#newsies space au

[kitswritingantics]

Pleeeeease newsies fantasy AU I beggggg

HEHEHAHAHAHAHH I'VE BEEN WAITING MY ENTIRE LIFE TO YAP ABOUT THIS

now just hear me out. think of like. super mario. evil king (pulitzer) has princess katherine locked away. prince jack (forced to marry her in like a month) has to go save her, don't wanna, blah blah blah. get's sent with his servant/partner in crime/best friend charlie (aka crutchie) and knight david. (they're gay. in case you can't tell. i'm a javid truther but i can also be a jatherine truther. jack has two hands.)

on the way the goobers find travelling minstrels (race and spot), bounty hunters/thieves (buttons, finch, and elmer. the guys ever), and all of them tag along to help them fight the king and his dragon (the dragon's probaby snyder now that i think really deeply about it. that's honestly so funny). also more homosexuality, elmer's down BAD for charlie who's an oblivious (and equally down bad) little loser.

you know the drill, fairy tales have happy endings, they save princess katherine and jack decides "hey! i don't wanna marry her!" and goes and kisses davey instead. davey sets up kath with his older sister sarah and they fall in love. charlie and elmer are really bashful and adorable i'm obsessed with them. also LESBIAN SPRACE. BECAUSE I CAN.

anyways there's my yap hope you enjoy!!! i might end up writing this later only time will tell!!

[jack-kellys]

if you're taking requests, wintery javid! any wintery imagery you like the most :) -@pigeonwit

hello again my friend

jack is allllllways cold. not to the touch, never to the touch- but he feels chilly. or distant, maybe. davey always warms him right up, taking him back down to earth away from the cold expanse of space above.

[agentsnickers]

PARALLEL VARIATIONS TIMELINE EXTRAVAGANZA

I have no justification for this. I spent so much time working on this this week and I don't even have a good reason. Anyway, please enjoy a mostly accurate mostly comprehensive long term color coded PV timeline!

Color Key:

Black: Most/All Timelines [CCTT branches earlier than any of the others, so there are a few splits from things that are true in every other timeline]

Grey: Near Miss

Green: There's Always Room for You

Orange: Collision Course

Blue: Coffee Cups & Teething Toys

Purple: Tipping Point

Some of this doesn't, like, 100% line up, but don't worry about it <3

[sluttylittlenewsboy]

Skin Writing AU

Part 2

Sarah continued to talk to Race for years.

One day, when they were both eleven. Race told Sarah she had something important to say.

"You know how I's a girl?" Race asked.

Of course Sarah knew. She was the only girl in her grade that had a girl as their soulmate. There was a boy named Blink who had a boy soulmate though. He and Sarah had become fast friends becuase of this.

"Yeah, I know Racer," she replied. She didn't get another message for twenty minutes.

"What if I's not?" Race asked. Sarah was confused. Had Race lied to her?

"Whadda ya mean Race?" She inquired.

"Have you ever heard of the word transgender?" Race asked.

Sarah actually had heard that word before. That's what her best friend was. Sarah's best friend HotShot (or Lily if you weren't friends with her) hadtold everyone she was a girl when she was seven. Sarah remembered that it was called being transgender.

"Yeah! That's what my best friend is!" Sarah wrote excitedly.

"Well, I'm trans, I's a boy now!" Race said. Spot was excited.

After that, she never called her soulmate a girl again

[jasperscringepit]

Hello newsies tumblr, I’m so back.

I heard punk au, I activated like a sleeper agent

Shitty background ver. here as well :)

hey anyone who likes punk au newsies can u plz draw this image but as jack and les or david and les plz plz plz im begging you it would heal me

[rosanna-writer]

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

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

Thank you again to @itsthedoodle for beta-ing my gift for @the-lonelybarricade!

Ch. 1 - Got a Feelin' 'bout the Headline | Ch. 2 - Beautiful. Smart. Independent. | Ch. 3 - Guts and Glory | Ch. 4 - Dead or Dreamin' | Ch. 5 - Something to Believe in

You can read the fifth chapter Here on AO3 or under the readmore.

A mating bond was a massive, overwhelming thing. Feyre didn’t have the words to talk about it—didn’t even know where to start. It all seemed safer if her suspicions stayed suspicions.

The moment she voiced them aloud, her whole life would change.

For just a little while longer, she wanted to stay Feyre-the-newsie, not Feyre-the-prince’s-mate. And it felt good to give in to the urging of the thread in her chest—her mind went pleasantly blank every time Rhys’s lips touched hers. She wanted to drown in him and forget about everything else.

She started to reach for the buttons of his jacket, but a broad hand covered hers. “Mother above, Feyre,” Rhys murmured, huffing a soft laugh, “we don’t have to do this on a rooftop.”

Feyre started to protest—after all, they’d have even less privacy if she brought him down to her crowded, shared bedroom in the tenement below—but before she could get the words out, her feet were off the floor. Rhys had slid his hands beneath her knees and shoulders to scoop her up.

Her stomach flipped. If being cradled against his chest didn’t feel quite so nice, she would have wiggled her way out of his arms. She still had half a mind to do it, just to spite him for not giving her any warning.

Rhys snapped his wings out wide. She felt the slight bend in his knees, as if he were about to— “Don’t take off without telling me where we’re going,” she said quickly.

“The House of Wind,” he said, as if it should have been obvious.

A blush crept up her cheeks. “You’re…taking me home?”

“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not an ill-mannered brute.”

They shot into the sky, and the rushing wind drowned out any of Feyre’s further complaints. All she could do was loop an arm behind his neck and cling to him even tighter.

Feyre was built for the shadows—not the open skies. As the city fell away beneath them, she squeezed her eyes shut and focused on the hard warmth of Rhys’s body against hers. With each beat of his wings, she could feel the powerful muscles of his back and chest at work. An Illyrian warrior exactly where he belonged.

But still, it was something of a relief to feel the world fade into mist as he winnowed them. He was impatient, she realized. The flight wouldn’t take more than a few minutes, but apparently that was too long to wait.

In the space of a heartbeat, they were in the sky again, this time directly above the House of Wind. Rhys held his wings out as they descended past the wards in a smooth glide. The balcony rushed towards them, but Feyre barely felt anything as Rhys’s feet touched the stone floor.

She didn’t feel like she belonged in the palace—especially not after the High Lord had called her there earlier just to intimidate her. Feyre spent her life on the streets, never anywhere this opulent. She couldn’t shake the feeling, ridiculous as it was, that they’d be caught any moment and she’d be forced to leave.

Rhys set her down, and on instinct, Feyre made herself incorporeal again. He hadn’t dropped her hand, and the shadows skittering along her skin extended down her arm, enveloping him, too.

“There’s no need to hide,” Rhys said. “In case you’ve forgotten, I live here, and I invited you.”

“Don’t be a prick. There might be problems if we run into someone,” Feyre said. She was sure the High Lord wouldn’t be thrilled to see her again—and she was fairly certain Rhys’s sister was also somewhere nearby.

“After all those headlines about how many people I’ve brought to my bedroom, no one will be scandalized, I assure you.”

Feyre growled, and perhaps that should have embarrassed her. But it was a relief to stop pretending she hadn’t been envious of everyone the press had linked to him romantically over the years.

Something sparked in Rhys’s eyes, an excited gleam that made Feyre’s toes curl in her boots. He’d liked that low, possessive sound when it came from her.

“I thought it would be obvious by now,” he said, “but apparently I hadn’t made myself clear before. You are the very last person I’m bringing to my bed and the one I want there the most.”

She knew why. But she still said, “Prove it.”

In an instant, Rhys was tugging her through walls and furniture. He seemed completely unbothered by temporarily becoming incorporeal, which was unusual—Lucien had always complained the shadows felt like spiders crawling all over his skin. Maybe it was different for mates.

Feyre let the shadows fade when they reached a room that could only have been his—bed large enough for wings, desk covered in paperwork and the sword she’d seen him brandishing the other day, curtains rustling gently in the glassless window.

Curiosity got the better of her, but only for a moment. Rhys had used their joined hands to pull her against him, and his tongue was already pressing its way between her lips again.

Perhaps his way of proving he wanted her there was just…devouring her whole.

Not that she was the sort of person to just stand there and get devoured. Feyre had heard all the rumors about Illyrian wings, so she reached for his, brushing a hand against the membrane just to see what would happen.

Rhys groaned, and they were pressed so close that Feyre felt every inch of his full-body shudder.

So there had been some truth to the stories she’d heard, then. She reached out and pressed a little harder against his wing—the taut skin was cool to the touch, silky and surprisingly soft. Slowly, she dragged her hand down.

Rhys’s hips bucked against hers, and Feyre couldn’t help but giggle. “Did you just…” she said.

“No, but I will shortly if you keep that up.”

That sounded like encouragement, so she stretched her hand out again. Rhys snapped his wings back before she could touch them.

“If you can’t last very long, I promise I won’t leak the story to the press.”

“My stamina isn’t an issue,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss her again. It was softer than on the rooftop, his hands settling gently on her hips. “As I told you, I’m not an ill-mannered brute. Ladies first.”

Before Feyre could respond, he was already on his knees. Splaying one broad hand across her stomach, he pressed her back against the door, then hooked one of her legs over his shoulder.

There had been a flurry of headlines about Rhys refusing to kneel to his father in protest, then several more after an interview where he’d revealed the mountain and stars tattooed on his knees—that they meant he’d bow to nothing and no one but his crown. It had been dangerously close to declaring an intent to kill his father and take the throne.

But he’d knelt for her without a second thought. His crown and his—

No. Feyre wouldn’t let herself think it again.

Besides, Rhys was already hooking his fingers in the waistband of her pants. He looked up at her, a question in his eyes. As if now, she might actually change her mind. She’d never known him to look unsure of anything.

She nearly managed to say what they were to each other, just to wipe the doubt from his face. But Feyre wasn’t quite brave enough to manage it. Not yet.

“Keep going, please,” she said, hoping it was enough.

Rhys peeled the threadbare leggings down, and Feyre gripped his shoulder to steady herself as the fabric stretched around her knees. But that hand pinning her to the door wouldn’t let her fall.

He pressed a kiss to the bottom of her abdomen, and Feyre couldn’t remember the last time anyone had been so soft with her.

There was nothing hesitant in the first sweep of his tongue, a slow stripe up her center. Too much, but not enough. Feyre whined and canted her hips closer.

With a satisfied growl, Rhys feasted on her in earnest, licking and sucking every part of her he could reach. Feyre writhed, her hand on his shoulder digging into the fabric of his jacket. A wave of knee-wobbling pleasure was building within her, and the fingers of her other hand scraped uselessly against the wooden door.

The relentless strokes of his tongue didn’t slow despite his hand reaching up to interlace his fingers with hers.

Feyre squeezed his hand with enough force to crush his fingers as release crashed through her. Breathing hard, she started to slide her leg off his shoulder. The hand on her stomach pressed her back into the door, holding her in place.

His voice echoed in her head; with his tongue already slipping inside her again, Rhys couldn’t speak aloud. You taste too magnificent to stop after just one.

There was nothing to do but let him wring more pleasure from her. Rhys seemed to be intent on making her climax as many times in a row as he could, at least until Feyre finally managed to whisper, “I want the next one with you inside me.”

She kicked her leggings the rest of the way to the floor as he stood and lifted her up. Without his mouth on her, her head finally started to clear, and it suddenly seemed massively unfair he was still completely clothed.

He carried her towards the bed, and once her shaking legs were locked around him, Feyre tore at the buttons of his jacket. The rest of their clothes disappeared with a crackle of magic.

Quite a lot of ink had already been spilled about Rhysand’s chest. Since he’d won the Blood Rite and earned his tattoos, he’d favored plunging vee necklines to show them off, and it wasn’t unusual for him to stumble out of Rita’s missing the tunic he’d gone in with. Feyre had certainly never complained—not when that chest splashed across the front page sold so many papers.

But none of that prepared her for how good it would feel to run a possessive hand down the expanse of hard muscle.

Feyre couldn’t make promises—not with a one-way ticket to the Continent in her pocket. If she was leaving, it wasn’t fair to snarl and call him hers and no one else’s.

She wanted to, though. Cauldron, she wanted to.

He was staring down at her like he wanted the same thing, and it was all too much. They were coming dangerously close to blurting out a confession, so she plunged her fingers into his hair and dragged his lips towards hers again.

It was another hungry, open-mouthed kiss, and it felt far better than talking. Feyre tipped her hips up, a silent plea to keep going. Her clit brushed the underside of his cock, drawing a mewling sound she made right into his mouth.

Needy little thing, aren’t you? The words floated into her head as if carried on a night-kissed wind.

I’m not needy, you’re just slow. I told you what I want.

The thread tying them together—that Feyre was still trying very hard to ignore—seemed to hum with wicked amusement. She lifted her hand from his head and stretched it over his shoulder.

She could feel the rumble of his low laugh as he tucked his wing out of her reach. His hips shifted, and his considerable length slid into her.

The stretch was ecstasy. There was no way around it—Rhys’s cock was big, just like the rest of him. He moved slowly at first, and Feyre let her eyes flutter shut as she just savored the feeling of him filling her up.

It was nearly too much, but at the same time the instincts driven by the bond in her chest pushed her to take him deeper and demand more. She pressed her hips up, taking every inch of him she could. 

It was all the urging he needed to go faster. Suddenly, Rhys was fucking her like his life depended on it. He was far from Feyre’s first partner, but she’d never had someone chase her climax so relentlessly. There was nothing to do but give into it until she shattered around him.

He was breathing hard when Feyre came back to herself. She knew she should have smirked, said something blasé to make it clear this was just a bit of fun before she left for the Continent. Made it clear this was casual so she could ignore the bond in her chest just a little while longer.

But no, whether it was the mating bond or something else, Rhys had just utterly ruined her for anyone else. And based on the way he was looking at her…he felt the same way about her, too.

Leaning down, Rhys rolled them both over until they were on their sides. The mess they’d made disappeared from between her legs with half a thought.

“Stay,” he whispered into her shoulder. “Please.”

Feyre let herself believe he only meant for the night. After all, she’d have to be back here in the morning for the start of negotiations anyway. Not forever.

“I will,” she whispered back, pulling him tighter.

Even during bombshell tell-all interviews, none of Rhys’s lovers had ever mentioned his wings, and most of them had stumbled out of his bedroom or bid him goodbye before he skittered home. Feyre pillowed her head on his massive bicep, tangling her legs with his as his wing blanketed them both.

Warm and safe, she drifted off and let herself dream.

Out of habit, Feyre woke just as the eastern sky began to lighten. She wanted to linger a bit longer—she couldn’t remember ever sleeping on a mattress free of lumps before—but years of poverty had shaped her into an expert at dragging herself out of bed.

She started to wiggle free of Rhys’s hold, but he let out a sleepy, irritated growl. The arm around her waist tightened.

“I can’t be late for my own strike. Don’t be a prick,” she whispered.

His reply slipped into her mind, as if he weren’t awake enough to speak aloud quite yet. You can’t be late when you’re already here.

She still needed to bathe and change. Pulitzer and the High Lord would laugh her out of the room if she arrived at the negotiation table in yesterday’s clothes and reeking of Rhysand and arousal. If word got out, that would certainly—

Did you really plan on taking all ten thousand steps instead of just using my tub? Rhys asked, interrupting her train of thought.

She had. It seemed easier than asking to use his bathing chamber and borrow some clothes. Feyre didn’t regret what they’d done last night, but she’d get her head on straight easier in the familiar territory of the Rainbow instead of staying in the House of Wind a moment longer.

And Feyre needed to be sharp today.

Before she could protest, one of Rhys’s legs joined the arm twined around her. Something deep within seemed to purr in satisfaction as he pressed her flush against him. Stay. You can sleep for another hour and still have plenty of time to make yourself presentable.

It made sense. And even if it didn’t, Feyre suspected the thread in her chest would pull her right back to him. A contented little noise escaped her as she tucked her head under his chin and closed her eyes.

Golden light streamed in through the glassless window when Rhys nudged her awake again. Feyre lifted her head and spotted a gown folded on top of a chest of drawers. Someone—Rhys, presumably he didn’t allow servants in his room while he slept—had placed her cap atop it.

“You needed something to change into,” he said, answering the question before she could ask.

This time, when Feyre pulled away, he let her. To her immense relief, Rhys didn’t try to kiss her good morning. Feyre’s mind was already on business, and she didn’t need him setting her head spinning.

After pointing her to the bathing room, Rhys set off to handle breakfast. Probably just because he was making himself useful. Feyre did need to eat, after all.

Definitely that, and not to head off any possibility that she might be the one to find food and offer it to him.

Feyre thought that she’d feel more herself after she’d gotten something in her stomach and washed her face. But the flaky, layered pastry and impossibly fluffy eggs were nothing at all like the porridge she usually breakfasted on, and the fine fabric of the gown must have cost more than she’d ever make in a lifetime of selling newspapers.

It fit perfectly. Just a bit of good luck—Rhys certainly didn’t know her measurements, even if as the heir, he probably kept a small army of seamstresses on retainer. Feyre supposed his sister or Mor had just lent her a spare gown. Probably.

Their eyes met in the mirror as she slipped the newsie cap onto her head. Just like at home, it was the very last step Feyre took before venturing out for another day of hawking papers. It had never made her feel quite so much like a knight slipping on a helmet before battle.

“Are you ready?” Rhys said, offering his arm to her.

Feyre took it, oddly grateful for something steady to hold onto. Her hand brushed the fabric of his tunic, and she realized their clothes were made of the same cloth. As if the two of them were a matched set.

A pair, equals matched by—

She cut off that line of thought before she could finish it. Rhys didn’t blink; her shields must have been intact, and she thanked the Mother for that. Besides, there wasn’t time to be distracted, not when they were already headed towards the meeting rooms in the more public sections of the House of Wind.

They paused at one of the main balconies, where Feyre and Nesta had agreed they’d meet the other day. It was empty. Feyre stared at the door, hoping Nesta was just late.

It wasn’t like her sister to forget. Not when there was money on the table.

The sound of rustling wings pulled Feyre’s attention to the window. An Illyrian. And in his arms…Nesta. She’d tucked her head just under his chin, resting it against his chest, as if he often cradled her like this.

Feyre recognized the male, another war-hero friend of Rhys’s, who’d graced front pages since the war. They’d never met, Feyre remembered shouting the headline about the building that he’d leveled in Adriata. That one had sold more papers than all the stories about his courage on the battlefield and swift promotions through the ranks. Cassian, if she wasn’t mistaken.

As the pair landed, Rhysand slipped into Feyre’s mind again. I wasn’t aware they knew each other.

Neither was I.

They’d discuss it later. Nesta was already dropping gracefully to the floor and smoothing out her skirts. “Work has already halted in Illyria,” she said in lieu of a greeting. “They’re following through on their promises of support.”

The faint sound of chanting floated all the way up to the very top of the House of Wind. Hundreds of newsies and their lesser fae supporters rallied at the base of the stairs, accompanied by Illyrian war drums. Feyre could just barely make out the words— minute by minute, that’s how you win it.

When she turned to her sister, Feyre’s smile was grim. “Then let’s go hand Pulitzer his ass.” 

***

For Rhysand, watching Feyre negotiate was exquisite torture. She handled herself like a queen—like a High Lady, really. A businesswoman who’d gotten down to brass tacks as soon as everyone was seated.

“The Illyrian warriors have chosen to lay their weapons down in solidarity with the newsies of Velaris,” she’d said. “We have you surrounded, and Lieutenant Cassian can confirm. Until we sign a fair contract, the Night Court will be without an army.”

But as much as he admired the efficiency, Rhys couldn’t help but hate it, just a bit. She’d be gone when the strike ended.

He tried not to think about it, instead choosing to observe his father. Rhys had expected far more bluster from the High Lord—the newsies had, after all, essentially arranged for insubordination on a massive scale. But the High Lord had gone strangely quiet.

To Rhys, that spelled danger. He knew from experience that if the High Lord wasn’t making a show of power in front of others, it was because he was waiting to do something more devastating in public.

Rhys tried not to shiver when ebony claws speared his mind, ripping down his shields. His father never bothered to knock out of courtesy.

You can keep her. The words rang with ancient power, and Rhys tried not to bristle at the way his father spoke about his mate as if she were a stray dog.

Then what was the point of that one-way ticket to the Continent?

If she doesn’t use it, a daughter-in-law I can send to beat the governors of the Palaces into submission would be useful. Merchants often get cocky and mistake their wealth for true power. And if she leaves the Night Court…well, you won’t see me complaining if the trash takes itself out.

Rhys growled, low in his throat. The negotiations ground to a halt as every head in the room whipped in his direction. On instinct, he reached towards his hip for a sword, though he hadn’t carried one since coming home from the war.

His eyes flicked to Pulitzer. “I agree with Feyre,” Rhys said evenly, covering up the fact that he’d been speaking mind-to-mind with his father. “That proposal would be unacceptable.”

He’d been too distracted to hear what the proposal had even been, but it seemed to be the right answer. The talks resumed, even if Feyre did shoot him a brief confused look.

The High Lord didn’t invade Rhys’s mind again, but he didn’t need to. He’d made is position clear. Instead, Rhys sat back and continued to marvel at how well Feyre held her own as the details of the agreement were hammered out.

Nesta communicated with the rest of the newsies, making sure there would be support for the contract when they put it to a vote, working in tandem with Feyre, who dug her heels in with Pulitzer.

He challenged her on every single aspect of the deal, a transparent attempt to wear her down. A sound strategy, considering the resources at his disposal. But fortunately, the well of Archeron stubbornness was infinite.

Eventually, they came to what Feyre termed “a compromise we all can live with.” To let Pulitzer save face, the price of papers would still go up, if only by half of what he’d originally planned, but in return, the publishers would buy back the unsold papers at the end of the day.

A victory—fewer losses for the newsies to eat when papers didn’t sell on slow news days.

The sun had long since set by the time they finished it all—the back-and-forth, the voting, the signatures, spitting into palms and shaking over deals, celebrations with Elain and Nesta and Lucien and the rest of the newsies. By some miracle, Feyre had allowed Rhys to stay at her side throughout all of it.

Once it had all ended, they found themselves alone, walking along the Sidra. A last look before Feyre left. Rhys wanted to mention it—and perhaps try and change her mind—but the words caught in his throat each time he tried. He’d thought about offering his arm, but Feyre had kept her hands jammed firmly in her pockets.

If last night had merely been a distraction before a long day…he understood. Watching the lights glitter on the surface of the Sidra with Feyre nearby was more than enough.

It wasn’t Rhys who finally broke their companionable silence. He tensed at the sound of hurried footsteps behind them, then the abrupt silence as whoever it was winnowed to catch up.

“I’ve been looking for you two everywhere,” Mor said, materializing on Feyre’s other side.

Rhys glared at her over the top of Feyre’s head, irritated by the interruption. “Have you now?” he said, voice icy.

“I was positive you’d be at Ressina’s, but when I asked around, no one there knew where you’d slipped off to.”

“And you didn’t consider that might have been because we didn’t want to be found?”

Mor stuck her tongue out at Rhys, earning a laugh from Feyre. “I needed to catch Feyre before she left,” Mor said. “Ressina let me have the stack of paintings you were going to leave behind. There was a portrait of your friend, the one with the mechanical eye. Apparently he’s quite the charmer—flirts with them all when they buy their daily paper. They were horrified to hear the High Lord sent him to the Prison. After the fuss they made, Rhys’s father is going to start sending petty thieves somewhere more humane than an island full of monsters.”

Feyre stopped in her tracks, so abruptly that Rhys nearly walked into her. For a moment, she stood rooted to the spot, blinking in surprise.

“All that because of my art?” Feyre said slowly.

Mor nodded. “I wanted to make sure you knew. That was just one portrait, so just think of all the good you could do. And congratulations on the victory today.”

“I—”

Before Feyre could get the rest of the words out, Mor pulled her into a rib-crushing hug. Rhys raised his brows, locking eyes with his cousin over his mate’s shoulder. Mor winked and flashed him a grin.

“Safe travels, Feyre,” Mor said, giving her one last squeeze before winnowing away.

“She’s right, you know. Your paintings could do a lot of good here,” Rhys said quietly.

Feyre merely nodded, her gaze flicking back to the lights of the Rainbow. She seemed to be staring at the view as if she were trying to memorize it. They were silent, and it took all of Rhys’s willpower not to slip into her mind to find out what she was thinking.

“I should get home and pack,” she whispered.

“So should I.”

Feyre stilled. For a moment, Rhys thought she might disappear into a shadow. But she said, “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I wasn’t aware you held a monopoly on leaving for the Continent tomorrow. Unless you don’t want company.”

“But don’t you have obligations here? Work, your family?”

“Don’t you?” Rhys said. When Feyre said nothing in response, just opened her mouth and closed it—he knew he’d won. More softly, he added, “If you want to get out of the city, there’s somewhere I’d like to show you. We can leave now if you want.”

Feyre’s cheeks went pink, but perhaps that was just the cold night air. “Alright.”

She reached out a hand, clearly expecting that he’d take it and lead her somewhere. But Rhys scooped her into his arms instead. To his surprise, she didn’t protest, just looped an arm behind his neck to steady herself, comfortable and familiar.

Rhys let his heart swell before winnowing them to the cabin in Illyria.

This far north, it was even colder, and Feyre shivered, pressing herself closer as Rhys glided to the ground. They could have walked from the edge of the wards—it was only a few yards. But it had been a long day, and some part of him wanted to carry Feyre instead of putting her back on her feet.

“What is this place?” she said, finally wiggling out of his arms after they’d crossed the threshold.

“Traditionally? It’s where the wayward youths of my family have been sent for ‘reflection’ for millennia. But I thought you might want the peace and quiet,” he said.

Rhys waved a hand, and a fire sprang to life, lighting up the cabin and warming it. Snow hadn’t fallen yet, but out of habit, he toed off his shoes and placed them near the door. Feyre did the same, apparently following his lead. She sighed, and Rhys could practically feel the tension melting off of her as she closed her eyes.

“Thank you. It’s like I can finally hear myself think.”

It was exactly what Rhys suspected she really needed—a break. Even if a new life on the Continent seemed appealing, everyone she loved was in Velaris. But if Feyre didn’t agree…there would be no forcing her to stay.

He couldn’t let her leave without telling her the full truth, either.

Rhys forced himself to say, “We need to talk, and no one will disturb us here.”

“I think we do.”

There it was again—that tug, right behind his heart. The first time, Rhys had hoped he wasn’t mistaken, and after feeling it again, he was more sure. Feyre knew. And hopefully she wasn’t about to rake him over the coals.

He ushered them into the living room and gestured for her to sit. Out of habit, his movements had gone stiff and formal, though he longed to pull her close and share a blanket. But he wasn’t sure that would be welcome. Instead, he kept a careful distance between them as he sank onto the sofa.

“Feyre,” Rhys said, forcing himself to look at her. Each word felt like it was dragged out of him. “You’re my—”

“Mate. I know.”

Rhys flinched—the words sounded like a rebuke. And there was a harsh finality when the words were spoken aloud for the first time. They couldn’t be taken back. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry that we’re mates? Or is there something else you’re about to confess to me?” Her voice went sharp, and Rhys wished he could disappear.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you sooner,” he said quietly.

“How long have you known?”

“The bond snapped a few months after meeting you. That day our fingers brushed as you handed me the paper—I think the contact triggered it.”

Another tug. This time, Rhys pulled back, just because there was no fear of being found out this time. Feyre’s hand flew to her chest, eyes going wide.

“It’s real, isn’t it?” she said, shaking her head as if to clear it. “I felt the spark that day, too. But you were such a flirt—with everyone —and I didn’t want to be some deluded girl who convinced herself it was more than a bit of fun.”

“I thought you would have noticed the headlines about my love life stopped after I met you.”

“I did. I just…didn’t think it had anything to do with me. At least not until recently. And then we were in the middle of the strike, and it’s not as if you had an opening to tell me.”

“I didn’t want to burden you with it.” Rhys still didn’t. It was honestly a wonder that Feyre hadn’t rejected the bond already; she’d shouted headlines about enough kidnapping and assassination attempts to know what a life with him would be like.

Feyre slid her hand across the sofa, interlacing their fingers. “It’s not a burden, but I need time. Can it be just us for a while? No High Lords, no labor unions, no newspapers.”

Word would get out eventually. They’d been seen together often enough in the past few days, and Rhys could hardly slip out of Velaris unnoticed. But if they stayed at the cabin, they could put it off for a while.

He pressed a kiss to their joined hands. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Another tug, but not behind his ribs this time. Feyre was pulling him closer, until Rhys lost his balance and they became a tangle of limbs and nearly tumbled off the sofa together. Her breath tickled his ear as she let out a peal of laughter. Rhys hooked a leg around her waist, twisting until she was on top of him the way he liked.

It was a while before they actually made it to the bed. And even longer until he finally fell asleep with a wing blanketing them both.

Rhys woke to a claw poking at his shields. Not hard, but insistent. His father would have just pushed his way in, which meant the daemati who wanted his attention must have been his sister.

He opened a crack for her, one just wide enough to say, Go away.

I’m outside.

Go. Away.

I’m coming in. Make sure you’re decent.

Truthfully, he was lucky Rhiannon hadn’t pounded on the door to wake up Feyre, too. Rhys bit back a snarl and slowly slid out of the bed; hopefully, he could get his sister to leave before Feyre even realized someone else had been there. With a flick of his wrist, Rhys summoned a robe and slipped it on, hurrying to the door.

Rhiannon was already in the entranceway, running a hand through windswept hair. Her dark cheeks and the tip of her nose had a pink tinge from the early morning cold—she must have flown here.

“Mother’s tits, how the hell did you two make this place stink so badly in just one night?” Rhiannon said, making a face.

“What are you doing here?” Rhys said.

Rhiannon rolled her eyes. “Meeting my new sister because you couldn’t be bothered to introduce us before running off.”

“She’s not your—” A shuffling sound from the other room cut him off; Feyre must have woken up. Rhys snarled, then slipped into Rhiannon’s mind to add, Do not ruin this for me.

Ignoring the sound of her snickering, Rhys turned to see nothing more than the faint outline of Feyre creeping through the shadows. She’d gone incorporeal, probably because she was shy.

“We can go back to bed. Rhiannon was just leaving,” Rhys said pointedly.

Rhiannon pushed past him, nearly smacking Rhys in the face with a wing. Feyre materialized fully and, still a bit groggy from sleep, blinked at them both owlishly.

Rhiannon reached into a pocket dimension and pulled out a copy of the Herald . “I’m just here to make a delivery, and I’ll be out of your hair,” she said, holding it out to Feyre.

Feyre took the paper and unrolled it. Rhys stepped closer, reading the headline over her shoulder. Newsies Stop the Presses: Historic Lesser Fae Coalition Secures Labor Win. The accompanying picture had been taken just after they’d inked the deal, a smiling Feyre flanked by her sisters and Lucien in the House of Wind.

Rhys heard his mate’s breath catch, and he decided that perhaps he wouldn’t kill his sister for this after all.

“After all that time you spent selling the paper, it just seemed fair to bring it to you when you’re finally in it,” Rhiannon added, a bit more softly.

Feyre smiled. “Thank you.”

To Rhys’s shock, Feyre accepted a hug from his sister, and true to her word, Rhiannon slipped back out after that. Thank the Mother she hadn’t insisted on staying for breakfast.

Once the door shut and they were alone again, Rhys said, “I suppose if we head back to bed, tomorrow’s headline will be about the mountains shaking.”

Feyre laughed and took her cap off the hook where she’d hung it near the door. Pressing a kiss to Rhys’s cheek, she put the cap on his head. “We’ll make a newsie of you yet, mate.”

It was only a matter of time before he made her a High Lady, too.

[more-sonorous]

give me your broken wing- newsies modern au

medda larkin becomes a mother figure for jack kelly in every universe to me, and it’s about time i start writing that!

this is a little snippet dedicated to the wonderful @jackmkelly !! they are absolutely my inspiration for this and I’ve lovingly adopted some headcanons they introduced me to.

(this is maybe the beginning of a longer story because they just have so many wonderful ideas and we had a very inspiring conversation yesterday)

tw for implied/referenced child abuse!

…..

When Medda Larkin met Jack Kelly, she met an angry, guarded kid with some serious rage against the world around him.

That anger wasn’t misplaced, of course. He was a fourteen year old boy that’d grown up in the foster system. She knew, just based on the bits and bobs she’d heard from the handful of other foster kids that participated in productions at her theater, that the foster system could turn rotten just as quickly as it could save a child’s life.

It was rainy that day– one of those nasty New York summer storms, where the air was hot and sticky and the old building seemed to trap it all inside. Her theater was her pride and joy, passed down through three generations of mothers and grandmothers just to land in her capable hands. Medda loved the place. She’d grown up in it. Made it her own, shaped it into a space for others to hide away, just as her maternal lineage had done before her. Maybe it was fitting that she’d met Jack Kelly there in the backstage loading bay, with rain pelting down outside and the air conditioner dripping noisily in the distance.

Ed Higgins– a strikingly blonde boy that preferred to be called ‘Racetrack’ (she’d been working with theatre loving teenagers for years and had learned not to ask questions)– was one of her best young performers with an unbeatable talent for dance. He was a thirteen year-old foster kid himself, and had been placed in the care of some of her wife’s close friends about two years prior. They signed him up for a summer production with Medda and he’d been working with her ever since. Race was a good kid, if not a little bit impish and sometimes rough around the edges, and Medda loved him like she loved all of her other theater children. If not a bit more, but good directors never openly admitted to having favorites. Still, there was something contagious about his mischievous smile, maybe a little endearingly annoying when you could see that defiant mischief brewing in his bright blue eyes. Plus, the kid had natural charisma that shined like a God-given spotlight when he got on stage.

That soft spot didn’t keep her from feeling just a bit exasperated when she came across Racetrack trying to pick the lock on her theater’s back door at half past eight on a week night. She’d just seen the maintenance men out and was ready to head home to her lovely wife Hannah and some dinner, but there stood one of her babies drenched in water, looking incredibly terrified to have been caught.

“Racetrack, honey, you have my phone number.” She chided, wincing against the wet-hot heat of the summer outside. “You could’ve just texted me if you needed help…”

“It’s not… um…” He glanced behind himself, and that’s when Medda Larkin first laid eyes on Jack Kelly.

He was a small kid, and she couldn’t tell if he was older or younger than Racetrack because he sure was shorter. Jack was wearing a miserable glower, his tightly done braids clinging to his scalp, frizzy from either heat or neglect. His skin was a deep sort of coffee brown, only a shade or two darker than her own, and his cheekbones were alarmingly sharp. He had the sort of face that carried hunger, with wild, dark eyes and the vibe of an animal that would bolt at any loud noise.

She noted, carefully, that the kid had scars on his face. One split his left eyebrow and forehead and the other sliced the right side of his face from his chin almost to the corner of his lips, and he looked a horrible mixture of scared and angry when she met his eyes. He also sported fresh bruising on his cheekbone, a mottled mess of purple and red that crept towards his eye. He was buried in a hoodie and his jeans were too big, dragging against the concrete with the tips of his beat up sneakers poking out, and Medda wanted nothing more than to take this child into her arms and figure out what had hurt him so bad.

She settled for carefully clearing her throat instead. “Alright, Ed, why don’t you bring your friend inside? You aren’t in trouble, but I would love an explanation on why you’ve chosen breaking and entering over good old fashioned conversation.”

“Yes, Mrs. Medda.” He muttered, sounding ashamed enough to be satisfactory and a little bit relieved, too.

Medda waited until both boys made their way into the room, filling it with the sound of water plunking against concrete. She sighed to herself as she took in the sight of the slow-growing puddles beneath them and pressed her fingertips to the bridge of her nose. “What am I ever going to do with you, Racer? You boys take off those wet jackets, hang ‘em up, and wait for me to get you some towels.”

She didn’t wait for a response and headed off to the costume shop, where she found some towels after a bit of rooting around. Then, to give Ed’s friend a little bit of time to acclimate and calm down, she found herself boiling some water in her office and fixing the boys mugs of tea. Medda wasn’t angry, of course. She knew Ed was a good kid, and if he was trespassing, it was probably for the sake of his friend. Still, there was a concerned sort of curiosity welling up within her as she wondered how many times they’d taken shelter here without her knowing.

Once the tea was finished, she let out an exasperated huff and made her way back to the loading bay, hearing the boys’ voices just before rounding the corner.

“...not gonna call the cops, Jack, I promise, okay?”

“I swear to fuckin’ God, Racer, if I end up back in juvie because of you I’m gonna– I dunno. Shit.”

A pause ensued, and Medda wondered exactly who this boy was as she re-adjusted the porcelain in her hands. He’d been to juvie, and he was sporting fresh bruises. Part of her wondered if he was a friend of Ed’s, maybe another foster system kid. She made sure not to pass any early judgement and kept an open mind.

In classic Racetrack fashion, the kid quipped: “You’re gonna shit? Not on Mrs. Medda’s floor, I hope.”

“Shaddup.” Jack laughed wetly, and Medda heard the strain in his voice without even knowing him at all.

She finally found the courage to turn the corner, mugs in hand and towels draped over the crooks in her elbows. Both boys looked up at her from where they were seated on wooden boxes painted to look like crates, Racer smiling nervously and Jack’s face caught in a pained grimace, somewhere between anger and embarrassment. His shoulders were shrugged up to his ears, posture tight and rife with anxiety.

Medda approached slowly, forcing herself into relaxed ease with the talent of a woman who’d been in love with acting since she was four years old. She held out the mugs and once they’d been accepted, draped a towel over Racer’s shoulders and then offered one to Jack. “Well, I think introductions are in order, don’t you?”

“Jack Kelly.” He muttered, glancing up at her through matted lashes.

“Well, I’m Medda Larkin.” She spread her arms wide and smiled, gesturing to the shop and its organized disarray of old set pieces. “Welcome to my theater. Though I assume you’ve been here before?”

Those brown eyes got wide with worry and the two teenagers shared a look lined with guilt. Race winced, balancing his hands between his knees, both of which were bouncing with nerves. “Mrs. Medda…”

“Relax, kid. You aren’t in trouble. Neither of you are in trouble. But I do think I deserve an explanation, don’t you?”

“Yes ma’am.” He winced, knee still bouncing rapidly. She’d never seen the kid’s wild energy turn so anxious before, and it was an unwelcome change. Any of her theater babies were safe in this place. She thought that Race would’ve known such a thing, after nearly two years of working with her, but she was sorely mistaken. Judging by the misery practically radiating off of him, Medda knew this wasn’t a good time for any sort of interrogation.

“Alright.” She sighed, shifting the third towel she’d brought into her hands before finally offering it out to him. “Drink your tea. Then, if you wanna clean up the water you tracked into my storage space, I’d be pleased with that. And I sure hope your parents aren’t worried sick about you right now, kid...”

“They aren’t. They think I’m over at Crutchie’s.” He assured, shaking his head so hard that droplets of water flung from his damp curls as he took the towel from her outstretched hand.

“Good. Jack, honey, finish that tea and then walk with me, will you?”

She left them for a few moments longer, making sure to lock the back door again after sweeping the area outside for any lasting damages. When she returned, Jack had downed his drink and Race was sitting in silence, still taking small sips. They both stared owlishly and she extended a smile towards Jack, tilting her head towards the hallway.

He stood very reluctantly, exchanging glances with his friend. Race gave a nod, though he seemed just a bit nervous, and she tried to reassure them both with a smile. Soon, a damp Jack Kelly was trailing along behind her as she made her way into the wings and onto the stage itself. Medda flicked a nearby light switch and the space illuminated with the brightness of work lights, revealing a lovely half-finished backdrop spread across the entire stage. An unfinished mural of the Swiss alps lay on the ground before them, fields of vibrant green grass and wildflowers fully painted while the mountains and sky remained blocks of flat color.

“I’ve always said that there’s no better place to hide than a theater.” She explained softly, walking out onto the stage and admiring the rows and rows of plush red seats before them. “I find that true for myself too, you know. This has always been my favorite place to escape to.”

Jack had stopped in his tracks, arms folded tightly over his chest. His head was tilted and he gazed at the backdrop almost reverently, intelligent eyes soaking in every detail. Medda had initially planned to take him into the audience for their chat, but she decided to let Jack set the pace and stood still exactly where she was, perched on the steps leading down to the house.

“You like art very much, Jack?”

“I draw sometimes.” He answered rather reluctantly, giving her a half-shrug and a sidelong glance. The kid was obviously upset about being caught. His small body was nothing but lines of tension.

“This is gonna go up for The Sound of Music next month.” She smiled rather fondly, unable to stop herself from explaining her favorite thing. “My very own theatre company’s putting it on. Your friend Racer’s playing one of the Von Trapp children, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.” He responded carefully, awkwardly, a guarded sort of respect in his voice. Then, remarkably, a small smile cracked through the misery of his face, revealing a dimple in his right cheek. “He won’t shuddup about it.”

She smiled right back at him, well aware that she was already developing a soft spot for this lost little teenager. The lull in the conversation led Medda to continue her descent into the audience, where she took a seat on the front row and gazed out at the unfinished set. Both painted and unpainted wood stared back at her, and Jack Kelly stuck out like a sore thumb in his big clothes, with all of that sadness clinging to him like rainwater. He took a moment to himself, eyes still studying the mural with the gaze of a young artist, and then finally followed the path she’d taken moments earlier.

Medda was pleasantly surprised when Jack spoke without prompting. “Do ya’ own the group that puts on plays here or the buildin’ itself?”

“I own the building.” She confirmed, watching him carefully choose to sit on the foot of the stage in front of her, instead of one of the chairs next to her. His lack of trust in adults was painstakingly obvious. “But I’ve also got a theater company of my own, and we do put on shows here. When my people aren’t using the stage, though, it’s free for just about any group to use. I rent out to anybody who wants to share their art with the world.”

He nodded in that way teenagers often do, respectful but losing interest. Or maybe he was interested somewhere in that troubled head, but Medda’s career obviously wasn’t a top priority for him at that moment.

She allowed the moment to settle before leaning forward in her seat, meeting those guarded brown eyes. ”So, where’d you meet Racetrack?”

“We grew up in the system together.” He explained, proving Medda’s earlier assumptions entirely true. “I’ve been in foster care since I was six, and Race showed up when I was eight. System ain’t as big as people think. A lot of the times you end up in the same group homes with the same kids. We just try to keep in touch. Look out for each other, I guess.”

“And he was looking out for you, finding you a place to stay.” She thought aloud, finally putting all of the pieces together. Well— almost all of them. Racetrack had picked that lock with practiced ease, and Medda was still wondering just how many times this bruised and broken young boy had found himself here without her knowing. “Jack, honey, how many nights have you spent in my theater? I want you to answer honestly, and know that I’m not going to be upset no matter what the answer is. Racetrack isn’t getting in any trouble either. Nobody’s mad– certainly not me. But I think I have a right to know.”

Jack swallowed hard. He blinked hard, too, once or twice, eyes trained unwaveringly on her. Medda could practically see his mind racing. “I mean… I dunno. I stopped counting. It’s– Race lets me in here every time Snyder kicks me out. Racer’s foster parents don’t like me none so I can’t stay at their place.”

He practically spat the name with enough vitriol to send the hairs on Medda’s arms standing up. She was already jumping to conclusions about the bruise on Jack’s cheek and the shabby clothes he wore, but she did her best to remain level-headed. “Snyder. That’s…”

“My foster dad.” He confirmed, a hateful sort of anger coloring his voice. “Real ray of sunshine, that one. I would say this is all his fault, but I know I’m the one askin’ Race to help me break in. So it is my fault. I just… it’s warm here, ‘n nobody’s caught me yet. I don’t touch nothin’, I swear. I don’t ever go farther than that storage space. I would never fuck up your property, Mrs. Larkin, I mean it on my life.”

He seemed so earnest and sure that she couldn’t help but believe him. Plus, there was no evidence to prove he wasn’t lying. She’d never found any remnants of a kid stowing away in the theater– no crumbs or misplaced props– he’d never even changed the thermostat overnight. Medda offered him what she hoped was a warm smile and tried to wipe away the image of Jack sleeping on the concrete floor of the loading dock out of her mind.

“I believe you, Jack. Thank you for being honest with me.” She watched him deflate, just a bit, relief softening the wrinkles around his eyes. Though her mind was brimming with questions about this Snyder man, Medda didn’t dare press Jack into uncomfortable territory. Instead, she settled into her role as a caring adult and stood, brushing her hands off on her skirt. “Here’s what we’ll do. I’m going to take you to my costume storage, and we’ll find you some dry clothes. Then we’re gonna drop Racetrack off at his parents’ place, and after that you can ride home with me and have dinner with my wife and I. I’ve got a guest bedroom with an empty bed.”

“Mrs. Larkin, I couldn’t–”

“Yes you can, honey, and I’m insisting that you do. I’m not going to be able to sleep properly tonight if you’re curled up on that concrete floor in there. Now you wouldn’t rob a poor woman of a good night’s sleep, would you, Jack Kelly?”

That same little smile made its way to his face, and she decided then and there that his real, unabashed smile was probably a sunny thing. Maybe one day she’d earn it. “No ma’am.”

“Call me Medda, kid.”

Two hours later found Medda sitting at the kitchen table with an exasperated Hannah Larkin, whose pretty ginger hair was piled up in a mess of a bun atop her head. Her reading glasses were perched on the tip of her nose and Medda couldn’t quite ignore her wife’s loveliness, even as lines of stress painted her face. Hannah’s intelligent eyes scanned rapidly over her laptop screen as she exasperatedly pressed her thumb and forefinger to her temples.

“Medda, darling, I don’t understand why we can’t call CPS.”

“Because Jack doesn’t want us to.” She explained carefully, for what must’ve been the fifth time that evening. Hannah had jumped to CPS nearly immediately, when Medda had first called her to announce their dinner guest. At that point Jack had been in one of the changing rooms in the costume shop. Now, with Jack showering in the bathroom upstairs, it felt like rehashing that same conversation all over again. “We’ve got to respect his wishes.”

Hannah’s eyebrows shot up, and she glanced over the rims of her glasses in obvious shock. “He’s fourteen. He shouldn’t be making those types of decisions for himself.”

“I understand what you’re getting at, but Jack knows more about the foster care system than we do.” She carefully placed a hand over her wife’s, and dragged her thumb over the gems of her wedding ring for good measure. Hannah sighed, a soft and anxious noise. “We don’t want to make things worse for him, either.”

“But that bruise–”

“He didn’t tell us where it came from.” She said, though Hannah had obviously come to the same conclusion. It was probably from that egregious foster parent, even though Jack had totally avoided the question when Hannah asked. Maybe because the two of them had gotten off on the wrong foot (Jack tracked mud onto Hannah’s tiled floor and she nearly lost her mind), but the fact remained– the bruise was probably dealt by the adult meant to be taking care of Jack, and Medda wanted nothing more than to whisk the boy away from that world. No child deserved to live a life of breaking into abandoned theaters when they wanted somewhere safe to sleep. “And we can’t assume anything. Not yet.”

With a tense sigh, Hannah shut her laptop. “You’re already attached, I can tell.”

“Wh– I’m not!” Affronted, Medda raised a hand to her chest. “I’d do this for any of my kiddos and you know that.”

“Sure, but this one’s earned himself a soft spot already.” Hannah’s voice took on a teasing lilt as she fixed Medda with a knowing gaze, looking as beautiful as the day they first met. “Medda Larkin, you are nothing if not a sap. I don’t think you’re going to back down when it comes to this kid– that’s just how you are.”

Knowing her wife was absolutely correct, Medda could only roll her eyes in an admittance of defeat. Sometimes they knew each other far too well. “You love it, though.”

“Unfortunately, I do.”

Footsteps on the stairs alerted both women to Jack, who was carefully and quietly descending. He looked cleaner and more relaxed already, free of dirt and grime and wearing the clothes he’d picked out from the theatre’s eclectic costume storage– just a pair of sweatpants a male dancer had worn during A Chorus Line a few years back and a baggy sweatshirt that they hadn’t managed to sell at the merch table, displaying the logo of Medda’s theatre company proudly on the back. He smiled at them, nervous and awkward and unsure. Medda’s heart melted a bit. When was the last time he’d enjoyed a warm shower and new clothes? She almost didn’t want to know the answer.

Before she knew it, Medda was rising to her feet and going to meet the boy on the stairs. “You ready to hit the hay?”

“Yeah.” Jack ran a hand over his scalp, tugging briefly at the ends of his braids. “I… I just want to say thank you. For alla’ this.”

“Of course. You’re welcome to visit us any time, by the way. I’d love it if you came to a rehearsal or two with Racetrack. Maybe some of our scenic painters’ll give you a few pointers, if you ask nicely.”

Jack’s smile widened, bright and almost excited. Both of his dimples appeared in full force. “You mean that?”

“I don’t ever say things I don’t mean, Jack Kelly.” She chided teasingly, climbing up the stairs with Jack in tow. The guest bedroom was tactfully decorated– that was all Hannah. The woman had excellent taste and an eye for design, so Medda had sat back and let her decorate the entire townhome after they purchased it. She’d never regretted that decision once. Jack took in the bedroom with a reverent sort of awe, the same way he’d looked at every room of the house so far. “Here you are. Now, if you need anything, just let me–”

Without much warning, Jack threw himself forward and embraced her tightly. He strung his arms around her and buried his face in the fabric of her blouse, movements still caught in that gangly pre-teenage phase. Something in her heart blossomed with a maternal warmth as she hugged him back as gently as possible, cradling his head with one hand.

“Thank you.” He said again, and his voice warbled with emotion.

Though she felt a wet patch beginning to dampen her shirt, she said nothing about it. “Of course, Jack. You can always count on me, alright, baby?”

He only managed a nod, and in that very moment, Medda wanted nothing more than to give this wayward child the happy life he deserved. He was sweet and gentle and he obviously loved with his whole heart and soul, and the poor thing had been beaten down by the world far too many times. She held Jack in that embrace and stared resolutely out the window, deciding only to let go when he was absolutely ready.

She’d only known Jack Kelly for a month when she started researching how to become a foster parent. The idea settled within her mind in the middle of a Saturday morning set dressing day, as she watched Jack carefully painting details onto one of her set pieces, smiling brightly at two of his friends. She thought, immediately, that he deserved to be that happy all the time. If Medda was the only adult in his life that could provide that happiness, then she was damn sure going to do it.

Hannah glanced at the screen of her wife’s laptop once and bit her lip with an exasperated smile, the unspoken ‘I told you so’ dancing teasingly through the air between them.

[i-got-poisenality]

Can you tell me about one of your AUs :)

Free yap card, but it has to involve colors somehow

AAHAHAHHAH THANK YOUUUUU

this is such a fun ask btw, i love the parameters of needing to use a colors it’s so interesting

i’m gonna go with my apocalypse au bc its the one that i’m currently hyperfixating on >:]

ok, since the worlds been kinda collapsed for maybe a year and a half, possibly more, everything is overgrown due to the lack of people to clean up so there is a lot of green everywhere from the plants growing everywhere

the newsies, at the beginning of the story sent in this au, are camping out in Pulitzer’s old mansion (Pulitzer died towards the beginning of the apocalypse) and his once well tended property is overgrown with green, moss and vines growing up the walls, trees and shrubs taking up more space than Pulitzer ever would have let them before

the colors the newsies wear are typically more muted, it makes them harder to see among the overgrown landscape, lots of greens browns grays and blacks

two other important colors, for plot reasons, are blue and yellow, that’s mostly because those are the colors i associate with the main characters in this au, Race and Crutchie

uhhmmmmm i’m trying to think of other things i can tie in with colors hold on

the only other common color to encounter i think would be red due to (bear with me through the emo) blood, this is after all, the end of the world and a lot of people get hurt. red splotches on white or browning dirtied bandages, the reddish of dried blood on healing cuts and under scars. yeah, red :]

thanks for such a fun ask!!

[mothmothwoth]

Anyways this is a good introduction to how insane I am, you might have thought this was a QSMP/MCYT blog but that’s wrong, I just get really afraid of talking about other stuff. But please if I talked about the broadway musical Newsies would you care? I need to know because I have a problem. My real life friends use my problem with Newsies as an example of my obsessiveness. I NEED TO TALK ABOUT NEWSIES AT SOME POINT OR I WILL IMPLODE. I AM SO SORRY TUMBLR DOT COM. However the upside is I am into so many things there is a LARGE likelyhood I’m into something obscure you’re into so. Honestly please talk to me I love hearing about things.

okay so why??? Is newsies trending? I’m not complaining about this, in fact I have been writing an essay in my head over the broadway version and how Santa Fe is really interesting from a character writing and acting perspective to deal with the fact I have watched Newsies in like 5 months (Newsies withdrawal) and I CANT watch it again because I’m trying to get my friend to watch it with me but they are very busy. You don’t understand. I have a problem.

[casp1an-sea]

100 Follower Event

Hi, MY name is Caspian Re (Re pronounced Rey) You can call me either of my first names or alternate! I also go by Cas for short. I also like weird, silly, or comfort character related nicknames and I sometimes go by Armie online

I primarily post about Twisted Wonderland, Star Wars, Marvel, and 2000s kids shows like Octonauts

Age: 19

Birthday: 10/13 

Gender: it fluctuates between trans masc and trans Male, so I typically just shorten it to trans (pls only masc terms) 

Pronouns: He/Him, Ey/Em/Eir/Eirs/Emself

Sexuality: ✨I’m Gay✨

Zodiac: Libra Star, Pieces Moon, Aquarius Rising 

Personality type: ENFJ

If you send me an ask or msg pls feel free to mention your pronouns 

WE SUPPORT PALESTINE HERE 🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸

Hotlines to call Incase of emergency

Master List:

I have a dating sim rp blog that is kinda popular :P

Pls check out my OCs, as well as my AUs, and my fics located in my writing post :)

—————————————————————————

commissions: Closed

requests: open!

EVENTS: KYLUX WRITING AND ART EVENT (Ongoing), May 4th Event, Twst OC Colab Event , 100 follower event

(I’ll do short writings, picrews, and possibly art if I’m in the mood. I’ll totally do my doodle style of you or a character.)

Fandoms, Writing, Moots and Tags, OCs, Comfort Characters, Just a list of Monsters I associate with myself, Moot Trail Mix Recipe, ART, Gender Envy >:(

Sims Masterpost

Side blogs: @hux-and-gay (mostly Kylux, 18+), @ramblingsofamadblob (OC and world building posts to complex for my main)

rp accounts: @robinbanks-accidentally (TWST), @spring-chicken (OC), @brooklynscamp (Newsies), @hollowsdill-manor (Vampire/Werewolf dating sim), @angry-space-ginger (Hux), @rouge-space-dad (Han), @thisiswerethefunbegins (Star Wars OCs)

@thenewhestia (my mc to rp with @kal0psiapanesthesia)

—————————————————————————

Likes: Star Wars, Kylux, Marvel, Twisted Wonderland, the Life Series SMP, RPs, Random Generators (its an addiction), 2000s Kids shows, Doll customization, folklore, cats, singing, art, musicals, being in musicals, and weird sea creatures especially sharks :)

Dislikes: Sweets, Rey/Reylo (if you are a Star Wars fan and you like her respectfully pls do not talk to me about her you will get your feeling hurt), Religious Topics (pls do not talk to me about Christianity or Catholicism it makes me uncomfortable), gruesome animal facts they are triggering please keep them to yourself, TOXIC ACOLYTE HATERS, Mean people that disrespect me or my friends, Racists, Homophobes, Transphobes, Ablests, Sexists, etc. 

Fun Facts: 

I am Left Handed 

I am Hungarian and I love talking about my culture or my grandfather’s story if you want to ask

I am single sadly

I’m a Hufflepuff my Petronas is a field mouse and my wand is Willow wood with a Phoenix core

My favorite color is green 

My favorite food is Pineapple Teriyaki Burgers or Chinese food  

I am going to be a film major in the fall

I have two cats named Lilo and Stitch (both girls), and I also have multiple fish. My snail passed away :(

I REALLY WANT CRESTED GECKOS!

I was in my schools broadcasting class

I’ve performed in Willy Wonka, Newsies,  Little Mermaid, Bye Bye Birdie, Christmas Carol, and Shrek, and played the roles of James (James and the giant peach cameo), Arista (Ariel’s sister), Young Fiona, and the bird that sings in that one song in Shrek . I’ve also had solos in Try Everything, American Tears, Fields of Gold, an Mo Town Medley 

I Did competitive gymnastics for 13 years starting when I was 3, before I retired I was in XL level gold. 

I played Violin in elementary school and during Covid in freshman year I played chimes cause that was the choir alternative 

I watch lots of weird 1990s to early 2000s sci-fi shows typically from Australia, there’s suprisingly a lot of them 

I play Minecraft but I am bad at it lol

I play DND 

Where else to find me?

YouTube: @antosaurusrex3752

AO3: ArmieVampire

Pinterest:

Star Wars Force Alignment Quiz:

TWST OC CHALLENGE

My Change.Org petitions:

[beetleviolet]

So... how does everyone feel about a rottmnt newsies au? Because I have a lot of brain space and a free weekend.

[seepylilthing]

Welcome one and all , to BROADCASTTALE !

A lonely , broken down Mettaton , stuck in his dilapidated au , wished for another chance to be something stellar . His wish was heard by and outcode named Rose , and with her help he was able to create a brand new au for monsters like him

Broadcasttale was created with two things in mind: giving monsters with no home world a place to live and thrive , and creating something that could spread joy and laughter throughout the multiverse . Thus was born BTMTTTV (brodcasttale mettaton tv) .

A multiversewide TV station dedicated to entertaining the multiverse !

With your host and mayor , STELLAR !

No one in the multiverse is quite as dazzling as him , his voice is as angelic as it is charismatic , he captivates his audiences and steals their hearts .

He's a very kind and loving person over all , he cares deeply about his au and its residents , especially the cast members of his TV station . They're his family and he would do anything to ensure their safety and happiness .

He/they/it

The multiverse news reporter , TOPAZ !

The energetic newsie is a little bit nosy and he's always looking for the next scoop , dragging his cameraman with him across the multiverse to capture and air stories from all over !

He's got a heart of gold and he'll always look out for the people he loves .

(He secretly has cat ears and a tail . They are hidden by his attire .)

He/they

Speaking of cameraman , here's BLOOKSIE !

They're Stellar's beloved cousin (from another au .... ) , and Topaz's trusted cameraman

They're soft-spoken and timid , often thinking less of themself , but they do their absolute best , and when push comes to shove they always pull through ! They're much stronger than they give themself credit for .

They/them

Can't have Sans without Papyrus . Meet KUNZITE ! (named by my good friend @knightpapyrus on Twitter)

He's Topaz's dear brother , he runs a cooking show on the station and his culinary skills are the best in the multiverse !

He's an absolute sweetheart and he'll defend his brother with his life (even if that means lying to people's faces that Topaz didn't inherit the cat gene)

He/him

And last but not least , STATIC !

They're a ghost of a human child who used to live in the au broadcasttale was built upon . They somewhat resent the creation of the au , but no one seems to notice that they're here .

Deep down they have a loving heart , they're just very bitter about the initial destruction of their au , and aren't entirely open to the drastic changes that Stellar and Rose made with the broken world .

They/them , 11 years old .

Rules

1. Fanart is a-ok ! Tag me in it even .

2. Headcanons are welcomed and encouraged . They may help me build upon the au !

3. Nsfw of the ADULT CHARACTERS is fine , so long as it's kept in adult spaces , far FAR away from minors .

4. Ships are ok , as long as they are not problematic type ships . Keep the adults shipped with the adults , and ship chara with people their age .

5. Feel free to design broadcasttale versions of other characters , and what sorta segment they could have on the station , I wanna see it , and who knows .... maybe I'll adopt some of them .

6. HAVE FUN !!!

[jack-kellys]

thinking

if i’m designing that means. brainrot

[agentsnickers]

For the mini bang ask game: sleep!

(send a word & I'll find it in my bang fic!)

Here is a moment that I thought had the word sleep in it until I actually searched the word lol:

It isn’t entirely proper to have ladies housing amongst the men, but neither [Race] nor Spot are proper ladies anyway. Anyway, Spot had actually hissed like a cat at the idea of being separated from David, because it’s been a rough decade.

but additionally a hc because that's not quite actually about sleep now is it?

When they live not on a boat, Spot and David usually have separate bedrooms, but they sleep in the same room about half the time anyway.

[loving-jack-kelly]

I am. fully back in my newsies BS rn and would love to hear more javid headcanons 🥺

and i will Always love to share more javid headcanons!

jack and davey will sit and talk about everything and nothing for hours. adhd and autism solidarity relationship.

jack is the King of being accidentally super romantic and also really bad at being romantic on purpose. he'll say something super sweet that makes davey swoon in passing, but then when he's trying to flirt it's his foot in his mouth all the time forever

I'm a davey confessed first truther because here's the thing. jack is all talk and no game. jack is scared of commitment and terrified of losing people, and changing an established relationship is so scary to him. what if it's bad and he ruins it and he loses davey? so he'd rather be miserable and pining than risk it. davey is much more like. he knows he loves jack and he knows he and jack work well together and he knows he wants jack in his life so what's the point in waiting around forever? davey takes his time but he's very sure of himself when he makes the first move and that's what makes Jack comfortable enough to reciprocate because he trusts davey

davey has game. he doesn't often choose to hit on people but when he does he's very good at it

they love to lie down next to each other. like yes to sleep in the same bed but also just to lie down with their shoulders touching and exist in the same space. they both love watching the sky

I don't think jack ever stops feeling intensely happy and lucky every time he remembers that he's with davey. not even in a like self-deprecating I don't deserve him way just in a like overwhelmed with love way

I also think there's something to be said about the way they just. complement each other. jack is loud and brash and davey is thoughtful and considerate and when they're together davey gets to be goofy and weird and jack gets to be taken seriously

jack is very on top of things in his own way and davey is very organized, but jack writes things down in a million different places and davey has like. one notebook or planner that he keeps everything in. they drive each other crazy a little

davey never gets sick of watching jack work. whether it's a little drawing on a scrap paper or a full canvas painting, he just adores watching the expressions on jack's face and the way he moves when he really gets into it. jack gets embarrassed every time he catches davey watching him

jack loves getting davey going on topics he knows nothing about. davey reads a book on experimental physics and jack starts asking questions just to hear a lecture he gets almost nothing out of because he just likes the way davey talks when he's passionate about something

canon era they love wandering around at night together, just walking or finding a park to lie down on the grass and watch the stars. sometimes they talk, sometimes they don't. it's just quiet and peaceful and they get to be together

modern au they are So domesticated by each other. i think pre being together jack was socializing at every opportunity like he'd be out until 3 and then up at 5 to watch the sunrise and at work at 8 and this was like five nights a week. davey stays up crazy late when he gets lost in something, is more inclined to be like no i don't think going clubbing on a tuesday is smart but then ends up staying up until 3 because he started a new show or got distracted by a book or a writing project. when they start dating davey is like jack you have work don't stay out later than midnight and jack is like fine but you also need to go to bed when i get home and suddenly they're both getting normal amounts of sleep and have a set date night every week and have each other's schedules memorized so they know when something gets screwy

[ramblingsofamadblob]

Hi! This is Cas!

(Adult, Trans and Gay, he/him Ey/Em)

this is just a sideblog where I can post about the universes and random OCs I create. Some of them are AUs or based on specific Fandoms. Some of them have no fandom ties at all. Some of them are from old or scraped role-plays and some are just character designs. I don’t want my main blog to get cluttered and some of these are quite complicated so I’m going to post them here. If you actually read them that’s amazing. I love you. If not, it’s OK I get it. This is really just for me.

Some of these do have written stories, but most of those that do are just because they were role-play most of this just kind of lives in my head. I love asks, so feel free to share your opinions and ask questions about what I post here or tag me in ask games.

My main blog is @casp1an-sea check out my OCs here ————————————————————————-

YOU ARE WELCOME TO MAKE OCs FOR ANY UNIVERSE I POST

I format my posts in the way that seems like I intend people to do this, it’s just easier for me

—————————————————————————-

Stand Alone OCs:

nothing yet

Known Universes:

MULTIVERSE AU

Writings:

nothing yet

—————————————————————————

Main Acc: @casp1an-sea

Main Side Blog: @hux-and-gay (mostly Kylux fan blog)

Other Blogs:

@hollowsdill-manor (vampire and werewolf dating sim)

@spring-chicken (oc rp blog)

@robinbanks-accidentally (twst rp blog)

@brooklynscamp (Newsies rp blog)

@angry-space-ginger (Hux rp blog)

@rouge-space-dad (Han rp blog)

@thenewhest1a (rp blog for @kal0psiapanesthesia)