#oscar x davey

[reineyday]

this is gonna be extremely niche but i cant stop thinking about oscar delancey/davey jacobs as a ship (it's the "understanding each other bc they both would do anything for their lil brothers" trope for me) lmao hear me out:

i occasionally see those posts that frame the delancey brothers as the kind of villain characters that are villains bc they're looking out for each other (which i love btw cuz i love complicated contexts); working for wiesel bc their dad is shitty and that's why they were all for beating up the trolley workers etc etc

anyways, so that's the kind of oscar delancey im working with: he's in it bc he's angry at his dad and the world and he's looking out for his brother. btw im using the livesies versions of them! (height difference hehe)

also i've noticed that he's the less aggressive brother? morris is the one that usually gets in the newsies' faces and spouts derogatory language; oscar's the one who stands back more. just works for him in this context.

davey's a new newsie and he catches oscar's eye bc he's cute and is smart (and oscar is not v smart and educated). in newsies 2017 he actually kind of gives davey's back a once over after davey takes his papers lol so you can construe something from there too.

he gets embarrassed for being called out on not counting properly (he was distracted okay)

he's in this position where he knows it's not great to beat on other people but anything is better than getting beat on, and he's doing this so he and his brother can stay out of the house, but he doesnt actually love how morris gets aggressive like that--it's so much like their father.

(morris obviously has issues there too, they just manifest more in the direction of "well this is the lot that's been drawn for my life so why should i be anything else? my father was so shitty, im just gonna turn into him eventually anyways" sort of mentality :( which is a good starting point for one of those mike faist morris fics where he ends up becoming a newsie to support himself differently lol but this is livesies and this hypothetical fic is about oscar anyways)

oscar feels trapped where he is, and he isnt happy, and he's sure there's more to life than beating on other people--especially when they're just kids like him--but he doesnt see a way out that doesnt end in him and morris both getting the worse end of the stick, or separated or something. and he'd never forgive himself if he got separated from morris.

then comes in the cute boy with the tiny brother (and he thinks about how morris used to be smaller than him too), and the cute boy starts a strike to protest their working conditions and he kind of actually... really admires it? but doesnt want to admit it bc theyre on opposite sides and oscar doesnt want to risk the good parts of his life rn, even if they're kinda meagre emotionally--he and his brother have clean clothes and food on the table and their dad's down for the count for a while, ain't no way he's risking that.

so canon happens like it does, and the newsies win, and the delanceys find themselves once more backing up wiesel and helping count the newspapers to give to the newsies for the day and that's where their story really starts, because all the newsies obviously hate him and his brother and oscar hates most of them too but goddamn it he just cant look away from this davey guy

also might be interesting to play with the idea that the delanceys actually live close to where the jacobs live and oscar recognizes him because he always saw davey and les leave for school in the mornings as he was coming back from distributing papes to the newsies

i dont actually know how theyd start seeing eye-to-eye, esp since davey being willing to give oscar even a second of his day seems like a huge hurdle to jump over.

maybe davey's about to get beat up and oscar intervenes against his better judgement, and davey feels obligated to thank him somehow even if oscar doesn't want him to--even thinks it's a bad idea.

maybe after the newsboy strike, the delanceys' prospects get worse bc after the governer steps in, everyone that was after the newsies suddenly gets a bad rap and money starts to dry up, and davey spots oscar giving morris most of his lunch ("c'mon, mo, you're bigger 'an me anyways. ya need ta eat somethin'.") and suddenly davey finds himself empathizing, and very suddenly quite curious about what their deal is anyways. (oh look another opportunity to make morris a newsie)

maybe oscar actually cant read very well and the newsies, most of whom are actually literate enough to read headlines, get news of this and make fun of him every morning about it, and at first it feels vindicating, but then davey starts to feel bad about it.

probably the last straw is when morris actually makes fun of him too (idk maybe morris was able to go to school longer cuz oscar was actually a newsie himself over in queens or brooklyn or something, when he was much younger, when their dad was still mostly decent but their family was poorer)--anyways, morris "teases" in the way siblings do sometimes when they dont realize theyre poking at a tender spot, and that's about it for oscar, and idk if he has meltdown or just quietly implodes, but davey picks up on it and feels bad enough about it that he offers to teach oscar how to read.

which, wouldnt it be interesting if somehow oscar and spot had been friends growing up, maybe sold together as the youngest newsies in brooklyn, but spot never realizes oscar delancey is him cuz he only ever hears about the delancey brothers from race (and jack), and spot only ever knew oscar by his newsie nickname? and his selling buddy moved away a while ago, and he's always been a little concerned cuz in the months before he moved, more and more bruises appeared on his skin, and once spot tried to convince him to run away and stay at the lodging full-time with the rest of the boys, but the kid refused cuz he needed to stay for his kid brother who doesnt know any better... anyways, spot realizing theyre the same guy could be a (sprace) subplot lol.

and then obviously they get to know each other better and davey helps oscar feel not-so-trapped anymore and maybe the newsies end up reluctantly and begrudgingly adopting the delanceys (after a real apology or two or twenty to crutchie, of course, who always got the worst of it from them) and maybe morris comes to realize how much like his father he's become and doesnt want that for himself, and also sees just how misaligned his and oscars goals actually are and idk they all become better and oscar and davey have a relationship that's hard-won but wirth everything

anyways yeah, i do think they'd be an interesting ship lol. oscar/davey!

[military-newsboys]

Race: *gazing at Spot* Gods above he’s hot…

Jack: *gazing at Davey* Isn’t he, though?

Oscar Dalency: *overhearing them* Who’s so hot?

Jack and Race in unison without looking away from their crushes: Your mom.

[daveyfvckingjacobs]

how to get better at acknowledge and being okay with saying you’re disabled via projection, a guide by me

[newsiesficchallenges]

Two Days…

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SIGN UP HERE!!!

[orcaofmyheart99]

Am I Gay?

Jack always felt a little different, even though he couldn't quite put his finger on it. After Jack met Davey though, his whole world changed. Something just clicked. 

“This is my brother Davey” Les introduced his older brother. 

Jack stared at the taller boy, with kind, brown eyes who was dressed impeccably. There was something about the pressed shirt, clean shoes and tie tucked into the boy’s vest.

“Nice to meet you Davey” Jack greeted him with his usual careless bravado, trying not to let the butterflies in his stomach take over. No one had ever made him feel this way. Not even Kathrine. Jack was both afraid and excited about this new feeling. The best way he would describe it was like seeing snow on Christmas Eve. After selling papers with Davey and Les, Jack was even more certain about his emotions towards Davey. 

After getting back to the newsie’s group house, Jack logged onto the internet to try and find out what was going on with him. He always had assumed he was straight but Davey was making him question everything. This was the first time he had ever considered another boy cute. This was the first time another person had thrown him off his usual confidence The very first thing Jack searched for was “am I gay quiz?” He took the quiz, unsure what the outcome would be. The quiz said he was more likely gay than straight. The next quiz Jack took was “Am I bisexual?” The answer was most definitely yes to this one. After the two quizzes, Jack read some articles about queer identity. If he was gay or bi he thought he should know more about those identities. As Jack was closing the tabs on the laptop, Race suddenly came bursting into the room. Before Jack could slam the computer shut, Race caught a glimpse of what Jack had been looking at. Jack was flustered but tried to remain composed.

“Is there something you need Race?”

Race just stood there, not knowing what to say. 

“Umm, well I did. But now I forget. Why were you looking at that stuff?” Race asked with an inquisitive face.

“No reason. Just bored is all. Anyways I should head to bed. Early morning. Papes won’t sell themselves.”

“Yea I’m sure the papes need all the help they can get. Especially from Davey.”

Jack almost dropped his computer that he was putting away.

Race smirked.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Jack said, trying to hide his blushing.

“Yeah, you do. I mean you were making total heart eyes at Davey today. You could barely muster anything to say to him.”

Jack looked up at Race.

“Was it really that obvious?” He asked, concerned.

“Well, I noticed. And some of the other’s probably. And maybe Davey. But it is good that you are trying to find out your identity.”

Jack nodded

“Just don’t say anything to the others or Davey?”

“Of course not Jack! If you need to talk about anything I am here. Oh and what I was going to tell you was that Spot has been catfishing the Delancy brothers.”

Jack laughed at this.

The next day, the headline was once again about the writers and actors strike. It seemed like it had been going on for far too long. There seemed to be no end in sight. The producers and studio exec seemed happy to just wait out their workers. Which was something not even a certain demon would think of or approve of. 

As everyone was pairing up, Race casually told Les that he could tag along with him and Spot. Les was excited about this opportunity. 

Race winked at Jack, causing Jack to blush.

“Ok, well it looks like Davey and Jack have to team up then. Don’t worry us and Les won’t get into too much trouble.” Race said, smiling at Davey.

Davey seemed alright with this and he and Jack went off to sell some papes. Jack was quiet which was very strange for him. Somehow just being in Davey’s presence was enough to cause him to go completely silent. Davey, who was himself pretty introverted, didn't start any conversation. It was nice just sharing a peaceful walk. Upon reaching their corner, Jack began talking to the strangers on the street, hustling them. Davey watched him work, taking mental notes on how Jack approached everyone differently. Jack was flirting with an older woman, attempting to get her to purchase a pape. Davey felt a little bit of jealousy rise in him. He quickly shook it off. Telling himself that Jack was not interested in men. The other boys had made it pretty clear that Jack was very much a ladies man. The woman bought the newspaper and walked away grinning. After about half an hour, Jack and Davey headed back to meet up with the others. Everyone went out for dinner to Jacobi’s deli. Race made sure Davey and Jack sat across from each other. Jack was feeling worn out. Trying to keep his composure around Davey was exhausting. He hungrily dug into his sandwich and chips. Trying not to make eye contact with Davey. Les and Davey started to head back home to see their folks. Before they could make it too far Race said out loud to Jack 

“So how was selling papes with him? It was better than those stupid quizzes, right?” 

“What quizzes?” Davey asked.

Race started stumbling on his words. He said something to the effect “spot needs me” and ran off leaving Jack completely humiliated. 

Jack could either lie to Davey or come clean. He decided to do the second, knowing that it was a matter of time before the others would hear of his crush on Davey and he didn’t want Davey to hear it from anyone but himself. 

“I have been feeling kinda off my game. I just took some quizzes last night and Race kinda walked in on me.” Jack said, looking at the ground. 

Davey raised his eyebrows. 

“Nothing super weird or anything” Jack added hurriedly. 

“I just ummm. Here is the thing Davey. I thought I was straight but after meeting you yesterday. I know we have only known each other for two days and it seems strange that after just meeting someone you question your whole identity, but that is what you made me do. Fact is, no girl has made me feel the way you do. I don’t really know how to explain it. It’s like this warm strange feeling. Like when I am around you, everything is going to be ok. I don’t know if you feel the same way or nothing…” Jack said trailing off, wishing he could just disappear into the setting sun.

Davey walked closer to Jack.

“Of course I feel the same way. I was really worried that you might not like me. I felt some immediate pull towards you. I can’t quite put my fingers on it, but there is something about you Jack Kelly that I loved the moment I met you” Davey replied.

There was a mutual sigh between them. Both felt immense relief.

Davey gently took Jack’s hands.

“How about we go on a proper date tomorrow? After selling papes? There is a nice deli near my house we can go. Maybe go have a picnic in the park?”

“That sounds great Davey” Jack said grinning.

They parted ways, happy to know that they had found the one person who truly made everything alright.

[bisexualbumblebee-writes]

Carrying the Banner Masterlist

Albert DaSilva x Gemma Hayes | Davey Jacobs x Lucy Larkin | Oscar Delancey x Hilda Beckett | Spot Conlon x Quinn

✨Completed✨

Starting note

Chapter 1- Strike (Albert x Gemma)

Chapter 2- Songbird (Oscar x Hilda)

Chapter 3- The Attack (Albert x Gemma)

Chapter 4- Safety (Davey x Lucy)

Chapter 5- Caged Songbird (Oscar x Hilda)

Chapter 6- I Never Planned On You (Spot x Quinn)

Chapter 7- The Rally (Albert x Gemma)

Chapter 8- Night at the Theater (Davey x Lucy)

Chapter 9- Thunderstorms (Oscar x Hilda)

Chapter 10- Jailbreak (Spot x Quinn)

Chapter 11- A Moment Alone (Albert x Gemma)

Chapter 12- Once and for All (Davey x Lucy)

Chapter 13- Morning in Staten (Spot x Quinn)

Chapter 14- Hearts in Sync (Oscar x Hilda)

Chapter 15- New Memories (Albert x Gemma)

Chapter 16- Birthday Surprise (Davey x Lucy)

Chapter 17- Good Changes (Spot x Quinn)

Chapter 18- Dancing in the Rain (Oscar x Hilda)

[newmsies]

Abt oscavey

I love this ship, its like s teir for me. So i was wondering what you see the dynamic between Oscar and Davey being? also i would like to know if its 92sies exclusive or not, thanks!!

i love this ship too, I've just never had a reason to talk about it until i put it in that oscar ship post! yes it is 92sies exclusive, I'm not sure exactly why this is but i can't really see it with livesies, aroace Oscar for that one! and with the dynamic, i don't know exactly what dynamic i see them as, there are so many that could work. The only dynamic i refuse to see them as it enemies to lovers, the only reason that doesn't work is 92sies David has a good reason to hate Oscar, if he hates him there's no convincing him to stop and no reason to convince him. but other than that I'm willing to try things along the lines of sassy rivals (secretly together), pissed all the time and mellow/pissed but secretly soft and mellow but secretly a sociopath, and then i think my personal favourite for most ships, tall and terrifying with tiny and trying their best to be scary 😊

EDIT: I FORGOT TO ADD, THERE ARE OTHER SHIP DYNAMICS I LIKE, I JUST CAN'T THINK OF ANY RIGHT NOW SORRYYY!! 😭

[endless-ineffabilities]

It's not like I'm falling in love, I just want ya to do me no good (and you look like you could) (18+)

Ewan Mitchell x actress!reader

Ewan Mitchell isn't one for parties, but for you? He'd make an exception. Surrounded by stars at the GQ party, his revered muse on the big screen becomes a twisted angel in his arms—leaving him seeing stars again as he finds bliss within your warmth.

word count: 6.7k

main masterlist ▪︎ teaser

Ewan thought he could keep up the celebrity facade, just for the night at least, but the ceaseless barrage of mingling is starting to get to him.

The boo hurled at him right outside the establishment still echoes in his ears. Maybe it wasn't even about him, but his annoyance had been triggered. He decides that it all has gotten to him. What a load of bull.

He had been on the fence about being tapped as an honouree of a lifestyle magazine. Like it means anything. What does this have to do with being an actor? How is this supposed to help his craft? He might as well have been tapped to do one of those videos where he shows everyone what's in his bag.

"It's exposure," his team had chirped in unison, practically reading from a PR handbook.

This wasn't the industry he'd envisioned when he first fell in love with the craft. But none of this is about craft. It's all publicity fodder, all noise.

What he really wants—what his entire being craves—is a BAFTA, a Golden Globe, a SAG award. Hell, he would trade every glitzy dinner party invite for the faintest whiff of Oscar buzz. That was the dream.

Instead, here he is, tethered to a seat at one of four long tables, littered with stars of every calibre—from industry titans to the disposable nobodies who would be forgotten by this time next month.

He had been encouraged to make connections. Socialize. He translated this as a polite way of being told to suck up to people. Maybe a casting director would remember him. Maybe some producer would pass his name along. Easy.

Flattery will get you everywhere in this business.

But at any given time, he would much rather suck on a bloody spliff.

Leaning over to Davey, he says, "I might sneak out for a smoke or something. That's fine, right?"

Davey snickers, sensing Ewan's agitation. "Oh, if you're asking me, I say do whatever you want, mate."

But then someone from his team, straight-laced, precious Lindsay, lets him know otherwise. "Ewan, I'd advise you to sit still for now. What if they call you up some time during dinner?"

Ewan doubles down, his leg anxiously shaking under the table. "Are they going to call on me?"

Lindsay balks. She hasn't heard Ewan sound this pressed before. "Well, we weren't told but—"

"Then I can go. They wouldn't care."

"Ewan, just—"

"Sorry, Lind, but I gotta take a breather. This is all just—"

Lindsay waves him off, resigned. Ewan has always been an easy client to manage, so she can't bring herself to begrudge him this. "Fine, whatever. Just make sure to hide the cigarette if the photographer shows up."

"Sure," he mutters, not meaning it in the slightest. Nobody would care if he is spotted smoking. They should be grateful he is not among the deviants doing lines in the bathroom.

He abruptly gets up from his seat, and backs right into... you.

Of all people. Ewan feels the blood drain from his face, his breath hitching as disbelief engulfs him. His hand instinctively rises, brushing against the silken warmth of flawless skin exposed by your backless dress. The contact sends a jolt through him, and for a moment, he's certain he might pass out. You—right here, in the flesh.

You flash him a dazzling, effortless smile and murmur, "Oops, excuse me," your voice a melodic tease that leaves him utterly undone.

"Oh, no... no problem." He stammers, fully aware that he should be the one begging pardon.

You hold his gaze, ensnaring him so effortlessly. He realises how stupid he must look, with his mouth parted and his eyes wide. He should say his name. He should introduce himself, goddamnit.

But the moment shatters when someone calls your name. You step away without hesitation, and Ewan feels the loss acutely, like an unhooked fish left gasping on dry land.

Then it comes. That fucking sound.

The high-pitched squeal you let out is sharp, almost grating, but somehow it still strikes him as endearing. He'd probably hate it if it didn't come from you.

"Hi! Oh my god, how are you? I haven't seen you since our ski trip in Courmayeur!" Your voice carries, your excitement encroaching his space like an air of warmth.

Ewan follows your trajectory, his eyes trailing as you glide over to Eve Hewson. The two of you embrace like old friends, giggling like co-conspirators, your champagne glasses clinking softly.

He nearly rolls his eyes but catches himself. He knows he's being ridiculous, standing there like a sulking idiot, but the irritation bites anyway. He wants to blame the squeal, or the scene you're making, or the way you seem so goddamn comfortable in this world of chatter and pomp.

But that's not quite it.

He knows the truth, and it gnaws at him like a persistent itch he can't scratch. He's annoyed because he wanted you—your dazzling smile, your undivided attention—to be aimed at him.

He forces his feet to move, making his way down the side hall, where the din of the party fades into muffled chaos. He needs a breather, a moment to reset, but even here, your presence clings to him like static.

It's maddening.

Ewan has spent years watching you. On screens, in interviews, on magazine covers. You're like an open book he's memorised, every detail imprinted on his mind.

That birthmark beneath your right shoulder blade, briefly exposed in that love scene with Glen Powell. He remembers it, even though the camera barely lingered. The way your laugh bursts out unguarded, lighting up every corner of a room.

In one interview, you mentioned Meisner as your go-to technique, and it stuck with him. Of course you'd say Meisner, he thought at the time, like you were someone close to him, because you're all about connection, about living truthfully in the moment.

And here you are, in the same place as him, vibrant and ever so magnetic. Princess of every party, muse of the silver screen.

But you don't know him.

You didn't think you would be attending the British GQ party, but one of your Londoner friends happened to be throwing their birthday bash the night before, so you thought—why the hell not?

You were, of course, invited. Originally, the invite had been for the American GQ Men of the Year party the week prior, but filming schedules had other ideas. For the past two months, you'd been stranded in the icy landscapes of Winnipeg, immersed in the demanding shoot of David Lowery's latest thriller.

Grueling days and endless takes had left you with little energy for glamour. But now, with a few weeks off and the American crew taking a well-earned Thanksgiving break, you finally have some breathing room.

The London event seems like a perfect way to ease back into the whirlwind. And it doesn't disappoint.

The Roof Gardens is buzzing, the atmosphere heavy with the scent of expensive perfume and free-flowing champagne. You glide through it like you belong—because you do. Years of this kind of schmoozing have taught you how to navigate these waters. A charming smile here, a fleeting hug there, a bit of banter with a photographer who asks for the best angle.

You find yourself talking to your old castmate Eve Hewson near the bar, the two of you imbibing something bubbly and dry. She looks luminous as always, her dark hair framing her sharp, mischievous grin.

"Winnipeg, though?" Eve says, her tone incredulous as she leans in. "What the hell is Lowery making you do out there? Freeze to death for art?"

"Pretty much," you laugh, savouring the chill of your drink. "But it's worth it, trust me. The script is absolutely incredible. I just wish the weather wasn't trying to kill me."

"Classic Lowery. He probably thinks the suffering adds authenticity or some shit."

"Probably," you agree, rolling your eyes. For some reason, you find yourself circling back to an earlier incident.

"By the way," you say, leaning a little closer to Eve, "do you know who that guy was? The one I bumped into earlier?"

"Which guy?"

"Clip-on earring. Tall, kind of broody-looking in an overcoat? Wasn't talking much, just sort of... cruising awkwardly."

Eve shrugs, clearly drawing a blank. "I have no idea. Was he hot?"

It only takes you a second to consider this. "I mean, sure. In a tortured artist kind of way. Poor schmuck looked like he'd rather be anywhere but here."

"Oh!" Eve says, snapping her fingers. "Wait, he might be one of the honourees."

You arch a brow. "Not a goddamn influencer, right?"

Eve shakes her head. "No, don't worry. I think he's in that Game of Thrones spinoff. What's it called? House of Dragons?"

"Never saw it." You didn't have the time, truth be told. Also, the last seasons of its predecessor had been enough to edge it off your watchlist.

She taps her chin, thinking. "Wait... oh! Wasn't he that nerd in the movie with Jacob and Barry? Saltburn!"

"Oh my god. That's him? He did great in that role."

"Right? I could not have pointed him out. Kind of a chameleon, I guess."

"Guess so," you agree, the curiosity lingering.

The night unfolds exactly as expected. You exchange quips with Harris Dickinson, who flirts with you just enough to keep things interesting. You catch up with Nicole Kidman, who had been somewhat of a mentor to you when you acted alongside her in your third film at just 16. Jude Law joins your circle at one point, his charm as effortless as ever, and for a while, it feels like just another night on the circuit.

By the time you step outside into the crisp evening air, you're craving a bit of quiet. The gardens around the pavilion are softly lit, the gentle glow of fairy light casting long shadows over the manicured hedges. You pull your vape from your Loewe clutch, taking a long drag as you lean against a cold marble railing.

That's when you notice him again.

He's standing a few feet away, partially obscured by a stone pillar, a cigarette burning between his fingers. The faint smell of tobacco taints the pristine air, and you catch the same restless energy he had earlier.

You wander closer, the soft click of your heels against the stone catching his attention. He glances up, startled, as if he hadn't expected anyone else to venture out here.

"Hey," you say casually, holding your vape up as you stop beside him. "Can you hold this for a sec?"

Before he can respond, you hand him your purse, crouching slightly to tighten the strap on your heel.

He freezes, staring at the outstretched object. "Uh... sure," he relents, albeit hesitantly.

You straighten after a minute, taking the purse back with a quick "Thanks," and give him a once-over. Up close, he's sharper, more distinct. There's something remarkably intense about him that wasn't obvious before.

"I'm Ewan... Mitchell," he blurts, his words a little rushed.

You smile, tilting your head. "Nice to meet you, Ewan."

He fumbles for a response, his cigarette dangling precariously from his fingers. "I, uh, think we bumped into each other earlier. Inside."

"Yeah," you say lightly, your lips curving into a faint smirk. "I like your outfit, by the way. Very vampiric. Dior, right?"

He blinks, then chuckles softly, almost self-deprecatingly. "Yeah. Thanks. I like you too... I mean, I like... I like your dress, too."

You laugh at the accidental remark. There's something undeniably charming about him, despite his nervousness. "Why, thank you, Ewan."

The blush that creeps on his cheeks shows through the powder. He must have felt it, because he immediately trained his gaze down to his polished shoes.

Cute. So you make it your mission to break through his shell. These events tend to get repetitive after a while, but maybe tonight will be a lovely exception.

And so the game begins.

The two of you peacefully take hits of your respective choices of poison, your bubblegum-flavoured vapour melding in the air with his Marlboro red.

"You're quiet," you point out the obvious eventually, a teasing grin playing at your lips.

He almost laughs at the understatement but only shrugs. "Not much to say, I suppose."

"Oh, I doubt that." You lean against the balustrade, studying him. Ewan feels his pulse quicken under the weight of it.

You're so at ease. It's infuriatingly attractive. Your disarming allure, your grace in this world of make-believe, only deepens his self-consciousness. He knows what he must look like: an odd man out, fumbling at the edges of fame while you shine at the centre of it all.

He exhales shakily and finally replies, "Don't let me bore you."

"You're not boring me," you reassure him, before playfully adding, "Not yet at least."

There's a flicker of something unclear behind your eyes when you move closer and ask, "So what are you thinking?"

What he's thinking is that he's out of his depth, that he hasn't felt this kind of raw attraction in years—if ever. He's thinking you're the kind of woman who doesn't even have to command attention, and he's already hopelessly drawn in. But what he says is, "Just... wondering how I got here."

Your laugh is soft, rich with amusement. "To this party?"

"Or this moment."

His words surprise him, his ears burning as they register. You don't say anything, causing Ewan's nerves to spike. Did he sound too eager? Too pathetic?

But then, you smile. That damned megawatt smile that looks even better in person than on screen. "Well, it's a good place to be, isn't it?"

You lean a fraction closer, and could swear his heart is about to burst out of his chest.

"Do you always look so serious?" you ask, your gaze flicking to his lips, admiring the way they seem to be in a state of being perpetually curled. "Or is it just the brooding artist thing?"

"I'll take it if it works," he manages, his voice uneven.

"Oh, it's working," you say softly.

Ewan shifts his weight, tapping the cigarette against the edge of the balustrade. "Sorry, I just... I don't get it. These things. Everyone pretending they know everyone, like it's all some bloody performance."

You exhale a stream of vapour, watching it swirl into the night. He's finally opening up, and there is no way you're letting this slide. "It is a performance," you reply. "That's the point."

He shakes his head, gazing at you with a genuine softness you haven't been at the receiving end of in far too long. "But why? Why not just let the work speak for itself?"

There's something innocent in the way he says it, and it's endearing and definitely rare among your crowd. Ewan Mitchell isn't like the men you usually find at these industry events. He's no preening peacock, no walking cologne ad praying to be noticed.

There's something boyish in the way he fidgets, and yet also something undeniably grown in the way his eyes linger on you when he thinks you're not looking.

You reply, "It's so people know who you are. Why would anyone want to go see your movie if they don't give a shit about you?"

"You see, darling, that's where talent comes into play."

"Hmm, okay. But do you not know how many thousands upon thousands of aspiring actors come to LA every year just to witness the death of their dreams, because nobody gave a shit about who they are? And I'm certain that a lot of them can outact us under the table."

Ewan takes a slow drag from his cigarette, buying himself time. The way you said "us" sends a thrill through him he's desperately trying to smother. "Well," he begins, "if you're talented enough, you'll eventually catch a break. People notice, don't they?"

"Talent isn't everything," you point out. "You need to have drive."

"That I have," he counters quickly, his voice laced with quiet conviction. He wouldn't have been able to climb out of a life of near-guaranteed anonymity in Derbyshire if he didn't possess drive. There's a confidence in him now, a spark you seem to notice, judging by the faint curve of your lips.

"And charisma," you add, your smile widening, "which, clearly, you also have."

"Thank you," he says on instinct. There's a pause, just long enough for him to wonder if he's again blushing under your watchful gaze.

"And," you continue, dragging the word out with deliberate weight, "in this day and age, you need to get people talking."

Ewan exhales, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "How do I do that, superstar?"

"A big, fat scandal usually does the trick." Your voice is casual, but your eyes gleam with mischief.

"Oh, brilliant," he deadpans. His sarcasm earns him another laugh, and he feels it in his chest like a warm shockwave.

"Or... you could date someone famous. Get on the PR train."

Ewan shakes his head, his brow furrowing. "Not for me, I think."

You drift closer, eyes narrowing slightly as if you're sizing him up. "Oh really? You wouldn't get with me if you had the chance?"

The question lands like a lit match in the conversation. He swallows nervously, "Of... of course I would. But I don't want it to be manufactured."

"How would it go then?" There's no mocking in your question, no cruelty in your smile—just curiosity, maybe a touch of challenge.

He falters, betraying the battle waging between his nerves and his growing comfort in your company. "How would what go?"

"How would you, Ewan Mitchell, get me?"

His throat goes dry. He considers dodging it, turning the conversation back to you with one of the rehearsed quips he uses for interviews. But that feels cheap in the face of your boldness, so unabashed and expectant. "Well, I'd ask you on a date."

"And I'd say yes... go on."

"And we'll go to... the cinema," he says simply, and for the first time tonight, he doesn't feel like treading water.

You laugh, shaking your head. "Oh, you're such a purist."

"What's wrong with that?" he asks, a touch defensive but also playful, emboldened by your attention.

"Nothing, you tortured artist, you," you tease, your tone lilting. "And then what?"

"Then... we could grab dinner or—"

"Would you kiss me?" you interrupt, your voice low and threaded with something heavier. Most would hesitate, worrying they'd gone too far, but you're not like most people. You never have been.

"If you... if you wanted me to," he replies, his own voice rough with honesty.

"But would you want to?"

His gaze flickers to your lips for the briefest of moments before snapping back to your eyes. The words spill out of him. "I'd be a fucking idiot not to want to kiss you, darling."

Back in the pavilion, music from the DJ booth intensifies, signalling the post-dinner stage of the festivities. But the booming bass that reverberates is nothing compared to the beating of your hearts.

"On this hypothetical date... do we take it a step further?"

Ewan's thoughts run wild, and they are betrayed by the way his pupils dilate. "What do you mean?"

"I am talking about hooking up." Your words are relaxed, but the way you say them is anything but. They drip with intention, with heat, as if you're privy to the fact that he has pictured that scenario a hundred times over.

"What do you take me for?"

"A warm-blooded man who's clearly attracted to me... and who I'm also attracted to."

"You like me?" he whispers hoarsely.

Instead of answering, you close the distance, your lips brushing featherlight against his. The tentative touch sets him ablaze. When you press harder, surer, he melts into you. His hands tremble as they come up to your waist, anchoring himself in the reality of you.

"Fuck me," he breathes when you pull back, leaving him dazed. "I can't—"

"Do this?" you ask, your lips hovering over his, pulling at the fringes of his restraint.

"No... I mean, I can't believe I'm kissing you." He stumbles over his words, clearly in awe. "I love you."

It's your turn to be taken aback. "Woah, what?"

"I mean, I've loved your work," he stammers. "You inspire me as an actor, you know. I've watched you since your early days. You're fucking amazing."

"Mmm." When he allows his hand to drift along your spine, you ask, "Have you ever... fantasized about... sleeping with me?"

"I... I don't—"

"I'm used to it. Being looked at. Thought of, in that way." There's a tinge of raw sensitivity in your admission, letting him see the real you.

Ewan wants more of it. After just a taste of who you are underneath the surface, he is left craving the rest. "Then I think you know my answer," he says.

You let out a low hum. "I know."

"You're such a goddamn liability," he murmurs, managing to sound equal parts affectionate and exasperated.

"I know that too. Come with me," you say, your tone suddenly commanding. You grab his hand, lacing your fingers through his, and tug him towards the pavilion. He follows without a shred of hesitation, his heart pounding so hard it feels like it might burst out of his chest.

The two of you weave through the edges of the party, slipping past clusters of inebriated guests until you find yourself in the dimly lit, unattended coatroom. The small space is as luxurious as the rest of the venue, the perfect backdrop for the tension threatening to explode.

The moment the lock on the door clicks shut, Ewan's restraint snaps like a taut wire. His hands cradle your face as he initiates the kiss this time, his hunger for you bleeding through every press of his lips.

The rest of the party fades away, and there is only you. He didn't care about any of it anyway.

"You are so fucking hot," he groans into the kiss. "I can't believe this is happening."

"Believe it, handsome," you purr, sliding your hands down the material of his coat.

"Are you sure about this?" His question comes out as a whisper, his forehead resting against yours, his cigarette-scented breath fanning your face.

"Ewan," you say, "get on with it before they all notice we've been gone too long."

He huffs out a nervous laugh. "The way you talk makes me think you wouldn't give a shit."

"No, I wouldn't," you confirm, your grin wicked. "They should fucking wait for us."

"You have an attitude, princess," he mutters, his fingers digging into your exposed back.

"Been told I have a big head," you joke.

He hums, before dropping a line that floors you. "Bet you have a sweet pussy, too."

Your eyes flash with amusement, drawing closer until your lips graze his Dior earring. "Wanna find out?"

"Fuckin' hell," his breath shudders out of him, "yes... yes... yes." He knew it might make him come across as desperate, as a damn simp, but he could not bring himself to give a single flying fuck. Not when you perch atop the gleaming marble edge of the table, and spread each leg out to the side, tantalisingly slow. A precious flower to be plucked, right there for the taking.

For him. He feels unworthy. He has half a mind to check the room for cameras—maybe this is all a prank. But what a lascivious, cruel prank that would be.

Is this some twisted initiation ritual into the Hollywood elite?

You trail a smooth, manicured finger along his jawline, igniting a shiver that ripples down his spine. His nerves come alive under your touch, each one crackling with electric anticipation, flipping a switch deep within him directly connected to his cock.

As he has revered you as a goddess on the silver screen all these years, he now reveres you in reality, sinking to his knees.

"Don't keep me waiting," you whisper silkily.

Ewan takes a steadying breath, before diving in. His hands lift the smooth material of your dress, revealing the sacred area between your legs, barely covered in a white sliver of a thong. You might as well have come with no underwear.

The coat suddenly feels too constricting, so he unbuttons it with a sharp motion, letting the heavy garment slide to the floor. But almost immediately, a flicker of concern crosses his face. The Dior number is a rental, and if it gets damaged, it won't be his head on the block—it'll be Davey's. With a hint of sheepishness, he retrieves it, carefully draping it over the back of an upholstered chair.

You notice the gesture, subtle but telling. He doesn’t quite belong to your world—or perhaps he does, but he moves through it without succumbing to its superficial trappings. Your friend Timothée wouldn’t have spared the coat a second glance, long since desensitized to the weight of designer labels.

But Ewan? He handles it all with a kind of quiet reverence, as if even in a borrowed piece of luxury, he remains grounded in something real.

And it only intensifies your desire for him.

There's a wanton intrigue in your eyes as you take in the bareness of his torso. His muscles are defined, but not in the off-putting gym rat kind of way. Instead, there's a natural leanness to his form—a testament to a body honed not for vanity, but for purpose.

Kneeling before you, eyes bright with awe, he gets right down to work. He pushes the fabric of your dress higher, out of his way, and you help him along, your fist bunching the skirt to one side.

"God, you're... perfect," he whispers. His palms rest on your thighs, and when his lips press to the sensitive skin just above your knee, you let out an involuntary sound that draws a low groan from his throat.

"Ewan," you breathe impatiently, unable to conceal your need for him. But he doesn't rush, dragging his mouth higher, trailing kisses along your inner thigh, his eyes fluttering closed as he savours the sensation.

He pauses just before pulling down the waistband of your thong, glancing up at you with wide, darkened eyes. "Tell me if I'm... if I'm doing too much," he says, almost shyly.

"You're not doing enough," you reply. "Keep going."

So he does. He slides the white lace down your ankles, then presses his mouth to your core, his tongue pushing between your folds with a fervour that makes your head fall back. His guttural moan is muffled as he goes down on you, the vibration of it causing heat to pool in your lower belly. You press the flat stem of your heel to the back of his head, drawing him closer.

"Fuck, Ewan," you gasp aloud, your hips rolling instinctively against his mouth as he works you over. He licks you, sloppy and desperate, his inexperience showing but somehow making it even better. He's so determined to give you pleasure, so eager to make you come undone, that he doesn't care about anything else.

He doesn't care about acting like a starved animal as he sucks on your pussy. All Ewan wishes for, in that very moment, is that you cum all over him—the sweet substance flooding his tongue, dripping down his chin, far more sumptuous than everything they have on offer in the party's banquet.

He's seen you fake an orgasm for a scene before, but this is real.

His tongue flicks over your bud, and when you cry out, he doubles his efforts. He wraps his lips around the aching nub to suck gently, then slides a finger into you, curling it just right. Adding another, he increases the pace, his fingertips pulsing into that damned spot within your walls each time.

The defined bridge of his nose is flush against your clit as he moves, augmenting your pleasure. The whole thing is messy, unrefined, and so damn good that it has you teetering on the edge in no time.

Your thighs quiver around his head, and when your orgasm crashes over you, you clamp a hand over your mouth to stifle the sound. Ewan keeps going, his tongue and fingers refusing to let up, coaxing every last shudder from you until you're trembling and gasping for air.

"Holy. Shit." You lean back on your elbows to recuperate as white spots flood your vision.

"Did I... was that... was that good?" he asks with his lips shiny and swollen, practically yearning for your approval.

"Yeah," you manage, but it escapes your lips as a small, incoherent sigh.

"Hmm? What? What was that... baby?"

Baby, he says. But with the way, he's being so sweet, so dumbstruck, he's certainly the baby in this dynamic.

"More," you give him a better answer, "C'mere." You pull him up to your level, tasting yourself on his lips. Leveraging your legs around his waist, you keep him caged in. The outline of his hardened cock presses against your pelvis, and when you grind into him, his teeth clamp down on your bottom lip.

"Aghhh, hey!"

"Shit, I'm sorry—"

"It's okay," you whisper, not letting him pull away. "I liked it. And I want more."

"Anything, baby," he promises, and the raw honesty in his tone makes your chest tighten. "Anything you want. I'll—fuck—I'll give it to you. I'm all yours."

You nod once, before he claims your lips again in a bruising kiss. One of the thin straps of your dress falls from your shoulder, and he visibly shivers in excitement at the sight of your exposed breast.

"Fuck," he sighs, his hand coming up almost hesitantly to cup you. His thumb brushes over your nipple, as he takes you in with lust-clouded eyes. He leans down and captures the flesh with his mouth, his tongue swirling around your tender peak until you're left squirming.

You reach for him, fumbling with his belt and his zipper, and he helps you, his movements even more hurried and uncoordinated than yours.

When he frees himself, you can't help but stare—his cock is long and hard, already slick with precum. The sight makes your mouth water, and when you drag your gaze back up to his face, you find him watching you, his expression somewhere between bashful and utterly wrecked.

Ewan's hair, once gelled to immaculate perfection, now lies in disarray. He'll need to borrow your comb before he dares rejoin the party. The lower half of his face bears the unmistakable traces of cum and smudged rouge, a vivid testament to the chaotic indulgences of the evening. And somewhere in the frenzy of fumbling and fondling, his clip-on Dior earring has gone astray. He feels the absence keenly, like a phantom limb, yet he resigns himself to the loss—for now, it's a dilemma best left for another moment.

"You're staring," he says, an uneasy laugh escaping him, but there's heat in his gaze, a newfound confidence grounding his nerves.

"Because I like what I see," you reply.

"Tell me if this is too much," he says, his anxiety resurfacing through the haze of lust. It's endearing—so much so that you can't help but smile.

"Ewan," you say firmly. "I want everything."

He groans faintly as he lines himself up. Carefully, he pushes into you, and the stretch is exquisite, sending a shiver rippling up your spine. You both moan, the sound echoing in the quiet of the room. He buries himself to the hilt, pausing to catch his breath, his fingers digging into your hips.

"Fuck, oh fuck," he murmurs, looking down at where your bodies meet. "Your pussy feels so good."

The compliment makes you feel something you can't pinpoint, but there’s no time to dwell on it. He starts to move, his thrusts tentative at first, testing the waters. But the whorish mewls spilling from your lips spur him on, and soon, he finds a rhythm—deep, steady, and just rough enough to leave you begging for more.

"Fuck, Ewan," you gasp, your nails scraping lightly against his back. "Yeah... just like that."

Your words are the only encouragement he needs. His pace quickens, and his grip on you tightens as if he's about to confess that he wants to own you. He's already yours, so it's only fair, isn't it?

He's spent years fantasizing about how your pussy would feel, squeezing his cock like a goddamn vice, and he's happy to find out that his imagination is nothing compared to the real thing.

"So sexy, baby," he mutters, his voice muffled as he nips at your neck. "Better than I ever—" He cuts himself off with a groan, his teeth grazing your skin.

You raise your legs higher up his torso to draw him deeper. The angle sends a bolt of pleasure through you, and your moans grow louder despite your attempts to keep quiet.

Then, suddenly, the doorknob rattles.

Both of you freeze, Ewan still buried deep inside your fleshy walls, his eyes wide with panic. The sound of a familiar voice seeps through the door, followed by a frustrated sigh.

"Where the hell did I leave my phone?" It's your friend, Florence Pugh. Her voice is unmistakable, and the realisation makes your stomach drop.

Ewan’s lips form a silent oh my God. You bite back a laugh, pressing a hand over your mouth as Florence jiggles the doorknob again.

"Seriously?" she mutters. "Locked? For fuck's sake."

You hear her footsteps retreat, her voice fading as she calls out to someone else. "Have you seen my phone? I swear I left it out here."

The moment the coast is clear, you both exhale in unison, the tension breaking into a mix of laughter and relief. Ewan drops his forehead to your shoulder, shaking his head. "This is insane," he whispers, though he doesn't feel a single ounce of regret.

"You're the one who couldn't keep it in his pants," you tease, rolling your hips slightly to remind him of your still-connected bodies.

His response is a low growl, and he resumes his thrusts, harder this time, filled with unfiltered desire. The near-miss only seems to have fueled him, the snap of his hips more frantic, more intense. The sound of your bodies colliding fills the room—mumbled curses, breathless moans, sticky slapping of flesh meeting flesh.

"God, you're incredible," he says, his voice strained. "I can't get enough of you."

You feel the coil in your belly tightening again, the pressure building with each thrust. Your delicate fingers dig into his shoulders, and he groans at the sensation, his cock twitching deep inside you. His rhythm falters for only a second before he recovers.

"Ewan," you gasp, your voice breaking. "I'm so close—don't stop."

"Come for me, baby," he says, his hand slipping between your bodies to find your clit. It sends you spiraling, your climax crashing over you like a tidal wave. You cry out, your body tensing and shuddering beneath him as he continues to move, chasing his own release.

He reaches up and twists your nipple, the sharp sensation making you gasp just before he comes. The sight of you—head thrown back, breast bouncing free from your designer gown, your smudged red lips parted in bliss—drives him to the brink. With a strangled growl, he slams into you one final time. His body shakes as he spills inside you, the warmth of his release flooding you completely. You both tremble in the aftermath, caught in the intensity of the moment, gasping for air, drenched in sweat and tangled in raw desire.

You blink lazily at him, a beautiful mess of tousled hair and make-up in dire need of a retouch. "Still think I'm a liability?" you ask.

"Oh, absolutely. But one worth keeping anyway."

Ewan sits in his dimly lit London apartment, the glow of his phone the only other source of light in the room. A half-empty bottle of Guinness sits forgotten on his coffee table. The screen displays your Instagram profile—your impossibly gorgeous face beaming at him from your latest post, which happens to be a professional photograph of you at the GQ party.

His finger hovers above the Follow button like it's the trigger of a detonator.

His newly-created account is laughably barren—no posts, no followers, no following. Just a desperate, last-ditch attempt to tether himself back to you, even if only digitally.

Ewan had always sworn off social media, claiming it wasn't his style, that he preferred the privacy and the mystique. Yet, here he is, spiraling, drunk on the memory of you and of that night.

The coatroom had been a blur. The attendant had returned far too soon, a flurry of apologies as Florence appeared behind her, claiming her phone from her coat pocket with a triumphant smirk.

Ewan remembers how Florence had tugged you aside, your laughter ringing out as she swiped her thumb across your lips, erasing the evidence of that kiss—or maybe just rearranging it. You had been whisked away to the ladies' room, leaving him standing there, disheveled, speechless, and utterly entranced. He hadn't even managed to get your number.

It's been days since, but he still feels the ghost of your touch, the echo of your moans, the scent of you on his skin. He's tried to focus, tried to pick up his scripts, but his mind keeps replaying the way you looked as you came.

He has even rewatched a film of yours, with special attention paid to a particular love scene. Watching it over and over, repeatedly going back to the timestamp where you're seen riding your male costar.

He felt aroused watching you. Also, incredibly fucking jealous.

"Pathetic," he mutters to himself, his finger still hovering. His thumb twitches, brushing the screen, but before he can commit to his descent into full-blown thirst, his phone buzzes violently, the vibration startling him into dropping it onto the couch.

"Shit." He snatches it back up, squinting at the screen. It's a call from his agent.

"Ewan," comes the voice on the other end, crisp and faintly incredulous. "What the hell did you do at that party?"

His heart stops for a beat. "Uh... what?"

"The party. The GQ one. The one where you disappeared for, what, an hour? Maybe more?"

Ewan's brain scrambles. "I don't—I mean, I just mingled. Like you suggested,” he stammers, his voice cracking slightly. "Why?"

"Because," the agent says, drawing out the word like it's a prize reveal, "you've been shortlisted for a chemistry test next week."

"A chemistry test?" Ewan echoes, blinking. "For what?"

"For her film," his agent says, emphasizing the pronoun like it's blasphemous not to know who you are. "It's one of those secret big-budget Hollywood projects only top actors are getting called for. We didn't submit you because—well, not to be rude, but you're not exactly on their radar for that level yet."

Ewan's heart starts pounding. He sits up straighter, gripping the phone tighter. "Wait, wait. What film? Who's—who's her?"

But he already knows the answer.

His agent drops your name, exasperated now. "Apparently she petitioned for you, Ewan. Said you'd be perfect. So what did you do?”

Ewan is stunned into silence. He leans back against the couch, a slow grin spreading across his face as the pieces click into place. You. You'd done this. You’d reached out and used your pull to bring him into your orbit again.

"What did I do?" he repeats. "Oh, nothing much. Just... made an impression."

"Well, whatever it was, it worked. Chemistry tests are next week in L.A. They'll send over the details. And Ewan," the agent pauses, lowering their voice slightly, "don't screw this up. This is huge."

"I won't," Ewan says, his tone confident now. "I promise."

When the call ends, he stares at his phone for a long moment, the grin still lingering. He glances back at your Instagram profile, his thumb poised over the Follow button again. Then he snorts, tossing the phone onto the cushion beside him.

"What's the point?” he mutters to himself, his grin turning into a full-on self-satisfied smirk. "I'll see you soon enough."

He reaches for the bottle of Guinness instead, lifting it in a silent toast to fate—or whatever it is that's tied you two together.

Something came out of all that mingling after all.

taglist: @bitchception @insideyourimagination @angels-wouldnt-help-youu @seamaiden @silverdragonfly @powpowjinxlife @starfishjellyfish5 @shellysa14 @delespresso @notsurewhattocallthisblog8888 @ninihrtss @believeinthefireflies95 @peachysunrize @darktrashsoulbear

[bigmack2go]

I dont think we talk enough about how almost all the newsie shipnames are actual words!! Like I actually fucking just love that so much

It makes me so happy

A list -not all are included and i dont ship them all but they exist and yeah…-:

Jelly (david jacobs x jack kelly) (aka javid/javey)

Space (spot conlon x racetrack higgins) (aka sprace/hinlon)

Blush (kid blink x mush mayers)

Jackpot (Jack Kelly x Spot conlon)

Redfinch (albert dasilva x finch whateverhislastnameis)

Rally (Racetrack higgins x jack kelly)

Jam (Katherine pulitzer x sarah jacobs) (aka karah/newsbians/satherine)

Purple (Ractrack higgins x spot conlon x albert dasilva) (aka Spralbert/robot/ralbot)

Robot (also racetrack higgins x Albert dasilva x spot Conlon) (aka spralbert/ralbot/purple)

Crack (crutchy morris x jack kelly)

Joy (tommy boy x jojo de la guerra)

Joke (jojo dela guerra x mike)

Lovebird (romeo lastnamesareoverrated x finch cortez)

Sponge (spot conlon x crutchie morris)

Dutch (david jacobs x crutchie morris)

Itch (itey x snitch) (aka snitey)

Crunch (crutchie morris x finch cortez) (aka crookedbird)

Rave (racetrack higgins x david jacobs)

Bell (buttons davenport x elmer kasvrac) (aka belmer/belmeruttons)

Dill (darcy reid x bill hearst)

(Idk why but ialmost wrote „darcy hearst and bill pullitzer“ than realized what i did and full on confidently wrote „billy elliot“ instead of bill hearst)

Smile (sniper wah x smalls lastnamewho)

Hike (ike guzman x hotshot hotshot)

Buttery (??) (Bumlets definitelyhasalastname x skittery skeedattle)

Smelly (smalls lastnamewho x jack kelly)

Soundtrack (Racetrack higgins x albert da silva) (aka ralbert)

Dove- (Davey Jacobs x Oscar Delancy)

Butter (buttons davenprt x elmer kasvrac) (aka bell/belmer/belmeruttons)

besheet?? (dutchie and specs (apperantly))

Butterfly (skittery skeedattle x bumlets definitelyhasalastname x swifty whateverhislastnameis) (aka bumswiftery)

Bitch (finch cortez x buttons davenport) (aka binch)

Decs (dutchy dutchdutch x specs cantseelol)

Hotspot (Hotshot Hotshot x Spot Conlon)

Amber (Albert DaSilva x Elmer Kazvrac) (aka almer)

Oh and bonus:

Fireball (Flames Krocki x Tic hasalastname™️)

Matches (Marbles x Crutchie Morris) @icarusdiesatdawn

[amoreva]

omg I saw your post referencing newsies... and (1992sies or broadway idc, whatever u want) with (whoever you choose bc I only saw u talking about Jack and I'm not really sure [I don't care I'm just starved of newsies content]) and they're helping reader become a newsie, showing them spots to sell at, helping them use their voice and be louder etc etc

ignore if you don't wanna do this, no pressure! and thank you if you do!!

RUBS RIGHT OFF

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

pairing: newsies x platonic!reader

summary: in which, you are introduced to the ropes and strings of being a newsie (it’s a little harder than you expect)

warnings: swearing, fluff, self-doubt

a/n: missed writing for newsies, sorry if it is a little short.

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

“Now listen, with that cute mug of yours, you’ll be selling papes like a pro.” Jack Kelly, the infamous leader of the Manhattan Newsies, promised you. Your new (old) shoes slapping the New York concrete as you walked side by side by the leader, gripping your newspaper bag.

“Cute mug?” You questioned.

“It’s an expression!” Race ran by. A shit-eating grin on his face. A hand on his newsie cap, the other gripping a cap that wasn’t his.

Albert ran by you. His auburn hair unkept. He didn’t have time to brush it because he woke up late, “Racer! You get back here. When I catch your ass—”

A small laugh escaped you as Albert chased Race in front of the circulation gate. It was amusing how close everyone seemed to be, yet a small feeling told you you won’t every be able to achieve that closeness.

You washed up in the Manhattan Newsies Lodging House by chance. “Selective amnesia.” Race commented when you only told a few things about yourself. It was by choice.

Jack shook his head with a breathy chuckle escaping his lips. “He’s not wrong.” He referred to Race’s words. “But it’ll be tough even with a cute mug.”

“Bad business?” You asked and looked up at Jack. Your gray newsie cap covering your full view of the so-called leader.

“Nah, today is great business. We get real good cash when everyone is out on lunch and stuff.” Jack reassured and pat your shoulder. “It’s the boredom you gotta’ get used too.”

“And them.” Davey gestured to two boys. They looked a little older than the newsies, but not too old.

The Delancey Brothers. Barely making enough money to get nicer clothes than the newsies. Even if they made money through not so morally good ways. It was evident with the shiny brass knuckles in Oscar’s pocket.

“They won’t bother you.” Jack reassured with a steady smile.

You watched as Jack gave the brothers a run for their money. A couple of this and that’s and the brothers were hot on Jack’s tail, until Mr. Wiesel said something. It was effective with taking the attention off of you, the fresh meat.

Morris only shoved the stack of papers into yours chest, grumbling nonsense.

Sweat trickled down your back, New York’s beamed sun cooked you alive. You felt like you were rolled your sleeves up for the umpteenth time. Jack had to be as warm, if not warmer, but the boy didn’t show it. The two of you had been out here for god knows how long. Your voice hoarse from shouting fake headlines.

Or “shouting” as Jack put it. He thought you could be louder. With your cute mug and the creative headlines you’ve been “shouting”—he thought you could sell fifty papers a day.

“C’mon.” He encouraged. “Miss Medda would say you gotta project. Shout it so the whole city could here the news of…hundreds swimming in an enclosure to live!”

A new aquarium opened up.

You were exhausted, fanning yourself with a folded up newspaper. The heat was unbearable. “Jackie boy!” Race slung and arm around your shoulders. Crutchie in tow. A grin on his face. “Journalist, 10 o’clock, around the corner.”

Race and Crutchie quickly steered you away as Jack when to see his girlfriend. Race may have lied, but it was all in good cause.

To save you from the brutality of work.

It wasn’t that Jack wasn’t a good mentor. Quite the opposite, but some of his selling spots were less than ideal—paired with his natural talent to sell papers quickly, he really could sell anywhere.

Race and Crutchie show you the best selling spots that some of the other boys have already snagged up. They didn’t mind sharing for a day though.

“No wonder why you have most of your papers left.” Race snorted and perched himself on a stone ledge. You looked at your worn out boots, feeling slightly embarrassed for not being able to sell fast.

“Be nice, it’s their first day.” Crutchie replied and leaned against the fence to put some weight off of his foot.

Race looked up at the sky. His hand covering the blinding sun. “Listen.” He trailed off and glanced at Crutchie, Finch and Jojo. “We already have most of our papers gone.”

He gathered the leftover papers and handed them to you. “You stand there with your cute mug and we’ll yell out headlines!”

You paled. “What?”

“I’m sure Jackie boy tired you out with all the notes he was given.” Race grinned and gestured you to hold out a newspaper up.

“The embarrassment will rub right off.” Finch reassured as his eyes followed a passerby. Crutchie, Race and Jojo follow his line of sight.

“Baby born with three heads!”

“Terrified flight form burning inferno!”

“Man discovers an unidentified object in his backyard!”

“Witch reported in Salem!”

By the time the New York’s skies were a burst of warm, radiant colors, you were walking back to the Lodging only ten papers. Race suggested you burn them in the fireplace later.

“So how was it today? Fun?” You chose to walk with Crutchie at a slower pace due to his leg.

“Yeah.” You shrugged, adjusted your newspaper bag.

“Listen, you’ll get used to it. Then you’ll be selling papes in no time.” Crutches reassured.

Light streamed out from inside. The newsies were already settling in for the night. Games of poker and wrestling matches were going on. Race ducked behind Jojo to avoid Jack’s wrath. They greeted the five of you and you sunk into a ratty sofa. Too soft from overuse, but it felt wonderful on your aching legs.

You observed the lively atmosphere, a small smile on your face. You could get used to living here, working everyday—coming back to shenanigans.

Fatigue and exhaustion have you in their clutches and you’re soon dozing off on the sofa. If there was shushing and harsh whispers to be quiet because of that—you didn’t hear a thing.

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

[1nm806]

pjo x newsies

jack kelly = son of apollo but specialises in music

davey, sarah & les jacobs = children of athena (wisdom, weaving and general craft specialities respectively)

crutchie morris = son of hephaestus (i am a buff crutchie truther and also i think he would help make things like prosthetics nd also pranks)

racetrack higgins = son of dionysus (parties and party games/gambling and madness like he's just so him yknow. nothing specific though.) OR son of hermes (trickster god, general menace, welcoming. it just felt too obvious to me though)

spot conlon = son of athena (battle strategy speciality + jacobs and spot siblings REAL REAL) or son of nemesis but that felt too edgy and he's not as emo edgy rude grr #die as ppl think he is.

katherine plumber = daughter of demeter & hunter of artemis

oscar and morris delancey = sons of ares (and they would go through a similar arc to clarisse)

splasher = son of hermes

boots is a satyr btw

and just for fun

dimes = son of hermes

eel = son of aphrodite

shoe = son of demeter

socks = son of apollo

madds = oracle

those are just vibes tbh i didnt think those through as much

[emmedoesntdomath]

This took up 2 pages in my Notes App (I think it's hilarious)

Some of them do have reasons:

Oscar x Romeo (iykyk)

Morris x Romeo (because their ship name would be either Momeo or Rorris and idk which is funnier)

Jack x Spot (I read one fic with them but it was a really good fic)

Finch x Crutchie (something about uksies I saw like 5 months ago)

Buttons x Elmer (not that weird but apparently rare according to the depressingly low amount of fics with them)

Elmer x Spot (sunshine x grumpy, need I say more)

Pulitzer x Weisel (just to fuck with you)

Davey x Elmer (I'm convinced they're both first generation Polish Americans and bonded over that and became best friends and then they started dating and when people would ask them about it they'd say something like "what? Because we're both Polish? Wow that's pretty small minded of you😮‍💨" and then hold hands)

Katherine x Darcy (they're a beard couple)

Sarah x Albert (they're also a beard couple)

Race x Elmer (in my head Elmer and Graves are the same person but nobody knows except for Race and they both think it's hilarious whenever someone in Manhattan talks about Graves and someone in Brooklyn talks about Elmer. Theyre also the only newsies who walk to and from Brooklyn every day and they got close during their walks together)

And now some simply because I said so:

Davey x Race

Elmer x Albert

Albert x Spot

Buttons x Crutchie

Specs x Crutchie

Buttons x Finch

Jack x Albert

…

[military-newsboys]

Oscar: It's not natural for women to Write.

Katherine: It's not natural for someone to be as stupid as he is tall, and yet there you stand.

[medusasbush]

read in march 2023

articles (ones behind a paywall are linked through webpage archive):

articles

Reverse boundaries How good are we at respecting when someone else says 'no'?

"Slow Pleasure" in a Fast World

Should People Be Allowed to Like Things? Are we discoursing ourselves to death?

The Divine Delusion of Gender: On "Energy" and the TikTokification of Spirituality

Spiritual misogyny is flourishing on TikTok

How ‘Poker Face’s’ Stop-Motion Animation Episode Was Brought to Life

Are there too many sex scenes in movies?

Man Says BetterHelp Referred Him to Conversion Therapy Supporter

Who's Afraid of Mark Rothko?

When Everything Becomes an Event

Meet the Lipsdick: A Dick Shaped Lipstick

How Do We Define the Female Gaze in 2018?

Do Words Mean Anything Anymore?

It’s Been Over Two Decades Since We’ve Had a Non-White Best Actress Winner. Will That Change in 2023?

I'm Coming Clean about Friend Envy & You Should Too

A Friend Doesn't Have to be "Toxic" to be Bad for You

Does Anyone Mend Clothes Anymore?

The Moral Case Against Equity Language

Inspiration Is Everywhere. Literally: The "We're Not Really Strangers"-ification of social media.

Men Are Lonely. But Women Are Being Attacked: Male Loneliness is Not Women's Problem to Solve

Romance isn't Just for Dating

What is Romantic Friendship?

The Case of the Missing Perpetrator: On Mysterious Pregnancies, the Passive Voice, and Disappearing Men

Dingus of the Week: Women’s History Month

Friends and mentees remember Judy Heumann, mother of the disability rights movement

The Language of Place

One of Walgreens biggest stockholders commissioned Fearless Girl

Fine I'll admit it. I Like Titanic.

A Plan Forms in Mexico: Help Americans Get Abortions

Can Nostalgia Be Sinister?

The Stay-At-Home Girlfriend Phenomenon

A Conversation With Stay-At-Home Girlfriend & Content Creator Kendel Kay

The Soft Boy Brigade: Was He “Written By a Woman” or Is He Just Wearing Nail Polish?

The Scientific Reason You Love Watching Reruns

Take Some Pills for Your Hysteria, Lady: America's Long History of Drugging Women Up

Everybody’s a Critic. So Stop Hating Critics.

A League of Their Own Is The First Great Gay Movie-to-TV Reboot

The Bear: At Last, A Chicago Show For People Who Are Not From Chicago And Have Never Stepped Foot There

the science of giving pain

i bet she has a nice scream: in praise of X, the new novel by Davey Davis

the persistent desire: on erotic identification

leatherdyke gender technology

‘The Last of Us’ Finale: First-Person Shooter

The ‘Last of Us’ Finale Is Just as Ambiguous and Agonizing as the Game’s Indelible Ending

What Exactly Is the Point of ‘The Last of Us’?

Do We Need Another ‘Love Letter to Cinema’?

Everyone needs to grow up: Whether it’s people who mention their Hogwarts house on their Hinge profile or literal white supremacists, culture is awash with adult babies

Instagram Store Core: A Manifesto Against Avant-Basic Home Design

Who Gets Care and Who Gets to Die?

Shoppers say secondhand stores like Goodwill are getting too expensive as Gen Z makes thrifting cool

Where Does Discarded Clothing Go?

How ‘travel aesthetics’ are ruining travel for everyone

Why is everyone so obsessed with frontal lobe development?

the sinking pleasure of a bath

Love, Sex, and Disabled Women: we want to be sexy too.

“Nope” Perfectly Encapsulates My Disappointment with the Biden Administration

What really killed Jane Austen?

On (Not) Discovering Disability in the World of Jane Austen: Disabled characters are present in Austen’s novels, but largely invisible in her cinematic remakes

Nathan Lane: Robin Williams ‘Protected Me’ From Coming Out as Gay on ‘Oprah’ in 1996 Because ‘He Was a Saint’

'The Last of Us’ finale isn’t controversial, it’s correct

The Oscars are beyond repair. Let’s make something better.

The House That Mr. Mayer Built: Inside the Union-Busting Birth of the Academy Awards

‘A League of Their Own’ is based on the 1992 movie, but has an identity all its own

Black Southern food isn’t killing us:The ‘plate’ is not the real problem

In the history of hip-hop fashion, there’s no ignoring Lil’ Kim

The next first ladies of rap

books:

Wear, Repair, Repurpose: A Maker's Guide to Mending & Upcycling Clothes by Lily Fulop

[zippidi-dooda]

TWST x NEWSIES

Cast List

Jack Kelly - Ace Trappola

Katherine - Yuu

Crutchie - Kalim Al Asim

Davey - Deuce Spade

Les - Epel Felmier

Race - Fellow Honest

Finch - Ruggie Bucchi

Specs - Grim

Romeo - Rook Hunt

Buttons - Neige LeBlanche

Mush - Lilia Vanrouge

Brooklyn newsie/Spot Conlon - Jack Howl

Pulitzer - Riddle Rosehearts

Pulitzer's assistant/Hans - Cater Diamond

Pulitzer's assistant/Bunsen - Trey Clover

Pulitzer's assistant/Seitz - Che'nya

Nunzio - Rollo Flamme

Miss Medda Larkin - Vil Schoenheit

Wiesel - Azul Ashengrotto

Morris Delancey - Floyd Leech

Oscar Delancey - Jade Leech

Snyder - Sebek Zigvolt

Police man - Leona Kingscholar

Roosevelt - Malleus Draconia

Mayor - Silver

Jacobi - Jamil Viper

Nuns - Dire Crowely & Ramshackle Ghosts

Sound - Idia Shroud

Lights - Ortho Shroud

Costumer - Divus Crewel

Acting director - Mozus Trein

Choreographer - Ashton Vargus

Prop master - Sam

Note: Cast List may be subject to change if too much hostility between cast members occur. Specifically between Medda Larkin and Buttons; Jack Kelly and Roosevelt; Wiesel and Jacobi; Specs, Nunzio, and Race

Please don't destroy props, set pieces, the stage, the theatre, or each other

[daveyfvckingjacobs]

Morris or Jack for the ask game plz :)) - 🤠anon

you said or so I’m gonna do both x

morris first

one aspect I love: the complete lack of knowledge about him. ik this goes for basically every character, but the fact almost everything about him is just, a mystery, is particularly prevalent with morris. I think it’s because he has a much different role to the newsies that it’s so interesting to me

one aspect I wish more people understood: I’ve said this once, and I’ll say it again. it is ok for people to theorise about, create sympathy for and expand on his character and story and it doesn’t immediately mean they’re apologising for/forgiving his actions, even if they don’t state it explicitly. antagonists are more fun fleshed out

one headcanon: autistic morris <3 semi verbal with a tendency to go completely non verbal when panicked/threatened and very sensory avoidant

one character I love them interacting with: oscar. I don’t need to explain this one I love brothers

one character I wish they interacted with more: I would love to see more full conversations between him and jack, over just the physical altercations. it gives more depth to both their characters

one headcanon with another character: him and oscar are very touchy. in public it’s subtle, pats on the back or nudges with a shoulder, little taps on a wrist but in private it’s more ‘splayed on top of each other on their bed because morris likes the pressure and reassurance’

and now jacks turn

one aspect I love: his relationship with his boys, and the lengths he’s willing to go for them. found family is my favourite trope and everything jack does for his newsies (and what they do for him) make me weep

one aspect I wish more people understood: jack never does anything without reason. he is so selfless and sometimes I see people throwing around that he betrayed his boys, when he didn’t and it irritates me. his whole life is centred around his family - it’s all he has - and he does what he does for them, not himself. yes it was technically betrayal but not for selfish reasons

one headcanon: daddies boy™️

one character I love them interacting with: davey, for more reasons than javey I swear. jack is so important in daveys development as a character and person yes, but davey is just as important to jack. watching how strong their relationship is and what it does to bring jack back to life and give him hope is so. yes

one character I wish they interacted more with: race, see jack race crutchie brothers in the crutchie post

one headcanon with another character: he has a long, very complicated history with spot that most of the newsies are aware of but don’t ask about