Kinda Gay For You To Wear Suspenders? Why Are You Wearing Them? So That Another Man Can Pull You With

the struggle ...

the whole newsies fandom is such a trip to be apart of because i am always thinking of the movie, and all the other versions obviously are very impactful to the fandom and to my personal ideas about the characters (i love katherine shes my silly goose) but i can not over emphasize how much the newsies 1992 movie is like my default. and i think its just because it is so very very gay.

i see the vision of all of the ships in the proshot and the other versions that ive seen but goddamn is the 1992 movie some homosexual shit

newsies mutuals we should play among us sometime

HOOOOOLLLYYYY SHIT THATS JAVEY

(it's a minecraft build of a college dorm and it's exactly how I imagine javey's room would look, especially in @pigeonwit 's fics)

just a few quick doodles from class periods featuring the gayest scene in newsies aka once and for all

crutchie is a BIG fun socks guy ... he's got at least 10 pairs of utterly odd and colourful socks ... davey on the other hand only owns black socks and jack only owns white socks ..

watching uksies boot and 92sies tonight and tmr so stay tuned

He’s Gone- Specs

Summary- Specs goes to deliver some bad news to Crutchie.

Specs shielded his face against the rain as he stumbled along the narrow road, nearly blinded by the drops of water but still able to see a single speck of light from a street lamp, guiding him through the alleyways. His arms and legs hurt- everything hurt- but he merely gritted his teeth and walked on, not stopping until he saw the place of his nightmares in the distance.

The Refuge. Specs was one of few newsies who’d never been caught within its walls; he was one of the lucky ones. He’d always considered it some sort of mythical creature, looking to ensnare anyone who got too close to its gaping jaws, searching for the weakest of a bunch and trapping them. Jack had been there, Race had been there- god, nearly everyone he knew except himself had served a month or two- and they only had one word to describe it.

Hell.

Swallowing the nervousness that piled up in his throat, choking his voice, Specs began to climb the rickety fire escape on the side of the building. The window was locked, of course it was, and as he reached into his pocket to pull out a makeshift lock pick, he heard a sound coming from inside.

Sucking in a quick breath, ducking down, Specs prayed he wasn’t visible to anyone passing by. He stayed there, not daring to move or breathe, until he heard a voice whisper above him.

“Psst! Specs!”

Glancing up, he met the bruised and broken face of Crutchie, whose eyes had lit up as soon as their gazes made contact. Forcing a smile that felt like more of a grimace, Specs stood and gathered the boy in a hug.

“Crutchie,” he said, taking in Crutchie’s battered form. “It’s nice to see you, bud.”

“You too.” Crutchie picked at a loose splinter on the windowsill. “So, any news of the strike?”

Specs’s heart went cold as he remembered why he was there. “Since I was last here, there’s been… changes.” He watched Crutchie’s face fall as he relayed the news of Jack’s scabbing, of the rally that had failed so badly and dashed any hope of winning for the newsies.

“So, Davey’s taken over?” Crutchie asked, his voice low and wobbling. Specs nodded, unable to meet his eye.

“I’m sorry, Crutch,” he muttered. “Jack’s run off with the money now- he’s gone.”

Crutchie just stood for a second, breathing shallow, the look of disbelief almost too much to bear. “Leave,” he commanded, almost too softly to hear.

“I’m sorry?”

“I said, leave.” Crutchie’s voice was low, full of tears yet boiling over with anger. “Ain’t no use for you bein’ here if the strike’s finished.”

“I can’t leave you,” Specs argued. “What if… what if he hurts you worse now that there ain’t no one to save you?”

Crutchie laughed, cruel and sharp. “Ha! If he wants to hurt me, let ‘im. What’s one kid in the grand scheme of things? We lost, Specs. We’re done.”

Fighting back the urge to yell at him, to beg him to stay, Specs lifted his head, tears stinging the back of his eyes. “Don’t lose hope, Crutchie,” he said, trying to imitate the confidence Jack had always shown. “We’ll get ya out of here.”

“Sure you will.” Crutchie glared down at him. “But don’t be surprised if you can’t.” He slammed down the window, barely missing Specs’ fingers, and the bespectacled newsie barely heard the cry of fear and anger that followed.

Turning on his heels, Specs walked quickly away, his hopes dashed and his mind running wild.

Maybe Crutchie’s right, he thought to himself, staring out at the barely-visible moon, rain soaking him to his skin. Maybe we can’t do this.

Not without Jack, anyway.

pidge,,, I have no clue if the prompt post you reblogged was supposed to be for suggestions,,, but the one about character A moving around character B and trying to turn the light of mid cuddle is just,, so javid. Javid who will do ANYTHING to prevent disturbing the other, no matter how urgent a task is,, (the 2am delirium is setting in)

(yes they were indeed!! and if anyone else would like to put something in the suggestion box you can do so here

thank you jasper for choosing the prompt i wanted to do the most)

"Jack," Davey murmurs into the comforter, "what are you doing?"

"Nothing," Jack whispers, "go back to sleep."

Davey makes a childish little hum in the back of his throat, clearly very upset about things he doesn't currently know about, but settles further into the cradle of Jack's arms with a soft sigh.

Jack breathes slowly, his whole body boiling over with Davey - Davey's warmth, Davey's weight, Davey... He's never going to get used to holding him, just... Touching him. Being allowed to do that. It'd taken him at least a week into being 'official' - three and a half weeks from their very first date and two months, three weeks and four days from first trying to work up the nerve (but who's counting) - to even feel like he really was allowed. Like Davey wasn't just waiting for him to reach out only to jump away from him and ask what the hell he was doing, as if he might've somehow misread all the flirtatious comments and obvious dates and Davey actually, literally telling him, "I want to be your boyfriend," word for word.

It'd honestly taken Davey pointing it out to him - trying very hard to be polite and chaste about it and failing miserably, because Davey doesn't like being denied, as much as he might pretend otherwise - for Jack to even realize, oh, yes, he can touch his boyfriend if he wants - and he has to think that Davey might regret giving him that realization, because those words went deep, deep into his chest, into something aching and wanting that he'd kept hidden away for years, and activated what Crutchie accurately calls his 'grab drive'; and now Jack can't turn it off.

It goes something like this: Davey will be making breakfast, still looking perfectly sleep-rumpled from the night before in nothing but Jack's sweater and a pair of long pyjama pants that, while Jack maintains are dorky as hell, make him look so heartwrenchingly soft. His hair will still be a mess of brush-stroke curls, not being bothered to've found a brush yet, and his eyes will still have just a bit of a sheen to them as he pulls himself into wakefulness, and he'll be punching the spatula into the frying pan in tiny jolts of movement, his limbs still sleep-weak and numb in some places. And then Jack, without even realizing, will be right behind him, arms around his waist and squeezing - not too hard - just to know that yes, Davey is real. He'll lean up on his tiptoes and prop his head on Davey's shoulder, nudging at the bare skin of his neck until Davey laughs once - a soft and sleepy sound - and turns himself into Jack's weight, flopping over him like a blanket, surrendering the spatula to Jack's more experienced hands (bless Davey's cooking skills, but the man is not patient enough for scramble). Grab drive.

There's more, of course - Davey's doing his 'tism pacing' (his words, not Jacks), wandering back and forth in the fog of overthinking? Jack's pulling him gently into his lap, letting him giggle and sigh and rest against Jack's shoulder as he works. Grab drive. Davey's reading on the couch, flat on his back, his shirt riding over the sharp jut of his hipbone, curls tumbling over the cushions? Jack's suddenly blanketing him, snuffling at Davey's neck, as Davey props his book against Jack's head, resting his wrists and rubbing little circles into Jack's scalp. Grab drive. Davey brushes his fingertips against Jack's wrists, slowly working his thumbs into the sore muscles? Jack's tipping his forehead into Davey's chest, nuzzling his forehead against the crest of his collarbone like he might fuse them at the marrow, and humming happily as Davey works out the kinks in his wrists and chides him for not warming up properly. Grab drive.

It's not his fault - mostly. If anything, Davey's the one who made him realize how very touch-starved he'd been all his life, denying himself hugs and head-pats and cheek-kisses from the time he was a child, because he'd done nothing to deserve them. Touch was earned, in Jack's experience, whether it was a soft stroke of his hair or a good, hard smack. It wasn't right to just expect someone to want you. It was rude, annoying, childish, bratty-

And then Davey showed up and gave him everything, without question - and Jack hadn't looked back since. He takes every touch Davey'll give him and does it with a smile - and he'd hope he gave back as well as he got.

Except - selfishly, perhaps - he does wish Davey might roll off his arm just a bit.

He should've said something, yes, but 'such is the hubris of man' or whatever else Davey might say if he were awake. It's Jack's fault, really, and he can't even bring himself to be that embarrassed about it. Davey likes to read himself to sleep most nights, which is fine, because Jack likes to tip his head onto Davey's shoulder while he scrolls aimlessly on his phone, so they can both trade memes or funny passages or whatever else - but this time, Jack had gotten just a tiny, tiny bit distracted. They were in the same position they are now, therabouts, Davey on his side with his book resting on the pillow and Jack hugging his face into Davey's chest like a koala (grab drive, baby) - and with every chapter Davey passed, he seeped further and further into the pillows, so enraptured in Alys Conran that he didn't even notice he was falling asleep. Jack did, though, of course, because Jack notices everything about Davey - particularly the way he fell asleep with his whole face nuzzled inside the pages, soft paper tickling his nose as he snuffles and hums. Usually, Jack's able to grab him right before he dozes off, nudge his way over Davey's long waist and click off his reading light without Davey so much as noticing, too caught up in the limbo of wake and sleep. But this was an image Jack had needed to just stare at for a bit, hold it in his hands, slip it into a scrapbook and doodle over it in glitter-pink gel pen, and by the time it'd even occurred to him to turn off the lamp, Davey was out like a light (ha-ha, irony) and sleeping like a rock on Jack's arm.

He tries to peel his left arm away from where it curls around Davey's shoulders, to stretch his joints until he can reach the switch, but no luck. He can almost hear Crutchie mocking him in the back of his tired mind-

("Alas, another victim of Jack Kelly's wee little nerd arms."

"You play DnD, motherfucker, don't start-"

"And I fuck at it, Cowboy, you wish you were me!")

Damn Crutchie and his noodle limbs - Jack can turn off a light. He shifts forward a little, tries to turn Davey just enough to let him reach over him - and Davey makes a noise like a baby rhino, shoving his weight indignantly against Jack's own.

"Come on, Jack, I'm tired..." He whines petulantly.

"I know, baby," Jack says soothingly, pitching his voice down to where he knows Davey's weak for it. "S'okay, go back to sleep."

"M'trying..." Davey mutters. "What're you doing?"

"Cheating on you. Go back to sleep."

"Oh?" Davey hums. "With who?"

"Hank Green. Go to sleep."

"Mm, that's so weird..." He can feel Davey smirking against his temple, which means Davey's at the very least awake enough to mock him - shit. "Hank never mentioned you."

"Oh? Are we on a first name basis with Hank now?"

"Yup," Davey nods, slow and sleepy, "we get brunch, like, every Sunday. Never mentioned you."

Jack laughs quietly, because the day Davey wakes up before noon on a Sunday is the day the world ends.

"Well, we just have that kind of relationship, y'know? We don't need to go bragging about it, we have that kind of..." He yawns into Davey's shirt, and feels Davey's soft chuff of laughter through his chest. "Natural intimacy."

Davey hums, stretching from his spine to his toes like a cat.

"I guess we'll have to share."

"Tragedy." Jack smirks. "Go to sleep."

"I can't if you're bothering me," Davey scoffs. Jack winces - if Davey can manage a word with three or more consecutive syllables, he has to be awake now. "What's going..."

Jack looks up in time to see Davey blinking awake, star-blue eyes still glossy with sleep. He frowns, penny-wide pupils shrinking at the sudden light - it's a battle for Jack not to clutch his chest and aw at the sight - and shakes his nose out of his book, twitching like a rabbit.

"Did I read-sleep again?" He asks, and Jack can't help his soft, confirming laugh. Davey giggles with him, glancing over his shoulder. "Did I leave the light on?"

"Yeaahhh," Jack winces. "I was gonna get it."

"You...?" Davey turns back to him, his frown turning soft at the edges as a smile toys at his lips. "Jack, is that seriously it? You just wanted to turn the light off?"

Jack laughs indignantly, shoving his palm against Davey's shoulder.

"You try moving when there's a six foot loser on your arm!"

"Five-nine, Jack, you're just little." Davey scoffs. "And you could've just woken me up."

Jack stuffs his face into the pillows and grumbles, glaring at his horrible, lovely boyfriend from over the fabric. He's going for cute, maybe a little 'so weird Davey's into it' if he's lucky, but Davey only stares at him in delight, eyes wide and calculating.

"Oh, Jack," he grins, his voice gilded with a teasing edge, "is that what that was? You didn't want to wake me!"

"I-!" Jack splutters, his face going warm. "You - you were sleeping, I didn't-!"

"Jackie..." Davey drawls, the just-barely-awake rasp in his voice doing very terrible things to Jack's mind. "You didn't want to wake me..."

"Stop it. That's your I'm right voice, and you haven't even proven anything-"

"You wanted boyfriend points," Davey snickers, "you wanted a good grade in cuddling, something that is both possible to achieve and-"

"Don't fucking Tumblr me, you menace."

Davey rolls his eyes, leaning over to drop his crumpled book on the bedside table, and hovers his hand over the switch with a teasing look.

"Can I turn this off, or will I be undermining your valiant efforts?"

"Mm, keep talkin' dirty to me, babe."

"Menace." Davey scoffs as he flicks off the light. They shuffle back to each other - Davey has a habit of pushing and shoving at his bedding, Jack included, until it's suitably comfortable for him - the two of them bathing in darkness, warmth and the whispers of each other's breath, already wrapped in soft slumber. Jack squeezes his waist with a contented sigh, one arm laid between them, the other pressed, palm flat, to the small of his back.

Yes. Very real. Good to know.

"Goodnight, Jackie."

"G'night, Davey."

happy birthday to me!!!!! 🎂🎉