#newsies imagine

[youaintnothinbuta]

Hi, love your writing

I would love to see more Jack Kelly images and little bulbs, fluff, smut literally anything.

Maybe one where reader and Jack just spent time cuddling in jacks penthouse, trying to hide from the other boys cus they keep tease them.

“they won't find us in here” — jack kelly x reader

Summary: you and Jack are hiding away in his room, trying to have a little cuddle, which the other boys always like to make the centre of their amusement

Pairing: jack kelly x fem!reader

Word count: 556

Warnings: none, fluff, maybe typos if so sorryyy <3

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The dingy light of the Lodging House barely reached Jack's room, casting a warm, golden glow on the worn-out furniture and scattered newspapers and clothes. You and Jack, seeking a quiet escape from the high energy of the other newsies, found solace in his bedroom. The laughter and banter of the other boys still echoed through the air, but Jack had expertly tucked the two of you away, hidden from their teasing eyes.

As you settled into the cozy space, Jack draped an extra blanket over his bed, creating a makeshift nest. The soft sounds of hushed laughter and the muffled chatter of the boys outside filtered through, creating a comforting background noise.

Jack motioned for you to join him on the bed. “They won't find us in here,” he whispered with a mischievous glint in his eyes. You couldn't help but giggle, realising the absurdity of the situation. "Is this really how much effort it takes, just for us to have some cuddle time?" you teased.

Jack chuckled, a sheepish grin playing on his lips. "I wouldn’t say this is a lot of effort- they're just nosy."

With a playful roll of your eyes, you nestled into the blankets beside him. Jack pulled you into a warm embrace, the scent of newsprint and a hint of cologne enveloping you. The soft touch of Jack's fingers traced patterns on your back, a rhythmic motion that seemed to synchronise with the beat of your hearts. “This is nice,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. You couldn't help but agree.

As you rested against him, the teasing banter of the boys outside became more audible. The distinctive voices of Race, Albert, and the others echoed in the hallway, their comments gradually becoming more pointed.

“Where's Jack?”

“Probably off being bottle fed!”

“Whispering sweet nothings I bet.”

“Can't believe he turns into a softie around a girl.”

Jack, his brows furrowing, shot you an apologetic look. “Sorry about them. They're relentless.”

You laughed. “Hey, I’m not the one they’re insulting. They just don't get to see this side of you often."

He smiled, the warmth in his eyes deepening. “You're right. It's our little secret.”

Jack's fingers idly played with a strand of your hair, continuing their gentle caress. The quietude of the room invited a sense of relaxation, your words slipped out almost as a murmur.

“You’re so comfy. I could just fall asleep.”

He grinned, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “You can do that, sweetheart.”

With a sigh of contentment, you allowed the gentle embrace of sleep to envelop you, feeling the rise and fall of Jack’s chest as he held you. Jack listened to the fading banter with a mix of amusement and exasperation. As the night unfolded, Jack carefully adjusted the blankets around you, ensuring your comfort. The usual mischievous glint in his eyes instead softened into a tender gaze as he watched you sleep peacefully.

The creak of the door signaled the return of the newsies, their laughter now reduced to tired murmurs. Jack, ever protective, shot a warning glance at the doorway, silently urging them to keep their distance. The boys, catching on to Jack’s mood, exchanged knowing looks and dispersed, respecting the unspoken boundary around Jack’s room. Eventually, he allowed himself to drift off to sleep too.

#newsies #newsies broadway #newsies jack kelly #jack kelly newsies #newsies imagine #racetrack newsies #race newsies #jack kelly #jeremy jordan newsies #jack kelly x reader #reader x jack kelly #jack kelly fluff #jack kelly x reader smut #jack kelly hcs #jack kelly headcanons #jack kelly smut #jeremy jordan jack kelly #racetrack x reader #newsies x reader #fluff

[inkblotsandpapertrails]

Loves Me, Loves Me Not [A.D]

Pairing: Albert DaSilva x Reader

Description: Working as a florist means expressing a person's love for them, writing out their love story in an array of petals and blossoms and messages hidden in between it all. It does not mean falling in love yourself. But then the newsie starts selling outside your shop, and your whole routine goes out the window.

Tags: Oblivious reader, shy reader, flustered Albert, canon era, florist au, flower language/floriography, gender neutral reader, oneshot

A/N: OHHHH you didn't think ol ANGSTY MCGEE could write 10k of sheer toothrotting fluff now didja?? hm?? didja bitch?? well jokes on you cause i wanted to branch out with my reader types and there's nothing i love more than turning the token Tough Guy character into a squirming flustered puddle of a man. anyways i'd say take a shot for every repeated motif in this thing but you'd probably die of alcohol poisoning so just sit back and enjoy the self indulgence!

It is important to note that this happened entirely by chance.

You really can’t stress that enough. There are a thousand things that could’ve caused it, and another thousand things that could’ve led to the whole thing being avoided altogether. But of all things, it had to be chance. And newspapers, you suppose.

Yes, newspapers, har-har. It’s ridiculous, such a simple cause for the whole thing. Something that, again, could’ve been entirely avoided. You know it’s not especially pretty to wrap your painstakingly arranged bouquets in newspapers of all things. It’d be better to use parchment paper – something plain, but rustic, something that drew attention to the blossoms without looking too vulgar, perhaps lined with coloured tissue or lace if you were feeling particularly showy – rather than the same wastepaper the fishmongers used to wrap their catch. But you can’t help it. It’s an in-joke, of a kind; the idea of something growing out of yesterdays news brought you comfort, absurd as that is. So you don’t care if the ladies and businessmen wrinkle their noses at the crinkling paper and running ink wrapped around their lush roses and baby’s breath – they could stand to be humbled some, in your opinion. A rose by any other name, after all.

So, yes. Newspapers. Not the grandest way to start a story, but it’s yours. You like reading them, when the days get long, looking over yesterday’s stories. It became a game, almost – you’d read about the horses favoured to win at Sheepshead and laugh, knowing full well that Admiral Shucker would stumble and come dead last, leaving Zippy Skip to take his first ever victory and render every gambler at Sheepshead penniless. It’s a comfort, knowing exactly what was going to happen. Knowing precisely how the story ended before you read the first line. Which is why, when you ran out of newspapers for your bouquets, you were entirely unbothered – because you knew precisely what you were going to do. You would close for a few minutes, go down Park Row, grab a cheap and terrible hotdog lunch from the park vendor, and then walk until you reached the Promenade, where pack of newsboys would no doubt have stacks of papers ready for the taking as they waited for the double-whammy lunchtime rush of the University and City Hall. And then you’d hurry back, cramming your hotdog into your mouth, and re-open for the lunchtime rush yourself. Same as every Friday.

So you shut your register. You flip your sign to closed. You walk outside and lock the door behind you, and fuss with your pockets distractedly as you cram it back, because that is what you always do at lunchtime on a Friday.

Walking directly into someone’s back, however, is not.

“’Ey, watch where ya-!” Someone snaps as you stumble, tripping over your own feet. You make a rather embarrassing squeak and shut your eyes as you brace for the floor, reaching out blindly for something, anything-

“Whoa – Jesus-!”

You grab the something between your fingers, and then the something grabs ahold of you, hands squeezing your waist tight enough for you to feel rough callouses through your clothes. You open your eyes and – ah.

Well.

That is unexpected.

The boy’s your age, thereabouts. He’s pale, underneath the freckles and sunspots, with eyes cornflower blue. His face is close enough for you to make out the little threads of colour in the iris, like the veins of a petal, and the feather-down of his lashes – orange, you realize, orange and fluffy, like celosia plumes.

You both stare at each other for a moment, as the initial panic subsides. And then you remember the hands on your waist. And you feel the rough wool of a vest clutched between your fingers. And you realize he’s holding you at an angle from where you fell, so you’re dipped just a bit backwards, the way you’ve seen gentlemen dip their lovers for a chaste kiss after they proffer their bouquets.

You clutch your hands to your chest with a small squeak, and the boy leaps back as if you’d burned him.

“Sorry!” He says hurriedly. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t – I wasn’t-“

“No, no!” You say, equally panicked, as you wipe imaginary dust from your clothes. “My fault, entirely my fault, I should’ve been looking, I-“

You both stammer over the other, fumbling apologies and excuses, until you both seem to simultaneously trail off, realizing the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. You laugh sheepishly, and the boy chuckles with you.

“I-I really am sorry.” You say sheepishly. “I, um – people aren’t really around here before lunch, they’re usually working…”

The boy raises an eyebrow and jostles the bag he has slung over his shoulder.

“Well, s’pose I am workin’.”

You frown, glancing from him to the bag of – newspapers!

“You’re a newsie!” You gasp, clasping your hands together. The boy blinks, his cheeks dusting pink, and you bite your lip anxiously – you suppose he must find you quite strange, knocking into him and then getting excited over newspapers, of all things.

“Uh – yeah…” He says awkwardly, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I, um – I was lookin’ for a new sellin’ spot, heard this place was kinda up an’ comin’, and, uh… I like… Lambs.”

You blink at him, turning to glance at the wooden sign that hangs over your shop door. You’d always loved it, the wee lamb snoozing in a meadow with the words Little Lamb Flowers painted below in curly lettering – perhaps some would find it cloying or childish, but you liked it found it adorable. Still, the idea of this newsie, with his big arms and rough hands and his hat on backwards, being drawn to your shop over a painted lamb… You couldn’t help but find it charming.

He's somehow even redder when you turn back to him, looking at the floor like he’s begging it to swallow him.

“Uh – not, not that I, not to say, y’know, I’m not – I ain’t, like-“ He flounders, and you try not to smile. “The sign’s… Good.”

It’s so awkwardly charming that you can’t help but giggle. He full-body jerks, staring at you with wide eyes.

“Yes, well.” You smile, bunching the hem of your shirt between your fingers. “I like pretty things, I suppose.”

The boy makes a stifled noise, something a bit too sheepish to be a laugh.

“Yeah, s’pose you would.”

“Hm?” You cock your head, and he flushes.

“Uh – nothin’!” He says quickly, looking away with a wrinkled brow, as if the sidewalk had personally offended him. “I just – I-“

“No, um – You’re right!” You try to smile reassuringly – you hope you aren’t making him uncomfortable. You know you can be a little over-the-top, but you wouldn’t want to frighten him off, not after he helped you. And, well – perhaps you were a little intrigued by the gruff, abrasive newsie that liked paintings of lambs. “I mean, I’d hardly be a good florist if I didn’t.”

The boy is silent, glancing around at the quiet street. You fidget with your hands, opening your mouth, then closing it, your body quietly reminding you that you’re supposed to be going to Park Row, because that’s what you do every Friday, and if you don’t get back in time you’re not going to have time to eat lunch, but why would you go to Park Row when there’s a newsie right here? It’s not your routine, perhaps, but – even you can’t deny the convenience.

“Could I-“ You say, stuttering over your words. “Could I perhaps – goodness, this is going to sound awful strange, but, um – I-I don’t suppose I could take a hundred, could I?”

The boy’s neck jerks towards you, hard enough to make you wince.

“Only if you have it!” You say quickly. “I-It is a tall order, if – if you don’t, I can just run down to Park Row-“

“A hundred?” The boy manages to splutter. “What’cha need a hundred for, a pape for every flower?”

You’re sure he’s not angry, just confused – it’s a peculiar request – but it’s enough to make you duck your head anxiously.

“I, um.” You try to laugh, but it sounds a bit pathetic. “I-I like to – wrap the bouquets with them? It’s sort of a… Personal joke, I suppose? It’s silly, sorry, I didn’t mean to bother-“

“No!” He says quickly – you chance a glance towards him, and you’re almost shocked at how scarlet his face has become. “I, uh, no, no, I mean – I’d be a lousy newsie if I said no to a hundred papes…”

He pulls his entire stack out of his bag and pushes it into your arms. You grin, cradling the papers like a prize.

“Gosh, you’re my hero!” You laugh without thinking as you fish the change out of your pocket. “I sure hope you stick around, that just saved me twenty minutes!”

You slide your hand over his and slot the coins into his palm. You try not to shiver as you feel his callouses brushing your skin. He’s staring at you, you realize, mouth parted and eyes wide, and you feel your face beginning to warm up. Goodness, what a state you’ve made of yourself – there’s still pollen on your fingers, no doubt there are stray petals in your hair, and you’ve gone running into a newsboy and taking all his papers and – Lord, this is not how Fridays are meant to go.

“Sorry.” You say sheepishly. The boy quirks his brows, chuckling inquisitively.

“F’r what?” He asks. “Ya just sold me out and the lunch rush ain’t even hit yet, I…” He swallows and tangles his hand around the strap of his bag. “Thanks, uh…?”

“Oh!” You gasp. “I beg your pardon, I’m so rude – [Y/N].” You stick your hand out, curtsying as best you can with a stack of papers balanced in the crook of your elbow. “[Y/N] [L/N].”

The boy makes a noise, half-chuckle, half… Something else, and clasps his calloused fingers around yours.

“Albert DaSilva.”

Now that he’s looking at you properly, not ducking his head or avoiding your gaze, you can make out the subtle twinges of bluebeard-grey that dapple around the ring of his iris, little gleams in the sunlight. DaSilva, indeed.

“Well,” you smile sheepishly, “it’s a pleasure to meet you, Albert DaSilva.”

His grip tightens by a fraction as his eyes widen, just a twitch. You frown at his sudden awkwardness, glancing at your hands and-

“Oh!” You pull your hand away – he immediately yanks his own back like you’ve pricked him. “Oh, goodness, I’m sorry, I got pollen all over you!”

Albert blinks, holding up his fingers and peering at the yellow dust clinging to his skin.

“Oh, uh – nah, ain’t no big deal,” he says quietly, glancing at you through his feathery lashes. “I pro’lly-“ he blanches as he looks at your hands. “Aw, shit, I got ink on ya! Ah-!” He tenses again, his whole body going suddenly ramrod straight. “Fuck, I said shit – dammit-!”

You can’t help it – you laugh. It’s all just so absurd, so strange, so not what was meant to happen today. And you like it. It’s ridiculous and stupid and, against all reason, you like it, this bizarre newsboy who’s landed on your doorstep. He watches you as you giggle, positively perplexed, and chuckles awkwardly alongside you.

“I, um,” you manage to say between little giggles. “I-I should really get back inside.”

Albert nods, swallowing hard enough to make his Adams apple bob.

“Yeah, uh – s’pose I should go back to the Square.” He smiles smugly to himself. “Hell, I got a whole day off today!”

You snicker again, feeling just a bit proud of yourself for being the one to make him smile like that.

“Well…” You hug the paper stack to your chest, trying to hide your expression – you must look like a dope, giggling like a fool over a boy you just met. “Perhaps I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

Because it would be convenient, of course. That’s the only reason you ask, for the convenience – it’d beat walking all the way to the Promenade and walking all the way back with a stack of papers, having a newsie so close. That’s why you ask. Not because of lambs or cornflowers or any other ridiculous reason. Still, Albert looks almost surprised that you asked, eyes wide and pretty and nooononono, that’s not what you should be noticing right now!

“I – Yes!” He says it far too loud, and realizes that unfortunate fact quite suddenly, slapping a palm over one red cheek. “I mean, uh, yeah. Cool. Sounds good.”

You bounce on your toes and offer him another sheepish farewell before ducking back into your shop, feeling far too warm despite the breezy spring weather – and you realize with a twinge of fear that your routine is about to become very, very different, in ways that you can’t possibly expect.

You bite your lip as you fuss over your arrangements. This was why you always read yesterdays paper, for goodness’ sake – there’s no surprises when you know what’s coming. Now, you’re going in blind, and it’s – it’s scary.

But then you think about Albert. All the little peculiarities you’ve found out about him in the span of just ten minutes.

It could be a bit fun, too, you suppose.

You go on like that for a while, you and Albert. He becomes a fixture of the store, as permanent as the dried flowers in the window, or the Little Lamb sign swinging overhead. You hear him when the door swings open, barking a headline, and you see him through the window, wandering up and down the storefront, his dandelion-mane ruffling in the breeze.

You try not to get to attached. It’d be like naming a freshly picked flower while knowing full well that within a week, it’d be withered and gone. But you can’t help it. You liked your old routine, you really did – you liked the gentle monotony of your cozy little shop, you liked wandering the shelves and fussing over the flowers, you liked making polite conversation with the customers, from the bashful lovers planning a proposal to the suave businessmen looking to surprise their spouse, to even the flustered housekeepers running errands for their mistresses. But now there’s Albert, rough and unkempt Albert, sprouting between the cracks of your life like a stubborn thistle, prickly and rough around the edges, but… Then he’ll hold the door for you when you’re stumbling out, juggling an armful of flowers. Then he’ll persuade some passer-by on the street to stop in the shop after they buy a paper. Then he’ll lug a whole stack of papers over every Friday and drop them off at the door for you, offering you a stiff smile as he tips his cap.

“You’re an angel.” You say gratefully as you press the dimes into his palm. “I used to have to walk all the way to Park Row and back for these. I’d barely have a lunch break at all!”

Albert nodded wordlessly as he fumbled over the coins, almost dropping one before he shoved them into his bag, face flushed and rosy. Perhaps you were being clingy, but you were beginning to get a bit concerned over how red Albert was all the time – sunburn, perhaps? You knew he was pale, but it didn’t seem right for him to be so flushed all the time…

“Try walkin’ all day,” he chuckles, a bit stiltedly. “M’ready t’keel over by the time the second bell rolls ‘round.”

And that sticks with you as you fidget around your little apartment above your shop. You know Albert didn’t mean anything by it – you’d never heard him complain once, not after a long day’s work, not when he heaved a stack of papers all the way down to the Financial District every week, not even when you got distracted by your keys or your flowers or whatever else and went knocking into him as you exited the Little Lamb. Perhaps he just didn’t want to tell you about stuff like that – it’s not like you know him particularly well, you suppose. Still, it didn’t feel right, having him work so hard for so little.

You frown at your butterknife as you prepare your lunch, and chance a glance towards your open window. If you strain your ears over the bustle of the street, you can hear Albert hawking away.

You shouldn’t get attached. You really shouldn’t. You can pick a flower and sear the stems or press it between books or dry it from the ceiling but eventually, it’ll still wilt.

Against your better judgement, you poke out of your shop with a wrapped sandwich in one hand and a tin mug of coffee in the other.

“Afternoon.” You try to smile away the tension in your shoulders. Albert glances over his shoulder, then double-takes, spinning around like a puppet whose strings have gotten tangled.

“Uh – yeah!” He blurts, then stiffens like he’s stubbed his toe. “I mean – afternoon! Again. Not, not that it’s afternoon again, just I – I already – you already-“

“No, I got it.” You say gently, bouncing anxiously on your toes. “Afternoon, again.”

You bite your lip and, before you can lose your nerve, shove the food towards him.

“For you.” You mumble towards the floor. “Y’know, a – a lunch break. Since you don’t normally… Get one.”

Albert stares from the sandwich to the coffee to you and back again. You can feel yourself sweating. God, this was a ridiculous idea. A newsie doesn’t want charity, for goodness’ sake, they just want to finish their shift and rest, like any other working kid in this city, they don’t want someone – waiting on them like a nursemaid, they-

Albert tentatively wraps his hand around the sandwich, his fingers brushing yours as he does so, leaving a little static twinge in their wake.

“Thank you.” He says softly, staring at you like you’re something he’s never seen before. You can feel your face warming up, and you have to force yourself to look away.

“It’s only chicken.” You ramble. “A-And lettuce, I didn’t – I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I just-“

“It’s good.” Albert smiles at the paltry sandwich wrapped in parchment paper, and glances up at you with those cornflower eyes. “It’s really good.”

You feel your throat go tight. With stiff limbs, you shove the coffee towards him, a drop spilling over the rim.

“And coffee!” You say far too quickly. “I, um – I hope you like milk.”

Albert cups the tin mug between his hands and blinks.

“It’s hot.” He murmurs. His nose twitches – bunny-like, you think distantly, and then you chase away that thought with a stick because that is not what you’re here to do – and he beams. “It smells good!”

“Oh!” You smile. “Well, um – I hope it tastes the same, then.”

“I ain’t ever had coffee that weren’t stale.” Albert looks at you with a wide grin. “You’re… Thank you.”

You can feel warmth blossoming in your chest, bursting outwards like snowdrops after winter-

“Haveagooddayniceseeingyoubye!” is all you manage to blurt out before scurrying back into The Little Lamb.

Not getting attached, you tell yourself as you sweep the shop floor (to no avail, there’s not a speck of dust left, you’ve been sweeping for nearly thirty minutes now to avoid looking out the window). You are not getting attached.

(But if you chance a glance at Albert sipping his coffee and sighing, or smiling as he savours a bite of his sandwich… Well, who’s to say?)

Despite your best efforts, Albert becomes a fixed part of your routine. You bring him lunch every day. Sometimes you’ll even eat together, leaning against the window display and chatting about nothing at all. You’ll usher him into the shop when it rains (“Honestly, Albert, who would buy papers in this weather?” “Someone without an umbrella, I guess.”) and you’ll show him your floriography books, from Floral Poetry to Les langage des Fleurs (although you try not to read that one too often, since Albert’s face goes all funny when you read the French – perhaps it sounds strange to him). You’ll point out the different meanings, the different messages that can be spelt through each blossom, and he’ll nod and watch you like you’re actually saying something important. It was nice, being able to talk to someone and knowing that what you said mattered to them. You’d even brought him an aloe plant one morning.

(“For your skin.” You smiled, breaking off a leaf and scooping sap onto your finger. “See?”

Albert frowned, wrinkling his nose at the gooey gel.

“My skin?”

“You know.” You gestured to his cheeks. “Your sunburn. I’m sure it’s uncomfortable to be selling like that – this’ll clear it right up! Here, just like this…”

You swept your fingers over Albert’s face, rubbing in the gel as gently as you could, so as not to irritate his skin. He was already going crimson, the poor thing – honestly, you loathed to think about how uncomfortable he must’ve been.

“I – uh – yeah!” He squeaked. “Yeah… Sunburn.”)

It’s stupid. It’s so incredibly stupid, you know precisely how this story will go. Albert’s a newsie, the entire nature of his job is temporary. As soon as the spring crowds die down, he’ll go looking for a better place to sell, and then a better place after that, and another after that. It’s simply the way of it. But selfishly, you like having him here. You’ve grown used to your little lunch visits, to the Friday drop-offs, to his permanently red cheeks and his cornflower eyes. You tried to be sensible, you really did, but Albert had gone and nestled himself in your chest anyways, creeping around your heart like morning glory – and you just hadn’t the strength to cut him away.  

Seasons change. People change. Flowers bloom anyways. But you’ve gone and grown around him like ivy on oak, except oak doesn’t get to wander off to greener pastures when it needs to, so… So where does that leave you?

Well, you didn’t know the answer to that question just yet. You suppose you’ll just… Have to cope. So you cope. You go about your day, you tend to your flowers, you arrange your bouquets – and when the Little Lamb sign starts creaking around a patch of rust, you fix that, too.

Replacing the chains is always a pain. It’s finicky work, and you hate having to use the stepladder on the street – it sways with every little breeze, teetering left and right as you sway for balance. You grit your teeth and tighten the chain link around the clasp in the sign, gripping your pliers with white knuckles and pointedly ignoring the painted dandelion in the corner of the sign, absolutely not thinking about what the fluffy orange centre reminds you of.

“Right.” You mutter as you pull gently on the chain. It holds secure, without a creak, and you smile to yourself. “Job done.”

And now to-

“Extry, extry, sweetheart leaves idiot gawkin’ on the sidewalk, read all about it!”

You shriek at the sudden noise, the stepladder lurching beneath you as you stumble backwards, and the sign’s slipped out from under your grasp and your pliers have gone flying and now you’re falling and God, this is why you hate chain-repair days-!

You land with a soft – soft? – flop, a firm something stumbling beneath you as it braces, holding you close. Arms, you realize. Strong, bare arms, which is ridiculous because only a fool wouldn’t wear sleeves in spring, and-

Oh.

Oh, dear.

You glance up, your nose bumping against another, as your eyes meet cornflower blue.

“Y’okay?” Albert asks hurriedly. “I was gonna wait, y’looked busy, but fuckin’ Racer, he’s… Um…”

His rambling begins to slow as he peers down at you, and you’re overcome with a very silly urge to trace a fingertip over his freckles.

“Hi.” Albert says quietly, close enough for you to feel his whisper on your skin.

“Oh…” You manage to squeak around your dry throat. “Hi.”

“Oooh, hold it right there, Albie!” You hear someone say, their smile imprinted in the words, and you know Albert’s realized at exactly the same time you have that he is holding you the same way a groom cradles his newlywed. You both make a similar bastardized shriek as you scramble out of his arms and Albert backs away like he’s about to get attacked, holding his hands up in a gesture of apology or surrender or – oh, hell, who knows?!

“Al-bert!” That same voice whines petulantly – you whip around, face flaming, to see another newsie, tall and curly and grinning like a mischievous sprite, who’s holding his hands in such a way that his fingers make a rectangle, kind of like a camera. “I coulda gotten you’s on the front page with a shot like that! Perfect li’l pit’cha o’ domesticity, eh?”

“Wouldja shaddup?!” Albert snaps, and you don’t have to turn around to know his face is redder than a rosebud. “God, this is why-!”

“Racetrack Higgins, m’darlin’!” The other boy says just on the verge of obnoxiously, striding up to you and proffering his hand with an exaggerated bow. “A veritable pleasure to meet’cha!”

You can’t help laughing awkwardly at the way he stretches his voice over the unfamiliar words – very-table play-sure – and slip your hand into his.

“And, um, you as well, Mister Hig-“

You barely finish before he’s pressing the back of your hand to his mouth with an over-the-top smack of his lips. You squeak and yank your hand away hard enough to make you stumble, bumping into Albert’s front.

“Race!”

“Aw, was that Mister Higginsya called me?” Racetrack – Racetrack, what a peculiar name – grins at you, and you feel rather like a lamb about to be eaten. “Albie, ya hit it outta the park w’this one!”

“Oh, just-!” Albert slaps his shoulder, forcing the other boy away from you. “Lay off’a them, wouldja?!”

“M’only bein’ a gent, Albie! Maybe y’should learn a thing or two, might impress ‘em-!”

“Racer, if you don’t stop talkin’ right now-!”

“Well, whateva’ happened t’romance-!”

You watch, dumbfounded, as the two begin to scuffle, jabbing elbows and kicking shins until Albert manages to lock Race’s head under his arm and Race is snapping his teeth to try and bite at Albert’s wrist (“Ah, ya shit, get offa me!” “Y’gerroffa-mm!” “Quit talkin’ w’my hand in ya mouth, ya freak!”), and then they spin awkwardly in your direction, tangled in their playfighting, and realize you’re still stood there watching.

“Hello.” You wave your hand awkwardly. With the decency to look a little bit ashamed, Race spits out Albert’s wrist.

“Sorry to cause a scene, darlin’!” He laughs sheepishly. “Only that Albert talks about this place so much, I had to see it for myself – and c’mon, have you seen the fella?” He gestures vaguely in Albert’s direction. “Fuckin’ brute. Only natural for him to start wailin’ on a guy, y’know?” He twirls his finger around his temple. “Unhinged.”

“I – Race!” Albert yelps. “Don’t say shit like – stuff like-!”

You laugh, and the two go quiet.

“That’s funny,” you smile, hoping to make a good impression after – all that. “I can see why you’re such good friends.”

“Uh.” Race blinks owlishly. “I weren’t jokin’. He stole my cigar this morning.”

You frown.

“Albert doesn’t smoke.”

“Well – yeah.” Says Race, like it’s obvious. “He just… Takes shit.”

You laugh at his joke, rolling your eyes.

“Yep, that’s Albert!” You giggle. “Reeaaal barbarian, huh?”

Race stares from you to Albert, who’s blush is growing darker by the second.

“What kinda fuckin’ witchcraft have you been sellin’ this kid-“

“Park!” Albert yells, clutching at his friend’s collar as if Race were a priest offering salvation. You stall, taken off guard again – truly, what is happening today? – when Race snaps his fingers with a smile.

“Oh, yeah!” He grins, digging his elbow into Albert’s side. “Yeah, that’s what we came for, ain’t it, Albie?”

Albert’s face drops, as if he’s suddenly realized something terrible.

“Wait, noooo,” he hisses, tugging at Race’s sleeve. “Nonono, Race-!”

“What you came for?” You ask curiously. Of course, it’s Sunday – everywhere’s closed for the Church services, that’s why you chose to do the repairs today. They couldn’t be here to sell. Perhaps they were buying flowers for a sweetheart? You felt your stomach drop. Please don’t let Albert be here for flowers.

“Well,” Race drawls as Albert yanks desperately on his sleeve. “We was just in the neighbourhood, y’know, it bein’ Sunday an’ all, an’ the fellas were all thinkin’ we’d hit up the park! And then Albie here-“ he smirks, draping an arm over Albert’s shoulder, who’s staring at the floor like he’s praying for it to eat him, “goes and mentions how close that is to his new favourite florists! So we was wonderin’-”

“Racer-!”

“If this favourite florist o’ his would wanna accompany some humble newsboys,” he places a hand on his chest and bows comically deep, “to the good ol’ City Hall gardens.”

“Favourite?” You laugh sheepishly – your stomach flips as you fixate on the word. “Well, I – I don’t suppose there are any others, so…”

“Oh, but of course!” Race says emphatically, as if the two of you are telling a joke together. “You’re just irreplaceable, ain’t they, Albert?”

Albert slaps a hand over his mouth and makes a noise like he’s in pain. You wince sympathetically, stepping forward to take a look.

“Albert, your face! Have you been using the aloe I gave you?”

Race’s head perks up like a dog smelling a bone.

“Well, aloe there,” he grins, “what’s this I hear? Givin’ gifts, are we?”

“No, no, not like that!” You say quickly, your voice trilling with nerves. “I just – well, Albert always gets so sunburnt, poor thing-“

“Oh, does he?” Race’s voice pitches high with glee as Albert makes another pained moan. “Well, we can’t have poor Albert getting sunburnt, can we?”

“Racer, I am begging you to shut! Up!” Albert snaps, and you realize – oh, damn it all, you’re embarrassing him. The last thing Albert of all people would want is someone fussing over him in front of his friend.

“Um – the park!” You say quickly, trying to change the subject – Albert shoots you a soft, grateful look, and you can’t help but melt a little. “Yes, I’d love to go, if – if it’s not too much trouble…“ You glance towards your closed-up shop, clicking your tongue. “Would you mind terribly if I brought some work with me? I-I just got some fresh flowers, I wanted to make them into crowns come Monday – it won’t be too distracting!”

“Weeell, we’ll just have to see about that, eh, Albert?” Race smirks, and you frown as you try to decipher what he means – apparently, it’s deserving of a quick smack to the shoulder, though, because that’s precisely what Albert gives him. “Ooh, someone’s testy! Don’tcha worry, I’ll leave ya to it.” He makes his way up the street towards Park Row. “Don’t go gettin’ distracted, though!”

You feel your cheeks warming as he presses on the word, distracted – goodness, had you really been that obvious? – and Albert grumbles under his breath as you duck into your shop for your flowers. You gather the bundles in your arms, your eyes just peeking out over the various blooms, and skitter out the door, not wanting to keep him waiting. You walk in awkward silence, avoiding each other’s gaze as Race prances ahead of you both, and you curse yourself for getting so stupidly attached.

You don’t talk for what feels like ages, not until you reach the park. The newsboys are all eager to meet you, grinning and shaking your hands and making comments that you don’t quite understand, but seem to drive Albert up the wall. You wince every time one of the boys says something to you that makes Albert grit his teeth – you don’t know what you’re doing wrong, but it has to be something.

It's only later, when you’re sat on the grass fidgeting with your flower crowns, Albert sitting cross-legged and stiff next to you, that you just can’t take it anymore.

“Sorry.” You say quickly, stumbling over the words, and Albert looks at you, his tense face suddenly soft.

“F’r what?”

“I, um…” You clear your throat into your fist. “I-I didn’t mean to be so… You know. Clingy? I just – you’re my friend, and I don’t want you getting hurt, I mean, hawking’s got to be hard work, all that walking, and you said you don’t get much lunch-“

“[Y/N],” Albert says firmly, enough to make your voice catch in your throat. He pinks as you look at him and glances at the floor instead. “Don’t go worryin’ ‘bout that, yeah? Just the fellas bein’ jerks is all, never know when to shaddup.”

You hum, not quite a response, and make sure to keep your hands clasped in front of you so you don’t invade Albert’s space. You can feel him watching you, his stare burning your skin, and he sighs frustratedly.

“Aw, c’mon, [Y/N], I…” His voice stops and stutters in his throat. He sighs, choosing instead to knock his shoulder against yours – the touch sets you alight. “You don’t gotta be worried ‘bout that, it… It’s nice. That’cha wanna take care o’me. Ain’t many folks that do, so…”

You smile, warmth blossoming in your chest.

“Well, that’s nonsense, then.” You say matter-of-factly as you weave the stem of a red tulip around your fingers. “Caring for you’s rather easy.”

The two of you go quiet again – a comfortable silence this time, simply basking in each other’s existence. You pluck a lady’s mantle from your collection of blooms, twisting the dusky pink against the red of the tulip.

“Those, uh…” Albert says quietly, so as not to break the peaceful tranquillity that’s grown between you both. “Those mean comfort, don’t they?”

“They do.” You nod, your heart fluttering in your chest – he remembered.

“And the tulips,” he continues, his voice getting a bit steadier, “those mean ‘good health’, right?”

You giggle under your breath.

“Almost. Those were pink tulips – these are red, see?” You hold the crown up to his eyeline. “Red tulips mean, uh – true love.” You have to look away as you say it, can’t bear to look into Albert’s eyes as the word love falls out of your lips. “And I’m going to add some Sweet William, too, for gallantry – the meaning’s a bit more masculine for that one, so if you put them all together, you get…”

Your eyes flick towards Albert, landing on his freckles before you force yourself to look away again.

“You get, um… Well, a hope, I suppose.”

Albert says nothing, only cocks his head towards you in invitation. Keep going. I’m listening.

“A hope for… For someone kind,” you say quietly, “and chivalrous, who – who comforts you and… Keeps you safe.”

You can feel him staring. You grab a Sweet William and start threading it into the crown, out of sheer need for something, anything else to do.

“How d’you do that?” Albert asks curiously. “The crowns n’ stuff.”

Thank God, you think to yourself, eagerly snatching up the subject change.

“It’s quite simple, actually – look, I’ll show you.”

You smile as you press his fingers underneath yours – you so loved sharing your knowledge of flowers with Albert. You were certain he didn’t understand a lick of it, but he always listened no matter what. Like it mattered.

“So, you just twist here,” you murmur as the two of you hold the crown together, “and you sort of – lock it under the second stem there, and you…”

You try to help him weave the stems around each other, your fingertips skimming over Albert’s knuckles, but you suppose doing such finnicky work with two sets of hands overcomplicated the whole thing, because the crown fumbles out from Albert’s grip.

“Ah, shit, sorry!” He winces. “God, it ain’t broken, is it?”

“Don’t worry about it!” You pat his shoulder reassuringly as you rescue the crown. “It’s difficult at first. Oh, I know!” You point at a cluster of sunshine-yellow growing in the park. “Would you grab me those dandelions? They’re much easier to work with. The stalks are more flexible, and they don’t snap so easily – it’s how I learned when I was a kid.”

Albert nods obediently, scurrying off to gather two fistfuls of dandelions.

“There we are – here, do what I do.”

The two of you crowd into each other as Albert follows your movements, looping one stem underneath the other and then weaving it back around the blossom, locking it into place.

“Hey, I did it!” Albert grins triumphantly. You knock your shoulder against his, just as he’d done to you.

“See? Easy.”

You half expect him to leave it after that – most boys didn’t find weaving flower crowns to be a particularly manly activity, and after how embarrassed Albert had been today, you were sure he wouldn’t want his friends to see him playing with flowers – but he stays. He grabs another stem and repeats the movement, chaining them together, one after the other. You smile to yourself – you can’t bring yourself to not be charmed. It’s sweet, how eager he is, the way his tongue pokes out as he threads the stems into loops.

“I just love dandelions.” You say quietly into the breeze, almost unaware that you’d even said it. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

Albert looks up from his work and frowns.

“Seriously?” He quirks a small smile. “Didn’t think you’d like weeds all that much.”

You scoff, the sound drawing his attention.

“Weed is a word made up by debutantes.” You say pettily. “It’s their way of separating what’s common to make pretty things seem prettier. But they’re all plants at the end of the day.”

You glance over at Albert’s clumsy crown and smile, tracing a finger over the fluffy centre of a dandelion.

“And dandelions are so cheerful,” you murmur peacefully, rubbing pollen between your thumb and forefinger. “They grow wherever they like, and no one can get them not to. Ask any gardener – you pull one up, and ten more grow back. They’re resilient. I bet the next time we come back here, they’ll be everywhere.”

You lift a loose blossom to your nose and breathe in the bittersweet scent.

“They don’t even have meanings, you know.” You say wistfully. “Not in any of my books. People just decided, oh, that’s a weed, and now… Now they don’t mean anything.” You brush your thumb over the feathery petals and smile as they tickle your skin. “But they mean something to me.”

Albert’s quiet beside you, and you suddenly feel exposed.

“Sorry,” you chuckle, drawing away from him. “Suppose that’s a bit strange, um – I’ll just-”

You’re about to turn back to your flower crown when a calloused hand slides against your jaw. Your breath hitches as Albert turns your face towards his, his thumb drifting over your cheekbone until it brushes over your nose – and as he pulls away, you see the pad of his thumb’s stained yellow.

“You, uh,” he says quietly, his cheeks going pink in the sun, “y’had some pollen.”

“Oh!” You laugh stiltedly. “Gosh, um – sorry.”

“Nah,” Albert shrugs as he fiddles with his crown. “S’cute.”

You feel yourself going warm, even with the evening breeze. Your throat makes a small squeaking sound, and you try to make yourself focus on your crown when you hear Albert make a dissatisfied noise next to you.

“Problem?” You ask tentatively, and he holds up a little white puffball in response.

“Think this one’s shot.” He mutters, about to chuck it when you grab his wrist.

“Don’t waste it! It’s a clock.”

Albert blinks and turns to frown at the flower.

“Uh…” He tilts his head as he examines the fluffy ball of seeds. “How?”

“No – not that kind of clock,” you explain, “a dandelion clock. Here, hold it here-” You pull the little bloom between the two of you. “We’ll share it, see? Make a wish and, on the count of three, blow off the seeds. Ready?”

“I, uh-“ Albert stammers. “I guess?”

“Great.” You shuffle a bit closer and close your eyes. “Okay – one, two, three.”

You lean forward and blow softly, the tiny seeds billowing away on the breeze. You feel one tickle your nose and you laugh softly, opening your eyes to bat it away when- oh.

Albert’s… Close. Closer than before, even closer than the first time – the naked bud of the dandelion rests between the two of you, the only thing separating your slightly parted lips from his. In the evening breeze, it sways just enough to brush against your lower lip, Albert’s eyes flicking toward the movement, and you can’t help but think about how easy it’d be to just shift forward ever so slightly and-

“Well what’cha waitin’ for, Albie, don’t leave ‘em hangin’!”

You jolt backwards, nearly falling onto the grass as Albert leaps to his feet.

“Racer, I am gonna teach you such a lesson-!”

He sprints across the green to tackle the other boy to the floor, and while you quietly mourn the loss of Albert’s warm weight next to you, you can’t help but be grateful for the distraction – at least this way he won’t notice you flopping into the grass and groaning pathetically.

After you somehow regain your composure (and Albert as appropriately pummelled Racec), he walks you home, the two of you walking dutifully on opposite ends of the sidewalk, as if simply brushing one another’s clothes will set you both aflame.

“I had fun,” you say quietly as you reach The Little Lamb. “Even if it was…”

You try to find a word to describe how being around Albert makes you feel, but nothing seems to capture it.

“Yeah.” Albert nods, smiling sheepishly at the floor. “Um – hey!” He says quickly, just as you turn to open the door. “I, um – I…”

“Albert?” You frown as he flounders. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah!” He nods vigorously. “Yeah, I just – I was wonderin’… Say if I, uh, wanted a flower that – that said, uh…” He stares at the step under your feet so intensely you worry he might shatter it. “That I – liked someone. A-A flower that said I… I really cared ‘bout someone and, and that maybe they cared ‘bout me, too. What…” He swallows, honey-thick, and chances a glance at you through his lashes. “What flower’d I need for that?”

You feel your stomach begin to sink.

Oaks and ivy, alright.

Morning glory around your heart.

“Well,” you try your best to smile, “if you want to be traditional, you’d only need something small – one or two flowers and a couple of herbs. White roses are a good one, they’re very…”

God, it felt like you were choking.

“Innocent.” You manage to say. “Sweet. A sort of – tentative love.”

Albert’s lips quirk into the softest smile.

“Yeah?”

“And – and hyacinths,” you say quickly, because you can’t bear to look at him smiling like that. “Blue ones. Those would work. And then you could cover it all in heather and lavender for good luck.”

“Hope.” Albert says quietly, staring at the flower crowns you have cradled in your arms. You clear your throat and shove yourself against the door, forcing your way inside – you have to get away, you just have to.

“Yes, well,” you slap a tight smile on your face, “perhaps you can come by tomorrow and – and I’ll have some for you.”

Albert stares at you through the threshold like he can’t believe his luck. Your chest aches.

“You’d… You’d do that?”

No, no, no-

“Of course!” You laugh, on the verge of hysterical. “I mean, if you’re going to go – go courting someone,” (the word tastes like ash on your tongue), “then who’s better to help you than your favourite florist?”

Albert blinks, his smile dropping.

“What?”

“Yes, I’ll have the perfect selection for you!” You smile, because you just don’t learn, do you? “Not like it’ll make much difference, of course, they’d be a fool to say no to you…”

“I-“ Albert’s eyes flicker back and forth, as if he’s watching something unravel and can’t quite stop it. “Wait, but-“

“I’ll see you tomorrow!”

You slam the door, and try to shut your stupid, horrid thoughts out with it.

God. You should’ve just gone to Park Row.

You spend that night lying in bed feeling sorry for yourself. It’s pitiful, yes, and painfully childish, but damn it all, you’re sad. You deserve to curl up and wallow for a bit. It serves you right, you suppose, doing exactly what you knew you shouldn’t’ve. It’s better to just stick to what you know. Colours and meanings and silly little facts that no one else but you care about. Getting your papers on Fridays, working alone on Sundays, not going around making lunch and getting attached to newsboys.

Why didn’t you just stick to yesterday’s news? To living in the background? To being the author of someone else’s love story? No one gets flowers for the florist, after all.

But then it’s morning, and… And Albert’s your friend. And if he loves someone, really loves someone, then you’re going to do your darnedest to get that person to love him right back. It’s what he deserves.

“There you are!” You smile as Albert pokes into the shop like a stray who’s unsure if he’s allowed on the furniture. Ugh, damn it all, he’s cute. “I have your flowers right here.”

You present them with a flourish, a pair of white roses entwined around a pale blue hyacinth, decorated with heather and lavender. You’ve trussed them up with lace and pretty pink tissue paper and they look splendid, thank you very much, because Albert deserves the best.

He smiles, something small and private and a little bit sad, and holds them preciously in his hands.

“Beautiful.” He murmurs, looking at you from over the blooms, and you try to keep your pulse from racing.

“Yes, well!” You say quickly, fumbling your fingers over your little pet project. “There’s also, uh-“

You shove it into his vest pocket before you can lose your nerve. Albert blinks, reaching up to brush a petal between his thumb and forefinger, the pads of which come away slightly smudged with ink. It’s a flower – well, not a real one, it’s actually a newspaper you’d fiddled and folded with until it took the shape of a rose, but… Well, you’d thought it’d look charming. Perhaps it was silly.

Albert chuffs out a small, disbelieving laugh, wrinkling his brow at the paper rose.

It was probably silly.

“Any fine gentleman looking to court needs a good boutonniere.” You mumble, a bit defeated. Ridiculous.

“I love it.” Says Albert, voice tender. He purses his lips, glancing from you to the bouquet for a moment before he plucks a sprig of lavender from the arrangement and slips it behind your ear.

“I – oh.” You murmur, feeling suddenly off-kilter as your cheeks begin to warm – and then your sensibilities come back to you. “Albert!” You scold him halfheartedly, swatting at his shoulder. “This is supposed to be for your sweetheart, you shouldn’t just go around wasting it! Go on, now, tell them what you want to say.”

“You’re perfect.” Albert says, then blinks suddenly as if waking up from a dream. “I – I mean-“

“Yes, yes, we can save the camellias for your next gift,” you mutter with a wave of your hand, as if you could brush away all your selfish thoughts. “Off you go, now!”

The next time Albert comes into the shop, you slap a smile on your face and ask him how it went, because you’re a good and not at all selfish friend, and Albert is very pleasing on the eye when he looks so wistfully in love.

“I just – I…” Albert flounders under your gaze, fidgeting with his hands, and your heart aches. Lovely boy, so nervous – you try not to envy whoever gets to see him this way. “What I wanna say – what I need to say-“

He tangles a hand in his puff of dandelion hair and groans.

“God, I just wanna be with ya!”

You’re almost taken aback by how desperate he is – and oh, don’t you just feel terrible now, envying the person who’s driving him so crazy. Honestly, you’re meant to be his friend. You smile sympathetically and pat his hand before you grab a cluster of rockfoil and press it between his fingers.

“It’s a bit peculiar,” you say reassuringly as he stares at the little white bells, “but rather charming.”

Albert makes a wounded noise, staring at you like you’ve just slapped him.

“Yeah, well – you’d know all ‘bout that, wouldn’tcha?” He huffs, more to himself than to you, before rushing out of the store and leaving you with a thousand different questions.

“Good… luck?” You try to say, but he only offers you a frustrated yell in return.

After that, Albert comes into the shop almost every day.

“I’m crazy for ya.”

You’d offer him a yellow pansy.

“I think about’cha all the time.”

You’d smile and hand him a blue salvia.

“I think I like ya more ‘an anyone else I ever met.”

You’d tuck an apple blossom into his vest.

“I’m sure they’ll love it.” You’d say every time, offering him a reassuring grin – and every time, Albert would look at you as if he were drowning and all but sprint out the door.

This goes on for a while – Albert will burst into the shop like a man on a mission, report whatever message he wants to give his love, and you’ll dutifully hand him a flower that matches. You never made him pay – a fact you’d beat yourself up about later in bed, when you’re tired and feeling sorry for yourself – but you can’t help it. It’s sweet, how eager he is to get this right, how badly he wants to impress whoever this mystery person is. You can barely bring yourself to be jealous (which isn’t to say that you’re not, but you at least have the decency to feel bad about it).

And then one day, as you’re fussing over a cluster of stubborn chamomile blossoms, Albert bursts into the shop wielding an armful of flowers. It’s a veritable cacophony of colour, reds and purples and yellows all mixing together in a chaotic muddle of petals, leaves and stamens – and as you note the wrinkles on some of the petals, the bits of blight on some of the leaves, you wonder just how many of the flowers did Albert keep?

“Alright.” Albert says gruffly as he shoves the array of flowers onto your counter. He hovers a hand over it for a moment before grabbing one at random.

“Honeysuckle!” He snaps, shoving the yellow-pink blossom into your hand. “Devotion.”

Before you can ask how many he’d like, he hands you a gillyflower.

“And that – that means ya beautiful.” He picks up stem after stem, slotting them into your fingers. “Pink camellia, I – I-I’m longin’ for ya. White lillies, m’love’s pure, bluebells, my love’s constant, and, um-“ He flounders for a moment, staring stubbornly at the wooden countertop before he shoves a red carnation at you.

“My – m’heart aches for ya.”

You stare at the nimbus of flowers in your hands, glancing from it to Albert. He’s redder than his hair, up to his ears and down to his neck, and he looks downright terrified, fidgeting on the spot, his eyes darting between you and the floor.

“I mean…” You say slowly, and he stares at you with wide eyes. “It’s a little chaotic, but… I can make a bouquet? I-I might have to charge you this time around, ‘cause there’s so many, but-“

Albert shoves his heads into his hands and lets out a noise between a groan and a downright scream.

“Alright!” He snaps, planting his hands on the counter. “What flowers ya got that say I love you, ya stupid florist, now please, God, please can you understand what I’m tryna tell ya, ‘cause I can’t keep on bringin’ flowers t’the lodgin’ house wi’ nowhere to put ‘em!”

You freeze, rigid-still. You open your mouth once, twice, and nothing comes out. Your hands tremble against cool stalks and you realize suddenly that Albert’s muddled bouquet is still in your hands.

“One… One moment.” You say quietly with a raised finger, before scurrying to the door. Cradling your bouquet in the crook of your elbow, you use your free hand to close it, then lock, then latch, then flip the sign to ‘closed’. You take a shuddering breath and turn around – Albert’s still watching you. He’s wide eyed, his fists clenched at his sides and his jaw held tight, as if it’d been wired shut – and you almost laugh giddily because all this time, you’d assumed he was posturing, trying to big himself up because he felt uncomfortable being in such a frilly, dainty shop, surrounded by petals and lace, but no. All this time – all this time – he’d been nervous.

You take careful steps toward him, like approaching a stray dog. His spine goes more rigid with each clip of your foot against the hardwood floors, his entire body bickering between ‘fight’ or ‘flight’ and landing on a confused, frightened ‘freeze’ instead. As you reach him, you pluck a single garden daisy from the fragrant shelves and tuck it behind his ear.

“That, um,” you murmur, realizing a touch too late how close you’ve become. “That means-“

“I share your sediment.” Albert breathes, and you duck your head with a small giggle.

“Sentiment,” You correct – his blush goes ever-darker and, out of fear that he may combust if you don’t, you quickly add, “but yes.”

Albert sways forward, almost unthinkingly, like a reed in the wind. He catches himself and clears his throat, but before he can sway away, you duck forward and, gently, featherlight, press your mouth to his. It’s soft and shy, barely lasting a second – more of a petal-brush than anything else – but the noise it pulls out of Albert – something half-blissful, half-wounded – from deep in the hollow of his throat adds more weight to the gesture than you could’ve ever hoped. The tension rushes out of his shoulders in a heavy breath as he all but staggers, slapping his hand against the counter to keep himself upright and pressing a hand to his forehead.

“Hooooly hell,” he says raggedly. “God, I ain’t dreamin’, am I?”

He says it to his hands, staring at them suspiciously like they’re trying to fool him – you slip your own hand into his and squeeze tight.

“Feels real.” You smile gently, a smile that he returns tenfold.

“God,” he says again, and you’re inclined to agree. He leans in hesitantly, looking carefully into your eyes until you nod, and he kisses you – still chaste and sweet, but firmer than the previous. It’s not a questioning touch, it’s something that roots you to the spot, grounds you, whispers yes, this is real.

Albert’s grinning when you separate. He brushes a fingertip over the daisy in his hair and chuffs out a breathy laugh.

“I weren’t kiddin’, y’know,” he mumbles. “Got too damn many o’ these things.”

You roll your eyes.

“You could’ve just not asked for them.”

“Yeah, well, I tried that, and you thought I was askin’ for flowers anyway!” Albert huffs, pouting at the floor. “The fellas ain’t lettin’ me live it down. Keep sayin’ I’m the one meant t’be gettin’ you flowers, not the other way ‘round.”

You giggle, knocking your forehead affectionately against his.

“So that’s true?” You ask coyly, grinning as he blushes again. “Flowers at the lodging house with nowhere to put ‘em?”

Albert tips his head back and groans.

“They’re everywheeeere!” He whines. “Next to my bed, on the fire escape, in the kitchen-!”

You laugh at the absurdity of it all.

“Why didn’t you just give them away?”

“Wh- I weren’t gonna do that!” Albert says indignantly, as if you’d suggested selling his firstborn child. He blushes once he realizes his overreaction and looks away, pouting at the wall. “They were gifts.”

You giggle, making him groan towards the ceiling.

“This ain’t fair.” He huffs, slumping forward so that his chin rests upon your shoulder. You’re struck by the image of a tired beagle flopping its head on its owner’s lap, and can’t help but giggle again. “I ain’t usually like this.”

With just a touch of hesitation, you reach your hand upwards to fiddle with his dandelion hair. Albert hums, pleased, nuzzling against your temple.

“Like what, petal?” You say quietly against his ear, and with him resting his cheek against you, you can feel the way his jaw clenches.

“Like – argh, c’mon!” He whines. “Y’can’t just – say stuff like that! God, only you…” He mutters petulantly, wrapping his arms around your waist as he hides his face in the crook of your neck. “Swear, if you were anyone else… Jus’ some stranger on the street, I’d have no problem gettin’ ya t’blush, but noooo!” He tips his head back with an exaggerated eyeroll. “No, you just gotta go fallin’ right into me, lookin’ all cute, talkin’ all pretty, makin’ me forget which way’s up!” He glares at you with no true heat. “Unfair.”

“You’re unfair!” You laugh around your astonishment, raising up a hand in a poor attempt to hide your darkening face. “Catching me like something right out of a novel, being so – so…” You close your eyes with a soft sigh and lean forward, bumping your nose against his and savouring the contact. “Unexpected.”

You feel more than hear Albert’s scoff, a warm puff of air against your lips.

“Like you can talk.” He mutters, shifting just enough to nuzzle against you. “Race’s been makin’ fun a’me for days, tellin’ me to get my shit together, but how’m I meant’a do that-!” You laugh against him, so close, the warmth mingling between your mouths. “When you’re always fuckin’ – flower crowns and dandelions and…”

His hands skim over your waist, his callouses brushing your skin through the fabric, and you can’t help but gasp lightly. You’re close enough that the movement brushes your mouth against his, your cupid’s bow just barely catching on his, and another noise blossoms from his chest, wanton and desperate, as he presses your lips together, as if it’s the only thing he could possibly do. You flutter against him, your hands skimming down his shirt, and he hums softly, the noise running through you until it settles inside your chest. He traces the seam of your lips, slow and soft, savouring the feeling, and gently, as if afraid to spook you, brushes the tip of his tongue against yours. You gasp into his mouth, but he doesn’t take advantage – he pulls away, just barely, enough for your cupid’s bow to rest on his bottom lip, not quite breaking the kiss, but not quite continuing. Your eyes slip open – just barely – as his do, the two of you looking at each other for reassurance. He chuckles breathily, looking away in a manner you now realize is shy.

“God’s sake, [Y/N],” he whispers, his lips brushing yours as he speaks, “m’only human.”

Bashfully, all too aware of your inexperience, you nudge forward to meet him again. He hums once more, sweet and low, and presses a rough hand to the back of your head, tilting you just so. Tentatively, as if you’ll fade away if he moves too fast, you feel his tongue brush shyly against yours again. You make a noise you can’t quite describe, something small and soft, clinging to his shoulders while he presses a hand to the small of your back, trading tender, sipping kisses. It’s awkward – a bit foreign, a bit confused – but oh, it’s lovely.

Something sparks as he leans forward enough for you to bend backwards slightly at the waist, supported by his hand – and you can’t help but giggle.

“What?” Albert smiles curiously, the two of you still so close that your nose still bumps against his with every laugh. “Hey! C’mon, what is it? Ya makin’ a fella nervous, here.”

“Sorry,” you smile, and then you realize again, and burst into even more giggles. “It’s just – we did this before.”

Albert blinks at you owlishly.

“I, uh – don’t think we did?” He smiles, brow still furrowed, like you’re a puzzle he’s delighting over solving. “Think I’d remember if we did this-”

“The first time,” you’re wheezing now, because it truly is hilarious, “when we first met, when I fell and you grabbed me, I-“ your giggles trail off as your face begins to warm, “I-I remember thinking…”

You look away nervously, your laughter becoming shy.

“I was thinking it was awfully – awfully similar to, um – to the gentlemen who come into this shop… The way they hold their lovers after they give them their flowers.”

Albert blinks, glancing down at how he’s holding you – one hand behind your head, the other pressing on your spine, the slight bend of your waist – and his face burns red, from his roots to his neck.

“Uh – yeah,” he laughs breathlessly, “suppose it is a li’l… Yeah.” He draws away, making sure you’re upright before quickly stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I-I kinda…”

You smile as he stares stubbornly at the wall, one hand rubbing his neck sheepishly.

“I kinda thought the same thing.” He mumbles. “Not – not when it happened, when it happened I was thinkin’, y’know, wow, this person’s close, a-and beautiful, and – and…” His face looks almost painfully red now, carnation-crimson across the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, um – was on’y when I was havin’ dinner at the lodgin’ house I ach’lly realized that – that it’d – happened.”

You purse your lips into a line, trying to keep your smile from going too wide, and step forward, tapping your shoe against his shin.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, ducking his head. “I, um – I-I was pourin’ the gravy so long I spilled it all over the table. We ran out. Fellas all had to eat their chicken dry. Jack still won’t let me pour my own gravy.”

You laugh again, and so does he, less shy and more… Well, he still seems shy, but less scared, if that counts for anything.

“You, Albert DaSilva,” you grin at him, “are not what I expected you to be.”

He cocks his head.

“Well, now ya got me worried,” he smirks, “what’cha expect me t’be, sweetheart?”

You roll your eyes at the pet-name. There’s really no use in him trying to be suave now, not when you knew the truth.

“Big, bad newsie with his sleeves cut off, wandering around in nothing more than a vest and an undershirt?” You ask with an arched brow. “Wearing his hat backwards in spring, like a show-off, snapping at me to watch where I’m going before you go and catch me… And then you go and say I like lambs, like it’s obvious.”

Albert’s face goes almost comically blank as he remembers.

“God,” he cringes, pressing a hand over his eyes. “Shit, I can’t believe I said that. Only even tried to sell here ‘cause I figured it was a butcher place.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.” He nods shamefully. “Was hankerin’ for a leg o’ lamb, figured if I played my cards right I might land some mutton. Only stayed ‘cause I thought the sign was cute. Jesus, can’t believe I told’ja that.” He laughs beneath his hand. “I like lambs. God, I’m an idiot.”

You roll your eyes at your most ridiculous boy, and wrap your arms around his waist, pulling him close as you nuzzle against his neck.

“My idiot.”

You feel him clench again, as if the words had sent a bolt of lightning through him.

“I – you’re – yeah.” He settles on saying, sounding almost strangled. He holds you, runs his hands down your back, and lets the tension seep out of him. “Yeah…” He chuckles. “Your idiot.”

You both stand there for a moment, enjoying the warmth, swaying slightly as you breathe each other in.

“[Y/N],” you hear him say tentatively, “y’think, maybe – if you want – we could go to Jacobi’s?”

You try to not roll your eyes, because honestly, ‘if you want’, as if you could possibly want anything else. Ridiculous boy. Impossible boy.

“I-I get off work at noon,” Albert rambles, pinching your shirt between his fingers and rolling the fabric, committing every detail of you to memory. “So maybe I can swing by one day when you’re closin’, walk you down… If you want.”

You pull away with an exaggerated gasp and clutch your hand to your chest.

“Why, Albert DaSilva!” You say like a scandalized dame. “Without buying me flowers first?”

He stares at you for a moment as you hold your pose – and then you both laugh, full-bodied and creasing at the sides, and you must look like lunatics, laughing amongst the flowers, with rumpled clothes and messy hair and kiss-sore lips, clinging to each other like you’re about to collapse, but neither of you care. It’s just you two here, unexpectedly, by sheer chance. Chance and newspapers. It’s a ridiculous story, truly, but it’s yours, so who’s to care?

(And if that laughter turns to one, then two, then twenty more kisses – well, who’s to care about that, either?)

#newsies #albert dasilva #albert dasilva x reader #newsies x reader #oneshot #albert x reader #newsies imagine

[auspicious-manner]

maybe a little morris delancey x ballet dancer!reader and him getting all soft when he sees her perform up on the stage?

oh i am ALL for this. as an ex-dancer, this was a dream to write! i tried not to include too much terminology so it wouldn’t get confusing.

so sorry this took so long, life has gotten very busy being back at university. but i’m trying to keep up as much as possible!

fem reader x morris delancey

warnings: none

mike taglist: @diorgirl444

Tough

•

“whaddya say to spendin’ the night with me, pretty girl?” your boyfriend, morris delancey, asked as you walked down the streets of new york city, hand in hand. the sun was just beginning to disappear behind the horizon, lighting the city up in an ethereal orange glow.

you leaned your body closer into his arm. “as lovely as that sounds, i got a show tonight.”

in order to make some extra cash to survive in new york, you got a job at medda’s theater performing three shows a week. when asked what special talents you had in your interview, you told medda that you had trained in ballet since you were young, but given that you barely had enough money to keep food on the table, you couldn’t afford pointe shoes despite being trained on them.

on the spot, she offered you a deal; typical performers performed one to two shows a week, but if you could handle it, she’d give you three shows a week and take the cost of the shoes out of your pay every other week. to you, that deal sounded like a dream come true.

morris never came to your shows, he always said he had “business to attend to” on the nights you performed. you weren’t really sure what that meant, but you could assume it had something to do with harassing those newsie boys that you felt a bit of sympathy for. he always claimed he was too tough to be seen watching a show in a theater.

morris threw his head back dramatically as you both walked. “you’re always at that theater. we never get to spend time together anymore.”

you smiled playfully. “you know, you could come to my show tonight since you keep avoidin’ it like the plague. what’s it gonna hurt you, morris?”

he thought about it briefly. “i could take a night off, come watch you do your little thing. how about that?” morris asked, half joking.

you immediately burst into a grin, ignoring the fact that he sounded a bit sarcastic with that proposal. all you’ve ever wanted was for your boyfriend to come watch you do what you do best. “that sounds perfect.”

unbeknownst to you, morris didn’t exactly want to see your show. sure, he loved you and would do pretty much anything you asked him to, but his idea of a fun night wasn’t going to a theater to watch a boring show with a bunch of old people. but seeing how you beamed at the idea of him finally coming to watch you made him feel like the only thing worse than going would be not going.

you stopped walking so you could stand in front of him, his tall stature standing over you. “the show starts at 7. you promise me you’ll be there?”

morris hesitated before nodding. “wouldn’t miss it for nothin’.”

you stood on your toes to reach up and give him a soft kiss. “i have to start getting ready. i’ll see you there?”

he put his hands on your hips, pulling you close. “of course.”

you whispered an okay before removing yourself from his grip, as much as you didn’t want to leave. you weren’t far from the theater, and when you got there, you found that you had approximately two hours to get fully ready and warmed up.

your dressing room was small and compact and below ground level. it was the only room medda could provide you, but you were thankful to even have a dressing room. there was one small window near the ceiling that provided a small look into the streets of new york city.

as you applied your stage makeup, you heard a light tapping coming from the window. you frowned, as hearing rhythmic noises directly against the glass was uncommon. you pulled your chair over to the wall, standing on it and further standing on your tip toes to pull the small curtains away to find a smiling morris on the other side of the glass. he was laying on his stomach so his head was level with the window.

you tried to contain laughter as you unlocked the window. “are you crazy?”

the window was far too small for him to climb in, so he just kept his head close to the opening as you looked up at him on top of the chair.

“i might be, but i’m just glad i finally found the right room. knocked on a few other windows, them ladies did not like me doin’ that.”

you giggled. “what are you even doing here? i told you to come for the show, not to my dressing room window.”

he shrugged before saying, “i wanted to wish you good luck, that’s all.”

you looked at him knowingly. you knew your boyfriend, and he didn’t go through all of this just to tell you about something you didn’t even really need.

“nice try. what’s the real reason you’re here?”

morris looked up, seemingly embarrassed. “where do i sit when the show starts?”

you paused. “i know sittin’ may be difficult for you, morris, but luckily for you there’s this new invention i think you’ll really love to try. it’s called a chair,” you said sarcastically.

he rolled his eyes playfully. “sweetheart, you know that’s not what i mean,” he said, his thick new york accent prominent. “where am i suppose’ to go? front row, back row, balcony? i don’t know how any of this stuff works.”

“as a matter of fact, i actually let miss medda know you were comin’ for the show, so she has a box reserved just for you.”

morris was reluctant to come at first, but now he was simply curious to discover what occupies so much of his girlfriend’s time. he wanted to make sure he could get the best view possible.

he put his head through the window, and you stood on your tip toes to meet him with a kiss. “i’ll see you after the show?”

he nodded. “of course. break a leg,” morris started, going to stand up but turning around to the window again. “but not actually. don’t actually break a leg, please.”

you laughed, holding his hand briefly through the window as he began to leave “i won’t!”

after he left, you finished getting your makeup on and got into your costume. every week, medda throws together a new theme for your performances, and this week she went with a forest theme. you were wearing all forest green costume that made you look like a fairy. your makeup fit the occasion too, and jack kelly’s painted props and artwork set the backdrop for your show.

about ten minutes before showtime, you stood backstage once the first act finished and your props were being moved behind the curtain that separated the stage from the audience.

your performances never lasted long; they were apart of some other, bigger show within the theater. but you drew in lots of crowds as you were becoming a household name. critics raved about your performances, and people came to medda’s theater specifically for you.

normally, you were a pro at keeping your nerves in line. the build up to the shows didn’t make you nervous anymore after weeks of doing it. but tonight, knowing morris was somewhere out there watching your every move made you immensely nervous. you weren’t just performing for a crowd tonight, that you could handle. you were performing for someone. your someone.

“miss Y/N, you’re shaking,” medda said behind you as she put her hands on your shoulders. you turned around; you were too in your mind to notice the shaking.

“sorry medda, just nervous, that’s all.”

you turned around to meet her, seeing a confused and unbelieving expression on her face. “you? nervous? i don’t believe it.”

you shrugged in response. she tilted her head, still questioning you, then you could tell her expression changed in an instant. “oh, i know why you’re nervous.”

you shook your head. “no you don’t.”

she smiled playfully, hitting your shoulder lightly. “oh yes i do. it’s because that delancey boy is out in the audience getting ready to watch you, isn’t it?”

you couldn’t hide the blush on your cheeks now. you didn’t even have to say anything; medda knew.

her tone changed, and she leaned in close. “don’t get distracted, kid. believe me, i’ve had my fair share of men in my life. but don’t let any man get in the way of you doing what you were born to do. you’re a natural at this, you have nothing to be nervous about.”

you took a deep breath. she was right. you knew exactly what you had to do. you nodded, and she backed away.

she smiled. “let’s get this show moving!”

medda walked out on stage in front of the curtain blocking the set, and that was your cue to get in your place on the props.

morris sat out in the audience, waiting anxiously for your presence on the stage. he had the perfect view from where he was at in the audience, and he held his breath waiting for the show to start. he couldn’t care less about the speech medda was planning before you went on, he just wanted to see you up there.

“i know many of you have come from far and wide to watch this next performer do what she does best. i would rave about her, but i’ll just let her dancing do the talking. up next to take my stage is the one and the only, Y/N L/N.”

medda bowed and walked off stage, and morris watched as the curtains fell away and he saw your figure in the darkness laid on a prop that was painted to look like a tree stump.

the lights came on, and the music began. morris watched as you slowly and gracefully worked around the prop, acting as a mythical creature in a forest. his eyes stayed locked on you, not entirely sure what he was watching, but enthralled nonetheless.

you stood on top of the tree stump, going up en pointe and holding your balance in an arabesque, your arms stretched out to your sides.

you glanced into the audience, still holding your balance, searching for morris. you couldn’t find him, but you ignored your heart thumping erratically in your chest as you brought your other leg down to leap off of the prop, sending your legs soaring out.

morris watched in awe in the audience. he liked to think of himself as tough as nails, and he frowned upon himself showing emotion. but, it was becoming harder and harder to uphold that facade as you continued moving around the stage. he knew you must have been talented to have your own show like this, but never in a million years would he have guessed you would be like this.

the turn sequences were your least favorite part of your shows. you were more of a jumper, you loved the feeling of soaring through the air. along with that, you were flexible, and you had tremendous balance for kicks. you were able to hold your leg impossibly high like it was nothing. but turns were a different story.

you began your prep, and as you did, you spotted morris in the audience, right in front of your vision. your heart began to race even more, and you saw as he smiled, knowing that you had just seen him.

in order to prevent yourself from getting dizzy, you used morris as your spot during your turns. you were turning fast, but as you kept your eyes locked on him, you were able to hold your balance en pointe. it felt like you and him were the only ones in that theater.

morris kept his eyes on you as you spun around and around on the very tops of your toes, a small gasp escaping his mouth. he had never seen anyone do something so quick and difficult while simultaneously having so much grace and fluidity.

after nailing the turns and flowing seamlessly out of them into the next section, you forced your eyes to pull away from his.

not only was morris awestruck by your movement, he was drawn into your storytelling. anyone in that room could see you were on an adventure through the forest, and he felt as if you were taking him along for the ride.

after what felt like hours but somehow not enough time, morris watched as you retreated to the back of the stage, hitting one last pose on the faux tree stump before the lights went dim.

the crowd immediately erupted as the curtains drew to a close, but morris stayed in place. he couldn’t quite process exactly what he just saw, but he was upset that it ended so soon. he could have watched you up there for hours.

when the curtains closed, you got off your prop and headed backstage as medda announced the last act of the night. another successful show, you thought to yourself.

as you sat backstage taking sips of water, you felt a presence behind you. before you could turn to see who it was, a voice spoke in your ear. “well if it ain’t the most talented girl i’ve ever seen.”

you stood up from your chair, seeing a smiling morris who had a singular rose in his hand. before you could jump into his arms and give him a bone crushing hug, he got to you first, wrapping his arms around your waist and picking you up off the ground.

“you were amazin’ out there, Y/N.”

you pulled away, the biggest grin you've ever had on your face. "you really think so?"

"i know so."

you rolled your eyes. "you're a big softie and you know it."

he smiled sarcastically, setting you back on the ground and lightly pinching your cheek. "any more of that and we're done, silly girl."

you giggled, and only then did you remember the single rose in his hand. morris looked down, almost as if he had forgotten about it too.

"oh, yeah, uh… this is for you. for being so beautiful up there," morris said, immediately getting shy. you bit your lip, holding back a giddy grin.

you stepped closer to him and stood en pointe to give him a kiss on the lips. "it's lovely, morris. where did you get it? you didn’t have that earlier," you asked, taking his hand in your free one.

"i took it from the bouquet that the guy sittin' next to me had."

you blinked at him before sighing. "of course you did."

#mike faist #mike faist imagine #mike faist x reader #mike faist fanfiction #newsies x reader #newsies imagine #morris delancey

[delulu-enough-for-you]

Cocky - Spot Conlon x Reader

Content: flirty fluff!

⚠️ Warnings: female pronouns used, Y/N used, spot being a dick, cursing, not proofread well

Author's note: fine men. thats all. Enjoy!!

_________________________________________

-Y/N's POV-

I had taken the younger newsies to the park and had just returned to see Spot sitting on my bed. I rolled my eyes and walked over to him, my light green dress between my fingers. "Spot!" I said. "What're you doing on my bed?"Just enjoyin' da view," he smirked. I frowned and crossed my arms. "You're still wearing your outdoor clothes. Why would you sit on my nice clean bed wearing them?" He just shrugged and smirked again. "I'on see a problem wit' it.' "Well, I do." I fired back. Spot just groaned and got up from his place on my sheets. "I'll leave, as long as I can sleep 'ere tonight. Mighty fine bed, mighty fine lady." Spot had a shit eating grin on his face. I looked him straight in the eye. "You. Fucking. Wish." I growled, smoothing out the space where he sat previously. He held his hands up in defense. "I'll be back after dinner. Hope the bed bugs don't bite. " He winked and walked out.

_________________________________________

Newsies headcannons, anyone? 🫣

_________________________________________

#spot conlon #newsies #spot x reader #spot conlon x reader #newsies imagines #newsies imagine #newsies x reader

[ssadumba55]

Masterlist: Archived Fandoms

All my writing for Hamilton, Sherlock, Harry Potter, Newsies, A Series of Unfortunate Events, 101 Dalmatian Street, Zootopia, Wall-E, Ratatouille, The Maze Runner, Descendants, Once Upon A Time, Hook, She-Ra, The Incredibles, My Little Pony: A New Generation, Wizards of Waverly Place and Captain Marvel will be linked here!

*I do NOT wish to receive further requests for these fandoms. They're archived for a reason, I'd like to leave these up for people in those fandoms to enjoy but I reserve the right to delete anything on here without warning

Imagines full on one shots with your favourite characters

HAMILTON THE MUSICAL

Thomas Jefferson Permission to Court? (Gender Neutral Reader)

King George I Missed You (Female Reader) Don't Need Riches (Gender Neutral Reader)

BBC SHERLOCK

John Watson Can't Sleep (Gender Neutral Reader)

Sherlock Holmes He's a Jerk (Gender Neutral Reader)

HARRY POTTER

Newt Scamander Awkward (Gender Neutral Reader)

Sirius Black Muggle (Gender Neutral Reader) Deal (Female Reader) Intimate (Female Reader) Try Again (Gender Neutral Reader) Reunion (FtM Reader)

Remus Lupin Girlfriend? (Female Reader)

Queenie Goldstein Lovely Thoughts (Female Reader)

Harry Potter Hogsmeade (Gender Neutral Reader)

A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS

Klaus Baudelaire Happy Birthday (Gender Neutral Reader) Alone (Gender Neutral Reader) Letters (Gender Neutral Reader) Jack London (Gender Neutral Reader) Yours (Gender Neutral Reader) Substitute (Gender Neutral Reader) Valentine (Gender Neutral Reader) Moving On (Female Reader) Not That Easy (Gender Neutral Reader) Bad Day (Gender Neutral Reader) Anniversary (Gender Neutral Reader)

Duncan Quagmire Christmas Party (Female Reader) Jealous (Female Reader)

Isadora Quagmire Special (Female Reader) The Ersatz Elevator (Female Reader)

Violet Baudelaire Falling for You (Female Reader)

Baudelaires Island Days (Gender Neutral Reader)

NEWSIES

Davey Jacobs First Kiss (Gender Neutral Reader)

101 DALMATIAN STREET

Doug Father's Day! (Gender Neutral Reader)

Delilah Sick Day (Gender Neutral Reader)

ZOOTOPIA

Judy Hopps What Parents Do (Gender Neutral Reader) Halloween's Scary (Gender Neutral Reader)

WALL-E

Wall-E Holidays (Gender Neutral Reader) Fourth of July (Gender Neutral Reader)

EVE Thunderstorms (Gender Neutral Reader)

Wall-E & EVE Robot Child (Gender Neutral Reader) Earth Day (Gender Neutral Reader)

THE MAZE RUNNER

Newt One Chance (Female Reader)

Minho Hopeless (Male Reader) Wherever, Whenever (Male Reader)

ONCE UPON A TIME

Jefferson Scar (Gender Neutral Reader)

Killian Jones Hooked On a Feeling (Gender Neutral Reader) Flower Shop (Male Reader)

HOOK

Rufio I Wish Pt. 1 (Female Reader) I Wish Pt. 2 (Female Reader)

SHE-RA AND THE PRINCESSES OF POWER

Scorpia Leaving (Gender Neutral Reader) Is This What Love Is? (Gender Neutral Reader)

WIZARDS OF WAVERLY PLACE

Justin Russo Third Chance (Gender Neutral Reader)

CAPTAIN MARVEL

Carol Danvers Don't Give Up (Gender Neutral Reader)

RATATOUILLE

Remy Halloween Dish (Gender Neutral Reader) Fancy Feast (Gender Neutral Reader)

Headcanons Headcanons related to these characters

Being Friends with Duncan Quagmire (Gender Neutral) Baudelaires and Quagmires React to you Saying you Love Them (Gender Neutral) Klaus Baudelaire with Secretly Soft Reader (Gender Neutral) Baudelaires & Quagmires React to Metalhead Reader (Gender Neutral) Playing Overcooked with Linguini and Colette (Female Reader) Dating Remy the Rat Would Include (Gender Neutral) Warning Linguini and Colette About a Leak (Female Reader) Linguini and Colette with Child! Reader (Gender Neutral) Being the Oldest Incredikid With No Powers (Gender Neutral) Reuniting with Twin Sister Catra (Gender Neutral) Being BFFs and Roommates with Adora (Gender Neutral) Dating Alphabittle Would Include (Gender Neutral) Harry Hook x LaBouff!Sparrow!Reader (Gender Neutral) Dunklaus Headcanons

#milo's masterlists #disney imagine #disney headcanons #asoue imagine #asoue headcanons #sherlock imagines #harry potter imagine #hamilton imagine #newsies imagine #wizards of waverly place imagine #my little pony imagine #she ra imagine #descendants imagine #harry hook x reader #ratatouille imagine #the incredibles imagine #male reader #female reader #gender neutral reader

[collecting-stories]

November 29 - Racetrack Higgins

Request: can I request a little racetrack or finch x fem!reader where she has press night for a broadway show they’re in (your choice!) and he is just admiring her, maybe with a little 62 and 80 from prompt list?

A/N: I decided to set this in 1899 instead of doing an AU so I changed the zipper line because zippers weren't used on clothing until 1925. The play is Ben Hur, which premiered on Broadway on November 29 1899 and was a massive success at the time.

Broadway Masterlist

✰✰✰✰

You didn’t want to admit it but you were terribly nervous. Katharine was there in the bustle of people and press who had the privilege of attending the show that evenings, a rather exclusive who’s who of New York City elite, and you felt out of place, even in your new dress. It was nicer than anything you’d ever worn before, the sort of thing meant to impress wealth and prestige and yet, it felt like it was suffocating you. 

As your co-star answered questions about the play you stood beside him, listening but hardly able to pay attention. While Katherine’s presence was reassuring, it didn’t quite provide the calm feeling that you were looking for. What you really wanted, as silly as it may have sounded to these people, was to be back at the boarding house with everyone. With nobody to impress, or at least with people who didn’t need you all dolled up in fancy clothes that felt like they were suffocating you, flashy red shoes and rogue on your cheeks. You just wanted to be back sitting on the rooftop with Racetrack, trying to stay cool in the summer and listening to all the sounds that threatened to keep you awake. 

Katherine called your name softly as she came up beside you, offering the sort of well-mannered greeting (a polite kiss to your left cheek and a reassuring hand on your wrist) that belonged in upper society circles. “Seems you have an admirer.” She teased and you finally looked away from all the stuffy jackets and skirts in the room. 

“What?”

“Look,” she instructed, nodding her head back so that you looked just beyond her shoulder. Standing there near the exit, in nicer clothes than you knew him to own, was Racetrack. Jack was standing with him, grinning at all the people hobnobbing their way about the lobby. Racetrack was looking right at you though, nothing seemed able to distract him as he stood there, grin on his face, watching you receiving praise from all the wealthy theatre goers of New York City. 

When he realized that Katherine had told you he was there, he waved and mouthed a silent ‘hello’ to him. You held your hand up just enough that he could tell you were waving back and then you pointed off to the side, nodding your head in the same direction just in case Racetrack didn’t get the message to meet you at the side door. He nodded. 

“You think anyone would mind if I sneak off?” You chanced asking Katherine, “just for a moment?” 

“I’ll cover for you, promise.” She replied. 

You snuck off as quietly as possible, weaving through the crowd and then slipping through the double doors into the theatre. You walked the empty aisle down to the stage, through the back and to the side door where Racetrack stood, already inside.

“You were supposed to wait for me to let you in.”

“Picked the lock,” he shrugged, smiling at you. There was a deep blush across his freckled cheeks as he stared at you, “you look beautiful, prettier than those Gibson girls.”

You couldn’t stop the smile on your face as you moved closer to him, taking his face in your hands and kissing him. You and Racetrack had been friends for as long as you had been living on the street and you had liked him just as long. You’d wasted money on dances before, gone along with friends who were looking for a more secure future than a newsie had the means to offer, but nothing had ever stuck. You loved Race and you knew you did and whether it was the way he was looking at you or the fact that all your nerves had been calmed at the sight of him or even just the knowledge that it was your name on the marquee outside tonight, you wanted to make sure that he knew how much you loved him. 

“Wow,” Racetrack looked a little dumbstruck when you pulled away, a dopey smile on his face, “thanks.”

“Thanks?” You nearly laughed, “...your welcome?”

“No I didn’t mean...I just meant...aw hell,” he shook his head before leaning forward initiating another kiss. 

You had a marquee with your name on it and hundreds of guests crowding into the theatre to see you but all that felt like second best to the feeling of kissing Racetrack. You felt like there were butterflies in your stomach as you leaned back against the dressing table that had been set up in the tiny closet of a room you’d been given backstage. Outside the closed door you could hear footsteps and voices, people bustling around now that the preshow cocktail hour was over. Soon you’d be expected, ready and in costume, to go onstage. 

“Racetrack,” you pushed gently at his chest, “Racetrack, I have to get ready.” 

He nodded his head in understanding, though he didn't look ready to let go of you just yet, "I know," he lamented. And then, leaning in again, "I know I've kissed you like ten times but just another ten please?"

Before you could protest, a knock on your door let you know that you were expected out on the side stage, ready for your entrance. "I have to go," you insisted, pulling away. This time he let you though you didn't get too far, turning your back to him and looking over your shoulder, "can you help me do up this dress? Since you've somehow managed to undo it." 

Racetrack smiled, holding up his hands and wiggling his fingers, "nimble fingers," he replied. He did up your dress though, the brightest smile on his face the entire time. "Beautiful."

You could feel your face warm at his compliment. Racetrack always knew how to give your butterflies in your stomach. "Wait until I'm gone," you asked, checking your makeup in the mirror behind him, "I don't need anyone thinking I'm a charity girl."

"That'll be comical...after tonight you'll be the one giving me gifts for favors." Race teased, laughing when you swatted at him, "you think they got a name for that? A bloke who gets gifts from his girl, instead a the other way 'round?"

"I'll see you after the show," you promised, opening the door just enough that you could sneak out of your dressing room and blowing him a kiss that he caught and pressed to his heart.      

#collecting stories imagine #racetrack x reader #racetrack imagine #racetrack higgins x reader #newsies imagine #newsies fanfiction #newsies fanfic #newsies oneshot

[rivthejellyfish]

Not Scared Anymore

Word count: 1685

Hurt/Comfort

Platonic!Newsies x reader

Navigation

_ _ _

  “Y/N! We’ve missed you, where’ve you been?” Y/N groaned internally. They had seen the Delancey twins this morning, and the day before, and the day before that, and every single time they say the same thing. The two knew it annoyed them, so they took advantage of it. Y/N turned away from the direction they were walking in, holding up a newspaper and calling out a fake headline. 

  “No need to be so cold, ya know,” Oscar said. Y/N continued to ignore them, not looking back at the two as an older man exchanged a paper for a penny. Y/N thanked him as he walked away and he only grunted in return.

  “Look at you go, selling those papes so quickly. We’re so proud of you.” One of the two put his hand on top of their head, shaking their hat around before taking it off and tossing it over to the other. Y/N sighed.

  “Just give me back my damn hat, Delancey,” They said once they had turned around. Morris shrugged, spinning the hat with his finger.

  “If ya want it back so bad, you’re gonna have to fight for it,” He said. The two brothers shared a laugh as Y/N tried to grab the hat, only for it to be tossed to the other.

  “You heard him, Y/N. Can’t make any exceptions, even for you,” Oscar said. Y/N huffed, turning around and walking away. They didn’t need their hat to sell the paper, they’d be just fine without it. And they did. They sold two papers in the next twenty minutes, glad to see the twins hadn’t followed them. However, the second they felt the relief, an annoying voice came from down the road.

  “Could you imagine walking away from a fight, Morris? I think that if someone does it says quite awful lot about them, what about you?”

  “Oh, I completely agree. I think it means that they’re a wimp, and they know they can’t win.” Y/N turned to tell them to screw off, only for Oscar to pull the papers out from underneath their arm and throw them to the side. They tried to go after them, but the two brothers blocked their path. Right as they exchanged a sinister glance, someone else butted in.

  “Delancey!” Jack called. The three looked over to see Jack storming over, David behind him with an obvious look of ‘I have to make sure he doesn’t kill anyone’. Further proving the theory of what the look meant, he grabbed Jack’s arm once they had got there and pulled him back slightly, not having the slightest trust in him. “Get the hell away from dem.” 

  “When will you learn to mind your own damn business, Kelly?” 

  “Once you two piss off.” Oscar scoffed, shaking his head. Morris rolled his eyes. He turned back to Y/N as Oscar started walking away.

  “Times gonna come when he doesn’t get here in time, and trust me when I say that both of us are looking forward to it.” He shoved the hat to Y/N’s chest, taking a final chance to glare at Jack before catching up with Oscar. As Y/N put the hat back on, Jack turned to David.

  “No, Jack.”

  “Yous saying those dicks don’t deserve it?”

  “I’m not-”

  “Let’s not argue about this,” Y/N spoke up before anything could escalate. Of course, it wouldn’t escalate too badly, but Y/N didn’t feel like hearing the two bitter back and forth while trying to sell the rest of their papers. They bent down, picking up the papers the Delancey’s had thrown to the ground. They groaned once realizing that none of the papers hadn’t fallen into the puddle, meaning they couldn’t sell any of them. No one wanted wet papers.

  “Dammit, Y/N, sorry we couldn’t get here any sooner,” Jack said as he and Davey helped pick up the soaking paper. Y/N shrugged.

  “It’s whatever. There’s always tomorrow.” Of course, both Jack and David knew that it wasn’t whatever, considering the money Y/N just lost and the small bit of dignity, but they didn’t say anything. The three walked back to the lodge house, Jack and Davey having already sold all their papers, throwing the wet papers away along the way. They walked in to see a few others had already returned, including Crutchie, Race, Specs, and Romeo. 

  “You three have already sold all your papers?” Jack said, skeptical of all of them aside from Crutchie. Race placed a hand over his heart, feigning hurt.

  “Course we did, Jack, what do yous think of us?”

  “I don’t think you’d want to hear that answer,” Crutchie said, laughing at Jack’s nod to agree with his statement.

  “Hey, Y/N, what is yous doing back so early? Thought you liked to go watch the fishes or something?” Specs asked.

  “Yeah, Y/N, what’s up?” Romeo asked, not seeing the glare that Jack had sent Specs. Race, however, did.

  “It was them Delancey’s again wasn’t it?” He said, standing up as he rolled up his sleeves. “Two need to learn a lesson.” David grabbed Race’s bicep as he walked by him.

  “Go sit down.” Race groaned, turning around.

  “This is why no one likes you, Davey,” Race said as he fell back into the chair.

  “That ain’t true!” Crutchie said. “I like you, Davey, you’re a cool guy.”

  “Ok, everyone shut up,” Y/N said, making sure not to look at Crutchie when she said it, considering it was directed towards everyone aside from him. “Yeah, I had a run-in with the Delancey's, wasn’t a big deal. Got out of it without a scratch, no need to make a big deal over it.”

  “Y/N, the only reason you did was because Davey and I showed up at the right time.” Before Y/N could protest, David had to interrupt.

  “He’s right, Y/N.” Y/N sent a glare toward David, who sent an apologetic look back.

  “Hows about we teach you some tricks to help yous out when those pricks are around, might help you out a bit?” Specs suggested. Race lit up at the idea.

  “Oh, please say yes, I’ve been dying for an excuse to beat Romeo’s ass after he stole my customers from me last week.”

  “I didn’t steal shit, you’re just a lousy newsie.”

  “Oh really? Y/N, watch this.”

  “Shut your traps, both of yous,” Jack interrupted. He turned to Y/N. “That ain’t too bad of an idea, though, you wanna try it?” Y/N shrugged.

  “Don’t got anything better to do.” The second after they said it, Race jumped onto Romeo, calling for Y/N to watch and see how it was done. Jack groaned, pulling Race back.

  “Dumbasses.”

—

  Y/N had finished selling their papers for the day, walking back to the lodge house to meet with Crutchie for a game of War. As they walked, they got the sense that someone was following them, but decided it’d be better to just ignore it. So they did. Until someone grabbed them by their arm, pulling them into one of the many alleyways in Manhattan. Y/N quickly regained their balance to turn to see the Delancey brothers standing there, smirks on their faces.

  “Think you’ve been avoiding us, haven’t you?” Morris said, stepping forward. Y/N rolled their eyes, going to push past the two. Right as they tried, a punch was given to their right cheek, leaving a stinging pain that Y/N could only assume was from the ring Oscar was wearing.

  “You don’t get to leave after you’ve been so disrespectful. It’s time for you to pay up.”

  “Look, I don’t want any trouble, ok? I just want to get back to the lodge house and go to sleep.”

  “Should’ve thought about that before you changed your selling spot without us knowing.” Before Y/N could respond, the two stepped forward, swinging hits at them as they backed up. Once they hit a wall, fear struck them knowing they had nowhere else to go. Another punch landed on their stomach as well as their jaw. They ducked down as the next one was sent their way, kicking Oscar in the stomach causing him to fall back. Morris tried to take the chance to grab Y/N’s leg, but Y/N lowered it quickly enough and pushed him away. Seeing as both of them were now on the ground, Y/N went to run away before they could get up. However, Oscar grabbed their foot, causing them to fall to the ground, scraping their knees and elbows. They flipped over onto their back, kicking back at Oscar as he tried to grab them again. They threw a punch at Morris, who hadn’t been expecting it, and he stumbled back. Getting back on their feet, Y/N turned and sprinted the next few blocks. They got to the lodge house, where Jack was outside. Jack saw them coming and his expression changed, turning away from David and coming over.

  “Hey, hey, what happened?” He said, putting his hands on their biceps. Y/N was breathing heavily, shaking their head. “Y/N, are you alright?” Y/N nodded, and it sounded as though they were crying. “Y/N, talk to us, come on.” Y/N looked up, showing the cuts on their face, along with a smile.

  “You should’ve been there!” Y/N exclaimed. Jack looked back at David, confused. “They had cornered me in an alley but I fought back! I kicked them and hit them and got away!” 

  “Are you talking about the Delancey’s?” David asked. Y/N nodded, jumping slightly at their excitement.

  “You should’ve seen their faces! They were so confused, they didn’t know what hit ‘em!” Jack chuckled.

  “Hell yeah, Y/N, wish I could see them now,” Jack said, smiling down at them.

  “Yeah, but are you ok, Y/N? You’re bleeding,” David said, reaching up to assess the cut on their cheek. Y/N rolled their eyes, pushing his hand away.

  “I’m fine, Davey, never been better!” 

  “How about we goes inside and tell everyone about how you beat their asses?” Jack said. Y/N nodded.

  “Hell yeah!” As Jack and Y/N turned and ran inside, David rolled his eyes, laughing himself before following behind them.

#jack kelly imagine #davey jacobs imagine #newsies broadway #jack kelly #david jacobs #jack kelly x reader #davey jacobs x reader #newsies imagine #newsies x reader

[princessrockclub]

newsies imagines

imagine; spot conlon having no idea who the FUCK you are because its the 1800's and you're nothing but a random person to him so he walks by you with nothing in mind

imagine; jack kelly is about to flirt with you so you can buy his papes, he taps your shoulder with a grin so wide, but as you turn around, his smile falters and he chokes

"Oh-erm sorry there...ise didn't mean tha' bother ya..." he said and then he awkwardly backed away from you. eventually running off at full speed.

imagine; best boy crutchie prepares his smile that 'spreads like buttah' only for you to end up seeing it and he immediately frowns.

imagine; race is offering you a cigar, you shake your head no, he shrugs and then lifts himself off the wall and leaves. he does not want to hang out with you.

imagine; albert seeing you on the ground, you're not hurt you're just lazy, he steps over you and keeps walking. he doesn't want to waste his strength on you.

im tired of bein a literal victoria secret model in newsies imagines or x readers, its time we look so fucking ugly

#its papin' time #newsies imagine

[blog-of-a-multitude-of-fandoms]

My Girl- Davey Jacobs

Pairing: Davey Jacobs x Reader

Characters: Davey Jacobs

Warnings: N/A

Request: N/A

Word Count: 675

Author: Charlotte

Meeting the parents seemed to be an important step in most people’s relationships but it was one that sent shudders of fear to your core. You had faced far more typically scary things but meeting Davey’s parents seemed to be the one thing that could practically bring you to tears. You understood why he wanted to introduce you to them but he could never understand why you feared the concept so much.

“I can’t,” you stated.

“They will love you,” he beamed, taking your hands within his.

You shook your head. “They ain’t gonna love me, Davey. I ain’t like you. They ain’t gonna want someone like me with you.”

He paused for a moment, not sue what you were talking about. He loved you and so did Les, so why wouldn’t his parents feel the same way about you?

“I’ve told them so much about you, they want to meet you,” he said, trying to reassure you.

“What’s you told them? I bet you didn’t mention I sleep with the rats, or ain’t seen my folks since I was Les’ age. Or hows about that I ain’t set foot in a school? They wants you to find a girl that can buy pretty dresses and talks all smart. That ain’t me.”

It had been something on your mind for so long. You had fallen for Davey as soon as you saw him but that didn’t mean you didn’t question how long this whole thing could last.

“You are smart Y/N, school doesn’t matter, and you know it. You are one of the smartest people I know.”

“Davey,” you sighed. “Think for a sec, hows long you gonna keep this up? Your dad will be back at work soon, then what? Yous ain’t gonna hang around if you don’t gotta. You don’t gotta sell papes and yous go back to school, then I’m just the newsie you once pitied. Hows we gonna last? You gonna be at your fancy school and I’m still here, selling papes for pennies and tryna not go to the refuge.”

For the first time you saw pain on Davey’s face. It hadn’t been something he had considered before. At first all he could think of was getting back into school and his life going back to normal but then he got to know you and the other newsies and the idea of not being part of your world disappeared from his mind and he hadn’t looked back.

“I don’t know,” he whispered. “But I don’t know if the strike is going to work; I don’t know if I’m going to make enough money selling papers to keep our house; I don’t know a lot of things but that’s doesn’t mean I’m not going to keep trying. It’s scary and we might both be here now but we have come from very different places but that doesn’t change the fact that I love you and as long as I love you then I don’t care what anyone thinks, not even my parents.”

A weak smile curled onto your lips. “You love me?”

Davey’s cheeks flushed red as he realised what he said. He had known that he loved you for a long time, but he had never thought that he could admit that to you.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Yeah, I do.”

“I loves you too,” you smiled. “You really want to introduce me to your folks? I ain’t the kinda girl that boys want to introduce as theirs.”

Davey squeezed your hands tightly, raising them to press his lips to the reverse of them.

“You are the only girl I want to introduce to people as mine. I hope you will be the only girl that’s mine,” he said softly. “That’s if you want to keep on being my girl.”

You nodded your head. “I’ll always be ya girl, even if the dinner with ya folks goes badly.”

His expression instantly perked up. “So, you’ll come to the dinner.”

“If it’s what will make ya happy, then it’ll make me happy.”

#My Girl #Davey Jacobs #Davey Jacobs Imagine #Davey Jacobs One Shot #Newsies #Newsies One Shot #Newsies Imagine #Newsies The Musical #Newsies The Musical One Shot #Newsies The Musical Imagine #Charlotte

[crutchie-with-a-y]

A couple days late, BUT HAPPY 123RD ANNIVERSARY OF THE NEWSBOYS’ STRIKE OF 1899!!!

#newsies #newsies fandom #newsies fanfic #newsies fanfiction #newsies imagine #broadway #jack kelly #musicals #racetrack higgins #broadway musicals #newsies live #1992sies #race newsies #newsboy strike of 1899 #newsboy strike

[miryum]

Okay I had an idea for a Spot Conlon x reader!!

Passing out outside his door after getting soaked, Spot finding the reader and taking them inside his room to take care of her.

She/They pronouns of you don’t mind!!

Spot Conlon was anything if not intelligent. He had risen through Brooklyn not only on account of his strength, but his smarts. He had his smarts with him when he became the King of Brooklyn. He had his smarts with him when he upped his paper buying- buying and selling a hundred and fifty papes instead of only one hundred. He had his smarts with him when he beat up the Delancey brothers for harassing one of his newsies.  

However, he may not have had his smarts with him when he agreed to join Jack Kelly’s strike and he definitely didn’t have his smarts with him when he carried in an unconscious girl that appeared on the Lodging House doorstep. 

“Spot?” Knicks ran up to him. “We have a situation- wait. You have something bigger going on.” Knicks noticed the girl in Spot’s arms. “Who’s that?” 

“I don’t know.” Spot pushed past Knicks and the small crowd of newsies that had begun to form. 

“What are you doing? How’d they’d get here? Do you know where Vinny’s hat is?” Knicks started questioning Spot. 

Spot groaned at the boy’s questions and started towards the stairs. “I’m bringing her up to my room to take care of her. I don’t know. I found her on the doorstep. As you can see, she’s beaten up pretty badly. And no, I haven’t seen Vinny’s hat.”

Spot was right. The girl in his arms had been soaked and looked pretty rough. She had a black eye that was a nasty black, purple, and blue. On the other side of their face, another bruise was creeping up their cheekbone. Her lip was split and had a smattering of other cuts and blemishes on their face.

Before Knicks could ask anymore questions, Spot quickly sidestepped him and hurried to his room.

Spot set the teenager down and before exiting the room. He wanted to grab some things to clean them up. Maybe some bandages or ointment? Truth be told, Spot was better at soaking someone than healing them. 

Once he got back with his half-hazard supplies, he found the person sitting up on their elbows. 

“Hello?” Spot looked at her sceptically. Should he trust this random person? 

“Who are you?” The girl asked, trying to sit up further. 

Spot shook his head and said, “Lay back down. What happened to you?” 

“Answer my question.” 

Spot raised an eyebrow. No one ever talked back to him. But, this kid didn’t know he was the King of Brooklyn. He could cut them some slack. “I’m Spot Conlon, newsie, and King of Brooklyn.” 

The girl’s eyes narrowed but she laid down as Spot had asked. “I’m Y/n. I-uh.” They cleared their throat, “The Delancey Brothers got to me. They thought I was stealing something.” 

“Were you stealing something?” Spot asked in a deadpan voice. He wouldn’t be surprised if this dirty street-rat needed to steal to stay alive. He wasn’t about to diss on it, though. He knew all too well about life on the streets. He started cleaning the girl up. 

“Yes.” Y/n admitted. She pulled out a policeman’s whistle, a proud glint in her eye. “It just looked so shiny and I thought I could get some good money for it.” She then squinted at Spot who was cleaning some cuts on her arm, careful for her fresh bruises. “Why’d you take me in? I know newsies are all about loyalty and crap, but I’m not a newsie.” 

Spot huffed a laugh, “Just ‘cause you’re not a newsie doesn’t mean I’d leave you out there. That’s cruel.” 

“You were still taking a gamble. I could knock you out and steal from you right now.” 

This time, Spot laughed for real. “Yeah, sure sweetheart. You could beat me in a fight. And, I don’t know… there was just something about you? I couldn’t imagine you doing anything terrible… Sounds stupid. I know.” 

Y/n hummed. “Alright, Spot Conlon. I trust you.” 

They went to stand but Spot pushed them back down. “That was a bad soaking. You were unconscious. I’m not about to let you waltz out here.” 

Y/n glared at him, “I can take care of myself.”

“From what I just saw, no you can’t.” Spot contradicted. “You’re staying here until you get better.” 

Y/n leaned back on Spot's bed, arms crossed. “Then I guess you’re stuck with me, Spot Conlon.” 

Spot grinned, “I guess I am.”

#spotconlon #spot conlon #spotxreader #spot #spot conlon x reader #newsie #newsies movie #newsies musical #newsboys #brooklyn #brooklyn’s hereeeee #x reader #she/they #jack kelly #crutchie morris #davey jacobs #racetrack higgins #spot conlon imagine #spot conlon oneshot #newsies imagine #newsies #newsies oneshot #new york #delancey brothers #strike #1899 #strike 1899

[youaintnothinbuta]

— jack kelly boyfriend hcs —

ೃ⁀➷ summary: just a bunch of cute boyfriendy hcs about jack !

pairing: jack kelly x fem!reader

warnings: none

A/N: feel free to request a specific trope of hcs, maybe some nsfw ones next ?? Hope you enjoy <3

• He is incredibly gentle with you

• He needs to be making physical contact at. all. times. Even when he’s talking to someone else, his hand will still be on your shoulder or on the small of your back

• He’s always brushing your hair out of your face, usually followed by a caress of the jaw

• “Let everyone see that pretty face’a yours.”

• Gently rocks you whenever you’re curled up on his lap. It’s very subtle, but he always does it

• During cuddle sessions, he’ll usually hum or softly sing with his chin rested on the top of your head

• Consequently, you can feel the vibrations of his voice in his throat against your head (which you find oddly comforting)

• WHINES LIKE CRAZY when you tell him you don’t feel pretty and then spends the next 20 minutes RANTING about how you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid eyes on, no matter how many times you try to take back your original claim

• Whines also when he doesn’t get morning cuddles for as long as he’d like (even if you are lying there squirming telling him how much you need to get up to pee)

• Seriously every second sound that comes out of his mouth is a whine

• He craves the smell your skin. Just loves to bury his face into the crook of your neck, which is what he would describe as the most comfortable place in all of New York

• Purposely ignores you when you’re tugging on the hem of his shirt or sleeve cuff for attention, because by doing so you’re giving him attention, which he loves

• He won’t let you walk though a crowd without holding his hand. Like he physically will not move until your hand is in his

• Did I mention he whines a lot? Cos you can’t tease him. Not even a little bit. He’ll just whine and trod after you like a desperate horny teenager

• He absolutely FOLDS whenever you fix his collar without him asking. The feeling of your fingertips lightly grazing the back of his neck sends chills through him

• When you say something and he doesn’t hear you, he pulls you in by the waist and turns his head by your face and says “say again, sweetheart”

#jack kelly fluff #jeremy jordan jack kelly #jack kelly newsies #jack kelly #newsies jack kelly #jack kelly x reader #reader x jack kelly #reader insert #x reader #jeremy jordan newsies #newsies fluff #newsies fanfic #newsies broadway #newsies #headcanon #hcs #francis sullivan #boyfriend #newsies imagine #jeremy jordan #Jeremy jordan x reader

[auspicious-manner]

ngl I keep coming back each day to read your stories, they are really good! can you do another story on newsies era mike faist and the reader? thank you :)

thank you so much, it means a lot :) even though i don’t update daily anymore, lol. although, i was better about it this week, and it only took me 6 days to update instead of 7, go me! small improvement!

female reader x mike faist

warnings: none

I’m So Tired

•

“dude, open the door!” a voice sounded from the outside of Y/N’s apartment door.

“gosh, give me like five seconds!” she yelled back as she finished packing her backpack to head to the theater.

there was a long pause. “it’s been longer than five seconds!”

she grabbed her bag and flung the door open to find an impatient mike looking down at her disheveled state.

“my goodness, you are insufferable.”

mike raised an eyebrow. “i’m insufferable? you’re the one who has made us behind today. we’re going to be late because of you.”

Y/N walked out of her apartment and turned to lock the door. “we’re going to be just fine, stop being so dramatic.”

Y/N and mike had a very close bond. after being cast in newsies together, with mike as morris and the understudy of jack kelly and Y/N as hannah and a bowery beauty, they became best friends due to constantly being together. every day, they would commute to the nederlander theatre together. mike lived further into the city, so he would drive his car to Y/N’s apartment building, park it in the street, and together they would take the subway.

with mike being a year older than Y/N, a lot of their debates resulted in mike trying to act as an older figure to her, with her firing back and saying something snarky like, “you’re not my dad”. given the fact that both of them had a dry, sarcastic sense of humor, their personalities fit together like two puzzle pieces. not only that, but their relationship was full of constant play-flirting that both of them though was based strictly off of friendship.

“i’m going on as jack today,” mike told her as they walked down the busy streets of new york.

Y/N yawned. “no kidding? that’s cool.”

mike sighed. “you could have just told me you didn’t care.”

Y/N quickly looked at him, realizing her yawn came off the wrong way. “i didn’t mean that sarcastically, really. i didn’t have time to make coffee today and i barely got any sleep because my neighbors dog was screeching all night,” she stopped walking, resulting in mike also coming to a stop. he stared at her sunken eyes. “i’m so unbelievably tired.”

mike nodded and continued walking. “i get it. if it makes you feel any better, we’ll share at least a little bit of stage time today since i’m going on as jack,” he said with a hopeful grin.

“ugh, that does not help my mood.”

the pair continued to the station, safely got on the subway, and headed off. on the subway, Y/N’s eyes began to flutter as if she was fighting off sleep. she’s pretty sure at some point she actually did manage to fall asleep on the short ride to their stop.

“are you… sleeping?” mike asked when he saw her head slumped to the side. he pushed her arm gently and she shot up.

“are you okay? i don’t think i’ve ever seen you this tired,” he asked her with real concern.

“i’m fine, i promise. i just didn’t get a lot of sleep, that’s all.”

mike stared back at her, not fully believing it. he put his hand to her forehead. “you feel a little warm. do you have a fever?”

“who knows, i might,” she started, being interrupted by a yawn. “i’ll just take a nap in my dressing room before i have to get ready, then i’ll be brand new.”

mike sighed. “Y/N, you are one tough cookie.”

they got off at their stop and walked into the beautiful nederlander theatre. sometimes they still couldn’t believe they did this for a living. the feeling of walking into the empty theater never changed, even after performing hundreds of shows.

they signed in and separated to their dressing rooms to prepare. she got to her shared dressing room early and was able to squeeze in a short hour of sleep before being awoken by her cast mates.

“Y/N, if you don’t get ready now you’ll never be ready in time for the show,” kara lindsay said, leaning over the girl sleeping on the small couch. she rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and sat up.

“this is going to be a long night,” she murmured before getting up and sitting in front of the mirror. she began to pin strands of hair tight against her head in order to prepare for her wig to be placed.

“what’s wrong with you today? you seem off,” kara asked as she did the same thing as Y/N.

“is it really that noticeable?” she asked, resulting in a nod from kara.

“i slept horribly last night, and i think i’m coming down with a cold. i’m just so tired.”

“just think about how rewarding your sleep is going to be when you finish the show tonight. you just have to get through two hours, and you’re free to sleep,” she consoled.

Y/N nodded and yawned. “i guess you’re right.”

she continued getting ready with kara and the other girls who played the nuns and the second bowery beauty by her side. she was friends with kara and merely acquaintances with the girls, but her only close friend out of the entire cast was mike. she hated to admit it, but she almost thought there was something more seriously flirty between the two of them. something beyond the nonchalant play flirting.

as if kara was reading Y/N’s mind, kara cleared her voice and began to speak. “you and mike are together a lot. do you like him?”

Y/N froze. was she going to admit her feelings for mike to kara?

“what? no. we’re just friends, nothing more,” she said, clearly not believing her own words.

kara smiled. “the way you guys look at each other and blush as if on cue isn’t something friends just do. when you guys finally realize there’s something more, give me credit,” she stated confidently before going to the wig room to get her wig placed.

Y/N sat contemplating what kara said, and looked at the three other girls to her side that were too engrossed in their own conversations to really listen to hers. she sat back in her seat and continued her hair, the conversation never leaving her mind.

after completing the process of pinning her hair back and doing her makeup, she got her first wig placed and her hannah costume on. after she was completely ready and waiting for her first call, she laid back down on the couch and closed her eyes.

there was a knock outside the dressing room door. she heard it in her sleep, but didn’t have the energy to answer it.

the knock sounded again, but instead of stopping afterwards, whoever it was came in.

“i-Y/N, are you sleeping again?”

Y/N sat up and saw mike in his jack kelly costume, standing over her.

“yeah, i was sleeping,” she replied, dazed.

“you’re not okay to do the show tonight, you never sleep before we go on like this. you should have called off,” mike said, sitting down next to her.

“i can do it. it sucks, but i’ll be fine. it’s just one show, and then i’m free to sleep in as long as i please tomorrow. i promise i’m just fine, pinky swear,” she said playfully, holding out her pinky.

mike glared at her before rolling his eyes and interlocking his pinky with hers. “i’m trusting you on this one.”

everyone was called to the wings, and mike stood by Y/N. she felt his glance lay on her, but she ignored it and looked onstage where the final props were being set up. she could hear the bustling audience beyond the stage.

mike placed an arm around Y/N’s shoulders, causing her to lean in and rest her head on mike’s shoulder. she could have easily fallen asleep right there.

it was mike’s turn to go on. “good luck buddy, you’ll be great,” she said, patting his back.

“you too, Y/N. don’t fall asleep out there!” he whispered before running to his place.

the show actually went smoothly, to Y/N’s surprise. the roar of the audience gave Y/N a boost of energy, and she was mostly able to get through the show. however, she noticed that any time she sat down in one of pulitzer’s chairs onstage, sleep threatened her again. along side the sleep issue, she felt her cold symptoms beginning to worsen, and her throat became scratchy and her nose was beginning to get stuffed up.

while being one of the bowery beauties, mike and Y/N got at least a few minutes of indirect stage time together. when the show allowed, they made eye contact and Y/N would look back at him, dazed with both tiredness and admiration for her friend.

towards the end of the show, Y/N watched mike perform onstage, and he was magical. he was captivating, and talented, and she wanted nothing more than to watch mike perform for hours. he ran off stage, catching her eyes staring directly at him.

“you okay?” he whispered, leaning close to her ear.

she yawned in response. “all good.”

he laughed before running off. she smiled to herself, feeling oddly giddy. mike was her best friend, why was she feeling excited at mike recognizing her?

finally, after a tiring two hours, it was time for curtain call. Y/N felt like at any time, her body would collapse under the weight of her heavy eyelids coercing her to sleep. she took her bow, and grinned when mike came out on stage as jack kelly. every time he went on as jack, Y/N’s heart fluttered with pride. she wasn’t exactly sure if it was normal for her to feel this strongly about a friend.

she retired to her dressing room, undoing her costume, hair, and makeup as quickly as possible. it took her longer than expected, though, due to her drowsy and slow movements.

all of the other girls finished before her, and she was left alone in her room. she was on her last task: unclipping her head of hair.

“oh gosh, i can’t do this,” she mumbled, resting her head on the table in front of her. luckily, before she could fall asleep at her table, mike barged in the door.

“hey Y/N- oh do not tell me you’re sleeping again,” mike said, standing behind her.

“not this time. i was close,” she lifted her head up and looked at mike through the mirror in front of her. “i just want to go home. i don’t even have the energy to take my hair out of the clips.”

mike thought about it, hesitated, and spoke up. “if you want me to, i can unclip it for you. you can rest your head for a little bit and i’ll get your hair done, okay?”

Y/N blushed. “would you?”

mike smiled back. “anytime. now, head down.”

she rested her head on her arms in front of her, and dozed off into a very light sleep. she knew mike was still talking to her, but she couldn’t decipher it or reply.

mike patted the back of her head. “all done,” mike exclaimed. “now, if you don’t hurry, we’ll miss our ride and i don’t think you want that.”

Y/N stood up slowly, finding it hard to walk due to her exhaustion. they made it outside of the theater, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to walk the few blocks to the station.

“mike?” she asked softly. matching her energy, he turned around and gave her a gentle look.

“what’s up?” he asked.

“c-can you carry me?”

mike tried to hide his red cheeks. “yeah, of course, but just this once. you’re crazy if you think i’ll be doing this for you every day.”

Y/N laughed and jumped on his back. “don’t worry about it, i won’t ask again.”

she got herself situated in a piggyback position on mike, and he carried her to their station. she rested her head comfortably on his back, and the sound of his breathing quickly lulled her to sleep. the only time she was awake was when mike set her down at the station and when they arrived at their destination. on the subway, she rested her head on mike’s shoulder and took a power nap.

Y/N instinctively got onto mike’s back again after they got out of the station, and he carried her all the way to her apartment door.

“i’ll get you settled inside, and then i’m going to head out,” mike said as Y/N unlocked her door.

“you can stay. your shoulder and back was comfy to sleep on,” she said, surprising herself with how bold she was being.

“are you sure? i don’t want to interrupt your sleep.”

Y/N stopped in the middle of her bedroom as mike told her this. “dude, i literally fell asleep on you multiple times tonight. you help me sleep,” she replied.

“if you say so,” he said, smiling lightly.

they got into bed, and unbeknownst to the other, they were smiling at the thought of sharing a bed together.

Y/N laid her head on mike’s chest, and he placed his arm around her.

“is this okay?” she asked, not wanting to overstep her boundaries.

he grazed her shoulder with his fingertips. “it’s perfect.”

“goodnight mike,” she said, already half asleep in his arms.

“goodnight Y/N,” he whispered back. she swore she heard a small “i love you” from mike, but before she could decide if she did or not, she was passed out cold.

#mike faist #mike faist imagine #mike faist x reader #mike faist fanfiction #newsies #newsies imagine #newsies x reader #jack kelly

[delulu-enough-for-you]

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[newsiesimagines]

Newsies Imagines #2

#newsies #newsies imagines #newsies imagine #newsies 1992 #92sies #Racetrack Higgins

[rivthejellyfish]

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