Eyes Sparking Up My Darkest Night

by @itsthedoodle We had danced, all of us together. And when the night had shifted toward dawn and the music became soft and honeyed, I had let Rhys take me in his arms and dance with me, slowly, until the other guests had left, until the gold disc of the sun gilded Velaris.

Bejeweled

@thesistersarcheron Every court has their own Great Rite with unique, ancient traditions. The Night Court’s priestesses have played coy with Rhysand since he inherited the throne last year about what imbuing the land with his power really means; all they tell him is that he is meant to spend the night in the Night Court’s mines dripping in ceremonial jewels while everyone else gets to attend the orgy without him. He doesn’t expect to find Feyre, a faerie made of crystal who leads him on a chase deeper and deeper into the mines as the Rite’s magic overcomes him.

we will be everything we say

by @tunaababee The gang is back together for Cassian's birthday, Rhys seeing Feyre for the first time in a little while. Things don't quite go as smoothly as anyone hopes.

The Little Tiger

by @witch-and-her-witcher Nyx runs away from home. There's a misunderstanding between mother and son.

As the River Flows

by @the-lonelybarricade "As Feyre lamented quietly over the misfortune of her life, there, in the marketplace, she heard a merchant instruct to its patron: Place a butterfly wing under your tongue before you sleep, and you will dream of your true love." Maybe my favourite Feysand fic!! Miscommunication that makes me want to scream. A+ Feyre and Rhys characterization. And a deep, deep love under it all with a backstory that makes me sees stars.

Blossoming in Winter

by @popjunkie42 Five hundred years before Amarantha’s reign Under the Mountain, Prythian and the Continent were thrust into a brutal war to abolish human slave lands and the threat of the King of Hybern. Tamlin, third son of the High Lord of Spring, has rebelled against his father to fight on behalf of the human-faerie alliance. A fae archer in his personal guard, Feyre Archeron, makes a foolhardy decision at great personal cost that changes the tide of the entire war. Rescued from torture at the hands of General Amarantha, Prince Rhysand has been sent to High Lord Thesan’s Hall of Healing in the Dawn Court. Frustrated, immobile and in disgrace with his father, Rhysand meets a fellow patient in healing who helps him see the days ahead, beyond the brutality of war. But can he make her see that future for herself?

A Court of Thorns and Roses AU set during the first Hybern war, inspired by the story of Faramir and Eowyn in Return of the King by J.R.R. Tolkien.

Lavender Skies

by @reverie-tales Rhysand is alone in his study in the House of Wind, recollecting Feyre's visit to the Weaver's cottage. He discovers that his mother's ring might not be the only thing Feyre has recovered.

Of The Archer And The Dark

by @thesistersarcheron She is his mate, his mate, his mate. Feyre Archeron is the youngest member of the Fae nobility trapped in Amarantha’s court Under the Mountain, and she’s never known anything else; nineteen years ago, she was the last of three sisters born in the dark prison. She has never seen the stars, tasted fruit fresh from the vine, or set foot in her home court. Now, dragged before the High Queen of Prythian in her father’s last-bid attempt to settle his debts by selling his daughters’ hands in marriage, Feyre faces scrutiny from all sides: the wicked queen herself, who takes a particular interest in securing an advantageous match for her; the leaders of the rebellion against Amarantha, who already paid the bloody price of failure once; and the cruel High Lord of the Night Court, who seems to enjoy nothing more than dismantling the defenses Feyre has spent years building against monsters like him.

Finding Bryaxis

by @reverie-tales Rhys and Feyre go and search for Bryaxis. Post A Court of Wings and Ruin. Imagine ACOFAS and ACOSF didn't happen.

Traitors Never Win

by @separatist-apologist When Feyre Archeron's father promises she'll marry notorious crime boss Rhysand Moreno, Feyre will do anything to get out of the arrangement...including framing him for murder. Rhysand isn't about to let her go so easily.

High Tide Came And Brought You In

by @separatist-apologist Desperate to escape her impending marriage, Feyre throws herself from a cliffside. Anything is better than what's waiting for her.

Even the monster hiding in the waves.

Nyx's less traumatic arrival into the world

by @shallyne Feyre wakes Rhys up in the middle of the night when contractions start...

Always Lonely, Never Alone

by @shallyne Feyre lives a a lonely life in the clutches of an unhappy marriage. When she meets an old friend, she realizes that she was never alone.

Bejeweled

by @thesistersarcheron Every court has their own Great Rite with unique, ancient traditions. The Night Court’s priestesses have played coy with Rhysand since he inherited the throne last year about what imbuing the land with his power really means; all they tell him is that he is meant to spend the night in the Night Court’s mines dripping in ceremonial jewels while everyone else gets to attend the orgy without him. He doesn’t expect to find Feyre, a faerie made of crystal who leads him on a chase deeper and deeper into the mines as the Rite’s magic overcomes him.

we said hello and your eyes look like coming home

by @rosanna-writer A canon-divergent AU where the bond snaps for Rhys on Calanmai, Feyre unwittingly accepts it, and Fire Night magic proves to be more transformative than anyone bargained for. Feyre drags a mate she hardly knows out from Under the Mountain, then puts him back together as war with Hybern approaches.

[make-friends-with-the-rats]

Newsies (1992)

But it's only David Jacobs' lines

---

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Wha- uh-” *getting tossed around by the Delanceys*

“Uh, twenty papes please.”

“Thanks!”

“I paid for twenty, I only got nineteen.”

“No, I- I just want my paper.”

“Oh! I- I don’t want another fifty-”

“I don’t!”

“I don’t want your papes! I don’t take charity from anybody, I don’t even know you, I don’t care to, so here are your papes.”

“Wait, wait, wait! Who said anything about partners?”

“A-ha!”

”Well if he’s the best then how come he needs me?”

“Wait, wait, hold it! It’s gotta be at least 50-50.”

“That’s disgusting!”

“Bad headline.”

—

“Extra! Extra! Trolley strike drags on!”

“Hey, what?” Wait, where’s that story?”

“Trash fire next to immigration building terrifies seagulls?”

“Our father taught us not to lie.”

“You’re just making up things! All these headlines…”

“Wait, wait, hold it,” *sniff sniff* “You smell like beer.”

“Is he a friend of yours?”

“Come on Les, come on!”

“Hurry up, come on!”

“Come on! Hurry up! Hurry up!”

“You here?”

“Alright, I got you, I got you, come on let’s go.”

“Okay, jump!”

“Hurry up, hurry up!”

“He’s right behind us! He’s right behind us!”

“Ah! Uh?” *confused look around* “Les, where-?”

“Come on!”

“Sit down!”

“I’m not running any further.”

“I want some answers!” *shushed by Jack* “Who is he? And why was he chasing you? And what is this refuge?”

“Oh, right. Food.”

“He called you Sullivan.”

“Well, you have a way of improving the truth.”

“Why was he chasing you?”

“I’ll bet it was the mayor. Right?”

—

“Oh, I love that. I loved it. It was great. She is beautiful… how do you know her?”

“Oh.”

“Oh, It’s getting late. My parents are gonna be worried… What about yours?”

“Jack! Why don’t we go back to my place and divvy up? I mea- You can meet my folks!”

“Jack, let’s get outta here!”

—

“Nothing, Mama. He’s just sleeping.”

“Well half of it’s Jack’s- This is our selling partner… uh, and our friend. Jack Kelly my parents. Uh, that’s my sister, Sarah.”

“I’ll get the knife.”

“It’s only the beginning, Papa! The longer I work, the more money I’ll make!”

“Here’s your knifffe.”

*flustered laughing*

—

“Uh, the factory. It was an accident.” *scoff* “He was no good to them anymore so they just fired him. He’s got no union to protect him.”

“Alright…”

“Jack! Why don’t you stay here tonight?”

“See you tomorrow.” *gay hand shake thing* “Carrying the banner!”

—

“What do you mean, like a strike?”

“Jack, I was just joking! We can’t strike, we don’t have a union.”

“No, we’re just a bunch of angry kids with no money. Maybe if we got every newsie in New York, but-”

“Jack, this isn’t a joke! You saw what happened to those trolley workers!”

“Stop and think about this, Jack! You can’t just rush everybody into this!”

“Shut up!”

*sigh* “Pulitzer and Hearst have to respect our rights.”

“Tell ‘em… That they can’t treat us like we don’t exist.”

“We stick together like the trolley workers and they can’t break us up.”

“We’re a union now -the newsboys union! We gotta start acting like a union!”

“No! We can’t beat up kids in the street, it’ll give us a bad name!” *is ignored* “Jack!”

“NO!”

-the world will feel the fire and finally know!

“Uh, ambassadors?”

“Sure, uh- Just as soon as you take our demands to Pulitzer.”

“You’re the leader, Jack.”

“Uh- We’re bringing our demands to Pulitzer.”

“The newsies’ demands. We’re on strike.”

“David.”

*little laugh*

“He has to.”

—

“Haha!”

“Are we really an important story?”

—

“I’ve never been to Brooklyn, have you?”

“A-ha!”

“So is this- Is this Spot Conlon really dangerous?”

“But we’re not playing- We are going on strike.”

“Well we started the strike, but, uh... We can’t do it alone so we’ve been talking to other newsies all around the city.”

“They’re waiting to see what Spot Conlon does- that you’re the key. That Spot Conlon is the most famous and respected newsie in all of New York, and- and probably everywhere else. And if Spot Conlon joins the strike, then they’ll join, and we’ll be unstoppable. So you gotta join us, beca- well, you gotta!”

—

Open the gates and seize the day

Don't be afraid and don't delay

Nothing can break us

No one can make us

Give our rights away

Arise and seize the day!

Now is the time to seize the day

Send out the call and join the fray

Wrongs will be righted

if we're united

Let us seize the day!

Friends of the friendless seize the day

Raise up the torch and light the way

Proud and defiant

We'll slay the giant

Let us seize the day

Neighbor to neighbor

Father to son

One for all and all for one!

Open the gates and seize the day

Don't be afraid and don't delay

Nothing can break us

No one can make us

Give our rights away

Neighbor to neighbor

Father to son!

One for all and all for one!

“Yeah!”

—

“Fellas! Fellas!”

“Blink!”

“N- Jack, just, don’t-”

*exclamation!*

“Jack! Jack, hey-”

“Les! Les!”

—

“How can you be sure they sent Crutchie here?”

“So how come you brought the rope?”

“Shhh!”

“Oh, yeah. Teddy Roosevelt’s right?”

“You mean it’s true?”

—

Open the gates and seize the day

Don't be afraid and don't delay

Nothing can break us

No one can make us

Give our rights away

Arise and seize the day!

—

“Alright! Everyone, remain calm!”

“Les! Get out of here! GO!”

*not audible: talking while trying to pull Jack back*

“Are you alright?”

“AH-Aw! Aw!”

—

“You got us on the front page!”

An editor's desk for the star reporter!

Tip your hat

He's the King of New York!

In nothing flat

He'll be coverin'

Brooklyn to Trenton

Our man Denton

I gotta be either dead or dreamin'

'Cause look at that pape with my face beamin'

Tomorrow they may wrap fishes in it

But I was a star for one whole minute!

Starting now

I'm the King of New York!

Holy cow!

It's a miracle

Pulitzer's cryin'

Weasel? He's dying!

Flashpots are shootin' bright as the sun

I'm one highfalutin' sonuva gun!

Don't ask me how

Fortune found me, fate just crowned me

Now I'm King of New York!

Look and see

Once a piker, now a striker

I'm the King of New York!

Victory!

Front page story, guts and glory

I'm the King of New York!

“Well, we gotta show people where we stand.”

“Right.”

“We’ll send a- We’ll send a message to the big boys!”

“Hey, you guys. To our man Denton!”

—

“No! No, no! That’s what they want us to do! If we get violent, it’s just playing into their hands!”

“Whoo!”

*warns Spot*

“Jack! Jack, it’s Snyder. It’s Syn- It’s Snyder! Right there!”

(1:15:58 - ???)

“Get outta here! Get outta here, Les! Go!”

“Go up there! Alright, no, go over here. Come on!”

“Push me!”

“Get out of here! GO!”

“Jack!”

—

“Hey fellas, you alright? Where’s- Where’s Jack?”

—

“Why didn’t the Sun print the story?”

“Wait- What happened, did you get fired or something?”

*scoff*

“We get Jack out of the refuge tonight! And from now on we trust no one but the newsies!”

—

“That’s where we saw Crutchie.”

“Sh! Shh, sh!”

“There’s one way to find out. I’ll meet you guys at the square. Racetrack watch him.”

—

“Jack!”

“Come on! Come on!”

“Run!”

“Hurry up!”

“Beat it! Beat it”

“Come on! Keep running!”

“I don’t care.”

“I don’t understand..?”

“NO!”

—

“Racetrack! Racetrack! Race-? Race! Help me! I need some help!”

“So this is why you didn’t escape last night. You’re a liar! You lied about everything! You lied about your father being out west, ‘cause he’s not out west. You didn’t even tell me your real name!”

“I don’t understand you.”

“You had the newsies.”

“Well that’s good! That’s good, ‘cause we don’t need you! We. Don’t. Need. You. ‘Cause all those words you said? Those were mine.”

“I do now.”

“Never! Ever!”

—

“What happened, are you hurt?”

*david getting beat up sounds*

“What, you couldn’t stay away?”

“A scab?”

—

“What are we gonna do, put an ad in the newspaper?”

“Yeah it is. But what do we know about printing a newspaper?”

“Yeah, but I think our man Denton has something more important to do. I mean, he’s going to be an ace war correspondent. Right Denton?”

“Is it gonna work?”

This time we're in it to stay

See old man Pulitzer, snug in his bed

He don't care if we're dead or alive

Three satin pillows are under his head

While we're begging for bread to survive

Joe, if you're still counting sheep

Wake up and read 'em and weep!

You got your thugs with their sticks and their slugs

Yeah, but we got a promise to keep!

Once and for all

Something tells me the tide will be turnin'

Once and for all

There's a fire inside me that won't stop burnin'

Now that the choices are clear

Now that tomorrow is here

Watch how the mighty can fall

For once and for all!

This is for kids shinin' shoes in the street

With no shoes on their feet every day

This is for guys sweatin' blood in the shops

While the bosses and cops look away

This is to even the score

This ain't just newsies no more

This ain't just kids with some pie in the sky

This is do it or die

This is war!

Once and for all

We'll be there to defend one another

Once and for all

Every kid is our friend

Every friend, a brother

Five thousand fists in the sky!

Five thousand reasons to try!

We're going over the wall

Better to die than to crawl

Either we stand or we fall

For once... once and for all

—

“Jack! Sarah!”

The world will feel the fire and finally know!

“Yeah!”

“And what does that make you?”

“You talk about self interest, but since the strike your circulation’s been down 70%. Everyday you’re losing thousands of dollars just to beat us out of- one lousy tenth of a cent. Why?”

—

*dramatic pause* “Hundred papes.”

“Thanks…”

“Headlines don’t sell papes,” *puts on newsie hat* “Newsies sell papes.”

*spit shake at last!*

*not audible: talking with Denton before interrupted by Jack*

-fin-

[peter-pantomime]

Captain America Fic Recs, Part 2

Part 1

Steve/Bucky

A Tree Grows In Brooklyn series

"You keep asking me what I want," Bucky manages, eventually. "But on any given day, my number one priority is to get through the day alive and myself, and to do it without killing anyone. Everything else is extra." Each work is standalone.

Embers, Not Ashes

“You okay?” The outline of Steve’s hands, balled into fists inside his pockets, looks too sharp despite the wool barrier. His nice pants. Standing there in his fucking church clothes and all it makes Bucky want is to walk over there and rub him through them until he’s in just as much of a state as Bucky is. The laugh that catapults out of Bucky’s mouth tastes like bile. “Nope.”

The Dud series

When he was eight or nine, Bucky Barnes was the secret sworn enemy of the dud newsie.

Mortal

Steve is ten years old and he’s a mortal sin walking.

The Hundred Year Playlist series

Steve and Bucky, start to finish. "Come on, pal, it's me. Take another hundred years if you want, I'll still be here."

Sharp, Metallic

The day after leaving the hospital, still woozy on the massively high quantities of morphine they gave him, Steve dreams about a metal arm around his throat and warm, salty fingers in his mouth, just the way he likes. The next day, there are plate marks on his throat, fading by the minute, and his breathing skyrockets as he touches them with reverence. Steve gets fished out of the Potomac, and Bucky comes to him.

Accidentally on Purpose

Bucky turns toward him, sliding his hand onto Steve’s hip as he mutters a lazy “G’night” and presses a soft kiss to the corner of Steve’s mouth. It takes him by surprise, and he barely has time to register Bucky’s half-closed eyes and the warmth of whiskey-ripe breath on his lips, before it’s over. After Bucky drunkenly kisses Steve by accident, it just seems to keep on happening, until it's not so much by accident anymore.

Exactly Like We Were

“You can make a fight out of anything,” Bucky says, and affects a laugh, badly. “You can make a metaphor a fight. What the hell do anesthetics have to do with anything?” Steve almost blurts out, Art is an anesthetic! But at the last second, he gets a hold of himself.

despite the threatening sky and shuddering earth (they remained)

“They really didn’t want the mask to come off.” Hill thumbed through the scans, and pulled out a film that she then handed over to Sam, face mostly expressionless but for the flat line of her pursed lips. Sam accepted the film and held it up to the light, angling so both he and Steve could see it, squinting at the outline of the Winter Soldier’s skull, and the blips of unnatural white that showed up, God, in his brain, not to mention about half his teeth, plus the mask, with its thin protrusions— “Those are pins,” Steve realized. He looked over at Hill. “The mask—it’s nailed to his face.” Hill’s face was as unmoved as ever. “Like I said. They really didn’t want it coming off.”

Bei Mir Bist Du Schoen

Bucky Barnes and the Great Sexuality Crisis of 1938.

Will There be Any Freight Trains in Heaven?

It's summer of 1934, a quarter of all Americans are unemployed, and record numbers of migrant workers are hopping freight trains to seek their fortune out west. What are two boys from Brooklyn to do? or, Steve and Bucky ride the rails, become socialists, and fall in love, in no particular order.

how cold steel is (and keen with hunger)

There is a man who lives inside the Soldier’s head. The Soldier does not know much about the man. The man is an American, and he fought in one of the few twentieth-century wars the Soldier had not—if only because he did not exist yet. At some point, a war pitted their home countries against each other, but that did not put much of a damper on things. They are good friends. Here is how the Winter Soldier dies: the resurrection of James Barnes. An account of Bucky's time in Bucharest.

A red fish that fits just right in the hand

Steve asked, "Is it James now?" and he said, "No, Bucky." But no one else calls him that.

Howling Commandos series

Jacques' grand-père had kept a lock of his wife's hair, after she had died. He had worn it around his bony, age-spotted wrist, the way he had worn her smile in the reflection of his eyes.

dead hearts and midnight cowards

"Do you want to get out of here?" he adds then, all in a rush; and Bucky's not sure he meant to say it but he knows what his pulse is doing and he knows what his dick is doing besides, and he knows that Steve is looking like that and that he's looking at him like that, too. Bucky swallows to think about pressing his mouth to him, any part of him, every part of him, if they can only find some space.

Everybody is Supposed to be Dead

“…there is nothing intelligent to say about a massacre. Everybody is supposed to be dead, to never say anything or want anything ever again. Everything is supposed to be very quiet after a massacre, and it always is, except for the birds.” In 1944, Bucky Barnes falls off a train into the Alps, missing and presumed dead. Months later, Steve Rogers nosedives a plane into the arctic. In 2010, the Winter Soldier project is uncovered by S.H.E.I.L.D., and Bucky Barnes is found alive. Three years later, Steve Rogers’ frozen body is found in the ocean.

Impossible Measurements

"Steve, I love you."

In the Sight of Green Carnations

"What happened between you and Jimmy?" He caught the flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. Bucky had jumped upright, was twisted round in the bed to look at him. He looked pale. "What?" In which Bucky has a terrible day, and Steve manages to accidentally say exactly the right thing. Despite not knowing what the fuck is going on.

All The Angels and The Saints

In which Steve Rogers loses God and finds God and loses God, and also: Bucky.

Not Easily Conquered series

In 1945, Steve Rogers jumps from a nosediving plane and swims through miles of Arctic Ocean to a frozen shore. In 1947, Steve Rogers marries Peggy Carter. In 1966, the New York Times finds the lost letters of Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.

Practice Makes Perfect

And it’s just. It’s too much. Weeks of pain and months of missing Steve and his mouth and the stupid shit that comes out of it; years of molding himself to his back at night and pretending there’s nothing else to it apart from sharing warmth; a decade of his stomach twisting with the foolish desire to make Steve laugh. It's August and sweltering when Steve asks, out of nowhere, if Bucky wants to try kissing. Just to see what it's like. Bucky then spends far, far too many years pretending it didn't mean anything at all.

cascades.

“Holy shit,” Howard says, crackling through the speakers. “You alive in there?” Lying is a sin, of course, but Steve’s not sure what else he can do. He’s already lied to the government and Bucky and God Almighty; and himself, himself most of all. He ought to tell the truth. That he’s not quite what they hoped for. That perhaps they should put him back into the ocean. “Probably,” he says, instead, listening to Howard’s tinny laughter; and waits for the blast doors to unlock.

not just the carcass, but the spark

Time stopped mattering to him long ago, except in units of distance: how many days' walk they had to go, how many days until their next orders. The air smells nice; it's even warm enough that one of the windows has been propped open on the cabin. Bucky remembers cracking open the window to the fire escape in those early days of April and smelling the Brooklyn morning with something like hope.

Remscéla

“It’s going to rain,” says Steve. Bucky squints out the window. He sways slightly as the train jolts on its tracks, but doesn’t reach for the handhold. Through the trusses, the sky outside is gray, reflecting oily and leaden on the East River. The air feels heavy, warm for late October. “It’s not going to rain.” Steve snorts. He can’t help smiling. “It is. You know it is. Not everything in the world just arranges itself according to the will of Bucky Barnes.”

Ill With Want

Bucky pretends to be asleep when Steve crawls into bed, too tired to feel guilty over the quivery pleasure that settles in his belly when Steve’s arm brushes his. Steve falls asleep in about five minutes flat, unconsciously wedging his icy toes against Bucky’s leg. Bucky doesn’t move him. He drifts to sleep in a comfortable haze and tries not to wonder where this feeling was two hours ago when he had Marie in his lap.

tezeta (nostalgia)

Steve Rogers is a terrible tourist, and a lousy house guest. Bucky Barnes waters his plants and tries his best. Set in that sweet spot between Black Panther and Infinity War, in a little valley in Wakanda

Painted in Indigo

“You should be careful of that one,” Mr. Hendrickson says, with a nod to Bucky outside the window. “It ain’t right. Looking at you all the time as he does. The way he should be looking at girls.” Steve laughs, because damn, but what a ridiculous idea. Or, five times Steve caught Bucky looking at him, and the one time he looked first.

Shangri-La

Steve gets money, still won't move in with Bucky, and somehow totally misses that Queer Brooklyn is an option.

three white horses

Steve, it's not your fault, Sam had tried to say, before Steve cut him off, and Steve doesn't think that's untrue so much as it's irrelevant; fault's got nothing to do with it. It's just—wrong. It's wrong. Steve couldn't wrap his head around it the first time, how wrong it was. Steve should have gone first. Was supposed to. Bucky could have carried on without Steve, he knows, but Steve without Bucky is a zero sum. There should never be a world that Steve is in and Bucky isn't.

The Interrogation

There's a story and it goes like this.

Through Cities And Churches

A tale of many cities and churches and two boys. Happy 100th Birthday, Bucky Barnes: March 10, 2017.

the long slide from kingdom to kingdom

They want you to love the whole damn world but you won't, you want it all narrowed down to one fleshy man in the bath, who knows what to do with his body, with his hands. -Richard Siken, Driving, Not Washing.

The Problem Solver

This wasn't what Steve wanted from him.

winter wheat, sunflower peat

In the dead of the night, a man pulls over for a hitchhiker.

Welcome Home, Son series

Her face is warm but neutral—she is a kind person, he thinks, but also a professional. She would not think twice about killing him if he tried to strike. “My name is Ayo,” she says. He hesitates when he realizes she is waiting for him to respond. He doesn’t deserve the name Bucky anymore. He still answers to Soldat—the way a beaten dog answers to a jerked chain, but it sure as hell can get his attention in a hurry. But that’s no name for a person, and he is determined to become one. (In Wakanda, two wounded soldiers begin to heal.)

[amoreva]

I JUST BINGE READ ALL OF YOUR RACE FICS AND YOUR WRITING IS SO GOOD AAA💕💕 it feels like he’s real and the relationship is real and i’m actually in the world of the story holy shit,,, if you’re still taking requests can you write some race fluff, preferably in canon era, with like a cute lead up to him getting together with the reader (if you’re okay with it of course!) thanks!!

HOPELESSLY IN LOVE

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pairing: racetrack higgins x fem!reader

summary: the brooklyn newsies are strong and independent. they can hold their own and are respected; despite being a borough with a large amount of girls. so when one falls in love, her nature begins to crumble.

warnings: n/a

a/n: using the uksies as brooklyn, plus some from the broadway show. also, omfg i really appreciate it, thank you so much<3

—– ٠ ✤ ٠ —–· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • · —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —–

You never knew what romantic attraction felt like until you saw him at Medda’s Theater with his stupid blue eyes, his stupid blonde curls, his stupid cigar, his stupid cute smile—

Davey— that new Manhattan newsie was introducing your borough, respectfully, when you saw him. He was smiling at you, more so at your whole borough, ecstatic you showed up to the strike. That smile—that stupid cute smile made your heart flutter, your stomach churn with butterflies.

Of course, you knew what family love and platonic attraction felt like—you felt that for every newsie in Brooklyn. They were your brothers and sisters by heart. Yet, he stole your heart. Bastard. You ought to soak him.

Falling in love was a weird thing to do, especially since your priority was the sell papers to survive. You find yourself thinking about Manhattan’s second after the strike is won.

It didn’t help that he hugged you when Kelly announced the strike ended in their favor or when you guys talked during celebrations that night. The memories haunted your sleep.

A loud groan escaped your lips. That stupid smile of his. Your hands going over your warm, rose colored face as you sat on your bunk. Ritz and Hotshot peeked their heads into the girls bunk room, hearing you groan.

“What’re moping and griping about?” Hotshot asked, crossing his arms. His thick accent ringing in your ears.

You turn to look at you friends and remove the hands from your face. Before you could get a word in, Ritz is cupping your cheeks and feeling your forehead. “You’re burning up, Y/N!” Ritz exclaimed and shook your head side to side, lightly, to inspect your red cheeks.

“Ritz, please—” You begged the auburn haired girl to let your face go.

“Spot is going to be worried.”

“Ritz—”

“I think we have medicine somewhere.”

“Ritz, hang on—“

“Water and rest, that’s what my mama says.”

“I don’t have—”

“Spot ain’t letting you sell tomorrow.”

“Ritz!”

You shouted finally getting her attention. Ritz stopped her worrying. Hotshot stood up straight with raised eyebrows. You gently put your hands on Ritz’s wrists and removed them from your face. “I ain’t sick. I ain’t coughing or feelin’ bad.”

“Then what’s got your face so red, Y/N?” Ritz asked, she titled her head ever so slightly.

“A boy.” Hotshot spoke up.

You glared at Brooklyn’s second. Were you really that readable? Hotshot had to be a fucking psychic. A smirk danced on his lips. The silence said it all.

Ritz lit up like the Fourth of July. “You like a boy!” Ritz exclaimed with a wide grin. You slapped a hand across her mouth.

“Ritz, please don’t tell the others—” You begged to convey your seriousness. “You too, Hotshot.”

Ritz, still buzzing with excitement, nodded her head. You quickly shoved Hotshot into the girls’ bunk room and shut the door. “Who is it?” Ritz asked excitedly.

You pressed your lips together in a thin line. An internal dilemma with yourself. Would you rather suffer in silence, pin over a newsie in the other side of the Brooklyn Bridge or tell two people your crush which could potentially spread throughout the borough?

You decide to tell Hotshot and Ritz. Love is too confusing for you to suffer alone.

“It’s Manhattan’s second in command.” You mumbled, twisting your fingers as your face heats up. Just thinking about Race got your stomach all twisted up in a good way.

You didn’t think they heard you, but they did. Loud in clear.

“Race? Race!” Ritz confirmed.

Hotshot raised an eyebrow in amusement. “The one that “wanders” on our turf to bet at Sheepshead?”

“Yes.” You sighed exasperatedly and fell onto your bunk. “He’s just so—”

You couldn’t find the words to describe him, but then proceeded to go on a rant about Race for 10 minutes.

It wasn’t long before everyone in Brooklyn knew of your little crush on Manhattan’s second (and probably Manhattan). It was terrible with all the teasing and the questions on what you would do.

You didn’t know what to do! You would just lay in your bed and smile stupidly when you thought about him. “Pathetically in love” is what you thought.

Stray decided to do something.

With Spot’s permission (seeing you hopelessly in love was getting in the way of selling and Brooklyn’s reputation), Stray went to Manhattan. Stray had connections there. Her boyfriend and brother lived in Manhattan’s borough.

Stray told Specs, who told Elmer, who told Henry, who told Jojo, who told Mike, who told Finch, who told Race—that you liked him. When you got word that Race knew, you panicked.

Romance like that with him. You wouldn’t know how to act, what to do, or what to say. You’ve seen romance from afar; with rich couples, elderly couples, teenagers—all types of couples!

“Ya’ gotta relax, kid.” Spot patted your back after they found you contemplating your choices on your bunk. “If Racer is as half bright as you, he’ll see you’re a real gem.”

That gave you some confidence in yourself. You shouldn’t get worked up about some boy. Taking Mac’s advice seemed like the best option. “He’s just a guy!”

But, he seems real sweet and humorous and charming and ambitious. Keyword: seems. You might be setting yourself up for failure.

After days and days of dreading what you should do, Race came walking into Brooklyn, willy nilly, specifically to Graves’ and yours selling spot.

“Heya miss, can I get a pape?” Race asked.

You weren’t paying attention and grabbed a newspaper from your bag. Seeing him in front of you with his stupid blue eyes, his stupid blonde curls, his stupid cigar, his stupid cute smile—

You froze. A blush rising to your face. You spun on your heels and walked away. A fight or flight response.

Graves grabbed you with a smirk and turned you around. “Talk to him!” Graves whispered and pushed you towards Race.

He had that charming, amused smile on his face. “Hey.” He spoke, two hands on the strap of his paper bag.

“Hey.” You croaked.

“I—uh…got word, ya like me.”

“Mhm.”

Race looked at you awkwardly. If you looked hard enough, you saw a faint faint blush on cheeks. “You—uh…wanna go to the Sheepshead with me?”

“Now?” You asked incredulously.

“Now.” Graves spoke firmly. “You can sell at Sheepshead, don’t worry. I’ll be fine by myself.”

And so, you and Race went to Sheepshead Races. You held onto his arm like one of those rich ladies would do to a gentlemen. Conversation was made, no matter how awkward it was between you two.

The Sheepshead Races were loud and lively. You usually went here with Lucky and Scope when you had downtime.

“C’mon, they’ll start soon.” Race intertwined his hands with yours and pulled you through a crowd of people. “Gotta get the best seats.”

“Isn’t that the front row?” You asked, glancing back at where you and your friends would usually sit.

“Trust me, sweetheart. These seats are better than any front row.” Race grinned.

Your heart skipped a beat.

The name “sweetheart” sounded so right from his lips.

Race took you to a chainlink fence. You were close enough to see the jockeys’ faces and the horses shaking their head. The spot was at the bottom right of the original seating, in between the commentator’s box and the vendor.

He let go of your hand to lean against the fence. You frowned slightly, missing the feeling of his hand in yours. “Better than any front seat.” He repeated softly.

“Is this how you got your name?” You gestured to the races. Your nerves slowly disappearing. You were a Brooklyn newsie for Christ’s sake! Be confident!

“What?” Race shook his head as if you broke him out of his trance. “Oh—uh…kinda! That and I would be the first to the circulation gate. I’m pretty fast for a newsie.”

“You’re pretty for a newsie.” You responded without missing a beat.

“What’s that?” Race leaned in to hear you better. A smirk on his face.

Before you could respond, a gunshot sounded. Hooves slammed on the dirt track. The commentator spoke enthusiastically about the race. In no time, the horses and jockeys were passing you. The wind from them passing knocked off your newsie cape. You could practically see the sweat on the jockeies’ faces.

“Careful.” Race snaked an arm around your waist as soon as the horses passed. He pulled you towards him, concerned about your safety.

You yelped going face first into his chest. Race chuckled awkwardly. You pulled away slightly, but not out of his arms. You two met eyes, just staring. The sound of the hooves faded away.

His blue eyes, the same color as the East River, the same color as a beautiful day. No words were shared between you two. Race gulped. The tension palpable.

Cheering and groans were heard as the commentator announced the outcome. “If—you couldn’t tell…” Race spoke nervously, never tearing his eyes away from yours. “I think your cute—hell, I think your badass for being a Brooklyner.”

Usually when you saw a lady and gentleman like this, they share a kiss. Your heart was beating out of your chest. You never kissed anyone, but this seemed like the perfect moment.

“I don’t know how to kiss…” You admitted quietly.

“We don’t gotta kiss.” Race assured.

“But I want too.”

“…”

“…”

“Can I kiss ya then?”

“Please.”

The minute his lips met yours, the whole world froze. Your stomach twisted in a good warm feeling. Electricity and sparks flying with a single touch to the lips. Your brain was blanking. No words could describe a first kiss.

“Was that…okay?” Race pulled away.

“Better than okay.” You nodded firmly and pressed another kiss to his lips.

Both Race and you got a little more confident and kissed each other back. It only lasted a few seconds, but it was sweet. “There’s more to Brooklyn than the Sheepshead Races.” You pulled away this time.

“I figured.” Race laughed and ran a hand through his blonde curls. He picked up your newsie’s cap that flew off. Brushing off the dirt, he placed the cap back on your head.

“I wanna show you more places in Brooklyn.” You spoke without even realizing what you were saying.

“A date then.” Race smirked.

“A date.” You confirmed.

“Great.”

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[jack-kellys]

3 bc we are Choosing Violence today

well.

give me a number and i'm gonna say some real shit rn.

3. screenshot of an awful take or a description of the worst thing you've seen opinion-wise. [my tags say no hate is meant, btw.] [but also this is mild bro.]

i could say a lot of things! i could talk abt someone who sent me an ask saying that uksies "completely ruined the sprace dynamic" (racist and sexist, made a post abt it). i could talk abt a post that had said nothing had changed or was special abt uk's something to believe in even tho jack was entirely black and said "i know girls like you don't end up with guys like me” (made a post abt it) i could talk abt every post from the dawn of time about sunshine boy crutchie and the absolute damage andrew keenan-bolger accidentally incited with his/bway's take. but i saved two special instances bc someone else also asked for #3. ahe he hem:

there was an issue a while back where there was someone on tumblr saying that they don't headcanon the jacobs to be jewish, or something. in theory that'd be fine, everyone's entitled to their own cultural headcanons, but the jacobs' jewish identity and culture is something this fandom (& i) has been very adamant about and i’m gonna be frank. this was like……. the first if not only diverse headcanon/fact about newsies for like. a long time. and by that i mean popularized- i think latino jack kelly years later became popular but that’s like…. recent, oddly enough.

anyway the jacobs are canonically jewish, according to their names, their parents’ names, and the 1992 novel flat-out saying it. but this person’s reasoning, after a friend of mine cites the book’s statement, is "headcanoning characters with Jewish names as Jewish feels like stereotyping”. (i don’t have the post anymorrrre… might’ve been deleted)

and so like. this person. had to have been trying to cause discourse i’m sorry. what are y. the book is from DAVID’S POV, btw, like. he is saying they r jewish. the point of jack being irish in 92sies is that irish and jewish community tensions were high and so them working together is slay & cool. and since they do have jewish names, what you need to do is respect it, not make attempts to admonish yourself from not wanting to see them that way. what?? what the fuck. so that was a crazy fucking take. this fandom has history, and it’s important. like ur allowed to be new here, of course you are, but when these ppl who’ve been here a long time are trying to HELP YOU understand something and u say that shit. brother god help u lmao

[rosanna-writer]

Love at First Sight's for Suckers (1/5)

Summary: [A Feysand Newsies AU] Rhysand had a reputation. A big reputation. But fortunately for Feyre, a newsie selling papers on the streets of Velaris, tabloid gossip about the handsome, charismatic, hard-partying war-hero of a High Lord's heir means business is booming. That is, until the city's newspaper magnates get greedy, Feyre finds herself an unwitting labor leader at the center of a strike, and Rhys becomes an unexpected ally... Warnings: None

A gift for @the-lonelybarricade, for @acotargiftexchange! @lbs-secret-santa is me!

LB, creating this for you has been such a blast, and I am definitely the luckiest secret santa in the world to have such a gem of a giftee. It's rare for someone to have both a talent AND a heart as big as yours—you're truly the High Lady of Feysand, not just because your fics are incredible, but because of the way you make new writers (including me earlier this year) feel immediately welcome and how you handle fandom nonsense with such grace and tact. I'm so glad to call you a friend <3

And sorry for an author's note that reads like an annoying award show speech, but there are SO MANY people I want to thank. The event organizers did such a thoughtful job creating an event that brought so many people together across the fandom; not just secret santa/giftee pairs, but people reaching out to new betas, roping new friends into secrecy shenanigans, and getting hyped about other gifts! @iambutmortal, @thesistersarcheron, @itsthedoodle, @wilde-knight, and @ablogofsapphicpanic have been the best betas/saucy Rhys pun brainstormers/secret keepers/DM screaming session partners, and the daily headlines would not have happened without their beautiful brains. I had SO MUCH FUN watching the excitement and creative energy grow and grow in the lead up to this reveal. And also @reverie-tales, thanks for being my unwitting cover to throw LB off my trail!

Anyway, you can find the first chapter Here on AO3 or under the readmore. Happy Holidays!

One Heir to Share? Rhysand's Rita's Threesome

Baring it All at Starfall! Rhysand Stuns in Daring Deep-V Shirt

Rhysand's Baby Blues: Heir's Latest Fling Spotted Shopping for Baby Clothes

Future High Lord’s High: Witchberries, Fae Wine, and Wild Starfall Benders in the House of Wind?

Lady of the Night or FUTURE Lady of Night? Rhysand's Girlfriend Shocks Royal Family at Nynsar

Un-Rhys-onable: Night's Heir Refuses to Kneel to High Lord

Heir Head! Rhysand Forgets Alphabet During Library Community Service

Rhysand had a reputation.

A big reputation.

Perhaps that was why after selling him the newspaper every day for the better part of a year, Feyre Archeron had long since decided that he was far too full of himself to be ashamed of anything.

As he did every Saturday morning, Rhys appeared on her corner like clockwork, wearing last night's clothes and his trademark smirk. If Feyre wanted to know what lucky male or female had gone home on his arm, she'd only have to check tomorrow's society pages, which were always breathlessly detailing the exploits of the Night Court's handsome, charismatic, hard-partying war-hero of a High Lord's heir.

Not that Feyre cared. There were more important things to worry about than Rhysand's love life, like where her next meal was coming from. She only kept up with it because his scandals sold papers like nothing else.

And she definitely didn't feel a stab of envy every time she read about his latest fling. That would be pointless—a lesser fae shadow-wraith like Feyre would never be Lady of the Night Court. The stir Rhys's Illyrian mother had caused made that obvious enough, even if she was the High Lord's mate.

"Good morning, Feyre darling," Rhysand drawled, the way he always greeted her.

"It's noon, Rhys," Feyre said. The nickname might have been overly familiar, but Feyre had noticed his eyes glittered like stars whenever she used it with him. And besides, after being up since dawn, she wasn't inclined to fall over herself currying favor with someone who'd just rolled out of bed.

"Then let me be the first to tell you that you look delicious this afternoon."

Feyre rolled her eyes, positive she looked the farthest thing from delicious in her threadbare leggings and sweater. If it were anyone but Rhys, she would have been sure they were being cruel. But he had enough of her goodwill that he could pay her teasing compliments and not end up with his teeth bashed in for his trouble.

"Did you give them anything interesting to write about last night?" she said, leaning back against a streetlight and crossing her arms over her chest.

Rhys picked at an invisible piece of lint on his tunic, which almost had Feyre rolling her eyes a second time. Despite being in last night's clothes, he didn't look the least bit disheveled—probably some spell he'd cast to ensure he looked irritatingly perfect as always.

"Mor needed a wingman again," he said.

Feyre relaxed, relieved at his answer. Rhys's equally beautiful cousin was the subject of plenty of headlines of her own, and the two were frequently seen together. The people of Velaris were fascinated by the pretty blonde former Hewn City princess–when the Herald ran a story about her, Feyre just had to shout "Morrigan" to turn heads and make sales. If the lead story was about her, Feyre could probably afford to eat tomorrow.

It had been a while, though, since Rhys had been spotted with someone new on his arm. Or with anyone other than Morrigan, his sister, or the two Illyrians he called his brothers actually. Feyre had rolled her eyes at the rumors of a secret relationship or a hidden love child—if you asked her, the most likely explanation was that there were only so many attractive people in Velaris with a weakness for violet eyes. Rhys was bound to run out of people to fuck eventually.

"Is that the truth?" Feyre said, a teasing smile playing on her lips. "Or did you actually find someone to settle down with?"

She'd meant it as a joke, but Rhys didn't smile. There was something hungry, almost predatory, in the way his gaze slid over her. Feyre found herself flushing, even as she stared right back. "Would you care if I did?" he said.

It felt like a challenge; Feyre lifted her chin. "Of course I'd care if you stopped causing scandals. I'm a newsie, and gossip sells papers."

"Of course," Rhys said, something in his expression seeming to shutter. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a gold coin, handing it to her. The value was far more than a single paper was worth, but he'd always insisted she keep the change.

Feyre pulled a paper from the bag slung over her shoulder and handed it to him, longways so there was no chance their fingers would touch. She'd let that happen once, and his fingertips brushing hers had sent a crackle of electricity along her skin that she'd been thinking about ever since. Her mind replayed it almost daily—and frankly, Feyre found that embarrassing.

She pocketed the coin. "Pleasure doing business with you."

When Rhys spoke again, he dropped his voice to a low, sensual purr that sent shivers skittering down Feyre's spine, heat washing over her despite the autumn chill that cut through her tattered clothes. " Everything is a pleasure when it comes to you, Feyre."

He flashed her one last feline smile, and Feyre tipped her cap as he winnowed away, trying not to blush. With her other hand, she fingered the coin in her pocket. It would go under the floorboard with the rest of the ones she'd stashed away. Only a few more until she could afford the one-way ticket to the Continent that she'd been dreaming of.

Velaris was wonderful— if you could afford a big, strong door to lock out the hustle and bustle. Feyre certainly couldn't, and she was dying to get away.

A flash of auburn hair and a shout of "High Lady!" across the street pulled Feyre from her thoughts. Lucien was striding towards her, a half-empty satchel of newspapers slung over one shoulder and carrying another paper bag in his hand. She raised a hand in greeting—she'd stopped cringing at the nickname a long time ago.

"Is the new spot over by the docks working out for you?" she said when he got closer, even though she knew the answer. Lucien could sell papers anywhere; he didn't even need the eyepatch and the sob story about being an Autumn Court orphan who'd found his way to Night—just his brilliant smile was enough.

Lucien shrugged, the gesture far too elegant for someone who'd spent his morning selling newspapers to sailors and fishmongers. "I can make anything work."

"Then why did you come looking for me?" Feyre said. With unsold papers still in his bag, there had to be a reason. The newsies bought the papers from the distributor each morning, starting each day operating at a loss until they'd sold enough papers to recoup the cost. Lucien still had work to do if he wanted to turn a profit.

He pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. "Isn't gazing upon your beautiful face reason enough?"

"You sound like Rhysand."

"And you're saying that like it's a bad thing. Trouble in paradise?"

Feyre resisted the urge to roll up one of the papers in her own bag and smack him with it. Lucien had overheard her speaking to Rhysand once and apparently decided the prince was in love with her. Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous.

"Rhysand isn't—"

" By the Cauldron, he'd follow you around like a lost puppy if you'd let him."

"He's just a flirt," Feyre said, the edge to her voice making it clear she didn't want to talk about this anymore. "What did you need me for?"

"Someone needs to finish my pickles," Lucien said, pulling a sandwich out of the paper bag. He handed Feyre half, along with the entire side of pickles it had come with, then sat down on the curb to eat, stretching his long legs out in front of him.

Feyre nibbled on the pickle, the first thing she'd eaten all day, and thanked the Cauldron for a best friend who hated them and shared them with her. Putting her papers aside, she sat down next to him. "Thanks, Lucien," she said, unwrapping her half of the sandwich. Lunch would be on her next—that had been their unspoken agreement for years, even when meals were sporadic and infrequent.

They lapsed into silence, more intent on eating than talking. It was comfortable, a much needed rest after a morning spent shouting headlines at passersby. Feyre's feet already ached from standing all morning.

After a few minutes, Lucien balled up the now-empty wax paper. "Now that you're fed, I think it's safe to mention that you're needed over by the Rainbow."

"Again?" Feyre said with a sigh.

"Bron and Hart are fighting over the same spot. The High Lady should step in."

Feyre wasn't sure when exactly it had happened, but at some point, she'd found herself the unofficial leader of the newsies of Velaris. She'd always kept an eye out for newcomers and lended them a hand—advice on selling papers and navigating the city was all she had, but Feyre shared freely. When there was a problem, she was usually the one to resolve it.

At some point, "High Lady" had gone from an ironic nickname for a poor girl on the streets to a mark of respect for a young woman who took care of her own.

"I'll talk to them," Feyre said, finishing her food and standing up.

Lucien started to thank her, but Feyre had already called on her magic, her body becoming nothing but shadow. Incorporeal like this, she could slip through walls and travel unseen—and crucially, it was faster than walking. As a lesser fae, it was the only magic she had at her disposal.

Even in the brightest sun, Velaris was full of shadows. And for better or worse, Feyre had made them her home.

***

Rhysand had planned to give himself time to read the news before he was due for a meeting at the House of Wind. Yesterday, he'd told himself he'd be up early enough to look over the agenda ahead of time. He'd wanted to be prepared, and his father would have his head if Rhys was late for official court business again.

But somehow, the High Lord's ire seemed incredibly far away last night, when the Cauldron only knew how many drinks he'd had and Mor was dragging him back to the dance floor at Rita's again, and dawn had nearly broken when he'd finally stumbled home.

Late or not, though, he still had to see Feyre.

The most important part of his day had become buying the paper from her. It wasn't about the news and never had been—every day, Rhys hoped that would be the day she finally took an interest in him that went beyond trading a few teasing remarks and rolling her eyes. He'd never flirted so much, so painfully obviously before, just to have it all go ignored like water off a duck's back.

And that had already been going on for a few months before the mating bond snapped.

Their fingers had brushed as she'd handed him the paper. Perhaps that brief touch skin-to-skin had been all it had taken for the urge to claim and taste and scent his mate to hit him with all the force of a brick to the head. Before he'd done something stupid, Rhys had winnowed away without an explanation or a goodbye.

After that, Rhys had resolved not to tell her, at least not until she showed some sort of interest back. But in the months since, he hadn't gotten her to even blush. And even if by some miracle, she did want him that way and accepted the bond, there was no guarantee she wouldn't resent him after a few decades as future Lady of Night. Her indifference was painful enough—Rhys wasn't sure he could withstand her hating him.

For the short flight to the House of Wind, Rhys let the chill in the air clear his head of thoughts of Feyre. He was supposed to focus today. Some of the city's most powerful merchants had asked for a meeting with his father, and as the High Lord's heir, Rhys was expected to be in attendance too.

The meeting room was already full when Rhys walked in, brushing his windswept hair back into place. From the head of the table, his father glared daggers at him.

Rhys ignored it, dropping into the empty seat that had been left for him. "I hope I didn't miss anything interesting."

He kept the smirk plastered on his face, even as his father pushed past his shields to speak mind-to-mind. We'll discuss this later. For now, get through this meeting without embarrassing me further. That's an order.

Rhys made a mental note to let Mor know he'd likely have to cancel their plans to go to the theater that night.

One of the merchants—Rhys had met him before but had forgotten his name—gave him a cold smile and said, "We were just discussing economic policy."

"Carry on, then," Rhys said.

As the meeting droned on, Rhys forced himself to focus, even if the subject matter was painfully dry. One day, he'd be High Lord, and if he wanted to be the sort of ruler the Night Court deserved, one who made things better, he needed to be knowledgeable and willing to listen.

But even then, he wasn't immune to letting his mind wander. At some point, he'd found himself thinking about how the sunlight had brought out the gold in Feyre's hair, when the sound of his name brought him crashing back down to reality.

"…but you'd know all about that, wouldn't you, Rhysand?" one of the merchants was saying, the sneer in his voice obvious.

Rhys felt his father's eyes boring into him, and it was clear this was some sort of test. He was supposed to be handling something, and Rhys didn't want to think about what sort of punishment might be in store for him if he made it obvious he'd stopped paying attention.

"Would I?" Rhys said, arching a brow in a way that he hoped looked imperious.

"With how many headlines you've been the subject of? I think by now you'd know a thing or two about what sells papers. If it weren't for you, we'd have gone under after the War."

Rhys's hands curled into fists under the table as he recalled exactly who this merchant was—Pulitzer, a newspaper magnate, the one who'd been complaining that circulation was down since the Treaty had been signed. Peace, apparently, was boring.

Peace that Rhys had bled for, had nearly died for when he'd been captured by Amarantha's army. Not that any of that mattered when profits were down.

"Then a bit more gratitude is in order," Rhys said, his voice low and deadly and all command, sounding every inch the future High Lord he was. It was so brief that Rhys nearly missed it, but his father's lips quirked up in approval. "If you have a request, I suggest you word it carefully."

It quickly became clear that Pulitzer and the rest of the owners of Velaris's major newspapers had come to grovel. Even if Rhys couldn't bring himself to care, it was true that the Night Court's newspaper industry was bringing in less money since the end of the war. They'd come to petition his father for assistance.

And to Rhys's relief, the High Lord's answer had been a quick and resounding no.

Of course, Rhys knew his father's answer had been more about safeguarding the Night Court's wealth more than anything else. That much was obvious when so many of their citizens were struggling, even in Velaris. It was something that Rhys vowed to change one day.

But Rhys's relief didn't last much longer. His father had told the newspaper moguls to figure it out themselves, and they'd quickly agreed that to fix their bottom line, they'd raise the price for the newsies who bought the papers to distribute each morning.

Newsies who were barely getting by as it was. Newsies who were already going hungry and sleeping outdoors even as the weather got colder. Newsies who'd been orphaned or disabled after the war and couldn't find decent work.

Newsies like his mate, and Rhysand certainly wouldn't stand for that.

[bri-cheeses]

| Sprace microfic | Word count: 960 | Shoutout to Hotshot (my queen) |

-

Spot Conlon was sitting on a fire escape, and he had a secret.

Technically speaking, he had many secrets, a good deal of which were much more sinister than this one. But this, he thought, was one that couldn’t get out. Ever.

“Hey, boss,” Hotshot said from behind him, lowering herself onto the step next to Spot. The sudden break in the serene atmosphere caused Spot’s pulse to jump, but he didn’t let it show. Instead, he simply flicked the ash from the cigar he was holding and shifted over to make room for his friend. He wasn’t sure why his second in command felt the need to interrupt his alone time, but he wouldn’t mind so long as she didn’t say anything.

“So,” Hotshot started, and Spot mentally cursed at his luck, “I thought I’d let you know that the guys have been talking.”

The guys.

Have been talking.

A glower overtook his face. He had a feeling he already knew what this was about, but he had to be sure before saying anything.

“Talking about what?” he asked.

A beat of silence, then a hesitant: “They say you’ve been spending a lot of time at Sheepshead lately.”

“And what’s it to them?” Spot knew his tone was becoming more and more threatening, an undercurrent of danger lurking beneath his words, but he couldn’t bring himself to care very much. This was something good that he had. Something actually, truly good. He wouldn’t give it up without a fight.

“They say,” Hotshot said, continuing on even though Spot refused to look at her, “that you’ve been spending more and more time there since a couple a’ months ago.”

He let out a frustrated huff of breath. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

His tone was biting, and his grip on the cigar in his hand tightened. Hotshot said nothing.

When Spot finally dared a glance at her, he found that she was already looking at him, her expression assessing. He felt his mask harden in response to the scrutiny. If Hotshot wanted to play this game, he could show her that he knew how to play, too—and knew how to play it well.

“Spot,” Hotshot finally said, and her voice was slow and measured as she asked, “Where’d you get that cigar?”

Apparently, she could play it well, too.

“It ain’t your business.” His tone was hard, no room for discussion or argument. Because Hotshot wasn’t supposed to know. No one was, except for himself and, well, the reason he’d been spending so much time at the tracks recently. But Hotshot had guessed anyways.

He looked down at the cigar. He should’ve been more careful—this wasn’t something that he wanted to get out. Not because he was ashamed of it, but because this was his thing. It was something he had that was special, and so what if he wanted to keep it to himself for just a bit longer? He did everything for the Brooklyn newsies. Everything. He deserved to have this one thing, right?

Hotshot sighed. “You know I won’t judge you, even if— even if he is Manhattan.”

“Who said anything about anyone?” Spot said flatly. His hands itched to push himself up off the stair, to stand and leave and avoid this conversation.

“I ain’t blind, Spot. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you tense whenever someone says his name, or the guarded expression you have when you say you’re going to the tracks, or the brand of the cigar in your hand. There’s only one newsie you interact with who would blow his money on a box of Coronas. So like I said, I ain’t blind, and I sure ain’t stupid, either.”

Spot had to huff a mirthful laugh at that, because maybe she wasn’t, but he certainly felt like he was. At least, he felt stupid in some capacity, to have thought that no one would put the pieces together, that no one would pay attention and figure it out and approach him to ask about it.

And so Spot didn’t utter a word. He could flat out lie to Hotshot, but he doubted she would believe him. He could leave, but she’d just ask him again and again until he had no choice but to tell her. And he could tell her to forget all about it, but Hotshot was his friend and he couldn’t bring himself to do that to her.

A muscle clenched in his jaw. He didn’t look at her.

“Fine. You want me to say it? I like him. I like Race. That’s the reason I’ve been spending time at the tracks, that’s while I have a cigar in my hand, that’s why I’m wary when people say his name or mention Manhattan.” He took a deep breath. “And now you’ve gotten what you wanted, so I’d appreciate it if you just left me alone now. And don’t even think of mentioning this to anyone else. You’ll regret it if you do.”

Usually when Spot threatened people, they didn’t laugh. But that’s what Hotshot did, loudly and heartily before saying, “And that’s the classic Spot I know, always making things more difficult than they have to be. Seriously, was that so hard?”

He didn’t respond.

“But really,” she said quietly, the metal of the fire escape creaking as she stood, “I’m happy for you.”

Then the moment was broken as she laughed again, clapped him on the shoulder, and said, “Now I’m going inside before you throw me off the fire escape.”

When he didn’t answer, she turned and made her way up the rickety stairs. The sound of a window shutting alerted him to her departure, and he closed his eyes.

What had he gotten himself into?

-

[dragonflydrivein]

newsies as random quotes my friends have said

Jack: What were the kids who weren’t in gifted and talented doing? Oh, we sat around slapping each other.

——————————————————————

Sarah: What do I want for Christmas?

Katherine: A boyfriend.

Sarah: No…I want earrings.

——————————————————————

Race: Was I gonna say something?

Spot: I mean, probably. You say a lot of things.

——————————————————————

Crutchie: I knew people who had bugs as pets! Well…they were homeschooled, so they don’t count.

——————————————————————

Jack: Ghosts don’t have gender!

Davey: Is that scientifically correct?

Jack: I don’t know!

——————————————————————

Spot: Personally, I don’t really care about people.

——————————————————————

Race: I even dressed up for the occasion!

Davey: What do you mean by “dressed up?” ‘Cause that’s a t-shirt.

——————————————————————

Katherine: Comparison is the thief of all joy…except for when you’re trying to tell if someone’s flirting with you.

——————————————————————

Crutchie: It’s on my kidz bop master playlist.

——————————————————————

Spot: I did great at that game!

Race: …they dragged you all over the beach.

——————————————————————

Jack: Target is the dollar store for rich people.

——————————————————————

Jack: Accidents happen!

Davey: Do they, though?

——————————————————————

Race: My style of flirting? Lying.

——————————————————————

Davey: This conversation didn’t pass the Bechtel test, did it?

Sarah: None of our conversations passes the Bechtel test.

[orcaofmyheart99]

The Name Exchange

This is based on Livesies (Newsies) when Jack meets David immediately called him Davey and later Davey calls Jack, Jacky.

Charles decides to call Edwin something else

It was the first day of junior year and Charles was in his social studies class. The teacher asked the students to turn and talk to the student next to them in order to get to know their classmates.

A proper looking boy reached out his hand to Charles. He had a firm air about himself. 

“My name is Edwin. Pleasure to have your acquaintance.”

“Charlie” Charles responded grinning.

Edwin frowned. 

“From my previous knowledge I do believe your proper name is Charles.” 

“Sure, but my friends call me Charlie.”

“We are not friends.” Edwin pointed out sternly.

“We could be” Charles said smiling, knowing he was making Edwin uncomfortable.

“I shall call you Charles since that is your given proper name” Edwin stated, giving Charles a look as though he had gotten in trouble with a teacher.

“Suit yourself but then I am going to call you Eddy” Charles said with a playful tone.

Edwin was left speechless.

“You absolutely will not. I will not stand for it" He said flabbergasted at such a turn of events.

“Aww really? I think Eddy suits you. You seem like you are all business but it shows that you also have a playful side” Charles said tilting his head, looking like a curious puppy. His big brown eyes sparkling.

“I absolutely do not have a playful side and take offense that you should suggest such a thing!” 

“Sure, whatever you say Eddy….”

 “Fine if I refer to you as Charlie you will go back to calling me Edwin?” 

“Maybe, I’ll have to think about that” Charles said, smirking. 

"Fine, if you won't refer to me as Edwin, I will continue to call you Charles"

Charles shrugged, smirking at Edwin.

The teacher called the class to order.

As the students filed out Charles waved to Edwin and said “Goodbye Eddy!” 

Edwin gritted his teeth “Goodbye Charles” 

Being called Eddy eventually grew on Edwin. Charles was the only one who called him that and that made Edwin feel special. Charles could tell Edwin enjoyed being called Eddy by him. Charles felt himself light up inside when Edwin finally called him Charlie.